# Just Jemima/Chapter 4

pp. 49–62.

### IV
#### TWO STRINGS

THIS no' bein' a complete bography, I winna say onything aboot ma first few days at "Seaview," except that I was up far ower early, got guid meals, and discovered that Mrs. Parkins expected work for her money.
On Friday afternoon I was cleanin' the silver in the pantry. Frederick—I ha'e decided to call him by that name in public—was gi'ein' me a hand, or, to be strictly correct, learnin' me the way. The cook had arrove. She was up in years, gey stout, awfu' serious, and didna seem to ha'e ony notion o' conversation.
I was enquirin' at Frederick why Mrs. Parkins couldna keep her servants mair nor a month in sich a decent hoose.
"It's the dulness o' the place," says he, "and the distance frae the town; likewise the great scarcity o' men."
"But you're a man," says I.
He gi'ed a bit laugh.
"I've done ma best to oblige Mrs. Parkins," he says. "In fac', I near got masel' engaged to one o' them. It caused her to bide ower the month, but I couldna keep it up. She was forty, if she was a day."
"Weel, I never!" says I. "But surely ye're no' tellin' me that Mrs. Parkins asked ye to——"
"Bless your heart, she wouldna dae that! Mrs. Parkins did ma mither a guid turn last year, and it was up to me to pay it back. But except for the one I've mentioned, they didna tak' me seriouslike."
"It would be the auld one's last chance," I says. "I canna think it was jist fair o' ye. What's your age?"
"Five and twinty."
"Oh, weel, she could hardly expect ye to marry her. Was she nice lookin'?"
"Extremely handsome up to her neck. But I could never fall in love wi' ony but a young girl, Jemima," he says. "Hoo auld are ye?"
"Near three and twinty.'
"Mak' it fifty when ye're at it!" says he.
"We'll never be finished wi' the silver at this rate," says I.
He looked at me kin' o' sternlike.
"I'm thinkur ye've had a heap o' sweethearts in your time," he says.
"I never had sich a thing!" I cries.
"Then ye canna be three and twinty, or onything like it."
"I've been brought up extra strict," I tells him.
"I can believe ye there," he says. "Am I the first man frien' ye've ever had?"
"If ye was a true frien'," says I, "ye would believe in ma age."
I thought I had settled him, but after a while he says:—
"Ye dinna behave as if ye had kent many chaps. That's one o' the things I like aboot ye, Jemima."
"Weel, ye can stop likin' it," I answered gey sharp. "Surely I can ken chaps withoot bein' silly aboot them. An' dinna be thinkin' ye're the only man I ken in this place, for ye're no'!"
It was stupid o' me, but the words was oot afore I could stop them.
"What?" says he. "Ye ha'ena had the chance to mak' ony acquaintances since ye cam' here, and ye told me ye had nae frien's hereaboots."
I smiled to masel'.
"Wha is he?" he cries.
"Never you mind!"
"I'll find oot!"
If ye dae, ye'll behold an example to follow." Somehow I had to gang on. I hove a sigh and near upset the dish o' polishin' stuff. "Oh, dear!" says I, "but that young man was terrible kind to me! When I got oot at the wrang station, that wearied, I'm sure I dinna ken what I would ha'e done withoot the tea and lovely honey!"
"The swine!" says Frederick. "Weel, I didna mean that exactly. But noo I ken him—he's the porter at Sunnyburn—a daft idiot. Aweel, he was never introduced to ye proper-like."
"Nae mair was you!"
"I was! Mrs. Parkins said: 'This is Frederick,' and you got red in the face!"
'I didna! She didna mention ma name, so it wasna a proper introduction. Ye got ma name off ma box, same as the porter done."
"Dinna tell me he had the neck to call ye' Jemima!'"
"I winna tell ye onything. Ye're no' what I thought ye was."
"What did ye thought—think—I am—I mean—was?" He was confused.
"Never mind! Kindly clear oot. I can finish this silver masel'," I says, wi' ma nose in the air.
He stared at me for half a minute afore he spoke. Then he says:—
"Ah, come on, Jemima, dinna be huffy."
"I beg your pardon! " says I ironly.
"I didna mean for to offend ye," says he. "What's the use o' quarrelin' aboot a rotten porter?"
"Wha told ye I was quarrelin'? I've mair to think aboot."
"Well, then, forgive me."
"What for?"
"For doubtin' yoiur word aboot your age."
He kin' o' had me that time. Onyway, I've aye been a great one for peace.
"Maybe I did exaggerate a wee bit," I says, vera busy wi' the brush. "Besides, it was the station master that gi'ed me ma tea."
"Noo, that's nice o' ye," he says. "And it's no' every girl that'll mak' hersel' oot to be aulder nor she is. For instance, that hoosemaid I told ye aboot pretended she was jist seven and twinty."
"But hoo could ye tell that wasna her real age?" I asked him.
He dinna answer directly, and then Mrs. Parkins cam' in, and somehow I could never put the question again.
It was awfu' silly o' me, but maybe it was the cheese puddin' we had that night that done it, for when I gaed to ma bed I couldna sleep at first for wonderin' aboot that hoosemaid.
