The curtains are drawn again in Miss Annie Laurie’s house of
Heathbank—drawn back from the opened windows to let the fresh air and
the sunshine in once more to all the rooms. With a long breath and sigh
of relief, the household throws off its compelled gloom. With all
observances of honour, they have laid her in her grave, and a few
natural tears have been wept—a few kindly words spoken—a reverent
memento raised to name the place where she lies. Now she is passed away
and forgotten, her seat empty—her house knowing her no more.
In Miss Annie’s desk, a half-written paper—intimating vaguely that, in
case of “anything happening” to her at any future time, she wished all
that she had to be given to Menie Laurie—was found immediately after the
funeral. But some superstitious terror had prevented her from finishing
it, far more from making a will. Menie was her next of kin; it pleased
them to have this sanction of her willingness to the inheritance of the
natural heir.
Miss Annie had been rather given to speak of her savings; but no vestige
of these savings was to be found. She had practised this on herself like
many another delusion; and saving the furniture of Heathbank, and a
profusion of ornaments not valuable, there remained little for Menie to
inherit. Miss Annie’s maid was her well-known favourite, and had been
really attentive, and a good servant to her indulgent mistress. Her name
was mentioned in the half-written paper, and Maria’s own report of many
conversations, modestly hinted at a legacy. Miss Annie’s furniture,
pretty and suitable for her house as it was, was not valuable in a sale;
and Mrs Laurie, acting for her daughter, bestowed almost the whole
amount received for it upon Maria, as carrying out the will of her
mistress. Having done this, they had done all, Mrs Laurie thought, and
would now go home to live as they could upon what remained to them.
Burnside, with all its plenishing, brought in no greater revenue than
fifty pounds a-year, and Mrs Laurie had two or three hundred pounds “in
the bank.” This was all. She began to calculate painfully what the
home-journey would cost them, and called Jenny to consult about their
packing. They were now in a little lodging in the town of Hampstead.
They had no inducement to stay here; and Menie’s face looked very
pale—very much in want of the fresh gale on the Dumfriesshire braes.
True, they knew not where they were going, but the kindly soil was home.
When her mother and Jenny began to take enumeration of the bags and
boxes which must go with them, Menie entered the room. Menie looked very
slight, very pale, and exhausted, almost shadowy in her mourning dress;
but Menie’s now was a face which had looked on Death. The conflict and
sullen warfare were gone out of it. Dead and silent within her lay her
chilled heart, like a stricken field when the fight is over, with
nothing but moans and sighs, and voices of misery, where the music and
pomp of war has so lately been. The contest was over; there was nothing
to struggle for, or struggle with, in this dull unhappiness—and a heavy
peace lay upon Menie like a cloud.
“There’s a wee kistie wi’ a lock. I set it by mysel for Miss Menie; and
there’s the muckle ane that held the napery at hame; but I’m no gaun
owre them a’. I’ll just lay in the things as I laid them when we came.
Miss Menie! gang awa your ways, like a good bairn, and read a book; your
mamma’s speaking about the flitting, and I can only do ae thing at a
time.”
“Are we going home, mother?”
“There is nothing else we can do, Menie,” said Mrs Laurie. “I suppose
none of us have any inducement now to stay in London.”
A flush of violent colour came to Menie’s cheeks. She paused and
hesitated. “_I_ have, mother.”
“Bless me, I aye said it,” muttered Jenny quickly, under her breath, as
she turned round with an eager face, and thrust herself forward towards
the mother and daughter. “The bairn’s come to hersel.”
Mrs Laurie coloured scarcely less than Menie. “I cannot guess what you
mean,” she said hurriedly. “You did not consult me before—I am, perhaps,
an unsuitable adviser now; but I cannot stay in London without having a
reason for it. This place has nothing but painful associations for me.
You are not well, Menie,” continued the mother, softening; “we shall all
be better away—let us go home.”
The colour wavered painfully on Menie Laurie’s cheek, and it was hard to
keep down a groan out of her heart. “I am not come to myself—my mind is
unchanged,” she said with sudden meekness. “I want you to stay for a
month or two—as short a time as possible—and to let me have some
lessons. Mother, look at these.”
