Chapter XII The Village
’Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
POPE.
“Our society may be small but it is extremely select,” Miss Maggie Moffat used to say on such occasions as friends from the South-side of Edinburgh used to visit her.
“It is what we have always sought after,” Miss Jeanie, her sister, would chime in. “Quality not quantity, and nowhere could we have found superior quality if we had gone over the whole of the British Isles to look for it.”
None of the earlier inhabitants of Burnhead ever quite fathomed how or why the Misses Moffat had come to live there. The fact remained, however, that one term day they had taken a small house in the middle of the village street: a house that had been empty for many years. Its original name was “Rowan Cottage,” because there was a rowan tree in the back garden, but when the Misses Moffat took it they persuaded the landlord to change the name to “Rowan Lodge,” the only lodge in the neighbourhood save that which guarded the entrance at Lady Alicia’s drive gate. The name was painted on the front of the house in large, clear characters, and it looked, the Misses Moffat thought, extremely well on the pink note-paper with scalloped edges which they affected in their correspondence.
They were ladies of uncertain age; that is to say, of the kind of age to which direct reference is never made.
They were not serenely and beautifully old like Miss Esperance, nor sturdily and frankly middle-aged like Lady Alicia, and by no stretch of imagination could they be considered young like Bonnie Margaret. They were, as they themselves would have put it, “of a quite suitable age for matrimony, not giddy girls, you understand, but nice, sensible, douce young women.”
Miss Jeanie was probably not more than forty-five, and Miss Maggie some six years older. They were both moderately tall, moderately stout, and of a healthy, homely aspect which did not challenge observation. Miss Jeanie, indeed, wore a curly fringe, and on muddy days a serge golf-skirt that barely reached her substantial ankles, but Miss Maggie’s mouse-coloured hair was brushed back over a cushion and displayed every inch of her intellectual forehead. Miss Maggie took in “Wise Words,” and had literary leanings toward everything of an improving character.
At one time they had kept a “fancy-work emporium” on the South-side, but they had not been dependent upon their sales of Berlin wool or crochet cotton, and as the emporium was by no means thronged with customers it had seemed good to them to retire from business and seek in the country that seclusion and select society which their genteel souls hungered after.
They were sincerely convinced that the emporium of the past could not in any way preclude their reception into such society.
“It could not exactly be called trade, me dear,” Miss Maggie argued, “for you see our clientèle was so exceedingly select. We were never called upon to serve a man in all the years——”
“Not so very many years, Maggie,” Miss Jeanie would interrupt.
“During the time our residence was above the emporium,” Miss Maggie continued calmly. “That makes a very great difference. Anybody can come into an ordinary shop. A stationer’s now—a man might burst into a stationer’s at any minute to buy envelopes or elastic bands, or a bit rubber: but no man would dream of entering a—place where Berlin wools and fingering and sewing silks are to be had. And you know, me dear, it always seems to me that so long as no strange man has had the opportunity to accost one, one’s delicacy cannot be said to have suffered in any way.”
“I’ve heard,” said Miss Jeanie, with a little sigh, “that in London one may be accosted on the public street. It must be terrible to be accosted by a strange man. I think I should faint away at his feet from sheer terror.”
“Indeed,” replied Miss Maggie, bridling. “I should do no such thing. I would freeze him with a glance.”
So far, however, neither of these ladies had been called upon either to faint or to freeze. Mankind had passed them by in decorous silence. Neither of them had ever been accosted by anyone more alarming than a village urchin, and their delicacy and their gentility remained unimpaired. For truly they were vastly genteel.
The real and chief attractions of Burnhead had been that the rent of their modest residence was very small, that the “big house” was occupied by “a lady of title,” and that there were only two other houses in the village having any claim to be the abodes of gentility, namely, the Manse and Remote.
“Surely,” argued the Misses Moffat, “in such a small place the gentry will be friendly.”
And so indeed it proved, for if the Misses Moffat were genteel they were also the kindest and most amiable of women, and had they but known it, they might have searched Scotland before they found a neighbourhood where such qualities would have met with so swift a recognition from the three chief ladies in the place.
There were many who pitied the minister because his wife was so delicate. There were others, mostly outsiders, who pitied Mrs. Gloag because her husband was so stern. And because, although she had done her best to take root and bring forth the fruits of the spirit in the humble vineyard where her husband worked, there was always something alien about her which most of that small community mistrusted.
