Mrs Lavender knitted quietly on, and Jenny shut the door with a little more of a slam than it quite needed, and ran up to her own room, where she slept with her elder sister.
“Jenny, thy bags are not locked,” said her sister, as she came in.
“Oh, let be, Kate, do! Grandmother’s been at me with a whole heap of her old saws, till I’m worn out. I wish nobody had ever spoke one of ’em.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, she’s at me about Robin Featherstone: wants me to give up keeping company with him, and all that. Tom Fenton’s her pattern man, and a pretty pattern he is. I wouldn’t look at him if there wasn’t another man in Staffordshire. Robin’s a gentleman, and Tom’s a clown.”
“I don’t see how you are to give up Robin, when you are going into the very house where he lives.”
“Of course not. ’Tis all rubbish! I wish old women would hold their tongues. I’m not going to Bentley Hall to sit mewed up in my mistress’ chamber, turning up the whites of my eyes, and singing Psalms through my nose. I mean to lead a jolly life there, I can tell you, for all Grandmother. It really is too bad of old folks, that can’t knock about and enjoy their lives, to pen up young maids like so many sheep. I shall never be young but once, and I want some pleasure in my life.”
“All right,” said Kate lightly. “I scarce think they turn up the whites of their eyes at Bentley Hall. Have your fling, Jenny—only don’t go too far, look you.”
“I can take care of myself, thank you,” returned Jenny scornfully. “Lock that striped bag for me, Kate, there’s a darling; there’s father calling downstairs.”
And Jenny ran off, to cry softly in a high treble to Kate, a minute afterwards—“Supper!”