CHAPTER XXIII.
FRIEND OR FOE.
The impression, for which she could give no reason, that this strangerwas a friend remained with Meg. When on the following Wednesday sherecognized 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. Hervoice lost its intelligent enunciation. Sir Malcolm, with courteousapologies for what might be, he owned, his lack of attention, asked ontwo occasions for a paragraph to be read over again, the sense of whichhe had not gathered. Meg, the second time, recognized the impliedrebuke, and compelled herself to concentrate her mind upon her task.
When the turn of the _Greywolds Mercury_ came she took it updeliberately, and slowly unfolded its pages. She turned to the leader;she glanced over it; the print swam before her eyes. The article was anonslaught upon Sir Malcolm. Last week he had passed a hard sentence upona poacher caught red-handed in his preserves, and this severity hadroused the editor's ire. Meg dropped the paper with an exclamation, herheart beat with indignation and with an exaggerated sense ofdisappointment.
"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 withformal coldness. "I assure you it affects me as little as would thebarking of an ill-bred puppy."
As Meg still hesitated he added, after a moment's pause, with impassiblepoliteness, "I must beg you, Miss Beecham, to be so good as to read thisarticle aloud."
The formality of the tone, into which Sir Malcolm had infused a touch ofcommand, reminded Meg that he was her employer, and she proceeded. Shewent steadily on to the end. The article seemed to her to be marked byincreased virulence. She could not judge the merits of the case thatformed the subject of the editor's attack. She did not care to judgethem. These were outside the point.
The concluding phrases ran: "There is a justice that keeps within theletter of the law, and ignores every suggestion of compassion andfellow-feeling for other human beings. But this justice fails inseverity before that which deals out punishment for breaking the edictscontained in the code of so-called social honor. The modern Brutus wouldimmolate not the unhappy peasant only, to whom belong no human rights,he would immolate his own son, if he conspired to rebel against thesacred commandments contained in that code."
Meg was startled by a low exclamation. She looked up. Sir Malcolm waslying back in his chair, his eyes closed, his countenance ashen anddrawn.
As she paused he opened his eyes and looked round; his expression wasone of mental anguish.
"Thank you," he said, with a ghastly attempt to assume that fine air ofdismissal 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 histone and manner.
"Thank you, I am much obliged," he replied, turning away and taking up abook.
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 ofa 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 greatdining-room and stood before the picture with its face turned to thewall. The disgrace appealed to her with tragic piteousness; and thefather's unforgiveness acted upon her like a chill repulse.
The house seemed full of an unforgiven pain; the sense of it oppressedMeg, and she wandered out into the amity of the woodland roads. As shewalked down a narrow path she became aware of a man approaching towardher from the opposite direction, with a long stride and an absorbedmien. She recognized the editor.
The indignation that had been thrust back by the thought of that unknownsorrow 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 clothedin the panoply of her wrath.
As she returned home by another way she was surprised, and a littleoffended, to see the editor loitering near the gates of the park. Shewas preparing to cut him once more, when he advanced resolutely towardher.
"May I say a few words to you, Miss Beecham, with reference to thearticle 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 theopportunity I ask?"
"I prefer not," repeated Meg, stopping short and now turning round fullupon him. "We approach this subject from such totally differentstandpoints, I feel very seriously about it. You gave your promiselightly, and as lightly broke it. I asked it after much hesitation andreluctance. 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 theinsult 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 mydeserts," replied the editor, unconsciously raising his voice. Checkinghimself he resumed more gently: "You will admit that the case of thepoacher was entirely different. It was so strong, so startling."
"It was not so much against the matter as against the manner of yourattack upon Sir Malcolm Loftdale that I appealed, and that you promisedto alter," said Meg, unsoftened.
"I was strongly moved as I wrote," said the editor, who, somewhat to hissurprise, found himself pleading before this young girl with eagerself-justification. "The severity of the sentence passed upon theunhappy man--I know him and his poor wife--seemed to me so out of allproportion to the offense committed that I forgot everything else. Itwas only when I looked over the article in print that I realized how thetone of it might hurt you."
"How it might hurt him! It did hurt him! If it is a satisfaction to youto know it, the blow struck home. That allusion to the modern Brutus hadits full effect. It went to his heart!" said Meg passionately, withflaming eyes.
"I will not pretend to say, Miss Beecham, except for the apparentneglect of my promise to you, that I would regret the effect of my wordsupon Sir Malcolm. By his coldness and harshness he drove his son to apiteous death."
"I know nothing of the story to which you allude; and I do not wish toknow it. I will not hear it from the lips of an enemy of Sir MalcolmLoftdale," said Meg almost fiercely. "What I do know is, that if it isremorse or sorrow that darkens his old age, it is altogether too sacreda theme to be dragged into print and made the subject of a newspaperattack."
The editor was silent a moment, then he said: "You are right."
The gravity of his tone softened Meg; she hesitated a moment, theninclining her head she moved away.
"I wish you would retract what you said just now concerning your visitto my office," the editor began somewhat blunderingly--"that it was areckless step--that you consider that it justified me in lightlypromising and lightly breaking my pledge."
"You must acknowledge, then, that you forgot all that I said," repliedMeg with the childlike bluntness which characterized her.
"Forgive me, and I will never forget again," he replied. "Will you notlet me discuss the case of the poacher with you--of the other wrongsthat exist--will you help me to advocate the rights of the tenants andlaborers without wounding the landlord?"
"I will never discuss with you again," said Meg hastily; and with aquick bow she left him and passed within the gates.
As she went up the avenue she caught sight of Sir Malcolm wandering upand down the yew-tree wa
lk. He saw her and came forward to meet her. Theemotion of the morning still left its traces upon his features. He helda 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 painedvoice. "I have been happy in serving you."
"You seem to think that all the use you are to me is to serve me, readto me, work for me. Can you conceive yourself of no other use?" said SirMalcolm 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 myhouse," 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 anembarrassed 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 notthink that I shall be inconsiderate," he went on as she looked upanxiously. "I know that his wish is to find a situation in London. I canget him just the post he desires. Have an easy conscience about him. Ifyou will, indeed, stay to be an old man's eyesight and his right hand, Iwill be grateful to you. I should be lonely now without you. Will youstay 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 atthe old man's tone of unexpected tenderness.