Meg's Friend: A Story for Girls

  CHAPTER XXV.

  FOR "AULD LANG SYNE."

  Although Meg could not explain to herself the right of authority SirMalcolm had over her, she felt it and acknowledged his control. Thetemptation often came to enjoy the society of the friend of herchildhood, but her honest nature shrank from meeting him secretly; andyet the attacks on the old baronet that had appeared in the local paperprecluded the possibility of mentioning to him its editor's name.

  Still she longed to see Mr. Standish. One day she thought she wouldventure to ask Sir Malcolm's permission. She began, blundering a littleabout the debt of gratitude which she owed to him, and which it was herpleasure to acknowledge; his wishes, she said, would ever influence herin her acts and her conduct. Then, with a blush, she admitted there wassomething she wished to do, for which she wished to get his permission.Meg was amazed at the manner in which the old gentleman met heradvances. He distinctly disclaimed any shadow of authority over her.

  "But you have been so good to me, sir," she replied. "But for you, whenI ran away from school----"

  "When you ran away from school," he interrupted with unexpectedcoldness. "I was almost inclined, when you refused to enter thecarriage, to leave you on the road. If I have given you protection it isfor reasons I do not care to explain. I have told you, I do not wantgratitude. 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 ownmistress. Keep your secrets if you have any. I do not demand yourconfidence."

  "Free as air!" rang through Meg's heart. "I am my own mistress; free tomeet my friend again."

  After this extraordinary ebullition of candor from Sir Malcolm, the oldgentleman's kindness seemed to regain its late level. Meg even fanciedthat he was kinder, as if he endeavored thus to salve any wound to herfeelings which his temporary harshness might have occasioned.

  Still he had said she was free as air, and Meg now felt justified inacting as her heart impelled her. The winter came and went, but itbrought no sense of dreariness or bleakness to Meg. She had found thefriend of her childhood, and the reflection of her childhood's daysshone over everything. It was no wonder that she felt some of the charmof the old companionship with him who had been good to her when all theworld had neglected her; and the memory of whose kindness had set a haloabout the memory of her forlorn life.

  She asked herself no questions concerning the nature of this newinterest; she knew only that until it came back to her she was as onewalled in, and without daylight. The real Meg had lived captive in astate of repression; to no one had she ventured to tell her impressions;but to this friend she could speak of the most trivial event, andconfide the most intimate thought. He drew her out with a franktenderness that won her simple trust. There grew a fascination to walkand to talk with him; to tell him all that had happened to her since theday of their parting. She had never forgotten him; the thought of himhad ever dwelt in her mind, ready to start up and welcome him at hiscoming. And although it was still her pleasure and her duty to ministerto her benefactor's need, yet by his own injunction she felt herselffree to yield to the refreshment and delight of those meetings.

  They met at sunset, after the journalist's work was done, in the woodbehind the house; and their trysting-place was an elm.

  "It looks like an old wizard," said Mr. Standish, pointing to theleafless tree standing gaunt against the dying light.

  "Old Merlin!" said Meg; "and there is the eerie brightness about him. Heis going to throw a spell over us."

  The prediction proved true; a spell was cast about Meg's life, and sheloved 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 andlonging than did Meg feel in anticipation of some new chat with the lostfriend whom she had found again. Endless, endless appeared to her thesources of interesting conversation and of sentiment that he had at hiscommand, and each time they met and talked it seemed to her that heopened a new world of thought and imagination for her spirit to dwellin.

  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 achild who has never seen the sea, now picking up rainbow shells by theshore; every shell different in the heap lying beside her in a gloriouschance medley.

  Sometimes he entertained her with scenes of travel, of striving andsuccess. Sometimes they interchanged memories, mutually reminding eachother of incidents in the past. With grave humor, followed by heartylaughter, he would describe the part she had played in some scene whereshe had behaved with great motherliness and dignity toward him. He wouldtell her how she had never despaired of him, although the bailiffs wereafter him.

  "But I was a sad trouble to you, Meg," he vowed. "You were a littletyrant then. Where is all that tyranny gone?"

  "You give me no excuse to exercise it," she replied one day. "Theinstinct may be there still; but you are so good, so absorbed in worknow."

