“I adore talent,” said Miss Annie, opening her work-table to take out a tiny bit of “fancy” work. “I could not describe the delight I have in the society of people of genius—self-taught genius too—so charming; and both of these delightful young men must be self-taught.”
Mrs Laurie drew herself up with a little hauteur.
“Mr Home has had an excellent education; his father is a very superior man. Johnnie Lithgow, as I said before, is only a cottager’s son.”
But Miss Annie could not see the distinction, and ran on in such a flutter of delight in anticipation of her guests, that Mrs Laurie quietly retired into the intricacies of her work, and contented herself with a resolution to be very kind and condescending to the popular editor, the cottager’s son.
The drawing-room is in special glory—the pinafores discarded from the chairs, the little tables crowded with gay books and toys and flowers, and everything in its company dress. Mrs Laurie—who never can be anything but Mrs Laurie, a matron of sober years, and Menie’s mother—sits, in her grave-coloured gown and snowy cap, upon the sofa; while on a stool low down by her side, in a little tremor of expectation, Miss Annie perches like a bird, waiting the arrival of her visitors. Mrs Laurie, with her Dumfriesshire uses, quite believes what Miss Annie says, that only “a few friends” are coming to-night, and has not the slightest idea that the lady of the house will be greatly mortified if her rooms are not filled in an hour or two with a little crowd.
And up-stairs, resplendent in Jenny’s gown, Menie Laurie stands before the glass, fastening on one or two simple ornaments, and admiring, with innocent enjoyment, her unusually elegant dress. You may guess by this glimpse of these well-known striped skirts, full and round, revealing themselves under cover of the curtains, that Jenny, too, has been admiring her own magnificent purchase. But Jenny by this time has grown impatient, and jealous that Menie’s admiration prolongs itself only to please her, Jenny; so, giving premonition by sundry restless gestures of the advent of a “fuff,” she has turned to look out from the window upon the sandy road which leads to ’Eathbank.
“Eh, Miss Menie! that brockit ane’s a bonnie cow,” said Jenny; “I never see onything else in this outlandish place that minds me o’ hame, if it binna the mistress and yoursel. I’ll just bide and look out for the young lads, Miss Menie. Ye needna clap your hands, as if Jenny was turning glaikit; if they werena lads frae our ain countryside, they might come and gang a twelvemonth for me.”
“But the ladies and the gentlemen will see you from the window, Jenny,” said Menie Laurie.
“Ise warrant they’ve seen waur sights,” said Jenny briskly; “I’m no gaun to let down my ainsel, for a’ I have a thraw; and I would just like to ken, if folk wanted to see a purpose-like lass, fit for her wark, wha they could come to in this house but me? There’s my lady’s maid—set her up!—in her grand gown, as braw as my lady; and there’s the tither slaving creature put off a’ this morning clavering to somebody, and no fit to be seen now; for a’ they scoff at my short-gown and guid linsey coats. But they may scoff till they’re tired, for Jenny; I’m no gaun to change, at my time o’ life, for a’ the giggling in London toun.”
“But you’ll put on your gown to-night, Jenny,” said Menie, persuasively, patting her shoulder. “There’s Randall did not see you last time he was here; and Johnnie Lithgow, you would like to see him. Come, Jenny, and put on your gown.”