“Jenny, Jenny, canna ye open the door--it’s just me.”
“It’s just you, mischief and mischief-maker as ye are,” muttered Jenny,
in answer to Nelly Panton’s soft appeal; “and what are you wanting
here?”
But Jenny could not be so inhospitable as to shut out with a closed door
the applicant for admission, especially as a rapid April shower was just
then flashing out of the morning skies. Nelly came in breathless,
shaking some bright raindrops off her dingy shawl; but neither the rain
upon her cheeks, nor the fresh wind that carried it, nor even the haste
of her own errand, sufficed to bring any animating colour to Nelly
Panton’s face.
“I’m no to stay a minute,” she said breathlessly. “No a creature kens
I’m here; and you’re no to bid me stay, but just gie me your advice and
let me rin--I maun be hame before my mother kens.”
“_I_ have nae will to keep ye; ye needna be feared,” retorted Jenny.
“And what’s your pleasure now, that you’ve got so early out to
Burnside?”
“Nane of the ladies ’ll be stirring yet,” said Nelly, looking round
cautiously. “It was just a thing I wanted to ask you, Jenny--I ken
you’re aye a guid friend.”
“Sorrow!” muttered Jenny between her teeth--but the end of the sentence
died away; and whether the word was used as an epithet, or whether it
was “Sorrow take you!” Jenny’s favourite ban, Nelly, innocently
confiding, did not pause to inquire.
“For I heard in the Brigend that you had been kent to say that you
wouldna gang a’ the gate to London if the mistress ga’e you triple your
wage,” said Nelly, “and that you would recommend her to a younger lass.
My auntie, Marget Panton, even gaed the length to say that ye had been
heard to mention my name; but I wouldna have the face to believe that,
though mony thanks to ye for the thought; and I just ran out whenever I
rose this morning, to say, do ye think I might put in an application,
Jenny, aye counting on you as a guid friend?”
“Wha ever gave ye warrant to believe that I was a guid friend?”
exclaimed Jenny. “My patience! you taking upon you to offer yoursel for
my place. _My_ place! And wha daured to say I wanted to leave the
mistress? Do ye think wage, or triple wage, counts wi’ me? Do ye think
I’m just like yoursel, you pitiful self-seeking creature? Do ye think
ony mortal would ever be the better of you in ony strait, frae a sair
finger to a family misfortune? Gae way wi’ ye! My place, my certy! Would
naething serve ye but that?”
“Ye see I’m no taking weel wi’ hame,” said the undismayed Nelly. “My
mother and me canna put up right, and me being sae lang away before,
she’s got out of the use of my attentions, and canna understand them.
But I’m real attentive for a’ that, Jenny, and handy in mony a thing
that wouldna be expected frae the like o’ you; and I could wait on Miss
Menie, ye ken, being mair like her ain years, and fleech up the mistress
grand. I ken I could--besides greeing wi’ the stranger servants, which
it’s no to be expected you would do, being aye used to your ain way. But
for my part, I’m real quiet and inoffensive--folk never ken me in a
house; and I have my ain reasons for wanting to gang to London, baith to
look after Johnnie, and ither concerns o’ my ain--and I would aye stand
your friend constant, and be thankful to you for recommending me--and
I’m sure afore the year was done the mistress would be thankful too for
a guid lass--and I could recommend you to a real fine wee cottage atween
Kirklands and the Brigend, with a very cheery window looking to the
road, that would do grand for a single woman; or my mother would be
blithe to take you in for a lodger, and she’s guid company when she’s no
thrawn--and Jenny, woman----”
“Gang out of this house,” said Jenny, with quiet fury, holding the door
wide open in her hand, and setting down her right foot upon the floor of
her own domain, with a stamp of absolute supremacy. “No anither
word--gang out of this door, and let me see your face again if ye daur!
Gang to London--fleech up the mistress--wait upon Miss Menie! My
patience!--and you’ll ca’ a decent woman thrawn to me! Gang out o’ this
house, ye shadow!--the sight o’ you’s enough to thraw ony mortal temper.
