“Jenny, Jenny, canna ye open the door—it’s just me.”

“It’s just you, mischief and mischief-maker as ye are,” muttered Jenny, in answer to Nelly Panton’s soft appeal; “and what are you wanting here?”

But Jenny could not be so inhospitable as to shut out with a closed door the applicant for admission, especially as a rapid April shower was just then flashing out of the morning skies. Nelly came in breathless, shaking some bright raindrops off her dingy shawl; but neither the rain upon her cheeks, nor the fresh wind that carried it, nor even the haste of her own errand, sufficed to bring any animating colour to Nelly Panton’s face.

“I’m no to stay a minute,” she said breathlessly. “No a creature kens I’m here; and you’re no to bid me stay, but just gie me your advice and let me rin—I maun be hame before my mother kens.”

“I have nae will to keep ye; ye needna be feared,” retorted Jenny. “And what’s your pleasure now, that you’ve got so early out to Burnside?”

“Nane of the ladies ’ll be stirring yet,” said Nelly, looking round cautiously. “It was just a thing I wanted to ask you, Jenny—I ken you’re aye a guid friend.”

“Sorrow!” muttered Jenny between her teeth—but the end of the sentence died away; and whether the word was used as an epithet, or whether it was “Sorrow take you!” Jenny’s favourite ban, Nelly, innocently confiding, did not pause to inquire.

“For I heard in the Brigend that you had been kent to say that you wouldna gang a’ the gate to London if the mistress ga’e you triple your wage,” said Nelly, “and that you would recommend her to a younger lass. My auntie, Marget Panton, even gaed the length to say that ye had been heard to mention my name; but I wouldna have the face to believe that, though mony thanks to ye for the thought; and I just ran out whenever I rose this morning, to say, do ye think I might put in an application, Jenny, aye counting on you as a guid friend?”

“Wha ever gave ye warrant to believe that I was a guid friend?” exclaimed Jenny. “My patience! you taking upon you to offer yoursel for my place. My place! And wha daured to say I wanted to leave the mistress? Do ye think wage, or triple wage, counts wi’ me? Do ye think I’m just like yoursel, you pitiful self-seeking creature? Do ye think ony mortal would ever be the better of you in ony strait, frae a sair finger to a family misfortune? Gae way wi’ ye! My place, my certy! Would naething serve ye but that?”

“Ye see I’m no taking weel wi’ hame,” said the undismayed Nelly. “My mother and me canna put up right, and me being sae lang away before, she’s got out of the use of my attentions, and canna understand them. But I’m real attentive for a’ that, Jenny, and handy in mony a thing that wouldna be expected frae the like o’ you; and I could wait on Miss Menie, ye ken, being mair like her ain years, and fleech up the mistress grand. I ken I could—besides greeing wi’ the stranger servants, which it’s no to be expected you would do, being aye used to your ain way. But for my part, I’m real quiet and inoffensive—folk never ken me in a house; and I have my ain reasons for wanting to gang to London, baith to look after Johnnie, and ither concerns o’ my ain—and I would aye stand your friend constant, and be thankful to you for recommending me—and I’m sure afore the year was done the mistress would be thankful too for a guid lass—and I could recommend you to a real fine wee cottage atween Kirklands and the Brigend, with a very cheery window looking to the road, that would do grand for a single woman; or my mother would be blithe to take you in for a lodger, and she’s guid company when she’s no thrawn—and Jenny, woman——”

“Gang out of this house,” said Jenny, with quiet fury, holding the door wide open in her hand, and setting down her right foot upon the floor of her own domain, with a stamp of absolute supremacy. “No anither word—gang out of this door, and let me see your face again if ye daur! Gang to London—fleech up the mistress—wait upon Miss Menie! My patience!—and you’ll ca’ a decent woman thrawn to me! Gang out o’ this house, ye shadow!—the sight o’ you’s enough to thraw ony mortal temper. Your mother, honest woman!—but I canna forgive her for being art or part in bringing the like of you to this world. Are ye gaun away peaceably—or I’ll put ye out by the shouthers wi’ my ain twa hands!”

