FRIEND OR FOE.
The impression, for which she could give no reason, that this stranger was a friend remained with Meg. When on the following Wednesday she recognized the Greywolds Mercury lying among the morning newspapers, she looked at its pages with confidence.
She read the Times abstractedly, eager to get to the local organ. Her voice lost its intelligent enunciation. Sir Malcolm, with courteous apologies for what might be, he owned, his lack of attention, asked on two occasions for a paragraph to be read over again, the sense of which he had not gathered. Meg, the second time, recognized the implied rebuke, and compelled herself to concentrate her mind upon her task.
When the turn of the Greywolds Mercury came she took it up deliberately, and slowly unfolded its pages. She turned to the leader; she glanced over it; the print swam before her eyes. The article was an onslaught upon Sir Malcolm. Last week he had passed a hard sentence upon a poacher caught red-handed in his preserves, and this severity had roused the editor's ire. Meg dropped the paper with an exclamation, her heart beat with indignation and with an exaggerated sense of disappointment.
"What is it, Miss Beecham?" asked Sir Malcolm.
"I cannot read it!" replied Meg unsteadily.
"I suppose it is one of those low-bred, personal attacks upon myself. Pray do not let it discompose you, Miss Beecham," said Sir Malcolm with formal coldness. "I assure you it affects me as little as would the barking of an ill-bred puppy."
As Meg still hesitated he added, after a moment's pause, with impassible politeness, "I must beg you, Miss Beecham, to be so good as to read this article aloud."
The formality of the tone, into which Sir Malcolm had infused a touch of command, reminded Meg that he was her employer, and she proceeded. She went steadily on to the end. The article seemed to her to be marked by increased virulence. She could not judge the merits of the case that formed the subject of the editor's attack. She did not care to judge them. These were outside the point.
The concluding phrases ran: "There is a justice that keeps within the letter of the law, and ignores every suggestion of compassion and fellow-feeling for other human beings. But this justice fails in severity before that which deals out punishment for breaking the edicts contained in the code of so-called social honor. The modern Brutus would immolate not the unhappy peasant only, to whom belong no human rights, he would immolate his own son, if he conspired to rebel against the sacred commandments contained in that code."
Meg was startled by a low exclamation. She looked up. Sir Malcolm was lying back in his chair, his eyes closed, his countenance ashen and drawn.
As she paused he opened his eyes and looked round; his expression was one of mental anguish.
"Thank you," he said, with a ghastly attempt to assume that fine air of dismissal he knew so well how to put on, "that will suffice for to-day."
"May I not do something more for you, sir?" asked Meg, affected by his tone and manner.
"Thank you, I am much obliged," he replied, turning away and taking up a book.
Meg noticed that his hand trembled. She remembered the editor's words. "He was not good to his son."
Was it for this that the reckless allusion to a father's condemnation of a son to death in the name of justice had hit him so hard?
She dared no longer intrude upon the presence of that sorrow or remorse, and left the room. What did it all mean? She went to the great dining-room and stood before the picture with its face turned to the wall. The disgrace appealed to her with tragic piteousness; and the father's unforgiveness acted upon her like a chill repulse.
The house seemed full of an unforgiven pain; the sense of it oppressed Meg, and she wandered out into the amity of the woodland roads. As she walked down a narrow path she became aware of a man approaching toward her from the opposite direction, with a long stride and an absorbed mien. She recognized the editor.
The indignation that had been thrust back by the thought of that unknown sorrow blazed forth anew. It flamed on her cheek and burned in her eyes. As the editor came near he met her glance and removed his hat; but Meg, taking no notice of his salute, passed on, like a little goddess clothed in the panoply of her wrath.
As she returned home by another way she was surprised, and a little offended, to see the editor loitering near the gates of the park. She was preparing to cut him once more, when he advanced resolutely toward her.
"May I say a few words to you, Miss Beecham, with reference to the article that appeared in this morning's Mercury?"
"I would prefer not," replied Meg curtly.
"I feel an explanation is due. I would like to justify myself," he said, keeping pace with her as she walked on with her face turned from him.
"I would rather not approach the subject. No explanation is possible," replied Meg coldly.
