But this Menie Laurie, rising up from her bed of unrest, when the
morning light breaks, cold and real, upon a changed world, has wept out
all her child’s tears, and is a woman once again. No one knows yet a
whisper of what has befallen her, not even poor Jenny, who sobbed over
her last night, and implored her not to weep.
Now, how to tell this--how to signify, in the fewest and calmest words,
the change that has come upon her. Sitting, with her cheek leant on her
hand, by the window where she heard it, before any other eyes are awake,
Menie ponders this in her heart. Always before in little difficulties
counsel and help have been within her reach; few troublous things have
been to do in Menie’s experience; and no one ever dreamt that _she_
should do them, when they chanced to come to her mother’s door.
But now her mother’s honour is involved--she must not be consulted--she
must not know. With a proud flush Menie draws up herself--herself who
must work in this alone. Ah, sweet dependence, dear humility of the old
times! we must lay them by out of our heart to wait for a happier dawn.
This day it is independence--self-support--a strength that stands alone;
and no one who has not felt such an abrupt transition can know how hard
it is to take these unused weapons up.
“Will you let me speak to you, aunt?” Menie’s heart falters within her,
as she remembers poor Miss Annie’s unaccepted sympathy. Has she indeed
been driven to seek refuge here at last?
“My love! how can you ask such a question, darling, when I am always
ready to speak to you?” exclaimed Miss Annie, with enthusiasm.
“But not here--out of doors, if you will permit me,” said Menie in a
half whisper. “I--I want to be out of my mother’s sight--she must not
know.”
“You delightful creature,” said Miss Annie, “are you going to give me
your confidence at last?”
Poor Menie, sadly dismayed, was very ill able to support this strain of
sympathy. She hastened out, not quite observing how it tasked her
companion to follow her--out to the same green overgrown corner, where
once before she had spoken of this same subject to Randall himself. With
a slight shudder she paused there before the little rustic seat, from
which she had risen at his approach; but Menie knew that she must harden
herself against the power of associations; enough of real ill was before
her.
“I want to tell you, aunt, if you will please to listen to me,
that the engagement of which you were told when we came here is
dissolved--broken. I do not know if there is any stronger word,” said
Menie, a bewildered look growing on her face. “I mean to say that it is
all over, as if it had never been.”
And Menie folded her hands upon her breast, and stood patiently to
listen, expecting a burst of lamentation and condolence; but Menie was
not prepared for the laugh which rung shrilly on her ears--the words
that followed it.
“My sweet simple child, I have no doubt you quite believe it--forgive me
for laughing, darling; but I know what lovers’ quarrels are. There, now,
don’t look so grave and angry; my love, you will make it all up
to-morrow.”
And Miss Annie Laurie patted Menie’s shrinking shoulder encouragingly.
It was a harder task this than Menie had anticipated; but she went on
without flinching.
“This is no lovers’ quarrel, aunt; do not think so. My mother is in some
degree involved in this. I cannot consult her, or ask her to help me; it
is the first time I have ever been in such a strait;” and Menie’s lip
quivered as she spoke. “You are my only friend. I am serious--as serious
as mind can be, which feels that here it decides its life. Aunt, I apply
to you.”
Miss Annie Laurie looked up very much confused and shaken: very seldom
had any one spoken to her with such a sober seriousness of tone; she
could not think it unreal, for neither extravagance nor despair were in
these grave sad words of Menie. The poor frivolous heart felt this voice
ring into its depths, past all superficial affectations and sentiments.
No exuberance of sympathy, no shower of condoling words or endearments,
could answer this appeal; and poor Miss Annie faltered before this claim
of real service--faltered and shrank into a very weak old woman, her
self-delusions standing her in no stead in such a strait; and the only
answer she could make was to cry, in a trembling and strangely altered
voice, “Oh, child, do not speak so. What can I do for you?”
Most true, what can you do, indeed, poor soul! whose greatest object for
all these years has been to shut out and darken the daylight truth,
which mocked your vain pretences? You could give charity and gentle
words--be thankful; your heart is alive in you because of these: but
what can you do in such a difficulty as this? where is your wisdom to
counsel, your strength to uphold? This grave girl stands before you,
sadly bearing her burden, without an effort to conceal from you that she
feels it hard to bear; but you, whose age is not grave, whose heart has
rejected experience, whose mind has refused to learn the kindly insight
of advancing years--shrink into yourself, poor aged butterfly; feel that
it is presumption to call yourself her counsellor, and say again--again,
with a tremble in your weakened voice, “What can I do for you?”
“Aunt, I apply to you,” said Menie Laurie; “I ask your help, when I
resolve to decide my future life according to my own will and conviction
of what is best. I have no one else to assist me. I apply to you.”
Miss Annie melted into a fit of feeble crying; her hands shook, her
ringlets drooped down lank about her cheeks. “I will do
anything--anything you like; tell me what to do, Menie--Menie, my dear
child.”
It was pitiful to see her distress. Menie, whom no one comforted, felt
her heart moved to comfort her.
“I will not grieve you much,” said Menie gently; “only I beg you to give
me your countenance when I see Randall--Mr Home. I want you to be as my
mother might have been in other circumstances; but I will not trouble
you much, aunt--I will not trouble you.”
Miss Annie could not stop her tears; she was very timid and afraid,
sobbing helplessly. “What will I do? what can I do? Oh, Menie, love, you
will make it up to-morrow;” for poor Miss Annie knew no way of
conquering grief except by flying out of its sight.
Menie led her back to the house tenderly. Menie had never known before
this necessity of becoming comforter, when she had so much need to be
comforted. It was best for her--it gave her all the greater command over
her own heart.
And to hear poor innocent July, in her own young unclouded joy--to hear
her unsuspicious mother at their breakfast-table--to have Randall’s name
cross her now and then like a sudden blow--Randall, Randall;--Menie knew
nothing of all these depths, nor how such sorrows come in battalions;
so, one by one, her inexperienced heart gained acquaintance with them
now,--gained acquaintance with that sorest of human truths, that it is
possible to love and to condemn--possible to part, and know that parting
is the best--yet withal to cling and cling, and hold, with the saddest
gripe of tenderness, the heart from which you part. Poor Menie! they
said she looked very dark and heavy; that last night’s exertions had
wearied her--it was very true.
Miss Annie sent a message that she was not well, and would breakfast in
her own room. In the forenoon, when she came down stairs again, even
Menie was startled at the change. Miss Annie’s ringlets were smoothed
out and braided on her poor thin cheek--braided elaborately with a care
and study worthy of something more important; her step tottered a
little: when any one spoke to her, a little gush of tears came to her
eyes; but, notwithstanding, there was a solemnity and importance in the
hush of Miss Annie’s manner, which no one had ever seen in her before.
Half-a dozen times that day she asked in a startling whisper, “Menie,
when is he to come?” Poor Menie, sick at heart, could scarcely bear this
slow prolonging of her pain.