Ay, Menie Laurie, kneel down by your bedside—kneel down and pray; it is not often that your supplications testify themselves in outward attitude. Now there is a murmur of an audible voice speaking words to which no mortal ear has any right to listen; and your downcast face is buried in your hands, and your tears plead with your prayers. For you never thought but to be happy, Menie, and the gentle youthful nature longs and yearns for happiness, and with the strength of a rebel fights against the pain foreseen—poor heart!
“Eh, Jenny! you’re no keeping ill-will?” said a doleful voice upon the lawn below: very distinct, through the open window, it quickened Menie’s morning toilette considerably, and drew her forward, with a wondering face, to make sure. “I’m sure it’s no in me to be unfriends wi’ onybody; and after ane coming a’ this gate for naething but to ask a civil question, how you a’ was. I’m saying, Jenny? you’re no needing to haud ony correspondence wi’ me except ye like; it’s the mistress and Miss Menie I’m wanting to see.”
“Am I to let in a’ the gaun-about vagabones that want to see the mistress and Miss Menie?” said Jenny’s gruff voice in reply. “I trow no; and how ye can have the face to look at Jenny after your last errand till her, I canna tell; ye’ll be for undertaking my service ance mair? but ye may just as weel take my word ance for a’—the mistress canna bide ye ony mair than me.”
“Eh, woman, Jenny, ye’re a thrawn creature!” said Nelly Panton. “I’m sure I never did ye an ill turn a’ my days. But ye needna even the like o’ your service to me; I’m gaun to live wi’ our Johnnie, and keep his house, and Johnnie’s company are grander folk than the mistress; but I’m no forgetting auld friends, so I came to ask for Miss Menie because I aye likit her, and because she’s a young lass like mysel; and I’ll gang and speak to that ither servant-woman if ye’ll no tell Miss Menie I’m here.”
Jenny’s fury—for very furious was Jenny’s suppressed fuff at the presumptuous notion of equality or friendship between Menie Laurie and Nelly Panton—was checked by this threat; and fearful lest the dignity of her young mistress should be injured in the eyes of the household by the new-comer’s pretensions, Jenny, who had held this colloquy out of doors, turned hastily round and pattered away by the back entrance to open the door for the visitor, muttering repeated adjurations. “My patience!” and Jenny’s patience had indeed much reason to be called to her aid.
Menie’s curiosity was a little roused—her mind, withdrawn from herself, lightened somewhat of its load—and she hastened down stairs less unwillingly than she would have done without this interruption. Jenny stood by the drawing-room door holding it open; and Jenny’s sturdy little form vibrated, every inch of it, with anger and indignation. “Ane to speak to you, Miss Menie! ane used wi’ grand society, and owre high for the like o’ me. Ye’ll hae to speak to her yoursel.”
And Menie suddenly found herself thrust into the room, while Jenny, with an audible snort and fuff, remained in possession of the door.
Nelly Panton had too newly entered on her dignities to be able to restrain the ancient curtsy of her humility. Yes, undoubtedly, it was Nelly Panton—with the same faded gown, the same doleful shawl, the same wrapped-up and gloomy figure. Against the well-lighted, well-pictured wall of Miss Annie Laurie’s drawing-room she stood in dingy individuality dropping her curtsy, while Menie, much surprised and silent, stood before her waiting to be addressed.
“Can nane o’ ye speak?” said the impatient Jenny, from the door. “Miss Menie, are ye no gaun to ask what is her business here? A fule might hae kent this was nae place to come back to, after her last errand to Burnside; and when she kens I canna bide her, and the mistress canna bide her, to come and set up for a friendship wi’ you.”
“She’s just as cankered as she aye was, Miss Menie,” said Nelly Panton, compassionately, shaking her head. “It shows an ill disposition, indeed, when folk canna keep at peace wi’ me, as mony a time I’ve telt my mother. But ye see, Miss Menie, I couldna just bide on in Kirklands when ye were a’ away, so I just took my fit in my hand, and came on to London to see after Johnnie wi’ my ain een. He needs somebody to keep him gaun, and set him right, puir callant; and he’s in a grand way for himsel, and should be attended to—so I think I’ll just stay on, Miss Menie; and the first thing I did was to come and ask for you.”