Your mother, honest woman!--but I canna forgive her for being art or
part in bringing the like of you to this world. Are ye gaun away
peaceably--or I’ll put ye out by the shouthers wi’ my ain twa hands!”
“Eh, sic a temper!” said Nelly Panton, vanishing from the threshold as
Jenny made one rapid step forward. “I’m sure I forgive you, Jenny,
though I’m sure as weel, that if the rain hadna laid a’ the stour, mony
a ane has shaken the dust off their feet for a testimony against less
ill usage than you’ve gien me; but I’m thankful for my guid
disposition--I’m thankful that there’s nae crook in me, and I leave you
to your ain thoughts, Jenny Durward; it’s weel kent what a life thae twa
puir ladies lead wi’ ye, through a’ the countryside.”
The kitchen door violently shut, by good fortune drowned for Jenny this
last vindictive utterance, and Nelly Panton, unexcited, drew her shawl
again close over her elbows, and went with her stealthy steps upon her
way--a veritable shadow falling dark across the sunshine, and without a
spot of brightness in her, within or without, to throw back reflection,
or answer to the sunny morning light which flashed upon all the
glistening way.
But no such quietness possessed the soul of Jenny of Burnside; over the
fresh sanded floor of her bright kitchen her short vigorous steps
pattered like hail. Cups and saucers came ringing down from her hands
upon the tray, which she was crowding with breakfast “things.” The
bread-basket quivered upon the table where her excited hand had set it
down. She turned to the hearth, and the poor little copper kettle rang
upon the grate--the poker assaulted the startled fire--the very chain
quaked and trembled, hanging from the old-fashioned crook far back in
the abyss of the chimney. Very conspicuous in this state of the mental
atmosphere became Jenny’s high shoulder. It seemed to develop and
increase with every additional fuff, and the most liberal and kindly
commentator could not have denied this morning the existence of the
“thraw.”
And not without audible expression, over and above the hard-drawn breath
of the “fuff,” was Jenny’s indignation. “My place, my certy! less
wouldna serve her!”--“Handier than could be expected frae the like o’
me!”--“Stand my friend constant!”--“A cot-house atween Kirklands and the
Brigend!” A snort of rage punctuated and separated every successive
quotation, till, as Jenny cooled down a little, there came to her relief
a variety of extremely complimentary titles, all very eloquent and
expressive, conveying in the clearest language Jenny’s opinion of the
good qualities of Nelly Panton, which last, by-and-by, however, softened
still further into the milder chorus of “a bonnie ane!” with which
Jenny’s wrath gradually wore itself away.
All this time the sunshine lay silent and unbroken upon the paved
passage, with its strip of matting, and the light shone quiet in Mrs
Laurie’s parlour. The petulant rain had ceased to ring upon the panes,
though some large drops hung there still, clinging to the framework of
the window, and gradually shrinking and drying up before the light. The
branches without made a sheen through the air, almost as dazzling as if
every tree were a Highland dancer with a drawn claymore in his right
hand; and the larch flung its spray of rain upon Menie Laurie’s chamber
window, bidding her down to the new life and the new day which
brightened all the watching hills.
And now comes Mrs Laurie steadily down the stairs with her little shawl
in her hand, and traces of a mind made up and determined in her face;
and now comes Menie, with a half song on her lips, and a little light of
amusement and expectation in her eyes, for Menie has heard afar off the
sound of Jenny’s excitement. But Jenny, too decorous to invade the
dignity of the breakfast-table, says nothing when she brings in the
kettle, and does not even add to its fuff the sound of her own, and
Menie has time to grow composed and grave, and to hear with a more
serious emotion Mrs Laurie’s decision. Not without a sigh Mrs Laurie
intimates it, though her daughter knows nothing of the one reason which
has overweighed all others. But the ruling mind of the household, having
decided, loses no time in secondary hesitations. “We will try to let
Burnside as it is, Menie,” said Mrs Laurie, looking round upon the
familiar room. “If we can get a careful tenant, it will be far better
not to remove the furniture. If we make it known at once, the house may
be taken before the term; and I will write to your aunt and say that we
accept her offer. It is a long journey by land, and expensive. I think
we will go to Edinburgh first, Menie. The weather is settled, and should
be fine at Whitsunday; and then to London by sea.”
