"Understand me," said the old man with deliberate distinctness, looking full at Meg. "It is a business proposal. I still maintain my point. I do not want gratitude. If I accept your services, it is on the condition that you will accept a remuneration."
Meg colored. For a moment she knit her brows, then she said with effort, "I shall accept the chance of being of service to you under any condition, sir, that you may name."
"So be it, then," said the baronet.
At a sign from him Meg sat down and took up the Times. "Where shall I begin, sir?" she asked.
"With the first leader, if you please," he replied with an inclination of the head, crossing his knees, and composing himself to listen.
Meg read, mastering her nervousness with a strong effort of will. Once or twice she looked up and caught his eyes fixed upon her, with that new curiosity in their glance that seemed to humanize their expression.
After she had read the Times, the political leaders of the Standard, and selections from its foreign correspondence under Sir Malcolm's directions, a third paper remained—the local organ apparently—the Greywolds Mercury. At the murmured injunction of her auditor, "The leader, if you please," Meg once more set upon her task.
The article handled a book upon the rights of property which had lately appeared and was making a stir. As Meg read the opening paragraph her voice faltered and hesitated. She was reading a fierce attack upon Sir Malcolm Loftdale.
She looked up distressed and flurried. The old man set his jaw. "Go on," he said, and Meg continued. She could scarcely follow the drift of what she read for sympathy with the pain she was inflicting upon her benefactor. She confusedly gathered that Sir Malcolm had raised rents in order to get rid of certain tenants on his estate; that the compensation he gave his ejected cottagers might appear to justify the proceeding, which nevertheless remained in the eyes of the writer of the article an infamous cruelty.
"I think this will suffice for to-day, Miss Beecham," said the baronet, when she had read to the end.
She rose as he spoke. She noticed he looked paler. "Is there no letter, sir, that I can write for you?" asked Meg.
"None this morning, I thank you," he replied with that fine air of dismissal which awed Meg. He preceded her to the door, and held it open for her to pass out.
Morning after morning Meg appeared at her post. She was punctual. As the clock struck ten her knock sounded at the library door, and she glided in. The greeting between her employer and herself was always the same—a formal and courtly bow from him, an inclination of the head and low "Good morning, sir," from her. Then she would begin to read. She knew the order in which he liked to listen to the contents of the various journals. Sometimes also Meg remained to write letters. She had rebelled at first against the business contract her benefactor had proposed to her; she liked it well enough now that she had entered upon it. The touch of frigidity it brought into the more emotional relationship of gratitude with which she regarded him imparted definiteness to their intercourse. The somewhat elaborate courtesy with which he treated her lent a charm to service.
On Wednesday and Saturday the Greywolds Mercury appeared among the papers to be read. Its columns usually contained an attack, covert or personal, against Sir Malcolm Loftdale. Sometimes he was mentioned by name; sometimes he was alluded to in pointed and unmistakable terms as "a large landed proprietor living in unsympathetic isolation." In his dealings toward his tenants he was represented as a tyrant, not so much actively as passively; and "passive injustice," the writer maintained, "is worse than active, for it leaves no hope behind."
Meg felt a flame of indignant protest rising against this persistent abuse. She would have skipped the censure so relentlessly pursuing the old man, who listened in silence with jaw set and lips compressed; but he always detected the attempt, and bade her "go on" in a voice so stern that its tone stopped the reluctant quaver in hers. Meg knew that her auditor, who never offered a word of remonstrance or vouchsafed an exclamation as she read, suffered from these scathing attacks. He looked paler and feebler, she thought, during the day, and wandered with more piteous aimlessness about the park.
One hot Wednesday afternoon she came upon him asleep in a garden chair in the sunshine. The feebleness of his aspect strangely appealed to Meg. He looked so frail and pale. The pride of his appearance was relaxed. The colorless features, the delicate hands loosely crossed, might have been modeled in wax. In the immobility of sleep the face had a tragic cast. Meg thought it looked like that of one dead, who in life had suffered beyond the ordinary lot of man. Pity and indignation that one so old and stricken should be made to suffer stirred Meg's heart. For a moment she looked upon her benefactor, and then she turned away with moistened eyes.
Meg was no dreamer. She was of an active nature. As she walked feverishly about the grounds she found herself remonstrating in imagination with this venomous persecutor of one who had cast a spell of interest over her, and to whom she owed so much. She sometimes stopped in her walk to complete some angry appeal. Suddenly a daring thought arose in her mind. She would call upon this man, and in the strength of a just cause she would meet him face to face without anger, and tell him the injury he was doing to an old man's life. Would she dare to do it? She did not know the editor's name, but she had noticed that letters published in the paper were simply addressed to him in his official capacity. She knew where to find the office of the Greywolds Mercury. She had seen it one day that she had had occasion to visit the market town two miles distant. After the first flash of courage her spirit failed as she approached the gate. She hesitated. She thought of that newspaper in the library, and went back and read the article again. Again her indignation blazed up. Holding the paper in her hand she set out on her mission. As she walked she read over portions of the article to keep her zeal warm. Thus she proceeded on her way, filled with her theme, yet faltering.
She reached the town, and turned into the High Street where the office stood. She easily recognized it by the posters outside and the advertisements in the windows. Meg entered the shabby interior with a desperate effort, and while trembling, yet full of moral courage, impelled to act by what seemed to be a duty. A clerk sat at a desk; a small boy was posting and rolling up the papers. It was the dingiest corner from which a thunderbolt could be launched.
"I want to see the editor," she said brusquely.
"He is busy, miss," answered the clerk, surveying her slowly over his spectacles.
"I want to see him on important business," said Meg determinedly, trying to look unabashed.
"What name shall I say?" asked the clerk.
"Miss Beecham; but he will not know me," replied Meg.
The clerk disappeared, and returned after a moment to say the editor would be glad to see the lady.