Menie had brought her little portfolio. With some astonishment Mrs
Laurie turned over its contents, and delicately—almost timidly too—lest
Randall’s face should look out upon her as of old. But all the sketches
of Randall were removed. Jenny pressed forward to see; but Jenny, as
bewildered as Menie’s mother, could only look up with a puzzled face.
What did she mean?
“They are not very well done,” said Menie; “but, for all that, they are
portraits, and like. I want to have lessons, mother. Once before, long
ago,”—poor Menie, it seemed to be years ago,—“I said this should be my
trade. I will like the trade; let me only have the means of doing it
better, and it will be good for me to do it. This is why I ask you to
stay in London.”
Jenny, very fierce and red, grasping the back of a chair, thrust it
suddenly between them at this point, with a snort of emphatic defiance.
“Ye’ll no let on ye hear her!” exclaimed Jenny; “you’ll let her get her
whimsey out like ony ither wean!—ye’ll pay nae attention to her maggots
and her vanities! Trade! My patience! to think I should live to hear a
bairn of ours speak of a trade, and Jenny’s twa hands to the fore!”
And a petulant reluctant sob burst out of Jenny’s breast—an angry tear
glittered in her eye. She drew a long breath to recover herself—
“Jenny’s twa hands to the fore, I say, and the bere a’ to shear yet, and
the ’taties to gather—no to say the mistress is to buy me twa kye, to
take butter to the market! I would just like to ken where’s the pleasure
in working, if it’s no to gi’e ease to folk’s ain? I’ve a’ my ain plans
putten down, if folk would just let me be; and we’ll can keep a young
lass to wait upon Miss Menie,” cried Jenny, with a shrill tone in her
voice, “and the first o’ the cream and the sweetest o’ the milk, and nae
occasion to wet her finger. You’re no gaun to pay ony heed to her—you’re
no gaun to let on you hear what she says!”
Reaching this point, Jenny broke down, and permitted, much against her
will, a little shower of violent hot tears to rain down upon the arms
which she folded resolutely into her apron. But Jenny shook off, with
indignation, the caressing hand which Menie laid upon her shoulder.
Jenny knew by experience that it was better to be angry than to be sad.
“I would think with you too, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie, slowly. “I could
do anything myself; but a bairn of mine doing work for money—Menie, we
will not need it—we will try first—”
“Mother,” said Menie, interrupting her hastily, “_I_ will need it—I will
never be wilful again—let me have my pleasure now.”
It was a thing unknown in the household that Menie should not have her
pleasure. Even Jenny yielded to this imperative claim. The boxes were
piled up again in Jenny’s little bedchamber. Jenny herself, able to do
nothing else, set to knitting stockings with great devotion. “I’ll ha’e
plenty to do when we get hame, without ever taking wires in my hand,”
said Jenny. “Nae doubt it’s just a providence to let me lay up as mony
as will serve.”
Their parlour was in the first floor, over one of the trim little
ladies’ shops, which have their particular abode in little towns of
competence and gentility. Toys and Berlin wool—a prim, neat, gentle Miss
Middleton sitting at work on some pretty bit of many-coloured industry
behind the orderly counter—gay patterns and specimens about—little carts
and carriages, and locomotive animals upon the floor—bats, balls, drums,
shining tin breastplates, and glorious swords hanging by the door, and a
linen awning without, throwing the little shop into pleasant shade. This
was the ground floor; above it was a very orderly parlour, and the sun
came glistening in upon the little stand of flowers through the bright
small panes of the old-fashioned window, and fell upon Mrs Laurie,
always at work upon some making or mending—upon Jenny’s abrupt exits and
entrances—her keen grey eyes and shining ‘wires,’ the latter of which
were so nobly independent of any guidance from the former—and upon
Menie’s heavy meditations, and Menie’s daily toil.
For toil it came to be, exalted from the young lady’s accomplishment to
the artist’s labour. She worked at this which she harshly called her
trade with great zeal and perseverance. Even herself did not know how
deficient she was till now; but Menie worked bravely in her
apprenticeship, and with good hope.