Just Jemima/Chapter 2

T wasna to be expected that ony humane ear would hear ma first knock, and after what seemed like three weeks I took hold o' the knocker again. But it slipped frae ma fingers and made sich a bang, I near drapped on the door-step in a swoon. As long as I live on this testerial globe, I'll never see a green door without rememberin' ma arrival at "Seaview."

I was still decomposed when the door was opened by a young man in his shirt-sleeves, which was white. He was a tall chap, but unco thin, and his face was awfu' pale after the porter's rubikind mug.

"Guid evenin'," says he in a soft voice. "Was the train late?"

But I was past speechifyfin', and maybe he seen that something was wrong, for says he—pintin' up a long blue passage:—

"Mrs. Parkins is in the kitchen—last door on the left. I'll look after your trunk."

Wi' a sinkin' feelin' I gaed up the passage. Suddenly I felt a terrible nice smell of guid things cookin'. It seemed to revive ma droopin' spirits, but no' for long. Next moment I was standin' tremlin' jist inside the last door on the left.

It was a big, braw kitchen, though no' as tidy as ma mither's; but there was a reason for that. A lady—oh, I could see that she was a lady right enough—-was at the table, wi' a white apron on her, as busy as could be. She wasna really near as large as she looked to me then. She would be forty or fifty, maybe; her hair was beginnin' to turn gray. I daresay she had been bonny in her youth. Noo her face was weariedlike.

She was gently stirrin' something in a bowl, and she didna lift her eyes.

"So you've come at last!" she says. "What delayed you?"

I tried to speak, but jist let oot a squeak.

Then she looked at me.

"Gracious heavens!" she cries. "Who on earth are you?"

I managed to reply: "Hoose-table-maid, mem."

"You!" says she, drappin' the spoon wi' a splash. "You are not the girl I engaged last week! What's your name?"

"Jemima, mem."

"Is that all?"

"Just."

"Just Jemima? Absurd!"

"Jemima Just, mem," says I.

"Oh," says she, "I remember! But I engaged a Jessie Just. Why are you here?"

I think she must ha'e liked the look o' me, for she wasna as cross as she might ha'e been, and so I managed to tell ma story.

"It was this way, mem," says I. "Ma sister Jessie intended for to keep her bargain, but yesterday her young man got leave unexpectedlike, and dear knows when she would get another chance, and so they got married this mornin'"

"She might at least have sent me word," says Mrs. Parkins.

"Weel, mem, her and me cam' to the conclusion that one deed was better nor a heap o' words, and I was keen to see life, and betwixt us we persuaded fayther and mither, and so" I stopped, for I couldna get ony further.

"But you're a mere child," she says. "How old are you?"

"I'll sune be three and twinty," I says, lookin' at the bowl.

"Oh, nonsense! Come, come, tell the truth!"

"I'm in ma eighteenth year, mem."

"When were you seventeen?"

"Last week, mem."

"And why did you say you would soon be twenty-three?"

"Time flies, mem."

She wagged her head sorrowful-like. At last she says:—

"You can't have had any experience."

I was sort o' ready for her this time.

"I've been brought up terrible strict, and I've aye helped ma mither in the hoose, and I'm rael quick at the uptak'. I never need to be told a thing twice; I can repeat the 119th Psalm without stoppin', except for breath; an' I'm maist economic. And, of course, I would never expect ma sister's wage."

At that she shut her mouth close, and then she took up the spoon and stirred for a while, and then she stopped and gi'ed a guid look up and doon.

"Do you happen to have any friends in this neighbourhood?"

"No' even what ye might ca' a bowin' acquaintance," says I, which was maybe no' quite fair to the porter.

"Well," she says, "since you can't get home to-night, I suppose you must stay here. Perhaps I may give you a trial."

"Hurray! I'm ready!" I cries afore I kent what I was sayin'. I was that excited, I tore off ma hat, and brought doon ma hair, which had scarcely got used to bein' up. Luckily it's no' bad hair, bein' chestnut, wi' a natural wave, and as thick as thick.

"Come, Jemima," she says, as if she hadna noticed onything, "and I'll show you your room." And a nice wee room it was. "Get changed as quickly as you can," says she.

"Yes, mem," says I. "Wrapper or black dress?" Ye see, I was prepared for onything, for Mither and me had sat up near a' nicht, alterin Jessie's things to fit me. Fortunately Jessie's the stout one.

"Black," says she. "We dine at 7:300."

