Part 24 (1/2)
There was no compet.i.tion to interfere with Mistress Inchbare. She regulated her own prices, and made her own rules. If you objected to her prices, and revolted from her rules, you were free to go. In other words, you were free to cast yourself, in the capacity of houseless wanderer, on the scanty mercy of a Scotch wilderness. The village of Craig Fernie was a collection of hovels. The country about Craig Fernie, mountain on one side and moor on the other, held no second house of public entertainment, for miles and miles round, at any point of the compa.s.s. No rambling individual but the helpless British Tourist wanted food and shelter from strangers in that part of Scotland; and n.o.body but Mistress Inchbare had food and shelter to sell. A more thoroughly independent person than this was not to be found on the face of the hotel-keeping earth. The most universal of all civilized terrors--the terror of appearing unfavorably in the newspapers--was a sensation absolutely unknown to the Empress of the Inn. You lost your temper, and threatened to send her bill for exhibition in the public journals.
Mistress Inchbare raised no objection to your taking any course you pleased with it. ”Eh, man! send the bill whar' ye like, as long as ye pay it first. There's nae such thing as a newspaper ever darkens my doors. Ye've got the Auld and New Testaments in your bedchambers, and the natural history o' Pairths.h.i.+re on the coffee-room table--and if that's no' reading eneugh for ye, ye may een gae back South again, and get the rest of it there.”
This was the inn at which Anne Silvester had appeared alone, with nothing but a little bag in her hand. This was the woman whose reluctance to receive her she innocently expected to overcome by showing her purse.
”Mention your charge for the rooms,” she said. ”I am willing to pay for them beforehand.”
Her majesty, Mrs. Inchbare, never even looked at her subject's poor little purse.
”It just comes to this, mistress,” she answered. ”I'm no' free to tak'
your money, if I'm no' free to let ye the last rooms left in the hoose.
The Craig Fernie hottle is a faimily hottle--and has its ain gude name to keep up. Ye're ower-well-looking, my young leddy, to be traveling alone.”
The time had been when Anne would have answered sharply enough. The hard necessities of her position made her patient now.
”I have already told you,” she said, ”my husband is coming here to join me.” She sighed wearily as she repeated her ready-made story--and dropped into the nearest chair, from sheer inability to stand any longer.
Mistress Inchbare looked at her, with the exact measure of compa.s.sionate interest which she might have shown if she had been looking at a stray dog who had fallen footsore at the door of the inn.
”Weel! weel! sae let it be. Bide awhile, and rest ye. We'll no' chairge ye for that--and we'll see if your husband comes. I'll just let the rooms, mistress, to _him,_, instead o' lettin' them to _you._ And, sae, good-morrow t' ye.” With that final announcement of her royal will and pleasure, the Empress of the Inn withdrew.
Anne made no reply. She watched the landlady out of the room--and then struggled to control herself no longer. In her position, suspicion was doubly insult. The hot tears of shame gathered in her eyes; and the heart-ache wrung her, poor soul--wrung her without mercy.
A trifling noise in the room startled her. She looked up, and detected a man in a corner, dusting the furniture, and apparently acting in the capacity of attendant at the inn. He had shown her into the parlor on her arrival; but he had remained so quietly in the room that she had never noticed him since, until that moment.
He was an ancient man--with one eye filmy and blind, and one eye moist and merry. His head was bald; his feet were gouty; his nose was justly celebrated as the largest nose and the reddest nose in that part of Scotland. The mild wisdom of years was expressed mysteriously in his mellow smile. In contact with this wicked world, his manner revealed that happy mixture of two extremes--the servility which just touches independence, and the independence which just touches servility--attained by no men in existence but Scotchmen. Enormous native impudence, which amused but never offended; immeasurable cunning, masquerading habitually under the double disguise of quaint prejudice and dry humor, were the solid moral foundations on which the character of this elderly person was built. No amount of whisky ever made him drunk; and no violence of bell-ringing ever hurried his movements. Such was the headwaiter at the Craig Fernie Inn; known, far and wide, to local fame, as ”Maister Bishopriggs, Mistress Inchbare's right-hand man.”
”What are you doing there?” Anne asked, sharply.
Mr. Bishopriggs turned himself about on his gouty feet; waved his duster gently in the air; and looked at Anne, with a mild, paternal smile.
”Eh! Am just doostin' the things; and setin' the room in decent order for ye.”
”For _me?_ Did you hear what the landlady said?”
Mr. Bishopriggs advanced confidentially, and pointed with a very unsteady forefinger to the purse which Anne still held in her hand.
”Never fash yoursel' aboot the landleddy!” said the sage chief of the Craig Fernie waiters. ”Your purse speaks for you, my la.s.sie. Pet it up!”
cried Mr. Bishopriggs, waving temptation away from him with the duster.
”In wi' it into yer pocket! Sae long as the warld's the warld, I'll uphaud it any where--while there's siller in the purse, there's gude in the woman!”
Anne's patience, which had resisted harder trials, gave way at this.
”What do you mean by speaking to me in that familiar manner?” she asked, rising angrily to her feet again.
Mr. Bishopriggs tucked his duster under his arm, and proceeded to satisfy Anne that he shared the landlady's view of her position, without sharing the severity of the landlady's principles. ”There's nae man livin',” said Mr. Bishopriggs, ”looks with mair indulgence at human frailty than my ain sel'. Am I no' to be familiar wi' ye--when I'm auld eneugh to be a fether to ye, and ready to be a fether to ye till further notice? Hech! hech! Order your bit dinner la.s.sie. Husband or no husband, ye've got a stomach, and ye must een eat. There's fesh and there's fowl--or, maybe, ye'll be for the sheep's head singit, when they've done with it at the tabble dot?”
There was but one way of getting rid of him: ”Order what you like,” Anne said, ”and leave the room.” Mr. Bishopriggs highly approved of the first half of the sentence, and totally overlooked the second.
”Ay, ay--just pet a' yer little interests in my hands; it's the wisest thing ye can do. Ask for Maister Bishopriggs (that's me) when ye want a decent 'sponsible man to gi' ye a word of advice. Set ye doon again--set ye doon. And don't tak' the arm-chair. Hech! hech! yer husband will be coming, ye know, and he's sure to want it!” With that seasonable pleasantry the venerable Bishopriggs winked, and went out.