"I WISH I WERE DEAD!" CRIED ELSIE.--Page 200.]
MEG'S FRIEND.
A Story for Girls.
by
ALICE CORKRAN,
Author of "Margery Merton's Girlhood," "Down the SnowStairs," "Joan's Adventures," etc., etc.
With Five Full-Page Illustrations by Robert Fowler.
New York:A. L. Burt, Publisher.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE Meg 1 CHAPTER II. Two Years Later 21 CHAPTER III. Meg to the Rescue 36 CHAPTER IV. Farewell 54 CHAPTER V. A Mysterious Visit 62 CHAPTER VI. Miss Reeve's Establishment for Young Ladies 74 CHAPTER VII. At School 85 CHAPTER VIII. The School Annual 100 CHAPTER IX. Drifting Away 111 CHAPTER X. Rebellion 121 CHAPTER XI. Away 131 CHAPTER XII. An Acquaintance by the Way 142 CHAPTER XIII. The Old Gentleman Again 153 CHAPTER XIV. Who Gave that Kiss? 165 CHAPTER XV. Miss Pinkett's Diamond 172 CHAPTER XVI. The Party 183 CHAPTER XVII. Poor Meg 192 CHAPTER XVIII. Peace 205 CHAPTER XIX. Who Is He? 217 CHAPTER XX. Arrival 228 CHAPTER XXI. Sir Malcolm Loftdale 241 CHAPTER XXII. The Editor of the _Greywolds Mercury_ 257 CHAPTER XXIII. Friend or Foe 268 CHAPTER XXIV. Friend! 277 CHAPTER XXV. For "Auld Lang Syne." 288 CHAPTER XXVI. Before the Picture 305 CHAPTER XXVII. In the Editor's Office 316
MEG'S FRIEND.
CHAPTER I.
MEG.
It was a queer old house in Bloomsbury, that had been fashionable sometwo hundred years ago, and had fallen into abject neglect. The hall doorwas dim for want of paint, and weatherbeaten to a dirty gray; the lowerwindows were tawdry with vulgar blinds and curtains, and enlivened withgreen boxes full of a few pining flowers. The drawing-room windowsshowed a sort of mildewed finery, and then, in melancholy degrees,poverty claimed the upper stories. It had all the features and cast of aLondon lodging house.
Within, the house carried out the same suggestion of past grandeur andpresent decay. The hall was wide, dingy, and unfurnished; the staircaseof oak was impressive, stained, and dusty.
On the topmost step of the top flight might habitually be seen, towardsunset, a child seated and watching, with head thrust through thebanisters. She would sit still until there came the scrape of a latchkeyturning in the lock, and the sound of footsteps in the hall. Then themute little figure would grow full of sudden life; the little feet wouldrun down faster than eye could mark. Arrived in the hall, the childwould stop with sudden dignity before a man, robust and tall, andlooking up, ever so high, into a bright, young, manly face smiling downupon her, she would lift her tiny forefinger, and some such colloquywould ensue:
"You are late; where have you been, Mr. Standish?"
"At work, Meg--at work all the time."
"You have not been to the parlor of the Dragon?"
"No, Meg; not set my foot inside it."
"You have not been with those horrid whisky-smelling men?"
"Not seen one of them, Meg."
"Then you may come up," the child would say, taking his hand and leadinghim up.
Mr. William Standish was beginning life as a journalist. He contributeddescriptive articles to a London paper, and was correspondent to acolonial journal. His straight-featured countenance expressed energy anddecision; his glance betokened a faculty of humorous and rapidobservation; closely cropped blond hair covered his shapely head.
The journalist occupied the rooms on the upper story of Mrs. Browne'slodging-house. He was the single member of the nomadic populationsheltering under that decaying roof who lived among his household gods.He had made it a stipulation, on taking the rooms, that he should havethem unfurnished, and he had banished every trace of the landlady'sbelongings.
The child was Meg. She went by no other name. When Mrs. Browne answeredher lodgers' queries concerning her, she replied vaguely that the childhad been left in her charge. Meg went to an over-crowded school in themorning, and did odd jobs of household work in the afternoon. In theintervals she sat on the topmost stair, watching the social eddies ofthe shabby miniature world breaking down below. She was a silent child,with a mop of dark brown hair and gray eyes, the gaze of which was sosustained as not to be always pleasant to meet. The gravity of her lookwas apt to make those upon whom it was directed feel foolish. Sherepelled the patronizing advances of lodgers, and, when compelled toanswer, chilled conversation by the appalling straightforwardness of hermonosyllabic replies.
