"It is the only set of the kind I ever met with in which you are neither led nor driven, but actually fall, and that imperceptibly into literary topics; and I attribute it to this, that in that house literature is not a treat for company upon invitation days, but is actually the daily bread of the family."—Written of Maria Edgeworth's home.
Pamela Reston stood in Bella Bathgate's parlour and surveyed it disconsolately1.
It was papered in a trying shade of terra-cotta and the walls were embellished2 by enlarged photographs of the Bathgate family—decent, well-living people, but plain-headed to a degree. Linoleum3 covered the floor. A round table with a red-and-green cloth occupied the middle of the room, and two arm-chairs and six small chairs stood about stiffly like sentinels. Pamela had tried them all and found each one more unyielding than the next. The mantelshelf, painted to look like some uncommon4 kind of marble, supported two tall glass jars bright blue and adorned5 with white raised flowers, which contained bunches of dried grasses ("silver shekels" Miss Bathgate called them), rather dusty and tired-looking. A mahogany sideboard stood against one wall and was heavily laden6 with vases and photographs. Hard lace curtains tinted7 a deep cream shaded the bow-window.
"This is grim," said Pamela to herself. "Something must be done. First of all, I must get them to send me some rugs—they will cover this awful floor—and half a dozen cushions and some curtains and bits of embroidery8 and some table linen9 and sheets and things. Idiot that I was not to bring them with me!… And what could I do to the walls? I don't know how far one may go with landladies10, but I hardly think one could ask them to repaper walls to each stray lodger11's liking12."
Miss Bathgate had not so far shown herself much inclined for conversation. She had met her lodger on the doorstep the night before, had uttered a few words of greeting, and had then confined herself to warning the man to watch the walls when he carried up the trunks, and to wondering aloud what anyone could want with so much luggage, and where in the world it was to find room. She had been asked to have dinner ready, and at eight o'clock Pamela had come down to the sitting-room13 to find a coarse cloth folded in two and spread on one-half of the round table. A knife, a fork, a spoon lay on the cloth, flanked on one side by an enormous cruet and on the other by four large spoons, laid crosswise, and a thick tumbler. An aspidistra in a pot completed the table decorations.
The dinner consisted of stewed14 steak, with turnip15 and carrots, and a large dish of potatoes, followed by a rice pudding made without eggs and a glass dish of prunes16.
Pamela was determined17 to be pleased.
"How right it all is," she told herself—"so entirely18 in keeping. All so clean and—and sufficient. I am sure all the things we hang on ourselves and round ourselves to please and beautify are very clogging—this is life at its simplest," and she rang for coffee, which came in a breakfast-cup and was made of Somebody's essence and boiling water.
Pamela had gone to bed very early, there being absolutely nothing to sit up for; and the bed was as hard as the nether19 millstone. As she put her tired head on a cast-iron pillow covered by a cotton pillow-slip, and lay crushed under three pairs of hard blankets, topped by a patchwork20 quilt worked by Bella's mother and containing samples of the clothes of all the family—from the late Mrs. Bathgate's wedding-gown of puce-coloured cashmere to her youngest son's first pair of "breeks," the whole smelling strongly of naphtha from the kist where it had lain—regretful thoughts of other beds came to her. She felt she had not fully21 appreciated them—those warm, soft, embracing beds, with satin-smooth sheets and pillow-cases smelling of lavender and other sweet things, feather-light blankets, and rose-coloured eiderdowns.
She came downstairs in the morning to the bleak22 sitting-room filled with a distaste for simplicity23 which she felt to be unworthy. For breakfast there was a whole loaf on a platter, three breakfast rolls hot from the baker24, and the family toast-rack full of tough, damp toast. A large pale-green duck's egg sat heavily in an egg-cup, capped, but not covered, by a strange red flannel25 thing representing a cock's head, which Pamela learned later was called an "egg-cosy26" and had come from the sale of work for Foreign Missions. A metal teapot and water-jug stood in two green worsted nests.
Pamela poured herself out some tea. "I'm almost sure I told her I wanted coffee in the morning," she murmured to herself, "but it doesn't matter." Already she was beginning to hold Bella Bathgate in awe27. She took the top off the duck's egg and looked at it in an interested way. "It's a beautiful colour—orange—but"—she pushed it away—"I don't think I can eat it."
She drank some tea and ate a baker's roll, which was excellent; then she rang the bell.
When Bella appeared she at once noticed the headless but uneaten egg, and, taking it up, smelt28 it.
"What's wrang wi' the egg?" she demanded.
"Oh, nothing," said Pamela quickly. "It's a lovely egg really, such a beautiful colour, but"—she laughed apologetically—"you know how it is with eggs—either you can eat them or you can't. I always have to eat eggs with my head turned away so to speak. There is something about the yolk29 so—so——" Her voice trailed away under Miss Bathgate's stolid30, unsmiling gaze.
