“I’ve been hearing something from Miss Menie, mem,” said Jenny, entering
the parlour of Burnside with a determined air, and planting herself
firmly behind the door. Jenny was very short, very much of one thickness
from the shoulders to the edge of the full round skirts under which
pattered her hasty feet--and had a slight deformity, variously estimated
by herself and her rustic equals according to the humour of the
moment--being no more than “a high shouther” in Jenny’s sunshiny
weather, but reaching the length of a desperate “thraw” when Jenny’s
temper had come to be as “thrawn” as her frame. A full circle, bunchy,
substantial, and comfortable, were Jenny’s woollen skirts, striped in
cheerful colours; and you had no warrant for supposing that any slovenly
superfluous bulk increased the natural dimensions of the round,
considerable waist, or stiff, well-tightened boddice, of which Jenny’s
clean short gown and firmly tied apron-strings defined the shape so
well. Very scanty was Jenny’s hair, and very little of it appeared under
her white muslin cap; and Jenny’s complexion was nothing to boast of,
though some withered bloom remained upon her cheeks. Her lips closed
upon each other firmly; her brow was marked with sundry horizontal
lines, which it was by no means difficult to deepen into a frown; and
Jenny’s eyes, grey, keen, and active, were at this present moment set in
fierce steadiness and gravity; while the little snort of her “fuff,” and
the little nod of her cap, with its full, well-ironed borders, gave
timely intimation of the mood in which Jenny came.
“Yes, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie, laying down her work on her knee, and
sitting back into her chair. Mrs Laurie knew the signs and premonitions
well, and lost no time in setting her back against the rock, and taking
up her weapons of defence.
“I say I’ve been hearing something from Miss Menie, mem,” repeated Jenny
still more emphatically; “things are come a gey length, to my puir
thought, when it’s the youngest of the house that brings word of a great
change to me!--and I’m thinking the best thing we can do is to part
friends as lang as we can keep up decent appearances; so maybe ye’ll
take the trouble, mem, if it’s no owre muckle freedom of me asking you,
to look out for a new lass afore the term.”
“Indeed, Jenny, I’ll do no such thing,” said Mrs Laurie quietly. Jenny
heeded not, but went on with a little nervous motion of her head, half
shake, half nod, and many a snort and half-drawn breath interposed
between.
“There’s been waur folk than Jenny serving in this house, I reckon. I’ve
kent women mysel that did less wark with mair slaistry--and aye as
muckle concerned for the credit of the house; but I’m no gaun to sound
my ain praise; and I would like to ken whether I’m to be held to the six
months’ warning, or if I may put up my kist and make my flitting like
other folk at the term?”
“You can make your flitting, Jenny, when we make ours; that is soon
enough, surely,” said Mrs Laurie with a half smile. Jenny had not roused
her mistress yet to anything but defence, so with a louder fuff than
ever she rushed to the attack again.
“For a smooth-spoken lass--believe hersel, she wouldna raise the stour
without pardon craved--I would recommend Nelly Panton. There’s no muckle
love lost atween her and me--but she’ll say ony ill of Jenny--and aye
have a curtsy ready for a lady’s ca’, and her een on the grund, and
neither mind nor heart o’ her ain, if the mistress says no. Na, I
wouldna say but Nelly Panton’s the very ane to answer, for she’ll never
take twa thoughts about casting off father and mother, kin and country,
whenever ye like to bid--though ye’ll mind, mem, it’s for sake of the
wage, and no for sake of you.”
“Dear me, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie impatiently, “when did I ask for such
a sacrifice? What makes ye such a crabbed body, woman? Did I ever bid a
servant of mine give up father or mother for me? You have been about
Burnside ten years now, Jenny--when did you know me do anything like
that?”
“A lady mayna mean ony ill--I’m no saying’t,” said Jenny; “but ane may
make a bonnie lock of mischief without kenning. I’ve been ten years
about Burnside--ay, and mair siller!--and to think the mistress should
be laying her odds and ends thegither--a woman at her time of life--to
flit away to a strange country, and never letting on a word to Jenny,
till the puir body’s either forced into a ship upon the sea, or thrown
on the cauld world to find her drap parritch at ony doorstep where
there’s charity! Eh, sirs, what’s the favour of this world to trust to!
But I’m no gaun to break my heart about it, for Jenny has twa guid hands
o’ her ain--nae thanks to some folk--to make her bread by yet!”
