SOMETHING of languor is in this chill morning, as its quiet footstep steals upon the path of the exhausted storm—something worn out and heavy are Menie’s eyes, as she closes them, wearily upon the daylight when Jenny has cleared the little breakfast-table, and it is time for the day’s work to begin. They speak to her softly, you will perceive, and are very tender of Menie, as if she were ill, and Jenny cannot forgive herself for the shock that her exclamation caused last night.
A heavy stupor is on Menie’s mind, lightened only with gleams of wild anxiety, with fruitless self-questionings, which she fain would restrain, but cannot. Jenny, firm in the belief that she has seen a spirit, is melancholy and mysterious, and asks suggestive questions—whether they have heard if there is “ony great trouble in London ’enow,” or who it was that was prayed for in the kirk last Sabbath—a young man in great distress. Mrs Laurie, uneasy and solicitous, cannot stay these pitiful looks which unawares she turns upon her daughter, and hangs perpetually about her with tender touches, consoling words, and smiles, till poor Menie’s heart is like to break.
The day’s work is over in Jenny’s “redd-up kitchen;”—the uneven earthen floor is carefully swept—the hearth as white and the fireside as brilliant as Jenny’s elaborate care can make them; and Jenny has drawn aside a little the sliding panel which closes in her bed, to show the light patch-work quilt, and snowy linen of the “owrelay.” Bright brass and pewter carefully polished above the high mantelshelf—bright plates and crockery against the walls—with a glance of satisfaction Jenny surveyed the whole as she passed into the private corner where she made her toilette—a “wiselike” kitchen; it was worthy of Jenny.
And now, in her blue and yellow gown, in her black and red checked plaiden shawl, in her great Leghorn bonnet, fashioned in antique times, Jenny sets out from the cottage door. No one knows where Jenny is going, and there has been some surprise “ben the house” at her intimation of her proposed absence. But Jenny keeps her own counsel, and walks away soberly, seeing Mrs Laurie at the window, in the direction of Burnside. “Nae occasion to let the haill town see the gate Jenny was gaun,” she says to herself, with a slight fuff; and, altering her course before she reaches the Brigend, Jenny turns rapidly towards the hills.
And something of growing gravity, almost awe, is on Jenny’s face. “Eh, puir callant, he’s young to take fareweel o’ this life. Weel, laddie, mony’s the time Jenny’s grutten for ye; and maybe it’s best, after a’, if ane could but think sae.” These lamentations fall like so many tears on Jenny’s way—and she is rapidly climbing the brae, as she utters them, towards the house of Crofthill.
It is a wintery autumn afternoon—so dull, that the potato-gatherers in the fields are chilled into silence, and the ploughmen scarcely can whistle into the heavy atmosphere, which droops upon them laden with unfallen rain. The paths of the little triangular garden of Crofthill are choked with masses of brown leaves, fallen from the trees, which sway their thin remaining foliage drearily, hanging lank from the crest of the hill. The goodman is thrashing to-day; you can hear the heavy tramp of the horses, the swing of the primitive machine; it is almost the only sound that breaks the silence of the place.
Nay, listen—there is another sound; a slow monotonous voice, wont to excite in Jenny certain sentiments the reverse of peaceable. The kitchen door is open, a great umbrella rests against the lintel, and Miss Janet’s tall figure is just visible in a gown not much unlike Jenny’s own, standing before the fire listening, as Jenny, arrested at the threshold, must be content to listen too.
“Na; I can do nae mair than tell what’s true; I canna gie folk the judgment to put trust in me. I’m no ane that meddles wi’ ither folk’s concerns—but I thocht it right ye should ken—I’m no saying whether it’s in the flesh or the spirit—that Randall Home was seen upon the Kirklands road last night.”
“But I tell ye, woman, it couldna be our Randy—it couldna be my bairn,” exclaimed Miss Janet in great distress. “Do you think Crofthill’s son would ca’ upon the like o’ you, and no come hame? It’s been some English lad, that’s spoken grand, like Randall; and how was you to ken to look at his presence, that never ane had like him? Na, it wasna our son.”
