With the heat and flush of excitement upon his face, Randall Home made
his way across the glistening lawn, and through the wet shrubs—for there
had been rain—to that corner of the garden where he had seen Menie
disappear. Impatiently his foot rung upon the gravel path, and crushed
the fallen branches: something of an angry glow was in his eye, and
heated and passionate was the colour on his cheek.
“You are here, Menie!” he exclaimed. “I think you might have had
sufficient respect for me, to do what you could to prevent this last
passage of arms.”
“Respect!” Menie looked at him with doubtful apprehension. She thought
the distress of her mind must have dulled and blunted her nerves; and
repeated the word vacantly, scarcely knowing what it meant.
“I said respect. Is it so presumptuous an idea?” said Randall, with his
cold sarcastic smile.
But Menie made no answer. Drawing back with a timid frightened motion,
which did not belong to her natural character, she stood so very pale,
and chill, and tearful, that you could have found nowhere a more
complete and emphatic contrast than she made to her betrothed. The one
so full of strength and vigour, stout independence and glowing
resentment—the other with all her life gone out of her, as it seemed,
quenched and subdued in her tears.
“You have avoided me in the house—you will not speak to me now,” said
Randall. “Menie, Menie, what does this mean?”
For Menie had not been able to conceal from him that she was weeping.
“It is no matter, Randall,” said Menie; “it is no matter.”
Randall grew more and more excited. “What is the matter? Have you ceased
to trust me, Menie? What do you mean?”
“I mean nothing to make you angry—I never did,” said Menie, sadly. “I’m
not very old yet, but I never grieved anybody, of my own will, all my
days. Ill never came long ago; or, if it came, nobody ever blamed it on
me. I wish you would not mind me,” she said, looking up suddenly. “I
came out here, because my mind was not fit to speak to anybody—because I
wanted to complain to myself where nobody should hear of my
unthankfulness. I would not have said a word to anybody—not a word.
There was no harm in thinking within my own heart.”
“There is harm in hiding your thoughts from me,” said Randall. “Come,
Menie, you are not to cheat me of my rights. I was angry—forgive me; but
I am not angry now. Menie, my poor sorrowful girl, what ails you? Has
something happened? Menie, you must tell _me_.”
“It is just you I must not tell,” said Menie, under her breath. Then she
wavered a moment, as if the wind swayed her light figure, and held her
in hesitating uncertainty; and then, with a sudden effort, she stood
firm, apart from the wall she had been leaning on, and apart, too, from
Randall’s extended arm.
“Yes, I will tell you,” said Menie, seriously. “You mind what happened a
year ago, Randall; you mind what we did and what we said then—‘For ever
and for ever.’”
Randall took her hand tenderly into his own, “for ever and for ever.” It
was the words of their troth-plight.
“I will keep it in my heart,” said poor Menie. “I will never change in
that, but keep it night and day in my heart. Randall, we are far apart
already. I have a little world you do not choose to share: you are
entering a greater world, where I can never have any place. God speed
you, and God go with you, Randall Home. You will be a great man: you
will prosper and increase; and what would you do with poor Southland
Menie, who cannot help you in your race? Randall, we will be good
friends: we will part now, and say farewell.”
Abrupt as her speech was Menie’s manner of speaking. She had to hurry
over these disjointed words, lest her sobs should overtake and choke her
utterance ere they were done.
Randall shook his head with displeased impatience. “This is mere folly,
Menie. What does it mean? Cannot you tell me simply and frankly what is
the matter, without such a preface as this? But indeed I know very well
what it means. It means that I am to yield something—to undertake
something—to reconcile myself to some necessity or other, distasteful to
me. But why commence so tragically?—the threat should come at the end,
not at the beginning.”
“I make no threat,” said Menie, growing colder and colder, more and more
upright and rigid; “I mean to say nothing that can make you angry.
Already I have been very unhappy. I dare not venture, with our changed
fortunes, to make a lifelong trial—I dare not.”
“Your changed fortunes!” interrupted Randall. “Are your fortunes to-day
different from what they were yesterday?”
Menie paused. “It is only a very poor pride which would conceal it from
you,” she said at length. “Yes, they are different. Yesterday we had
enough for all we needed—to-day we have not anything. You will see how
entirely our circumstances are changed; and I hope you will see too,
Randall, without giving either of us the pain of mentioning them, all
the reasons which make it prudent for us, without prolonging the
conflict longer, to say good-by. Good-by; I can ask nothing of you but
to forget me, Randall.”
And Menie held out her hand, but could not lift her eyes. Her voice had
sunk very low, and a slight shiver of extreme self-constraint passed
over her—her head drooped lower and lower on her breast—her fingers
played vacantly with the glistening leaves; and when he did not take it,
her hand gradually dropped and fell by her side.
There was a moment’s silence—no answer—no response—no remonstrance.