For Mrs. Gloag was English.
It was even whispered that she was the daughter of an Episcopalian clergyman.
She was slender and pretty and very frail in health: and twenty-seven years of Burnhead had not yet cured her of a tendency to laugh when things amused her. And things amused Mrs. Gloag which ought to have shocked a right-minded minister’s wife.
In early days her chief offence had been that she looked younger than any minister’s wife ought to have looked, that she played with her little boys as though she were a child herself; and that she had been known to yawn openly and apparently unashamed during the minister’s sermons.
Now that her pretty, wavy hair was grey and her health so bad that she seldom came to church more than once on a Sabbath, sometimes not at all for weeks together, folks felt that this, and what happened to their third boy, was a judgment on the minister for having married a person so Englishey and irresponsible as Mrs. Gloag.
There was no question whatever that the minister adored his wife. Whenever his eyes rested upon her, his whole face changed and softened, and it was felt to be almost indecent that a minister should openly manifest any affection whatsoever.
Three tall sons had the minister. Two of them well-doing young men, who passed examinations and won bursaries, and were as economical, hard-working and clear-headed young Scotsmen as even a minister could wish to see. A little harsh, perhaps, and dictatorial, and argumentative; a little fond of airing their opinions unasked, a little apt to judge character wholly by failure or success in practical things; a little lacking in deference to older people. Still they were fine, capable, upstanding young men of the “get up and git” order which is so admirable; and while Mr. Wycherly would go miles out of his way to avoid either of them, he was the very first to acknowledge their many excellent qualities.
But Curly, the youngest, was different. He was even more brilliant intellectually than his brothers; he was better looking, and he had much of his mother’s charm. When he was eighteen he won a scholarship at Balliol, a regular blue-ribbon among scholarships, and the minister was a proud man.
Curly did well at Oxford, he lived sparely, and took tutorships in the vacations, and when he came home the Manse was a merry place. Mr. Wycherly was very fond of Curly, for he came and talked about Oxford, and he would ask the older scholar’s opinion about many things, and seemed to think it quite worth having. Now his brothers considered Mr. Wycherly a failure, effete, played out, vieux-jeu, and Mr. Wycherly knew it.
Curly took a good degree, and then the blow fell. He became an actor and “went on the stage.”
Had he turned forger or robbed a church the minister could hardly have been more upset. Mr. Gloag hated the theatre and everything connected with it. He honestly believed it to be morally degrading and soul-soiling to enter the doors of any such place of amusement. That there could ever, under any circumstances, be found any common ground or bond of union, or even mutual toleration, between the followers of this degraded and degrading calling and professing Christians, he could not conceive. The minister had no belief in toleration. He was fond of saying, “Those that are not for us are against us”; and that “us” might by any possibility include persons he designated as “mountebanks” never for one moment entered his head.
He forbade the mention of Curly’s name, declaring that now he had only two sons. Curly’s brothers said very little. They thought Curly a fool, but, after all, he knew his own business best.
Mrs. Gloag said nothing at all. She grew frailer and frailer, and her pretty eyes wore always a strained expression as though they were tired with watching for one who never came.
She did not attempt to soften the minister. He was always gentle to her, but she knew him too well not to discern when argument and supplication were alike useless. She laughed less often now, and when no one was watching her gentle face was very sad.
If anything, however, this sore trouble made her kinder and more sympathetic than before, so that when the Misses Moffat took sittings in the church and she, in her capacity of minister’s wife, went to see them, she realised at once how anxious and timid and kind and harmless they were; and most of all how they hungered to be admitted to the inner circle of the “select.”
She asked Miss Esperance to go and see them, and Miss Esperance went; and she asked Lady Alicia to go and see them, and Lady Alicia went.
That was a great, a never-to-be-forgotten day for the Misses Moffat when Lady Alicia walked over from the “big house” to call. They could have wished she had come in the carriage; it would have looked so fine in the street for all the world to see. But Lady Alicia was energetic and inclined to grow stout, and she liked to walk when she could. There she sat in the Misses Moffat’s best room, talking affably in her big voice. Everything about Lady Alicia was big and decided, and every simplest remark she made was treasured by the Misses Moffat as the sayings of a sibyl. She didn’t stay long, but she praised the arrangements of Rowan Lodge, from the window curtains to the chocolate-coloured railings in front of the windows.
When she got up to go they watched her anxiously. She had her silver card-case in her hand. Would she leave a card or not?