"I think you are mistaken in saying that. Will you give me the opportunity I ask?"
"I prefer not," repeated Meg, stopping short and now turning round full upon him. "We approach this subject from such totally different standpoints, I feel very seriously about it. You gave your promise lightly, and as lightly broke it. I asked it after much hesitation and reluctance. To address a stranger, to call upon him as I did upon you, was a strong measure to take—a reckless one, some might say. I knew it, I felt it. I put myself into a false position—I exposed myself to the insult of being regarded as one to whom a promise means no bond."
"Not so. That is unjust. Allow me to say you are harsh beyond my deserts," replied the editor, unconsciously raising his voice. Checking himself he resumed more gently: "You will admit that the case of the poacher was entirely different. It was so strong, so startling."
"It was not so much against the matter as against the manner of your attack upon Sir Malcolm Loftdale that I appealed, and that you promised to alter," said Meg, unsoftened.
"I was strongly moved as I wrote," said the editor, who, somewhat to his surprise, found himself pleading before this young girl with eager self-justification. "The severity of the sentence passed upon the unhappy man—I know him and his poor wife—seemed to me so out of all proportion to the offense committed that I forgot everything else. It was only when I looked over the article in print that I realized how the tone of it might hurt you."
"How it might hurt him! It did hurt him! If it is a satisfaction to you to know it, the blow struck home. That allusion to the modern Brutus had its full effect. It went to his heart!" said Meg passionately, with flaming eyes.
"I will not pretend to say, Miss Beecham, except for the apparent neglect of my promise to you, that I would regret the effect of my words upon Sir Malcolm. By his coldness and harshness he drove his son to a piteous death."
"I know nothing of the story to which you allude; and I do not wish to know it. I will not hear it from the lips of an enemy of Sir Malcolm Loftdale," said Meg almost fiercely. "What I do know is, that if it is remorse or sorrow that darkens his old age, it is altogether too sacred a theme to be dragged into print and made the subject of a newspaper attack."
The editor was silent a moment, then he said: "You are right."
The gravity of his tone softened Meg; she hesitated a moment, then inclining her head she moved away.
"I wish you would retract what you said just now concerning your visit to my office," the editor began somewhat blunderingly—"that it was a reckless step—that you consider that it justified me in lightly promising and lightly breaking my pledge."
"You must acknowledge, then, that you forgot all that I said," replied Meg with the childlike bluntness which characterized her.
"Forgive me, and I will never forget again," he replied. "Will you not let me discuss the case of the poacher with you—of the other wrongs that exist—will you help me to advocate the rights of the tenants and laborers without wounding the landlord?"
"I will never discuss with you again," said Meg hastily; and with a quick bow she left him and passed within the gates.
As she went up the avenue she caught sight of Sir Malcolm wandering up and down the yew-tree walk. He saw her and came forward to meet her. The emotion of the morning still left its traces upon his features. He held a letter.
"I have heard from my late secretary," he said. "He writes from London. He will be back in a few days."
"Then, sir, I suppose I must resign my post," said Meg in a pained voice. "I have been happy in serving you."
"You seem to think that all the use you are to me is to serve me, read to me, work for me. Can you conceive yourself of no other use?" said Sir Malcolm in gentler tones than she had ever heard him speak.
"Of what other use can I be, sir, to you?"
"The use of bringing pleasure to me by your simple presence in my house," he said, taking her hand.
"I would be unhappy if I felt myself an idle dependant upon you, sir," Meg said, shy pride giving a touch of awkwardness to her attitude and an embarrassed tone to her voice.
"Were you fond of your task?" he asked.
"I liked it, sir," she replied.
"Then I will write to Mr. Robinson that he may stay where he is. Do not think that I shall be inconsiderate," he went on as she looked up anxiously. "I know that his wish is to find a situation in London. I can get him just the post he desires. Have an easy conscience about him. If you will, indeed, stay to be an old man's eyesight and his right hand, I will be grateful to you. I should be lonely now without you. Will you stay with me, Meg?"
"I will stay with you, sir, till you send me away," said Meg with zeal; and to her surprise she found herself in tears, moved to the heart at the old man's tone of unexpected tenderness.