MEG TO THE RESCUE.
Mr. Standish saw no more of Meg for some days. He made no attempt at
reconciliation. It amused him to think how Meg magnified his offense. It
seemed comical that the child should set him down as a drunkard. He
laughed out loud over it as he drank his single glass of lager beer at
dinner. In his workaday life he avoided taking his glass of grog. He
never indulged in it, for economical reasons. With his brothers of the
press he took a convivial glass, but as for squandering money, he had
none to spend.
After a few days, as Meg remained sternly invisible, he began to miss
her, as a man might miss a favorite dog. To his inquiries concerning the
child, Mrs. Browne or Jessie replied, she was "that" cross there was no
biding her.
If he caught a glimpse of Meg she would vanish at his approach, and no
call or song could entice her from her retreat. Then Mr. Standish made
up his mind the child was absurdly unjust, and that in time she would
come round; still he was more sorry than he allowed himself to
acknowledge at her desertion. His work had grown upon him, an old debt
harassed him, and he had lately received a sufficiently unpleasant
surprise to occupy his mind.
Meanwhile, the passionate little figure, hidden in the shadow of the
half-open door, watched his coming and going with keener vigilance. From
her hiding-place the child scanned his countenance as he came and went;
and at night fell into broken slumbers, until the sound of his returning
footsteps brought peace to her unquiet heart. If Meg had known how to
pray, or had realized that she could effectively and without indecorum
pray out of church, she would have climbed in spirit to the throne of
the Most High, and with insistent appeal have interceded for the friend
she confusedly felt was passing through some dread peril. But Meg's
conception of the world beyond the grave was as of a great darkness,
against which outlined itself a simpering countenance wreathed with
roses, which was her mother's face. To that dear vision Meg was eloquent
concerning her grief--brokenly, and with impatient and angry misery,
murmured to it of Mr. Standish's breach of faith, of the certain ruin
that was waiting him, and of her own wretchedness.
Mr. Standish's ways completely puzzled her, and the mystery added to
that desperate sense of estrangement between them. Some time before
their quarrel she had watched one day a shabby-genteel-looking man knock
at the journalist's door, and, on its being opened, hand to Mr. Standish
a paper which he received and glanced over, the child noticed, with an
expression of surprised consternation. He did not invite the visitor in.
Meg could not distinguish the purport of the talk that ensued between
them, but heard Mr. Standish's last words, in the anxiously confident
tones of which, she detected a ghost of displeasure: "There has been
some delay, but give me time to write again to him and I am sure it will
be all right."
On her inquiries concerning this mysterious visitor, with a face she
described as a red plum-pudding, Mr. Standish had given evasive answers.
From that day she noted, however, that he changed his hours of going
out; he appeared anxious; he locked his door after him. Sometimes, as a
pledge of confidence, he had left his key with her, and he had told her
not to let anyone in during his absence.
A week after their falling out, Meg, in looking over the superscription
of Mr. Standish's letter in the hall, recognized the delicate and
familiar handwriting of one of the young man's friends--who was also her
favorite antipathy. She had at one time often brought epistles in this
handwriting that she suspected were begging petitions. This letter bore
a foreign stamp.
That afternoon Mr. Standish's voice, for the first time since his
quarrel, was uplifted in song. As he went out he paused, and softly
called "Meg." But Meg, in the shadow, straightened herself; an
aggressive light brightened her eyes; she hesitated. Had he called again
she might have come, but with a half-vexed laugh and a shrug he ran
downstairs.
For the first time, also, he had left the key in his door. The child
stole toward the room, opened the door, and looked in. Her heart smote
her with remorse and pity as she beheld the disorder, the uncared-for
confusion that reigned within--slippers pitched at different corners of
the room; the tobacco-pouch half emptying its contents in a manuscript,
the dust lying heavy on papers and books, the boot-jack inside the
silver inkstand that had belonged to his father.
In a moment Meg was at her old task of setting the room in order.
Flitting hither and thither, she zealously dusted, swept, put the books
back into their accustomed places. She knew exactly where every volume
was to stand. As she scrubbed and worked, the hard knot at her little
heart loosened. She had proceeded some way at her task when she came
upon a paper. She recognized the nature of the paper at a glance; she
had seen such a missive in Mrs. Browne's possession before. It was a
summons to appear before the county court. She read the words on the
paper. The summons was taken out by one Abraham Samuels, who held a bill
overdue for L25. The court was to sit on Wednesday, November 16th.
