“EH, Menie, are you sure yon’s London?”
So asked little July Home standing under the shadow of the elm trees, and looking out upon the sea of city smoke, with great St Paul’s looming through its dimness. July did not quite understand how she could be said to be near London, so long as she stood upon the green sod, and saw above her the kindly sky. “There’s no very mony houses hereaway,” said the innocent July; “there’s mair in Dumfries, Menie—and this is just a fine green park, and here’s trees—are you sure yon’s London?”
“Yes, it’s London.” Very differently they looked at it;—the one with the marvelling eyes of a child, ready to believe all wonders of that mysterious place, supreme among the nations, which was rather a superb individual personage from among the Arabian genii than a collection of human streets and houses, full of the usual weaknesses of humankind; the other with the dreamy gaze of a woman, pondering in her heart over the scene of her fate.
“And Randall’s yonder, and Johnnie Lithgow?” said July—“I would just like to ken where. Menie, you’ve been down yonder in the town—where will Johnnie and our Randall be? Mrs Wellwood down in Kirklands bade me ask Randall if he knew a cousin of hers, Peter Scott, that lives in London; but nobody could ken a’ the folk, Menie, in such a muckle town.”
“My dear Miss July, muckle is an ugly word,” said Miss Annie Laurie, “and you must observe how nicely your brother and his friend speak—quite marvellous for self-educated young men—and even Menie here is very well. You must not say muckle, my love.”
“It was because I meant to say very big,” said July with a great blush, holding down her head and speaking in a whisper. July had thrown many a wandering glance already at Miss Annie, speculating whether to call her the old lady or the young lady, and listening with reverential curiosity to all she said; for July thought “She—the lady,” was very kind to call her my dear and my love so soon, and to kiss her when she went away wearied, on her first evening at Heathbank, to rest; though July could never be sure about Miss Annie, and marvelled much that Menie Laurie should dare to call any one in such ringlets and such gowns, aunt.
“You will soon learn better, my dear little girl,” said the gracious Miss Annie, “and you must just be content to continue a little girl while you are here, and take a lesson now and then, you know; and above all, my darling, you must take care not to fall in love with this young man whom you speak of so familiarly. He must not be Johnnie any more, but only Mr Lithgow, your brother’s friend and ours—for I cannot have both my young ladies falling in love.”
“Me!” July’s light little frame trembled all over, her soft hair fell down upon her neck. “It never will stay up,” murmured July, with eager deprecation, as Miss Annie’s eye fell upon the silky uncurled locks; but it was only shamefacedness and embarrassment which made July notice the descent of her hair—for July was trembling with a little thrill of fear and wonder and curiosity. Was it possible, then, that little July had come to sufficient years to be capable of falling in love?—and, in spite of herself, July thought again upon Johnnie Lithgow, and marvelled innocently, though with a blush, whether he “minded” her as she minded him.
But July could not understand the strange abstraction which had fallen upon her friend—the dreamy eye, the vacant look, the long intervals of silence. Menie Laurie of Burnside had known nothing of all this new-come gravity, and July’s wistful look had already begun to follow those wandering eyes of hers—to follow them away through the daylight, and into the dark, wondering—wondering—what it was that Menie sought to see.
Jenny is busied in the remote regions of the kitchen at this present moment, delivering a lecture, very sharp, and marked with some excitement, to Miss Annie Laurie’s kitchen-maid, who is by no means an ornamental person, and for that and many other reasons is a perpetual grief to Miss Annie’s heart—so Jenny is happily spared the provocation of beholding the new visitor who has entered the portals of Heathbank. For a portentous shawl, heavy as a thundercloud, a gown lurid as the lightning escaping from under its shade, and a new bonnet grim with gentility, are making their way round the little lawn, concealing from expectant eyes the slight person and small well-formed head, with its short matted crop of curls, which distinguish Johnnie Lithgow. Johnnie, good fellow, does not think his sister the most suitable visitor in the world to the Laurie household; but Johnnie would not, for more wealth than he can reckon, put slight upon his sister even in idea—so Miss Annie Laurie’s Maria announces Miss Panton at the door of Miss Annie Laurie’s drawing-room, and Nelly, where she failed to come as a servant, is introduced as a guest.
