After a few days, as Meg remained sternly invisible, he began to miss her, as a man might miss a favorite dog. To his inquiries concerning the child, Mrs. Browne or Jessie replied, she was "that" cross there was no biding her.
If he caught a glimpse of Meg she would vanish at his approach, and no call or song could entice her from her retreat. Then Mr. Standish made up his mind the child was absurdly unjust, and that in time she would come round; still he was more sorry than he allowed himself to acknowledge at her desertion. His work had grown upon him, an old debt harassed him, and he had lately received a sufficiently unpleasant surprise to occupy his mind.
Meanwhile, the passionate little figure, hidden in the shadow of the half-open door, watched his coming and going with keener vigilance. From her hiding-place the child scanned his countenance as he came and went; and at night fell into broken slumbers, until the sound of his returning footsteps brought peace to her unquiet heart. If Meg had known how to pray, or had realized that she could effectively and without indecorum pray out of church, she would have climbed in spirit to the throne of the Most High, and with insistent appeal have interceded for the friend she confusedly felt was passing through some dread peril. But Meg's conception of the world beyond the grave was as of a great darkness, against which outlined itself a simpering countenance wreathed with roses, which was her mother's face. To that dear vision Meg was eloquent concerning her grief—brokenly, and with impatient and angry misery, murmured to it of Mr. Standish's breach of faith, of the certain ruin that was waiting him, and of her own wretchedness.
Mr. Standish's ways completely puzzled her, and the mystery added to that desperate sense of estrangement between them. Some time before their quarrel she had watched one day a shabby-genteel-looking man knock at the journalist's door, and, on its being opened, hand to Mr. Standish a paper which he received and glanced over, the child noticed, with an expression of surprised consternation. He did not invite the visitor in. Meg could not distinguish the purport of the talk that ensued between them, but heard Mr. Standish's last words, in the anxiously confident tones of which, she detected a ghost of displeasure: "There has been some delay, but give me time to write again to him and I am sure it will be all right."
On her inquiries concerning this mysterious visitor, with a face she described as a red plum-pudding, Mr. Standish had given evasive answers. From that day she noted, however, that he changed his hours of going out; he appeared anxious; he locked his door after him. Sometimes, as a pledge of confidence, he had left his key with her, and he had told her not to let anyone in during his absence.
A week after their falling out, Meg, in looking over the superscription of Mr. Standish's letter in the hall, recognized the delicate and familiar handwriting of one of the young man's friends—who was also her favorite antipathy. She had at one time often brought epistles in this handwriting that she suspected were begging petitions. This letter bore a foreign stamp.
That afternoon Mr. Standish's voice, for the first time since his quarrel, was uplifted in song. As he went out he paused, and softly called "Meg." But Meg, in the shadow, straightened herself; an aggressive light brightened her eyes; she hesitated. Had he called again she might have come, but with a half-vexed laugh and a shrug he ran downstairs.
For the first time, also, he had left the key in his door. The child stole toward the room, opened the door, and looked in. Her heart smote her with remorse and pity as she beheld the disorder, the uncared-for confusion that reigned within—slippers pitched at different corners of the room; the tobacco-pouch half emptying its contents in a manuscript, the dust lying heavy on papers and books, the boot-jack inside the silver inkstand that had belonged to his father.
In a moment Meg was at her old task of setting the room in order. Flitting hither and thither, she zealously dusted, swept, put the books back into their accustomed places. She knew exactly where every volume was to stand. As she scrubbed and worked, the hard knot at her little heart loosened. She had proceeded some way at her task when she came upon a paper. She recognized the nature of the paper at a glance; she had seen such a missive in Mrs. Browne's possession before. It was a summons to appear before the county court. She read the words on the paper. The summons was taken out by one Abraham Samuels, who held a bill overdue for £25. The court was to sit on Wednesday, November 16th. To-day was the 26th—ten days later.
Meg stood stock-still with the paper in her hand. This was the paper the strange man had brought. She thought of Mr. Standish's brightened mood; what did it mean? Had he paid the debt? A tear dropped on the summons as she dwelt upon that past anxiety. How could she atone for having kept away so sternly? The only way that presented itself to her mind for displaying the energy of her repentance was by rubbing the furniture till it shone in the firelight. She put the last touch to her work by filling the two vases with late autumn foliage and yellow chrysanthemums, bought with her remaining pence. It was late that night when the journalist returned, but she noticed that he bounded lightly up the stairs, and she turned happily on her side and fell asleep. Mr. Standish was not up next morning when Meg set off for school.