"I think, sir," said Meg after a pause, speaking steadily, but in a feeling voice, "that after reflection you will admit that you are claiming 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 have been my secret benefactor for a long time; yet it is more than a benefactor's due you are claiming. A father only would have the right to impose the authority over me you demand to establish."
"It is this authority over you that I demand and that I rightly possess," said the baronet in a weighty voice, rising and drawing himself up. "You are my only son's only child. I stand in your father's place toward you. I am your grandfather."
"My grandfather!" said Meg stupidly. Everything grew indistinct around her except the figure of the old man, standing erect, authoritative, the sun shining on his white hair, illumining it like a halo round his head.
"Follow me!" he said. He turned and she followed automatically. He preceded her down the great staircase. The perfume of flowers came to her dreamily. Still she followed her guide on and on—vaguely conscious that some great issue was at hand.
They entered the large dining-room. Sir Malcolm had signed to two servants in the hall to follow.
They walked straight to where the picture hung with its face turned to the wall, an outcast among that goodly painted company.
At the order of the master the picture was turned, and the servants left the room. "That is your father's portrait," said Sir Malcolm in a voice that sounded without a quaver.
She knew that he turned away and left her standing there, looking at the representation of a young man dressed in a scarlet and gold uniform. He had a gallant and winsome air, his features were femininely delicate, the blue, small eyes bright, the lips full. As a sudden realization that she was looking at her father's face came to her, a tumult of feeling swept over Meg. Then came a chill and a disappointment. The countenance said nothing to her; she gazed at it dry-eyed.
She moved away. Sir Malcolm's glance was steadily averted. As she approached he looked round. His features were tense with suppressed emotion; a flicker of wildness lit the eyes, lustrous with unshed tears.
"It is a beautiful face," said Meg softly, moved by the evidences of a mental struggle that gave a crazy look of anguish to the old face; "but it is not dear to me, sir, as yours is dear."