FOR "AULD LANG SYNE."
Although Meg could not explain to herself the right of authority Sir
Malcolm had over her, she felt it and acknowledged his control. The
temptation often came to enjoy the society of the friend of her
childhood, but her honest nature shrank from meeting him secretly; and
yet the attacks on the old baronet that had appeared in the local paper
precluded the possibility of mentioning to him its editor's name.
Still she longed to see Mr. Standish. One day she thought she would
venture to ask Sir Malcolm's permission. She began, blundering a little
about the debt of gratitude which she owed to him, and which it was her
pleasure to acknowledge; his wishes, she said, would ever influence her
in her acts and her conduct. Then, with a blush, she admitted there was
something she wished to do, for which she wished to get his permission.
Meg was amazed at the manner in which the old gentleman met her
advances. He distinctly disclaimed any shadow of authority over her.
"But you have been so good to me, sir," she replied. "But for you, when
I ran away from school----"
"When you ran away from school," he interrupted with unexpected
coldness. "I was almost inclined, when you refused to enter the
carriage, to leave you on the road. If I have given you protection it is
for reasons I do not care to explain. I have told you, I do not want
gratitude. The tie between us is a voluntary one. You are free as air,
young lady, but always with a risk. Your acts will not be disobediences,
though they may be imprudences. Distinctly remember you are your own
mistress. Keep your secrets if you have any. I do not demand your
confidence."
"Free as air!" rang through Meg's heart. "I am my own mistress; free to
meet my friend again."
After this extraordinary ebullition of candor from Sir Malcolm, the old
gentleman's kindness seemed to regain its late level. Meg even fancied
that he was kinder, as if he endeavored thus to salve any wound to her
feelings which his temporary harshness might have occasioned.
Still he had said she was free as air, and Meg now felt justified in
acting as her heart impelled her. The winter came and went, but it
brought no sense of dreariness or bleakness to Meg. She had found the
friend of her childhood, and the reflection of her childhood's days
shone over everything. It was no wonder that she felt some of the charm
of the old companionship with him who had been good to her when all the
world had neglected her; and the memory of whose kindness had set a halo
about the memory of her forlorn life.
She asked herself no questions concerning the nature of this new
interest; she knew only that until it came back to her she was as one
walled in, and without daylight. The real Meg had lived captive in a
state of repression; to no one had she ventured to tell her impressions;
but to this friend she could speak of the most trivial event, and
confide the most intimate thought. He drew her out with a frank
tenderness that won her simple trust. There grew a fascination to walk
and to talk with him; to tell him all that had happened to her since the
day of their parting. She had never forgotten him; the thought of him
had ever dwelt in her mind, ready to start up and welcome him at his
coming. And although it was still her pleasure and her duty to minister
to her benefactor's need, yet by his own injunction she felt herself
free to yield to the refreshment and delight of those meetings.
They met at sunset, after the journalist's work was done, in the wood
behind the house; and their trysting-place was an elm.
"It looks like an old wizard," said Mr. Standish, pointing to the
leafless tree standing gaunt against the dying light.
"Old Merlin!" said Meg; "and there is the eerie brightness about him. He
is going to throw a spell over us."
The prediction proved true; a spell was cast about Meg's life, and she
loved no spot on earth as she loved the place by that tree.
No young girl ever set forth to her first ball with more expectation and
longing than did Meg feel in anticipation of some new chat with the lost
friend whom she had found again. Endless, endless appeared to her the
sources of interesting conversation and of sentiment that he had at his
command, and each time they met and talked it seemed to her that he
opened a new world of thought and imagination for her spirit to dwell
in.
They had a thousand subjects to speak about. Every topic came at random.
They cared not which it was, for each seemed ever new. Meg was like a
child who has never seen the sea, now picking up rainbow shells by the
shore; every shell different in the heap lying beside her in a glorious
chance medley.
Sometimes he entertained her with scenes of travel, of striving and
success. Sometimes they interchanged memories, mutually reminding each
other of incidents in the past. With grave humor, followed by hearty
laughter, he would describe the part she had played in some scene where
she had behaved with great motherliness and dignity toward him. He would
tell her how she had never despaired of him, although the bailiffs were
after him.
