One evening Mr. Standish went off in company with two journalistic comrades to a public dinner, given to members of the press by the directors of a new railway company. Meg would not retract the unfavorable verdict she p.r.o.nounced upon his appearance in the new dress suit he had ordered specially for the occasion. She was not to be mollified by the promise of an orange from the directors' table. "She did not want an orange; she did not see what a dinner had to do with a railway," she averred.

That night she could not sleep. The formless fear at her heart lay heavy upon it; it seemed to her that the fulfillment of that nameless dread was approaching. As the hour came and pa.s.sed Mr. Standish had fixed for his return, visions began to group about her bed and pa.s.s before her wide-open eyes. All the sorrowful stories of accidents Mr. Standish had related to her enacted themselves before her, in which he appeared the central figure. The night plodded slowly on; the clock in the hall struck the hours at intervals. When the clock struck three Meg got up and paced about the room, a wan little ghost.

When another hour struck the four peals sounded like a hammer-stroke on a coffin. Meg began to dress. She did not know why she did so, or what she would do after, but a vague sense of being needed impelled her. She fumbled her way to the staircase and sat on the topmost step.

She waited in the darkness and silence. A faint whiteness began to steal through the sides of the blinds drawn over the window on the lobby. The banisters, the flight of stairs, showed shadowily, gradually growing more distinct.

Suddenly she sprang to her feet. There was the sc.r.a.pe of a key in the latch. A step sounded in the hall, made its way up the stairs. It was Mr. Standish. When he reached the topmost flight of steps he perceived the little gray figure standing waiting in the gray dawn, erect, immobile. He steadied himself against the banisters and began to laugh.

He looked pale, his eyes dark; his hat was thrown back, his hair disordered.

"Why, Meg, you little detective, are you there? Such a jolly night!

splendid dinner! No humbug this time, Meg--real turtle, tuns of champagne!" He came up a few steps. "Tuns of champagne, Meg! Speeches, Meg! Such nonsense! Everybody complimented everybody else. I did not forget you, Meg. Look here, I stole an orange and sweetmeats!" He began fumbling in his pockets.

"You've broken your promise," said the child in a low and trembling voice.

"Not a bit of it, Meg. Now you think I am tipsy," he replied, speaking huskily. "Not a bit of it. You'll see if I can't walk straight as a lamp post to that door."

As he went up he staggered--she had not seen him stumble before--caught himself by the bal.u.s.trade, then plunged forward with uneven steps.

Instinctively Meg put out her hand, but he did not see it. Catching at the wall he fell into a fit of laughing; then making his way to his room he let the door slam behind him.

Meg was petrified. All that she had dreaded seemed to have happened. She sat down, her throat burning, her body cold, as if a shroud enfolded her. She remained huddled and moveless until signs of life began to be heard in the house. Then she got up and crept into her attic.

CHAPTER III.

MEG TO THE RESCUE.

Mr. Standish saw no more of Meg for some days. He made no attempt at reconciliation. It amused him to think how Meg magnified his offense. It seemed comical that the child should set him down as a drunkard. He laughed out loud over it as he drank his single gla.s.s of lager beer at dinner. In his workaday life he avoided taking his gla.s.s of grog. He never indulged in it, for economical reasons. With his brothers of the press he took a convivial gla.s.s, but as for squandering money, he had none to spend.

After a few days, as Meg remained sternly invisible, he began to miss her, as a man might miss a favorite dog. To his inquiries concerning the child, Mrs. Browne or Jessie replied, she was "that" cross there was no biding her.

If he caught a glimpse of Meg she would vanish at his approach, and no call or song could entice her from her retreat. Then Mr. Standish made up his mind the child was absurdly unjust, and that in time she would come round; still he was more sorry than he allowed himself to acknowledge at her desertion. His work had grown upon him, an old debt hara.s.sed him, and he had lately received a sufficiently unpleasant surprise to occupy his mind.

Meanwhile, the pa.s.sionate little figure, hidden in the shadow of the half-open door, watched his coming and going with keener vigilance. From her hiding-place the child scanned his countenance as he came and went; and at night fell into broken slumbers, until the sound of his returning footsteps brought peace to her unquiet heart. If Meg had known how to pray, or had realized that she could effectively and without indecorum pray out of church, she would have climbed in spirit to the throne of the Most High, and with insistent appeal have interceded for the friend she confusedly felt was pa.s.sing through some dread peril. But Meg's conception of the world beyond the grave was as of a great darkness, against which outlined itself a simpering countenance wreathed with roses, which was her mother's face. To that dear vision Meg was eloquent concerning her grief--brokenly, and with impatient and angry misery, murmured to it of Mr. Standish's breach of faith, of the certain ruin that was waiting him, and of her own wretchedness.

Mr. Standish's ways completely puzzled her, and the mystery added to that desperate sense of estrangement between them. Some time before their quarrel she had watched one day a shabby-genteel-looking man knock at the journalist's door, and, on its being opened, hand to Mr. Standish a paper which he received and glanced over, the child noticed, with an expression of surprised consternation. He did not invite the visitor in.

Meg could not distinguish the purport of the talk that ensued between them, but heard Mr. Standish's last words, in the anxiously confident tones of which, she detected a ghost of displeasure: "There has been some delay, but give me time to write again to him and I am sure it will be all right."

On her inquiries concerning this mysterious visitor, with a face she described as a red plum-pudding, Mr. Standish had given evasive answers.

From that day she noted, however, that he changed his hours of going out; he appeared anxious; he locked his door after him. Sometimes, as a pledge of confidence, he had left his key with her, and he had told her not to let anyone in during his absence.

