“I had thought of it,” said Marjory. “I knew Aunt Jean would take us in. It is the best refuge for us. I shall be glad to go away, and yet not to go away. If you think we will not be a trouble to you—”
“Na, na; no trouble, no trouble. In a whilie,” said the old woman, with moisture in her keen eyes, “it will all be yours, my old house and my pickle siller. It’s a great thing to have natural heirs. You’re too natural, Marjory, too natural. You’ve smiled the lads away from you with scornings and civil speeches, as I did myself. You’ll be Miss Heriot, like me. It’s suited me well enough, but yet I’m wae to see another begin. For life’s long, and sometimes it’s weary and dreary. There’s more trouble the other way, but even trouble is a divert, and keeps you from that weary think-thinking, and all about yourself.”
“But you’ve no warrant, Aunt Jean—no warrant,” said Mr. Charles, with great impatience, “for saying that Marjory will be an old maid, like you.”
“An old maid!” said Miss Jean, hastily; “she’s an old maid already; she’s five-and-twenty; that’s the age that makes an old maid—and not five-and-seventy, which is my amiable time of life. But I’m no one to give nicknames, or I would be sore tempted to say that you were an old maid yourself, Charlie Heriot, with all your pernickety ways. You were never a lad of mettle, even in your best days; but you’ll get no rest for your long legs here, ye may take my word for it. In the meantime, ye can give me your arm to the door, where I’ll wait for Marjory. Good morning to ye, leddies; you’re very civil and polite to the family, and I’ll not fail to make it known.”
“Oh, what an old witch!” said Matilda, as Miss Jean marched out with her cane tapping more briskly than usual upon the floor. “I suppose she wanted to come too, and live upon Tommy’s money, like all the rest; but he has got a mother to take care of him, the precious darling!”
“Oh, Matty, for heaven’s sake—don’t be such a fool!”
“You’re frightened of the witch,” cried Matilda, with a laugh; “as if she could do us either good or harm.”
“No good, you may be sure!” said Verna, walking to the window with disturbed looks. Miss Jean’s old carriage stood at some little distance from the door, and she herself walked up and down in front of the house with her cane, leaning on Mr. Charles’s arm. Fleming stood on the steps, taking his part in the conversation. “A bonnie-like mistress for the old house!” she was saying, with scorn in her keen black eyes.
“Ye may say that, Miss Jean!” said old Fleming, shaking his head.
Verna did not understand what was the meaning of so strange an expression. “Bonnie” sounded like admiration, and Matilda certainly was pretty; but there was little admiration in the tone. Her watch was interrupted by the entrance of Marjory to take leave. Milly was clinging by her sister’s side as usual, holding out her little hand with a certain defiance; and even Matilda faltered out a half-apology, and raised herself from her sofa to say good-bye.