They climbed a narrow, dusty flight of stairs that led to a glass door. It was opened by her guide, who ushered her into a room that impressed her as a medley of papers and books. A man, who had been sitting before a large table, rose at her entrance. She perceived that he was tall and broad-shouldered, that his countenance was energetic and expressive, and his glance brilliant. The lower part of his face was hidden by a reddish beard; the closely-cropped hair was of a darker and less ruddy hue. He bowed to her.
"Are you the editor of the Greywolds Mercury?" she asked, making another desperate effort to conquer her shyness.
"I am," he answered.
"If anything appears in the paper that is unjust it is to you one must appeal?"
"Certainly. I hope nothing of this kind has appeared," he answered. His tone was curt, his voice deep and not inharmonious.
"It is because something unjust has appeared, and has been repeated, that I have called upon you," said Meg.
"Indeed! Would you tell me the particulars? Pray, sit down," said the editor. If his manner had a certain brusquerie it was that of self-possession; it was characteristic of a man accustomed to speak to business men, and who could listen as well as talk.
He was dressed with a certain negligence, but with great neatness. Meg noticed, she knew not why, his large, well-shaped hand.
"There have been a number of articles upon Sir Malcolm Loftdale," began Meg.
The editor acknowledged the truth of this statement by an inclination of the head.
"I know Sir Malcolm well. I am staying at Greywolds Manor. I am taking the place of his secretary," said Meg, determinedly ignoring the shyness that, without chilling her indignation, yet threatened to overcome her under the scrutinizing glance of the editor. "I am under great obligations to Sir Malcolm, I owe him everything."
The editor bowed his head, but did not break the silence. He appeared to be waiting for more cogent reasons to be advanced. Meg felt to a certain degree baffled by his manner.
"You do not know how good he is," she resumed with energy, "and you represent him as unjust and tyrannical."
"You must remember the criticisms are upon Sir Malcolm in his public capacity of landlord and magistrate. They do not apply to him as a private individual," said the editor.
Meg made a movement as if repudiating this line of argument.
"A man cannot be one thing in his public capacity and another in his private relationship," she said quickly.
"I am afraid he can," answered the editor, with a smile distantly brightening his glance.
"I cannot believe it," said Meg with energy. "He is old and feeble. It is cruel to hurt him, and I know those attacks hurts him. He never says a word. He has never mentioned the subject to me. I watch him as I read aloud to him, and I think they will kill him."
"I think you exaggerate their importance," said the editor, averting his glance in which Meg thought she detected a sparkle of amusement. After a moment he resumed with seriousness. "You must understand me. I do not like to hurt your feelings, but this is a matter of principle with me. To put it plainly, Sir Malcolm Loftdale is a bad landlord, and in a public sense a bad man."
Meg gave an exclamation. "I do not believe it; I do not accept this statement. You misjudge him, You do not know him as I know him. He leads a lonely life and perhaps does not know."
"Exactly! That is one of the reasons that make him a bad landlord. He ignores the needs of his tenants by indulging his selfish love of loneliness, he becomes utterly unsympathetic. He cares nothing for the laborers who look to him for securing them the commonest rights, more decent dwellings, fair rents. And yet what wonder," continued the editor, turning his head away and speaking as if to himself, "that he should not care for them, when he did not care for his own son."
Meg thought of the picture with its face turned to the wall. She felt she touched a boundary that lay beyond her self-imposed task, and she rose.
"I see that I am making no way," she said in hurt accents. "I cannot influence you to abandon the cruel course you seem determined to pursue. Nothing remains for me to do but to apologize for having made the attempt, and to go."
"Indeed," said the editor, rising also, "I am sorry I should have given this wrong impression of the interest with which I have listened to your arguments in favor of Sir Malcolm Loftdale, and of your appeal against the censure pronounced upon him in the Greywolds Mercury. But, believe me, there are many upon his estate who daily talk of him more bitterly than I do; many who have been compelled to leave and to face ruin in already over-crowded cities after accepting his offer of compensation, which was a hard bargain driven on his side alone. You do not know, perhaps, the merits of the case against him. He turns his tenants out, if they are not punctual with their rents as soon as the law allows. In his selfish desire for isolation he allows no cottages to be built on his extensive estates. He has checked innocent amusements; barred the right of way. These sufferers represent the people. I shall not offend you by stating what I could of the class to which Sir Malcolm belongs. You see I have argued and discussed the matter fairly with you," continued the editor, checking the warmth of his tone.
"I cannot judge the case as you state it," said Meg with a pained frown. "I am sure it is one-sided." Then with gathering energy she went on: "Cannot you conceive that your continued persecution may drive him to worse acts? It is enough to make him shun his neighbors to be thus always held up to them as cruel and exacting. It is enough to make him wish to remove them from his sight when he knows that they are taught to revile him. I know that he is good. Take my case. I owe him everything; yet I have no claim upon him. Doubtless mine is not an isolated case. He may be helping many others in an obscure way. Noble natures shrink from publicity. I know he shrinks from being thanked. He will not allow me to thank him. It almost led to a misunderstanding between us when I tried to express to him my gratitude. You talk of his getting rid of tenants after giving them compensation. What is that suffering compared to the one you inflict upon him by these words that may sting to death?"
Meg's defense of her guardian was not logical, but it was of the heart, and womanly. She ignored all her antagonist's arguments, and saw everything colored by her emotions of the moment. The editor looked at her with a sort of half-amused amazement. Her vehemence was not to be answered by balanced sentences or editorial dignity.
"You are so good an advocate," he said, smiling, "that you almost incline me to be a convert."
"I wish I could convert you to believe in his goodness—to me, and perhaps to many others," said Meg, with the constraint of shy awkwardness upon her, as she accepted the homage of his softened mood.
"His kindness to you is all that I care for," said the editor, gallantly.
"Will you promise me not to write any more articles against him?" asked Meg, with the childlike almost primitive directness that occasionally distinguished her speech when greatly in earnest.
