the money either. But a’body travels now whether they can afford it or not. It’s thae motor-cars and buses and things that make folk restless. I was born two miles from here, and I’ve never been further than Glasgow and Edinburgh, and once to Melrose when the Big Show was there.”
“Will I carry up the boxes, Mrs. Bruce?” the chauffeur asked.
“Aye, ye might, Dan. Davy’s no’ back from Lanark yet.”
Isobel opened her purse and was startled when Mrs. Bruce hissed in her ear, “A shilling’s plenty, mind.”
Feeling that she must not allow herself to be intimidated, Isobel took out half a crown, and handed it with a smile to Dan, who was not out of earshot when Mrs. Bruce entered her protest.
“There was no sense in giving him half a crown, when a shilling was plenty. It’s a pity to spoil folk.”
“But he carried up my boxes,” Isobel said.
“And what for no’? . . . Here’s your room. And here’s the bathroom. Hot and cold,” she added proudly.
“Oh, the window looks out on the hillside,” Isobel cried. “I’m so glad it isn’t obscured glass.”
“Nobody’ll see you but the sheep,” Mrs. Bruce assured her. “They wanted to put in that kinda glass, but I wouldna have it. It’s dearer, anyway.”
“This looks like a new bathroom.”
“Aye, it was only put in a year syne, and ye may say it’s hardly been used. The laird was compelled to put bathrooms in here and in the cottages. Sic a norie! And him no’ well off. And he never lived to see them either. Mr. Gideon saw them, of course, and he said it was but right that everyone should have as comfortable a house as possible. Poor lad! I wonder what sort of place he’ll be living in in Canada. A wooden hut as likely as not. . . . I’ll put your towels in here, for there’ll be nobody using it but yourself.”
“But——” Isobel began.
Mrs. Bruce broke in. “We’ve a place downstairs that suits us better. It’s done us for thirty years and it’ll do us to the end. D’ye think I’d let Davy—tha’s ma man—gang up ma stair carpet every time he wanted to wash his hands? When would ye like your tea?”
“Oh, thank you. I had tea on the train.”
“Eh? Oh, you mean ‘afternoon tea.’ We’ll call this supper, then, or tea-and-till’t.”
“ ‘Tea-and-till’t’ sounds delightful. What is it exactly?” Isobel asked.
“Just tea and till’t—tea and something to it. It’s ham and egg, as a matter of fact. Ye’ll get your dinner at one o’clock every day, for Davy comes in for his at twelve. I hope ye don’t expect London cooking? I can give ye good broth and meat, or mince or stew, or whiles a roast, but nothing fancy. We’d better understand each other from the first.”
Isobel replied meekly that she was sure everything would be delightful, but Mrs. Bruce did not care for soft sayings. “I can promise nothing ‘delightful,’ but I’ll make ye as comfortable as lies in ma power. When you’re ready come downstairs and ring the parlour bell and I’ll infuse the tea. The parlour’s on the left of the front door.”
Isobel, feeling a little like a new pupil under a strict governess, washed her hands, and while drying them admired again the view. Beyond the fence there was a delicious miniature glen, through which ran a burn overhung with rowan-trees, and beyond that the hillside.
Her bedroom was spotlessly clean, and very neat, but it was rather disconcerting to find the toilet-table crowded with all manner of impedimenta—evidently bought at Sales of Work: three pincushions, a handkerchief sachet, a box with its lid ornamented with coloured sealing-wax, and a hand-glass. She wondered if Mrs. Bruce would be offended if she lifted them all into a drawer and put out her own ivory brushes. There was very little room in the wardrobe, but a large old-fashioned chest of drawers would hold a lot, and there was a cupboard at the side of the fireplace. The room had the same delightful view as the bathroom and Isobel would fain have stayed to enjoy it in the evening light, but remembering that her landlady had seemed to want the supper over, she hurried downstairs.
The parlour she found looked to the garden and the stackyard, and was furnished with a suite upholstered in brown plush. The table was spread for supper, lavishly spread, Isobel considered, with a pile of sliced “loaf” bread, a plate of scones, another of pancakes; oatcakes, also honey, and a home-made gingerbread. Mrs. Bruce added to it a large brown teapot and a covered dish, and withdrew without a word.
“I shan’t starve,” thought Isobel, as she helped herself to some ham and egg, and buttered a scone. She was surprised to find how much hungrier she was for this meal than she had ever been for the rather pretentious dinner at the Queen’s Court. In the window there was a small table, bearing a tall plant which obstructed the view, so she lifted it into a corner and sat happily munching and looking out. It was delightful to be so near the sound of the farmyard, and to be able to see something of the life that went on there. The work of the day was done, the workers had time now for a gossip, for a game, for a walk, or a run on a motor-bike with a companion. When Mrs. Bruce came in to remove she looked round the table, and said, “Ye’ve eaten nothing.”
“Nothing?” said Isobel. “Ham and egg, delicious scones and pancakes, and honey, not to speak of the best gingerbread I ever tasted!”
“Well, it’s mebbe me that’s no used to London appetites. We wouldna call that a tea in Glenbucho. Davy’s away to the bools.”
Visions of matadors floated through Isobel’s mind, and her surprised stare made Mrs. Bruce explain, “The game, ye ken. Mebbe y’re used to hearing it called ‘bowls.’ ”
“Oh yes, of course. I know about bowls. Have you a bowling-green near here?”
“Aye, at the village. Ye passed it coming from the station, but ye wouldna know to look. Aye, and tennis courts too we have. The young folk waste a terrible lot of time at tennis.”
“But it’s splendid exercise,” Isobel said.
“I daresay,” her companion responded and, with a sniff, added, “It’s surprising what an exercise folk need nowadays. In ma young days our work gave us a’ the exercise we needed. But we worked then. Now they just dawdle through their job till it’s time to start amusing theirsel’s.”
She lifted what was on the table on to her tray, and soon all trace of the meal had disappeared.
Before her landlady left the room Isobel asked her if she might use the table that held the plant to write on.
Mrs. Bruce pulled down her long upper lip, and said severely, “That’s a castor-oil plant. I’ve had it for years, and ye see how healthy it looks standing in the light.”
Isobel agreed that it looked healthy, but added that it seemed a pity to block up such a pleasant window.
“I’d like,” she said, “to sit there and work and write letters. I promise to put back the castor-oil plant every night before I go to bed, and it’ll get all the morning light. Will that do?”
Mrs. Bruce stood with the tray in her hands, looking far from pleased. “It’ll have to do, I suppose,” she said
