Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: “Meg”]
MEG, OF VALENCIA
BY
MYRA WILLIAMS JARRELL
MONOTYPED BY
CRANE & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
TOPEKA, KANSAS
1905
This little book is lovingly dedicated to my parents.
“’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print:
A book’s a book, although there’s nothing in’t.”
CHAPTER I.
“What’s in a name?”
When Mr. Robert Spencer was annoyed, he made it known by pacing the
floor with his hands under his coat-tails. When he was pleased, he
quickened the pace, and his hands caused his coat-tails to stand out in
a most jaunty and undignified manner. He was pacing up and down a
handsomely furnished room, one bright May morning, with annoyance
visibly depicted in every line of his coat-tails.
The other occupant of the room, his sister, was watching him with an
expression half amused, half sad. They were much alike, both sandy in
coloring, and both wearing the same humorous, half-quizzical smile,
which in her was saddened by the loss her deep mourning indicated. She
had never been a handsome woman, but she possessed an attractiveness
far greater than that of mere outward beauty.
Suddenly her brother paused in front of her and began explosively: “I
tell you it’s tommy-rot. And it’s all because you wouldn’t call him
Bob! How the deuce do you expect a boy you have called ‘Robert’ for
twenty-five years, to have any worldly sense?”
“Wait a minute, Bob,” interrupted his sister, quietly; “how could I be
expected to call such a splendid boy anything else? ‘Bob,’ for him,
would have been nothing short of sacrilege,—no offense meant, my dear
brother.”
“Don’t mention it,” he growled; “but I protest that you can make or mar
a boy by a name. You called him ‘Robert.’ What was the result?”
“Very fine, I call it.”
Unheeding the interruption, he continued in a mocking voice: “Lacy
dresses which he never tore, wax dolls, kittens, and long curls. Now
that just naturally led up to books, study, church!”
“That is a combination few people object to, Bob,” his sister gently
interpolated.
“If taken in moderation, my dear Stella,—in homeopathic doses. Your boy
went on the principle by which some people govern their
medicine-taking, that if a little is good, much is better.”
He paused for her reply, but as she was evidently waiting for the close
of his harangue, he continued: “Now, look here. Suppose you had called
him ‘Bob.’ There would have been no long curls or doll-rags for him. It
would have been baseball, marbles, fresh air, boy friends. And now,
hang it all, look at him now!”
Mrs. Malloy sat up with dignity, and asked, “Well, what of him now?”
“That’s just it,” he sputtered. “If he wasn’t so handsome, manly,
honest and lovable, I wouldn’t care; but to think of all those virtues
being shut up in a monastery, makes me wish I were a profane man, so I
could ease my mind by swearing.”
Mrs. Malloy had become very white, and she made no answer. Her brother
glanced at her, and added softly, dropping into a chair by her side:
“It’s all because he was brought up in that Faith. I don’t see how you
could do it, Stella.”
“You forget,” she answered sadly; “it was John’s religion, and it was
understood that he should do that if he were so inclined.”
“But John never meant for you to be left alone in the world. He
wouldn’t have wanted the boy to leave you, if he had known.”
“Perhaps not,” she said with white lips, “but I would not lay one straw
in the way, or stand between my boy and what he considers his duty.”
“Duty be—,” vociferated Mr. Spencer. “I beg your pardon, Stella,—it
almost slipped out. But can’t the young whelp see where his duty is?
Now, don’t be angry, Stella. Do you think I wouldn’t whale any other
man within an inch of his life if he called the boy that?”
“Nothing is gained by discussing it,” Mrs. Malloy wearily replied, “and
I insist that you say nothing to Robert on the subject. His mind is
quite made up, quite. He believes it to be his father’s wish. He does
not know but that it is mine, though it is, as you say, not my faith.”
“‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow,’” quoted Mr.
Spencer, softly.
“To say anything to him would make him very unhappy, but would not
alter his decision.”
“Perhaps some way may yet be found,” he ventured.
“I am sure nothing would change him. You see, he has had this idea ever
since he was a mere child. It has grown with him. It is so interwoven
with the very fibres of his being that it could not be uprooted. No,
no, Bob, it will have to stand. If I can bear it, surely you can.”
“If _you_ can bear it,” he answered. “Oh, yes, you can bear it. You
will wave your handkerchief and smile as the gates close upon him, and
then you’ll come home and die of a broken heart!”
“Don’t,—don’t,” she begged, piteously.
“Forgive me, Stella; I didn’t mean to hurt you so. But I’ve a scheme to
stop this foolishness and make you happy, and the boy, too.”
She shook her head hopelessly, but her brother patted her on the
shoulder and said, “But yes, I say. Will you be a party to it?”
For one moment her eyes flashed up with a look of hope, then it died
out as she said slowly, “I cannot conspire against my boy and what I
know to be his earnest desire.”
“Well, don’t,” was the brusque reply. “Your co-operation isn’t
necessary anyway. But you and Robert will come next week to visit me as
you promised, won’t you?”
After Mrs. Malloy nodded in reply, he walked out of the room with his
coat-tails expressing satisfaction.
He had not been gone long when the door was gently opened, and a young
man entered. Coming up to Mrs. Malloy, he stooped and kissed her on the
forehead. The look of passionate adoration she gave him was not
surprising, for he was undeniably good to gaze upon. He was tall, well
formed and athletic in build, with the fresh coloring, the warm, honest
gray eyes, clear-cut features and rippling dark hair of a long race of
Celtic ancestors. His brow was frank and noble, his smile charming.
There was nothing about him to suggest the parochial calling he was
about to adopt. He looked merely a healthy, wholesome, happy and
unusually handsome young fellow.
“Always cheerful, little mother,” he said, balancing himself on the arm
of her chair, and meeting her smile with tender, earnest eyes. “That
thought makes me very happy, for I know you are never lonely, and will
not mope after I am gone, as some mothers would.”
Her face blanched; with teeth shut hard together, she pressed her face
against his sleeve until she could control her voice, and finally
answered: “No, I was never given to moping, my son. But to be
irrelevant, I promised Uncle Bob that we would go to Valencia next week
and stay with him through the summer.”
“That will be jolly; I think I would enjoy one good old spree of that
sort before—”
“Let’s go out and find Uncle Bob,” said his mother quickly.