Good Mrs Hypocrite/Chapter 8

by Eliza Margaret Jane Humphreys

As it is only the first step that "costs," it may be taken for granted that Tibbie Minch and her mistress dropped into the custom of an "at home" day without further conflict.

Tibbie grumbled, and was agreeably satirical as each Wednesday came round; but, all the same, she dressed herself in time, and brought up afternoon tea, and only smiled grimly at the expedient of hastening Time's footsteps for James Macpherson's benefit, and took him an extra glass of toddy at night as compensation.

Indeed, Tibbie had a little romance of her own going on at this time that seemed to be softening her natural asperity, and smoothing down sundry sharp angles of her character in quite a surprising manner. The "laddie" from her own home, who had presented her with David, had become a constant visitor of late. He was a tall, lank, awkward youth, of about four or five and twenty; and Tibbie was sufficiently his senior to accept his visits in a friendly spirit. He would drop in of an evening to ask after David, and give her any stray bits of news respecting their own folk that had reached him, and watch her bustling about, and share her frugal supper of bread and cheese and porter, and casually drop a hint of his own prospects, and his opinion of her domestic virtues, by way of expressing his dawning feelings. Scotch wooing is proverbially cautious — a thing of subtle hints and humorous suggestions.

The lad, Rob Anderson, being of a backward and modest nature, conducted his lovemaking chiefly by the aid of David, to whom he addressed asides that Tibbie might or might not hear, as she thought fit.

"When we've got the siller, Davie," he was murmuring, what time Tibbie was busy over potato-cakes," then we'll e'en gae back to Galloway, and take a bit farm o' our ain. I ken muckle o' dairy work, and my faither has a fine bit pasture, and mair kye than ony farmer in the parish. He was na weel pleased wi' me for coming, but gin I return wi' a fortune, 'twill be a different story."

David arched his back and purred approval. He was fond of this young Scot, who had brought him so carefully from his home, and always had a word and a caress for him whenever he paid a visit to Tibbie. That astute maiden heard all, and said nothing.

"Will ye be at the kirk next Sabbath e'en, Tibbie?" asked the young man presently.

She nodded carelessly.

"I may, and I mayn't. It's no my nicht, Sunday; but sometimes Mistress Macpherson is no inclined to gang twice i' the day, and I like weel to hear the young minister. Hoots, Davie, man, canna ye be quiet?"

"He's just awfu' fond o' ye, Tibbie," observed Rob Anderson.

"Ye ken," she said, with a softening of face and eyes that was not without a certain attraction, " I canna tell how he got that lump on him," she went on, stroking the pretty creature's soft fur. "And he canna bide the sight o' the mistress, though he'll follow the maister aboot the house like a doggie. He's juist fair spoilt between the pair o' us."

"Aweel," said the young man, "the beast has his senses, and kens weel his ain friends."

"That's the bell!" exclaimed Tibbie suddenly. "It's for her supper. It's no the richt time. She maun just bide a bit."

"Tibbie," said the young man audaciously, "ye look juist splendid when your eyes shine like that. But a' the same I wouldna like to be the ane to anger ye."

He was standing up now, and the kitten sprang on the table, as if to give him excuse for a closer approach to Tibbie.

"I had best be goin' my ways," he said. "Your mistress may be coming doonstairs, gin ye winna answer her bell."

Tibbie's laugh was contemptuous.

Both hands were engaged at that moment, so the one extended in farewell found no other resource than a waist, which it frankly clasped. A stinging box on the ear suddenly announced the imprudence of such a proceeding.

"Take your airm away," exclaimed Tibbie. " I'm no a silly lassie that thinks every callant who comes her way is daft aboot her. I ken men too weel to trust them, and gin ye come here I wad hae ye mind that."

"Yer hands are nae saft, nor your speech either, Tibbie," murmured the swain ruefully. "Maybe ye'll think better o't, in time. I'm no ane to speak what is na true to ony woman, and I ken ye're weel favored eno' to please me, and a farmer's wife is aye better off than a serving-maid."

The bell rang a second time, so Tibbie hustled him off through the back-door and returned to the kitchen laughing grimly at the laddie's nonsense; but not so very ill-pleased at the flattery she had chosen to deride.

She took up the supper-tray, and found her mistress in a fuming rage at her long delay.

"Tibbie, you'll just give up having your friends so often to see you! You cannot entertain them and attend to your work up-stairs. Besides, it's a rule of mine not to allow visitors in the kitchen."

"You told me your ainsel' that this was the first time in your life you had had a hoose to manage," replied the unabashed handmaiden ; "so ye canna ken verra much aboot rules. An' if ye hae your ain visitors, I dinna see why I may no hae mine. It's none sae often that ye need be raising objections."

"Male visitors, at all events," corrected Catherine sharply. " It was a man's voice I heard, and all that scuffling about the kitchen is most unseemly at your time o' life."

"Ye may leave my time o' life alane," said Tibbie. "I'm no half the age o' yoursel' . . . and as for scuffling, I dinna ken what ye mean. The young man is a quiet decent body, and comes of as gude a stock as ony in Galloway. And neither he nor I hae ony freends in London, so it's no sae wonderfu' if he calls now and then to have a crack wi' ane o' his ain folk."

Catherine gave a contemptuous sniff, and signified that Tibbie might retire. But in a few minutes she returned. Her face was anxious and concerned.

"Ye maun come up-stairs and see your brother, mem," she said curtly. "His cough is juist awfu'. I wouldna gi'e him his glass an' I were you, and I dinna like the way he talks; he seems rambling. Hae ye sic' a thing as hartshorn in the hoose?"

