FRIEND!
From that day a subdued tone of affectionate confidence entered into the
relations between Meg and her guardian. Sir Malcolm did not emerge from
the seclusion in which he lived so much as from his cold and distant
manner. He still took his meals alone, he spent his evenings in
solitude, he still wandered alone in the park; but his taciturnity was
less marked. He often joined Meg in the grounds, and sometimes they
drove out together into the surrounding country.
While continuing to treat her with that dignified courtesy that had a
charm for Meg, he assumed toward her a gentle familiarity which kept up
a reminder of that unexpected tenderness which had so profoundly moved
her on the day when he asked her to stay with him. It was the only time
she had seen him relax his stateliness of manner. Meg never knew him to
depart from a lofty composure of demeanor. He never gave way to
irritability; but if a servant was neglectful of orders, memorable
severity visited this breach of duty. Toward her Sir Malcolm assumed a
splendid deference. The flowers he plucked for her he presented with a
suggestion of the superb homage a regent might give to a child-queen. As
he walked and talked with her his conversation showed an appreciation of
rustic beauty, and gave evidence of intellectual culture. He told her
the names of the trees; he related anecdotes of country life and
manners, of illustrious statesmen and persons of note whom he had known;
he sometimes flavored his conversation with quotations from the works of
classic authors. Sir Malcolm acknowledged, with that fine air which was
not one of boasting, still less one of apology, that he knew nothing of
contemporary literature outside that of the newspapers--his literary
studies terminated with that of the wits of Queen Anne's reign. He spoke
with an easy choice of words that gave a balanced elevation to his
language. This gentler mood dispelled the fear Meg had felt in his
presence, and the fascination grew that he exercised over her. The
nobility, the dignity, the sternness of the old man's appearance--the
recognition that he was always at his best with her, who was a
dependant, added to the spell he exercised over her. The gentle and
subtle artificiality--perhaps it were better to say the art--of his
manners influenced those of Meg, and they acquired by contact with him
an added grace of reserve and composure.
The attacks in the _Mercury_ had ceased. Meg attributed Sir Malcolm's
brighter mood to their cessation. Week after week elapsed, and the local
print, while advocating as forcibly as before the right of the laboring
classes to happier conditions brought into their lives, abstained from
all personal or covert allusions to Sir Malcolm Loftdale. Meg felt
grateful. The editor had done this for her, and the desire grew upon her
to thank him.
One afternoon, as she walked about the grounds, she began timidly to
draw the baronet's attention to the softened tone of the _Greywolds
Mercury_.
Sir Malcolm reared his head, and turning upon her a countenance the
features of which seemed to stand out with added definiteness, he said
with haughty distinctness: "I have noticed nothing. What an insolent
radical thinks fit to say or not to say, matters nothing to me. I
utterly ignore it. I regard it as I would regard the advocacy of
ruffianism by a member of the criminal classes."
"The attacks pained me," began Meg with regretful hesitation, struggling
to master her timidity.
"I know it," replied Sir Malcolm; "and I thank you for your kind
heartedness. It was unnecessary pain that you felt. Believe me, the
whole affair was unworthy of your consideration. Disdain is the only
attitude to assume toward such conduct. No means are too contemptible
for a low-born demagogue to adopt for the attainment of his aims."
"But, do you not admit, sir," said Meg with a slight tremor in her deep
tones, "that liberalism, if mistaken, yet has its principles?"
"Principles!" repeated Sir Malcolm with scornful clearness. "The
burglar, doubtless, has his principles when he picks my lock, and is
silent lest he might awake the house. Never mention this man or his
paper again."
He left her; and Meg, with a shadow over her face, walked slowly away.
She thought there was a certain injustice in not recognizing the altered
tone of the newspaper, and the wish came to her more strongly to thank
the editor for the deference he had paid to her request.
The next day she was driving out with Sir Malcolm. The way home lay
through the straggling market-town, down the High Street, in which stood
the office of the _Mercury_. The baronet seldom spoke during a drive, he
sat back with that cold and distant air which seemed to withdraw him
from his surroundings. The scene impressed itself and made a picture in
Meg's mental vision: the red-tiled roofs of the irregular houses coming
out against the lemon sky; the office on the southern side of the
thoroughfare, the ugly posters glaring in the late sunlight. As they
passed the office Meg glanced in its direction; her eyes met those of a
man emerging from the doorway. It was the editor. A chill force, that
seemed to emanate from the white-haired immobile presence by her side,
compelled her to withdraw her eyes and turn them coldly away. It was but
for a flash, then Meg looked round to bow and smile her thanks; but the
editor had already turned away and was walking with swift, long strides
up the street.
Self-upbraidings kept Meg silent during the drive home. The opportunity
that she had wished for, of showing to this stranger that she thanked
him for his generous fulfillment of the promise he had given to her, had
presented itself, and she had used the opportunity to wound him. She sat
still and unhappy. In the loneliness of the evening, the pain of having
offered what might well be interpreted as an affront by one who had been
kind made her restless. A feverish longing came to her to remove the
hurt she had given. She thought she would write to this stranger who
seemed a friend; but when she endeavored to do so she found the task too
difficult. His very name was unknown to her. Allusion to the apparent
rudeness of her conduct seemed but to emphasize the incivility she had
offered and make explanation inadequate. She put down her pen, and set
about thinking once more. She would call upon him and explain! The
resolve brought a sense of flurry; but the more she thought over it the
more she grew reconciled to it. She owed it to him. She had been to him
in anger and to expostulate; she would go to him now in reconciliation
and to thank.
