BEFORE THE PICTURE.
Meg delayed announcing the news of her engagement to Sir Malcolm. She
feared the effect upon him of hearing that she had betrothed herself to
the man who had written those attacks in the local newspaper. Sir
Malcolm had been ailing during the winter.
"She could not leave him yet," she told her lover. "It was her duty to
remain with him." And he agreed that it was for awhile.
The crisis, however, came sooner than she anticipated. A trouble had
been fermenting in Sir Malcolm's secret thoughts. He had noticed Meg's
absences. Always regular at her post at the hours when he required her
services as secretary and reader, he missed her companionship in his
walks; he had lost the certainty of meeting her in the drawing-room, in
her little study with her books, or at the piano.
One morning, on returning from her tryst in the woods, she met the
baronet at the gates of the park. "You are out early, Miss Beecham," he
said with constrained courtesy.
"I hope, sir, I am not late," she replied anxiously.
"You are always punctual--a model of punctuality--in the discharge of
your duties. It is scarcely half-past ten," he replied in a ceremonious
tone, with the slightest emphasis on the word duties. As they walked
toward the house he added, "Far be it from me to imply that I have a
right to claim more of the pleasure of your society than you care to
give me."
"I am afraid, sir, you have missed me--" she began.
"I have told you I am a solitary; I miss no one," he interrupted with
that directness of speech which might have been brutal, had it not been
veiled by the art he possessed of lofty politeness.
"There is something I want to tell you, sir, that I ought to have told
you before," began Meg, her heart beating and her cheeks flushing, as
she felt that the hour of revelation had come.
The baronet's gaze rested upon her with an illconcealed flicker of
anxiety. But he said in his finest manner that he would be happy to
listen to anything she had to say; but perhaps the interview had best be
deferred until they reached his study.
When they came there Meg began hesitatingly: "The post that I have
filled, sir, in your household has been one of pleasure to me; still
what is difficult to say I must say now--I must resign it."
"Resign it!" exclaimed Sir Malcolm, bending his eyes upon her. "For what
reason?"
"I have formed an attachment, sir. I am engaged to be married," she
replied with the calmness of fright.
"Married!" ejaculated Sir Malcolm. "Engaged without having consulted me!
Nonsense; you mean to tell me--" He paused. "But this is monstrous." He
got up, walked up and down the room. Meg watched him in silence,
astonished at what seemed to her an extraordinary outburst of emotion.
After a few moments Sir Malcolm regained his composure, and sitting down
again said in a constrained, business-like tone, "You will admit that,
at least, as your guardian, I should have been told of this before. To
whom are you engaged?"
She hesitated under the influence of a gaze, the keenness of which
stopped confidence at its source.
"To one who was very good to me in my childhood. When no one else cared
for me he was my only friend."
"Have you corresponded with him ever since your childhood?"
"No, sir; I met him here. I had lost sight of him for years."
"Is he of low birth?" asked the baronet with frigid brusqueness.
"No, sir. But if he were--" She paused and looked at the old man with a
glance steady as his own.
"I understand. You assert your right to marry who you will--clodhopper
or landowner. Perhaps, however, you will admit, as I observed just now,
that as your guardian I am justified in asking questions about this
young man?"
"I gladly admit it, sir, and thank you; for it is another proof of the
interest--the generous interest--you have lavished upon me," she said
warmly.
"May I ask to what profession he belongs?" demanded Sir Malcolm.
"He is a writer," said Meg, and paused.
"A writer? That is somewhat vague," said Sir Malcolm.
"A journalist," she resumed, and again she paused.
Sir Malcolm knit his brows.
"It is difficult for me to explain," continued Meg, raising her eyes and
speaking low, but quite firmly. "The circumstances that led to our
meeting were so strange--in a manner they are painful. They may place
me in a false light--I may appear ungrateful. The friend of my childhood
is Mr. Standish, the editor of the _Greywolds Mercury_."
"Of the paper that dragged my name into print and held it up to public
ignominy in its columns?" observed Sir Malcolm.
Meg bowed her head, and said falteringly: "These articles led to our
meeting. I had called at the office to remonstrate, to expostulate with
the writer."
"To expostulate, to remonstrate!" cried Sir Malcolm with a burst of
outraged pride. "What! You exposed me to this humiliation; you begged
quarter for me of this insolent radical. It was a grievous injury you
did me!" He checked himself, then resumed with deliberate calm: "But let
that pass. It is your marriage with this man we were discussing. I
forbid it; I cannot countenance such an engagement."
"I think, sir," said Meg after a pause, speaking steadily, but in a
feeling voice, "that after reflection you will admit that you are
claiming too much authority over me. Mr. Standish and I love each other,
and we admit the right of no third person to part us. I know you have
been my secret benefactor for a long time; yet it is more than a
benefactor's due you are claiming. A father only would have the right
to impose the authority over me you demand to establish."
"It is this authority over you that I demand and that I rightly
possess," said the baronet in a weighty voice, rising and drawing
himself up. "You are my only son's only child. I stand in your father's
place toward you. I am your grandfather."
