“No one can doubt that Randall is unhappy; but Randall is not a humble
man, Mrs Laurie; he will not woo and plead and supplicate, I am afraid;
he will honour only those who honour him, and never obtrude his love
where he thinks there is no response. You know them both--could anything
be done?”
Alas! good Johnnie Lithgow, we are all proud. This is not the wisest
line of attack, in the circumstances. Mrs Laurie sits gravely by the
fireside to listen. Mrs Laurie was Mrs Laurie before Randall Home was
born. It is wonderful how she recollects this; and, recollecting, it is
not difficult to see which of the two, in the opinion of Menie’s mother,
has the best right to stand on their dignity.
“I cannot advise,” said Mrs Laurie somewhat coldly. “Menie has made no
explanation to me. Mr Home has not addressed me at all on the subject. I
am sorry I cannot suggest anything--especially when I have to take into
consideration the lofty ideas of your friend.”
It was a little bitter this. Lithgow felt himself chilled by it, and she
saw it herself immediately; but Mrs Laurie said no word of atonement,
till a sudden recollection of Menie’s strangely altered and sobered fate
broke upon her. Her countenance changed--her voice softened.
“I would be glad to do anything,” she said, with a slight faltering. “To
make Menie happy, I could accept any sacrifice. I will see--I will try.
No,” she continued, after a considerable pause, “I was right after
all--your friend is what you call him. My Menie has a very high spirit,
and in this matter is not to be controlled by me. They must be left to
themselves--it is the wisest way.”
Lithgow made no answer. Mrs Laurie sank into silence and thought. As
they sat opposite to each other by the little fireplace, the young man’s
eye wandered over the room. His own birthplace and home was such another
cottage as this; and Lithgow’s mother, with her homely gown and check
apron--her constant occupation about the house--her peasant tastes and
looks and habits--was suitable and homogeneous to the earthen floor and
rude hearth of the cottars’ only room. But very strangely out of place
was Menie’s easel--Menie’s desk--Mrs Laurie’s delicate basket of
work--her easy-chair and covered table; strangely out of place, but not
ungracefully--bearing, wherever they might be, a natural seemliness and
fitness of their own. And if a rapid cloud of offence--a vapour of pride
and resentment, might glide over Mrs Laurie’s brow, it was never shaded
by so much as a momentary shame. As undisturbed in her household dignity
as at her most prosperous time, she received her visitor in the
cot-house, nor ever dreamt she had cause to be ashamed of such an
evidence of her diminished fortunes.
But Lithgow’s thoughts were full of Randall; he was not willing to give
up his attempt to reconcile them. “Randall is working very hard,” said
his generous fellow-craftsman. “I think his second success will lift him
above all thought of hazard. He does his genius wrong by such
unnecessary caution; he could not produce a commonplace thing if he
would.”
“And you, Mr Lithgow”--Mrs Laurie’s heart warmed to him, plebeian though
he was.
“I do my day’s work,” said the young man, happily, “thanking God that it
is very sufficient for the needs of the day; but between Randall and
myself there is no comparison. I deal with common topics, common
manners, common events, like any other labouring man. But Randall is an
artist of the loftiest class. What he does is for generations to come,
no less than for to-day.”
This enthusiasm threw a flush upon his face. As it receded, gradually
fading from his forehead, a quick footstep went away from the cottage
threshold. Menie Laurie had paused to listen whose the voice was before
she entered, and, pausing, had heard all he had to say.
The happy golden purple of the sunset has melted from Criffel and his
brother hills; but there is a pale light about all the east, whither
Menie Laurie’s face is turned as she leaves the cottage door. From her
rapid step, you would fancy she was going somewhere. Where will she go?
Nowhither, poor heart--only into the night a little--into the silence.
It would not be possible to sit still in that noiseless house, by that
lonely fireside, with such a tumult and commotion in this loud throbbing
heart--forcing up its rapid cadence into the ears that thrill with
sympathetic pulses--leaping to the very lips that grow so parched and
faint. Oh! for the din of streets, of storms, the violence of crowds and
noise of life--anything to drown this greater violence, these strong
perpetual throbs that beat upon the brain like hailstones--anything to
deaden this.
But all the air remains so still--so still; not a sound upon the silent
road, but the heart and the footsteps, so rapid and irregular, which
keep each other time. But by-and-by, as Menie goes upon her aimless way,
another sound does break the silence--voices in the air--the sound of
wheels and of a horse’s feet. Listen, Menie--voices in the air!
But Menie will not listen--does not believe there are voices in the
world which could wake her interest now--and so, unconsciously, looks up
as this vehicle dashes past--looks up, to receive--what? The haughty
salutation--uncovered brow and bending head, of Randall Home.
She would fain have caught at the hedge for a support; but he might look
back and see her, and Menie hurried on. She had seen him; they had
looked again into each other’s eyes. “I never said I was indifferent,”
sobbed Menie to herself, and, in spite of herself, her voice took a
shriller tone of passion--her tears came upon her in an agony. “I never
said I was indifferent; it would have been a lie.”
Hush!--be calm. It is safe to sit down by the roadside on this turf,
which is unsullied by the dust of these passing wheels; safe to sit down
and let the flood have vent, once and never more. And the soft
whispering air comes stealing about Menie, with all its balmy gentle
touches, like a troop of fairy comforters; and the darkness comes down
with gracious speed to hide her as she crouches, with her head upon her
hands, overcome and mastered;--once, and never more.
Now it is night. Yonder the lights are glimmering faintly in the cottage
windows of the Brigend. Far away above the rest shines a little speck of
light from the high window of Burnside, where once was Menie Laurie’s
chamber--her land of meditation, her sanctuary of dreams. The wind
rustles among the firs--the ash-trees hold up their bare white arms
towards the heavens, waiting till this sweet star, lingering at the
entrance of their arch, shall lead her followers through, like children
in their dance. And--hush!--suddenly, like a bird new awaked, the burn
throws out its voice upon the air, something sad. The passion is
overpast. Look up, Menie Laurie; you are not among strangers. The hills
and the heavens stretch out arms to embrace you; the calm of this great
night, God’s minister, comes to your heart. Other thoughts--and noble
ones--stretch out helping hands to you like angels. Rise up; many a hope
remains in the world, though this one be gone for ever.
And Menie, rising, returns upon her way--away from Burnside, her old
beloved home, and, going, questions with herself if aught is changed
since she made the bitter and painful decision which in her heart she
thought it right to make. Nothing is changed--the severance has been
made--the shock is over. At first we knew it would be very hard; at
first we thought of nothing but despair. We never took into our
calculation the oft-returning memories--the stubborn love, that will not
be slain at a blow; and this it is that has mastered mind, and heart,
and resolution now.
There is no one else upon the road. The night, and the hills, and Menie
Laurie, look up through the silence to heaven--and no one knows the
conflict that is waging--none is here with human voice or hand to help
the struggle. Fought and won--lie still in her religious breast, oh
heart! Fittest way to win your quiet back again, Menie Laurie has laid
you down--come good or evil, come peace or contest--laid you down once
for all at the feet of God.