FRIEND OR FOE.
The impression, for which she could give no reason, that this stranger
was a friend remained with Meg. When on the following Wednesday she
recognized the _Greywolds Mercury_ lying among the morning newspapers,
she looked at its pages with confidence.
She read the _Times_ abstractedly, eager to get to the local organ. Her
voice lost its intelligent enunciation. Sir Malcolm, with courteous
apologies for what might be, he owned, his lack of attention, asked on
two occasions for a paragraph to be read over again, the sense of which
he had not gathered. Meg, the second time, recognized the implied
rebuke, and compelled herself to concentrate her mind upon her task.
When the turn of the _Greywolds Mercury_ came she took it up
deliberately, and slowly unfolded its pages. She turned to the leader;
she glanced over it; the print swam before her eyes. The article was an
onslaught upon Sir Malcolm. Last week he had passed a hard sentence upon
a poacher caught red-handed in his preserves, and this severity had
roused the editor's ire. Meg dropped the paper with an exclamation, her
heart beat with indignation and with an exaggerated sense of
disappointment.
"What is it, Miss Beecham?" asked Sir Malcolm.
"I cannot read it!" replied Meg unsteadily.
"I suppose it is one of those low-bred, personal attacks upon myself.
Pray do not let it discompose you, Miss Beecham," said Sir Malcolm with
formal coldness. "I assure you it affects me as little as would the
barking of an ill-bred puppy."
As Meg still hesitated he added, after a moment's pause, with impassible
politeness, "I must beg you, Miss Beecham, to be so good as to read this
article aloud."
The formality of the tone, into which Sir Malcolm had infused a touch of
command, reminded Meg that he was her employer, and she proceeded. She
went steadily on to the end. The article seemed to her to be marked by
increased virulence. She could not judge the merits of the case that
formed the subject of the editor's attack. She did not care to judge
them. These were outside the point.
The concluding phrases ran: "There is a justice that keeps within the
letter of the law, and ignores every suggestion of compassion and
fellow-feeling for other human beings. But this justice fails in
severity before that which deals out punishment for breaking the edicts
contained in the code of so-called social honor. The modern Brutus would
immolate not the unhappy peasant only, to whom belong no human rights,
he would immolate his own son, if he conspired to rebel against the
sacred commandments contained in that code."
Meg was startled by a low exclamation. She looked up. Sir Malcolm was
lying back in his chair, his eyes closed, his countenance ashen and
drawn.
As she paused he opened his eyes and looked round; his expression was
one of mental anguish.
"Thank you," he said, with a ghastly attempt to assume that fine air of
dismissal he knew so well how to put on, "that will suffice for to-day."
"May I not do something more for you, sir?" asked Meg, affected by his
tone and manner.
"Thank you, I am much obliged," he replied, turning away and taking up a
book.
Meg noticed that his hand trembled. She remembered the editor's words.
"He was not good to his son."
Was it for this that the reckless allusion to a father's condemnation of
a son to death in the name of justice had hit him so hard?
She dared no longer intrude upon the presence of that sorrow or remorse,
and left the room. What did it all mean? She went to the great
dining-room and stood before the picture with its face turned to the
wall. The disgrace appealed to her with tragic piteousness; and the
father's unforgiveness acted upon her like a chill repulse.
The house seemed full of an unforgiven pain; the sense of it oppressed
Meg, and she wandered out into the amity of the woodland roads. As she
walked down a narrow path she became aware of a man approaching toward
her from the opposite direction, with a long stride and an absorbed
mien. She recognized the editor.
The indignation that had been thrust back by the thought of that unknown
sorrow blazed forth anew. It flamed on her cheek and burned in her eyes.
As the editor came near he met her glance and removed his hat; but Meg,
taking no notice of his salute, passed on, like a little goddess clothed
in the panoply of her wrath.
As she returned home by another way she was surprised, and a little
offended, to see the editor loitering near the gates of the park. She
was preparing to cut him once more, when he advanced resolutely toward
her.
"May I say a few words to you, Miss Beecham, with reference to the
article that appeared in this morning's _Mercury_?"
"I would prefer not," replied Meg curtly.
"I feel an explanation is due. I would like to justify myself," he said,
keeping pace with her as she walked on with her face turned from him.
"I would rather not approach the subject. No explanation is possible,"
replied Meg coldly.