Two events had influenced her childhood. One day, when she was aboutseven years of age, she had suddenly asked the old servant, who fromtime immemorial had been the sole assistant of Mrs. Browne indischarging her duties toward her lodgers:
"Tilly, had you a mammy?"
"Lor' bless the child!" answered Tilly, almost losing hold of the plateshe was washing. "Of course I had."
"Has every child got a mammy?" persisted Meg, with deliberate plainnessof speech.
"Of course they have," answered the old woman, utterly bewildered.
"Is madam my mammy?" asked the child, a slight tremor perceptible in theslower and deeper intonation of her voice.
"Madam" was the name by which she had been taught to call Mrs. Browne.
"No!" answered Tilly sharply; "and if you ask any more questions ye'llbe put into the dark closet."
The threat, that brought to the child's mind associations of terror,wrought the desired effect of silence. She stood, with her glanceunflinchingly directed on Tilly's face, and with a question trembling onher lips, until the old servant turned away and left the kitchen.
Hitherto Meg had never asked a question concerning herself. She hadaccepted a childhood without kissings and pettings--a snubbed, ignoredchildhood--with a child's sainted powers of patience and resignation.
That night, as the old woman was composing herself to sleep in the atticthat she shared with the child, she was startled by Meg's voice soundingclose to her ear, and, turning, she saw the diminutive figure standingnear her bed in the moonlight.
"Tilly," she said, "I don't mind your locking me up in the dark closet,if you'll just tell me--is my mammy dead?"
"Yes," said Tilly, taken off her guard.
There was a moment's pause, and an audible sigh.
"I'll never be naughty again, Tilly--never," resumed the child's voice,"if you'll just tell me--what was she like?"
"You'll not ask another question if I tell ye?" replied Tilly after amoment of silent self-debate.
"No, Tilly."
"Never another? Do ye hear?"
"Never, Tilly," repeated the child solemnly.
"And you'll never let madam know as I told you?" said Tilly excitedly,sitting up in her bed.
"Never."
"Then, I don't mind saying, for I thinks as you ought to know, as shewas as pretty as a picture as I ever saw, and the gentlest, sweetest,ladiest lady," said Tilly, nodding, as a sharp sob sounded in herthroat.
"Lady?" said Meg.
"A lady she was in all her ways, every bit of her; and the man as lether die here all alone was a brute--that he was!" said Tilly, withvehemence.
"What man?" asked the child, in a low voice.
"Go to bed," said Tilly severely, through her sobs.
"Was it my pappy?" said the child, who had seen and heard strange thingsduring her seven-years' life.
"Go to bed," repeated Tilly. "You promised as you'd never ask anotherquestion."
"I will not, Tilly," said Meg, turning away, and returning through themoonlight to bed.
The child kept her word, and never alluded to the subject again toTilly.
A few days later, when she was helping the old servant to tidy the roomsafter the departure of some lodgers from the drawing-room floor, Tillywas surprised by the eagerness with which she craved permission to keepa crumpled fashion-plate that she had found among the litter. Itrepresented a simpering young woman in a white ball dress, decked withroses. Permission having been granted her to appropriate the work ofart, Meg carried it up to her attic, and hid it away in a box. Had anyone cared to observe the child, it would have been remarked that she,who kissed nobody, lavished kisses upon this meaningless creation of adressmakers' brain; gazed at it, murmured to it, hid it away, and sleptwith it under her pillow.
The next great event marking Meg's childhood had been the arrival of Mr.William Standish to the lodging-house. It had occurred nearly two yearsafter the talk with Tilly concerning her mother. Meanwhile the oldservant had died.
Meg had watched with interest the arrival of the new lodger'sproperties; and she had listened, fascinated, to his lusty voice,singing to the accompaniment of hammering, and rising above the flurryof settling down.
On the third evening Mr. Standish, who had observed the little figurecowering in the dusk, and had once or twice given to it a friendly nod,invited her to enter. Meg held back a moment, then shyly walked in.
She had a general impression of books and writing materials, pipes, andprints on all sides, and of an atmosphere impregnated with the perfumeof tobacco.
After another pause of smileless hesitation, she took the footstool herhost drew for her by the fire. At his invitation she told him her name,and gave a succinct account of her general mode of life. She admitted,with monosyllabic brevity, that she liked to hear him sing, and that itwould please her if he would sing for her now. She sat entranced andforgetful of her surroundings as he warbled:
"Nellie was a lady-- Last night she died,"
and followed the negro ballad with a spirited rendering of the "ErlKing."