  "Ah, if you only knew it!" he exclaimed. "Little Meg would have beenmore quick-sighted. She would have sternly reproved me, and preached tome 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 ofprint. It is what the hungry printer clamors for, and looks very blackwhen he does not get."

  Meg laughed.

  "You speak as if printers were wild beasts fed with leaders on schemesfor extending the franchise or removing some dowdy old tax."

  "Well, well, I am a humbug. All the time that I am writing these leadersI am thinking of coming to see you; I hurry through my work in order tobe 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 yoreis in those accents," he replied with a laugh. "No, Meg, I work all thebetter to earn my play."

  "Your play?" she said slowly, with a slight emphasis on the word; andshe was silent awhile. The expression remained with her, casting itslittle shadow of doubt, and she would harp back upon it.

  "Is this your play?" she would question gravely, when he said anythingcomplimentary.

  They had their merry wrangles, their desperate fallings-out, theirpretty makings-up. Meg, with characteristic repartees, parried histhrusts, and their intercourse was sweet with wholesome laughter. Witha blunt playfulness she met anything approaching to sentiment.

  "While I was waiting," he said one day, "there was a little bird upthere--you'll hear it--which continually says, 'She'll come! she'llcome!'"

  "And I heard a cuckoo in the wood as I came along," she replied; "hecried nothing but 'Copy! copy! copy!'"

  "It must have been the printer's devil," he said, "when I was taking aholiday."

  An innocent coquetry, which was the simple outcome of delight in herever-growing happiness, would tinge her manner with a little salt ofaggressiveness. She sometimes played at making him jealous.

  She was late one day; she had been detained, she explained, by afascinating 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 toanother topic.

  "You do not ask his name," she said; "yet this fascinating creature mademe 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 thename of the country bumpkin?"

  "Country bumpkin, indeed! He wears a coat the fit of which the mostfashionable tailor might well envy the secret of its cut--a coat blackand glossy, with just a touch of white at the throat."
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  "The rector. I knew it. Confess it is the rector," Mr. Standish said withfinger 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 greetingalmost 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, andpaused.

  "Well," said Mr. Standish, "who is he?"

  "My charmer of the admirable coat, the impressive mustache, and thesplendid eyes is--well--my black cat. He it was who received mecordially, sat by my fire, purred a welcome, and followed me about witha tail straight as that;" and she lifted her parasol to a perpendicular.

  Sometimes the talk drifted to Sir Malcolm's son, who had been theeditor's friend, and whose portrait, turned to the wall, appealed with apiteous 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 hecommitted which rankled deepest in the old baronet's mind was an actionthat came nearer to a virtue."

  "What was that fault?" she asked.

  "He married the woman he loved. She was the prettiest, sweetest woman Iever saw. Absurd as it may seem, Meg, the first time I saw you grown upyou reminded me of her. It was simply fancy, of course the likeness islost now. It seems to have gone out."

  "Do you think it was because of this marriage that his portrait wasturned to the wall?" persisted Meg.

  "I think so. At least this I know: Sir Malcolm never forgave thatmarriage."

  "But why?" asked Meg.

  "Because she was poor and brave enough to work for her living. Ibelieve she was a governess; but her trials came after their marriage.His debts accumulated, his father was unforgiving; he sometimes had tohide."

  "What became of her?" still questioned Meg.

  "She died when her child was born. After her death he certainly grewmore reckless. He was unhappy, and I think he had some remorse. Themarriage 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 somuch, 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 sonwho was the friend for whom you almost beggared yourself?"

  "And for having done which, do you remember, you stroked my head?" hereplied smilingly.

  She answered him with a blush only.

  Sometimes he spoke to her as to a comrade out of the fund of his largeexperience and knowledge. His interest in the working classes appealedto her, and life seemed to grow wider from the solicitude that hebrought into it for others. There grew every day in her heart areliance, a sort of wide faith in him, as if all he said and thoughtmust be right.

  The winter passed and the spring came round; the sap rose in the earthand the pulses of nature quickened.

  They met oftener. Sometimes they wandered forth to meet each other inthe dewy mornings, when the fields shone like gossamer. There, in thewoods, where the birds wearied themselves for listeners, they came onthe scene. Meg would bid him forget his politics, his ink-bottle, inhonor of all the loveliness around.

