"Sir Malcolm Loftdale," said Mr. Standish firmly yet courteously, "I perfectly understand your meaning. This young lady occupies an honorable position in your household, and she has always led me to understand that you treated her with the utmost kindness and consideration; but she is not a member of your family."
"Such being your impression, I will not presume to blame you," said the baronet with the cynical courtesy one uses to an inferior. "Your honorable intentions I take for granted. It only remains for me to inform you, in the presence of this young lady—who has herself been made acquainted by me within the hour of the position she holds in my house—that Miss Beecham is my granddaughter."
"Your granddaughter!" repeated Mr. Standish with a movement of surprise. "I thought, sir, you had but one child—a son?"
"She is the daughter and only child of that son," answered the baronet with lofty curtness. "There is no necessity for me to enter with you into the details of a family history. Suffice it to say that I beg of you, as an honorable literary man"—the old gentleman laid a slight sarcastic stress on the word literary—"never again to address this lady, and to terminate from this moment an acquaintance which, if pursued, must be henceforth termed clandestine, treacherous, and dishonorable."
At these words Mr. Standish drew himself up with a dignity as cold and stern as was that of his visitor. "Sir Malcolm Loftdale," he said, "this comes rather late. It is not for me to give the pledge you exact; I will give it at the request of Miss Beecham only."
For a moment irritation seemed about to surprise the old gentleman. He clinched his stick and reared his grand old head as for a rebuke; then he turned mutely toward Meg.
"You have applied the word dishonorable to me, Sir Malcolm Loftdale. Allow me to say it is the last word, I think, you should have employed," resumed Mr. Standish.
"Sir, your protestations are thrown away upon me. I have no more to say to you," replied the baronet. "Meg, my child, it is now for you to decide. You have heard the expression of my positive wishes; you know how I feel on this subject; you know better than any one how your decision one way or the other will affect me. I confide in you."
Meg wrung her hands and remained silent. In her despair she confusedly felt she was called upon to make her choice between two duties. One was heavy to follow, the other meant all the happiness of her young heart. She gave an inarticulate moan—a word of that primal language common to all creation in its moments of anguish.
"I do not ask you to speak," said Sir Malcolm. "Put your hand on my arm, Meg, and let me take you home—that will suffice."