“Jenny’s an unreasonable body,” said her mistress, with half-amused
annoyance: “and if you were not spoken to before, it was just because
my mind was unsettled, and it’s only since yesterday I have thought of
it at all. If I make up my mind to go, it’s for anything but pleasure to
myself--so you have no occasion to upbraid me, Jenny, for doing this at
my time of life.”
“Me!” exclaimed Jenny, lifting her hands in appeal, “me upbraid the
mistress! Eh, sirs, the like of that! But, mem, will you tell me, if
it’s no for your ain pleasure, you that’s an independent lady, what for
would you leave Burnside?”
Mrs Laurie hesitated; but Mrs Laurie knew very well that nothing could
be more unprofitable than any resentment of Jenny’s fuff--and her own
transitory displeasure had already died away.
“You may say we’re independent at this present time,” she said with a
little sigh; “but did it never occur to you, Jenny--if anything happened
to me--my poor lassie!--what’s to become of Menie then?”
“Havers!” cried Jenny loudly. “I mean--I ask your pardon--but what’s
gaun to happen to you this twenty years and mair?”
“Twenty years is a lifetime of itself,” said her mistress; “it might not
be twenty days nor twenty hours. The like of us have no right to reckon
our time.”
“It’s time for me to buckle my shoon to my feet, and my cloak to my
shouthers, if you’re thinking upon your call,” said Jenny. “But, no to
be ill-mannered, putting my forbears in ae word with yours, we’re baith
come of a lang-lived race--and you’re just in your prime, as weel as
ever ye was; and ’deed, I canna think it onything but a reflection upon
myself, that maybe might get to the kirk mair constant if I was to try,
when I hear ye speaking like that to puir auld wizened Jenny, that’s six
and fifty guid, no to speak of the thraw she’s had a’ her days.”
And a single hot tear of petulant distress fell upon Jenny’s arm.
“Well, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie, “one thing we’ll agree in, I know--you
could not wish so ill a wish to Menie, poor thing, as that she might
leave this world before her mother. You would think it in the course of
nature that Menie should see both you and me in our graves. Now, if I
was taken away next week, or next year,--what is my poor bairn to do?”
And Jenny vainly fuffed to conceal the little fit of sobbing which this
idea brought upon her. “Do! She’ll be married upon her ain gudeman lang
years afore that time comes; and Randall Home’s a decent lad, though
I’ll no say he would have just taken _my_ fancy, if onybody had askit
me; and she’ll hae a hunder pound or twa to keep her pocket, of what
you’re aye saving for her; and I have twa-three bawbees laid up in the
bank mysel.”
“Ay, Jenny, so have I,” said her mistress; “but two or three hundred
pounds is a poor provision for a young friendless thing like Menie; and
I have nothing but a liferent in Burnside; and my annuity, you know,
ends with me. No doubt there’s Randall Home to take into consideration;
but the two of them are very young, Jenny, and many a thing may come in
the way. I would like Menie to have something else to depend on than
Randall Home.”
“Bless me, mem, you’ve a mote in your een the day,” said Jenny
impatiently. “What’s the puir callant done now? They tell me he’s as
weel-doing a lad as can be, and what would onybody have mair?”
“Hush, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie, “and hear me to an end. This lady has a
better income than I have, and she says we may lay our savings together
for Menie--a very good offer; and Menie can get better education,
whatever may happen to her; and we can see with our own eyes how Randall
Home is coming on in the world; for you see, Jenny, I have a kind of
right to be selfish on Menie’s account. I’ve tried poverty myself in my
day; and Menie is my only bairn.”
The tears came into the mother’s eyes. Menie had not always been her
only bairn; and visions of a bold brother, two years older than her
little girl, and natural protector and champion of Menie, flashed up
before her in the bright air of this home room, where ten years ago her
first-born paled and sickened to his early death.
“I wouldna gang--no a fit,” exclaimed Jenny, breaking into a little
passion of anger and tears. “Wha’s trusting in Providence now--wha’s
leaving the ane out of the question that has a’ in His hands--and making
plans like as if He didna remain when we were a’ away? I didna think
there had been sae little mense--I couldna have believed there was sae
little grace in a house like this--and I wouldna gang a fit--no me--as
if I thought Providence was owre puir an inheritance for the bairn!”
And Jenny hurried away to her kitchen, to expend both tears and anger;
but Jenny’s opposition to the London “flitting,” in spite of her
indignant protest, died from that hour.