  "Look at this clump of daffodils," she said one morning when a mood ofmirthful raillery was upon her, pointing to the silly flowers. "Don'tthey look like Hebes drooping their gold cups? Ah! everything is youngand merry, sir, but your old politics--your dull old politics."

  Then he vowed he would never talk politics to her again, upon which shecoaxed and played the little siren until he relented, complaining thatshe honeycombed his will by her cajoleries.

  An exaltation stirred Meg's spirit--the girl who had been silent andreserved was full of innocent gayety; and still that companionship withone 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 himfor some time there were no meetings at the elm. Then she becameconscious of the value of the enchantment this new-found relationshipbrought into her life; and when they met again she was aware of a subtlechange in the sentiment with which she regarded the relations betweenMr. Standish and herself.

  While compelling herself to greet him with the same equablefriendliness, she was often chilled by the awkwardness ofself-restraint. The facile word lagged when she tried to assume anattitude of bantering reserve, and her sincere nature oftener hid itselfbehind that of shy formality. She would then gravely inquire of hiswork, awkwardly plunge into politics or surface topics, but after awhilein his reassuring presence the pain of her embarrassed spirit wouldvanish, and she would feel comforted. In the sweetness of restoredharmony between them, after the jar of repression, her heart wouldexpand, and again she would weave around him a web of delicate sympathyand winsome pleasantry. She would be a child again, and would displayher old quickness of mood to suit his disposition--gay when he wished tobe gay, serious when he was serious, silent when he was inclined forsilence. In this childlike docility and wistful eagerness to please himdwelt the old wakeful and sensitive pride, quick to take alarm, easilyperplexed. The happy confidence would take flight like a frightenedbird, the laughter of her heart would be quenched, the trustfulapproaches of her spirit checked as quickly as had been those of thesusceptible child, so coy and yet so devoted.

  One day he did not come. In the evening she received a note ofexplanation. He had been detained by business; he had come too late, andhe had waited, hoping some kindly inspiration would lead her to see ifhe had kept tryst after the appointed hour. But she had not come. Wouldshe 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 atonce, 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 shefelt about to cry for being imprisoned there. The raindrops began tosaturate 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 hemight come in time to deliver it. She heard steps approaching, and shekept her eyes sternly before her. It was only a countrywoman with sloppyshoes. Her heart went down, and tears rushed to her eyes; and so fullwas she of her grievance that when he joined her with the rain streamingfrom his hat she started, not having heard him come, and all herprepared 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 saidearnestly.

  "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 telegramfrom London upon which I was obliged to write a short article which keptme. That article was written in such desperation that I shall be afraidto 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 comingright 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 anundignified retreat. Before you have gone a hundred yards you will beobliged to break into a run, and finally make another stage under yonderelm tree, where I will rejoin you; and then we will begin all overagain. Nothing like a good rainstorm for a reconciliation. But all thegrace of it is gone. Come now, I have felt the first menacing drop uponmy nose. Make friends, it says."

  She loo
ked at him with scrutinizing gravity, then a smile broke.

  "I cannot resist the drop's appeal," she replied with a laugh, and sheput 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 waitednearly twenty minutes yesterday."

  "I waited two hours," he replied.

  "But you came at a wrong hour," she said. "I came at the hour youappointed. 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 forgivennow."

  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 toher--of his nature. But after a time his manner changed; a melancholygrew 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 yourchildhood. But you are a child no longer. Perhaps we had better think ofone another, and cease those happy walks."

  "Cease those walks!" she exclaimed with a gasp in her voice. He remainedsilent. Then she said proudly: "If you think so, really--" but her voicefailed, and with a sudden cry she exclaimed, "I knew it could notlast--that you must tire of me."

  "Tire of you, Meg!" he cried, facing round upon her. "It is because Ilove you that I say this. But it is not as the friend of your childhoodthat I love you. We must make no mistake. I love you as the man lovesthe one woman in all the world he wants for his wife. If you cannotaccept 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 thethrill 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 hadmissed--a mystery of spiritual identity with the Meg of long ago,glimmerings of which he had caught--had waked up. It was the child grownto be a woman--endowed with a woman's soul, gifted with a thousandfoldpowers of feeling. She did not speak; her silence, her quiveringfeatures, her kindling countenance answered him.

  "Meg!" he said in a low voice, and bending forward he drew her to him.