“To know, to esteem, to love,—and then to part,
Makes up life’s tale to many a feeling heart!”
Valencia, to Meg, had become a barren spot on the map. Nothing relieved
the dreary monotony but the nagging tongue of her aunt, who, it would
seem, had found her mission in life, that of saying and doing the
little things which crucify.
Meg felt that she could have endured having her house of cards tumble
about her feet; could even have been stoical, because accustomed to a
loveless life. But the constant jarring note,—the mean, cutting words
which dwelt upon the lips perpetually of her one relative, kept her
soul in such a turmoil, that she seriously thought of embracing
Catholicism, and retiring to the peace of a convent.
That consolation, however, was denied her. She had not listened to Mrs.
Weston’s exordiums on unrequited love, without acquiring a tolerably
accurate idea of the remarks which such an act would call
forth,—remarks which she felt would follow and torment her, though
thirty convent walls, instead of one, hemmed her in from the strife and
malice and unwisdom of the world she had left.
When she took a mental inventory of her accomplishments with the view
of engaging in some business, she knew she could not qualify. She was
skilled in cooking and housework,—but courageous as she was in her
convictions, she shrank from the social ostracism that would surely
follow, should she employ her one talent in earning her independence.
While she was turning these things over in her mind, and trying to come
to a decision, the message came summoning her to the aristocratic
little Eastern city where Mrs. Malloy had made her home since the early
days of her wedded life.
Before speaking to her aunt about it, Meg counted over her scanty
savings from her insufficient income, and found that she would have
barely money enough for a round-trip ticket. It had not occurred to her
to refuse the summons. She felt it her positive duty to go, and,
putting her own trouble behind her, to do what she could for the
stricken mother who had turned to her in her need.
When she timidly mentioned it to Mrs. Weston, she said sharply, “You
surely don’t think of going! Why, it will only strengthen the opinion
most of the people have,—that you are desperately in love with Robert
Malloy.”
Meg raised her head with a gesture of pride and dignity, though the red
blood mounted to her cheeks, as she replied, “You may tell the
neighbors should they inquire, that I _am_ in love with him.”
“Why, Margaret Anthony, I never heard so shameless an admission in my
life!”
“I thought you might as well know, being my nearest of blood. You have
thrown out so many innuendoes about the matter, that it may ease your
mind to know the truth. Now you have the knowledge, you may sow it
broadcast. No,” as her aunt started to speak, “there is nothing more to
be said between us on the subject. You may discuss me with the
butcher-boy, or the garbage-gatherer, whom I would consider a proper
receptacle for such gossip, or any one who inspires you with a desire
to talk,—but I demand silence for myself!”
It was a new phase of Meg’s character, which Mrs. Weston did not
understand, and as she did not possess a spirit of adventure, she
wisely refrained from disobeying the injunction.
The following day, with her few clothes, her ticket, and a small
lunch-box which Delia had smuggled to her, Meg set out on her journey.
To her it was a new experience, for since her orphanhood she had
scarcely been away from Valencia. It would have been a pleasurable
trip, but for the sorrow which she anticipated at its close.
She was so intensely alive, that everything interested her: the
occupants of the car, and the moving panorama without, the rolling
prairies of her own State, the cool, wooded forests of Missouri, the
rich farms of Illinois. But as she neared her journey’s end, and
contemplated what it meant to her, and to that other lonely woman who
loved him, her thoughts took shape, and, closing her eyes, she tried to
realize the full force of the blow that had fallen alike upon his
mother and herself.
In imagination she saw it all! A dim, high-ceilinged cathedral, with
the monastery at the rear. The gloom was relieved only by the candles
at the altar. A priest was droning the Latin of his prayer-book, while
the organ in the loft was playing some soft, monotonous air, that got
into her brain and nearly soothed her into forgetfulness. Suddenly it
burst into a triumphant Te Deum, as the altar boys appeared, followed
by other priests, and lastly, by five young men clad in the brown robe
of the order of St. Francis.
Her eyes sought their faces, one by one, till the last one was reached.
He was white, and in his eyes was the look of a man who had lived, and
loved, and lost. Over the heads of the other novitiates, beyond the
forms of the priests, his eyes met and held hers. And when he should
have responded in Latin, with the others, no sound issued from his
lips, but his eyes, fixed on hers, said: “Margie, I love you so! You
are dearer to me than all the world, dearer to me than the cloistered
life I thought would be all-sufficing!”
She held out her arms to him, but into his face had come the gray
pallor of a living death. The service went on and on, endlessly, it
seemed to her. It was all so meaningless! Her mind comprehended
nothing. Her heart, tense and ready to break, knew only that he was
leaving her. The beauty of the music, the impressiveness and solemnity
of the service meant but the one thing,—Robert was leaving her!
The service ended, his eyes said farewell to her,—and, with the others,
to the same monotonous music of the organ that had first lulled her
senses, he retreated, farther and farther away from her, until at last
he disappeared entirely. There was a moment of terrible suspense, as
she strained her ears to listen. Then came the clang of the monastery
gates, as they closed behind him, shutting him out of her life forever!
“Missy, de train’s done reached Welcomeville. Ain’t dis where you all
get off?”
Meg sat up straight and looked at the colored porter in a dazed manner
for a moment. Then, gathering her few possessions together, she left
the train.