A week after their falling out, Meg, in looking over the superscription of Mr. Standish's letter in the hall, recognized the delicate and familiar handwriting of one of the young man's friends--who was also her favorite antipathy. She had at one time often brought epistles in this handwriting that she suspected were begging pet.i.tions. This letter bore a foreign stamp.

That afternoon Mr. Standish's voice, for the first time since his quarrel, was uplifted in song. As he went out he paused, and softly called "Meg." But Meg, in the shadow, straightened herself; an aggressive light brightened her eyes; she hesitated. Had he called again she might have come, but with a half-vexed laugh and a shrug he ran downstairs.

For the first time, also, he had left the key in his door. The child stole toward the room, opened the door, and looked in. Her heart smote her with remorse and pity as she beheld the disorder, the uncared-for confusion that reigned within--slippers pitched at different corners of the room; the tobacco-pouch half emptying its contents in a ma.n.u.script, the dust lying heavy on papers and books, the boot-jack inside the silver inkstand that had belonged to his father.

In a moment Meg was at her old task of setting the room in order.

Flitting hither and thither, she zealously dusted, swept, put the books back into their accustomed places. She knew exactly where every volume was to stand. As she scrubbed and worked, the hard knot at her little heart loosened. She had proceeded some way at her task when she came upon a paper. She recognized the nature of the paper at a glance; she had seen such a missive in Mrs. Browne's possession before. It was a summons to appear before the county court. She read the words on the paper. The summons was taken out by one Abraham Samuels, who held a bill overdue for 25. The court was to sit on Wednesday, November 16th.

To-day was the 26th--ten days later.

Meg stood stock-still with the paper in her hand. This was the paper the strange man had brought. She thought of Mr. Standish's brightened mood; what did it mean? Had he paid the debt? A tear dropped on the summons as she dwelt upon that past anxiety. How could she atone for having kept away so sternly? The only way that presented itself to her mind for displaying the energy of her repentance was by rubbing the furniture till it shone in the firelight. She put the last touch to her work by filling the two vases with late autumn foliage and yellow chrysanthemums, bought with her remaining pence. It was late that night when the journalist returned, but she noticed that he bounded lightly up the stairs, and she turned happily on her side and fell asleep. Mr.

Standish was not up next morning when Meg set off for school.

He was out when she returned. As she was sallying forth on an errand for Mrs. Browne she perceived Jessie in deep confabulation with a smooth-voiced stranger in the hall, who was apparently making himself agreeable to the slavey. At a glance she recognized him to be the stranger with the face like a red plum-pudding, who had handed that summons to Mr. Standish.

In a flash she recollected the key was in the door of the journalist's room. The next moment her bounding young feet had carried her up the stairs, and she had locked the door, and dropped the key into her ap.r.o.n pocket, before the representative of justice came panting up on the scene. Meg's experience of life had included strange branches of education. She had watched the maneuvers of debtors to keep bailiffs at bay, and the strategy of the men in authority to get into possession.

"What do you want?" she inquired, standing before the threshold she was defending.

"I want Mr. Standish--a writing gent. I've got news for him," replied the stranger with an air of business.

"Can't see him," said Meg briefly. "He's out, and the door's locked."

"Now, that's awful unfortunate," replied the visitor, with an air of perplexed consternation. "Those writing gents make their living by getting news, and my news is so important that he ought to know it."

"What news is it? I'll tell him when he comes in," said Meg curtly.

"Can't do that, missy. Now, I take it," continued the stranger insinuatingly, "you know where the key of that room is. If you let me in, I'll give you the prettiest, shiniest sixpence you ever saw. Come, now, let me in, and I'll write my news down for the gent. My time's precious-like, you see."

"Who are you? Where do you come from?" asked Meg.

"I come from his newspaper office. I am what these writing gents call a printer's devil, ha, ha, ha!"--and the stranger bubbled over with enjoyment of his own joke.

"You're telling an awful fib," said Meg, red to the roots of her hair.

"You are a bailiff. I've seen bailiffs," and she nodded, "and I know their dodges. You want to get into Mr. Standish's room to take his things--that's what you want to do."

"Eh, now, you are clever--as clever as clever can be--the prettiest, cleverest little girl!" rejoined the visitor admiringly.

"Do you think," said Meg, evidently taking no notice of the compliment, "that a man ought to be punished who is always very kind and good, and who works--works so hard--I could not tell you how hard; who eats very little, and who scarcely drinks ever at all--that is, very seldom." Meg dashed away a tear, and went on with energy, advancing with restless steps. "If this good man has friends who are bad, dishonest, lazy drunkards, who take all his money and don't give it back, don't you think it is they who ought to be punished, not the good man?"

"Well, missy, there's a deal in what you say--a deal," said the stranger ponderingly; then, as Meg approached, lost in her pleading, he made a sudden flop forward, and almost clutched her skirt, gasping, "That's a pretty ap.r.o.n, missy--a nice little ap.r.o.n."

But Meg had whisked the ap.r.o.n out of his grasp; and, dancing back, shook the hair out of her eyes. "You wickedest man! trying to get the key out of my pocket! But I'll not let you have it. I'll throw it out of that window into the gutter that runs down there sooner than let you have it." Meg as she spoke opened the window in the lobby, and kept near it.

"Then here I'll sit!" said the bailiff, depositing his burly form on the stair.

"How long will you sit there?" asked Meg.

"That's none of your business. I'll sit till he comes up. I believe he's a scamp. Those hauthors and hartists are. I know lots of 'em. I warrant he's in the tavern spending his money."

"I hate you!" cried Meg with a flash, her bosom heaving, her little red lips drawn tight over her teeth.

There was something pitiably droll in the att.i.tude of the child, standing at a safe distance, clutching her pocket, quivering with helpless wrath, before the impa.s.sable persecutor. With a sudden spring she turned and dashed away, pausing to open a little wider the window that let in the draft upon the bailiff.