Menie did not trust herself to express in words the excitement of hope
and pleasure with which she heard this great and momentous change
brought down into a matter of sober everyday arrangement; but it was not
difficult to understand and translate the varying colour on her cheek,
and the sudden gleam of her sunny eyes. As it happened, however, with a
natural caprice, the one objection which her mother’s will could not set
aside suddenly suggested itself to Menie. She looked up with a slight
alarm--“But Jenny, mother?” Menie Laurie could not realise the
possibility of leaving Jenny behind.
Mrs Laurie’s hand had not left the bell. Jenny, at the door, caught the
words with satisfaction. But Jenny did not choose to acknowledge herself
subject to any influence exercised by the “youngest of the house;” and
Jenny, moreover, had come prepared, and had no time to lose in
preliminaries.
“There’s twa or three things to be done about the house before onybody
can stir out o’ this,” said Jenny emphatically, pausing when she had
half cleared the breakfast-table. “I want to ken, mem, if it’s your
pleasure, what time we’re to gang away.”
“I have just been thinking--about the term, Jenny,” said her mistress,
accepting Jenny’s adhesion quietly and without remark--“if we can get a
tenant to Burnside.”
“I thought you would be wanting a tenant to Burnside,” muttered Jenny,
“to make every table and chair in the house a shame to be seen, and the
place no fit to live in when we come back; but it’s nane o’ Jenny’s
business if the things maun be spoiled. I have had a woman at me this
morning wi’ an offer to gang in my place. I’ve nae business to keep it
out o’ your knowledge, so you may get Nelly Panton yet, if it’s your
pleasure, instead o’ me. I’m speaking to your mother, Miss Menie; the
like o’ you has nae call to put in your word. Am I to tell Nelly you
would like to speak to her, mem--or what am I to say?”
And Jenny again planted her right foot firmly before her, again expanded
her irascible nostril, and, with comic perversity and defiance, stood
and waited for her mistress’s answer.
“Away you go, Jenny, and put your work in order,” said Mrs Laurie; “get
somebody in from the Brigend to help you, and let everything be ready
for the flitting--you know I don’t want Nelly Panton--no, you need not
interrupt me--nor anybody else. We’ll all go to London together, and
we’ll all come back again some time, if we’re spared. I don’t know how
you would manage without _us_, Jenny; but see, there’s Menie with open
eyes wondering what we should do without you.”
“Na, the bairn has discrimination,” said Jenny steadily; “that’s just
what I say to mysel. Nae doubt it’s a great change to a woman at my time
o’ life, but I just say what could the two ladies do, mair especially a
young lassie like Miss Menie, and that’s enough to reconcile ane to mony
a thing. Weel, I’ll see the wark putten in hands; but if you take my
advice, mem, ye’ll see baith mistress and maid afore ye let fremd folk
into Burnside. It’s no ilka hand that can keep up a room like this; for
I ken mysel the things were nae mair like what they are now, when I came
first, than fir wood’s like oak; and what’s the matter of twa or three
pounds, by the month, for rent, in comparison wi’ ruining a haill house
o’ furniture?--though, to be sure, it’s nae business o’ mine; and if
folk winna take guid counsel when it’s offered, naebody can blame
Jenny.”
So saying, Jenny went briskly to her kitchen, to set on foot immediate
preparations for the removal, leaving her “guid counsel” for Mrs
Laurie’s consideration. Mrs Laurie found little time to deliberate. She
had few distant friends, and no great range of correspondents at any
time, and another perusal of Miss Annie Laurie’s epistle set her down
to answer it with a puzzled face. A little amusement, a little
impatience, a little annoyance, drew together the incipient curve on Mrs
Laurie’s brow, and Jenny’s advice got no such justice at her hands as
would have satisfied Jenny, and was summarily dismissed when its time of
consideration came.