And Jenny hurried away to her kitchen, to expend both tears and anger; but Jenny’s opposition to the London “flitting,” in spite of her indignant protest, died from that hour.
CHAPTER V.
The sun is dipping low into the burning sea far away, which Criffel’s envious shoulder hides from us; and the last sheaf of rays, like a handful of golden arrows, strikes down into the plain, grazing this same strong shoulder with ineffectual fire as they pass. Touches as of rosy fingers are on all the clouds, and here and there one hangs upon the sky in an ecstacy, suspended not upon the common air, but on some special atmosphere of light. The long attendant shadows have faded from the trees, the roadside pools have lost their brilliant glimmer, and a wakeful whispering hush about the hedgerows and old hawthorns stir all those curious budded watchers, to hear the slow lounging steps of rustic labourers on the road, and wait for the delicate gleam out of the east which shall herald the new-risen moon.
And light are your home-going steps, May Marion, upon this quiet road, which breathes out fresh evening odours from all its dewy neighbour fields—not slow, but lingering—arrested by a hundred fanciful delays. Before you is no great range of prospect—the two ash-trees, holding up their united arms, very much as the children of the Brigend, playing under them, hold up their small clasped hands arched over the merry troop who are rushing yonder “through the needle ee”—the hamlet’s meditative houses, standing about the road here and there, in the pleasant vacancy of the slow-falling gloaming—the burn rumbling drowsily under the bridge—the kye coming home along the further way—and farthest off of all, the grave plantation firs, making a dark background for your own pleasant home. The purple shadows are fading into palmer grey upon the hills behind, and the hills themselves you could almost fancy contract their circle, and grasp each other’s hands in closer rank, with a manful tenderness for this still country, child-like and unfearing, which by-and-by will fall asleep at their feet. Your heart scarcely sings in the hush, though you carry it so lightly; its day’s song is over, Menie Laurie—and the quiet heart comes down with a little flutter of sweet thought into the calm of its kindly nest.
The light is fading when Menie reaches the Brigend; and by the door of one of the cottages, Nelly Panton, in her close bonnet and humble enveloping shawl, stands beside the stone seat on which an older woman, who holds her head away with pertinacity, has seated herself to rest.
“She’ll no take heart, whatever I can do,” says the slow steady voice of Nelly, from which the elastic evening air seems to droop away, throwing it down heavily upon the darkening earth. “I’m sure I couldna say mair, auntie, nor do mair to please her than I aye try, in my quiet way; but morning and night she mourns after Johnnie, making nae mair account of me than if I was a stranger in the house. And what should ail Johnnie?—for I’m sure I dinna ken what would come o’ folk in our condition if we were aye write-writing from ae hand to anither, like them that have naething else to do. If onything was wrang, we would hear fast enough. I’m saying, mother!”
“If you would but let me be!” groaned the older woman; “I’m no complaining to you. If I am anxious in my mind, I’m no wanting to publish’t afore a’ the parish. I’m meaning nae offence to you, Marget—but I think this lassie’s tongue will drive me out of my wits.”
“That’s just her way,” said Nelly, with mournful complacency. “Instead of taking it kind when I try to ease her, ye would think I was doing somebody an injury; and I’m sure it’s a fashious temper indeed that canna put up with me—for I’ve aye been counted as quiet a lass as there is in the haill countryside, and never did ill to onyhody a’ my days. From morning to night I’m aye doing my endeavour to get comfort to her—hearing of the lads that have done weel in London, and aye standing up for Johnnie that he’s no sae ill as he’s ca’ed, though he mayna write as often as some do; and just yesterday I gaed myself to Burnside, a guid mile o’ gate from our house, to ask Miss Menie Laurie to write to Randall Home for word about Johnnie,—and I’m sure what ony mortal could do mair, I canna tell.”
“What business has Miss Menie Laurie, or Randall Home either, with my trouble?” exclaimed the mother indignantly. “Am I no to daur shed a tear in my ain house, but a’ the toun’s to hear o’t? Yes, Miss Menie, I see it’s you, but I canna help it. I’m no meaning disrespect either to you or ony of your friends; but naebody could thole to have their private thoughts turned out for a’ the world to see—and she’ll put me daft if she gets encouragement to gang on at this rate.”
“Must I not ask about Johnnie, Mrs. Lithgow?” said Menie; “Nelly said it would comfort you.”