Meg, of Valencia Part 10

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.

The following day, with her few clothes, her ticket, and a small lunch-box which Delia had smuggled to her, Meg set out on her journey.

To her it was a new experience, for since her orphanhood she had scarcely been away from Valencia. It would have been a pleasurable trip, but for the sorrow which she antic.i.p.ated at its close.

She was so intensely alive, that everything interested her: the occupants of the car, and the moving panorama without, the rolling prairies of her own State, the cool, wooded forests of Missouri, the rich farms of Illinois. But as she neared her journey's end, and contemplated what it meant to her, and to that other lonely woman who loved him, her thoughts took shape, and, closing her eyes, she tried to realize the full force of the blow that had fallen alike upon his mother and herself.

In imagination she saw it all! A dim, high-ceilinged cathedral, with the monastery at the rear. The gloom was relieved only by the candles at the altar. A priest was droning the Latin of his prayer-book, while the organ in the loft was playing some soft, monotonous air, that got into her brain and nearly soothed her into forgetfulness. Suddenly it burst into a triumphant Te Deum, as the altar boys appeared, followed by other priests, and lastly, by five young men clad in the brown robe of the order of St. Francis.

Her eyes sought their faces, one by one, till the last one was reached.

He was white, and in his eyes was the look of a man who had lived, and loved, and lost. Over the heads of the other novitiates, beyond the forms of the priests, his eyes met and held hers. And when he should have responded in Latin, with the others, no sound issued from his lips, but his eyes, fixed on hers, said: "Margie, I love you so! You are dearer to me than all the world, dearer to me than the cloistered life I thought would be all-sufficing!"

She held out her arms to him, but into his face had come the gray pallor of a living death. The service went on and on, endlessly, it seemed to her. It was all so meaningless! Her mind comprehended nothing. Her heart, tense and ready to break, knew only that he was leaving her. The beauty of the music, the impressiveness and solemnity of the service meant but the one thing,-Robert was leaving her!

The service ended, his eyes said farewell to her,-and, with the others, to the same monotonous music of the organ that had first lulled her senses, he retreated, farther and farther away from her, until at last he disappeared entirely. There was a moment of terrible suspense, as she strained her ears to listen. Then came the clang of the monastery gates, as they closed behind him, shutting him out of her life forever!

"Missy, de train's done reached Welcomeville. Ain't dis where you all get off?"

Meg sat up straight and looked at the colored porter in a dazed manner for a moment. Then, gathering her few possessions together, she left the train.

CHAPTER XVII.

"Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy."

Mrs. Malloy became oppressed with an uncomfortable feeling of guilt, in the days following the sending of the message. It was foreign to her nature to do anything about which there was necessity of being secretive, and she shrank from the consequences of the revelation, should her act meet Robert's disapproval.

But dominant over that and every other sensation was her joy at her son's defection from his chosen path, and the antic.i.p.ation of his happiness in knowing that Meg loved him.

She did not meet Meg at the train, sending her trusted coachman alone, for she preferred receiving her in her home. When the carriage drove up, and she saw Meg's white, drawn face, she became momentarily nervous. But the nervousness gave way to happiness when she held the girl in her arms, and caressed her hair. "Dear Mrs. Malloy," Meg whispered, "I seem so helpless! What can I do to make the burden easier?"

The silence that followed became uncomfortable. And Meg, looking up, saw such a light on the face bending over hers that she added wonderingly, "Why, how strange you look! What is it?"

"Please listen patiently, dear little girl, and don't misunderstand me.

But first, let me take off your hat,-there-and now sit down. What would you say if I told you that Robert had given up the monastery?"

Meg looked at her in a dazed manner, but made no reply. Mrs. Malloy continued: "He awakened to the knowledge that he was more necessary on _this_ side of the gates."

Meg suddenly sat up very straight and asked in a strained voice, "And the message? When did you send the message?"

Mrs. Malloy laughed softly, "Just as soon as he told me."

"But you said you needed me." The girl's tone was hard.

For the first time Mrs. Malloy realized that here was an undreamed of force, and she was suddenly reduced to an uncomfortable knowledge that she had perhaps made a mistake. She hastened to adjust matters by an explanation. "I felt I _did_ need you, my dear, for Robert. He told me he loved you, and as I have always tried to procure for him everything he wished, I thought I would bring you to him." She tried to laugh, but the effort was a failure.

"Then you have spoiled him by getting him all the playthings he wanted," Meg said dryly. "A little denial earlier in life would have been morally beneficial. You should have let him cry for the moon, and he would have learned the futility of tears."

"Margie, dear,-" Mrs. Malloy leaned forward, and her tone was pleading,-"don't talk like that. It breaks my heart. I have blundered, but only through love of my boy and you. Can't you forgive a foolish old woman?"

Meg smiled, but there was no warmth in the smile. "Certainly I will forgive you. But Rob-your son: does he know you have sent for me?"

"No, he has no idea of it. And now that I see how you regard it, I fear to meet his contempt when he knows that I have interfered, fruitlessly, with his affairs."

"But he need never know it," Meg said quickly; "I will take the first train back, and he need not know I was here."

Robert's convalescence had reached the stage where he longed to prove to his loving mother that she had been needlessly alarmed about him.

Therefore, slipping out of his easy-chair in the library, he started into the hall to find and surprise her. Following the direction of her voice and that other low-toned one, which was so strangely familiar, he pulled aside the heavy draperies, and stood framed in the doorway.

"Margie!" he cried, steadying himself by the curtains.

At the sound of that cry, and at sight of his thin, white face, she half started toward him with an inarticulate exclamation. But suddenly she remembered, and advancing formally, gave him her hand to shake, and said in a conventional tone, as though they had met the day before: "Good afternoon, Mr. Malloy. I hope you are improving in health."

Robert dropped weakly into a chair, and with his eyes still fixed on her face, said to Mrs. Malloy: "Mother, is it a cruel hallucination? Or is it really my Margie, standing there?"

Meg flushed deeply, but before she could say anything Mrs. Malloy interposed: "Let me explain, dear. I have been a foolish meddler. I wired Margie that I needed her, and she came, thinking you had gone into the monastery."

An awkward pause followed, which Robert broke, falteringly: "Margie, it is not a time to stand on formality, and I know from my former experience that a delay in speaking is sometimes disastrous. So I am going to ask you a question in the presence of my mother. Will you be my wife?"

Meg's face was white, and her voice quietly cold as she replied, "I am not unmindful of the very great honor you do me, Robert, but I must decline it." And turning to Mrs. Malloy, "Is there a train I can take to-night?"

"No, dear, not till morning. Let me take you to your room, and you can rest, for I know you are tired."

"Thank you," Meg said sweetly, and giving Robert a little nod she followed his mother from the room.

After opening her door for her and seeing that everything was as she had ordered, even to the flowers, and the cheerful grate fire, Mrs.

Malloy turned to leave the room. At the threshold she paused, and Meg was really concerned to see the look of age which had overtaken her features. "You would better rest a while," she said, "and I will have you called in time for dinner."

When she was alone Meg threw herself down in a chair before the fire and sat staring into the glowing embers. She was deeply wounded and offended. "Do they think I have no self-respect?" she said to herself.