THE EDITOR OF THE "GREYWOLDS MERCURY."
Morning after morning Meg appeared at her post. She was punctual. As the clock struck ten her knock sounded at the library door, and she glided in. The greeting between her employer and herself was always the same—a formal and courtly bow from him, an inclination of the head and low "Good morning, sir," from her. Then she would begin to read. She knew the order in which he liked to listen to the contents of the various journals. Sometimes also Meg remained to write letters. She had rebelled at first against the business contract her benefactor had proposed to her; she liked it well enough now that she had entered upon it. The touch of frigidity it brought into the more emotional relationship of gratitude with which she regarded him imparted definiteness to their intercourse. The somewhat elaborate courtesy with which he treated her lent a charm to service.
On Wednesday and Saturday the Greywolds Mercury appeared among the papers to be read. Its columns usually contained an attack, covert or personal, against Sir Malcolm Loftdale. Sometimes he was mentioned by name; sometimes he was alluded to in pointed and unmistakable terms as "a large landed proprietor living in unsympathetic isolation." In his dealings toward his tenants he was represented as a tyrant, not so much actively as passively; and "passive injustice," the writer maintained, "is worse than active, for it leaves no hope behind."
Meg felt a flame of indignant protest rising against this persistent abuse. She would have skipped the censure so relentlessly pursuing the old man, who listened in silence with jaw set and lips compressed; but he always detected the attempt, and bade her "go on" in a voice so stern that its tone stopped the reluctant quaver in hers. Meg knew that her auditor, who never offered a word of remonstrance or vouchsafed an exclamation as she read, suffered from these scathing attacks. He looked paler and feebler, she thought, during the day, and wandered with more piteous aimlessness about the park.
One hot Wednesday afternoon she came upon him asleep in a garden chair in the sunshine. The feebleness of his aspect strangely appealed to Meg. He looked so frail and pale. The pride of his appearance was relaxed. The colorless features, the delicate hands loosely crossed, might have been modeled in wax. In the immobility of sleep the face had a tragic cast. Meg thought it looked like that of one dead, who in life had suffered beyond the ordinary lot of man. Pity and indignation that one so old and stricken should be made to suffer stirred Meg's heart. For a moment she looked upon her benefactor, and then she turned away with moistened eyes.
Meg was no dreamer. She was of an active nature. As she walked feverishly about the grounds she found herself remonstrating in imagination with this venomous persecutor of one who had cast a spell of interest over her, and to whom she owed so much. She sometimes stopped in her walk to complete some angry appeal. Suddenly a daring thought arose in her mind. She would call upon this man, and in the strength of a just cause she would meet him face to face without anger, and tell him the injury he was doing to an old man's life. Would she dare to do it? She did not know the editor's name, but she had noticed that letters published in the paper were simply addressed to him in his official capacity. She knew where to find the office of the Greywolds Mercury. She had seen it one day that she had had occasion to visit the market town two miles distant. After the first flash of courage her spirit failed as she approached the gate. She hesitated. She thought of that newspaper in the library, and went back and read the article again. Again her indignation blazed up. Holding the paper in her hand she set out on her mission. As she walked she read over portions of the article to keep her zeal warm. Thus she proceeded on her way, filled with her theme, yet faltering.
She reached the town, and turned into the High Street where the office stood. She easily recognized it by the posters outside and the advertisements in the windows. Meg entered the shabby interior with a desperate effort, and while trembling, yet full of moral courage, impelled to act by what seemed to be a duty. A clerk sat at a desk; a small boy was posting and rolling up the papers. It was the dingiest corner from which a thunderbolt could be launched.
"I want to see the editor," she said brusquely.
"He is busy, miss," answered the clerk, surveying her slowly over his spectacles.
"I want to see him on important business," said Meg determinedly, trying to look unabashed.
"What name shall I say?" asked the clerk.
"Miss Beecham; but he will not know me," replied Meg.
The clerk disappeared, and returned after a moment to say the editor would be glad to see the lady.
They climbed a narrow, dusty flight of stairs that led to a glass door. It was opened by her guide, who ushered her into a room that impressed her as a medley of papers and books. A man, who had been sitting before a large table, rose at her entrance. She perceived that he was tall and broad-shouldered, that his countenance was energetic and expressive, and his glance brilliant. The lower part of his face was hidden by a reddish beard; the closely-cropped hair was of a darker and less ruddy hue. He bowed to her.
"Are you the editor of the Greywolds Mercury?" she asked, making another desperate effort to conquer her shyness.
"I am," he answered.
"If anything appears in the paper that is unjust it is to you one must appeal?"
"Certainly. I hope nothing of this kind has appeared," he answered. His tone was curt, his voice deep and not inharmonious.
"It is because something unjust has appeared, and has been repeated, that I have called upon you," said Meg.
"Indeed! Would you tell me the particulars? Pray, sit down," said the editor. If his manner had a certain brusquerie it was that of self-possession; it was characteristic of a man accustomed to speak to business men, and who could listen as well as talk.
He was dressed with a certain negligence, but with great neatness. Meg noticed, she knew not why, his large, well-shaped hand.
"There have been a number of articles upon Sir Malcolm Loftdale," began Meg.
The editor acknowledged the truth of this statement by an inclination of the head.
