“They are not very well done,” said Menie; “but, for all that, they are portraits, and like. I want to have lessons, mother. Once before, long ago,”—poor Menie, it seemed to be years ago,—“I said this should be my trade. I will like the trade; let me only have the means of doing it better, and it will be good for me to do it. This is why I ask you to stay in London.”
Jenny, very fierce and red, grasping the back of a chair, thrust it suddenly between them at this point, with a snort of emphatic defiance.
“Ye’ll no let on ye hear her!” exclaimed Jenny; “you’ll let her get her whimsey out like ony ither wean!—ye’ll pay nae attention to her maggots and her vanities! Trade! My patience! to think I should live to hear a bairn o’ ours speak o’ a trade, and Jenny’s twa hands to the fore!”
And a petulant reluctant sob burst out of Jenny’s breast—an angry tear glittered in her eye. She drew a long breath to recover herself—
“Jenny’s twa hands to the fore, I say, and the bere a’ to shear yet, and the ’taties to gather—no to say the mistress is to buy me twa kye, to take butter to the market! I would just like to ken where’s the pleasure in working, if it’s no to gie ease to folk’s ain? I’ve a’ my ain plans putten down, if folk would just let me be; and we’ll can keep a young lass to wait upon Miss Menie,” cried Jenny, with a shrill tone in her voice, “and the first o’ the cream and the sweetest o’ the milk, and nae occasion to wet her finger. You’re no gaun to pay ony heed to her—you’re no gaun to let on you hear what she says!”
Reaching this point, Jenny broke down, and permitted, much against her will, a little shower of violent hot tears to rain down upon the arms which she folded resolutely into her apron. But Jenny shook off, with indignation, the caressing hand which Menie laid upon her shoulder. Jenny knew by experience that it was better to be angry than to be sad.
“I would think with you too, Jenny,” said Mrs Laurie, slowly. “I could do anything myself; but a bairn of mine doing work for money—Menie, we will not need it—we will try first—”
“Mother,” said Menie, interrupting her hastily, “I will need it—I will never be wilful again—let me have my pleasure now.”
It was a thing unknown in the household that Menie should not have her pleasure. Even Jenny yielded to this imperative claim. The boxes were piled up again in Jenny’s little bedchamber. Jenny herself, able to do nothing else, set to knitting stockings with great devotion. “I’ll hae plenty to do when we get hame, without ever taking wires in my hand,” said Jenny. “Nae doubt it’s just a providence to let me lay up as mony as will serve.”
Their parlour was in the first floor, over one of the trim little ladies’ shops, which have their particular abode in little towns of competence and gentility. Toys and Berlin wool—a prim, neat, gentle Miss Middleton sitting at work on some pretty bit of many-coloured industry behind the orderly counter—gay patterns and specimens about—little carts and carriages, and locomotive animals upon the floor—bats, balls, drums, shining tin breastplates, and glorious swords hanging by the door, and a linen awning without, throwing the little shop into pleasant shade. This was the ground floor; above it was a very orderly parlour, and the sun came glistening in upon the little stand of flowers through the bright small panes of the old-fashioned window, and fell upon Mrs Laurie, always at work upon some making or mending—upon Jenny’s abrupt exits and entrances—her keen grey eyes and shining “wires,” the latter of which were so nobly independent of any guidance from the former—and upon Menie’s heavy meditations, and Menie’s daily toil.