“Sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet.”
Meg was writing to her aunt, and Robert leaned over her shoulder and
read: “So I will be married here, and then we will take a trip for
Robert’s health. Auntie, please don’t suspect me of marrying for money,
but did you guess they were rich? _I_ didn’t, till I came here, and
then I saw. Most of the rich people we know make such a vulgar display,
and that is why, I suppose, I did not suspect it of them. I feel like a
fairy princess—”
Meg stopped writing and leaned back in her chair. “Robert Malloy,” she
said with pretended severity, “I am surprised that your mother never
taught you it was impolite to look over people’s shoulders. I suppose
she wanted to leave part of your education to me.”
“Speaking of fairy princesses, tell me the rest of that story you began
the day that poor, dear little boy stubbed his poor, dear little toe.”
She blushed at the remembrance, but passed on the reference, and began
her story without a preface: “Well, the beautiful, amiable princess,
almost too good for this world, finally met her Prince, or at least a
very good imitation of one, but he thought _he_ was too good for this
world—”
“I don’t think I care for your story,” and he pretended to yawn.
“And I don’t think you would make a good monk. You are not fat enough,”
remarked Meg irrelevantly; and then, seeing a tense look on Robert’s
face, she leaned forward and said contritely, “Oh, Bobbie, I never will
make light of it again! Honest! Cross my heart and hope to die!”
“I hope not, dear one,” he said gently; “I have given it all up, and I
have no regrets, but,—”
“Yes,” seriously, “I understand.”
Robert had drawn a chair up beside her, and was holding and caressing
her hand. “Tell me, little girl, where you would like to go, when we
leave the world behind us.”
Her face assumed a prim look, as she replied: “I have always been
taught that if I mended my ways and became very, _very_ good, I would
go to Heaven.”
Robert laughed. “But in the meantime? I would like to travel more or
less for a year, especially as Mother can be with us part of the time.
After that, I will come home and go into some kind of business.”
Meg’s eyes were shining with excitement. “Won’t it be fine!” she
exclaimed; “I have always longed to see the world. I want to view the
universe from the summit of Pike’s Peak. I would like to gather oranges
in Florida, to be prodigal with flowers in California. It is my desire
to be made dumb by the magnificence of Yellowstone Park,—temporarily
dumb, you understand,—and deaf by the roar of Niagara!”
“And you have never been to any of these places?”
“No, but I once went to Tecumseh! That’s fifteen miles from Valencia,”
she replied confidentially.
Robert laughed. Her voice became softly reminiscent, as she continued:
“I used to ‘pretend’ that I was traveling. I wandered through quaint
old streets in the unfrequented northern parts of Great Britain. I
spent whole weeks in that little town with its one street, paved with
cobblestones, leading straight down to the sea. I reveled in the
strong, salt air, and the odor of the fish, freshly caught,—though I
never could bear to smell them in a meat market in Valencia!” and her
small nose went up at the recollection.
“And did you never visit France, Germany, or Italy?”
“Oh, yes,—and Spain, where were all my possessions! I didn’t miss any
of the usual places, but I was contrary enough to prefer the unbeaten
path. That, I suppose, is the spirit of my pioneer ancestors in me. I
dearly loved Ireland, and the warm-hearted Irish people,—indeed,
indeed, I’m not saying it to flatter you!”
Robert was enjoying himself thoroughly, and to encourage her in her
whimsicalities, he asked, “Did you never visit Japan?”
“Yes, it was there I learned the exquisite art of arranging flowers.
But auntie, being a born and bred Valencian, could never be convinced
that it was not artistic to stuff a vase full of nasturtiums, geraniums
and sweet peas, with a garnishing of alyssum and petunias!”
“You must have gained quite a smattering of the languages in your
travels,” Robert said idly.
“_Just_ a smattering! Not enough to make me forget the everyday
language which years of association had made familiar, if not dear. My
travels usually ended as abruptly as though a cablegram had called me
home. Just as I would alight from one voyage, and, living over again my
delight in the scenes which had enchanted me, before preening my wings
and preparing for another flight, I would be jerked back to my
commonplace existence by a familiar voice saying, ‘Meg, tell Delia to
boil some cabbage for dinner!’ Auntie was addicted to cabbage,” she
concluded plaintively.
There was something of sadness in Robert’s smile, as he said: “Poor
little bird with the clipped wings! How much of pleasure and happiness
you have missed. Please God, I shall make it up to you!”
Meg gave him a grateful, upward look, as she exclaimed impulsively,
“Oh, Robert, my dear, you will have to give me so much love to make up
for the fifteen years I have missed it.”
“For twenty years, for forty years, if you say so, sweetheart, for the
supply is unlimited. And you,—will you turn on your shaded lights for
me?”
“No,” she said, with sweet gravity, “for shaded lights are artificial.
They may, at any time, flicker and go out. Nothing but the sunlight and
the moonlight will do now, to express my love.”