Through the depth and darkness of the summer-night, you can hear Mrs
Laurie’s quiet breathing as she lies asleep. With a pain at her heart
she lay down, and when she wakes she will feel it, or ever she is aware
that she has awaked; but still she sleeps: blessing on the kind oblivion
which lays all these troubles for a time to rest.
But what is this white figure erecting itself from the pillow, sitting
motionless and silent in the night? It is tears that keep these gentle
eyelids apart--tears that banish from them the sleep of youth. Still,
that she may not wake the sleeper by her side, scarcely daring to move
her hand to wipe away this heavy dew which blinds her eyes. Menie
Laurie, Menie Laurie, can this sad watcher be you?
And Menie’s soul is vexing itself with plans and schemes, and Menie’s
heart is rising up to God in broken snatches of prayer, constantly
interrupted and merging into the bewilderment of her thoughts. Startled
once for all out of the early calm, the serene untroubled youthful life
which lies behind her in the past, Menie feels the change very hard and
sore as she realises it;--from doing nought for her own comfort--from
the loving sweet dependence upon others, to which her child’s heart has
been accustomed--suddenly, without pause or preparation, to learn that
all must depend upon herself,--to have the ghost of strife and discord,
where such full harmony was wont to be,--to feel the two great loves of
her nature--the loves which heretofore, in her own innocent and
unsuspicious apprehension, have but strengthened and deepened each the
other--set forth in antagonism, love against love, and her own heart the
battle-ground. Shrinking and failing one moment, longing vainly to flee
away--away anywhere into the utmost desolation, if only it were out of
this conflict,--the next resolving, with such strong throbs and beatings
of her heart, to take up her burden cordially, to be ever awake and
alert, to subdue this giant difficulty with the force of her own strong
love and ceaseless tenderness--praying now for escape, then for
endurance, and anon breaking into silent tears over all. Alas for Menie
Laurie in her unaccustomed solitude! and Menie thinks, like every other
Menie, that she could have borne anything but this.
But by-and-by, in spite of tears and trouble, the natural rest steals
upon Menie--steals upon her unawares, though she feels, in the sadness
of her heart, as if she could never rest again; throws back her drooping
head upon her pillow, folds her arms meekly on her breast, closes her
eyelids over the unshed tear; and thus it is that the dawn finds her
out, like a flower overcharged and drooping with its weight of evening
dew, but wrapt in sleep as deep and dreamless and unbroken as if her
youth had never known a tear.
The sun is full in the room when Menie wakes, and Mrs Laurie has but a
moment since closed the door softly behind her, that the sleeper might
not be disturbed. Even this tender precaution, when she finds it out,
chills Menie to the heart; for heretofore her mother’s voice has roused
her, and even her mother’s impatience of her lingering would be joy to
her to-day; but Mrs Laurie is not impatient. Mrs Laurie thinks it
better, for all the sun’s unceasing proclamation that night and sleep
are past, to let the young heart refresh itself a little longer, to
leave the young form at rest.
Ay, Menie Laurie, kneel down by your bedside--kneel down and pray; it is
not often that your supplications testify themselves in outward
attitude. Now there is a murmur of an audible voice speaking words to
which no mortal ear has any right to listen; and your downcast face is
buried in your hands, and your tears plead with your prayers. For you
never thought but to be happy, Menie, and the gentle youthful nature
longs and yearns for happiness, and with the strength of a rebel fights
against the pain foreseen--poor heart!
“Eh, Jenny! you’re no keeping ill-will?” said a doleful voice upon the
lawn below: very distinct, through the open window, it quickened Menie’s
morning toilette considerably, and drew her forward, with a wondering
face, to make sure. “I’m sure it’s no in me to be unfriends wi’ onybody;
and after ane coming a’ this gate for naething but to ask a civil
question, how you a’ was. I’m saying, Jenny? you’re no needing to haud
ony correspondence wi’ me except ye like; it’s the mistress and Miss
Menie I’m wanting to see.”
“Am I to let in a’ the gaun-about vagabones that want to see the
mistress and Miss Menie?” said Jenny’s gruff voice in reply. “I trow no;
and how ye can have the face to look at Jenny after your last errand
till her, I canna tell; ye’ll be for undertaking my service ance mair?
but ye may just as weel take my word ance for a’--the mistress canna
bide ye ony mair than me.”
“Eh, woman, Jenny, ye’re a thrawn creature!” said Nelly Panton. “I’m
sure I never did ye an ill turn a’ my days. But ye needna even the like
o’ your service to me; I’m gaun to live wi’ our Johnnie, and keep his
house, and Johnnie’s company are grander folk than the mistress; but I’m
no forgetting auld friends, so I came to ask for Miss Menie because I
aye likit her, and because she’s a young lass like mysel; and I’ll gang
and speak to that ither servant-woman if ye’ll no tell Miss Menie I’m
here.”
Jenny’s fury--for very furious was Jenny’s suppressed fuff at the
presumptuous notion of equality or friendship between Menie Laurie and
Nelly Panton--was checked by this threat; and fearful lest the dignity
of her young mistress should be injured in the eyes of the household by
the new-comer’s pretensions, Jenny, who had held this colloquy out of
doors, turned hastily round and pattered away by the back entrance to
open the door for the visitor, muttering repeated adjurations. “My
patience!” and Jenny’s patience had indeed much reason to be called to
her aid.
Menie’s curiosity was a little roused--her mind, withdrawn from herself,
lightened somewhat of its load--and she hastened down stairs less
unwillingly than she would have done without this interruption. Jenny
stood by the drawing-room door holding it open; and Jenny’s sturdy
little form vibrated, every inch of it, with anger and indignation.
