.
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 lodgings? Do you remain seated alone with your conscience, or do people call?
"Perhaps I shall only have Mawson to converse 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 trek 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 ply 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 alluring, 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 winding 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 Honourable 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 specially 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 remiss, confessed that she had neither cake nor biscuits and dared not ask Miss Bathgate for any.
"But you're bigger than Miss Bathgate," Mhor pointed 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 grumbled 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.
Here he comes snowkin'," as Peter ambled into the kitchen followed by
Pamela. That lady stood in the doorway.
"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 standing obediently on the bit of carpet, munching his biscuit, and her face softened. "He has neither father nor mother, puir lamb, but I must say Miss Jean never lets him ken the want o' them."
"Miss Jean?"
"He bides 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,
A whine for wild things' blood,
And madly flies the dappled roe.
O God, to shout and speed them there
An arrow by my chestnut hair
Drawn tight, and one keen glittering spear—
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 parvenu 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,"