“You are very kind, Nelly,” said Menie Laurie; but Menie paused with a suppressed laugh when she saw Jenny’s clenched hand shaken at her from the door.
“And ye’ll maybe think I’m no just in condition to set up for friends wi’ the like o’ you,” said Nelly, glancing down upon her dress; “but I only came in to London the day before yesterday, and I’ve naething yet but my travelling things. I’m hearing that little Juley Home of Braecroft’s coming too; and between you and me, Miss Menie, no to let it gang ony farther, I think it was real right and prudent o’ you to show us the first example, and draw us a’ up to London to take care o’ thae lads.”
“What do you mean, Nelly?” exclaimed Menie, somewhat angrily.
“Ye may weel say what does she mean,” said Jenny, making a sudden inroad from the door. “Do you hear, ye evil speaker!—the mistress is out, and there’s naebody to take care o’ this puir bairn but me; whatever malice and venom ye have to say, out wi’t, and I’ll tell the young lady what kind o’ character ye are when a’s done.”
“I wouldna keep such a meddling body in my house—no, if she did the wark twice as weel,” retorted Nelly, with calm superiority; “and I’ve nae call to speak my mind afore Jenny, and her aye misca’in’ me; but it’s nae secret o’ mine. I was just gaun to say, that for a’ our Johnnie’s a very decent lad, and minds upon his friends, I never saw ane, gentle or simple, sae awfu’ muckle tooken up about himsel as Randy Home. He’s anither lad altogether to what he used to be; and it’s no to be thocht but what he’s wanting a grand wife like a’ the rest. Now, ye’ll just see.”
Menie Laurie put down Jenny’s passionate disclaimer by a motion of her hand. “If this was what you came to tell me, Nelly, I fear I shall scarcely be grateful for your visit. Do you know that it is an impertinence to say this to me? Whisht, Jenny, that is enough; and I came here to look after no one. Whatever you may have thought before, you will believe this now, since I say it. Jenny will see that you are comfortable while you stay out here; but I think, Nelly, you have said enough to me this morning, and I to you—Jenny, whisht.”
“I’ll no whisht,” cried Jenny, at last, freed by Menie’s pause. “Eh, ye evil spirit! will ye tell me what cause o’ ill will ye ever could have against this innocent bairn? I’m no gaun to whisht, Miss Menie—to think of her coming up here anes errand to put out her malice on you! My patience! how ony mortal can thole the sight o’ her, I dinna ken.”
“I can forgie ye, Jenny,” said the meek Nelly Panton, “for a’ your passions and your glooms, and your ill words—I’m thankful to say I can forgie ye; but, eh, sirs, this is a weary world;—wherever I gang, at hame, or away frae hame, I’m aye miskent—naebody has the heart to take a guid turn frae me—though, I’m sure, I aye mean a’thing for the best, and it was right Miss Menie should ken. I thocht I would just come up this far to gie ye an advice, Miss Menie, when we were our lanes; and I’m no gaun to bleeze up into a fuff like Jenny because it’s ill ta’en. I’m just as guid friends as ever. The next time I come I’ll come wi’ our Johnnie, so I bid you a very guid morning, Miss Menie Laurie, and mony thanks for your kind welcome. Jenny, fare-ye-weel.”
Menie sat down in the window when the dark figure of her unwelcome visitor was gone. The sun came in upon her gaily—the genial August sun—and the leaves without fluttered in a happy wind and a maze of morning sounds, broken with shriller shouts of children, and rings of silvery laughter floated up and floated round her, of themselves an atmosphere fresh and sweet; but Menie bowed her face between her hands, and looked out with wistful eyes into the future, where so many fears and wonders had come to dwell; and vigilant and stern the meagre yew-tree looked in upon her, like an unkindly fate.