“Randall Home is a very superior young man,” said Mrs Laurie, with quiet
approbation. “Do you know, Menie, I had begun to have serious thoughts
about permitting your engagement so early?—if my only bairn should leave
me—leave me, and get estranged into another house and home, with a man
that was a stranger in his heart to me. Whisht, Menie—my darling, what
makes you cry?”
But Menie could not tell; the night air was still cold at her heart, and
she could not keep back these unseasonable tears.
“But I am better pleased to-night than I have been for many a day,” said
Mrs Laurie. “I never saw him so kindly, so like what I would desire. I
was a little proud of him to-night, if it were for nothing but letting
Miss Annie see that we are not all such common folk as she thinks down
in the south country—though, I suppose, I should say the north country
here. Menie! he will lose my good opinion again if I think he has vexed
you. What ails you, bairn? Menie, my dear?”
“I don’t know what it is, mother—no, no, he did not vex me. I suppose I
am glad to hear you speak of him so,” said the shy Menie, ashamed of her
tears. The mother and daughter were in their own room preparing for
rest, and Menie let down her hair over her face, and played with it in
her fingers, that there might be no more remark or notice of this
unwilling emotion. It was strange—never all her life before had Menie
wept for anything indefinite: for childish provocations—for little
vexations of early youth—for pity—she had shed bright transitory tears,
but she had never “cried for nothing” until now.
“Yes, I am pleased,” said Mrs Laurie, as she tied her muslin cap over
her ears: “what did you say, Menie? I thought this coming to London
would satisfy me on the one point which is likely to be more important
than all others, and I was right. Yes, Menie, lie down, like a good
girl; you must be wearied—and lie down with a good heart—you have a fair
prospect, as fair as woman could wish. I am quite satisfied myself.”
But how it came about that Menie only slept in broken snatches—that
Menie dreamt uncomfortable dreams of harassment and annoyance—dangers in
which Randall forsook her—cares of which he had no part—Menie did not
know. A day ago, and Mrs Laurie’s unsolicited avowal of “satisfaction”
had lifted Menie into the purest glow of joy, but to-night she cannot
tell what makes her so restless and uneasy—what prompts her now and then
to fall a-weeping, all unwillingly, and “for nothing.” Alas for Menie
Laurie’s quiet heart!—something has come to trouble the waters, but in
other guise than an angel’s.
The grass is soft and mossy under the elm trees, and the morning air—a
world of sweetness—beautifies their every branch and stem. Down yonder
in the hollow, low at your feet, Menie Laurie, the great slave Titan has
wakened to his daily toil. Is that the sweep of his mighty arm stirring
the heavy mist which hangs above him? Is this the clang of his ponderous
tools ringing up faintly into the quiet skies? The children are not
astir yet, to seek their pleasure in these precincts. Nothing seems
awake in this composed and sober place; but yonder, with many a conflict
in his heart, with many a throbbing purpose in his brain, with life and
strength tingling to his finger-points, with sighs and laughter swelling
in his breath—yonder great vassal of the world is up and doing, holding
the fate of a new day undeveloped in his busy hand.
And you, young wondering heart, look out upon him, innocent, ignorant,
wistful, like an angel on the threshold of the world—nothing knowing the
wiles and snares, the tortures and deliriums that live yonder under the
battle-cloud, unacquainted with those prodigious penalties of social
life, which yonder are paid and borne every hour; but looking out with
your head bent forward, and your innocent eyes piercing far in the
dreamy vision of reverie, making wistful investigation into the new
marvels round you, pondering and bewildered in your own secret soul.
