CHAPTER XXVI.
BEFORE THE PICTURE.
Meg delayed announcing the news of her engagement to Sir Malcolm. Shefeared the effect upon him of hearing that she had betrothed herself tothe man who had written those attacks in the local newspaper. SirMalcolm had been ailing during the winter.
"She could not leave him yet," she told her lover. "It was her duty toremain with him." And he agreed that it was for awhile.
The crisis, however, came sooner than she anticipated. A trouble hadbeen fermenting in Sir Malcolm's secret thoughts. He had noticed Meg'sabsences. Always regular at her post at the hours when he required herservices as secretary and reader, he missed her companionship in hiswalks; he had lost the certainty of meeting her in the drawing-room, inher little study with her books, or at the piano.
One morning, on returning from her tryst in the woods, she met thebaronet at the gates of the park. "You are out early, Miss Beecham," hesaid with constrained courtesy.
"I hope, sir, I am not late," she replied anxiously.
"You are always punctual--a model of punctuality--in the discharge ofyour duties. It is scarcely half-past ten," he replied in a ceremonioustone, with the slightest emphasis on the word duties. As they walkedtoward the house he added, "Far be it from me to imply that I have aright to claim more of the pleasure of your society than you care togive 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 withthat directness of speech which might have been brutal, had it not beenveiled by the art he possessed of lofty politeness.
"There is something I want to tell you, sir, that I ought to have toldyou before," began Meg, her heart beating and her cheeks flushing, asshe felt that the hour of revelation had come.
The baronet's gaze rested upon her with an illconcealed flicker ofanxiety. But he said in his finest manner that he would be happy tolisten to anything she had to say; but perhaps the interview had best bedeferred until they reached his study.
When they came there Meg began hesitatingly: "The post that I havefilled, sir, in your household has been one of pleasure to me; stillwhat is difficult to say I must say now--I must resign it."
"Resign it!" exclaimed Sir Malcolm, bending his eyes upon her. "For whatreason?"
"I have formed an attachment, sir. I am engaged to be married," shereplied 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." Hegot 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 downagain said in a constrained, business-like tone, "You will admit that,at least, as your guardian, I should have been told of this before. Towhom are you engaged?"
She hesitated under the influence of a gaze, the keenness of whichstopped confidence at its source.
"To one who was very good to me in my childhood. When no one else caredfor 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 aglance steady as his own.
"I understand. You assert your right to marry who you will--clodhopperor landowner. Perhaps, however, you will admit, as I observed just now,that as your guardian I am justified in asking questions about thisyoung man?"
"I gladly admit it, sir, and thank you; for it is another proof of theinterest--the generous interest--you have lavished upon me," she saidwarmly.
"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 andspeaking low, but quite firmly. "The circumstances that led to ourmeeting were so strange--in a manner they are painful. They may placeme in a false light--I may appear ungrateful. The friend of my childhoodis Mr. Standish, the editor of the _Greywolds Mercury_."
"Of the paper that dragged my name into print and held it up to publicignominy in its columns?" observed Sir Malcolm.
Meg bowed her head, and said falteringly: "These articles led to ourmeeting. I had called at the office to remonstrate, to expostulate withthe writer."
"To expostulate, to remonstrate!" cried Sir Malcolm with a burst ofoutraged pride. "What! You exposed me to this humiliation; you beggedquarter for me of this insolent radical. It was a grievous injury youdid me!" He checked himself, then resumed with deliberate calm: "But letthat pass. It is your marriage with this man we were discussing. Iforbid it; I cannot countenance such an engagement."
"I think, sir," said Meg after a pause, speaking steadily, but in afeeling voice, "that after reflection you will admit that you areclaiming 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 havebeen my secret benefactor for a long time; yet it is more than abenefactor's due you are claiming. A father only would have the rightto impose the authority over me you demand to establish."
"It is this authority over you that I demand and that I rightlypossess," said the baronet in a weighty voice, rising and drawinghimself up. "You are my only son's only child. I stand in your father'splace toward you. I am your grandfather."
