“Unto every one that hath shall be given, and he
shall have abundance; but from him that hath not
shall be taken away even that which he hath.”
Meg did not see Robert again before he left. Mrs. Malloy she saw only
for a moment, in the presence of her aunt, when she came to tell them
“Good-bye.” “We leave to-morrow,” she explained with an attempt at a
smile; “Robert has only six weeks more of liberty.”
They looked into each other’s eyes, the two women who loved him. Soul
recognized soul, and Meg, throwing her arms around his mother,
whispered, “God give you strength to bear it.”
For reply, Mrs. Malloy clasped her close a moment and said so low that
Mrs. Weston could not hear, though she strained her ears. “If I find I
cannot bear it alone, and send for you, will you come?”
Meg could only nod. A moment more, and she was gone. Meg stood staring
after her till her aunt’s rasping voice broke the spell: “Do you want
the neighbors to say that you are dying of love for that young man? No?
Well, then, don’t act so mawkish about his mother!”
Meg could stand no more, and ran up to her room to escape the
persecution.
The days dragged on hopelessly and drearily. One day, about three weeks
after Robert’s departure, Ada Walker came to see her. She looked very
pretty in her mourning-clothes, and her face wore a pensive air which
was becoming to her.
“I have come to say ‘Good-bye,’” was her greeting. “Good-bye!” asked
Meg in astonishment.
“Yes, I am going to put Gertie in boarding-school, and then I am going
East to study music.”
“And the home?”
“I have sold that,” was the reply.
“Sold Charlie’s home!” gasped the girl.
“Certainly. He always wanted me to keep up my music, and I couldn’t be
bothered with a house.”
Meg said nothing. “You know, Meg, Charlie would have wished it,” she
said somewhat peevishly.
“Yes, Charlie would have wanted you to do just as you wished,” replied
Meg drearily. Then suddenly she burst into tears, and throwing her arms
around Ada’s neck, cried, “Oh, I can’t bear to see you go! You are all
of Charlie that is left to me, and _everybody_ is going from me!”
Ada looked surprised at her burst of emotion, and said patronizingly:
“Why, I didn’t know that you cared so much! We people of deeper
feelings are sometimes at a loss to understand you frivolous ones!”
The words acted like a tonic on Meg, who dried her eyes, and said with
bitter lightness, “You must allow us frivolous ones to mope
occasionally. We are not always gay.”
“I suppose not,” said her cousin, eyeing her disapprovingly.
After she had gone Meg went up to the attic where she kept the little
trunk containing her mother’s things. Unlocking it, she clothed herself
in the dress and apron of which she had spoken to Mrs. Malloy. With the
addition the spectacles, the use of which her mother’s near-sightedness
had compelled, and the piece of unfinished work, she looked like a
child masquerading in grown-up clothes. But no child could have worn
the look of absolute despair depicted upon her face.
She sat gazing into vacancy for a while, and then, remembering her
game, began to talk: “Margie, dearie, don’t you realize that you are
only a light-minded little thing? You must try to be serious, darling,
try to have sober thoughts, try to feel as people of deeper natures do.
“And another thing you must remember,—you must not stand in anybody’s
way. When you find that you are standing between anyone and the light,
just step aside. Never mind about yourself. You are of no consequence.
You are just a waif,—you don’t belong anywhere, and don’t belong to
anybody—”
Suddenly the little red head went down on the folded arms, and she
began to sob, “Oh, mother! mother!”