“And July, little girl--you are glad to see Menie Laurie again?”
But July makes a long pause--July is always timid of speaking to her
brother.
“Menie is not Menie now,” said July thoughtfully. “She never looks like
what she used to look at Burnside.”
“What has changed her?” At last Randall began to look interested.
Another long pause, and then July startled him with a burst of tears.
“She never looks like what she used to look at Burnside,” repeated
Menie’s little friend, with timid sobs, “but aye thinks, thinks, and has
trouble in her face night and day.”
The brother and sister were in the room alone. Randall turned round with
impatience. “What a foolish little creature you are, July. Menie does
not cry like you for every little matter; Menie has nothing to trouble
her.”
“It’s no me, Randall,” said little July, meekly. “If I cry, I just canna
help it, and it’s nae matter; but, oh, I wish you would speak to
Menie--for something’s vexing _her_.”
“I am sure you will excuse me for leaving you so long,” said the
sprightly voice of Miss Annie Laurie, entering the room. “What! crying,
July darling? Have we not used her well, Mr Home?--but my poor friend
Mrs Laurie has just got a very unpleasant letter, and I have been
sitting with her to comfort her.”
Randall made no reply, unless the smile of indifference which came to
his lips, the careless turning away of his head, might be supposed to
answer; for Randall did not think it necessary to pretend any interest
in Mrs Laurie.
But just then he caught a momentary glimpse of some one stealing across
the farthest corner of the lawn, behind a group of shrubs. Randall could
not mistake the figure; and it seemed to pause there, where it was
completely hidden, except to the keen eye which had watched it thither,
and still saw a flutter of drapery through the leaves.
“Mem, if you please, Miss Menie’s out,” said Jenny, entering suddenly,
“and the mistress sent me wi’ word that she wasna very weel hersel, and
would keep up the stair if you’ve nae objections. As I said, ‘I trow no,
you would have nae objections’--no to say there’s company in the house
to be a divert--and the mistress is far frae weel.”
“But, Jenny, you must tell my darling Menie to come in,” said Miss
Annie. “I cannot want her, you know; and I am sure she cannot know who
is here, or she would never bid you say she was out. Tell her I want
her, Jenny.”
“Mem, I have telt you,” said Jenny, somewhat fiercely, “if she was ane
given to leasing-making she would have to get another lass to gang her
errands than Jenny, and I canna tell whatfor Miss Menie should heed, or
do aught but her ain pleasure, for ony company that’s here ’enow. I’m no
fit mysel, an auld lass like me, to gang away after Miss Menie’s light
fit; but she’s out-by, puir bairn--and it’s little onybody kens Jenny
that would blame me wi’ a lee.”
She had reached the door before Randall could prevail with himself to
follow her; but at last he did hurry after Jenny, making a hasty apology
as he went. Randall had by no means paid to Jenny the respect to which
she held herself entitled: her quick sense had either heard his step
behind, or surmised that he would follow her; and Jenny, in a violent
fuff, strongly suppressing herself, but quivering all over with the
effort it cost her, turned sharp round upon him, and came to a dead
pause, facing him as he closed the door.
“Where is Miss Menie Laurie? I wish to see her,” said Randall. Randall
did not choose to be familiar, even now.
“Miss Menie Laurie takes her ain will commonly,” said Jenny, making a
satirical curtsey. “She’s been used wi’t this lang while; and she hasna
done what Jenny bade her this mony a weary day. Atweel, if she had, some
things wouldna have been to undo that are--and mony an hour’s wark and
hour’s peace the haill house might have gotten, if she had aye had the
sense to advise wi’ the like o’ me; but she’s young, and she takes her
ain gait. Puir thing! she’ll have to do somebody else’s will soon
enough, if there’s nae deliverance; whatfor should I grudge her her ain
the now?”
“What do you mean? I want to see Menie,” exclaimed Randall, with
considerable haste and eagerness. “Do you mean to say she does not want
to see me? I have never been avoided before. What does she mean?”