"My grandfather!" said Meg stupidly. Everything grew indistinct aroundher except the figure of the old man, standing erect, authoritative, thesun shining on his white hair, illumining it like a halo round his head.
"Follow me!" he said. He turned and she followed automatically. Hepreceded her down the great staircase. The perfume of flowers came toher dreamily. Still she followed her guide on and on--vaguely consciousthat some great issue was at hand.
They entered the large dining-room. Sir Malcolm had signed to twoservants in the hall to follow.
They walked straight to where the picture hung with its face turned tothe wall, an outcast among that goodly painted company.
At the order of the master the picture was turned, and the servants leftthe room. "That is your father's portrait," said Sir Malcolm in a voicethat sounded without a quaver.
She knew that he turned away and left her standing there, looking at therepresentation of a young man dressed in a scarlet and gold uniform. Hehad a gallant and winsome air, his features were femininely delicate,the blue, small eyes bright, the lips full. As a sudden realization thatshe was looking at her father's face came to her, a tumult of feelingswept over Meg. Then came a chill and a disappointment. The countenancesaid nothing to her; she gazed at it dry-eyed.
She moved away. Sir Malcolm's glance was steadily averted. As sheapproached he looked round. His features were tense with suppressedemotion; a flicker of wildness lit the eyes, lustrous with unshed tears.
"It is a beautiful face," said Meg softly, moved by the evidences of amental struggle that gave a crazy look of anguish to the old face; "butit 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 uponhim. 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 confidencefrom one whom she had always known so reticent.
"He brought dishonor upon our name," said the old man. Meg saw that heflushed and that he trembled; but he went on quietly nevertheless. "Imust explain to you now why this picture was turned to the wall. I musttell you--what is agonizing to me to tell, and must be painful to you tohear;
but the circumstances compel me. He wronged you. I have tried tofill his place toward you. He married your mother abroad, and under afalse name. He contracted debts--debts of honor--that, having the money,he yet never paid. Thank God! the extent of his dishonor was never madepublic." Sir Malcolm paused, then he resumed: "His last act was,perhaps, the redeeming feature of his life. He killed himself. Hissuicide showed that a gleam of the old spirit made a dishonored lifeunbearable to him."
Meg did not speak. The horror of that tragedy filled the room. After asilence the old man resumed in his more habitual manner and tone:
"We need never refer to this unhappy story again. Ask me nothingconcerning your mother; I never saw her, and know next to nothing abouther. She died in giving you birth." Again he paused, then slowly witheffort he said: "Will you forgive me, Meg, for your neglectedchildhood?"
Meg made a deprecatory gesture, and uttered an exclamation. These wordsof entreaty from him hurt her like a blow.
"I ask you to forgive it," continued the baronet with emotion. "I humblyask it from my soul. I have remorse for it. I admit that in yourchildhood I looked upon you with aversion--that your coming here was apain 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. WhenI saw you so spent with anguish and fatigue, lying on the cushionsbefore me, my heart went out to you. I stopped my carriage when I wasdriving off after having left you; I returned, I came to your littlebedside and kissed you in the dark."
"Then it was you who gave me that kiss!" faltered Meg. "I have neverforgotten 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 goodfrom you," said Meg.
"Say it, Meg," the old man urged. "Say, 'Grandfather, I forgive it andforget 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 outher hands.
He took them then, looking down into her eyes. "Can you, forgetting thepart I played of neglect, forget also the part of kindness played in itby that man? For my sake can you forget it?"
The words struck the chords of Meg's heart and filled it with the memoryof the love that had come to her in her forlornness, and that now filledher life with all youth's appeals.
"No, sir, I can never forget that--never!" she said, loosening her handsfrom 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 myheart!" said Sir Malcolm.
The words crushed once more the rising mutiny in Meg's heart. Thetyranny of pity mastered its revolt--insisted upon the new duty to thenew loyalty.
She moved away restlessly; then suddenly throwing her arms up with agesture of despair she sank into a chair, and hiding her face in herhands 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."
Meg's Friend: A Story for Girls Page 26
