“I wouldna hae come hame as I gaed away, if I had been you, Jenny.” The
speaker stands at the door of Jenny’s little byre, looking on, while
Jenny milks her favourite cow. “Ye see what Nelly Panton’s done for
hersel; there’s naething like making up folk’s mind to gang through wi’
a’thing; and you see Nelly’s gotten a man away in yon weary London.”
“I wouldna gang to seek a misfortune--no me,” said Jenny; “ill enough
when it comes; and I wonder how a woman like you, wi’ twelve bairns for
a handsel, could gie sic an advice to ony decent lass; and weel I wat
Nelly Panton’s gotten a man. Puir laddie! it’s the greatest mercy ever
was laid to his hands to make him a packman--he’ll no be sae muckle at
hame; but you’ll make nae divert o’ Jenny. If naebody ever speered my
price, I’m no to hang my head for that. I’ve aye keepit my fancy free,
and nae man can say that Jenny ever lookit owre her shouther after him.
A’ the house is fu’ ’enow, Marget; we’ve scarcely done wi’ our
flitting; I canna ask you to come in.”
So saying, Jenny rose with her pail, and closed the byre door upon
Brockie and her black companion. The wind came down keen from the hills;
the frosty wintry heavens had not quite lost the glow of sunset, though
the pale East began to glitter with stars. Sullen Criffel has a purple
glory upon his cap of cloud, and securely, shoulder to shoulder, this
band of mountain marshals keep the border; but the shadows are dark
about their feet, and night falls, clear and cold, upon the darkened
grass, and trees that stir their branches faintly in the wind.
The scene is strangely changed. Heaths of other nature than the peaceful
heath of Hampstead lie dark under the paling skies, not very far away;
and the heather is brown on the low-lying pasture hills, standing out in
patches from the close-cropped grass. Yonder glow upon the road is the
glow of fire-light from an open cottage door, and on the window ledge
within stand basins of comfortable Dumfriesshire “parritch,” cooling for
the use of those eager urchins, with their fair exuberant locks and
merry faces, and waiting the milk which their loitering girl sister
brings slowly in from the byre. It is cold, and she breathes upon her
fingers as she shifts her pail from one hand to the other; yet
bareheaded Jeanie lingers, wondering vaguely at the “bonnie” sky and
deep evening calm.
Another cottage here is close at hand, faintly throwing out from this
back-window a little light into the gathering gloom. Brockie and Blackie
are comfortable for the night; good homely sages, they make no account
of the key turned upon them in the byre door; and Jenny, in her original
dress, her beloved shortgown and warm striped skirts, stands a moment,
drawing in, with keen relish, the sweep of cold air which comes full
upon us over the free countryside.
“I’m waiting for Nelly’s mother,” says Jenny’s companion, who is Marget
Panton from Kirklands, Nelly’s aunt; “she’s gane in to speak to your
mistress. You’ll no be for ca’ing her mistress now, Jenny, and her sae
muckle come down in the world. I’m sure you’re real kind to them;
they’ll no be able now to pay you your fee.”
“Me kind to them! My patience! But it’s because ye dinna ken ony
better,” said Jenny, with a little snort. “I just wish, for my part,
folk would haud by what concerns themselves, and let me abee. I would
like to ken what’s a’ the world’s business if Jenny has a guid mistress,
and nae need to seek anither service frae ae year’s end to the
ither--and it canna advantage the like o’ you grudging at Jenny’s fee.
It’s gey dark, and the road’s lanesome; if I was you, I would think o’
gaun hame.”
“I wouldna be sae crabbed if I got a pension for’t,” returned Marget,
sharply; “and ye needna think to gar folk believe lees; it’s weel kent
your house is awfu’ come down. ‘Pride gangs before a fa’,’ the Scripture
says. Ye’ll no ca’ that a lee; and I hear that Miss Menie’s joe just
heard it, and broke off in time.”
“I’m like to be driven daft wi’ ane and anither,” exclaimed Jenny
furiously. “If Miss Menie hadna been a thrawart creature hersel, I
wouldna have had to listen to the like o’ this. Na, that might have been
a reason--but it was nane o’ the siller; she kens best hersel what it
was. I’m sure I wouldna hae cast away a bonnie lad like yon if it had
been me; but the like o’ her, a young leddy, behoves to hae her ain
way.”
“Weel, it’s aye best to put a guid face on’t,” said Jenny’s tormentor.
“I’m no saying onything at my ain hand; it’s a’ Nelly’s story, and
Johnnie being to marry July Home--it’s a grand marriage for auld
Crofthill’s daughter, sic a bit wee useless thing--we’re the likest to
ken. Ye needna take it ill, Jenny. I’m meaning nae reproach to you.”
“I’m no canny when I’m angered,” said Jenny, setting down her pail in
the road; “ye’ll gang your ways hame, if you take my counsel; there’s
naething for you here. Pity me for Kirklands parish, grit and sma’l wi’
Nelly at the Brokenrig, and you at the Brigend; but I canna thole a
lee--it makes my heart sick; and I tell ye I’m no canny when I’m
angered. Guid night to you, Marget Panton; when I want to see you I’ll
send you word. You can wait here, if you maun get yon puir decent woman
hame wi’ you. I reckon I would get mony thanks if I set her free; but I
dinna meddle wi’ ither folk’s business; you can wait for her here.”
And, taking up her pail again rapidly, Jenny pattered away, leaving
Marget somewhat astonished, standing in the middle of the road, where
this energetic speech had been addressed to her. With many mutterings
Jenny pursued her wrathful way.