There was no point in going on being arch about eggs to a person who so obviously regarded one as a poor creature. But a stand must be taken.
"Er—Miss Bathgate——" Pamela began.
There was no answer from Bella, who was putting the dishes on a tray.
Had she addressed her rightly?
"You are Miss Bathgate, aren't you?"
"Ou ay," said Bella. "I'm no' mairret nor naething o' that kind."
"I see. Well, Miss Bathgate, I wonder if you would mind if Mawson—my maid, you know—carried away some of those ornaments32 and photographs to a safe place? It would be such a pity if we broke any of them, for, of course, you must value them greatly. These vases now, with the pretty grasses, it would be dreadful if anything happened to them, for I'm sure we could never, never replace them."
"Uch ay," Bella interrupted. "I got them at the pig-cairt in exchange for some rags. He's plenty mair o' the same kind."
"Oh, really," Pamela said helplessly. "The fact is, a few things of my own will be arriving in a day or two—a cushion or two and that sort of thing—to make me feel at home, you know, so if you would very kindly33 let us make room for them, I should be so much obliged."
Bella Bathgate looked round the grim chamber34 that was to her as the apple of her eye, and sighed for the vagaries35 of "the gentry36."
"Aweel," she said, "I'll pit them in a kist until ye gang awa'. I've never had lodgers37 afore." And as she carried out the tray there was a baleful gleam in her eye as if she were vowing38 to herself that she would never have them again.
Pamela gave a gasp39 of relief when the door closed behind the ungracious back of her landlady40, and started when it opened again, but this time it was only Mawson.
She hailed her. "Mawson, we must get something done to this room. Lift all these vases and photographs carefully away. Miss Bathgate says she will put them somewhere else in the meantime. And we'll wire to Grosvenor Street for some cushions and rugs—this is too hopeless. Are you quite comfortable Mawson?"
"Yes, Miss. I 'ave me meals in the kitchen, Miss, for Miss Bathgate don't want to keep another fire goin'. A nice cosy kitchen it is, Miss."
"Then I wish I could have my meals there, too."
"Oh, Miss!" cried Mawson in horror.
"Does Miss Bathgate talk to you, Mawson?"
"Not to say talk, Miss. She don't even listen much; says she can't understand my 'tongue.' Funny, ain't it? Seems to me it's 'er that speaks strange. But I expect we'll be friends in time, Miss. You do 'ave to give the Scotch41 time: bit slow they are…. What I wanted to h'ask, Miss, is where am I to put your things? That little wardrobe and chest of drawers 'olds next to nothing."
"Keep them in the trunks," said Pamela. "I think Miss Bathgate would like to see us departing with them to-day, but I won't be beat. In Priorsford we are, in Priorsford we remain…. I'll write out some wires and you will explore for a post office. I shall explore for an upholsterer who can supply me with an arm-chair not hewn from the primeval rock."
Mawson smiled happily and departed to put on her hat, while Pamela sat down to compose telegrams.
"c/o Miss B. BATHGATE,
HILLVIEW, PRIORSFORD,
SCOTLAND.
"BIDDY DEAR,—The beds and chairs and cushions are all stuffed with cannon-balls, and the walls are covered with enlarged photographs of men with whiskers, and Bella Bathgate won't speak to me, partly because she evidently hates the look of me, and partly because I didn't eat the duck's egg she gave me for breakfast. But the yolk of it was orange, Biddy. How could I eat it?
"I have sent out S.O.S. signals for necessaries in the way of rugs and cushions. Life as bald and unadorned as it presents itself to Miss Bathgate is really not quite decent. I wish she would speak to me, but I fear she considers me beneath contempt.
"What happens when you arrive in a place like Priorsford and stay in lodgings44? Do you remain seated alone with your conscience, or do people call?
"Perhaps I shall only have Mawson to converse45 with. It might be worse. I don't think I told you about Mawson. She has been a housemaid in Grosvenor Street for some years, and she maided me once when Julie was on holiday, so when that superior damsel refused to accompany me on this trek46 I gladly left her behind and brought Mawson in her place.
"She is really very little use as a maid, but her conversation is pleasing and she has a most cheery grin. She reads the works of Florence Barclay, and doesn't care for music-halls—'low I call them, Miss.' I asked her if she were fond of music, and she said, 'Oh yes, Miss,' and then with a coy glance, 'I ply42 the mandoline.' I think she is about fifty, and not at all good-looking, so she will be a much more comfortable person in the house than Julie, who would have moped without admirers.
