“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?”