At his invitation she renewed her visits. She was tremendously impressedwhen he told her that he wrote for the papers; and was dumb withamazement when he showed her, in a newspaper, the printed columns ofwhich he was the author.
They had been acquainted about a week, when Meg broke the silence setupon her lips, and spoke to her new friend as she had never spoken tohuman being before.
Mr. Standish had recited for her the ballad of the ghostly mother whonightly comes to visit the children she has left on earth, and tillcock-crow rocks the cradle of her sleeping baby. The young man wasastonished at the expression of the child. Her cheeks were pale; shebreathed hard; her round opened eyes were fixed upon him.
"I wish mother would come just like that to me," she said abruptly.
"Your mother--is she dead?" he asked gently.
She nodded. "She's dead. I never saw her--never. I'd love to see herjust a-coming and standing by my bed. I'd not be a bit frightened."
"But if you have never seen her you would not know she was your mother,"he replied, impressed by the passionate assertion of her manner.
"Oh, I'd know her! I'd know her!" said the child, with vivid assurance."Soon as she'd come in I'd know her. She was a lady."
"A lady!" he repeated. "How do you know? What do you mean?"
"Tilly told me. Tilly's dead," answered Meg with ardor. "She told it tome once before; and I went to see her at the hospital, and she said itagain. She said, 'Meg, your mother was a lady--the sweetest, prettiest,ladiest lady'--that's what she said; 'and, Meg, be good for her sake.'"She paused, her eyes continuing to hold his with excited conviction."That's how I know she was a lady," Meg resumed; "and I know what a ladyis. The Misses Grantums down there"--infusing scorn into her voice asshe pointed to the floor to indicate she meant lodgers who livedbelow--"they're not ladies though they've fine dresses; but they haveloud voices, and they scold. I go to the corners of the streets. I watchthe carriages. I see the ladies in them; and when I see one gentle anda-smiling like an angel, I say mother was like one of these. That's howI'd know what she'd be like. And," she added more slowly, lowering hervoice to a confidential whisper and advancing a step, "I have a pictureof her. Would you like to see it?"
"I would," he answered, thinking that at last he was approaching a clewto the mystery.
She dashed off, and in a moment returned with something carefullywrapped up in tissue paper, and gently drew out a limp picture, that sheheld out at arm's length before the young man, keeping it out of hisreach.
"There, I'm sure she'd be like that--all smiling, you see. And thosebeautiful curls, are they not lovely? and those large eyes and thoseroses? I'm sure she'd be just like that."
"But let me hold it--just with my finger tips," he pleaded, as the childjealously held the print away from him.
She slowly relinquished it to him and stood at his elbow.
"That's a picture taken out of a book--not a portrait," he said.
"I picked it up. Some lodgers had gone away. I found it in a corner.Isn't it lovely? I'm sure she'd be just like that," reiterated Meg.
Mr. Standish was silent a moment. He was moved, yet he felt impelled tospeak words of wisdom to the child. Mooning about corners of streetswatching ladies drive past, and nursing those queer, foolish, ambitiousideas about her mother was not likely to lead to any good. He thoughtthe whole story was probably without a grain of truth, the absurdfabrication of some old woman's brain, and likely to prove hurtful toMeg in giving her false notions concerning her duties in life.
He paused, revolving his words, anxious not to hurt, yet deeming itincumbent upon him to expel this foolish fancy.
"My dear child," he said at last, "why do you imagine your mother waslike that picture, or like one of those ladies in the carriages? For allyou know they may be lazy, vain, and selfish. It is not the pretty dressthat makes the lady, or the face either. Is it not far better and morereasonable to think of that dear mother, whom you never saw, as one ofGod's own ladies? These ladies are found in all sorts of conditions,sometimes in caps and aprons, sometimes in beautiful bonnets, very oftenwith brave, rough hands. What is wanted to make a lady is a kind, honestheart."
"No, that's not being a lady," interrupted the child, with a flash and atoss of her head. She spoke with decision; but her voice faltered as ifshe had received a shock. Taking the picture from the young man's hand,she began carefully, and with a trembling elaborateness, to replace itin its coverings. "Jessie's good, and so was Tilly. They work hard, andscrub, and run about on errands. They're not ladies. A lady's quitedifferent," continued Meg, suddenly facing him and speaking withvehemence and clearness. "She's rich, and never scolds or cheats. Shedoes not work at all--not a bit; people work for her and drive herabout, but she does nothing herself. She has never dirty hands, or hercap all untidy, or looking all in a fuss. She does nothing but smile andlook beautiful, like an angel," concluded Meg triumphantly, reiteratingher favorite simile.
