“_Pray, goody, please to moderate the rancour of your tongue._”
Meg did not see Robert for a week after that memorable walk. The days
of his absence were not sweetened by the comments of her aunt. “I knew
he would grow tired of being pursued. Men are not won that way,” was
the remark, with variations, which greeted the girl every day of the
seven during which she did not have the saving grace of Robert’s
presence to help her endure the torture.
All that was broad and sweet in her nature rejected the imprecations,
but what there was of suspicion, engendered by the loveless home life
she had led, listened to her tormentor.
It was not surprising, therefore, that she became irritable and
nervous. It was in this mood that Robert found her, when, after his
week of battle, he again walked up the narrow, flower-bordered path. It
seemed to him that he had never really been there before. Just as Meg,
after the great revelation, had appeared in a new light, so now did her
surroundings.
There was a certain tender gravity in his face as he offered her his
hand, which she purposely ignored. He flushed at this, but being
familiar with her somewhat prickly disposition, saw nothing significant
in her refusal to shake hands with him. “How is Aunt Amelia?” he asked
idly, as he seated himself.
“As ravishingly disagreeable as usual, thank you,” was the somewhat
snappy retort.
“Has your supply of kerosene oil run out? You don’t seem to have been
lighting the piano-lamp lately, with the music-box accompaniment.”
She almost smiled, but thought better of it, and replied, “My ambition
in that line has been nearly killed for lack of encouragement. Candles
and a jew’s-harp are about as near as I can approach to my shaded
lights and soft music.”
After a pause she said: “I’m sorry she’s not here just now. It will
grieve her to learn that she has missed a gentleman caller. They are
not standing in line any longer, so she can’t afford to lose one.”
“I did not come to see your aunt.”
Meg ignored his remark, and kept on: “She heard this morning of a new
skin balm, and she has torn madly down town to procure it. She will be
in rare good-humor when she returns. She always is after buying
something to enhance her beauty.”
Robert was watching her face with intense interest as she talked, and
made no reply.
“It’s something _all_ the time,” she complained; “either her face is
smeared with grease, or thick with some chalky mixture which gives her
a clown-like appearance, or else,—oh, the worst of all, the very limit,
was the rubber mask! While she wore that I used to lock my door at
night for fear she would come in my room for something, and scare me
into spasms!”
As she talked a severe expression came into Robert’s face. “Margie!” he
remonstrated.
It was the first time he had used the dear name by which her mother had
called her, in spite of his threat to do so, and though she felt the
reproof of his tone, she thrilled when he spoke it. “Do you know,” he
began, “that your comments on your aunt are, to say the least in poor
taste?”
She flushed deeply, but there was defiance in her voice and in the tilt
of her head. “Why don’t you say outright that I am a vulgar, ill-bred,
common little thing?” she demanded.
“Because I don’t think it.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” she retorted angrily. “I just wish you had to live
with Aunt Amelia! It might shake a little of the priggishness out of
you! You don’t seem to understand that I would go mad if I couldn’t
take it out in ridiculing her.”
His face softened, but before he could speak, she said in a hard,
expressionless tone, entirely devoid of the passion which had just
marked her utterances: “You will be leaving soon to enter your
monastery. I suppose it is proper to wish you _bon voyage_, as one does
people about to embark upon a long journey.”
His face went from red to white, and he studied his shoes, as though
trying to make up his mind to speak. Then he said slowly and
hesitatingly, “Let us not talk of that now. What are you reading?” and
reaching over, he lifted the book from the bench beside her where she
had dropped it on his approach.
“Nothing which would interest you,” she said tartly; “just the story of
a son’s devotion to his mother.”
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded sternly.
“Oh, nothing at all,” was the light reply; “you are more interested,
are you not, in foot-washing, shaven heads and cowls?”
He rose instantly, his face dark with passion, but as he talked, it
cleared, till in the end it was serene and calm. “I understand you now.
You take this means, this cruel means of wounding me, so that I would
know of your indifference. I have been having a mighty battle with
myself, as between my church and my love for you. And, though I should
blush to own it, my love won.”
He paused a brief second. She, too, was standing, and she was trembling
with emotion, but he did not observe it, nor that her lips were
quivering. “I came here to-day to ask you to marry me. I was willing to
forego the vows I was about to take, for which I have been preparing
all my life.”
He took a step nearer, and looked down at her. “Margie, I love you so!
I did not know such a thing existed as this fire which has permeated my
entire being! It will be my curse in my chosen life, because I will
never be able to concentrate my mind on the work before me. Your face
will be always between me and my duty. I could almost hate you for
shattering all the hopes and aspirations of a lifetime!”
He waited for some sign that she heard him, but she stood like a piece
of marble. “Yet perhaps had you loved me, and we had married, I would
neither be happy, nor cause you to be. So, though you are dearer to me
than all the world, dearer than the cloistered life I thought would be
all-sufficing, I thank you for not returning my love.”
Wheeling abruptly, he walked down the path to the gate.
“Oh,” she whispered to herself, wringing her hands together, “he thanks
me for not loving him!”