"Oh, Meg, how can you?" murmured Joyce.
Yes, how could I? The evil spirit was stronger than myself.
"It doesn't occur to you that this fine generosity of yours comes too late," cried I. "But the mischief is done. I won't have you go away now. I will go away."
"You!" exclaimed Joyce. "Where?"
"Not to Aunt Naomi's," I began, scornfully; and for a moment the temptation rose up in me to show her that I too was loved, was sought—to tell her where I might go if I chose, and be cherished, I knew it, for a lifetime. But the memory of the squire's face, of the little tremble in his voice, came back to me, and I could not speak of his love. "Not to Aunt Naomi," I said. "To be a governess."
"Oh no, Meg, I couldn't let you do that," said Joyce, concernedly. "I thought perhaps you were going to say something quite different. I have had a fancy now and then of late that we were all of us mistaken in that foolish notion of the reason why the squire has been such a faithful visitor to us all these years. Supposing it were as I fancy, don't you think you could grow to love him, Meg? He is worthy of you in every way."
She spoke with a strange pleading; her words heaped fuel on the fire within me; she paused for an answer, but I gave her none. "He is coming here to-night. I heard him promise mother he would come. Oh, how I wish it might be about you! Do you think there is any chance?"
Her voice flew at me like a shaft from a bow. I felt myself grow cold.
"How dare you?" I cried. "How dare you?"