CHAPTER XXIV.
FRIEND!
From that day a subdued tone of affectionate confidence entered into therelations between Meg and her guardian. Sir Malcolm did not emerge fromthe seclusion in which he lived so much as from his cold and distantmanner. He still took his meals alone, he spent his evenings insolitude, he still wandered alone in the park; but his taciturnity wasless marked. He often joined Meg in the grounds, and sometimes theydrove out together into the surrounding country.
While continuing to treat her with that dignified courtesy that had acharm for Meg, he assumed toward her a gentle familiarity which kept upa reminder of that unexpected tenderness which had so profoundly movedher on the day when he asked her to stay with him. It was the only timeshe had seen him relax his stateliness of manner. Meg never knew him todepart from a lofty composure of demeanor. He never gave way toirritability; but if a servant was neglectful of orders, memorableseverity visited this breach of duty. Toward her Sir Malcolm assumed asplendid deference. The flowers he plucked for her he presented with asuggestion of the superb homage a regent might give to a child-queen. Ashe walked and talked with her his conversation showed an appreciation ofrustic beauty, and gave evidence of intellectual culture. He told herthe names of the trees; he related anecdotes of country life andmanners, of illustrious statesmen and persons of note whom he had known;he sometimes flavored his conversation with quotations from the works ofclassic authors. Sir Malcolm acknowledged, with that fine air which wasnot one of boasting, still less one of apology, that he knew nothing ofcontemporary literature outside that of the newspapers--his literarystudies terminated with that of the wits of Queen Anne's reign. He spokewith an easy choice of words that gave a balanced elevation to hislanguage. This gentler mood dispelled the fear Meg had felt in hispresence, and the fascination grew that he exercised over her. Thenobility, the dignity, the sternness of the old man's appearance--therecognition that he was always at his best with her, who was adependant, added to the spell he exercised over her. The gentle andsubtle artificiality--perhaps it were better to say the art--of hismanners influenced those of Meg, and they acquired by contact with himan added grace of reserve and composure.
The attacks in the _Mercury_ had ceased. Meg attributed Sir Malcolm'sbrighter mood to their cessation. Week after week elapsed, and the localprint, while advocating as forcibly as before the right of the laboringclasses to happier conditions brought into their lives, abstained fromall personal or covert allusions to Sir Malcolm Loftdale. Meg feltgrateful. The editor had done this for her, and the desire grew upon herto thank him.
One afternoon, as she walked about the grounds, she began timidly todraw the baronet's attention to the softened tone of the _GreywoldsMercury_.
Sir Malcolm reared his head, and turning upon her a countenance thefeatures of which seemed to stand out with added definiteness, he saidwith haughty distinctness: "I have noticed nothing. What an insolentradical thinks fit to say or not to say, matters nothing to me. Iutterly ignore it. I regard it as I would regard the advocacy ofruffianism by a member of the criminal classes."
"The attacks pained me," began Meg with regretful hesitation, strugglingto master her timidity.
"I know it," replied Sir Malcolm; "and I thank you for your kindheartedness. It was unnecessary pain that you felt. Believe me, thewhole affair was unworthy of your consideration. Disdain is the onlyattitude to assume toward such conduct. No means are too contemptiblefor 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 deeptones, "that liberalism, if mistaken, yet has its principles?"
"Principles!" repeated Sir Malcolm with scornful clearness. "Theburglar, doubtless, has his principles when he picks my lock, and issilent lest he might awake the house. Never mention this man or hispaper 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 alteredtone of the newspaper, and the wish came to her more strongly to thankthe editor for the deference he had paid to her request.
The next day she was driving out with Sir Malcolm. The way home laythrough the straggling market-town, down the High Street, in which stoodthe office of the _Mercury_. The baronet seldom spoke during a drive, hesat back with that cold and distant air which seemed to withdraw himfrom his surroundings. The scene impressed itself and made a picture inMeg's mental vision: the red-tiled roofs of the irregular houses comingout against the lemon sky; the office on the southern side of thethoroughfare, the ugly posters glaring in the late sunlight. As theypassed the office Meg glanced in its direction; her eyes met those of aman emerging from the doorway. It was the editor. A chill force, thatseemed to emanate from the white-haired immobile presence by her side,compelled her to withdraw her eyes and turn them coldly away. It was butfor a flash, then Meg looked round to bow and smile her thanks; but theeditor had already turned away and was walking with swift, long stridesup the street.