“Eh, sic a temper!” said Nelly Panton, vanishing from the threshold as Jenny made one rapid step forward. “I’m sure I forgive you, Jenny, though I’m sure as weel, that if the rain hadna laid a’ the stour, mony a ane has shaken the dust off their feet for a testimony against less ill usage than you’ve gien me; but I’m thankful for my guid disposition—I’m thankful that there’s nae crook in me, and I leave you to your ain thoughts, Jenny Durward; it’s weel kent what a life thae twa puir ladies lead wi’ ye, through a’ the countryside.”

The kitchen door violently shut, by good fortune drowned for Jenny this last vindictive utterance, and Nelly Panton, unexcited, drew her shawl again close over her elbows, and went with her stealthy steps upon her way—a veritable shadow falling dark across the sunshine, and without a spot of brightness in her, within or without, to throw back reflection, or answer to the sunny morning light which flashed upon all the glistening way.

But no such quietness possessed the soul of Jenny of Burnside; over the fresh sanded floor of her bright kitchen her short vigorous steps pattered like hail. Cups and saucers came ringing down from her hands upon the tray, which she was crowding with breakfast “things.” The bread-basket quivered upon the table where her excited hand had set it down. She turned to the hearth, and the poor little copper kettle rang upon the grate—the poker assaulted the startled fire—the very chain quaked and trembled, hanging from the old-fashioned crook far back in the abyss of the chimney. Very conspicuous in this state of the mental atmosphere became Jenny’s high shoulder. It seemed to develop and increase with every additional fuff, and the most liberal and kindly commentator could not have denied this morning the existence of the “thraw.”

And not without audible expression, over and above the hard-drawn breath of the “fuff,” was Jenny’s indignation. “My place, my certy! less wouldna serve her!”—“Handier than could be expected frae the like o’ me!”—“Stand my friend constant!”—“A cot-house atween Kirklands and the Brigend!” A snort of rage punctuated and separated every successive quotation, till, as Jenny cooled down a little, there came to her relief a variety of extremely complimentary titles, all very eloquent and expressive, conveying in the clearest language Jenny’s opinion of the good qualities of Nelly Panton, which last, by-and-by, however, softened still further into the milder chorus of “a bonnie ane!” with which Jenny’s wrath gradually wore itself away.

All this time the sunshine lay silent and unbroken upon the paved passage, with its strip of matting, and the light shone quiet in Mrs Laurie’s parlour. The petulant rain had ceased to ring upon the panes, though some large drops hung there still, clinging to the framework of the window, and gradually shrinking and drying up before the light. The branches without made a sheen through the air, almost as dazzling as if every tree were a Highland dancer with a drawn claymore in his right hand; and the larch flung its spray of rain upon Menie Laurie’s chamber window, bidding her down to the new life and the new day which brightened all the watching hills.

And now comes Mrs Laurie steadily down the stairs with her little shawl in her hand, and traces of a mind made up and determined in her face; and now comes Menie, with a half song on her lips, and a little light of amusement and expectation in her eyes, for Menie has heard afar off the sound of Jenny’s excitement. But Jenny, too decorous to invade the dignity of the breakfast-table, says nothing when she brings in the kettle, and does not even add to its fuff the sound of her own, and Menie has time to grow composed and grave, and to hear with a more serious emotion Mrs Laurie’s decision. Not without a sigh Mrs Laurie intimates it, though her daughter knows nothing of the one reason which has overweighed all others. But the ruling mind of the household, having decided, loses no time in secondary hesitations. “We will try to let Burnside as it is, Menie,” said Mrs Laurie, looking round upon the familiar room. “If we can get a careful tenant, it will be far better not to remove the furniture. If we make it known at once, the house may be taken before the term; and I will write to your aunt and say that we accept her offer. It is a long journey by land, and expensive. I think we will go to Edinburgh first, Menie. The weather is settled, and should be fine at Whitsunday; and then to London by sea.”

