Perhaps next to the pleasure of doing all for those we love best, the
joy of receiving all ranks highest. With her heart elate, Menie went in
again to the house she had left so sadly—went in again, looking up to
Randall, rejoicing in the thought that from him every daily gift—all
that lay in the future—should henceforth come. And if it were well to be
Menie’s mother—chief over one child’s heart which could but love—how
much greater joy to be Randall’s mother, high in the reverent thought of
such a mind as his! Now there remained but one difficulty—to bring the
mother and the son lovingly together—to let no misconception, no false
understanding blind the one’s sight of the other—to clear away all evil
judgment of the past—to show each how worthy of esteem and high
appreciation the other was. She thought so in her own simple soul, poor
heart! Through her own great affection she looked at both—to either of
them _she_ would have yielded without a murmur her own little prides and
resentments; and the light of her eyes suffused them with a circle of
mingling radiance; and sweet was the fellowship and kindness, pure the
love and good offices, harmonious and noble the life of home and every
day, which blossomed out of Menie Laurie’s heart and fancy, in the
reaction of her hopeless grief.
Mrs Laurie sits very thoughtful and still by the window. Menie’s mother,
in her undisturbed and quiet life, had never found out before how proud
she was. Now she feels it in her nervous shrinking from speech of her
misfortune—in the involuntary haughtiness with which she starts and
recoils from sympathy. Without a word of comment or lamentation, the
mere bare facts, and nothing more, she has communicated to Miss Annie;
and Mrs Laurie had much difficulty in restraining outward evidence of
the burst of indignant impatience with which, in her heart, she received
Miss Annie’s effusive pity and real kindness. Miss Annie, thinking it
best not to trouble her kinswoman in the present mood of her mind, has
very discreetly carried her pity to some one who will receive it better,
and waits till “poor dear Mrs Laurie” shall recover her composure; while
even July, repelled by the absorbed look, and indeed by an abrupt short
answer, too, withdraws, and hangs about the other end of the room, like
a little shadow, ever and anon gliding across the window with her
noiseless step, and her stream of falling hair.
Mrs Laurie’s face is full of thought—what is she to do? But, harder far
than that, what is Menie to do?—Menie, who vows never to leave her—who
will not permit her to meet the chill fellowship of poverty alone. A
little earthen-floored Dumfriesshire cottage, with its kailyard and its
one apartment, is not a very pleasant anticipation to Mrs Laurie
herself, who has lived the most part of her life, and had her share of
the gifts of fortune; but what will it be to Menie, whose life has to be
made yet, and whose noontide and prime must all be influenced by such a
cloud upon her dawning day? The mother’s brow is knitted with heavy
thought—the mother’s heart is pondering with strong anxiety. Herself
must suffer largely from this change of fortune, but she cannot see
herself for Menie—Menie: what is Menie to do?
Will it be better to see her married to Randall Home, and then to go
away solitary to the cothouse in Kirklands, to spend out this weary
life—these lingering days? But Mrs Laurie’s heart swells at the thought.
Perhaps it will be best; perhaps it is what we must make up our mind to,
and even urge upon her; but alas and alas! how heavily the words, the
very thought, rings in to Mrs Laurie’s heart.
And now here they are coming, their youth upon them like a mantle and a
crown—coming, but not with downcast looks; not despondent, nor afraid,
nor touched at all with the heaviness which bows down the mother’s
spirit to the very dust. Menie will go, then. Close your eyes, mother,
from the light; try to think you are glad; try to rejoice that she will
be content to part from you. It is “for her good”—is there anything you
would not do “for her good,” mother? It has come to the decision now;
and look how she comes with her hand upon his arm, her eyes turning to
his, her heart elate. She will be his wife, then—his Menie first, and
not her mother’s; but have we not schooled our mind to be content?
Yes, she is coming, poor heart! coming with her new hope glorious in her
eyes; coming to bring the son to his mother; coming herself with such a
great embracing love as is indeed enough of its own might and strength
to unite them for ever; and Menie thinks that now she cannot fail.
And now they are seated all of them about the window, July venturing
forward to join the party; and as nothing better can be done, there
commences an indifferent conversation, as far removed as possible from
the real subject of their thoughts. There sits Mrs Laurie, sick with her
heavy musings, believing that she now stands alone, that her dearest
child has made up her mind to forsake her, and that in solitude and
meagre poverty she will have to wait for slow-coming age and death. Here
is Randall, looking for once out of himself, with a real _will_ and
anxiety to soften, by every means in his power, the misfortunes of
Menie’s mother, and rousing himself withal to the joy of carrying Menie
home—to the sterner necessity of doing a man’s work to provide for her,
and for the new household; and all the wonder you can summon—no small
portion in those days—flutters about the same subject, little July Home;
and you think in your heart if you but could, what marvellous things you
_would_ do for Menie Laurie, and Menie Laurie’s mother; while Menie
herself, with a wistful new-grown habit of observation, reads
everybody’s face, and knows not whether to be most afraid of the
obstinate gloom upon her mother’s brow, or exultant in the delicate
attention, the sudden respectfulness and regard, of Randall’s bearing.