Randall—looking out thus through the morning light upon the city, one
can see him in so many aspects;—the light shines upon his lofty head,
reaching almost to the skies, like the hill of his quiet home—and Menie
lifts her eyes to follow that noble daring look of his, piercing up
through mortal clouds and vapours to do homage with the gifts God has
given him, at his Master’s throne and footstool; but anon there steals a
cloud round the hero of Menie’s vision—a dim background, which still
reveals him, not less clearly, nor with less fascination, but with a
sadder wonder of interest—for Randall’s eyes are bent earthward,
Randall’s lofty head is bowed, and Menie, though she watches him with
yearning curiosity, can never meet his downcast look to read what is
there—can never fathom what lies within the veiled heart and
self-abstracted soul. You would think now that her eyes are caught by
the sunshine yonder making such mischievous confusion among the city
vapours: Not so; for Menie’s eyes, under that troubled curve of her
forehead, are studying Randall, and see only an incomprehensible
something in him, overshadowing all the earth and all the skies.
With her little basket in her hand, with her dainty step, and fluttering
muslin gown, Miss Annie brushes the dew from the grass, as she draws
near the elm trees. But though Miss Annie has been very confidential
with her grand-niece on the subject of her own juvenile occupations, one
little piece of daily business Miss Annie has forborne to tell of, and
that is a morning visit she pays to a poor pensioner or two in the
village, where, if perhaps her charity may be sometimes intrusive, it is
always real. For poor Miss Annie’s heart, though it figures so much in
her common talk, and is overlaid with so many false sentimentalities,
has a true little fountain of human kindness in it, spite of the
fantastic pretences that hide it from common view. Absorbed with her new
thoughts, Menie neither heard nor saw her aunt’s approach, till she woke
with a start to hear a gay laugh behind her, and to feel the pressure of
those long thin fingers upon her eyelids. “Dreaming, Menie? ah, my
pretty love! but not ‘in maiden meditation fancy free.’”
Startled and abashed, Menie drew back, but Miss Annie’s ringlets had
already touched her forehead, as Miss Annie bestowed the morning
salutation upon Menie’s cheek; and now they are seated side by side
under shadow of the greatest elm.
“My dear, I am afraid your mamma does not encourage you to confide in
her; you must tell me all your little trials, Menie,” said Miss Annie,
fluttering with her finger-points upon Menie’s hand; “and now, my
darling, speak to me freely—you were delighted to meet him last night.”
But Menie had no voice to answer, and could only bend down her flushed
face, and pluck up the grass with her disengaged hand.
“Don’t be shy, love. I am so much interested; and tell me, Menie, you
found him quite unchanged?—just as devoted as he used to be? I am sure
one only needed to look at him—and how delightful to find him quite
unchanged!”
“How far is it to London, aunt?” said Menie, with confusion.
“So near that your thoughts have travelled there this morning to find
him out, I know,” said Miss Annie,—“so near that he can come out every
night, so we need not talk of London: but come now, darling; have you
nothing to tell me?”
“You are very good,” said Menie, with a slight falter in her voice. “I—I
should like very well to take Jenny, if you please, to see some of the
great sights.”
Miss Annie shook her head—“Ah, Menie, how mischievous! Don’t you think I
deserve your confidence?”
“But, indeed, I have no confidence to give,” said Menie, almost under
her breath.
“My dear, I was just like you: the Scotch system is so restrictive—I was
afraid to speak to any one,” said Miss Annie; “and so you see I had a
little misunderstanding; and he was angry, and I was angry; and first we
quarrelled, and then we sulked at each other, and so at last it came
about that we were parted. Yes, Menie, dear! just now you are happy; you
do not care for a sympathising heart; but if you should chance to be
disappointed—I trust not, my love, but such things will happen—you will
then remember that I too have been blighted—oh, my dear child!”
And with a wave of her hand, expressing unutterable things, Miss Annie
arranged her light silken mantle over this same blighted heart of hers,
as if to hide the wound.
But Menie, whose mind already had recovered its tone—Menie, who now only
remembered Randall unchanged, unchangeable, towering high above all
vulgar quarrels and sullennesses, a very fortress for a generous heart
to dwell in—Menie sprang lightly up from the elastic turf, and stood
with her slight young figure relieved against the morning sky, and all
her frame vibrating with pride and joy in her worthy choice. What chance
that she should ever give this wished-for confidence—should ever turn to
seek such sympathy—should ever find comfort or solace in hearing of Miss
Annie Laurie’s kindred woe?