Menie did not trust herself to express in words the excitement of hope and pleasure with which she heard this great and momentous change brought down into a matter of sober everyday arrangement; but it was not difficult to understand and translate the varying colour on her cheek, and the sudden gleam of her sunny eyes. As it happened, however, with a natural caprice, the one objection which her mother’s will could not set aside suddenly suggested itself to Menie. She looked up with a slight alarm—“But Jenny, mother?” Menie Laurie could not realise the possibility of leaving Jenny behind.

Mrs Laurie’s hand had not left the bell. Jenny, at the door, caught the words with satisfaction. But Jenny did not choose to acknowledge herself subject to any influence exercised by the “youngest of the house;” and Jenny, moreover, had come prepared, and had no time to lose in preliminaries.

“There’s twa or three things to be done about the house before onybody can stir out o’ this,” said Jenny emphatically, pausing when she had half cleared the breakfast-table. “I want to ken, mem, if it’s your pleasure, what time we’re to gang away.”

“I have just been thinking—about the term, Jenny,” said her mistress, accepting Jenny’s adhesion quietly and without remark—“if we can get a tenant to Burnside.”

“I thought you would be wanting a tenant to Burnside,” muttered Jenny, “to make every table and chair in the house a shame to be seen, and the place no fit to live in when we come back; but it’s nane o’ Jenny’s business if the things maun be spoiled. I have had a woman at me this morning wi’ an offer to gang in my place. I’ve nae business to keep it out o’ your knowledge, so you may get Nelly Panton yet, if it’s your pleasure, instead o’ me. I’m speaking to your mother, Miss Menie; the like o’ you has nae call to put in your word. Am I to tell Nelly you would like to speak to her, mem—or what am I to say?”

And Jenny again planted her right foot firmly before her, again expanded her irascible nostril, and, with comic perversity and defiance, stood and waited for her mistress’s answer.

“Away you go, Jenny, and put your work in order,” said Mrs Laurie; “get somebody in from the Brigend to help you, and let everything be ready for the flitting—you know I don’t want Nelly Panton—no, you need not interrupt me—nor anybody else. We’ll all go to London together, and we’ll all come back again some time, if we’re spared. I don’t know how you would manage without us, Jenny; but see, there’s Menie with open eyes wondering what we should do without you.”

“Na, the bairn has discrimination,” said Jenny steadily; “that’s just what I say to mysel. Nae doubt it’s a great change to a woman at my time o’ life, but I just say what could the two ladies do, mair especially a young lassie like Miss Menie, and that’s enough to reconcile ane to mony a thing. Weel, I’ll see the wark putten in hands; but if you take my advice, mem, ye’ll see baith mistress and maid afore ye let fremd folk into Burnside. It’s no ilka hand that can keep up a room like this; for I ken mysel the things were nae mair like what they are now, when I came first, than fir wood’s like oak; and what’s the matter of twa or three pounds, by the month, for rent, in comparison wi’ ruining a haill house o’ furniture?—though, to be sure, it’s nae business o’ mine; and if folk winna take guid counsel when it’s offered, naebody can blame Jenny.”

So saying, Jenny went briskly to her kitchen, to set on foot immediate preparations for the removal, leaving her “guid counsel” for Mrs Laurie’s consideration. Mrs Laurie found little time to deliberate. She had few distant friends, and no great range of correspondents at any time, and another perusal of Miss Annie Laurie’s epistle set her down to answer it with a puzzled face. A little amusement, a little impatience, a little annoyance, drew together the incipient curve on Mrs Laurie’s brow, and Jenny’s advice got no such justice at her hands as would have satisfied Jenny, and was summarily dismissed when its time of consideration came.