Meg felt that she could have endured having her house of cards tumble about her feet; could even have been stoical, because accustomed to a loveless life. But the constant jarring note,—the mean, cutting words which dwelt upon the lips perpetually of her one relative, kept her soul in such a turmoil, that she seriously thought of embracing Catholicism, and retiring to the peace of a convent.
That consolation, however, was denied her. She had not listened to Mrs. Weston’s exordiums on unrequited love, without acquiring a tolerably accurate idea of the remarks which such an act would call forth,—remarks which she felt would follow and torment her, though thirty convent walls, instead of one, hemmed her in from the strife and malice and unwisdom of the world she had left.
When she took a mental inventory of her accomplishments with the view of engaging in some business, she knew she could not qualify. She was skilled in cooking and housework,—but courageous as she was in her convictions, she shrank from the social ostracism that would surely follow, should she employ her one talent in earning her independence.
While she was turning these things over in her mind, and trying to come to a decision, the message came summoning her to the aristocratic little Eastern city where Mrs. Malloy had made her home since the early days of her wedded life.
Before speaking to her aunt about it, Meg counted over her scanty savings from her insufficient income, and found that she would have barely money enough for a round-trip ticket. It had not occurred to her to refuse the summons. She felt it her positive duty to go, and, putting her own trouble behind her, to do what she could for the stricken mother who had turned to her in her need.
When she timidly mentioned it to Mrs. Weston, she said sharply, “You surely don’t think of going! Why, it will only strengthen the opinion most of the people have,—that you are desperately in love with Robert Malloy.”
Meg raised her head with a gesture of pride and dignity, though the red blood mounted to her cheeks, as she replied, “You may tell the neighbors should they inquire, that I am in love with him.”
“Why, Margaret Anthony, I never heard so shameless an admission in my life!”
“I thought you might as well know, being my nearest of blood. You have thrown out so many innuendoes about the matter, that it may ease your mind to know the truth. Now you have the knowledge, you may sow it broadcast. No,” as her aunt started to speak, “there is nothing more to be said between us on the subject. You may discuss me with the butcher-boy, or the garbage-gatherer, whom I would consider a proper receptacle for such gossip, or any one who inspires you with a desire to talk,—but I demand silence for myself!”
It was a new phase of Meg’s character, which Mrs. Weston did not understand, and as she did not possess a spirit of adventure, she wisely refrained from disobeying the injunction.