"I promise to remember your advocacy whenever I begin to write, or to think of Sir Malcolm Loftdale," answered the editor.
"You promise it?" repeated Meg.
"I promise it," said the editor.
After a pause of awkward hesitation Meg bowed and turned away. The editor held open the door for her, and she passed out of the dingy office.
As Meg walked home she was conscious of a certain light-heartedness. The interview had been, on the whole, antagonistic; yet the impression it left on her mind was pleasant. The editor was a stranger, and yet he almost seemed to her a friend. She could not account for a sense of trustfulness with which she felt inclined to regard him. There was nothing to justify this confidence, yet the impression remained.
The impression, for which she could give no reason, that this stranger was a friend remained with Meg. When on the following Wednesday she recognized the Greywolds Mercury lying among the morning newspapers, she looked at its pages with confidence.
She read the Times abstractedly, eager to get to the local organ. Her voice lost its intelligent enunciation. Sir Malcolm, with courteous apologies for what might be, he owned, his lack of attention, asked on two occasions for a paragraph to be read over again, the sense of which he had not gathered. Meg, the second time, recognized the implied rebuke, and compelled herself to concentrate her mind upon her task.
When the turn of the Greywolds Mercury came she took it up deliberately, and slowly unfolded its pages. She turned to the leader; she glanced over it; the print swam before her eyes. The article was an onslaught upon Sir Malcolm. Last week he had passed a hard sentence upon a poacher caught red-handed in his preserves, and this severity had roused the editor's ire. Meg dropped the paper with an exclamation, her heart beat with indignation and with an exaggerated sense of disappointment.
"What is it, Miss Beecham?" asked Sir Malcolm.
"I cannot read it!" replied Meg unsteadily.
"I suppose it is one of those low-bred, personal attacks upon myself. Pray do not let it discompose you, Miss Beecham," said Sir Malcolm with formal coldness. "I assure you it affects me as little as would the barking of an ill-bred puppy."
As Meg still hesitated he added, after a moment's pause, with impassible politeness, "I must beg you, Miss Beecham, to be so good as to read this article aloud."
The formality of the tone, into which Sir Malcolm had infused a touch of command, reminded Meg that he was her employer, and she proceeded. She went steadily on to the end. The article seemed to her to be marked by increased virulence. She could not judge the merits of the case that formed the subject of the editor's attack. She did not care to judge them. These were outside the point.
The concluding phrases ran: "There is a justice that keeps within the letter of the law, and ignores every suggestion of compassion and fellow-feeling for other human beings. But this justice fails in severity before that which deals out punishment for breaking the edicts contained in the code of so-called social honor. The modern Brutus would immolate not the unhappy peasant only, to whom belong no human rights, he would immolate his own son, if he conspired to rebel against the sacred commandments contained in that code."
Meg was startled by a low exclamation. She looked up. Sir Malcolm was lying back in his chair, his eyes closed, his countenance ashen and drawn.
As she paused he opened his eyes and looked round; his expression was one of mental anguish.
"Thank you," he said, with a ghastly attempt to assume that fine air of dismissal he knew so well how to put on, "that will suffice for to-day."
"May I not do something more for you, sir?" asked Meg, affected by his tone and manner.
"Thank you, I am much obliged," he replied, turning away and taking up a book.
Meg noticed that his hand trembled. She remembered the editor's words. "He was not good to his son."
Was it for this that the reckless allusion to a father's condemnation of a son to death in the name of justice had hit him so hard?
She dared no longer intrude upon the presence of that sorrow or remorse, and left the room. What did it all mean? She went to the great dining-room and stood before the picture with its face turned to the wall. The disgrace appealed to her with tragic piteousness; and the father's unforgiveness acted upon her like a chill repulse.
The house seemed full of an unforgiven pain; the sense of it oppressed Meg, and she wandered out into the amity of the woodland roads. As she walked down a narrow path she became aware of a man approaching toward her from the opposite direction, with a long stride and an absorbed mien. She recognized the editor.
The indignation that had been thrust back by the thought of that unknown sorrow blazed forth anew. It flamed on her cheek and burned in her eyes. As the editor came near he met her glance and removed his hat; but Meg, taking no notice of his salute, passed on, like a little goddess clothed in the panoply of her wrath.
As she returned home by another way she was surprised, and a little offended, to see the editor loitering near the gates of the park. She was preparing to cut him once more, when he advanced resolutely toward her.
"May I say a few words to you, Miss Beecham, with reference to the article that appeared in this morning's Mercury?"
"I would prefer not," replied Meg curtly.
"I feel an explanation is due. I would like to justify myself," he said, keeping pace with her as she walked on with her face turned from him.
"I would rather not approach the subject. No explanation is possible," replied Meg coldly.
"I think you are mistaken in saying that. Will you give me the opportunity I ask?"
"I prefer not," repeated Meg, stopping short and now turning round full upon him. "We approach this subject from such totally different standpoints, I feel very seriously about it. You gave your promise lightly, and as lightly broke it. I asked it after much hesitation and reluctance. To address a stranger, to call upon him as I did upon you, was a strong measure to take—a reckless one, some might say. I knew it, I felt it. I put myself into a false position—I exposed myself to the insult of being regarded as one to whom a promise means no bond."
"Not so. That is unjust. Allow me to say you are harsh beyond my deserts," replied the editor, unconsciously raising his voice. Checking himself he resumed more gently: "You will admit that the case of the poacher was entirely different. It was so strong, so startling."
"It was not so much against the matter as against the manner of your attack upon Sir Malcolm Loftdale that I appealed, and that you promised to alter," said Meg, unsoftened.
"I was strongly moved as I wrote," said the editor, who, somewhat to his surprise, found himself pleading before this young girl with eager self-justification. "The severity of the sentence passed upon the unhappy man—I know him and his poor wife—seemed to me so out of all proportion to the offense committed that I forgot everything else. It was only when I looked over the article in print that I realized how the tone of it might hurt you."