"I think you are mistaken in saying that. Will you give me the
opportunity I ask?"
"I prefer not," repeated Meg, stopping short and now turning round full
upon him. "We approach this subject from such totally different
standpoints, I feel very seriously about it. You gave your promise
lightly, and as lightly broke it. I asked it after much hesitation and
reluctance. To address a stranger, to call upon him as I did upon you,
was a strong measure to take--a reckless one, some might say. I knew it,
I felt it. I put myself into a false position--I exposed myself to the
insult of being regarded as one to whom a promise means no bond."
"Not so. That is unjust. Allow me to say you are harsh beyond my
deserts," replied the editor, unconsciously raising his voice. Checking
himself he resumed more gently: "You will admit that the case of the
poacher was entirely different. It was so strong, so startling."
"It was not so much against the matter as against the manner of your
attack upon Sir Malcolm Loftdale that I appealed, and that you promised
to alter," said Meg, unsoftened.
"I was strongly moved as I wrote," said the editor, who, somewhat to his
surprise, found himself pleading before this young girl with eager
self-justification. "The severity of the sentence passed upon the
unhappy man--I know him and his poor wife--seemed to me so out of all
proportion to the offense committed that I forgot everything else. It
was only when I looked over the article in print that I realized how the
tone of it might hurt you."
"How it might hurt him! It did hurt him! If it is a satisfaction to you
to know it, the blow struck home. That allusion to the modern Brutus had
its full effect. It went to his heart!" said Meg passionately, with
flaming eyes.
"I will not pretend to say, Miss Beecham, except for the apparent
neglect of my promise to you, that I would regret the effect of my words
upon Sir Malcolm. By his coldness and harshness he drove his son to a
piteous death."
"I know nothing of the story to which you allude; and I do not wish to
know it. I will not hear it from the lips of an enemy of Sir Malcolm
Loftdale," said Meg almost fiercely. "What I do know is, that if it is
remorse or sorrow that darkens his old age, it is altogether too sacred
a theme to be dragged into print and made the subject of a newspaper
attack."
The editor was silent a moment, then he said: "You are right."
The gravity of his tone softened Meg; she hesitated a moment, then
inclining her head she moved away.
"I wish you would retract what you said just now concerning your visit
to my office," the editor began somewhat blunderingly--"that it was a
reckless step--that you consider that it justified me in lightly
promising and lightly breaking my pledge."
"You must acknowledge, then, that you forgot all that I said," replied
Meg with the childlike bluntness which characterized her.
"Forgive me, and I will never forget again," he replied. "Will you not
let me discuss the case of the poacher with you--of the other wrongs
that exist--will you help me to advocate the rights of the tenants and
laborers without wounding the landlord?"
"I will never discuss with you again," said Meg hastily; and with a
quick bow she left him and passed within the gates.
As she went up the avenue she caught sight of Sir Malcolm wandering up
and down the yew-tree walk. He saw her and came forward to meet her. The
emotion of the morning still left its traces upon his features. He held
a letter.
"I have heard from my late secretary," he said. "He writes from London.
He will be back in a few days."
"Then, sir, I suppose I must resign my post," said Meg in a pained
voice. "I have been happy in serving you."
"You seem to think that all the use you are to me is to serve me, read
to me, work for me. Can you conceive yourself of no other use?" said Sir
Malcolm in gentler tones than she had ever heard him speak.
"Of what other use can I be, sir, to you?"
"The use of bringing pleasure to me by your simple presence in my
house," he said, taking her hand.
"I would be unhappy if I felt myself an idle dependant upon you, sir,"
Meg said, shy pride giving a touch of awkwardness to her attitude and an
embarrassed tone to her voice.
"Were you fond of your task?" he asked.
"I liked it, sir," she replied.
"Then I will write to Mr. Robinson that he may stay where he is. Do not
think that I shall be inconsiderate," he went on as she looked up
anxiously. "I know that his wish is to find a situation in London. I can
get him just the post he desires. Have an easy conscience about him. If
you will, indeed, stay to be an old man's eyesight and his right hand, I
will be grateful to you. I should be lonely now without you. Will you
stay with me, Meg?"
"I will stay with you, sir, till you send me away," said Meg with zeal;
and to her surprise she found herself in tears, moved to the heart at
the old man's tone of unexpected tenderness.