“Ay, my lad, that’s right,” said Jenny; “think of yoursel just, like a
man, afore ye gie a kindly thocht to her, and her in trouble. It’s like
you a’; it’s like the haill race and lineage o’ ye, father and son. No
that I’m meaning ony ill to auld Crofthill; but nae doubt he’s a man
like the lave.”
Randall lifted his hand impatiently, waving her away.
“I wouldna wonder?” cried Jenny. “I wouldna wonder--no me. She’s owre
mony about that like her, has she?--it’ll be my turn to gang my ways,
and no trouble the maister. You would like to get her, now she’s in her
flower: you would like to take her up and carry her away, and put her in
a cage, like a puir bit singing-burdie, to be a pleasure to you. What
are you courting my bairn for? It’s a’ for your ain delight and
pleasure, because ye canna help but be glad at the sight o’ her, a
darling as she is; because ye would like to get her to yoursel, like a
piece o’land; because she would be something to you to be maister and
lord of, to make ye the mair esteemed in ither folks’ een, and happier
for yoursel. Man, I’ve carried her miles o’ gate in thae very arms o’
mine. I’ve watched her grow year to year, till there’s no ane like her
in a’ the countryside. Is’t for mysel?--she canna be Jenny’s wife--she
canna be Jenny’s ain born bairn? But Jenny would put down her neck under
the darling’s fit, if it was to gie her pleasure--and here’s a strange
lad comes that would set away _me_.”
But Jenny’s vehemence was touched with such depth of higher feeling as
to exalt it entirely out of the region of the “fuff.” With a hasty and
trembling hand she dashed away some tears out of her eyes. “I’m no to
make a fule o’ mysel afore _him_,” muttered Jenny, drawing a hard breath
through her dilated nostrils.
Randall, with some passion, and much scorn in his face, had drawn back a
little to listen. Now he took up his hat hurriedly.
“If you are done, you will let me pass, perhaps,” he said angrily. “This
is absurd, you know--let me pass. I warn you I will not quarrel with
Menie for all the old women in the world.”
“If it’s me, you’re welcome to ca’ me names,” said Jenny, fiercely. “I
daur ye to say a word o’ the mistress--on your peril. Miss Menie pleases
to be her lane. I tell you Miss Menie’s out-by; and I would like to ken
what call ony mortal has to disturb the puir lassie in her distress,
when she wants to keep it to hersel. He doesna hear me--he’s gane the
very way she gaed,” said Jenny, softening, as he burst past her out of
sight. “I’ll no say I think ony waur o’ him for that; but waes me, waes
me--what’s to come out o’t a’, but dismay and distress to my puir
bairn?”
Distress and dismay--it is not hard to see them both in Menie Laurie’s
face, so pale and full of thought, as she leans upon the wall here among
the wet leaves, looking out. Yes, she is looking out, fixedly and long,
but not upon the misty far-away London, not upon the pleasant slope of
green, the retired and quiet houses, the whispering neighbour trees.
Something has brought the dreamy distant future, the unknown country,
bright and far away--brought it close upon her, laid it at her feet. Her
own living breath this moment stirs the atmosphere of this still
unaccomplished world; her foot is stayed upon its threshold. No more
vague fears--no more mere clouds upon the joyous firmament--but close
before her, dark and tangible, the crisis and decision--the
turning-point of heart and hope. Before her wistful eyes lie two clear
paths, winding before her into the evening sky. Two; but the spectre of
a third comes in upon her--a life distraught and barren of all
comfort--a fate irrevocable, not to be changed or softened; and Menie’s
heart is deadly sick in her poor breast, and faints for fear. Alas for
Menie Laurie’s quiet heart!
She was sad yesterday. Yesterday she saw a cloudy sword, suspended in
the skies, wavering and threatening above her unguarded head; to-day she
looks no longer at this imaginative menace. From another unfeared
quarter there has fallen a real blow.