Hooever, the mornin' brought me something else to bother aboot in the shape o' a letter. I didna ken the writin', and when I looked at the end I near drapped on the floor.
"What unpiddence!" I says to masel'. "I've a guid mind to burn it unread," Still, I didna dae that.
       "Dear Jemima:
       "I have been wondering these fine evenings why you was never out for a walk for the good of your health, but now I have found out that the servants at 'Seaview' cannot get out in the evenings because the boarders gets their big feed then, which is a shame altogether. But I hear you get out two afternoons a week, which is no use to me that is on duty till 6 p.m.; but I also hear that you have every second Sunday afternoon and evening, so I will look out for you on the road next Sunday. I will be very pleased to show you the finest scenery in this part of the British Isles, and you can have either chocolates or toffee to refresh you all the time. I know how to behave myself as well as anybody. Hoping to observe your sweet smile before it is many days older.
Your's resp., Peter Taggart "Head Porter , Sunnyburn Station.
       "P. S.—Beware!"
"Weel," thinks I, "he seems to ha'e ta'en a heap o' trouble to write a nice letter;" and I couldna but admire his neck in callin' hissel' "head porter."
Of course, he had nae business to put "Jemima," nor to bid me beware; otherwise it was a polite, respectable letter, and it would be bad manners no' to answer it. But boo to answer it was another story. If the cook had been onything forbye a cook, I might ha'e asked her advice; unfortunately, bein' hard o' hearin', as she told Frederick, she had lost her interest in a' worldly joys except eatin' and sleepin', and didna care if the Huns cam' to "Seaview" the morn's mornin'.
Hooever, there was seldom time for broodin' at "Seaview." On this particular afternoon, to Mrs. Parkins' satisfaction as weel as mines, a' the hoarders went off to excurse theirsel's on a steamboat, which meant a savin' in work and time, no' forgettin' afternoon tea. I was in the pantry, strivin' to get off by heart the long list o' the boarders' likes and dislikes, when Frederick drapped in.
"I thought ye was busy in the garden," says I, "along wi' Mr. Parkins."
"So I was," says he, "but the auld sleepy-head gaed into the tool-house to fetch a hoe, and there he's yet, snorin' like a pig. I'm due a rest onyway."
"The cook's ha'ein' a dish o' tea," I says. "Ye should jine her."
I noticed, no' for the first time, that he was lookin' wearied.
"I'm no' heedin' aboot tea, Jemima," he says, suddenly. "I wish ye would dae me a favour."
I think it's Soloman that says: "When in doubt, hold your tongue." I merely took a squint oot o' the corner o' ma eye, and gaed on wi' ma study.
"Are ye daein' onything parteec'lar on Sunday evenin'?" he says at last.
I had to answer this time.
"Depends on what ye call parteec'lar," says I. I minded it was him that had took the letters frae the postie that mornin'.
"Ha'e ye an engagement?" he says.
"I promised ma fayther I would gang to the Kirk," I tells him.
"Ay; but after the Kirk."
Upon ma sam, I didna ken what to say. I thought o' mentionin' that the cook an' me was gaun oot to chase wilks, but he was lookin' that serious, I couldna manage it. So to bring the thing to a head I says carelesslike:—
"I suppose ye'll be comin' to the favour some o' these days."
"I'm feart ye'll no' grant it," says he.
Oh, dear, I eouldna help feelin' curious!
"Jemima," he says, after a while, "I wish ye would come up and see ma mither on Sunday evenin'."
I may as weel confess I was surprised; still, I canna say I was annoyed completely.
"Does your mither ken aboot me?" I enquires.
"Ay," says he, "She hopes ye'll come."
"Then I'll come," says I, "and thank her kindly."
"That's fine!" he says, lookin' as pleased as onything.
Jist then I was rung for, but I stopped to ask a question that had been in ma head ever since I first seen him lookin' wearied.
"I suppose ye wasna strong enough for the army," I says as kind as I could.
"A guid guess, Jemima," says he, "but ye'd better no' keep her waitin'."
I gaed to ma bed as early as I could that nicht—at least I gaed to ma room. I was at ma wits' end to think what to write to the porter. Ye see, I didna want to be ower frien'ly, and I didna want to hurt his feelin's. At last I minded something I had read in a wee book ma sister had bought, after a fortune-teller had said she would likely marry a young duke—instead o' the engineer o' a steam-road roller. And this is what I wrote:—
       "Miss J. Just regrets she has not the ability to accept Mr. P. Taggart's kind invitation to a view of the scenery with toffee (or chocolates), as she has a priory engagement, but she thanks him all the same and trusts he is in the best of health."
So I gaed to sleep at last wi' a guid conscience which, as my fayther says, is worth a dozen hot-water bottles, thinkin' kindly o' ma twa admirers, though neither o' them was exactly heroes.