"I know Sir Malcolm well. I am staying at Greywolds Manor. I am taking the place of his secretary," said Meg, determinedly ignoring the shyness that, without chilling her indignation, yet threatened to overcome her under the scrutinizing glance of the editor. "I am under great obligations to Sir Malcolm, I owe him everything."
The editor bowed his head, but did not break the silence. He appeared to be waiting for more cogent reasons to be advanced. Meg felt to a certain degree baffled by his manner.
"You do not know how good he is," she resumed with energy, "and you represent him as unjust and tyrannical."
"You must remember the criticisms are upon Sir Malcolm in his public capacity of landlord and magistrate. They do not apply to him as a private individual," said the editor.
Meg made a movement as if repudiating this line of argument.
"A man cannot be one thing in his public capacity and another in his private relationship," she said quickly.
"I am afraid he can," answered the editor, with a smile distantly brightening his glance.
"I cannot believe it," said Meg with energy. "He is old and feeble. It is cruel to hurt him, and I know those attacks hurts him. He never says a word. He has never mentioned the subject to me. I watch him as I read aloud to him, and I think they will kill him."
"I think you exaggerate their importance," said the editor, averting his glance in which Meg thought she detected a sparkle of amusement. After a moment he resumed with seriousness. "You must understand me. I do not like to hurt your feelings, but this is a matter of principle with me. To put it plainly, Sir Malcolm Loftdale is a bad landlord, and in a public sense a bad man."
Meg gave an exclamation. "I do not believe it; I do not accept this statement. You misjudge him, You do not know him as I know him. He leads a lonely life and perhaps does not know."
"Exactly! That is one of the reasons that make him a bad landlord. He ignores the needs of his tenants by indulging his selfish love of loneliness, he becomes utterly unsympathetic. He cares nothing for the laborers who look to him for securing them the commonest rights, more decent dwellings, fair rents. And yet what wonder," continued the editor, turning his head away and speaking as if to himself, "that he should not care for them, when he did not care for his own son."
Meg thought of the picture with its face turned to the wall. She felt she touched a boundary that lay beyond her self-imposed task, and she rose.
"I see that I am making no way," she said in hurt accents. "I cannot influence you to abandon the cruel course you seem determined to pursue. Nothing remains for me to do but to apologize for having made the attempt, and to go."
"Indeed," said the editor, rising also, "I am sorry I should have given this wrong impression of the interest with which I have listened to your arguments in favor of Sir Malcolm Loftdale, and of your appeal against the censure pronounced upon him in the Greywolds Mercury. But, believe me, there are many upon his estate who daily talk of him more bitterly than I do; many who have been compelled to leave and to face ruin in already over-crowded cities after accepting his offer of compensation, which was a hard bargain driven on his side alone. You do not know, perhaps, the merits of the case against him. He turns his tenants out, if they are not punctual with their rents as soon as the law allows. In his selfish desire for isolation he allows no cottages to be built on his extensive estates. He has checked innocent amusements; barred the right of way. These sufferers represent the people. I shall not offend you by stating what I could of the class to which Sir Malcolm belongs. You see I have argued and discussed the matter fairly with you," continued the editor, checking the warmth of his tone.
"I cannot judge the case as you state it," said Meg with a pained frown. "I am sure it is one-sided." Then with gathering energy she went on: "Cannot you conceive that your continued persecution may drive him to worse acts? It is enough to make him shun his neighbors to be thus always held up to them as cruel and exacting. It is enough to make him wish to remove them from his sight when he knows that they are taught to revile him. I know that he is good. Take my case. I owe him everything; yet I have no claim upon him. Doubtless mine is not an isolated case. He may be helping many others in an obscure way. Noble natures shrink from publicity. I know he shrinks from being thanked. He will not allow me to thank him. It almost led to a misunderstanding between us when I tried to express to him my gratitude. You talk of his getting rid of tenants after giving them compensation. What is that suffering compared to the one you inflict upon him by these words that may sting to death?"
Meg's defense of her guardian was not logical, but it was of the heart, and womanly. She ignored all her antagonist's arguments, and saw everything colored by her emotions of the moment. The editor looked at her with a sort of half-amused amazement. Her vehemence was not to be answered by balanced sentences or editorial dignity.
"You are so good an advocate," he said, smiling, "that you almost incline me to be a convert."
"I wish I could convert you to believe in his goodness—to me, and perhaps to many others," said Meg, with the constraint of shy awkwardness upon her, as she accepted the homage of his softened mood.
"His kindness to you is all that I care for," said the editor, gallantly.
"Will you promise me not to write any more articles against him?" asked Meg, with the childlike almost primitive directness that occasionally distinguished her speech when greatly in earnest.
"I promise to remember your advocacy whenever I begin to write, or to think of Sir Malcolm Loftdale," answered the editor.
"You promise it?" repeated Meg.
"I promise it," said the editor.
After a pause of awkward hesitation Meg bowed and turned away. The editor held open the door for her, and she passed out of the dingy office.
As Meg walked home she was conscious of a certain light-heartedness. The interview had been, on the whole, antagonistic; yet the impression it left on her mind was pleasant. The editor was a stranger, and yet he almost seemed to her a friend. She could not account for a sense of trustfulness with which she felt inclined to regard him. There was nothing to justify this confidence, yet the impression remained.