Meg's Friend Part 34

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 grat.i.tude, 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 pa.s.sed over her. She knew every cl.u.s.ter 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 a.s.serted 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 ident.i.ty--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.

CHAPTER XXV.

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 grat.i.tude 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----"