THE EDITOR OF THE "GREYWOLDS MERCURY."
Morning after morning Meg appeared at her post. She was punctual. As the
clock struck ten her knock sounded at the library door, and she glided
in. The greeting between her employer and herself was always the same--a
formal and courtly bow from him, an inclination of the head and low
"Good morning, sir," from her. Then she would begin to read. She knew
the order in which he liked to listen to the contents of the various
journals. Sometimes also Meg remained to write letters. She had rebelled
at first against the business contract her benefactor had proposed to
her; she liked it well enough now that she had entered upon it. The
touch of frigidity it brought into the more emotional relationship of
gratitude with which she regarded him imparted definiteness to their
intercourse. The somewhat elaborate courtesy with which he treated her
lent a charm to service.
On Wednesday and Saturday the _Greywolds Mercury_ appeared among the
papers to be read. Its columns usually contained an attack, covert or
personal, against Sir Malcolm Loftdale. Sometimes he was mentioned by
name; sometimes he was alluded to in pointed and unmistakable terms as
"a large landed proprietor living in unsympathetic isolation." In his
dealings toward his tenants he was represented as a tyrant, not so much
actively as passively; and "passive injustice," the writer maintained,
"is worse than active, for it leaves no hope behind."
Meg felt a flame of indignant protest rising against this persistent
abuse. She would have skipped the censure so relentlessly pursuing the
old man, who listened in silence with jaw set and lips compressed; but
he always detected the attempt, and bade her "go on" in a voice so stern
that its tone stopped the reluctant quaver in hers. Meg knew that her
auditor, who never offered a word of remonstrance or vouchsafed an
exclamation as she read, suffered from these scathing attacks. He looked
paler and feebler, she thought, during the day, and wandered with more
piteous aimlessness about the park.
One hot Wednesday afternoon she came upon him asleep in a garden chair
in the sunshine. The feebleness of his aspect strangely appealed to
Meg. He looked so frail and pale. The pride of his appearance was
relaxed. The colorless features, the delicate hands loosely crossed,
might have been modeled in wax. In the immobility of sleep the face had
a tragic cast. Meg thought it looked like that of one dead, who in life
had suffered beyond the ordinary lot of man. Pity and indignation that
one so old and stricken should be made to suffer stirred Meg's heart.
For a moment she looked upon her benefactor, and then she turned away
with moistened eyes.
Meg was no dreamer. She was of an active nature. As she walked
feverishly about the grounds she found herself remonstrating in
imagination with this venomous persecutor of one who had cast a spell of
interest over her, and to whom she owed so much. She sometimes stopped
in her walk to complete some angry appeal. Suddenly a daring thought
arose in her mind. She would call upon this man, and in the strength of
a just cause she would meet him face to face without anger, and tell him
the injury he was doing to an old man's life. Would she dare to do it?
She did not know the editor's name, but she had noticed that letters
published in the paper were simply addressed to him in his official
capacity. She knew where to find the office of the _Greywolds Mercury_.
She had seen it one day that she had had occasion to visit the market
town two miles distant. After the first flash of courage her spirit
failed as she approached the gate. She hesitated. She thought of that
newspaper in the library, and went back and read the article again.
Again her indignation blazed up. Holding the paper in her hand she set
out on her mission. As she walked she read over portions of the article
to keep her zeal warm. Thus she proceeded on her way, filled with her
theme, yet faltering.
She reached the town, and turned into the High Street where the office
stood. She easily recognized it by the posters outside and the
advertisements in the windows. Meg entered the shabby interior with a
desperate effort, and while trembling, yet full of moral courage,
impelled to act by what seemed to be a duty. A clerk sat at a desk; a
small boy was posting and rolling up the papers. It was the dingiest
corner from which a thunderbolt could be launched.
"I want to see the editor," she said brusquely.
"He is busy, miss," answered the clerk, surveying her slowly over his
spectacles.
"I want to see him on important business," said Meg determinedly, trying
to look unabashed.
"What name shall I say?" asked the clerk.
"Miss Beecham; but he will not know me," replied Meg.
The clerk disappeared, and returned after a moment to say the editor
would be glad to see the lady.
They climbed a narrow, dusty flight of stairs that led to a glass door.
It was opened by her guide, who ushered her into a room that impressed
her as a medley of papers and books. A man, who had been sitting before
a large table, rose at her entrance. She perceived that he was tall and
broad-shouldered, that his countenance was energetic and expressive, and
his glance brilliant. The lower part of his face was hidden by a reddish
beard; the closely-cropped hair was of a darker and less ruddy hue. He
bowed to her.
"Are you the editor of the _Greywolds Mercury_?" she asked, making
another desperate effort to conquer her shyness.
"I am," he answered.
"If anything appears in the paper that is unjust it is to you one must
appeal?"
"Certainly. I hope nothing of this kind has appeared," he answered. His
tone was curt, his voice deep and not inharmonious.
"It is because something unjust has appeared, and has been repeated,
that I have called upon you," said Meg.
"Indeed! Would you tell me the particulars? Pray, sit down," said the
editor. If his manner had a certain _brusquerie_ it was that of
self-possession; it was characteristic of a man accustomed to speak to
business men, and who could listen as well as talk.
He was dressed with a certain negligence, but with great neatness. Meg
noticed, she knew not why, his large, well-shaped hand.
"There have been a number of articles upon Sir Malcolm Loftdale," began
Meg.
The editor acknowledged the truth of this statement by an inclination of
the head.
