Priorsford (Historical Novel). O. Douglas
Abernethy, please, Miss Bathgate, Peter doesn't like them." (The imitation was given in a high English voice, very unlike Bella's native woodnotes wild)--'But what I'm wonderin', Mrs. McCosh, will ye get to the Women's Guild on the Wednesdays? Wi' the Sale comin' off in November we need all our workers. I'm at ma twelfth semmit, an' I've made six pairs of socks, an' six pairs of boys' stockings.'
'That's good,' said Mrs. McCosh, quite unruffled by the note of conscious superiority in her neighbour's tone. 'I hevna made as much as a garter, but of course I'll bake for the Provision Stall--black bun an' shortbread, the same's I dae every year. Na, Miss Jean'll no' object. I gie the materials masel', there's juist ma time.'
'Mrs. Duff-Whalley's to open it,' Bella said gloomily. 'Suggested hersel', I wadna wonder. Impident? As a packman's powny. An she'll no buy mair than she can help: juist provisions, likely; an' there's sma' profit on them. . . . If Mr. Thornton hed waited we might hev hed Lady Bidborough. That's the worst of a young unmairried minister--he's at the mercy of unprincipled women.'
Mrs. McCosh had begun to make preparations for the meal that the mistress was to partake of. Emerging from the scullery with a bright frying-pan, she said:
'Wud ye ca' Mrs. Duff-Whalley unprincipled? She's kinna impident an' angersome, but I wadna say she meant ony ill. She'll hae her ain troubles dootless, puir sowl.'
'Ay, she's unprincipled,' said Bella firmly, 'for she doesna do things from a right motive. . . . What are they gettin' for their denner the nicht?'
'A drap o' soup, a cutlet, an' an omelette. There's juist Miss Jean and the secretary. The bairns'll get their supper an' awa to their beds, an' Ninny an' me'll hae oor supper an' a crack, rale cosy. I'm lookin' furrit to them a'.'
'And are the maids at The Neuk?'
'Ay.' Mrs. McCosh was getting down a snowy baking board, and diving into what she called her 'meal ark' for flour.
'Ay, they cam' in here the day, three o' them: said her ledyyship hed gien them orders to report theirsel's to me. Rale wise-like young women, and pleasant-spoken: no' flee-awa' (though one o' them hed earrings an' powder on her nose!): English, of course. They've a' been at Mintern Abbas for years, an' ye can see it's hame to them. They're six mile frae the nearest toun, so they think this is fair Piccadilly. I tell't them we hed twa picture-houses an' a public bath, an' twa parks wi' seats an' a band-stand, an' a golf-puttin' green, an' they were fair excited. I'm thinkin' they'll see life in Priorsford.'
Bella shook her head. 'Priorsford's no' what it was. I mind when it was a quiet nice bit where we a' kent one another and were friendly thegether, and now I dinna ken half o' the folk I see walkin' aboot. An' the auld folk are mostly a' away. I just lookit round the kirk last Sabbath at the elders takin' up the collection, an' they were a' young men: no' a venerable head among the lot. And eh, the difference in the congregation! There used to be seat efter seat filled wi' big families, an' the faither at the end. Everybody gaed to the kirk: it never entered ony body's heid to stay away. But everything's changed noo. They play tennis and golf on the Lord's Day. I wonder they're no' feared! . . . I'm never oot o' the kirk morning or evening, an' I spend the rest o' the day readin' a guid book. I've never countenanced entertaining on the Sabbath: I wasna brocht up to it.'
'Oh,' said Mrs. McCosh, 'I see no harm in giein' a friend a cup o' tea on a Sunday. I'm real glad to see onybody, an' I aye tak' care to hev a cake in the crock. They whiles come in on their way to the evenin' service--Mrs. Beaton, the keeper's wife up at Peel, an' ithers--an' we hae a cup o' tea an' a crack an' nae harm done.'
'Gossip on the Sabbath day canna be pleasin' to the Almighty.'
'Hoots,' said Mrs. McCosh, 'the Almighty's mair to dae than listen. . . . Sit doon, Bella, I meant no ill.'
