“They tell me it’s a haill month since it was a’ settled, but I hear
naething o’ the house or the plenishing, and no a word o’ what Jenny’s
to do. If they’re no wanting me, I’m no wanting them--ne’er a bit. It’s
aye the way guid service is rewarded; and whatfor should there be ony
odds wi’ Jenny? I might hae kent that muckle, if I had regarded counsel,
or thocht o’ my ainsel; but aye Jenny’s foremost thocht was o’ them, for
a’ sic an ill body as she is now.”
And a tear was in Jenny’s eye as she smoothed down the folds of Menie’s
dress--Menie’s finest dress, her own present, which Menie was to wear
to-night. And Menie’s ornaments are all laid out carefully upon the
table, everything she is likely to need, before Jenny’s lingering step
leaves the room. “I canna weel tell, for my pairt, what like life’ll be
without her,” muttered Jenny, as she went away--“I reckon no very
muckle worth the minding about; but I’m no gaun to burden onybody that
doesna want me--no, if I should never hae anither hour’s comfort a’ my
days.”
And slowly, with many a backward glance and pause, Jenny withdrew.
Neglect is always hard to bear. Jenny believed herself to be left out of
their calculations--forgotten of those to whom she had devoted so many
years of her life; and Jenny, though she tried to be angry, could not
manage it, but felt her indignant eyes startled with strange tears. It
made a singular cloud upon her face this unusual emotion; the native
impatience only struggled through it fitfully in angry glimpses, though
Jenny was furious at herself for feeling so desolate, and very fain
would have thrown off her discomfort in a fuff--but far past the region
of the fuff was this her new-come solitude of heart. Her friends were
dead or scattered, her life was all bound up in her mistress and her
mistress’s child, and it was no small trial for Jenny to find herself
thus cast off and thrown aside.
The next who enters this room has a little heat about her, a certain
atmosphere of annoyance and displeasure. “I will be a burden”--unawares
the same words steal over Mrs Laurie’s lip, but the sound of her voice
checks her. Two or three steps back and forward through the room, a
long pause before the window, and then her brow is cleared. You can see
the shadows gradually melting away, as clouds melt from the sky, and in
another moment she has left the room, to resume her place down stairs.
This vacant room--nothing can you learn from its calm good order, its
windows open to the sun, its undisturbed and home-like quiet, of what
passes within its walls. There is Menie’s little Bible on the table; it
is here where Menie brings her doubts and troubles, to resolve them, if
they may be resolved. But there is no whisper here to tell you what
happens to Menie, when, as has already chanced, some trouble comes upon
her which it is not easy to put away. Hush! this time the door opens
slowly, gravely--this time it is a footstep very sober, something
languid, which comes in; and Menie Laurie puts up her hand to her
forehead, as if a pain was there; but not a word says Menie Laurie’s
reverie--not a word. If she is sad, or if she is merry, there is no way
to know. She goes about her toilette like a piece of business, and gives
no sign.
But this month has passed almost like age upon Menie Laurie’s face. You
can see that grave thoughts are common now, everyday guests and friends
in her sobered life, and that she has begun to part with her romances of
joy and noble life--has begun to realise more truly what manner of
future it is which lies before her. Nothing evil, perhaps--little
hardship in it; no great share of labour, of poverty, or care--but no
longer the grand ideal life, the dream of youthful souls.
And now she stands before the window, wearing Jenny’s gown. It is only
to look out if any one is visible upon the road--but there is no
passenger yet approaching Heathbank, and Menie goes calmly down stairs.
As it happens, the drawing-room is quite vacant of all but Nelly Panton,
who sits prim by the wall in one corner. Nelly is not an invited guest,
but has come as a volunteer, in right of her brother’s invitation, and
Miss Annie shows her sense of the intrusion by leaving her alone.
“Na, I’m no gaun to bide very lang in London,” said Nelly. “Ye see, Miss
Menie, you’re an auld friend. I’m no sae blate, but I may tell you. I
didna come up here anes errand for my ain pleasure, but mostly to see
Johnnie, and to try if I couldna get ony word o’ a very decent lad, ane
Peter Drumlie, that belangs about our countryside. We were great
friends, him and me, and then we had an outcast--you’ll ken by
yoursel--but we’ve made it up again since I came to London, and I’m gaun
hame to get my providing, and comfort my mother a wee while, afore I
leave her athegither. It’s a real duty comforting folk’s mother, Miss
Menie. I’m sure I wouldna forget that for a’ the lads in the world.”
“And where are you to live, Nelly?” Nelly’s moralising scarcely called
for an answer.
“We havena just made up our minds; they say ae marriage aye makes mair,”
said Nelly, with a grim smile. “Miss Menie, you’ve set us a’ agaun.”
Perhaps Menie did not care to be classed with Nelly Panton. “July Home
will be a very young wife,” she said; “I think your brother should be
very happy with her, Nelly.”
“I wouldna wonder,” said Nelly, shortly; “but you see, Miss Menie, our
Johnnie’s a weel-doing lad, and might hae lookit higher, meaning nae
offence to you; though nae doubt it’s true what Randall Home said when
he was speaking about this. ‘Lithgow,’ says he (for he ca’s Johnnie by
his last name--it’s a kind o’ fashion hereaway), ‘if you get naething
wi’ your wife, I will take care to see you’re no cumbered wi’ onybody
but hersel;’ which nae doubt is a great comfort, seeing there might hae
been a haill troop o’ friends, now that Johnnie’s getting up in the
world.”