"How it might hurt him! It did hurt him! If it is a satisfaction to you to know it, the blow struck home. That allusion to the modern Brutus had its full effect. It went to his heart!" said Meg passionately, with flaming eyes.
"I will not pretend to say, Miss Beecham, except for the apparent neglect of my promise to you, that I would regret the effect of my words upon Sir Malcolm. By his coldness and harshness he drove his son to a piteous death."
"I know nothing of the story to which you allude; and I do not wish to know it. I will not hear it from the lips of an enemy of Sir Malcolm Loftdale," said Meg almost fiercely. "What I do know is, that if it is remorse or sorrow that darkens his old age, it is altogether too sacred a theme to be dragged into print and made the subject of a newspaper attack."
The editor was silent a moment, then he said: "You are right."
The gravity of his tone softened Meg; she hesitated a moment, then inclining her head she moved away.
"I wish you would retract what you said just now concerning your visit to my office," the editor began somewhat blunderingly—"that it was a reckless step—that you consider that it justified me in lightly promising and lightly breaking my pledge."
"You must acknowledge, then, that you forgot all that I said," replied Meg with the childlike bluntness which characterized her.
"Forgive me, and I will never forget again," he replied. "Will you not let me discuss the case of the poacher with you—of the other wrongs that exist—will you help me to advocate the rights of the tenants and laborers without wounding the landlord?"
"I will never discuss with you again," said Meg hastily; and with a quick bow she left him and passed within the gates.
As she went up the avenue she caught sight of Sir Malcolm wandering up and down the yew-tree walk. He saw her and came forward to meet her. The emotion of the morning still left its traces upon his features. He held a letter.
"I have heard from my late secretary," he said. "He writes from London. He will be back in a few days."
"Then, sir, I suppose I must resign my post," said Meg in a pained voice. "I have been happy in serving you."
"You seem to think that all the use you are to me is to serve me, read to me, work for me. Can you conceive yourself of no other use?" said Sir Malcolm in gentler tones than she had ever heard him speak.
"Of what other use can I be, sir, to you?"
"The use of bringing pleasure to me by your simple presence in my house," he said, taking her hand.
"I would be unhappy if I felt myself an idle dependant upon you, sir," Meg said, shy pride giving a touch of awkwardness to her attitude and an embarrassed tone to her voice.
"Were you fond of your task?" he asked.
"I liked it, sir," she replied.
"Then I will write to Mr. Robinson that he may stay where he is. Do not think that I shall be inconsiderate," he went on as she looked up anxiously. "I know that his wish is to find a situation in London. I can get him just the post he desires. Have an easy conscience about him. If you will, indeed, stay to be an old man's eyesight and his right hand, I will be grateful to you. I should be lonely now without you. Will you stay with me, Meg?"
"I will stay with you, sir, till you send me away," said Meg with zeal; and to her surprise she found herself in tears, moved to the heart at the old man's tone of unexpected tenderness.
From that day a subdued tone of affectionate confidence entered into the relations between Meg and her guardian. Sir Malcolm did not emerge from the seclusion in which he lived so much as from his cold and distant manner. He still took his meals alone, he spent his evenings in solitude, he still wandered alone in the park; but his taciturnity was less marked. He often joined Meg in the grounds, and sometimes they drove out together into the surrounding country.
While continuing to treat her with that dignified courtesy that had a charm for Meg, he assumed toward her a gentle familiarity which kept up a reminder of that unexpected tenderness which had so profoundly moved her on the day when he asked her to stay with him. It was the only time she had seen him relax his stateliness of manner. Meg never knew him to depart from a lofty composure of demeanor. He never gave way to irritability; but if a servant was neglectful of orders, memorable severity visited this breach of duty. Toward her Sir Malcolm assumed a splendid deference. The flowers he plucked for her he presented with a suggestion of the superb homage a regent might give to a child-queen. As he walked and talked with her his conversation showed an appreciation of rustic beauty, and gave evidence of intellectual culture. He told her the names of the trees; he related anecdotes of country life and manners, of illustrious statesmen and persons of note whom he had known; he sometimes flavored his conversation with quotations from the works of classic authors. Sir Malcolm acknowledged, with that fine air which was not one of boasting, still less one of apology, that he knew nothing of contemporary literature outside that of the newspapers—his literary studies terminated with that of the wits of Queen Anne's reign. He spoke with an easy choice of words that gave a balanced elevation to his language. This gentler mood dispelled the fear Meg had felt in his presence, and the fascination grew that he exercised over her. The nobility, the dignity, the sternness of the old man's appearance—the recognition that he was always at his best with her, who was a dependant, added to the spell he exercised over her. The gentle and subtle artificiality—perhaps it were better to say the art—of his manners influenced those of Meg, and they acquired by contact with him an added grace of reserve and composure.
The attacks in the Mercury had ceased. Meg attributed Sir Malcolm's brighter mood to their cessation. Week after week elapsed, and the local print, while advocating as forcibly as before the right of the laboring classes to happier conditions brought into their lives, abstained from all personal or covert allusions to Sir Malcolm Loftdale. Meg felt grateful. The editor had done this for her, and the desire grew upon her to thank him.
One afternoon, as she walked about the grounds, she began timidly to draw the baronet's attention to the softened tone of the Greywolds Mercury.
Sir Malcolm reared his head, and turning upon her a countenance the features of which seemed to stand out with added definiteness, he said with haughty distinctness: "I have noticed nothing. What an insolent radical thinks fit to say or not to say, matters nothing to me. I utterly ignore it. I regard it as I would regard the advocacy of ruffianism by a member of the criminal classes."
"The attacks pained me," began Meg with regretful hesitation, struggling to master her timidity.