To-day was the 26th--ten days later.
Meg stood stock-still with the paper in her hand. This was the paper the
strange man had brought. She thought of Mr. Standish's brightened mood;
what did it mean? Had he paid the debt? A tear dropped on the summons as
she dwelt upon that past anxiety. How could she atone for having kept
away so sternly? The only way that presented itself to her mind for
displaying the energy of her repentance was by rubbing the furniture
till it shone in the firelight. She put the last touch to her work by
filling the two vases with late autumn foliage and yellow
chrysanthemums, bought with her remaining pence. It was late that night
when the journalist returned, but she noticed that he bounded lightly
up the stairs, and she turned happily on her side and fell asleep. Mr.
Standish was not up next morning when Meg set off for school.
He was out when she returned. As she was sallying forth on an errand for
Mrs. Browne she perceived Jessie in deep confabulation with a
smooth-voiced stranger in the hall, who was apparently making himself
agreeable to the slavey. At a glance she recognized him to be the
stranger with the face like a red plum-pudding, who had handed that
summons to Mr. Standish.
In a flash she recollected the key was in the door of the journalist's
room. The next moment her bounding young feet had carried her up the
stairs, and she had locked the door, and dropped the key into her apron
pocket, before the representative of justice came panting up on the
scene. Meg's experience of life had included strange branches of
education. She had watched the maneuvers of debtors to keep bailiffs at
bay, and the strategy of the men in authority to get into possession.
"What do you want?" she inquired, standing before the threshold she was
defending.
"I want Mr. Standish--a writing gent. I've got news for him," replied
the stranger with an air of business.
"Can't see him," said Meg briefly. "He's out, and the door's locked."
"Now, that's awful unfortunate," replied the visitor, with an air of
perplexed consternation. "Those writing gents make their living by
getting news, and my news is so important that he ought to know it."
"What news is it? I'll tell him when he comes in," said Meg curtly.
"Can't do that, missy. Now, I take it," continued the stranger
insinuatingly, "you know where the key of that room is. If you let me
in, I'll give you the prettiest, shiniest sixpence you ever saw. Come,
now, let me in, and I'll write my news down for the gent. My time's
precious-like, you see."
"Who are you? Where do you come from?" asked Meg.
"I come from his newspaper office. I am what these writing gents call a
printer's devil, ha, ha, ha!"--and the stranger bubbled over with
enjoyment of his own joke.
"You're telling an awful fib," said Meg, red to the roots of her hair.
"You are a bailiff. I've seen bailiffs," and she nodded, "and I know
their dodges. You want to get into Mr. Standish's room to take his
things--that's what you want to do."
"Eh, now, you are clever--as clever as clever can be--the prettiest,
cleverest little girl!" rejoined the visitor admiringly.
"Do you think," said Meg, evidently taking no notice of the compliment,
"that a man ought to be punished who is always very kind and good, and
who works--works so hard--I could not tell you how hard; who eats very
little, and who scarcely drinks ever at all--that is, very seldom." Meg
dashed away a tear, and went on with energy, advancing with restless
steps. "If this good man has friends who are bad, dishonest, lazy
drunkards, who take all his money and don't give it back, don't you
think it is they who ought to be punished, not the good man?"
"Well, missy, there's a deal in what you say--a deal," said the stranger
ponderingly; then, as Meg approached, lost in her pleading, he made a
sudden flop forward, and almost clutched her skirt, gasping, "That's a
pretty apron, missy--a nice little apron."
But Meg had whisked the apron out of his grasp; and, dancing back, shook
the hair out of her eyes. "You wickedest man! trying to get the key out
of my pocket! But I'll not let you have it. I'll throw it out of that
window into the gutter that runs down there sooner than let you have
it." Meg as she spoke opened the window in the lobby, and kept near it.
"Then here I'll sit!" said the bailiff, depositing his burly form on the
stair.
"How long will you sit there?" asked Meg.
"That's none of your business. I'll sit till he comes up. I believe he's
a scamp. Those hauthors and hartists are. I know lots of 'em. I warrant
he's in the tavern spending his money."
"I hate you!" cried Meg with a flash, her bosom heaving, her little red
lips drawn tight over her teeth.
There was something pitiably droll in the attitude of the child,
standing at a safe distance, clutching her pocket, quivering with
helpless wrath, before the impassable persecutor. With a sudden spring
she turned and dashed away, pausing to open a little wider the window
that let in the draft upon the bailiff.