“Ane to speak to you, Miss Menie! ane used wi’ grand society, and owre
high for the like o’ me. Ye’ll hae to speak to her yoursel.”
And Menie suddenly found herself thrust into the room, while Jenny, with
an audible snort and fuff, remained in possession of the door.
Nelly Panton had too newly entered on her dignities to be able to
restrain the ancient curtsy of her humility. Yes, undoubtedly, it was
Nelly Panton--with the same faded gown, the same doleful shawl, the same
wrapped-up and gloomy figure. Against the well-lighted, well-pictured
wall of Miss Annie Laurie’s drawing-room she stood in dingy
individuality dropping her curtsy, while Menie, much surprised and
silent, stood before her waiting to be addressed.
“Can nane o’ ye speak?” said the impatient Jenny, from the door. “Miss
Menie, are ye no gaun to ask what is her business here? A fule might hae
kent this was nae place to come back to, after her last errand to
Burnside; and when she kens I canna bide her, and the mistress canna
bide her, to come and set up for a friendship wi’ you.”
“She’s just as cankered as she aye was, Miss Menie,” said Nelly Panton,
compassionately, shaking her head. “It shows an ill disposition, indeed,
when folk canna keep at peace wi’ me, as mony a time I’ve telt my
mother. But ye see, Miss Menie, I couldna just bide on in Kirklands when
ye were a’ away, so I just took my fit in my hand, and came on to London
to see after Johnnie wi’ my ain een. He needs somebody to keep him gaun,
and set him right, puir callant; and he’s in a grand way for himsel, and
should be attended to--so I think I’ll just stay on, Miss Menie; and the
first thing I did was to come and ask for you.”
“You are very kind, Nelly,” said Menie Laurie; but Menie paused with a
suppressed laugh when she saw Jenny’s clenched hand shaken at her from
the door.
“And ye’ll maybe think I’m no just in condition to set up for friends
wi’ the like o’ you,” said Nelly, glancing down upon her dress; “but I
only came in to London the day before yesterday, and I’ve naething yet
but my travelling things. I’m hearing that little Juley Home of
Braecroft’s coming too; and between you and me, Miss Menie, no to let it
gang ony farther, I think it was real right and prudent o’ you to show
us the first example, and draw us a’ up to London to take care o’ thae
lads.”
“What do you mean, Nelly?” exclaimed Menie, somewhat angrily.
“Ye may weel say what does she mean,” said Jenny, making a sudden
inroad from the door. “Do you hear, ye evil speaker!--the mistress is
out, and there’s naebody to take care o’ this puir bairn but me;
whatever malice and venom ye have to say, out wi’t, and I’ll tell the
young lady what kind o’ character ye are when a’s done.”
“I wouldna keep such a meddling body in my house--no, if she did the
wark twice as weel,” retorted Nelly, with calm superiority; “and I’ve
nae call to speak my mind afore Jenny, and her aye misca’in’ me; but
it’s nae secret o’ mine. I was just gaun to say, that for a’ our
Johnnie’s a very decent lad, and minds upon his friends, I never saw
ane, gentle or simple, sae awfu’ muckle tooken up about himsel as Randy
Home. He’s anither lad altogether to what he used to be; and it’s no to
be thocht but what he’s wanting a grand wife like a’ the rest. Now,
ye’ll just see.”
Menie Laurie put down Jenny’s passionate disclaimer by a motion of her
hand. “If this was what you came to tell me, Nelly, I fear I shall
scarcely be grateful for your visit. Do you know that it is an
impertinence to say this to me? Whisht, Jenny, that is enough; and I
came here to look after no one. Whatever you may have thought before,
you will believe this now, since I say it. Jenny will see that you are
comfortable while you stay out here; but I think, Nelly, you have said
enough to me this morning, and I to you--Jenny, whisht.”
“I’ll no whisht,” cried Jenny, at last, freed by Menie’s pause. “Eh, ye
evil spirit! will ye tell me what cause o’ ill will ye ever could have
against this innocent bairn? I’m no gaun to whisht, Miss Menie--to think
of her coming up here anes errand to put out her malice on you! My
patience! how ony mortal can thole the sight o’ her, I dinna ken.”
“I can forgie ye, Jenny,” said the meek Nelly Panton, “for a’ your
passions and your glooms, and your ill words--I’m thankful to say I can
forgie ye; but, eh, sirs, this is a weary world;--wherever I gang, at
hame, or away frae hame, I’m aye miskent--naebody has the heart to take
a guid turn frae me--though, I’m sure, I aye mean a’thing for the best,
and it was right Miss Menie should ken. I thocht I would just come up
this far to gie ye an advice, Miss Menie, when we were our lanes; and
I’m no gaun to bleeze up into a fuff like Jenny because it’s ill ta’en.
I’m just as guid friends as ever. The next time I come I’ll come wi’ our
Johnnie, so I bid you a very guid morning, Miss Menie Laurie, and mony
thanks for your kind welcome. Jenny, fare-ye-weel.”
Menie sat down in the window when the dark figure of her unwelcome
visitor was gone. The sun came in upon her gaily--the genial August
sun--and the leaves without fluttered in a happy wind and a maze of
morning sounds, broken with shriller shouts of children, and rings of
silvery laughter floated up and floated round her, of themselves an
atmosphere fresh and sweet; but Menie bowed her face between her hands,
and looked out with wistful eyes into the future, where so many fears
and wonders had come to dwell; and vigilant and stern the meagre
yew-tree looked in upon her, like an unkindly fate.