Catherine had not — neither did her nursing experiences seem of much practical benefit; she only grumbled and fumed, and left Tibbie to do whatever she pleased.

She declared there was no need for a fuss. The old man had only caught a bad cold. Then she returned to her disturbed supper, and consoled herself by a steaming glass of toddy for that disturbance.

Finally, she retired to her room and read her evening devotions with the comfortable conviction that she need not stay out of bed on her brother's account. Tibbie Minch would sit up beside him, if needful.

She slept well and soundly, but the next morning she found that it was not possible to ignore her brother's condition. He was seriously ill. Tibbie declared she must call in a doctor. At first Catherine pooh-poohed this suggestion, but a few hours showed her that it might be advisable to follow her handmaiden's advice for once.

There were various practitioners in the neighborhood, but Catherine Macpherson deemed it best to consult the minister as to which she should select. He mentioned one who was a member of his congregation, and who lived in the next street. Besides this recommendation, Catherine discovered that he was a Scotchman, and unmarried. She therefore sent for him, and within an hour he presented himself at Strome Villa.

He was a little gray-haired man, brusque in manner, and with all the importance and pomposity that seem allied to insignificance of stature.

He examined his new patient, asked a few questions of Catherine, used a great many big words to give importance to the case, and at last commited himself to the extent of an opinion that there was softening of the brain.

"His mind will gradually decay," he added. " It would be as well that all his worldly affairs should be put in order."

Catherine grew alarmed.

"Is there any immediate danger, doctor?" she asked.

"Immediate? Well, no, I wouldn't be pronouncing it that, answered the little man; "but he should be carefully watched and studied, and never left alone, and his general health must be maintained. That is all we can do for him."

Catherine Macpherson listened, and her grim face grew more grim.

She had just begun to taste the sweets of power: to feel herself the mistress of a comfortable house, to gather a circle of religious friends about her, to be of some importance in the parish, to have constant visitors, whom the silver tray and Queen Anne service greatly impressed; and now, was all this to be snatched from her by so untoward a mischance?

Texts were not as near her heart or as ready to her mouth as they had been six months before, and she found none particularly consoling in this dilemma.

However, she promised due attention to Dr. Buchie's instructions, and begged him to call in now and then to see her brother and judge of his condition. She pressed a glass of sherry on him as they lingered in the dining-room, and he did not decline the offer. He unbent from his Scotch stiffness after a while, and told her he was from Banffshire, and had only recently taken a practise in London. Catherine Macpherson became greatly interested in him. They discovered they had some mutual friends north of the Tweed, and parted on excellent terms with one another.

It was perhaps not quite Catherine Macpherson's fault that the pompous little man went away that morning with the conviction that she was the owner of the house and its contents, and that the old silver on the sideboard, and the handsome Sheffield salvers, and the cut-glass decanters had impressed him very favorably. She was not supposed to know his thoughts, and who could blame her if he had misinterpreted sundry hints, and carried off a wrong impression.

After he left, Catherine Macpherson ordered beef-tea for her brother, and went into her own room, and sat herself down before the glass.

She studied her face with unusual attention, then began deliberately to unfasten her hair. One strand was laid down on the dressing-table — for even Christian spinsters are not proof against the disfigurement of baldness. Then she took a comb, and tried to rearrange the style of her severe coiffure. She lifted it up from her narrow forehead, and, making a cushion of the piece that was not a natural growth, dressed it in the Marie Antoinette fashion, always the most becoming to gray or white hair.

The effect pleased her immensely. After all, there was no need to mortify the flesh; to adopt a severe or unbecoming order of attire. She was by no means too old to —

That afternoon, Catherine Macpherson left Tibbie Minch in charge of her brother, and went out to a region of shops and took stock of the prevailing fashions.

She made a long pause before an electric-lighted glass window, in which stood, as in a shrine, a gorgeous wax figure-head. The hair was powdered and rolled back from the brow, a lace fichu was draped about the bust.

Catherine Macpherson studied it for full five minutes, then she entered the shop.

When she returned home it was quite dark. Tibbie Minch was lighting the gas over the hall-door, and opened it as she heard the steps. She started as she saw her mistress's face.

"Gude sakes!" she exclaimed; "sic a thing! What for hae ye been playactressing to-day ? I didna ken ye till I lookit at yer mouth."

Catherine Macpherson flounced up the stairs in a white heat of passion. This insolent familiar person must really be sent about her business. Human patience has its limits, even when allied to Christian virtues.

"Tibbie," she said sternly, turning her head over her shoulder as she stood at the bedroom door, " you can take a month's warning from to-day. I dismiss you from my service."

"Deed, then, I winna be dismissed," said Tibbie coolly. "If ye dinna ken what's best for yoursel', I must e'en tell ye. And as for your service — havers! It's James Macpherson's service I'm in, and I take no dismissal from any ither person. And if ye canna bear a remark like yon, it shows that yer soul is lifted up wi' vanity, and ye maun juist pray for a better spirit, and remember bow the Scripture saith that it's no wise or godly to be plaiting the hair, and wearing of gold, and putting on of apparel, but that a meek and — "

A bang of the door cut short the rest of the remonstrance.

"Ah, woman, ye should hae more consideration for sick folk," murmured Tibbie, as she entered her master's room to look after his fire. "It's juist the mistress in ane o' her tantrums," she explained to him. " Dinna ye heed her; puir body, it a' comes from want o' self-government, and, nae doot, that's the nature God Almighty has been pleased to gi'e her. She needna be puffed up aboot it, though."