"Meg," said the young fellow, seeing more clearly the necessity to rootout this absurd ideal from the child's mind, "you are talking veryfoolishly. A lady is, indeed, not necessarily an angel. You say a ladymust be rich. Now, if your mother was rich, why are you poor? Would shenot have left you her money in dying, and you would have been rich likeher?"
"I don't know anything about that," said the child, growing a littlepale, and beginning once more to fidget with the fashion-plate.
br /> "It is for your good, Meg, that I speak," resumed the young man. "Youmust wish to be like your mother; and you cannot grow up good andhard-working and honest if you think your mother was rich and left youpoor, with no one to look after you or care for you."
"It was not her fault," said the child faintly.
"It would have been her fault," he answered severely, shaking his head."My dear Meg, put away this foolish idea. Call up your mother to yourmind as a good, toiling woman; one of God's ladies, as I called herbefore. Try to be like her. Lay aside the thought that she was one ofthose carriage ladies."
"I won't!" interrupted the child, standing pale and upright, clutchingthe fashion-plate close up against her chest. "It's a lie! She was alady!"
A smothered exclamation rose to Mr. Standish's lips. It was the firstoffensive word he had heard the child use.
"Meg," he cried, following the fluttering little figure up the stairs.
He saw her enter an attic; he heard the door slam and the bolt drawn.
"Meg," he called again gently.
There came no answer; but Mr. Standish thought he heard the sound ofpassionate sobbing. He waited, called a third time, and receiving noresponse he shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
The exigencies of the press absorbed Mr. Standish so completely that forthe next few days he had no time to think of Meg. He noticed that thecorner on the top lobby was empty, and a vague feeling of regret crossedhis mind.
On the third day he was disturbed by a great clatter in the kitchen andthe noise of many voices, above which that of Meg rose shrill and angry.Jessie, the hard-worked slavey of the establishment, admitted when shecame up with the coal-scuttle, in answer to Mr. Standish's inquiriesconcerning the cause of the trouble, that it was Meg's fault. She wasnot like the same child. She was like beside herself--she was--theselast three days.
Mr. Standish was perplexed, and resolved, after completing the weeklybudget he was writing for the _Melbourne Banner_, to seek out the child,and get the clew to this sudden demoralization.
He was confirmed in this resolution when, in returning from the post, hecame upon Meg in fierce encounter with some boys. She was fightingvaliantly, but numbers proved too much. Mr. Standish stepped up to therescue. He caught one boy by the ear, rolled another in the dust, andgenerally dispersed the assailants on all sides. Meg waited, watching,on the outskirts of the fray; but as soon as Mr. Standish had disposedof her enemies she turned and fled, disheveled, homeward. The accounther rescuer received left little doubt on his mind that Meg had been theaggressive party.
Mr. Standish sought Mrs. Browne. The landlady was lachrymose andmuddled. To his inquiries concerning the queer notion Meg had concerningher mother, she gave a rambling account of a mysterious lady who hadcome to the lodgings accompanied by an older lady. Meg had been bornhere, and the mother had died in giving her birth. No father had evercome to visit the mother or child.
Mrs. Browne admitted that some money was sent regular through alawyer--just enough to pay for Meg's clothing and schooling; but who thelawyer was, Mrs. Browne refused to tell.
Mr. Standish left Mrs. Browne drying her eyes, and went up, meditatinghow to address Meg. There had come to him an indistinct realization ofwhat the thought of a lady-mother had been to the child in her sordidsurroundings. After a few moments' deliberation he took out pen, ink,and paper, and wrote in Roman characters:
"DEAR MEG: I write to ask you to forgive me. You were right, and I was wrong. Your mother was a lady, just as you thought she was. I have heard all about her. Won't you forgive me, and come and see me? I feel lonely without my little friend.
"W. S."
Having folded the letter, he slipped it under the child's door; then hereturned to his room and waited, leaving his own door ajar. After awhilehe began to sing some of Meg's favorite melodies--"Sally in the Alley"and "Margery Allen." He thought he heard a furtive step. He turned hishead away, so as not to frighten by so much as a glance the shy advance,and began softly to sing Meg's favorite ballad:
"Nellie was a lady-- Last night she died."