But Bella rose majestically to her feet, saying:
'Ye're like a' the rest o' them, Mrs. McCosh--light-minded. It's the fault of the age. I said that to Mr. Thornton when he visited me last Thursday. It was his pastoral visitation, intimated from the pulpit, an' I hed a cup of coffee ready for him. He's a right-thinking young man, Mr. Thornton. I gave him some advice. I said----'
'Open the oven door, Bella. What time's that? Oh, mercy!'
'I'll away back to ma peaceful hame, Mrs. McCosh. This is a terrible stir for ye.'
'Stir! No. It'll mak' me young again: I've been slippin' in to auld ways. . . . I think I'd be as weel to pit a match to the fire in Miss Jean's room. It's no' cauld, but a fire's aye a welcome, an' she'll be dowie enough, puir thing, comin' here an' her man awa' ower the sea!'
'She'll likely be in to see me the morn,' Miss Bathgate said importantly: 'she was never one to forget old friends. I'll just treat her as I aye treated her. Rank's no' a thing I bother aboot.'
'I'll hae to try an' mind to ca' her "ma leddy," though I ken ma tongue'll aye be slippin' back to "Miss Jean".'
Bella pursed her mouth. 'Very daft-like that would sound to the mother o' three bairns.'
'So it would. . . . Gudenicht then, Bella. I'll likely be seein' ye sometime the morn.'
It was a good thing that Mrs. McCosh was not easily upset, for the arrival at The Rigs of a small army of people, and a pile of boxes, not to speak of the cocker-spaniel puppy, Black Douglas, might have caused the bravest spirit to quail. The little house looked so inadequate to house such an invasion. But it looked a very welcoming place, with lights twinkling from every window, and Mrs. McCosh on the doorstep.
Jean came up the flagged path leading Alison, who was murmuring with deep content, 'It's like Wendy's house. . . . Peter, it's Wendy's house.' But Peter was already on the doorstep, thrusting into Mrs. McCosh's hands what had been such a charge to him all day. 'It's my gold-fish,' he explained. 'I nearly spilt him on the platform and they let me keep his bowl in the wash-hand basin on the train. He's called Baxter. Don't let Black Douglas get him.'
'An' wha's Black Douglas?' asked Mrs. McCosh, accepting the gold-fish in its bowl with the placidity with which she accepted most things in this world.
She was not long left in doubt. A black object came careering up the steps, charged into her, and vanished through the door.
'Keep us!' said Mrs. McCosh.
'So here we are,' said Jean, as they all stood looking round the little square hall with the Chinese rug and the grandfather clock with the clear face; the oak chest, and the old brass. 'Nothing's changed, Mrs. McCosh. . . . You know Ninny, of course. This is Elsie. Miss Barton will stay at The Neuk; the luggage has gone on there, but she kindly came in to see if she could help, and we'll have some dinner together before she goes. . . . Betty, this is Mrs. McCosh, who looked after us all when we were children and is going to look after us again.'
The tall young girl nodded, but Mrs. McCosh, in her friendly Glasgow way, held out her hand, remarking: 'Pleased to meet ye.'
'Now then, babes, supper and bed.'
'Not till we've seen the house, Mummy,' Peter pleaded, and bounded into the drawing-room, followed by Alison and Quentin. Then upstairs and down again.
'It's a lovely house,' Alison said; 'there's no nursery.'
'I've got Uncle Jock's room,' Peter boasted, 'and there's a ship on the mantelpiece. I knew it was there: he told me himself--Ho! Good! Fish for supper. Alison, fish for supper.'
'This is a treat,' Jean said. 'I thought I told you bread and milk, Mrs. McCosh?'
'Oh, so ye did, but I thocht that was a wairsh kinna meal for comin' aff a journey. It'll dae them no' ill. If ye want mair milk there's plenty. . . . Mrs. Elliot brocht a' thae flowers the day an' pit them as ye see them; an' I was to tell ye she'll be here the morn's mornin'.'
Later, Jean and her secretary sat over their coffee.
'You will be glad to go to bed,' Jean suggested, as Miss Barton tried unsuccessfully to conceal a yawn. 'Two of the maids are here, Mrs. McCosh tells me, to take you to your own quarters. It's only a minute's walk. One gets odd impressions of a new place, arriving at night, but things look better