Alas! in their eagerness to be polite they both accompanied her into the narrow passage and thence into the street. And Lady Alicia, being rather crowded, did not see the Benares bowl on the little table in the lobby, wherein reposed the visiting cards of Miss Esperance and Mrs. Gloag, and completely forgot to leave a similar memento of her visit.
This was a great blow to the Misses Moffat. Without the outward and visible sign of a visiting card was it a proper call or not?
Might they return it? Or was it only an act of condescension on Lady Alicia’s part and not an act of friendship?
Miss Jeanie sought vainly in the pages of a bound volume of the “Lady’s Home Companion” for guidance on this intricate point of etiquette. But although there was a whole long article on “calls” in that useful work, with minute directions as to the most desirable deportment at afternoon tea, there was no guidance as to what course should be taken by two genteel unmarried females when visited by an earl’s daughter, who called at three in the afternoon and omitted to leave a card at all.
“It’s most annoying!” Miss Jeanie exclaimed, tapping the “Lady’s Home Companion” with her finger. “There’s any amount about leaving cards, but not one word about when they’re not left. Listen to this: ‘Should there be only a lady, you would merely leave one of your husband’s.’ Perhaps Lady Alicia Carruthers just didn’t leave one of his because he’s dead, poor man. Then further on it says: ‘When calling on a stranger on any business matter, your card should be sent in by the servant, who will ascertain if it is convenient for her mistress to see you.’ Now she most certainly did not call on business. What are we to think, Maggie?”
Miss Maggie puckered her intellectual forehead in deep consideration of the weighty matter. Apparently she reached no conclusion, for after a minute she said: “I’m thinking, Jeanie, that our best course would be to ask Miss Esperance Bethune. She seems very intimate with Lady Alicia Carruthers, and may know her ways, and I’m quite sure she’ll think none the worse of us for asking. She left a card, if you remember.”
“You might just put on your bonnet and go now, Maggie. It would set our minds at rest. I wish she had left a card, though; it would have looked fine on the table in the lobby, and you mind the Macdougals are coming out to their tea on Saturday.”
Miss Moffat sought Miss Esperance then and there, and that gentle little lady gave it as her opinion that the omission of the card was mere forgetfulness on Lady Alicia’s part and by no means intentional. Whereupon Miss Maggie departed much comforted.
Miss Esperance happened to be dining with Lady Alicia that very evening and told her how much soul-searching her visit had occasioned the Misses Moffat.
“Bless me!” good-natured Lady Alicia exclaimed. “The poor bodies! I’d have left a whole card-case of cards if I’d remembered. But they fluttered round me so as I was leaving, and were so civil and obliging and desperately fussy, that I got myself out as quickly as ever I could.”
“You’d make them very happy if you’d leave a card even yet, any time you are passing,” Miss Esperance suggested. “They are such good, meek creatures.”
So it came to pass that next day, when Lady Alicia went out to drive, the carriage stopped at Rowan Lodge, and she, in a voice that could be heard all down the street, instructed her footman to leave cards, explaining that she had forgotten to leave them the day before.
The front door of Rowan Lodge was separated from the footpath by about three feet of gravel, and the Misses Moffat, seated behind the curtains that Lady Alicia had admired, heard her every word.
“One for each of us!” exclaimed Miss Jeanie rapturously, gloating over the little white cards, for them so packed with meaning. “I hope it’s not wicked, but I can’t help feeling rather glad poor Mr. Carruthers is no more—though it would have been pleasant enough to have him calling, too—for then, if that book is right, we should only have had his card, and he hadn’t a title or anything.”
“He was an advocate, I’m told,” Miss Maggie said solemnly, “but whether they put that on cards I’m not very sure, never having been called upon by anyone connected with the legal profession except yon wee auctioneer, who came about the fittings at the South-side, and I very much doubt if he had a card at all.”
“The Macdougals ’ll rather open their eyes when they see these,” Miss Jeanie chuckled. “I’ll put one on each side the Benares bowl in the lobby, lest they shouldn’t look inside. I hope it’ll be a nice bright day, for it’s a wee thing dark there when the door’s shut, and if it’s left open there’s a terrible draught, and they might blow away.”
“If it’s a mirk day,” Miss Maggie said firmly, “I’ll stand them up against the parlour clock, just careless-like. You may depend the Macdougal’s will spy them out.”