I
SHE GOES ON A JOURNEY
M'A fayther wasna keen on the notion, and maybe ma mither had her doubts, but ma sister backed me up for a' she was worth—which was a guid deal jist then, for she was on the eve o' gettin' married to Adam Jamieson, and that easy agitated, her parents could refuse her naething.
When it was decided I was to gang, she fell on ma neck and bursted in tears.
"It's a noble deed ye're daein', Jemima," she says. "I wish I had been a better big sister to ye."
"Oh, we'll no' gang back on that," I says, generouslike, "and it's never ower late to mend, and ye'll maybe be wealthy someday."
Of course I didna really mean that she had ever been a bad sister, but then neither did she; folk'll say onything when a weddin's on.
I'm no' gaun to describe the weddin', paper bein' that dear, nor hoo I had to slope for the station afore the feast was entirely shifted. I'll merely mention that there wasna a dry hanky in the room, the gents bein' so galliant as to lend theirs to the ladies, after the latter's was soaked. Ye see, everybody was that vexed for the parents lossin' their twa dear daughters at one fell sweep.
Likewise I'll pass ower the railway journey. It was a terrible warm day, an' to tell ye the truth, I was that wearied wi' a' the excitement that afore long I was dozin', and twa hours had rolled awa' when I got a queer start, hearin' a voice cryin' the name o' ma station. I was but half awake when I found masel' wi' ma things on the platform; and the train gaed on again. When a young porter cam' up holdin' oot his hand, I was that confused that I gi'ed it a shake.
"I was only wantin' your ticket," says he; "but I'm delighted to see ye."
I'll no' deny that I blushed, but I managed to pass him ma ticket as if he had been dirt.
He looked at it.
"I doubt ye've been hasty," says he. "Ye've alit at the previous station."
"What station's this? " says I, no' believin' him.
He pinted to a board.
"If ye canna spell, I'll be glad to assist ye."
I read the name—"Sunnyburn."
"Oh, help!" says I, and sat doon on ma box. But I was up again like a shot. "The man cried oot 'Westerbay,'" I says, gey angry. "Wha was the man? Fetch a' the porters this instant!
"I'm the staff," says he, "except for the station master, and he's awa' to his tea."
"Was it him that cried oot the name?" says I.
"It was the staff," says he.
"Then can ye swear ye didna cry 'Westerbay'?"
At that he jamp. Then he doubled up his fist and gi'ed hissel' a dunt on the nose.
"Oh, criffens!" says he, "maybe ye're right. Ye see I got shifted here frae 'Westerbay' only a month back."
I collapsed on to ma faithful box.
"Oh, for ony favour, dinna cry!" he says.
"Cry?" says I. "I've a guid mind to yell! Oh, what for did your mither let ye be a porter?"
Jist then the station master cam' along.
"What's ado, lassie?" says he. "Lost your ticket?"
Weel, I'll say this for the porter: he told the truth and didna try to excupulate hissel'.
"See here, ma lad," says the station master, "when ye gang off duty the nicht, get a spade and dig a nice wee hole, and become a turnip. It's a' ye're fit for." Then he turned to me. "Fortunately it's no' vera serious for you, miss. The hoose ye're bound for lies aboot half-roads betwixt this and Westerbay station—less nor twa mile frae this. Peter here—afore he digs hissel' in—'ll get a barrow and hurl your box for ye. But first, come along wi' me, and the wife'll gi'e ye a cup o' tea."
There's a station master for ye! What an example to some o' them at the big city stations! An' his wife was jist as nice. She gi'ed me champion scones wi' honey frae her ain private bumbees. May Heaven reward her and her pets!
When I was ready to tak' the road, there was the porter waitin' wi' the barrow. He didna look as sheepish as I expected, but I soon seen that his face wasna adopted for lookin' sheepish, bein' like a horse's.
Weel, we set oot without speakin'. I kept ma heid up, and looked neither to right nor left till I tipped ower a stane and near fell on ma nose.
"Ye're no' used to country roads, I see," he says politelike.
"I hope I'll never be used to this road," I answers him.
After a while he tried again.
"I see your address is 'Seaview.' Ye'll get a view o' the sea there."
"Thanks for the warnin'," says I.
"I'll hold ma tongue," says he.
"Oh, speak to the birds if ye like," says I.
To ma surprise he didna say another word.
At last I took a squint at him. I hadna noticed it afore, but he had a game leg. That made me feel kin' o' different.
"Excuse me," says I, "but ha'e ye been at the wars?"
"Fell off a tree when I was young, worse luck," says he.
"Weel, ye're honest, onyway, and I'm sure your mither doesna think it worse luck. I had twa brithers fightin'."
After that we got mair frien'ly—at least, I let him haver.
He told me aboot the place, and pinted oot subjects o' interest, sich as potato fields and farmhooses and coos, etc.
Though I wasna gaun to ask, I was hopin' he would tell me something aboot the hoose I was bound for.
So I enquired if "Seaview" wasna in sicht yet.