"You'll get frightful rheumatism waiting there, and I'm glad of it," she
cried, as she disappeared.
Mr. Standish, returning half an hour later, saw a small figure
promenading up and down before the house under a dripping umbrella. It
was Meg. She was by his side in a moment.
"Come this minute," she said, putting her hand into his.
"Why, Meg," he said cheerily, yet surprised at her manner; "so you have
forgiven me at last!"
She did not answer; but as he was about to open the hall door with his
latchkey, she said laconically, "Not this way," and led him round by the
back way.
Meg flitted up the narrow stairs before him, every now and then turning
back with forefinger on lips to enjoin silence. Up, up she went, until
she reached the attic that was her own room. She signed to him to enter,
and then shut the door.
"Why, what is this for, Meg," said Mr. Standish, looking round.
"He's here--the bailiff--waiting on the stairs, but he can't get in. I
locked the door and kept the key; here it is." With an expressive
twinkle of her eyes she whisked it out of her pocket, and put it into
his hand.
Mr. Standish sat down, looked at Meg, scarce understanding. "Bailiff!"
he repeated. "Then Gilbert has not paid! I backed his bill because I
trusted his sacred promise that he would meet it in time!"
"It was kind, but foolish," said Meg briefly.
"He wrote the other day to say he would make it all right with Samuels,
when I told him of the writ. He assured me the money was going by the
next post," Mr. Standish went on blankly.
"He's an old cheat," said Meg, with scornful directness of speech.
"What is to be done? I have no money, Meg," said the young man, with a
wretched flicker of a smile.
"Pawn your watch and chain--they're real gold; they're big and heavy;
they'll raise the money," said Meg, with her usual unhesitancy.
The journalist flushed red. "I can't, Meg!" He drew the watch out of his
pocket. It was a large hunting watch, that had been presented to the
rector, his father. Inside the lid the names of the donors were
inscribed in minute characters. "I can't, Meg," he repeated, looking at
it and shaking his head. "A token of affectionate gratitude, a
testimonial to his faithful work--I can't place it where there are so
many associations that are disgraceful. It would be degradation----"
"Not a bit of it!" said Meg with fearless rapidity, as he rose and
walked up and down the attic. "You'll get it back soon. You'll work hard
to get it out. If you don't pawn it you'll have to let that man in,"
nodding in the direction of the staircase. "He'll sit in your room.
You'll be able to do no work with him there, smelling of gin, and his
red face looking at you. He'll take the silver ink-bottle--and the
books. Pawn your watch, and if you work hard you'll get it out soon."
"Wise, practical Meg," said Mr. Standish, scarcely able to repress a
smile, moving irresolutely about the little room.
"Give it to me! I'll pawn it for you," rejoined Meg, intent and
business-like. "I've been there before. Last time Mrs. Browne put the
silver teapot up the spout I went for her. She was tipsy; she could not
go. The man knows me. He'll give me the money."
"I have not the heart to do it Meg--I have not the heart," said Mr.
Standish, hesitating as the child approached.
"It's better than having the man inside your room, sitting on your green
velvet armchair or the chintz sofa, taking the silver ink-bottle and the
books, and preventing your working," continued Meg, pressing her
advantage; and as Mr. Standish began slowly to unloose the chain, her
deft fingers came to the rescue and helped him.
He looked down at the eager, determined child-face. "How good you are to
me, Meg; how good!" he said, the words rushing almost unconsciously to
his lips.
A quiver of the eyelids only showed the child felt the tones. "Give it
to me," she repeated imperatively.
The next moment the watch and chain, wrapped in a clean
pocket-handkerchief, were in Meg's grasp, and she had departed. Mr.
Standish, stooping under the shelving ceiling on a level with the strip
of window, looked out and watched the wet umbrella making its way under
the flaring gas and over the muddy street. When it disappeared he turned
and looked about him. There was a sincerity, a poverty, a purity about
the tiny chamber that affected him with a wholesome shock. Over the
little white bed hung the fashionplate that he had mended, in the
pasteboard frame he had manufactured for it. A bit of scarlet ribbon
fastened it to a nail, with an elaborate bow. Above it, as a pious
Catholic might have crossed about some saint's image branches of blessed
palms, so Meg had placed sprigs of lavender, that delicately scented the
room. On the peg behind the door hung the little Sunday frock, turned
inside out. On a table, under a clean pocket-handkerchief, were placed
three books that he had given her--a volume of ballads, "Stories from
the History of England," a gaudily illustrated shilling copy of
"Cinderella." Also under the pocket-handkerchief was a bundle of paper,
tied with scarlet ribbon, that proved to be some of his articles neatly
cut out. A black clay pipe of his, which Meg had mended, was put up like
a little Indian idol over the table. The little room, so spotlessly
clean, and so characteristic in all its details, was distinctly Meg's
room, telling of that mystic love for her mother, and of her solitary
friendship.
