Randall took her hand tenderly into his own, “for ever and for ever.” It was the words of their troth-plight.
“I will keep it in my heart,” said poor Menie. “I will never change in that, but keep it night and day in my heart. Randall, we are far apart already. I have a little world you do not choose to share: you are entering a greater world, where I can never have any place. God speed you, and God go with you, Randall Home. You will be a great man: you will prosper and increase; and what would you do with poor Southland Menie, who cannot help yon in your race? Randall, we will be good friends: we will part now, and say farewell.”
Abrupt as her speech was Menie’s manner of speaking. She had to hurry over these disjointed words, lest her sobs should overtake and choke her utterance ere they were done.
Randall shook his head with displeased impatience. “This is mere folly, Menie. What does it mean? Cannot you tell me simply and frankly what is the matter, without such a preface as this? But indeed I know very well what it means. It means that I am to yield something—to undertake something—to reconcile myself to some necessity or other, distasteful to me. But why commence so tragically?—the threat should come at the end, not at the beginning.”
“I make no threat,” said Menie, growing colder and colder, more and more upright and rigid; “I mean to say nothing that can make you angry. Already I have been very unhappy. I dare not venture, with our changed fortunes, to make a life-long trial—I dare not.”
“Your changed fortunes!” interrupted Randall. “Are your fortunes to-day different from what they were yesterday?”
Menie paused. “It is only a very poor pride which would conceal it from you,” she said at length. “Yes, they are different. Yesterday we had enough for all we needed—to-day we have not anything. You will see how entirely our circumstances are changed; and I hope you will see too, Randall, without giving either of us the pain of mentioning them, all the reasons which make it prudent for us, without prolonging the conflict longer, to say good-by. Good-by; I can ask nothing of you but to forget me, Randall.”
And Menie held out her hand, but could not lift her eyes. Her voice had sunk very low, and a slight shiver of extreme self-constraint passed over her—her head drooped lower and lower on her breast—her fingers played vacantly with the glistening leaves; and when he did not take it, her hand gradually dropped and fell by her side.
There was a moment’s silence—no answer—no response—no remonstrance. Perhaps, after all, the poor perverse heart had hoped to be overwhelmed with love which would take no denial: as it was, standing before him motionless, a great faintness came upon Menie. She could vaguely see the path at her feet, the trees on either hand. “I had better go, then,” she said, very low and softly; and the light had faded suddenly upon Menie’s sight into a strange ringing twilight, full of floating motes and darkness—and those few paces across the lawn filled all her mind like a life-journey, so full of difficulty they seemed, so weak was she.
Go quickly, Menie—quickly, ere those growing shadows darken into a blind unguided night—swiftly, ere these faltering feet grow powerless, and refuse to obey the imperative eager will. To reach home—to reach home—home, such a one as it is, lies only half-a-dozen steps away; press forward, Menie—are those years or hours that pass in the journey? But the hiding-place and shelter is almost gained.