“Hoot, Tammas!” said his sister: which was the highest height of remonstrance she ever reached. Notwithstanding this, however, year after year Rolls had “stayed on.” He was very distinct in pointing out to “the Cornel” the superiority of his native masters, and the disadvantage to Scotland of having so many of the travelling English taking up the houses of the gentry; but he was an excellent servant, and his qualities in this way made up for his defects in the other—if, indeed, those defects did not tell in his favour; for a Scotch servant who is a character is, like a ghost, a credit to any old and respectable house. The Barringtons were proud of old Rolls. They laid temptations in his way and made him talk whenever they had visitors; and his criticisms on the English, and the opinions which he freely enunciated on all subjects, had often kept the party in amusement. Rolls, however, had not been able to defend himself against a certain weakness for the children, specially for Nora, who was very small when the family came to Dalrulzian, and whom he had brought up, as he flattered himself, regretting much all the time that she was not an Erskine and natural-born daughter of the house. Rolls did not by any means see the departure of the Barringtons unmoved, notwithstanding that he hurried them away. He stood for a long time looking after the “coach,” which was a sort of rude omnibus, as it jolted down the avenue. The old servant stood in the clear morning air, through which every creak of the jingling harness and every jolt of the wheels sounded so distinctly, and the voice of Jock Beaton apostrophising his worn-out horse, and watched the lingering departure with feelings of a very mingled description. “There’s feenis put to that chapter,” he said to himself aloud. “We’re well rid of them.” But he lingered as long as the yellow panels could be seen gleaming through the trees at the turn of the road, without any of the jubilation in his face which he expressed in his words. At that last turn, just when the “coach” reached the highroad, something white was waved from the window, which very nearly made an end of Rolls. He uttered something which at first sounded like a sob, but was turned into a laugh, so to speak, before it fell into that telltale air which preserved every gradation of sound. “It’s that bit thing!” Rolls said, more sentimental than perhaps he had ever been in his life. His fine feeling was, however, checked abruptly. “You’re greetin’ yourself, Tammas,” said a soft round voice, interrupted by sobs, over his shoulder. “Me greetin’!”—he turned round upon her with a violence that, if Bauby had been less substantial and less calm, would have driven her to the other end of the house; “I’m just laughin’ to see the nonsense you womenfolk indulge in: but it’s paardonable in the case of a bit creature like Miss Nora. And I allow they have a right to feel it. Where will they find a bonnie place like Dalrulzian, and next to nothing in the way of rent or keeping up? But I’m thankful mysel’ to see the nest cleared out, and the real man in it. What are you whimpering about? It’s little you’ve seen of them, aye in your kitchen.” “Me seen little of them!” cried Bauby, roused to a kind of soft indignation; “the best part of an hour with the mistress every day of my life, and as kind a sympathising woman! There’ll be nae leddy now to order the dinners—and that’s a great responsibility, let alone anything else.” “Go away with your responsibility. I’ll order your dinners,” said Rolls. “Well,” said Bauby, not without resignation, “to be a servant, and no born a gentleman, you’ve aye been awfu’ particular about your meat.” And she withdrew consoled, though drying her eyes, to wonder if Mr. John would be “awfu’ particular about his meat,” or take whatever was offered to him, after the fashion of some young men. Meat, it must be explained, to Bauby Rolls meant food of all descriptions—not only that which she would herself have correctly and distinctly distinguished as “butcher’s meat.”
The house was very empty and desolate after all the din and bustle. The furniture had faded in the quarter of a century and more which had elapsed since Harry Erskine furnished his drawing-room for his bride. That had not been a good period for furniture, according to our present lights, and everything looked dingy and faded. The few