"I know it," replied Sir Malcolm; "and I thank you for your kind heartedness. It was unnecessary pain that you felt. Believe me, the whole affair was unworthy of your consideration. Disdain is the only attitude to assume toward such conduct. No means are too contemptible for a low-born demagogue to adopt for the attainment of his aims."
"But, do you not admit, sir," said Meg with a slight tremor in her deep tones, "that liberalism, if mistaken, yet has its principles?"
"Principles!" repeated Sir Malcolm with scornful clearness. "The burglar, doubtless, has his principles when he picks my lock, and is silent lest he might awake the house. Never mention this man or his paper again."
He left her; and Meg, with a shadow over her face, walked slowly away. She thought there was a certain injustice in not recognizing the altered tone of the newspaper, and the wish came to her more strongly to thank the editor for the deference he had paid to her request.
The next day she was driving out with Sir Malcolm. The way home lay through the straggling market-town, down the High Street, in which stood the office of the Mercury. The baronet seldom spoke during a drive, he sat back with that cold and distant air which seemed to withdraw him from his surroundings. The scene impressed itself and made a picture in Meg's mental vision: the red-tiled roofs of the irregular houses coming out against the lemon sky; the office on the southern side of the thoroughfare, the ugly posters glaring in the late sunlight. As they passed the office Meg glanced in its direction; her eyes met those of a man emerging from the doorway. It was the editor. A chill force, that seemed to emanate from the white-haired immobile presence by her side, compelled her to withdraw her eyes and turn them coldly away. It was but for a flash, then Meg looked round to bow and smile her thanks; but the editor had already turned away and was walking with swift, long strides up the street.
Self-upbraidings kept Meg silent during the drive home. The opportunity that she had wished for, of showing to this stranger that she thanked him for his generous fulfillment of the promise he had given to her, had presented itself, and she had used the opportunity to wound him. She sat still and unhappy. In the loneliness of the evening, the pain of having offered what might well be interpreted as an affront by one who had been kind made her restless. A feverish longing came to her to remove the hurt she had given. She thought she would write to this stranger who seemed a friend; but when she endeavored to do so she found the task too difficult. His very name was unknown to her. Allusion to the apparent rudeness of her conduct seemed but to emphasize the incivility she had offered and make explanation inadequate. She put down her pen, and set about thinking once more. She would call upon him and explain! The resolve brought a sense of flurry; but the more she thought over it the more she grew reconciled to it. She owed it to him. She had been to him in anger and to expostulate; she would go to him now in reconciliation and to thank.
The next morning her resolve had not grown the less, but the stronger, for the night's sleep upon it. Meg felt impatient for the hour to come when she could put it into execution. A fretful apprehension was upon her that she would not be able to fulfill her intention. Sir Malcolm proved that day in a mood for relishing her company. With reluctant feet she accompanied him in a ramble through the park. She lent an inattentive ear to his reminiscences in stately English of times long past, of folk who had played their part and were now out of the world's wrangles and reconciliations, its loves, its friendships and estrangements.
Meg was free at last, and with a sense of relief she quickly made her way through the stretching country to the old market town. She did not falter or slacken her pace until she came within sight of the office, then a sudden shyness overcame her. She took some restless steps backward and forward, debating with herself; then the sense that this stranger had been kind to her, that she owed him a debt of gratitude, and that she had inflicted a wound upon him, resumed its ascendency and she went in.
The clerk told her that his master was out. "But I expect him back in five minutes," he added. "Will you walk upstairs, miss?"
Meg was once more shown by her guide into the dingy sanctum. It was as she had seen it before—littered with books, with strips of proof-sheets, and dust. It was imbued with a smell of tobacco. The masculine personality that permeated the room worked upon Meg, and brought on a fit of shyness more overwhelming than the first. Shame at being here came over her, and a longing to escape before the master of the place appeared. She determined to scribble off a few words before he returned.
Writing implements surrounded her on every side. She took up a pen and a sheet of paper. As she drew toward her an ink bottle she knocked something down on the floor. She stooped to pick it up. As she did so a picture hanging in an obscure corner caught her eye. It was in a rude frame. It looked like a colored plate cut out of a fashion-book of some years back. Meg started and drew her breath; a crowd of emotions passed over her. She knew every cluster of roses on that white ball-dress; she knew the affected grace of the simpering figure's posture; she remembered that mended tear right across the page. As she looked at it the room in which she sat became full of the hubbub of a London street. It was a room similar to this one—littered with books and paper, imbued with the smell of tobacco; in it sat a young man with kind bright eyes, and a mane of blond hair; he was carefully pasting that inane representation of a lady, and by his side a child, neglected and forlorn, stood eagerly watching the strong hands as they repaired the beloved print.
A mist gathered before Meg's eyes. This child in the shabby frock was herself; this battered and mended fashion-plate was the idolized imaginary picture of her mother. That young man with the kind eyes and the deft fingers, who was he?
Meg was still gazing at the conventional figure in the ball-dress when the door opened, and the editor walked in.
She vaguely recognized that his demeanor was altered. He bowed distantly.
"I came to thank you and to explain," began Meg, and paused. Memory had touched her eyelids and she recognized him. The puzzling recollection that had obtruded itself with vague pertinacity asserted itself triumphantly. She knew now why she had thought of this stranger as a friend.
"To explain?" he repeated; and he, too, paused.
"Yes; about yesterday. I saw you," she said abruptly, almost mechanically, as if speaking by rote and eager to get done; "but I was afraid to bow to you, because I was with Sir Malcolm Loftdale. It was mean and weak of me when I owe you so much."
"You owe me nothing. You convinced me, and I acted upon my new conviction," he answered, still in a distant tone.
"I have much to be thankful to you for," she repeated in a voice that was hoarse with emotion. "Where did you get this?" she added brusquely, interrupting herself and pointing to the fashion-plate.
He looked surprised and said:
"I have had it some years."
"Who gave it to you?" she asked.
He looked curiously at her. "A story is attached to that picture," he answered evasively.
