"It does not do him justice; he was the handsomest lad in the country," said the old man. "I loved him, Meg; I staked all my pride in life upon him. When he disgraced me my pride in life left me."
"Ah! how could he bring this sorrow upon you, sir?" murmured Meg, scarce knowing what she said, confused by this outburst of confidence from one whom she had always known so reticent.
"He brought dishonor upon our name," said the old man. Meg saw that he flushed and that he trembled; but he went on quietly nevertheless. "I must explain to you now why this picture was turned to the wall. I must tell you—what is agonizing to me to tell, and must be painful to you to hear; but the circumstances compel me. He wronged you. I have tried to fill his place toward you. He married your mother abroad, and under a false name. He contracted debts—debts of honor—that, having the money, he yet never paid. Thank God! the extent of his dishonor was never made public." Sir Malcolm paused, then he resumed: "His last act was, perhaps, the redeeming feature of his life. He killed himself. His suicide showed that a gleam of the old spirit made a dishonored life unbearable to him."
Meg did not speak. The horror of that tragedy filled the room. After a silence the old man resumed in his more habitual manner and tone:
"We need never refer to this unhappy story again. Ask me nothing concerning your mother; I never saw her, and know next to nothing about her. She died in giving you birth." Again he paused, then slowly with effort he said: "Will you forgive me, Meg, for your neglected childhood?"
Meg made a deprecatory gesture, and uttered an exclamation. These words of entreaty from him hurt her like a blow.
"I ask you to forgive it," continued the baronet with emotion. "I humbly ask it from my soul. I have remorse for it. I admit that in your childhood I looked upon you with aversion—that your coming here was a pain to me; and yet I loved you before you came."
"Before I came?" murmured Meg, astonished.
"I have loved you ever since the day I brought you back to school. When I saw you so spent with anguish and fatigue, lying on the cushions before me, my heart went out to you. I stopped my carriage when I was driving off after having left you; I returned, I came to your little bedside and kissed you in the dark."
"Then it was you who gave me that kiss!" faltered Meg. "I have never forgotten it." And on the impulse she pressed her lips on his thin hand.