"But I was a sad trouble to you, Meg," he vowed. "You were a little
tyrant then. Where is all that tyranny gone?"
"You give me no excuse to exercise it," she replied one day. "The
instinct may be there still; but you are so good, so absorbed in work
now."
"Ah, if you only knew it!" he exclaimed. "Little Meg would have been
more quick-sighted. She would have sternly reproved me, and preached to
me about wasting my time when I should be furnishing copy."
"Copy! What is copy?" she asked.
"Blessed ignorance! Copy is that which goes to fill those columns of
print. It is what the hungry printer clamors for, and looks very black
when he does not get."
Meg laughed.
"You speak as if printers were wild beasts fed with leaders on schemes
for extending the franchise or removing some dowdy old tax."
"Well, well, I am a humbug. All the time that I am writing these leaders
I am thinking of coming to see you; I hurry through my work in order to
be in time to meet you, Meg," he answered.
"Then I will meet you no more if I spoil your work," she said gravely.
"There spoke the child. All the severity of the little monitor of yore
is in those accents," he replied with a laugh. "No, Meg, I work all the
better to earn my play."
"Your play?" she said slowly, with a slight emphasis on the word; and
she was silent awhile. The expression remained with her, casting its
little shadow of doubt, and she would harp back upon it.
"Is this your play?" she would question gravely, when he said anything
complimentary.
They had their merry wrangles, their desperate fallings-out, their
pretty makings-up. Meg, with characteristic repartees, parried his
thrusts, and their intercourse was sweet with wholesome laughter. With
a blunt playfulness she met anything approaching to sentiment.
"While I was waiting," he said one day, "there was a little bird up
there--you'll hear it--which continually says, 'She'll come! she'll
come!'"
"And I heard a cuckoo in the wood as I came along," she replied; "he
cried nothing but 'Copy! copy! copy!'"
"It must have been the printer's devil," he said, "when I was taking a
holiday."
An innocent coquetry, which was the simple outcome of delight in her
ever-growing happiness, would tinge her manner with a little salt of
aggressiveness. She sometimes played at making him jealous.
She was late one day; she had been detained, she explained, by a
fascinating being.
"Who was he?"
She would not tell his name, but vowed he had splendid lustrous eyes,
and a mustache an officer in the guards might envy.
Mr. Standish laughed, and seemed inclined to turn the conversation to
another topic.
"You do not ask his name," she said; "yet this fascinating creature made
me late, and with difficulty I tore myself from his spell."
"But you came," he replied, falling into her mood.
"My sense of duty. I am naturally punctual. I push it to a weakness."
"I wish to forget him," he said; "he has robbed me enough. What is the
name of the country bumpkin?"
"Country bumpkin, indeed! He wears a coat the fit of which the most
fashionable tailor might well envy the secret of its cut--a coat black
and glossy, with just a touch of white at the throat."
"The rector. I knew it. Confess it is the rector," Mr. Standish said with
finger uplifted.
"No white-haired rector, indeed," said Meg.
"Then the curate? All the ladies are fascinated by the curate."
"Not the curate. My charmer is an inmate of the house."
"An inmate?" repeated Mr. Standish, perplexed.
"On the day of my arrival he was so pleasant and cordial his greeting
almost made me feel at home."
"I wonder who he is!" said Mr. Standish.
"As you look troubled, I will be generous and tell you," said Meg, and
paused.
"Well," said Mr. Standish, "who is he?"
"My charmer of the admirable coat, the impressive mustache, and the
splendid eyes is--well--my black cat. He it was who received me
cordially, sat by my fire, purred a welcome, and followed me about with
a tail straight as that;" and she lifted her parasol to a perpendicular.
Sometimes the talk drifted to Sir Malcolm's son, who had been the
editor's friend, and whose portrait, turned to the wall, appealed with a
piteous interest to Meg, and was always recurring to her mind.