"Is your name William Standish?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied. "Did you not know my name was Standish?" he added, puzzled by the expression of her face.
She shook her head in denial. "Was it a child gave you this picture?"
"Yes," he replied, monosyllabic in his surprise.
"To her foolish, lonely fancy was it the portrait of her mother, who had died in giving her birth?"
"That is true," he replied. Then he added earnestly, "Do you know anything of that child? Can you tell me anything about her? I have tried to find her. I have made many efforts to do so, but in vain. I have lost all clew to her."
"Was her name Meg?" she asked.
"Yes, her name was Meg—dear little Meg!" he said, his eyes shining softly, as if he were seeing before him an image that delighted him.
"I am, or rather I was little Meg," she said in a low voice.
"You?" he exclaimed, looking at her.
She nodded.
"But I thought your name was Beecham," he said. "That of Meg, I understood, was Browne."
"Till I went to school I believed my name was Browne; but one day I was told it was Beecham," she said.
"You Meg, little Meg!" he replied, his eyes traveling slowly over her. "I can scarcely believe it."
"But all the same it is I!" she said with a laugh, as he kept looking at her. "Let me prove my identity—put me to the test; you will see how correctly I will answer," she said. "I remember the night when you put that patch on the old fashion-plate. I had crumpled it up in despair because you said that probably my mother was not a lady."
"That is true!" he replied, still looking scrutinizingly at her.
"I remember how I used to tease you about your dinners. I was quite motherly with you!"
"Motherly! Grandmotherly! Bless you, little Meg!" he cried, and then he laughed. "Is it you? Is it really you?" and he stretched out his two hands.
Meg placed hers into their clasp. "Yes, it is little Meg for whom you did that kind thing, of stopping the attacks upon Sir Malcolm."
"That was for tall Meg!" he said.
"Tall Meg, who I fear, did what little Meg would never have done: appearing to ignore a kindness out of fear."
"No, no, we will not talk of that. It was so natural," he said, still looking at her with surprised and friendly eyes.
They fell to chat, interchanging memories of those old childish days. He walked with her across the country to the gates of the park, and as they walked still they chatted of that fond, silly past.
Although Meg could not explain to herself the right of authority Sir Malcolm had over her, she felt it and acknowledged his control. The temptation often came to enjoy the society of the friend of her childhood, but her honest nature shrank from meeting him secretly; and yet the attacks on the old baronet that had appeared in the local paper precluded the possibility of mentioning to him its editor's name.
Still she longed to see Mr. Standish. One day she thought she would venture to ask Sir Malcolm's permission. She began, blundering a little about the debt of gratitude which she owed to him, and which it was her pleasure to acknowledge; his wishes, she said, would ever influence her in her acts and her conduct. Then, with a blush, she admitted there was something she wished to do, for which she wished to get his permission. Meg was amazed at the manner in which the old gentleman met her advances. He distinctly disclaimed any shadow of authority over her.
"But you have been so good to me, sir," she replied. "But for you, when I ran away from school——"
"When you ran away from school," he interrupted with unexpected coldness. "I was almost inclined, when you refused to enter the carriage, to leave you on the road. If I have given you protection it is for reasons I do not care to explain. I have told you, I do not want gratitude. The tie between us is a voluntary one. You are free as air, young lady, but always with a risk. Your acts will not be disobediences, though they may be imprudences. Distinctly remember you are your own mistress. Keep your secrets if you have any. I do not demand your confidence."
"Free as air!" rang through Meg's heart. "I am my own mistress; free to meet my friend again."
After this extraordinary ebullition of candor from Sir Malcolm, the old gentleman's kindness seemed to regain its late level. Meg even fancied that he was kinder, as if he endeavored thus to salve any wound to her feelings which his temporary harshness might have occasioned.
Still he had said she was free as air, and Meg now felt justified in acting as her heart impelled her. The winter came and went, but it brought no sense of dreariness or bleakness to Meg. She had found the friend of her childhood, and the reflection of her childhood's days shone over everything. It was no wonder that she felt some of the charm of the old companionship with him who had been good to her when all the world had neglected her; and the memory of whose kindness had set a halo about the memory of her forlorn life.
She asked herself no questions concerning the nature of this new interest; she knew only that until it came back to her she was as one walled in, and without daylight. The real Meg had lived captive in a state of repression; to no one had she ventured to tell her impressions; but to this friend she could speak of the most trivial event, and confide the most intimate thought. He drew her out with a frank tenderness that won her simple trust. There grew a fascination to walk and to talk with him; to tell him all that had happened to her since the day of their parting. She had never forgotten him; the thought of him had ever dwelt in her mind, ready to start up and welcome him at his coming. And although it was still her pleasure and her duty to minister to her benefactor's need, yet by his own injunction she felt herself free to yield to the refreshment and delight of those meetings.
They met at sunset, after the journalist's work was done, in the wood behind the house; and their trysting-place was an elm.
"It looks like an old wizard," said Mr. Standish, pointing to the leafless tree standing gaunt against the dying light.
"Old Merlin!" said Meg; "and there is the eerie brightness about him. He is going to throw a spell over us."
The prediction proved true; a spell was cast about Meg's life, and she loved no spot on earth as she loved the place by that tree.
No young girl ever set forth to her first ball with more expectation and longing than did Meg feel in anticipation of some new chat with the lost friend whom she had found again. Endless, endless appeared to her the sources of interesting conversation and of sentiment that he had at his command, and each time they met and talked it seemed to her that he opened a new world of thought and imagination for her spirit to dwell in.
They had a thousand subjects to speak about. Every topic came at random. They cared not which it was, for each seemed ever new. Meg was like a child who has never seen the sea, now picking up rainbow shells by the shore; every shell different in the heap lying beside her in a glorious chance medley.