“Thank’ye, mem,” said Nelly. “I like London very weel so far as I’ve seen it—but it’s a muckle place, I dinna doubt, no to be lookit through in a day—and I’m aye fleyed to lose mysel in thae weary streets; but you see I didna come here ance errand to see the town, but rather came with an object, mem—and now I’m to bide on to take care of Johnnie. My mother down by at hame has had mony thochts about him being left his lane, with naebody but himself to care about in a strange place—and it’s sure to be a comfort to her me stopping with Johnnie, for she kens I’m a weel-meaning person, whatever folk do to me; and I would be real thankful if ye could recommend me to a shop for good linen, for I have a’ his shirts to mend. To be sure, he has plenty of siller—but he’s turning the maist extravagant lad I ever saw.”
“Good soul! and you have come to do all those kind things for him,” said Miss Annie Laurie: “it is so delightful to me to find these fine homely natural feelings in operation—so primitive and unsophisticated. I can’t tell you what pleasure I have in watching the natural action of a kind heart.”
“I am much obliged to ye, mem,” said Nelly, wavering on her seat with a half intention of rising to acknowledge with a curtsy this complimentary declaration. “I was aye kent for a weel-meaning lass, though I have my fauts—but I’m sure Johnnie ought to ken how weel he can depend on me.”
July Home was standing by the window—standing very timid and demure, pretending to look out, but in reality lost in conjectures concerning Johnnie Lithgow, whose image had never left her mind since Miss Annie took the pains to advise her not to think of him. July, innocent heart, would never have thought of him had this warning been withheld; but the fascination and thrill of conscious danger filled July’s mind with one continual recollection of his presence, though she did not dare to turn round frankly and own herself his old acquaintance. With a slight tremble in her little figure, July stands by the window, and July’s silky hair already begins to droop out of the braid in which she had confined it with so much care. A silk gown—the first and only one of its race belonging to July—has been put on in honour of this, her first day at Heathbank; and July, to tell the truth, is somewhat fluttered on account of it, and is a little afraid of herself and the unaccustomed splendour of her dress.
Menie Laurie, a good way apart, sits on a stool at her mother’s feet, looking round upon all those faces—from July’s innocent tremble of shy pleasure, to Johnnie Lithgow’s well-pleased recognition of his childish friend. There is something touching in the contrast when you turn to Menie Laurie, looking up, with all these new-awakened thoughts in her eyes, into her mother’s face. For dutiful and loving as Menie has always been, you can tell by a glance that she never clung before as she clings now—that never in her most trustful childish times was she so humble in her helplessness as her tender woman’s love is to-day. Deprecating, anxious, full of so many wistful beseeching ways—do you think the mother does not know why it is that Menie’s silent devotion thus pleads and kneels and clings to her very feet?
And there is a shadow on Mrs Laurie’s brow—a certain something glittering under Mrs Laurie’s eyelid. No, she needs no interpreter—and the mother hears Menie’s prayer, “Will you like him—will you try to like him?” sounding in her heart, and resolves that she will indeed try to like him for Menie’s sake.
“Mr Home, of course, will come to see us to-night,” said the sprightly Miss Annie. “My dear Mrs Laurie, how can I sufficiently thank you for bringing such a delightful circle of young people to Heathbank? It quite renews my heart again. You can’t think how soon one gets worn out and weary in this commonplace London world: but so fresh—so full of young spirits and life—I assure you, Mr Lithgow, yourself, and your friend, and my sweet girls here, are quite like a spring to me.”
Johnnie, bowing a response, gradually drew near the window. You will begin to think there is something very simply pretty and graceful in this little figure standing here within shadow of the curtain, the evening sun just missing it as it steals timidly into the shade. And this brown hair, so silky soft, has slidden down at last upon July’s shoulder, and the breath comes something fast on July’s small full nether lip, and a little changeful flush of colour hovers about, coming and going upon July’s face. Listen—for now a sweet little timid voice, fragrant with the low-spoken Border-speech, softened out of all its harshness, steals upon Johnnie Lithgow’s ear. He knows what the words are, for he draws very near to listen—but we, a little farther off, hear nothing but the voice—a very unassured, shy, girlish voice; and July casts a furtive look around her, to see if it is not possible to get Menie Laurie to whisper her answer to; but when she does trust the air with these few words of hers, July feels less afraid.
Johnnie Lithgow!—no doubt it is the same Johnnie Lithgow who carried her through the wood, half a mile about, to see the sunset from the Resting Stane—but whether this can be the Mr Lythgoe who is very clever and a great writer, July is puzzled to know. For he begins to ask so kindly about the old homely Kirkland people—he “minds” every nook and corner so well, and has such a joyous recollection of all the Hogmanays and Hallowe’ens—the boyish pranks and frolics, the boyish friends. July, simple and perplexed, thinks within herself that Randall never did so, and doubts whether Johnnie Lithgow can be clever, after all.