Mr. Standish was not tired of waiting when Meg appeared, her hand
clutching the bodice of her dress.
"Here, I've got the money," she said, as carefully pulling out the
handkerchief and opening it she displayed a roll covered with paper;
"twenty-five pounds--count; and here's the ticket. Don't lose it on any
account. Perhaps I'd better keep it for you."
"Twenty-five pounds, Meg!" said Mr. Standish.
"He wanted to give me twenty. I said 'No, twenty-five.' He was smiling
when he said twenty. Those men always smile when they want to cheat
you," said Meg, with a nod of retrospective observation. "He gave me
twenty-five pounds at last, though. Count."
The child cut short the words of thankfulness that rose to Mr.
Standish's lips.
"Go," she said imperatively, taking him by the hand and leading him to
the door; "pay the man and get him off."
A few minutes later, with great glee, Meg watched the departure of the
bailiff; she thought with pleasure as he made his way downstairs that he
seemed a little stiff, as if he had got rheumatism. After the hall door
had slammed behind the representative of the law she stood hesitating.
Soon her diffident feet slowly brought her to Mr. Standish's threshold.
She pushed the door softly open. He was sitting by the table, his face
covered with his hands. He looked up as she entered.
"He's gone," said Meg, nodding. "Aren't you glad?"
"You have done me a great service, Meg. How can I thank you for it?"
said the young man, rising and taking the child's two hands in his.
"Don't thank me--not at all," said Meg with ardor, looking up into his
face. "Just promise never to lend your money again--never."
"No--never again!" replied Mr. Standish, shaking his head. He led the
child in and sat down, still keeping her hand in his. "How did you guess
that man was a bailiff?"
"Oh," said Meg, with the scornful brevity of wide experience in her
voice, "I knew him by his sleeky ways. I've watched them at their
dodges. They're up to almost anything."
Mr. Standish laughed out loud; but the laugh suddenly fell as he
thought of all that knowledge implied. He said gently, after a pause:
"I thought the little friend who used to sit by my fireside had left me.
I missed you, Meg."
"You were tipsy that night," the child answered, with a quaver in her
voice that did not take from its severity.
"You punished me hard, Meg. Don't you know I had to drink so many
healths. There was the queen's health to drink, and I should have been a
disloyal subject if I had not drunk that; and there was the lord mayor's
health, I should have been a bad citizen if I had not drunk that; then
there were the directors' healths, and there were one another's
healths." As Meg remained unmollified, he went on, "Meg, I will tell you
a secret. I was not so bad as I looked that night--I put it on a little
for your benefit."
"That was wicked of you," said Meg with spirit.
"It was," agreed Mr. Standish candidly. "Come, Meg, won't you forgive me
if I promise----"
"You promised before," interrupted the child.
A desire to rehabilitate himself in the child's eyes seized Mr.
Standish. He felt a touch of awe of that creature regarding him with
steady gravity, and he found himself pleading his cause before her as if
she were a little chief justice.
"If he got himself into difficulties for his friends, they were often to
be pitied; so many in this world were born weak, like spiritual cripples
who needed a helping hand."
"No use to them when they get it," said Meg. "They're always in a
muddle."
Mr. Standish once more repressed an inclination to laugh at the child's
precocious wisdom. He admitted there was truth in what she said. Once,
three years ago, just before coming here, he had given all he had to a
friend, and it had been of no use.
"Did you lend him much money?" asked Meg.
"Yes; he was in the greatest distress. I loved him, Meg. I would do it
again if he came to me. If he was reckless, he was so handsome and so
jolly. He came and told me all about his trouble. His father was very
stern; he would not see him or help him. My friend wanted three hundred
pounds. It was all the money that I had."
"And you gave it?" she said, and stopped.
He nodded.
"Did he never pay you back?" she faltered.
"Never, Meg. It is a sad story. There was some disgrace, and he died."
She did not speak; the fate of the stranger seemed to affect her but
little.
"You gave him all your money?" she repeated, and again she paused; then
she put out her hand and stroked his head, with a look of tender and
ineffable admiration.