"I know Sir Malcolm well. I am staying at Greywolds Manor. I am taking
the place of his secretary," said Meg, determinedly ignoring the shyness
that, without chilling her indignation, yet threatened to overcome her
under the scrutinizing glance of the editor. "I am under great
obligations to Sir Malcolm, I owe him everything."
The editor bowed his head, but did not break the silence. He appeared to
be waiting for more cogent reasons to be advanced. Meg felt to a certain
degree baffled by his manner.
"You do not know how good he is," she resumed with energy, "and you
represent him as unjust and tyrannical."
"You must remember the criticisms are upon Sir Malcolm in his public
capacity of landlord and magistrate. They do not apply to him as a
private individual," said the editor.
Meg made a movement as if repudiating this line of argument.
"A man cannot be one thing in his public capacity and another in his
private relationship," she said quickly.
"I am afraid he can," answered the editor, with a smile distantly
brightening his glance.
"I cannot believe it," said Meg with energy. "He is old and feeble. It
is cruel to hurt him, and I know those attacks hurts him. He never says
a word. He has never mentioned the subject to me. I watch him as I read
aloud to him, and I think they will kill him."
"I think you exaggerate their importance," said the editor, averting his
glance in which Meg thought she detected a sparkle of amusement. After a
moment he resumed with seriousness. "You must understand me. I do not
like to hurt your feelings, but this is a matter of principle with me.
To put it plainly, Sir Malcolm Loftdale is a bad landlord, and in a
public sense a bad man."
Meg gave an exclamation. "I do not believe it; I do not accept this
statement. You misjudge him, You do not know him as I know him. He
leads a lonely life and perhaps does not know."
"Exactly! That is one of the reasons that make him a bad landlord. He
ignores the needs of his tenants by indulging his selfish love of
loneliness, he becomes utterly unsympathetic. He cares nothing for the
laborers who look to him for securing them the commonest rights, more
decent dwellings, fair rents. And yet what wonder," continued the
editor, turning his head away and speaking as if to himself, "that he
should not care for them, when he did not care for his own son."
Meg thought of the picture with its face turned to the wall. She felt
she touched a boundary that lay beyond her self-imposed task, and she
rose.
"I see that I am making no way," she said in hurt accents. "I cannot
influence you to abandon the cruel course you seem determined to pursue.
Nothing remains for me to do but to apologize for having made the
attempt, and to go."
"Indeed," said the editor, rising also, "I am sorry I should have given
this wrong impression of the interest with which I have listened to your
arguments in favor of Sir Malcolm Loftdale, and of your appeal against
the censure pronounced upon him in the _Greywolds Mercury_. But, believe
me, there are many upon his estate who daily talk of him more bitterly
than I do; many who have been compelled to leave and to face ruin in
already over-crowded cities after accepting his offer of compensation,
which was a hard bargain driven on his side alone. You do not know,
perhaps, the merits of the case against him. He turns his tenants out,
if they are not punctual with their rents as soon as the law allows. In
his selfish desire for isolation he allows no cottages to be built on
his extensive estates. He has checked innocent amusements; barred the
right of way. These sufferers represent the people. I shall not offend
you by stating what I could of the class to which Sir Malcolm belongs.
You see I have argued and discussed the matter fairly with you,"
continued the editor, checking the warmth of his tone.
"I cannot judge the case as you state it," said Meg with a pained frown.
"I am sure it is one-sided." Then with gathering energy she went on:
"Cannot you conceive that your continued persecution may drive him to
worse acts? It is enough to make him shun his neighbors to be thus
always held up to them as cruel and exacting. It is enough to make him
wish to remove them from his sight when he knows that they are taught to
revile him. I know that he is good. Take my case. I owe him everything;
yet I have no claim upon him. Doubtless mine is not an isolated case.
He may be helping many others in an obscure way. Noble natures shrink
from publicity. I know he shrinks from being thanked. He will not allow
me to thank him. It almost led to a misunderstanding between us when I
tried to express to him my gratitude. You talk of his getting rid of
tenants after giving them compensation. What is that suffering compared
to the one you inflict upon him by these words that may sting to death?"
Meg's defense of her guardian was not logical, but it was of the heart,
and womanly. She ignored all her antagonist's arguments, and saw
everything colored by her emotions of the moment. The editor looked at
her with a sort of half-amused amazement. Her vehemence was not to be
answered by balanced sentences or editorial dignity.
"You are so good an advocate," he said, smiling, "that you almost
incline me to be a convert."
"I wish I could convert you to believe in his goodness--to me, and
perhaps to many others," said Meg, with the constraint of shy
awkwardness upon her, as she accepted the homage of his softened mood.
"His kindness to you is all that I care for," said the editor,
gallantly.
"Will you promise me not to write any more articles against him?" asked
Meg, with the childlike almost primitive directness that occasionally
distinguished her speech when greatly in earnest.
"I promise to remember your advocacy whenever I begin to write, or to
think of Sir Malcolm Loftdale," answered the editor.
"You promise it?" repeated Meg.
"I promise it," said the editor.
After a pause of awkward hesitation Meg bowed and turned away. The
editor held open the door for her, and she passed out of the dingy
office.
As Meg walked home she was conscious of a certain light-heartedness. The
interview had been, on the whole, antagonistic; yet the impression it
left on her mind was pleasant. The editor was a stranger, and yet he
almost seemed to her a friend. She could not account for a sense of
trustfulness with which she felt inclined to regard him. There was
nothing to justify this confidence, yet the impression remained.