"I think I can thole till then," says I. It was oot afore I kent. But I was quick to beg her pardon, explainin' that happiness had made me forget masel'. As ma fayther often said to ma sister, independence is a fine thing, but ower mony girls nooadays seems to think it's another word for impiddence.

When she had left me, I sat doon on ma faithful box and gi'ed masel' three hugs.

Jessie's black lustre was split new, and I rather fancied masel' for smart when I ran back to the kitchen. In the passage I nearly gaed bang into a tray o' silver things in front o' the young man which had opened the door to me. He gi'ed me a smile, but I never let on I seen it.

Mrs. Parkins didna gi'e me a smile, but a wee nod as if she was pleased. Then she started to ask questions.

""Are you an early riser?" was the first.

Ma sister had warned me to be ready for it.

"Yes, mem," says I. "Fayther gangs to his work at the back o' six."

"Can you make beds?" was another.

"Like fun!" I says. "I can dae onything ord'nar' aboot the hoose, mem. Mak' parritch, bile tatties, bake scones and pancakes, scrub and clean, toast cheese, when there's ony, knit, dam, beat ma fayther at the draughts"

"Really!" says she. "I don't suppose you can lay and wait the table."

"No' yet," says I, "but once seen, never forgot."

"You're not afraid of hard work, I hope," she says, lookin' me in the face.

"Mem," says I, "I'm afraid o' naething but coos and, maybe, men."

"There are plenty of cows here," she says, wi' a wee smile. "But I must get on with these patties."

"Is there naething I could be daein' for ye the noo?"

"Just stay where you are, Jemima, and listen," she replies. "I'll explain some things about the house, which will make it easier for you afterwards."

So I folded ma hands and stood attentive-like. After she had told me a heap o' things, she says:—

"All the rooms, except the green and white rooms, are occupied. Colonel Beadle and Mrs. Beadle, who have made several long stays at 'Seaview,' have the blue room. Miss Tinto—she also has been here before—has the pink room. Mrs. Pagan, who came for the first time on Monday, has the heliotrope, and Mr. Shard the old gold room. Now, as it is necessary for you to remember, I'll go over them again. Listen carefully.

"I've got them safe in ma brain, mem, says I, wantin' to show off ma quick uptak'. "I'll recite them. Colonel and Mrs. Beetle"

"Beadle."

"Colonel and Mrs. Beadle—no' much difference—blue; Miss Tinto pinko—beg pardon, pink; Mrs. Pagan and Mr. Shark"

"Stop, stop! ' she cries. "Mrs. Pagan, heliotrope."

"And Mr. Shark, rolled gold. Is that no' correc', mem?"

"Very good, Jemima," she says, wi' a bit laugh. "But please remember that there are no beetles nor sharks in this house. Mr. Shard is the name, and his room is old gold."

"I'll mind that," I says. "And will them be a' your lodgers, mem?"

"Paying guests, Jemima. Yes; they are all at present; but though few, they require a great deal of attention. I have made a specialty of suiting individual tastes, and that is why I have so many regular clients in this rather out-of-the-way spot."

"Ye must be clever, mem," says I.

She didna appear to catch the compliment.

I have made up a list of their chief likes and dislikes," says she, "and if you stay on here, you will require to study it. Now you had better come and get acquainted with the house. A pity you could not have arrived in the morning, but it can't be helped. You will not attempt any waiting to-night, but you may stand by the sideboard and watch how Frederick does it. If he should ask you to do any little thing, of course, you will do it."

By the time we was through wi' the hoose, I'll admit ma head was in a bizz, but I was fair bilin' wi' eagerosity to mak' a start.

"This is the job for me!" says I.

She wasna angry, but she says:—

"I think you are a little excited, Jemima, and tired, too. Go to your room and sit there quietly till I call you. Do nothing at all. Just get your wits together—if you really want to be a help."

Weel, I jist did as I was bid, and to tell ye the truth I wasna sorry to get sittin' doon. I wrote a card to ma mither, and was jist aboot to dae another to Jessie, when there was a knock at the door. I was oot in a jiffy, and seen the young man in the white shirt-sleeves disappearin' into the kitchen. I thought he had been tryin' to be funny, but the next instant, lookin' doon, I spied a cup o' tea and some scones and butter.

It was jist what I had been needin' withoot knowin' it.

When it was devoured, I took the card I had wrote to ma mither, and added the following

"P.S.—This is Heaven."

Oh, me! what a mercy we canna squint into the future!