"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 acc.u.mulated, 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 cla.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sume an att.i.tude 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 rea.s.suring presence the pain of her embarra.s.sed 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 pa.s.s, 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 pa.s.sed 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 ident.i.ty 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.

CHAPTER XXVI.

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.