Perhaps, after all, the poor perverse heart had hoped to be overwhelmed
with love which would take no denial: as it was, standing before him
motionless, a great faintness came upon Menie. She could vaguely see the
path at her feet, the trees on either hand. “I had better go, then,” she
said, very low and softly; and the light had faded suddenly upon Menie’s
sight into a strange ringing twilight, full of floating motes and
darkness—and those few paces across the lawn filled all her mind like a
life journey, so full of difficulty they seemed, so weak was she.
Go quickly, Menie—quickly, ere those growing shadows darken into a blind
unguided night—swiftly, ere these faltering feet grow powerless, and
refuse to obey the imperative eager will. To reach home—to reach
home—home, such a one as it is, lies only half a dozen steps away; press
forward, Menie—are those years or hours that pass in the journey? But
the hiding-place and shelter is almost gained.
When suddenly this hand which he would not take is grasped in his
vigorous hold—suddenly this violent tremble makes Menie feel how he
supports her, and how she leans on him. “I am going home,” said Menie,
faintly. Still he made no answer, but held her strongly, wilfully; not
resisting, but unaware of her efforts to escape.
“I have wherewith to work for you, Menie,” said the man’s voice in her
ear. “What are your changed fortunes to me? If you were a princess, I
would receive you less joyfully, for you would have less need of me.
Menie, Menie, why have you tried yourself so sorely—and why should this
be a cause of separating us? I wanted only you.”
And Menie’s pride had failed her. She hid her face in her hands, and
cried, “My mother, my mother!” in a passion of tears.
“Your mother, your mother? But you have a duty to me,” said Randall,
more coldly. “Your mother must not bid you give me up: you have no right
to obey. Ah! I see; I am dull and stupid; forgive me, Menie. You mean
that your mother’s fortunes are changed. She has the more need of a son
then; and my May Marion knows well, that to be her mother is enough for
me—you understand me, Menie. This does not change our attachment, does
not change our plans, our prospects in the slightest degree. It may make
it more imperative that your mother should live with us, but _you_ will
think that no misfortune. Well, are we to have no more heroics
now—nothing tragical—but only a little good sense and patience on all
sides, and my Menie what she always is? Come, look up and tell me.”
“I meant nothing heroic—nothing. What I said was not false, Randall,”
said Menie, looking up with some fire. “If you think it was unreal, that
I did not mean it—”
“If you do not mean it now, is not that enough?” said Randall, smiling.
“Let us talk of something less weighty. July says you do not look as you
used to do; has this been weighing on your mind, Menie? But, indeed, you
have not told me what the misfortune is.”
“We knew it only to-day,” said Menie. Menie spoke very low, and was very
much saddened and humbled, quite unable to make any defence against
Randall’s lordly manner of setting her emotion aside. “My father’s
successors were young men, and the price they paid for entering on his
practice was my mother’s annuity. But now they are both gone; one died
two years ago, the other only last week—and he has died very poor, and
in debt, the lawyer writes; so that there is neither hope nor chance of
having anything from those he leaves behind. So we have no longer an
income; nothing now but my mother’s liferent in Burnside.”
Menie Laurie did not know what poverty was. It was not any apprehension
of this which drew from her eyes those few large tears.
“Well, that will be enough for your mother,” said Randall. It was
impossible for Menie to say a word or make an objection, so completely
had he put her aside, and taken it for granted that his will should
decide all. “Or if it was not enough, what then? Provision for the
future lies with me—and you need not fear for me, Menie. I am not
quarrelsome. You need not look so deprecating and frightened: you will
find no disappointment in me.”
Was Menie reassured? It was not easy to tell; for very new to Menie
Laurie was this trembling humility of tone and look—this faltering and
wavering—as if she knew not to which side to turn. But Randall began to
speak, as he knew how, of her own self, and of their betrothing, “for
ever and for ever;” and the time these words were said came back upon
her with new power. Her mind was not satisfied, her heart was not
convinced, and very trembling and insecure now was her secret response
to Randall’s declaration that she should find no disappointment in him;
but her heart was young, and all unwilling to give up its blithe
existence. Instinctively she fled from her own pain, and accepted the
returning hope and pleasantness. Bright pictures rose before Menie, of a
future household harmonious and full of peace—of the new love growing
greater, fuller, day by day—the old love sacred and strong, as when it
stood alone. Why did she fear? why did a lurking terror in her heart cry
No, no! with a sob and pang? After all, this was no vain impracticable
hope; many a one had realised it—it was right and true for ever under
the skies; and Menie put her hand upon the arm of her betrothed, and
closed her eyes for a moment with a softening sense of relief and
comfort, and gentle tears under the lids. Let him lead forward; who can
tell the precious stores of love, and tenderness, and supreme regard
that wait him as his guerdon? Let him lead forward—on to those bright
visionary days—in to this peaceful home.