Sometimes he entertained her with scenes of travel, of striving and success. Sometimes they interchanged memories, mutually reminding each other of incidents in the past. With grave humor, followed by hearty laughter, he would describe the part she had played in some scene where she had behaved with great motherliness and dignity toward him. He would tell her how she had never despaired of him, although the bailiffs were after him.
"But I was a sad trouble to you, Meg," he vowed. "You were a little tyrant then. Where is all that tyranny gone?"
"You give me no excuse to exercise it," she replied one day. "The instinct may be there still; but you are so good, so absorbed in work now."
"Ah, if you only knew it!" he exclaimed. "Little Meg would have been more quick-sighted. She would have sternly reproved me, and preached to me about wasting my time when I should be furnishing copy."
"Copy! What is copy?" she asked.
"Blessed ignorance! Copy is that which goes to fill those columns of print. It is what the hungry printer clamors for, and looks very black when he does not get."
Meg laughed.
"You speak as if printers were wild beasts fed with leaders on schemes for extending the franchise or removing some dowdy old tax."
"Well, well, I am a humbug. All the time that I am writing these leaders I am thinking of coming to see you; I hurry through my work in order to be in time to meet you, Meg," he answered.
"Then I will meet you no more if I spoil your work," she said gravely.
"There spoke the child. All the severity of the little monitor of yore is in those accents," he replied with a laugh. "No, Meg, I work all the better to earn my play."
"Your play?" she said slowly, with a slight emphasis on the word; and she was silent awhile. The expression remained with her, casting its little shadow of doubt, and she would harp back upon it.
"Is this your play?" she would question gravely, when he said anything complimentary.
They had their merry wrangles, their desperate fallings-out, their pretty makings-up. Meg, with characteristic repartees, parried his thrusts, and their intercourse was sweet with wholesome laughter. With a blunt playfulness she met anything approaching to sentiment.
"While I was waiting," he said one day, "there was a little bird up there—you'll hear it—which continually says, 'She'll come! she'll come!'"
"And I heard a cuckoo in the wood as I came along," she replied; "he cried nothing but 'Copy! copy! copy!'"
"It must have been the printer's devil," he said, "when I was taking a holiday."
An innocent coquetry, which was the simple outcome of delight in her ever-growing happiness, would tinge her manner with a little salt of aggressiveness. She sometimes played at making him jealous.
She was late one day; she had been detained, she explained, by a fascinating being.
"Who was he?"
She would not tell his name, but vowed he had splendid lustrous eyes, and a mustache an officer in the guards might envy.
Mr. Standish laughed, and seemed inclined to turn the conversation to another topic.
"You do not ask his name," she said; "yet this fascinating creature made me late, and with difficulty I tore myself from his spell."
"But you came," he replied, falling into her mood.
"My sense of duty. I am naturally punctual. I push it to a weakness."
"I wish to forget him," he said; "he has robbed me enough. What is the name of the country bumpkin?"
"Country bumpkin, indeed! He wears a coat the fit of which the most fashionable tailor might well envy the secret of its cut—a coat black and glossy, with just a touch of white at the throat."
"The rector. I knew it. Confess it is the rector," Mr. Standish said with finger uplifted.
"No white-haired rector, indeed," said Meg.
"Then the curate? All the ladies are fascinated by the curate."
"Not the curate. My charmer is an inmate of the house."
"An inmate?" repeated Mr. Standish, perplexed.
"On the day of my arrival he was so pleasant and cordial his greeting almost made me feel at home."
"I wonder who he is!" said Mr. Standish.
"As you look troubled, I will be generous and tell you," said Meg, and paused.
"Well," said Mr. Standish, "who is he?"
"My charmer of the admirable coat, the impressive mustache, and the splendid eyes is—well—my black cat. He it was who received me cordially, sat by my fire, purred a welcome, and followed me about with a tail straight as that;" and she lifted her parasol to a perpendicular.
Sometimes the talk drifted to Sir Malcolm's son, who had been the editor's friend, and whose portrait, turned to the wall, appealed with a piteous interest to Meg, and was always recurring to her mind.
"He had many faults," Mr. Standish admitted one day. "He was reckless, but there was a winsomeness about him that won hearts; and the fault he committed which rankled deepest in the old baronet's mind was an action that came nearer to a virtue."
"What was that fault?" she asked.
"He married the woman he loved. She was the prettiest, sweetest woman I ever saw. Absurd as it may seem, Meg, the first time I saw you grown up you reminded me of her. It was simply fancy, of course the likeness is lost now. It seems to have gone out."
"Do you think it was because of this marriage that his portrait was turned to the wall?" persisted Meg.
"I think so. At least this I know: Sir Malcolm never forgave that marriage."
"But why?" asked Meg.
"Because she was poor and brave enough to work for her living. I believe she was a governess; but her trials came after their marriage. His debts accumulated, his father was unforgiving; he sometimes had to hide."
"What became of her?" still questioned Meg.
"She died when her child was born. After her death he certainly grew more reckless. He was unhappy, and I think he had some remorse. The marriage took place on the continent."
"Did the child live?"
"I don't know. He certainly had no home for it. He never alluded to it. I believe he was not with his wife when she died."
"Poor wife!" said Meg, thinking of that unhappy wife who had suffered so much, who had died so neglected and uncared for. "Is it not strange," she continued after a pause, "that it should have been my guardian's son who was the friend for whom you almost beggared yourself?"
"And for having done which, do you remember, you stroked my head?" he replied smilingly.
She answered him with a blush only.
Sometimes he spoke to her as to a comrade out of the fund of his large experience and knowledge. His interest in the working classes appealed to her, and life seemed to grow wider from the solicitude that he brought into it for others. There grew every day in her heart a reliance, a sort of wide faith in him, as if all he said and thought must be right.
The winter passed and the spring came round; the sap rose in the earth and the pulses of nature quickened.