“Presence or no presence, I mind him weel,” said Nelly, emphatically. “I wouldna think, mysel, an appearance or a wraith could hae grippit thae weans, and kent the road sae weel to carry them hame—no to say that spirits would hae little patience, as I think, wi’ barley scones, when they canna partake themsels; and I tried him about the Burnside family, and Crofthill as weel; and I saw his een louping wi’ passion and he scarce gae me thanks for my charity. It’s an awfu’ thing to see as I do ilka day—and I canna think but what it’s just because I’m sae peaceable mysel that a’body flees into raptures wi’ me. But I just ken this—I saw Randall Home.”
Miss Janet turned round to wring her hands unseen. She was very much troubled and shaken, and turning, met, to her dismay, the keen inquisitive face of Jenny. With a little start and cry, Miss Janet turned again to dash some tears off her cheek. Then she addressed the new-comer in a trembling voice. “Ye’ll have heard her story—your house is on the same road—have ye seen onything like this?”
“I wouldna put a moment’s faith in her—no me!” said Jenny, promptly. “It’s a dull day to her when she disna put somebody in trouble; and its just because there’s no a single mischief to the fore in Kirklands that she’s come to put her malice on you. Put strife amang neibors, woman—naebody can do’t sae weel; but what would ye come here for to frighten honest folk in their ain houses?”
“For every friendly word I say, I aye get twa ill words back,” said Nelly meekly, with a sigh of injury. “But it’s weel kent the spirit that’s in Burnside Jenny, and I wouldna take notice, for my pairt, o’ what the like o’ her might say; but I canna help aye being concerned for what happens to Crofthill, minding the connection; and if I didna see Randall Home’s face, and hear Randall Home’s tongue, in the dark at my ain door yestreen I never saw mortal man. If he’s in the flesh, I wouldna say but he was hiding for some ill-doing—for you may be sure he didna want me to see his face, kenning me for far sight langsyne; and if it was an appearance, I’ll no gie you muckle hope o’ his state, for the awsome passion he got in, though he never said a word to me; and, as I said before, I can tell you what’s true, but I canna gie ye faith to believe—sae I’ll bid ye guid-day, Miss Janet; and ye’ll just see if ye dinna think mair o’ what I’ve said, afore you’re a day aulder—you and the auld man too.”
Slowly Nelly took her departure, Miss Janet looking on like one stupefied. As the unwelcome visitor disappeared, Miss Janet sank into a chair, and again wrung her hands; but looking up with sudden fright to perceive Jenny’s elaborate dress, and look of mystery, hastily exclaimed, “Jenny, woman—it’s no but what you’re aye welcome,—but what’s brought you here the day?”
“I cam o’ my ain will; naebody kens,” said Jenny abruptly.
“But ye maun have come wi’ an errand—I’m no feared to greet before you, Jenny,” said Miss Janet, with humility. “Oh, woman, tell me—do you ken onything o’ my bairn?”
“Me! what should I ken?” said Jenny, turning her face away. “You’ll have gotten word? Nae doubt, being grand at the writing, he aye sends letters. What gars ye ask the like o’ me?”
Miss Janet caught her visitor’s hand, and turned her face towards the light with a terrified cry, “You may tell me—I ken ye’ve seen him as weel.”
Jenny resisted for some time, keeping her head averted. At length, when she could struggle no longer, she fell into a little burst of sobbing. “I never would have telled ye. I didna come to make you desolate—but I canna tell a lee. I saw him in the dark last night, just ae moment, glancing in at the window—and when I gaed to the door, he was gane.”
Half an hour after, very drearily Jenny took her way down the hill—and looking back as the early twilight began to darken on her path, she saw Miss Janet’s wistful face commanding the way. The twilight came down heavily—the clouds dipt upon the hill—drizzling rains began to fall, carrying down with them light dropping showers of half-detached and dying leaves—but still Miss Janet leaned upon the dyke, and turned her anxious eyes to the hilly footpath, watching, with many a sob and shiver, for Randall—in the flesh or in the spirit. Surely, if he revealed himself to strangers, he might come to her.