“A child of our grandmother Eve, a female;
or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman.”
The life which opened up for Robert Malloy was so full of surprises,
new sensations and experiences, that he was both bewildered and
delighted.
His uncle watched him hopefully, his mother anxiously. There could be
no doubt that she would have welcomed anything which would turn her son
from his desire, but she was paradoxically jealous for the strength of
character and singleness of purpose which had determined him for the
life which would take him from her. Also, she could not be certain that
he would be happy, should he walk into the trap so obviously set for
him by his uncle.
A few weeks after they reached Valencia she had a chance to study Meg
more closely, and to obtain an insight into the character of the girl
who puzzled her, and who very evidently attracted her son. There was
something so subtle and elusive about her, that Mrs. Malloy, with her
ear attuned to simplicity and directness, had not been able to form an
opinion concerning her.
She had taken a favorite book and started for a quiet spot in the woods
adjoining her brother’s place, when she met Meg. The girl flushed with
pleasure when Mrs. Malloy asked her to join her. There was little said
by either as they walked along, yet there was no constraint. Finally
Mrs. Malloy turned to her companion and said smilingly, “I believe you
are one of those rare persons who are good company without saying a
word.”
Meg laughed as she answered, “I hope I know the value of silence.”
Just then Meg’s quick eyes detected a little bird which had been
wantonly shot, and was lying under the tree where probably it had made
its home. Picking it up, she murmured a few broken words of pity, which
might have been a requiem over the little dead body.
“Isn’t it cruel?” she asked, raising her lovely dark-lashed eyes to
Mrs. Malloy’s face, “and so useless,—a little bird that never harmed
anyone,—and not even good to eat,” she added mournfully.
Mrs. Malloy was impelled to laugh, though she, too, felt the pity of
it.
They finally sat down under a large tree, whose branches afforded a
refreshing shade. Leaning her back against the tree, and sighing
restfully, Mrs. Malloy turned to look at her companion. Meg wore the
most inexpensive white dress, but she wore it as she did all of her
home-made clothes, like a small princess.
As she sat there, with her hands clasped around her knees, and her
small head, with its refractory reddish hair, drooping, there was a
pathetic look about her that went straight to Mrs. Malloy’s warm heart.
She put her hand out and slightly touching Meg’s shoulder, said softly:
“You look unhappy, dear,—sort of lonely. Can I help you?”
The girl’s face changed instantly, and looking up at Mrs. Malloy she
said gayly, “But I’m not lonely,—not now.”
Mrs. Malloy withdrew her hand and said simply, “Pardon me. I no doubt
seemed intrusive.”
“_You_ intrusive! oh, dear Mrs. Malloy, you _couldn’t_ be intrusive!
Why, if you should tell me my hair was red, I would not be offended.
And that’s what I wouldn’t take from anyone else,” she added under her
breath.
“Well, I won’t be so rude, nor so untruthful. It is beautiful auburn, a
color I’ve always liked.”
“Of course,” Meg admitted reluctantly, “it isn’t exactly the color one
could wear red with,—not but what I would if I wanted to.”
Mrs. Malloy threw her head back and laughed, and her laugh was as
pleasant as it was rare.
Meg looked at her in a pleased manner. Then Mrs. Malloy said: “What a
spunky little girl you are! It’s regular red-headed spunk, though of
course your hair is not red. My dear, it’s a blessing you are so
independent, having no one to do your fighting for you.”
The wistful look came back into Meg’s eyes as she answered: “It has
never seemed just right that I didn’t have a father, or mother, or even
a big brother to take care of me. Sometimes,—” there was a little catch
in her voice,—“oh, dear Mrs. Malloy, sometimes I feel as if there were
no fight left in me!”
“You poor little thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Malloy, reaching out for her
hand, “this is really yourself that I see now,—a little tame canary
made wild because it has no one to shield it, and must look out for
itself!”
Meg looked at her adoringly.
“You are the first person I have ever known who has seemed to
understand me, and somehow, I feel that my mother was like you. You
won’t laugh at me or tell any one if I tell you something?” she asked
anxiously.
“You may count on my silence and sympathy, dear.”
“When I was a little girl, my principal amusement was to ‘pretend’
things. I would pretend I was a princess, or something else equally
improbable. One day, I wanted some one else to play with me so badly,
that I told Aunt Amelia about it.”
“Yes?” queried Mrs. Malloy softly, as she paused.
“Oh, she slapped me, told me I was nothing but an ugly, red-headed
little object of charity, and not to go imagining any more nonsense.”
Mrs. Malloy bit her lip to keep back the disparaging words which longed
for utterance. Instead, she stroked the hand she held, and Meg
continued:
“Since then I have played my little games by myself. Sometimes I go up
to the attic, where I have a trunk containing mother’s things. I put on
her dress and apron, and take a piece of crochet work in my hands,—the
one she was making when she was taken sick,—and then I pretend that I
am she, and that I am there, too,—you understand?”
Mrs. Malloy nodded. “And then I talk as I know she would talk to me if
she were here. I give myself lectures for my frivolity, and good
advice,—and,—and,—oh, I say the tender little things that I know she
would say, and that no one ever does——” She stopped, and began to sob
quietly.
Mrs. Malloy drew her up beside her, so that the little red head rested
on her shoulder. There were unshed tears in her eyes, which had looked
out bravely and hopefully upon a world that had little enough to offer
her, and she felt, in this moment, that a very strong bond was between
this girl, almost a stranger, and herself.