“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.
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.