“Ye’ve your ainsel to thank, no anither creature, Menie Laurie; and now
this painting business is begun, they’ll be waur and waur. Whatfor could
she no have keepit in wi’ him? A bonnie ane, to hae a’ her ain way, and
slaving and working a’ day on her feet, as if Jenny was na worth the
bread she eats; and the next thing I’ll hear is sure to be that she’s
painting for siller. Pity me!”
Full of her afflictions, very petulant and resentful, Jenny entered the
cottage door. It was a but and a ben--that is to say, it had two
apartments, one on each side of the entrance. The larger of the two was
boarded--Mrs Laurie had ventured to do this at her own expense--and had
been furnished in an extremely moderate and simple fashion. It was a
very humble room; but still it was a kind of parlour, and, with the
ruddy fire-light reddening its further corners, and blinking on the
uncovered window, it looked comfortable, and even cheerful, both from
without and within. Mrs Laurie, with her never-failing work, sat by a
little table; Menie, whose day’s labour was done, bent over the fire,
with her flushed cheeks supported in her hands; the conflict and the
sullen glow had gone out of Menie’s face, but a heavy cloud oppressed it
still.
Conscious that she is an intruder, divided between her old habitual
deference and her new sense of equality, as Johnnie Lithgow’s mother,
with any Mrs Laurie under the sun, Mrs Lithgow sits upon the edge of a
chair, talking of Nelly, and Nelly’s marriage.
“Nelly says you were real kind. I’m sure naething could be kinder than
the like o’ you taking notice o’ her, when she was in a strange place
her lane, though nae doubt, being Johnnie’s sister made a great
difference. I can scarcely believe my ainsel whiles, the awfu’ odds it’s
made on me. I have naething ado but look out the best house in
Kirklands, and I can get it bought for me, and an income regular, and
nae need to do a thing, but be thankful to Providence and Johnnie. It’s
a great blessing a guid son.”
As there was only a murmur of assent in answer to this, Mrs Lithgow
proceeded:--
“I’m sure it’s naething but neighbourlike--you’ll no take it amiss,
being in a kindly spirit--to say if there’s onything ane can
do.--There’s Nelly gotten her ain house now, and wonderful weel off in
the world; and for me, I’m just a miracle. If there was ought you
wanted, no being used to a sma’ house, or ony help in ae way or anither,
from a day’s darg wi’ Jenny, to----”
But Mrs Lithgow did not dare to go any further. The slight elevation of
Mrs Laurie’s head, the sudden erectness of that stooping figure by the
fireside, warned the good woman in time; so, after a hurried breathless
pause, she resumed:--
“I would be real glad--it would be naething but a pleasure; and I’ll
ne’er forget how guid you were to me when I was in trouble about
Johnnie, and aye gied me hope. Puir laddie! next month he’s coming down
to be married--and I’m sure I hope he’ll be weel off in a guid wife, for
he canna but be a guid man, considering what a son he’s been to me.”
“He will be very well off,” said Mrs Laurie; “and poor little July goes
away next month, does she? Has Jenny come in yet, Menie? We have
scarcely had time to settle in our new house, Mrs Lithgow; but I will
remember your kind offer, and thank you. How dark the night grows--and
it looks like snow.”
“I’ll have to be gaun my ways,” said the visitor, rising; “it’s a
lanesome road, and I’m no heeding about leaving my house, and a’ the
grand new things Johnnie’s sent me, their lane in the dark. I’ll bid you
good night, ladies, kindly, and I’m real blithe to see you in the
countryside again.”
She was gone, and the room fell into a sudden hush of silence, broken by
nothing but the faint rustling of a moved hand, or the fall, now and
then, of ashes on the hearth. The bustle and excitement of the
“flitting” were over--the first pleasure of being home in their own
country was past. Grey and calm their changed fate came down upon them,
with no ideal softening of its everyday realities. This sliding panel
here opens upon their bed; this little table serves all purposes of
living; these four dim walls, and heavy raftered roof, shut in their
existence. Now, through the clear frosty air without, a merry din breaks
into the stillness. It is little Davie from the cot-house over the way,
who has just escaped from the hands which were preparing him for rest,
and dares brothers and sisters in a most willing race after him, their
heavy shoes ringing upon the beaten way. Now, you hear them coming back
again, leading the truant home, and by-and-by all the urchins are
asleep, and the mother closes the ever-open door. So good night to life
and human fellowship. Now--none within sight or hearing of us, save
Jenny humming a broken song, on the other side of the wooden partition,
which, sooth to say, is Jenny’s bed--we are left alone.
Menie, bending, in her despondent attitude, over the fire, which throws
down, now and then, these ashy flakes upon the hearth--our mother,
pausing from her work, to bend her weary brow upon her hand. So very
still, so chill and forsaken. Not one heart in all the world, except the
three which beat under this thatched roof, to give anything but a
passing thought to us or our fate; and nothing to look to but this even
path, winding away over the desolate lands of poverty into the skies.
Into the skies!--woe for us, and our dreary human ways, if it were not
for that blessed continual horizon line; so we do what we have not been
used to do before--we read a sad devout chapter together, and have a
faltering prayer; and then for silence and darkness and rest.
Say nothing to your child, good mother, of the bitter thoughts that
crowd upon you, as you close your eyes upon the wavering fire-light, and
listen, in this stillness, to all the stealthy steps and touches of the
wakeful night. Say nothing to your mother, Menie, of the tears which
steal down between your cheek and your pillow, as you turn your face to
the wall. What might have been--what might have been; is it not possible
to keep from thinking of that? for even Jenny mutters to herself, as she
lies wakefully contemplating the glow of her gathered fire--mutters to
herself, with an indignant fuff, and hard-drawn breath, “I wish her
muckle pleasure of her will: she’s gotten her will: and I wouldna say
but she minds him now--a bonnie lad like yon!”