“What was that Randall Home said?” Menie asked the question in a very
clear distinct tone, cold and steady and unfaltering--“What do you say
he said?--tell me again.”
“He said, Johnnie wouldna be troubled wi’ nane o’ her friends,” said
Nelly; “though he has her to keep, a bit wee silly thing, that can do
naething in a house--and nae doubt a maid to keep to her forby--that he
wouldna hae ony o’ her friends a burden on him; and a very wise thing to
say, and a great comfort. I aye said he was a sensible lad, Randall
Home. Eh, preserve me!”
For Randall Home stands before her, his eyes glowing on her with haughty
rage. He has heard it, every single deliberate word, and Randall is no
coward--he comes in person to answer for what he has said.
Rise, Menie Laurie! Slowly they gather over us, these kind shadows of
the coming night; no one can see the momentary faltering which inclines
you to throw yourself down there upon the very ground, and weep your
heart out. Rise; it is you who are stately now.
“This is true?”
She is so sure of it, that there needs no other form of question, and
Menie lays her hand upon the table to support herself, and stands firmly
before him waiting for his answer. Why is it that now, at this moment,
when she should be most strong, the passing wind brings to her, as in
mockery, an echo of whispering mingled voices--the timid happiness of
July Home? But Menie draws up her light figure, draws herself apart
from the touch of her companions, and stands, as she fancies she most do
henceforth, all her life, alone.
“This is true?”
“I would disdain myself, if I tried to escape by any subterfuge,” said
Randall, proudly. “I might answer that I never said the words this woman
attributes to me; but that I do not need to tell you. I would not
deceive you, Menie. I never can deny what I have given expression to;
and you are right--it is true.”
And Randall thinks he hears a voice, wavering somewhere, far off, and
distant like an echo--not coming from these pale lips which move and
form the words, but falling out upon the air--faint, yet distinct, not
to be mistaken. “I am glad you have told me. I thank you for making no
difficulty about it: this is very well.”
“Menie! you are not moved by this gossip’s story? This that I said has
no effect on you? Menie! is a woman like this to make a breach between
you and me?”
In stolid malice Nelly Panton sits still, and listens with a certain
melancholy enjoyment of the mischief she has made, protesting, under her
breath, that “she meant nae ill; she aye did a’thing for the best;”
while Randall, forgetful of his own acknowledgment, repeats again and
again his indignant remonstrance, “a woman like this!”
“No, she has no such power,” said Menie firmly--“no such power. Pardon
me--I am wanted to-night. My strength is not my own to be wasted now; we
can conclude this matter another time.”
Before he could say a word the door had closed upon her. There was a
hustle without, a glimmer of coming lights upon the wall. In a few
minutes the room was lighted up, the lady of the house in her presiding
place--and Randall started with angry pride from the place where he
stood, by the side of Nelly Panton, whose gloomy unrelieved figure
suddenly stood out in bold relief upon the brightened wall.
Another time! Menie Laurie has not gone to ponder upon what this other
conference shall be--she is not by her window--she is not out of
doors--she has gone to no such refuge. Where she never went before, into
the heart of Miss Annie’s preparations--into the bustle of Miss Annie’s
hospitality--shunning even Jenny, far more shunning her mother, and
waiting only till the room is full enough, to give her a chance of
escaping every familiar eye. This is the first device of Menie’s mazed,
bewildered mind. These many days she has lived in hourly expectation of
some such blow; but it stuns her when it comes.
Forlorn! forlorn! wondering if it is possible to hide this misery from
every eye--pondering plans and schemes of concealment, trying to
invent--do not wonder, it is a natural impulse--some generous lie. But
Menie’s nature, more truthful than her will, fails in the effort. The
time goes on, the lingering moments swell into an hour. Music is in her
ears, and smiling faces glide before her and about her, till she feels
this dreadful pressure at her heart no longer tolerable, and bursts away
in a sudden passion, craving to be alone.
Another heart, restless by reason of a gnawing unhappiness, wanders out
and in of these unlighted chambers--oftenest coming back to this one,
where the treasures of its life rest night by night. This wandering
shadow is not a graceful one--these pattering hasty footsteps have
nothing in them of the softened lingering tread of meditation. No, poor
Jenny, little of sentiment or grace embellishes your melancholy--yet it
is hard to find any poem so full of pathos as a desolate heart, even
such a one as beats in your homely breast to-night.
Softly--the room is not vacant now, as it was when you last entered
here. Some one stands by the window, stooping forward to look at the
stars; and while you linger by the door, a low cry, half a sigh, half a
moan, breaks the silence faintly--not the same voice which just now
bore its part so well below;--not the same, for that voice came from the
lips only--this is out of the heart.
“Bairn, you’re no weel--they’ve a’ wearied you,” said Jenny, stealing
upon her in the darkness: “lie down and sleep; its nae matter for the
like o’ me, but when you sigh, it breaks folk’s hearts.”
The familiar voice surprised the watcher into a sudden burst of childish
tears. All the woman failed in this great trial. “Oh, Jenny, dinna tell
my mother!” Menie Laurie was capable of no other thought.