Self-upbraidings kept Meg silent during the drive home. The opportunitythat she had wished for, of showing to this stranger that she thankedhim for his generous fulfillment of the promise he had given to her, hadpresented itself, and she had used the opportunity to wound him. She satstill and unhappy. In the loneliness of the evening, the pain of havingoffered what might well be interpreted as an affront by one who had beenkind made her restless. A feverish longing came to her to remove thehurt she had given. She thought she would write to this stranger whoseemed a friend; but when she endeavored to do so she found the task toodifficult. His very name was unknown to her. Allusion to the apparentrudeness of her conduct seemed but to emphasize the incivility she hadoffered and make explanation inadequate. She put down her pen, and setabout thinking once more. She would call upon him and explain! Theresolve brought a sense of flurry; but the more she thought over it themore she grew reconciled to it. She owed it to him. She had been to himin anger and to expostulate; she would go to him now in reconciliationand 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 comewhen she could put it into execution. A fretful apprehension was uponher that she would not be able to fulfill her intention. Sir Malcolmproved that day in a mood for relishing her company. With reluctant feetshe accompanied him in a ramble through the park. She lent aninattentive ear to his reminiscences in stately English of times longpast, of folk who had played their part and were now out of the world'swrangles and reconciliations, its loves, its friendships andestrangements.
Meg was free at last, and with a sense of relief she quickly made herway through the stretching country to the old market town. She did notfalter or slacken her pace until she came within sight of the office,then a sudden shyness overcame her. She took some restless stepsbackward and forward, debating with herself; then the sense that thisstranger 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 andshe went in.
The clerk told her that his master was out. "But I expect him back infive minutes," he added. "Will you walk upstairs, miss?"
Meg was once more shown by her guide into the dingy sanctum. It was asshe had seen it before--littered with books, with strips ofproof-sheets, and dust. It was imbued with a smell of tobacco. Themasculine personality that permeated the room worked upon Meg, andbrought on a fit of shyness more overwhelming than the first. Shame atbeing here came over her, and a longing to escape before the master ofthe place appeared. She determined to scribble off a few words before hereturned.
Writing implements surrounded her on every side. She took up a pen and asheet of paper. As she drew toward her an ink bottle she knockedsomething down on the floor. She stooped to pick it up. As she did so apicture hanging in an obscure corner caught her eye. It was in a rudeframe. It looked like a colored plate cut out of a fashion-book of someyears back. Meg started and drew her breath;
a crowd of emotions passedover her. She knew every cluster of roses on that white ball-dress; sheknew the affected grace of the simpering figure's posture; sheremembered that mended tear right across the page. As she looked at itthe 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, imbuedwith 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 inanerepresentation of a lady, and by his side a child, neglected andforlorn, stood eagerly watching the strong hands as they repaired thebeloved print.
A mist gathered before Meg's eyes. This child in the shabby frock washerself; this battered and mended fashion-plate was the idolizedimaginary picture of her mother. That young man with the kind eyes andthe deft fingers, who was he?
Meg was still gazing at the conventional figure in the ball-dress whenthe door opened, and the editor walked in.
She vaguely recognized that his demeanor was altered. He boweddistantly.
MEG RECOGNIZES THE OLD FASHION-PLATE.--Page 284.]
"I came to thank you and to explain," began Meg, and paused. Memory hadtouched her eyelids and she recognized him. The puzzling recollectionthat had obtruded itself with vague pertinacity asserted itselftriumphantly. She knew now why she had thought of this stranger as afriend.
"To explain?" he repeated; and he, too, paused.
"Yes; about yesterday. I saw you," she said abruptly, almostmechanically, as if speaking by rote and eager to get done; "but I wasafraid to bow to you, because I was with Sir Malcolm Loftdale. It wasmean and weak of me when I owe you so much."
"You owe me nothing. You convinced me, and I acted upon my newconviction," he answered, still in a distant tone.
"I have much to be thankful to you for," she repeated in a voice thatwas 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," heanswered 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 haddied in giving her birth?"
"That is true," he replied. Then he added earnestly, "Do you knowanything of that child? Can you tell me anything about her? I have triedto find her. I have made many efforts to do so, but in vain. I have lostall clew to her."
"Was her name Meg?" she asked.
"Yes, her name was Meg--dear little Meg!" he said, his eyes shiningsoftly, 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, Iunderstood, was Browne."
"Till I went to school I believed my name was Browne; but one day I wastold 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 ather. "Let me prove my identity--put me to the test; you will see howcorrectly I will answer," she said. "I remember the night when you putthat patch on the old fashion-plate. I had crumpled it up in despairbecause 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 quitemotherly with you!"
"Motherly! Grandmotherly! Bless you, little Meg!" he cried, and then helaughed. "Is it you? Is it really you?" and he stretched out his twohands.
Meg placed hers into their clasp. "Yes, it is little Meg for whom youdid 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, stilllooking at her with surprised and friendly eyes.
They fell to chat, interchanging memories of those old childish days. Hewalked with her across the country to the gates of the park, and as theywalked still they chatted of that fond, silly past.