But this little company, all so earnestly engrossed—all surrounding a
matter of the vitallest importance to each—turn aside to talk of Miss
Annie Laurie’s toys—Miss Annie Laurie’s party—and only when they divide
and separate dare speak of what lies at their heart.
And Mrs Laurie is something hard to be conciliated. Mrs Laurie is much
inclined to resent this softening of manner as half an insult to her
change of fortune. Patience, Menie! though your mother rebuffs him, he
bears it nobly. The cloud will not lighten upon her brow—cannot
lighten—for you do not know how heavily this wistful look of yours, this
very anxiety to please her—and all your transparent wiles and
artifices—your suppressed and trembling hope, strikes upon your mother’s
heart. “She will go away—she will leave me.” Your mother says so, Menie,
within herself; and it is so hard, so very hard, to persuade the
unwilling content with that sad argument, “It is for her good.” Now,
draw your breath softly lest she hear how your heart beats, for Randall
has asked her to go to the garden with him, to speak of this; and Mrs
Laurie rises with a sort of desolate stateliness—rises—accepts his
offered arm, and turns away—poor Menie! with an averted face, and
without a glance at you.
And now there follows a heavy time—a little space of curious restless
suspense. Wandering from window to window, from table to table; striking
a few notes on the ever-open piano; opening a book now, taking up a
piece of work then, Menie strays about, in an excitement of anxiety
which she can neither suppress nor conceal. Will they be friends? such
friends—such loving friends as they might be, being as they are in
Menie’s regard so noble and generous both? Will they join heartily and
cordially? will they clasp hands upon a kindly bargain? But Menie
shrinks, and closes her eyes—she dares not look upon the alternative.
“Menie, will you not sit down?” Little July Home follows Menie with her
eyes almost as wistfully as Menie follows Randall and her mother. There
is no answer, for Menie is so fully occupied that the little timid voice
fails to break through the trance of intense abstraction in which her
heart is separated from this present scene. “Menie!” Speak louder,
little girl: Menie cannot hear you, for other voices speaking in her
heart.
So July steals across the room with her noiseless step, and has her arm
twined through Menie’s before she is aware. “Come and sit down—what are
they speaking about, Menie? Do you no hear me? Oh, Menie, is it our
Randall?—is it his blame?”
July is so near crying that she must be answered. “Nobody is to blame;
there is no harm,” said Menie, quickly, leading her back to her
seat—quickly with an imperative hush and haste, which throws July back
into timid silence, and sets all her faculties astir to listen, too. But
there comes no sound into this quiet room—not even the footsteps which
have passed out of hearing upon the garden path, nor so much as an echo
of the voices which Menie knows to be engaged in converse which must
decide her fate. But this restless and visible solicitude will not do;
it is best to take up her work resolutely, and sit down with her intent
face turned towards the window, from which at least the first glance of
them may be seen as they return.
No,—no need to start and blush and tremble; this step, ringing light
upon the path, is not the stately step of Randall—not our mother’s sober
tread. “It’s no them, Menie—it’s just Miss Laurie,” whispers little
startled July from the corner of the window. So long away—so long
away—and Menie cannot tell whether it is a good or evil omen—but still
they do not come.
“My sweet children, are you here alone?” said Miss Annie, setting down
her little basket. “Menie, love, I have just surprised your mamma and Mr
Randall, looking very wise, I assure you; you ought to be quite thankful
that you are too young to share such deliberations. July, dear, you must
come and have your lesson; but I cannot teach you to play that favourite
tune; oh no, it would be quite improper—though he has very good taste,
has he not, darling? But somebody will say I have designs upon Mr
Lithgow, if I always play his favourite tune.”
So saying, Miss Annie sat down before the piano, and began to sing, “For
bonnie Annie Laurie I’ll lay down my head and dee.” Poor Johnnie Lithgow
had no idea, when he praised the pretty little graceful melody and
delicate verses, that he was paying a compliment to the lady of
Heathbank.
And July, with a blush, and a little timid eagerness, stole away to Miss
Annie’s side. July had never before touched any instrument except Menie
Laurie’s old piano at Burnside, and with a good deal of awe had
submitted to Miss Annie’s lessons. It did seem a very delightful
prospect to be able to play this favourite tune, though July would have
thought very little of it, but for Miss Annie’s constant warnings.
Thanks to these, however, and thanks to his own kindly half-shy regards,
Johnnie Lithgow’s favourite tunes, favourite books, favourite things and
places, began to grow of great interest to little July Home. She thought
it was very foolish to remember them all, and blushed in secret when
Johnnie Lithgow’s name came into her mind as an authority; but
nevertheless, in spite of shame and blushing, a great authority Johnnie
Lithgow had grown, and July stood by the piano, eager and afraid,
longing very much to be as accomplished as Miss Annie, to be able to
play his favourite tune.
While Menie Laurie still sits by the window, intent and silent, hearing
nothing of song or music, but only aware of a hum of inarticulate
voices, which her heart longs and strains to understand, but cannot
hear.