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.