"He had many faults," Mr. Standish admitted one day. "He was reckless,
but there was a winsomeness about him that won hearts; and the fault he
committed which rankled deepest in the old baronet's mind was an action
that came nearer to a virtue."
"What was that fault?" she asked.
"He married the woman he loved. She was the prettiest, sweetest woman I
ever saw. Absurd as it may seem, Meg, the first time I saw you grown up
you reminded me of her. It was simply fancy, of course the likeness is
lost now. It seems to have gone out."
"Do you think it was because of this marriage that his portrait was
turned to the wall?" persisted Meg.
"I think so. At least this I know: Sir Malcolm never forgave that
marriage."
"But why?" asked Meg.
"Because she was poor and brave enough to work for her living. I
believe she was a governess; but her trials came after their marriage.
His debts accumulated, his father was unforgiving; he sometimes had to
hide."
"What became of her?" still questioned Meg.
"She died when her child was born. After her death he certainly grew
more reckless. He was unhappy, and I think he had some remorse. The
marriage took place on the continent."
"Did the child live?"
"I don't know. He certainly had no home for it. He never alluded to it.
I believe he was not with his wife when she died."
"Poor wife!" said Meg, thinking of that unhappy wife who had suffered so
much, who had died so neglected and uncared for. "Is it not strange,"
she continued after a pause, "that it should have been my guardian's son
who was the friend for whom you almost beggared yourself?"
"And for having done which, do you remember, you stroked my head?" he
replied smilingly.
She answered him with a blush only.
Sometimes he spoke to her as to a comrade out of the fund of his large
experience and knowledge. His interest in the working classes appealed
to her, and life seemed to grow wider from the solicitude that he
brought into it for others. There grew every day in her heart a
reliance, a sort of wide faith in him, as if all he said and thought
must be right.
The winter passed and the spring came round; the sap rose in the earth
and the pulses of nature quickened.
They met oftener. Sometimes they wandered forth to meet each other in
the dewy mornings, when the fields shone like gossamer. There, in the
woods, where the birds wearied themselves for listeners, they came on
the scene. Meg would bid him forget his politics, his ink-bottle, in
honor of all the loveliness around.
"Look at this clump of daffodils," she said one morning when a mood of
mirthful raillery was upon her, pointing to the silly flowers. "Don't
they look like Hebes drooping their gold cups? Ah! everything is young
and merry, sir, but your old politics--your dull old politics."
Then he vowed he would never talk politics to her again, upon which she
coaxed and played the little siren until he relented, complaining that
she honeycombed his will by her cajoleries.
An exaltation stirred Meg's spirit--the girl who had been silent and
reserved was full of innocent gayety; and still that companionship with
one who had brought happiness to her childhood continued simple,
familiar, and charming, as it might be between dearest friends.
Sir Malcolm had an attack of illness, and as Meg devoted herself to him
for some time there were no meetings at the elm. Then she became
conscious of the value of the enchantment this new-found relationship
brought into her life; and when they met again she was aware of a subtle
change in the sentiment with which she regarded the relations between
Mr. Standish and herself.
While compelling herself to greet him with the same equable
friendliness, she was often chilled by the awkwardness of
self-restraint. The facile word lagged when she tried to assume an
attitude of bantering reserve, and her sincere nature oftener hid itself
behind that of shy formality. She would then gravely inquire of his
work, awkwardly plunge into politics or surface topics, but after awhile
in his reassuring presence the pain of her embarrassed spirit would
vanish, and she would feel comforted. In the sweetness of restored
harmony between them, after the jar of repression, her heart would
expand, and again she would weave around him a web of delicate sympathy
and winsome pleasantry. She would be a child again, and would display
her old quickness of mood to suit his disposition--gay when he wished to
be gay, serious when he was serious, silent when he was inclined for
silence. In this childlike docility and wistful eagerness to please him
dwelt the old wakeful and sensitive pride, quick to take alarm, easily
perplexed. The happy confidence would take flight like a frightened
bird, the laughter of her heart would be quenched, the trustful
approaches of her spirit checked as quickly as had been those of the
susceptible child, so coy and yet so devoted.
