CHAPTER IV.
FAREWELL.
There followed a time of perfect happiness for Meg, during which, for afew weeks, she sat by her friend's fireside, watched him at his writing,listened to his reading, ruled over the meals that he took at home, andquestioned him concerning those that he took abroad.
On a memorable afternoon they celebrated together, with much pomp, overa banquet of jam puffs and lemonade at a confectioner's shop in theTottenham Court Road, the redemption from pawn of his father's goldwatch and chain. Meg again played the part of _Deus ex machina_ in thetransaction, and personally paid the ransom of the precious pledge. Inhonor of the event, Mr. Standish presented her with a copy ofGoldsmith's "Animated Nature," with "Meg" printed in gold letters on thecover. The sight of her name thus honored overcame the child. Heexplained to her, when she appeared inclined to rebuke him forextravagance that the political squib, the jokes which used to have adepressing effect upon her, had brought him the unlooked-for cash.
Shortly after this festivity Mr. Standish's movements once more becameerratic. Meg could discover no signs, however, of the symptoms that shefeared. He seemed mysteriously elated and full of business, yet he wroteless. He admitted when she questioned him that something was absorbinghis time, but his answers were evasive concerning the nature of this newinterest. He promised that she would know what it was shortly.
One day Mr. Standish had a long talk with Mrs. Browne over a bottle ofsherry, after which he went out and returned late. The landlady wasmaudlinly effusive over Meg that evening, puzzled the child with herramblingly affectionate talk, and filled her with vague apprehension.Mr. Standish's answers to Meg's queries were also unsatisfactory.
A few days later a dandified elderly gentleman wearing a frilled shirtvisited the journalist. As he was leaving Mr. Standish called Meg in,and introduced her to the visitor as "the child I spoke to you about."The elderly gentleman looked at her peeringly, with his head on oneside. He chuckled, patted her cheek, and told her if she were a goodgirl something wonderful might happen to her. The announcement, farfrom cheering Meg, deepened the foreboding in her heart.
That evening she softly entered Mr. Standish's room. A confused dreadseized her when she saw the floor littered with books and papers lyingabout in parcels. The journalist was sitting by the fire, abstractedlypoking the embers.
Meg touched his elbow. "Are you not going to write to-night?" she askedin a low voice.
"Not to-night, Meg. I am going to talk to you instead."
She remained motionless by his chair, questioning him with her glanceonly.
Still he did not speak. After a moment or two he said abruptly, "Megwould you like to go to school?"
"I go to school every day. What do you mean?" she asked, looking at himwith quick suspicion.
"I mean quite another sort of school--one kept by ladies, and where yourschoolfellows would be ladies; where you would make lots of nicefriends; and where you will sleep at night instead of----"
"You mean go away from here--quite?" interrupted Meg, growing pale tothe lips.
"Yes," he answered.
"What do you want me to go away for?" she demanded, a flash of anger inher eyes.
"Because I do not like to leave you with no one but Mrs. Browne to lookafter you; and I am going away."
"When?" she asked tremulously.
"To-morrow."
She gave an exclamation that sounded like a cry.
He drew her to him.
"Listen, Meg. It will make me very unhappy if I think you are frettingwhen I am gone. I want my little friend to be brave; she must not fret."
"Where are you going?" she faltered, mastering her emotion.
"I am going to travel and write accounts of what I see, for a newspaperthat will pay me very well. It is a great lift for me, Meg, and I wantyou to have your lift also."
She did not speak, but kept her eyes fixed upon his face. He then gentlyand guardedly told her that he had got from Mrs. Browne the name of thefamily solicitor who paid for her keep. He had gone to see him to speakof Meg. The elderly gentleman with the frilled shirt, who had patted heron the head, was the solicitor in question. His name was Mr. Fullbloom.The young man did not tell the child that he had found out howshamefully misapplied by the landlady was the allowance she received,nor did he tell her that he had made in writing a vivid statement ofher forlorn and neglected condition in the boarding-house.
He laid as light stress as he could on the refusal of the solicitor togive up the name of the child's mysterious patron.
"Some one takes a great interest in you, Meg," he said in conclusion;"and Mr. Fullbloom came to assure me from that person that you would nowbe placed in a first-rate school, where you will have plenty of comradesof your own age, teachers who will care for you; and you will grow up tobe a little lady, like your mother in the picture."
Meg listened cold and silent to the end.
"Won't you be glad to go to school to be educated?"
"No," she answered, stiffening herself and jerking out her words,relapsing in her excitement into her old pronunciation. "I will hategoing. I don't want to be edicated. What do I want to be edicated for?And if you cared for me you would not wish me to go away, you wouldnot."
Tears stood in her eyes, but anger kept them from falling.
"Do you wish to remain here when I am gone Meg?" he asked.
"No," she replied faintly, as if her heart failed her at the suggestion."Why can't I go where you go? Who'll light your fire for you, who'lllook after you? You want somebody to look after you."
"I know it, Meg, and no one would look after me as you would."
"I'd not want much to eat or drink," Meg went on, alive to theeconomical side of the question; "and once you said you felt lonelywithout me."
"So I will, Meg," he answered, drawing her nearer and keeping his armabout her. "And it is just because I care for you that I want you to goto school, that I want you to learn all that can be taught you. I wantyour little hands to grow soft, that now are hard with housework forme."
The child's face worked, but she controlled the rising sob.
"Listen, Meg. It may be in five years, it may be in six years, it may bewhen you are a tall, accomplished young girl of eighteen, I shall cometo the school where you are, and--" He paused.
"Take me home to be your housekeeper?" said Meg.
A laugh drifted to his face.
"Better than that. We will be friends, close friends, such friends asnever were, if you go to this school," he said.
"You promise?" said the child, holding him with her eyes.
He nodded. "I promise, Meg."
"Then I will go to that school," she said submissively, putting her handinto his.
Until eight o'clock, when she usually said good-night, Meg helped Mr.Standish to pack up. She asked to be allowed to remain up a littlelonger, but he refused the petition.
"It is not good-by, Meg; it is good-night only," he said cheerily,stroking her head; then stooping, he kissed the child's forehead. "Godbless you, little Meg!"
Meg did not go to bed. She made no pretense to undress. She lay on thefloor of her attic all night, letting the solitude of the coming yearspass in anticipation over her heart. In the gray of the morning somefurtive sounds reached her ears, and she sprang up listening. A fewmoments after, Mr. Standish, portmanteau in hand, emerged from his room.A gray little figure stood waiting for him in the dim dawn, as it hadwaited for him once before. It was Meg, pressing something to her heart.
"My child, I had hoped, I had planned to avoid this for you," he said."I hoped you would be asleep."
MEG PRESENTS THE OLD FASHION-PLATE TO HER FRIEND.--Page61.]
The child's lips moved, but she did not speak. Abruptly stretching outthe hand that she had held pressed against her bosom she putsomething into his. It was the fashion-plate that had been to her as hermother's portrait.
"Is that for me, Meg?" he asked.
She nodded.
"I'll kee
p it safe. I'll give it back to you, Meg, when we meet again,"he replied, tenderly folding the battered print and laying it inside hispocket-book.
The child kept a stern silence.
"We'll meet again, Meg; I promise you that. Poor little Meg!" he saidfeelingly. "It is hard for you; but I will write to you--I will write.No one will ever care for me as you have cared."
He kissed her, and as still she preserved the stern silence of repressedgrief he turned quickly away. As he ran down he looked back and saw thechild watching him, with her face thrust through the banisters.
He waved his hand to her and smiled. The next moment the hall doorclapped below, and from above there came the sound of sobbing in thedarkness.