"Well, at present Mawson and I are rather like Robinson Crusoe and Man
Friday on the island…."
* * * * *
Pamela stopped and looked out of the window for inspiration. Miss Bathgate's parlour was not alluring47, but the view from it was a continual feast—spreading fields, woods that in this yellowing time of the year were a study in old gold, the winding48 river, and the blue hills beyond. Pamela saw each detail with delight; then, letting her eyes come nearer home, she studied the well-kept garden belonging to her landlady. On the wall that separated it from the next garden a small boy and a dog were seated.
Pamela liked boys, so she smiled encouragingly to this one, the boy responding by solemnly raising his cap.
Pamela leaned out of the window.
"Good morning," she said. "What's your name?"
"My name's Gervase Taunton, but I'm called 'the Mhor.' This is Peter
Jardine," patting the dog's nose.
"I'm very glad to know you," said Pamela. "Isn't that wall damp?"
"It is rather," said Mhor. "We came to look at you."
"Oh," said Pamela.
"I've never seen an Honourable49 before, neither has Peter."
"You'd better come in and see me quite close," Pamela suggested. "I've got some chocolates here."
Mhor and Peter needed no further invitation. They sprang from the wall and in a few seconds presented themselves at the door of the sitting-room.
Pamela shook hands with Mhor and patted Peter, and produced a box of chocolates.
"I hope they're the kind you like?" she said politely.
"I like any kind," said Mhor, "but specially50 hard ones. I don't suppose you have anything for Peter? A biscuit or a bit of cake? Peter's like me. He's always hungry for cake and never hungry for porridge."
Pamela, feeling extremely remiss51, confessed that she had neither cake nor biscuits and dared not ask Miss Bathgate for any.
"But you're bigger than Miss Bathgate," Mhor pointed52 out. "You needn't be afraid of her. I'll ask her, if you like."
Pamela heard him cross the passage and open the kitchen door and begin politely, "Good morning, Miss Bathgate."
"What are ye wantin' here wi' thae dirty boots?" Bella demanded.
"I came in to see the Honourable, and she has nothing to give poor Peter to eat. Could he have a tea biscuit—not an Abernethy one, please, he doesn't like them—or a bit of cake?"
"Of a' the impidence!" ejaculated Bella. "D'ye think I keep tea biscuits and cake to feed dowgs wi'? Stan' there and dinna stir." She put a bit of carpet under the small, dirty boots, and as she grumbled53 she wiped her hands on a coarse towel that hung behind the door, and reached up for a tin box from the top shelf of the press beside the fire.
"Here, see, there's yin for yerself, an' the broken bits are for Peter.
"Do forgive me coming, but I love a kitchen. It is always the nicest place in the house, I think; the shining tins are so cheerful, and the red fire." She smiled in an engaging way at Bella, who, after a second, and, as it were, reluctantly, smiled back.
"I see you have given the raider some biscuits," Pamela said.
"He's an ill laddie." Bella Bathgate looked at the Mhor standing56 obediently on the bit of carpet, munching57 his biscuit, and her face softened58. "He has neither father nor mother, puir lamb, but I must say Miss Jean never lets him ken31 the want o' them."
"Miss Jean?"
"He bides59 at The Rigs wi' the Jardines—juist next door here. She's no a bad lassie, Miss Jean, and wonderfu' sensible considerin'…. Are ye finished, Mhor? Weel, wipe yer feet and gang ben to the room an' let me get on wi' ma work."
Pamela, feeling herself dismissed, took her guest back to the sitting-room, where Mhor at once began to examine the books piled on the table, while Peter sat himself on the rug to await developments.
"You've a lot of books," said Mhor. "I've a lot of books too—as many as a hundred, perhaps. Jean teaches me poetry. Would you like me to say some?"
"Please," said Pamela, expecting to hear some childish rhymes. Mhor took a long breath and began:
"'O take me to the Mountain O,
Past the great pines and through the wood,
Up where the lean hounds softly go,
O God, to shout and speed them there
Ah, if I could!'"
For some reason best known to himself Mhor was very sparing of breath when he repeated poetry, making one breath last so long that the end of the verse was reached in a breathless whisper—in this instance very effective.
"So that is what 'Jean' teaches you," said Pamela. "I should like to see Jean."
"Well," said Mhor, "come in with me now and see her. I should be doing my lessons anyway, and you can tell her where I've been."
"Won't she think me rather pushing?" Pamela asked.
"Oh, I don't know," said Mhor carelessly. "Jean's kind to everybody—tramps and people who sing in the street and little cats with no homes. Hadn't you better put on your hat?"
So Pamela obediently put on her hat and coat and went with her new friends down the road a few steps and up the flagged path to the front door of the funny little house that kept its back turned to its parvenu64 neighbours, and its eyes lifted to the hills.