The next morning her resolve had not grown the less, but the stronger,
for the night's sleep upon it. Meg felt impatient for the hour to come
when she could put it into execution. A fretful apprehension was upon
her that she would not be able to fulfill her intention. Sir Malcolm
proved that day in a mood for relishing her company. With reluctant feet
she accompanied him in a ramble through the park. She lent an
inattentive ear to his reminiscences in stately English of times long
past, of folk who had played their part and were now out of the world's
wrangles and reconciliations, its loves, its friendships and
estrangements.
Meg was free at last, and with a sense of relief she quickly made her
way through the stretching country to the old market town. She did not
falter or slacken her pace until she came within sight of the office,
then a sudden shyness overcame her. She took some restless steps
backward and forward, debating with herself; then the sense that this
stranger had been kind to her, that she owed him a debt of gratitude,
and that she had inflicted a wound upon him, resumed its ascendency and
she went in.
The clerk told her that his master was out. "But I expect him back in
five minutes," he added. "Will you walk upstairs, miss?"
Meg was once more shown by her guide into the dingy sanctum. It was as
she had seen it before--littered with books, with strips of
proof-sheets, and dust. It was imbued with a smell of tobacco. The
masculine personality that permeated the room worked upon Meg, and
brought on a fit of shyness more overwhelming than the first. Shame at
being here came over her, and a longing to escape before the master of
the place appeared. She determined to scribble off a few words before he
returned.
Writing implements surrounded her on every side. She took up a pen and a
sheet of paper. As she drew toward her an ink bottle she knocked
something down on the floor. She stooped to pick it up. As she did so a
picture hanging in an obscure corner caught her eye. It was in a rude
frame. It looked like a colored plate cut out of a fashion-book of some
years back. Meg started and drew her breath; a crowd of emotions passed
over her. She knew every cluster of roses on that white ball-dress; she
knew the affected grace of the simpering figure's posture; she
remembered that mended tear right across the page. As she looked at it
the room in which she sat became full of the hubbub of a London street.
It was a room similar to this one--littered with books and paper, imbued
with the smell of tobacco; in it sat a young man with kind bright eyes,
and a mane of blond hair; he was carefully pasting that inane
representation of a lady, and by his side a child, neglected and
forlorn, stood eagerly watching the strong hands as they repaired the
beloved print.
A mist gathered before Meg's eyes. This child in the shabby frock was
herself; this battered and mended fashion-plate was the idolized
imaginary picture of her mother. That young man with the kind eyes and
the deft fingers, who was he?
Meg was still gazing at the conventional figure in the ball-dress when
the door opened, and the editor walked in.
She vaguely recognized that his demeanor was altered. He bowed
distantly.
[Illustration: MEG RECOGNIZES THE OLD FASHION-PLATE.--Page 284.]
"I came to thank you and to explain," began Meg, and paused. Memory had
touched her eyelids and she recognized him. The puzzling recollection
that had obtruded itself with vague pertinacity asserted itself
triumphantly. She knew now why she had thought of this stranger as a
friend.
"To explain?" he repeated; and he, too, paused.
"Yes; about yesterday. I saw you," she said abruptly, almost
mechanically, as if speaking by rote and eager to get done; "but I was
afraid to bow to you, because I was with Sir Malcolm Loftdale. It was
mean and weak of me when I owe you so much."
"You owe me nothing. You convinced me, and I acted upon my new
conviction," he answered, still in a distant tone.
"I have much to be thankful to you for," she repeated in a voice that
was hoarse with emotion. "Where did you get this?" she added brusquely,
interrupting herself and pointing to the fashion-plate.
He looked surprised and said:
"I have had it some years."
"Who gave it to you?" she asked.
He looked curiously at her. "A story is attached to that picture," he
answered evasively.
"Is your name William Standish?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied. "Did you not know my name was Standish?" he added,
puzzled by the expression of her face.
She shook her head in denial. "Was it a child gave you this picture?"
"Yes," he replied, monosyllabic in his surprise.
"To her foolish, lonely fancy was it the portrait of her mother, who had
died in giving her birth?"
"That is true," he replied. Then he added earnestly, "Do you know
anything of that child? Can you tell me anything about her? I have tried
to find her. I have made many efforts to do so, but in vain. I have lost
all clew to her."
"Was her name Meg?" she asked.
"Yes, her name was Meg--dear little Meg!" he said, his eyes shining
softly, as if he were seeing before him an image that delighted him.
"I am, or rather I was little Meg," she said in a low voice.
"You?" he exclaimed, looking at her.
She nodded.
"But I thought your name was Beecham," he said. "That of Meg, I
understood, was Browne."
"Till I went to school I believed my name was Browne; but one day I was
told it was Beecham," she said.
"You Meg, little Meg!" he replied, his eyes traveling slowly over her.
"I can scarcely believe it."
"But all the same it is I!" she said with a laugh, as he kept looking at
her. "Let me prove my identity--put me to the test; you will see how
correctly I will answer," she said. "I remember the night when you put
that patch on the old fashion-plate. I had crumpled it up in despair
because you said that probably my mother was not a lady."
"That is true!" he replied, still looking scrutinizingly at her.
"I remember how I used to tease you about your dinners. I was quite
motherly with you!"
"Motherly! Grandmotherly! Bless you, little Meg!" he cried, and then he
laughed. "Is it you? Is it really you?" and he stretched out his two
hands.
Meg placed hers into their clasp. "Yes, it is little Meg for whom you
did that kind thing, of stopping the attacks upon Sir Malcolm."
"That was for tall Meg!" he said.
"Tall Meg, who I fear, did what little Meg would never have done:
appearing to ignore a kindness out of fear."
"No, no, we will not talk of that. It was so natural," he said, still
looking at her with surprised and friendly eyes.
They fell to chat, interchanging memories of those old childish days. He
walked with her across the country to the gates of the park, and as they
walked still they chatted of that fond, silly past.