"No' yet," says he. "Are ye in a hurry to see it?"
"I jist am. I'm late, as ye ken."
"Dinna keep that up ainst me, Jemima."
"Dunna you call me that!" says I, sharplike.
"The rest o' your name has got rubbed off the label," he says. "Mines is Taggart—Peter Taggart."
I didna reply.
"D'ye ken," he says at last, "until this day I thought Jemima wasna a real name."
"Ye should read your Bible," says I.
"If ye tell me the place"
"Begin at the beginnin' and read till ye come to it. It would dae ye guid," I says sternlike.
"I'll no' deny that," says he. "Still, it'll dae me nae harm to ask at the minister next time he tak's the train. Weel, are ye no' gaun to tell me what ye're gaun to 'Seaview' for?"
"I'm the new hoose-table-maid," I answers boldly, though I wasna feelin' extra bold.
He drapped the barrow, and stood and looked at me.
"What's wrang wi' ye?" says I.
"Hoo auld are ye?" says he.
"That's nane o' your business."
"Sixteen?"
"I'll soon be three and twenty."
Without a word he started pushin' the barrow again. He seemed to be offended.
"Never mind ma age," I says. "What sort o' place is it at 'Seaview?"
"I'm sorry for ye, if ye're really gaun to service there," he says.
"What's wrang wi' it?"
"Servants never bide. Maybe because it's that dull."
"But it's a boardin' hoose."
"Ay; but they're maistly stuck-up folk in bad health, and there's never onything daein'," says he. "Ye'll be wishin' ye was dead in a week."
If ma box had been handy I would ha'e sat doon again. What a blow! It's true that I was gaun to "Seaview" to oblige ma sister, but a' the same, I was lookin' forward to seein' life.
"Keep up your heart," says the porter. "Ye'll get your meat, onyway. An' maybe they've healthier visitors noo nor when I last heard. But," says he, solemn-like, "it's ma duty to warn ye that there's a boots at 'Seaview'!"
"A what?" says I.
"A sort o' waiter. Beware o' him!"
"Why?"
"Never mind. Then there's the landlady's husband—beware o' him!"
"Mercy!" I exclaims, "what's wrang wi' him?"
"And at the station," he says, without stoppin', "there's a porter called John Craw—beware o' him! And the chap that drives the baker's van"
"Goodness gracious! Are they a' bad?"
"Rotten! Ye'd best beware o' a' the men in this neighbourhood," he says. "When ye've settled on your nights oot, I'll be glad to show ye the local scenery and so forth. I'm free after 6 p.m. Every night for the next week or so, I'll look oot for ye on this road—eh, Jemima?"
"Behave yoursel'!" I says gey sharp. "I'm obliged for your offer, but I was brought up ower strict ever to think o' sich a thing. Nae need to tell me to beware o' the men. I've always bewore, and always will."
"Oh, but we're no' a' rotten," he says in a hurry.
"Is this 'Seaview' we're noo approachin'?" I enquires, pintin' haughtily wi' ma auld bumberstick.
"That's the back o' it. We'll be at the sea in a minute," he says. "But as I was sayin', the men"
"What's your fare for hurlin' ma box?" I interrogates.
"Dinna insult me," says he, and for a while he was dumb. Then he says: "Supposin', on a fine night, we was to meet accidental-like—eh?"
I held ma peace and let him haver till suddenly we turned a corner, and there was the sea. My, it looked lovely, did the Firth o' Clyde, that evenin'.
"I believe I'll be happy here," says I.
"Ye ha'e ma best wishes," says he. "Noo here's the side entrance to 'Seaview'; the front is further on. Which dae ye prefer?"
"Your manners is improvin'," says I. "I think the side'll dae for a start."
So we gaed in and through a fine garden full o' cabbages and the like. It was a braw hoose even at the back. And then we cam' to a green door.
He set doon ma box as if it had been eggs, and held oot his hand, which I couldna exactly refuse.
"Remember ma name's Peter," he whispers. "You and me ought to be frien's, seein' that both oor names is in the Bible. Will ye no' conseeder it?"
I swithered withoot lettin' him see I was switherin'.
"Supposin' I could get somebody to introduce us," he says.
"His name would need to be in the Bible," says I.
"I think I could manage that!" he cries.
"It would need to be either Nebuchadnezzar or Hannibal."
"Aw, that's no' fair," says he. Then he gi'ed a bit laugh. "Ye've some fun in ye, after a', Jemima, and ye're bonny forbye. So long and guid luck to ye."
He made to gang, cam' back wi' a face like a fiddle, and whispered:
"Beware o' the Boots."
Then he gaed off wi' his barrow, double-quick.
Suddenly I felt awfu' lonely and kin' o' feart. Ye see, I hadna the least bit o' a notion what would happen to me on the other side o' that green door. I felt masel' gettin' wee-er and wee-er, and noo I canna imagine what kept me frae runnin' awa'. Maybe it was jist that I had nae place to run to.
So at last I put ma hand up to the knocker and gi'ed a chap that wouldna ha'e frightened a moose.