He fancied he distinguished the reluctant drawing near of tardy feet.When the song was ended he looked round. Meg was on the threshold. Aglance revealed the change those four days had wrought. Her hair wasunkempt, her dress untidy, her cheeks pale; but it was not so much thosesigns of neglect, the pallor of her cheeks, the drawn lines about hermouth that startled him, as a certain expression of childishrecklessness. It was the Meg he had seen wrangling with boys in thestreet, flying past him lawless and fierce. In her hand she held hisletter, and she kept her eyes fixed upon him with a bold stare.
"Is it true what you have written here, or is it a pack of stories?" sheasked abruptly.
"It is all true, Meg," said Mr. Standish gently. "She was a lady."
"A real lady, like those that drive about in the carriages?" asked thechild with stern cross-examination.
"She was a real lady, Meg; just as you have always pictured her--withsoft hands that had never done rough work, and a gentle voice. All abouther was beautiful," replied Mr. Standish in slow and convinced tones.
At this assurance Meg gave a little sigh; the tension about her lipsrelaxed; the fierce brilliancy of her interrogative glance was subdued.
"How do you know?" she asked more softly.
"Mrs. Browne told me. I will take you to her, and she will tell it toyou."
"I don't want her to tell me, you tell me," said Meg quickly.
Mr. Standish hesitated; under the child's innocent gaze he found itdifficult to speak. He told her in simple words some of the story Mrs.Browne had related. It was a mercy Meg evinced no curiosity concerningher father. Mr. Standish dwelt upon the beauty, the youth, the sufferingof the mother; he spoke of the love she had lavished in anticipationupon the babe she was never to see.
As he spoke, the thought of that early and lonely death thrust itselfbefore him with a new and piteous force. The thought of the forsakenchild moved him, and his voice faltered.
Meg was by his side in a moment; her hand touched his. "You asked me inyour letter to forgive you," she whispered. "I forgive you."
He took the little hand. "You must forget also, Meg, that I said yourmother had left you poor and uncared for."
"But she did. She left me poor, and with strangers; that's what yousaid," replied Meg, with a return of the old fierceness, quoting hiswords.
"She died," he answered with emphasis, bending forward. "Listen, Meg,"he continued, as the child remained apparently unsoftened, "will youbelieve me, even if you do not understand me--will you believe me?"
For a moment Meg remained dogged and silent, then, as she met histroubled glance, the doubt passed from hers, the confiding light cameback.
"I believe you; I believe you very much," she said.
"Then, when you think of her, Meg, think that some one had done hergreat injury--had made her suffer, more than you can know. That is whyshe came here and died. She left you poor because everything had beentaken from her."
He paused a moment. Meg was pale, and seemed a little dazed; but theexcitement had left her manner.
"Everything," he repeated with emphasis.
The child's bosom heaved.
"Now that she is dead," resumed the young man, "I believe that dearmother watches over her little daughter."
"You believe it," said Meg slowly.
"I believe it," said Mr. Standish. "But, come; where is that picture?Let me look at it again."
Meg was off and back again in a moment. The print was torn andbesmeared, as if it had gone through rough usage since he had seen itlast.
"Halloo! it is falling to bits. It was not so crumpled and torn theother day," he remarked.
"No," Meg confessed; "I hated it the other night, when you said motherwas hard-working, like a charwoman. I wanted to tear it up--I did; but Icould not." She stopped; for the first time there came a choking in hert
hroat, and a sob, quickly repressed.
Mr. Standish pretended absorption in his occupation, spread out thetattered print, and announced his intention of bestowing to the paintinga new lease of life by pasting it upon a pasteboard back. He gatheredthe necessary implements for the task. Meg, usually so active, watchedin silence; but he knew, by the trembling of the little hand resting onthe table, by the stiff uprightness of the small figure beside him, thefierce battle the child was waging with herself to suppress all show ofemotion.
He took no apparent heed of her, but proceeded with the task ofrenovation. Perhaps he had intended still to lead the child's mind to atruer conception of a lady than she could get from worship of thissimpering fetish, with a mouth like a cherry, and curled eyelashes; butas he handled the old fashion-plate, the pathos of its smeared andbattered condition touched him with a sense of sacredness, and he foundhimself declaring that her mother might have been like that picture.There was no doubt about it; it represented a lovely creature, and hermother was a lovely lady.
When the task was completed he was rewarded by the sight of Meg'sradiant countenance. In perfect peace she carried off the restoredpicture.