“Aunt, he has come.”
No one knows; July is out on a ramble in this pleasant heath, where she
cannot lose herself; Mrs Laurie has gone out for some private errands of
her own. In her first day, Menie has managed well. True, they all know
that Menie has been wearied last night; that her eye looks dull and
heavy; that her cheek has lost its slight bloom of colour; that she says
something of a headache; but nobody knows that headache has come to be
with Menie Laurie, as with many another, only a softer word for
heartache--no one suspects that the quiet heart, which feared no evil
when this spring began, is now a battle-ground and field of contest, and
that sometimes, when she sits quiet in outward seeming, she could leap
up with a start and scream, and feels as if madness would come to her
underneath their unsuspicious eyes.
“Aunt, he has come.”
Miss Annie Laurie is very nervous; she has to be supported on Menie’s
arm as they go down stairs. “You will make it all up, Menie; yes, my
darling;” but Miss Annie’s head nods spasmodically, and there is a
terrified troubled expression about her face, which looks so meagre in
its outline under that braided hair.
Slightly disturbed, something haughty, rather wondering what Menie has
got to say for herself, Randall sits waiting in the drawing-room. It is
no small surprise to him to see Miss Annie--especially to see her so
moved and nervous; and Randall restrains, with visible displeasure, the
words which rose to his lip, on Menie’s entrance, and coldly makes his
bow to the lady of the house.
“My dear Mr Home, I am very much grieved; I hope you are ready to make
it all up,” murmurs Miss Annie; but she trembles so much that it is not
easy to hear what she says, except the last words, which flush Randall’s
cheek with a sudden disdainful anger. A lovers’ quarrel!--that he should
be fancied capable of this.
“My aunt has come with me,” said Menie steadily, “to give the weight of
her presence to what I say. Randall, I do not pretend that my own
feelings are changed, or that I have ceased to care for you. I do not
need to seem to quarrel, or to call you by a less familiar name. We
know the reason, both of us; there is no use for discussing it--and I
have come to have it mutually understood that our engagement is broken.
We will go away very soon. I came to say good-by.”
Before she concluded, Menie had bent her head, and cast down her
wavering eyes upon Miss Annie’s hand, which she held firmly in her own.
Her voice was very low, her words quick and hurried; she stood beside
Miss Annie’s chair, holding fast, and twining in her own Miss Annie’s
nervous fingers; but she did not venture to look up to meet Randall’s
eyes.
“What does this mean? it is mere trifling, Menie,” said Randall
impatiently. “You hear a gossip’s story of something I said; true or
false, it did not affect you--it had no bearing on you; you know very
well that nothing has happened to make you less precious to me--that
nothing can happen which will ever change my heart. Menie, this is the
second time; is this the conduct I have a right to expect from you? Deal
with me frankly; I have a title to it. What do you mean?”
“My darling, he will make it up,” said Miss Annie, with a little
overflow of tears.
But Menie was very steady--so strange, so strange--she grew into a
startling acquaintance with herself in these few hours. Who could have
thought there were so many passionate impulses in Menie Laurie’s quiet
heart?
“We will not discuss it, Randall,” she said again; “let us simply
conclude that it is best for both of us to withdraw. Perhaps you will be
better content if I speak more strongly,” she continued, with a little
trembling vehemence, born of her weakness, “if I say it is
impossible--impossible--you understand the word--to restore the state of
mind, the hope, the trust, and confidence that are past. No--let us have
no explanation--I cannot bear it, Randall. Do we not understand each
other already? Nothing but parting is possible for us--for me. I think I
am saying what I mean to say--good-by.”
“Look at me, Menie.”
It is hard to do it--hard to lift up those eyes, so full of tears--hard
to see his lips quiver--hard to see the love in his face; but Menie’s
eyes fall when they have endured this momentary ordeal; and again she
holds out her hand and says, “Good-by.”
“Good-by--I answer you,” said Randall, wringing her hand, and throwing
it out of his grasp. “Good-by--you are disloyal, Menie, disloyal to
Nature and to me; some time you will remember this; now I bid you
farewell.”
Something crossed her like an angry breath--something rang in her ears,
confused and echoing like the first drops of a thunder-shower; and Menie
can see nothing in all the world but Miss Annie weeping upon her hand,
and, like a culprit, steals away--steals away, not knowing where she
goes--desolate, guilty, forsaken, feeling as if she had done some
grievous wrong, and was for ever shut out from peace or comfort in this
weary world.
Yes--there is no one to see you. Lie down upon the ground, Menie
Laurie--down, down, where you can be no lower, and cover your eyes from
the cheerful light. How they pour upon you, these dreadful doubts and
suspicions of yourself!--wisely--wisely--what should make it wise, this
thing you have done? You yourself have little wisdom, and you took no
counsel. If it was not wise, what then?--it is done, and there is
nothing for it now but to be content.