In Mhor led her, Peter following hard behind, through a square, low-roofed entrance-hall with a polished floor, into a long room with one end coming to a point in an odd-shaped window, rather like the bow of a ship.
A girl was sitting in the window with a large basket of darning beside her.
"Jean," cried Mhor as he burst in, "here's the Honourable. I asked her to come in and see you. She's afraid of Bella Bathgate."
"Oh, do come in," said Jean, standing up with the stocking she was darning over one hand. "Take this chair; it's the most comfortable. I do hope Mhor hasn't been worrying you?"
"Indeed he hasn't," said Pamela; "I was delighted to see him. But please don't let me interrupt your work."
"The boys make such big holes," said Jean, picking up a damp handkerchief that lay beside her; and then with a tremble in her voice, "I've been crying," she added.
"So I see," said Pamela. "I'm sorry. Is anything wrong?"
"Nothing in the least wrong," Jean said, swallowing hard, "only that I'm so silly." And presently she found herself pouring out her troubled thoughts about David, about the lions that she feared stood in his path at Oxford65, about the hole his going made in the little household at The Rigs. It was a comfort to tell it all to this delightful-looking stranger who seemed to understand in the most wonderful way.
"I remember when my brother Biddy went to Oxford," Pamela told her. "I felt just as you do. Our parents were dead, and I was five years older than my brother, and took care of him just as you do of your David. I was afraid for him, for he had too much money, and that is much worse than having too little—but he didn't get changed or spoiled, and to this day he is the same, my own old Biddy."
Jean dried her eyes and went on with her darning, and Pamela walked about looking at the books and talking, taking in every detail of this girl and her so individual room, the golden-brown hair, thick and wavy66, the golden-brown eyes, "like a trout-stream in Connemara," that sparkled and lit and saddened as she talked, the mobile, humorous mouth, the short, straight nose and pointed chin, the straight-up-and-down belted brown frock, the whole toning so perfectly67 with the room with its polished floor and old Persian rugs, the pale yellow walls (even on the dullest day they seemed to hold some sunshine) hung with coloured prints in old rosewood frames—"Saturday Morning," engraved68 (with many flourishes) by T. Burke, engraver69 to His Serene70 Highness the Reigning71 Landgrave of Hesse Darmstadt; "The Cut Finger," by David Wilkie—those and many others. The furniture was old and good, well kept and well polished, so that the shabby, friendly room had that comfortable air of well-being72 that only careful housekeeping can give. Books were everywhere: a few precious ones behind glass doors, hundreds in low bookcases round the room.
"I needn't ask you if you are fond of reading," Pamela said.
"Much too fond," Jean confessed. "I'm a 'rake at reading.'"
"You know the people," said Pamela, "who say, 'Of course I love reading, but I've no time, alas73!' as if everyone who loves reading doesn't make time."
As they talked, Pamela realised that this girl who lived year in and year out in a small country town was in no way provincial74, for all her life she had been free of the company of the immortals75. The Elizabethans she knew by heart, poetry was as daily bread. Rosalind in Arden, Viola in Illyria, were as real to her as Bella Bathgate next door. She had taken to herself as friends (being herself all the daughters of her father's house) Maggie Tulliver, Ethel Newcome, Beatrix Esmond, Clara Middleton, Elizabeth Bennet——
The sound of the gong startled Pamela to her feet.
"It has been perfectly delightful," Jean assured her. "Do stay a long time at Hillview and come in every day. Don't let Bella Bathgate frighten you away. She isn't used to letting her rooms, and her manners are bad, and her long upper lip very quelling77; but she's really the kindest soul on earth…. Would you come in to tea this afternoon? Mrs. M'Cosh—that's our retainer—bakes rather good scones78. I would ask you to stay to luncheon, but I'm afraid there mightn't be enough to go round."
Pamela gratefully accepted the invitation to tea, and said as to luncheon she was sure Miss Bathgate would be awaiting her with a large dish of stewed steak and carrots saved from the night before—so she departed.
* * * * *
Later in the day, as Miss Bathgate sat for ten minutes in Mrs. M'Cosh's shining kitchen and drank a dish of tea, she gave her opinion of the lodger.
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1
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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yolk
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| n.蛋黄，卵黄 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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42
ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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44
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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trek
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| vi.作长途艰辛的旅行；n.长途艰苦的旅行 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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53
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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54
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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58
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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59
bides
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| v.等待，停留( bide的第三人称单数 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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60
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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roe
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| n.鱼卵；獐鹿 | |
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62
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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68
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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engraver
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| n.雕刻师，雕工 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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75
immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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77
quelling
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的现在分词 ) | |
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scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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