They met oftener. Sometimes they wandered forth to meet each other in the dewy mornings, when the fields shone like gossamer. There, in the woods, where the birds wearied themselves for listeners, they came on the scene. Meg would bid him forget his politics, his ink-bottle, in honor of all the loveliness around.
"Look at this clump of daffodils," she said one morning when a mood of mirthful raillery was upon her, pointing to the silly flowers. "Don't they look like Hebes drooping their gold cups? Ah! everything is young and merry, sir, but your old politics—your dull old politics."
Then he vowed he would never talk politics to her again, upon which she coaxed and played the little siren until he relented, complaining that she honeycombed his will by her cajoleries.
An exaltation stirred Meg's spirit—the girl who had been silent and reserved was full of innocent gayety; and still that companionship with one who had brought happiness to her childhood continued simple, familiar, and charming, as it might be between dearest friends.
Sir Malcolm had an attack of illness, and as Meg devoted herself to him for some time there were no meetings at the elm. Then she became conscious of the value of the enchantment this new-found relationship brought into her life; and when they met again she was aware of a subtle change in the sentiment with which she regarded the relations between Mr. Standish and herself.
While compelling herself to greet him with the same equable friendliness, she was often chilled by the awkwardness of self-restraint. The facile word lagged when she tried to assume an attitude of bantering reserve, and her sincere nature oftener hid itself behind that of shy formality. She would then gravely inquire of his work, awkwardly plunge into politics or surface topics, but after awhile in his reassuring presence the pain of her embarrassed spirit would vanish, and she would feel comforted. In the sweetness of restored harmony between them, after the jar of repression, her heart would expand, and again she would weave around him a web of delicate sympathy and winsome pleasantry. She would be a child again, and would display her old quickness of mood to suit his disposition—gay when he wished to be gay, serious when he was serious, silent when he was inclined for silence. In this childlike docility and wistful eagerness to please him dwelt the old wakeful and sensitive pride, quick to take alarm, easily perplexed. The happy confidence would take flight like a frightened bird, the laughter of her heart would be quenched, the trustful approaches of her spirit checked as quickly as had been those of the susceptible child, so coy and yet so devoted.
One day he did not come. In the evening she received a note of explanation. He had been detained by business; he had come too late, and he had waited, hoping some kindly inspiration would lead her to see if he had kept tryst after the appointed hour. But she had not come. Would she be gracious and come the next day?
After a debate with herself Meg sallied forth. Again he was not there, and a dull, unhappy anger took possession of her. She was returning at once, but a shower came. She stood under a tree waiting for it to pass, but the trailing cloud seemed never to empty. She was angry, and she felt about to cry for being imprisoned there. The raindrops began to saturate the tree. She would not forgive him; twice to have failed her! She had her upbraiding of him so perfect by going over it, she wished he might come in time to deliver it. She heard steps approaching, and she kept her eyes sternly before her. It was only a countrywoman with sloppy shoes. Her heart went down, and tears rushed to her eyes; and so full was she of her grievance that when he joined her with the rain streaming from his hat she started, not having heard him come, and all her prepared reproaches left her memory. She did not give him her hand, however, and tried to flick away the telltale tears.
"I am late again. I am so sorry. I could not help it," he said earnestly.
"But I can help coming in future," said Meg in a severe tone.
"No, you could not punish me like this," he said. "It was a telegram from London upon which I was obliged to write a short article which kept me. That article was written in such desperation that I shall be afraid to read it in print. Won't you give me your hand?"
"The shower is over. I think I shall go back," she said.
"Do you see that black cloud shaped like an Inverness cape? It is coming right up with its deluge."
"All the more reason that I should hurry home," she said.
"But consider, Meg," he replied, smiling down upon her; "what an undignified retreat. Before you have gone a hundred yards you will be obliged to break into a run, and finally make another stage under yonder elm tree, where I will rejoin you; and then we will begin all over again. Nothing like a good rainstorm for a reconciliation. But all the grace of it is gone. Come now, I have felt the first menacing drop upon my nose. Make friends, it says."
She looked at him with scrutinizing gravity, then a smile broke.
"I cannot resist the drop's appeal," she replied with a laugh, and she put out her hand. "Still, for all the rain in the world," she continued, "I must air my grievance. I had a good right to be angry. I waited nearly twenty minutes yesterday."
"I waited two hours," he replied.
"But you came at a wrong hour," she said. "I came at the hour you appointed. Look at this—just look at this, and you will be silent."
She took out his note, opened it, and held it under his eyes.
"I know—I know," he said; "that perjured note. But all is forgiven now."
The cape of cloud passed away, and the sun came out.
There was a good-humored strength about Mr. Standish that puzzled Meg, and she often longed to pierce the mystery—at least the mystery to her—of his nature. But after a time his manner changed; a melancholy grew upon him. One day he turned and said: "You call me your friend, Meg. You keep dwelling on the memories of those fond silly days of your childhood. But you are a child no longer. Perhaps we had better think of one another, and cease those happy walks."
"Cease those walks!" she exclaimed with a gasp in her voice. He remained silent. Then she said proudly: "If you think so, really—" but her voice failed, and with a sudden cry she exclaimed, "I knew it could not last—that you must tire of me."
"Tire of you, Meg!" he cried, facing round upon her. "It is because I love you that I say this. But it is not as the friend of your childhood that I love you. We must make no mistake. I love you as the man loves the one woman in all the world he wants for his wife. If you cannot accept that love from me I would prefer not to see you again."
She did not reply, and she averted her face. When she looked slowly up, even in the tension of waiting for her answer, he felt something of the thrill he might have experienced if a spirit had answered to his call. The child he had known was looking back at him. A something he had missed—a mystery of spiritual identity with the Meg of long ago, glimmerings of which he had caught—had waked up. It was the child grown to be a woman—endowed with a woman's soul, gifted with a thousandfold powers of feeling. She did not speak; her silence, her quivering features, her kindling countenance answered him.
"Meg!" he said in a low voice, and bending forward he drew her to him.