"My grandfather!" said Meg stupidly. Everything grew indistinct around
her except the figure of the old man, standing erect, authoritative, the
sun shining on his white hair, illumining it like a halo round his head.
"Follow me!" he said. He turned and she followed automatically. He
preceded her down the great staircase. The perfume of flowers came to
her dreamily. Still she followed her guide on and on--vaguely conscious
that some great issue was at hand.
They entered the large dining-room. Sir Malcolm had signed to two
servants in the hall to follow.
They walked straight to where the picture hung with its face turned to
the wall, an outcast among that goodly painted company.
At the order of the master the picture was turned, and the servants left
the room. "That is your father's portrait," said Sir Malcolm in a voice
that sounded without a quaver.
She knew that he turned away and left her standing there, looking at the
representation of a young man dressed in a scarlet and gold uniform. He
had a gallant and winsome air, his features were femininely delicate,
the blue, small eyes bright, the lips full. As a sudden realization that
she was looking at her father's face came to her, a tumult of feeling
swept over Meg. Then came a chill and a disappointment. The countenance
said nothing to her; she gazed at it dry-eyed.
She moved away. Sir Malcolm's glance was steadily averted. As she
approached he looked round. His features were tense with suppressed
emotion; a flicker of wildness lit the eyes, lustrous with unshed tears.
"It is a beautiful face," said Meg softly, moved by the evidences of a
mental struggle that gave a crazy look of anguish to the old face; "but
it is not dear to me, sir, as yours is dear."
"It does not do him justice; he was the handsomest lad in the country,"
said the old man. "I loved him, Meg; I staked all my pride in life upon
him. When he disgraced me my pride in life left me."
"Ah! how could he bring this sorrow upon you, sir?" murmured Meg,
scarce knowing what she said, confused by this outburst of confidence
from one whom she had always known so reticent.
"He brought dishonor upon our name," said the old man. Meg saw that he
flushed and that he trembled; but he went on quietly nevertheless. "I
must explain to you now why this picture was turned to the wall. I must
tell you--what is agonizing to me to tell, and must be painful to you to
hear; but the circumstances compel me. He wronged you. I have tried to
fill his place toward you. He married your mother abroad, and under a
false name. He contracted debts--debts of honor--that, having the money,
he yet never paid. Thank God! the extent of his dishonor was never made
public." Sir Malcolm paused, then he resumed: "His last act was,
perhaps, the redeeming feature of his life. He killed himself. His
suicide showed that a gleam of the old spirit made a dishonored life
unbearable to him."
Meg did not speak. The horror of that tragedy filled the room. After a
silence the old man resumed in his more habitual manner and tone:
"We need never refer to this unhappy story again. Ask me nothing
concerning your mother; I never saw her, and know next to nothing about
her. She died in giving you birth." Again he paused, then slowly with
effort he said: "Will you forgive me, Meg, for your neglected
childhood?"
Meg made a deprecatory gesture, and uttered an exclamation. These words
of entreaty from him hurt her like a blow.
"I ask you to forgive it," continued the baronet with emotion. "I humbly
ask it from my soul. I have remorse for it. I admit that in your
childhood I looked upon you with aversion--that your coming here was a
pain to me; and yet I loved you before you came."
"Before I came?" murmured Meg, astonished.
"I have loved you ever since the day I brought you back to school. When
I saw you so spent with anguish and fatigue, lying on the cushions
before me, my heart went out to you. I stopped my carriage when I was
driving off after having left you; I returned, I came to your little
bedside and kissed you in the dark."
"Then it was you who gave me that kiss!" faltered Meg. "I have never
forgotten it." And on the impulse she pressed her lips on his thin hand.
"You have made me love you--you have wound yourself round my heart.
Forgive me, Meg," said the old man.
"Do not ask me to forgive you, sir. I have received nothing but good
from you," said Meg.
"Say it, Meg," the old man urged. "Say, 'Grandfather, I forgive it and
forget it.'"
"As you wish I will say it, sir. I forgive--" began Meg.
"Say, 'Grandfather,'" he interrupted.
"Grandfather, I forgive it and forget it," repeated Meg, stretching out
her hands.
He took them then, looking down into her eyes. "Can you, forgetting the
part I played of neglect, forget also the part of kindness played in it
by that man? For my sake can you forget it?"
The words struck the chords of Meg's heart and filled it with the memory
of the love that had come to her in her forlornness, and that now filled
her life with all youth's appeals.
"No, sir, I can never forget that--never!" she said, loosening her hands
from his grasp and stepping away.
"If you persist in this engagement, I will not disguise it from you,
Meg, you will strike the last prop from under me--it will break my
heart!" said Sir Malcolm.
The words crushed once more the rising mutiny in Meg's heart. The
tyranny of pity mastered its revolt--insisted upon the new duty to the
new loyalty.
She moved away restlessly; then suddenly throwing her arms up with a
gesture of despair she sank into a chair, and hiding her face in her
hands she burst into tears.
The old man waited until her sobs grew quieter; then he said:
"Come with me, Meg; we will go to Mr. Standish together."