One day he did not come. In the evening she received a note of
explanation. He had been detained by business; he had come too late, and
he had waited, hoping some kindly inspiration would lead her to see if
he had kept tryst after the appointed hour. But she had not come. Would
she be gracious and come the next day?
After a debate with herself Meg sallied forth. Again he was not there,
and a dull, unhappy anger took possession of her. She was returning at
once, but a shower came. She stood under a tree waiting for it to pass,
but the trailing cloud seemed never to empty. She was angry, and she
felt about to cry for being imprisoned there. The raindrops began to
saturate the tree. She would not forgive him; twice to have failed her!
She had her upbraiding of him so perfect by going over it, she wished he
might come in time to deliver it. She heard steps approaching, and she
kept her eyes sternly before her. It was only a countrywoman with sloppy
shoes. Her heart went down, and tears rushed to her eyes; and so full
was she of her grievance that when he joined her with the rain streaming
from his hat she started, not having heard him come, and all her
prepared reproaches left her memory. She did not give him her hand,
however, and tried to flick away the telltale tears.
"I am late again. I am so sorry. I could not help it," he said
earnestly.
"But I can help coming in future," said Meg in a severe tone.
"No, you could not punish me like this," he said. "It was a telegram
from London upon which I was obliged to write a short article which kept
me. That article was written in such desperation that I shall be afraid
to read it in print. Won't you give me your hand?"
"The shower is over. I think I shall go back," she said.
"Do you see that black cloud shaped like an Inverness cape? It is coming
right up with its deluge."
"All the more reason that I should hurry home," she said.
"But consider, Meg," he replied, smiling down upon her; "what an
undignified retreat. Before you have gone a hundred yards you will be
obliged to break into a run, and finally make another stage under yonder
elm tree, where I will rejoin you; and then we will begin all over
again. Nothing like a good rainstorm for a reconciliation. But all the
grace of it is gone. Come now, I have felt the first menacing drop upon
my nose. Make friends, it says."
She looked at him with scrutinizing gravity, then a smile broke.
"I cannot resist the drop's appeal," she replied with a laugh, and she
put out her hand. "Still, for all the rain in the world," she continued,
"I must air my grievance. I had a good right to be angry. I waited
nearly twenty minutes yesterday."
"I waited two hours," he replied.
"But you came at a wrong hour," she said. "I came at the hour you
appointed. Look at this--just look at this, and you will be silent."
She took out his note, opened it, and held it under his eyes.
"I know--I know," he said; "that perjured note. But all is forgiven
now."
The cape of cloud passed away, and the sun came out.
There was a good-humored strength about Mr. Standish that puzzled Meg,
and she often longed to pierce the mystery--at least the mystery to
her--of his nature. But after a time his manner changed; a melancholy
grew upon him. One day he turned and said: "You call me your friend,
Meg. You keep dwelling on the memories of those fond silly days of your
childhood. But you are a child no longer. Perhaps we had better think of
one another, and cease those happy walks."
"Cease those walks!" she exclaimed with a gasp in her voice. He remained
silent. Then she said proudly: "If you think so, really--" but her voice
failed, and with a sudden cry she exclaimed, "I knew it could not
last--that you must tire of me."
"Tire of you, Meg!" he cried, facing round upon her. "It is because I
love you that I say this. But it is not as the friend of your childhood
that I love you. We must make no mistake. I love you as the man loves
the one woman in all the world he wants for his wife. If you cannot
accept that love from me I would prefer not to see you again."
She did not reply, and she averted her face. When she looked slowly up,
even in the tension of waiting for her answer, he felt something of the
thrill he might have experienced if a spirit had answered to his call.
The child he had known was looking back at him. A something he had
missed--a mystery of spiritual identity with the Meg of long ago,
glimmerings of which he had caught--had waked up. It was the child grown
to be a woman--endowed with a woman's soul, gifted with a thousandfold
powers of feeling. She did not speak; her silence, her quivering
features, her kindling countenance answered him.
"Meg!" he said in a low voice, and bending forward he drew her to him.