Meg, of Valencia Part 7

As they entered, and Charlie recognized them, he called out in his old cheery tones, much weakened by suffering, "My two young friends, I'm so glad to see you! Gertie, honey, get another chair so they can both sit down. How's my little cousin?" he continued, looking at Meg. "What's that, what's that? No crying, little girl. We want to be cheerful and happy here."

Meg dried her tears and tried to smile at him. "That's it," he said.

"That's one reason I've always loved this little cousin so much," he explained, turning his eyes toward Robert. "She's always cheerful,-never makes a fellow feel badly."

"Perhaps we-or at least I-would better not stay in here," said Robert, noticing how exhausted he was.

Charlie put out his hand feebly and laid it on Robert's-"Don't go. I might get blue. _She_-" nodding toward the other room,-"has gone all to pieces, and you know I can't bear to see her unhappy."

He seemed at times, from then on, to lapse into unconsciousness, but whenever one of them would rise to call Ada he would rouse himself and ask them not to. "The poor girl loses control of herself when she sees me. I'll tell you when to call her. I don't want to make it any worse for her than is necessary."

After a little while he said: "Robert, I don't belong to any church, but I'm not an infidel. I've tried to live right. Won't you say a little prayer for me? Not any set form, my boy, but just a prayer from your heart."

Kneeling by the bed, Robert made a simple, touching, earnest prayer in a few sentences, a prayer which brought the quick tears again to Meg's eyes. At its conclusion Charlie said, "Thank you," very softly, and turned his head away for a few minutes.

When he spoke again it was lightly, to cover his emotion. "Meg, I've played a great joke on Ada. She thinks we are poor. We _have_ had to economize a good deal, but there will be fifty thousand dollars life insurance for her after-well, after a while. That ought to keep her and the young one from starving, don't you think?"

The room grew very silent, for neither Meg nor Robert had any heart for conversation. Gertie sat in her usual place at the foot of the bed, dry-eyed and sad, watching her father's white face.

Outside, in the hall, could be heard the murmur of voices. It seemed to disturb the sick man at last, for, opening his eyes, he asked, "Is it the neighbor-women waiting to see me die? Just tell them that I'm not at home to callers, will you?"

He tried to laugh at his pitiful little joke, but the laugh was so hollow that it startled even himself. He nodded as Robert and Meg arose, and said, "Yes, send her in, I want her. Good-bye, dear friends,-G.o.d bless you!"

They started for the door, when he called feebly, "Meg!"

"Yes," she cried, running back to him.

"Don't let the doctor or any one disturb us. I just want _her_,-and little Gertie." As she started again he caught her hand and said entreatingly, "Be good to _her_, little cousin!"

When she found Ada and sent her in to him, she whispered, "If you need me, call me, dear."

From the room came the sound of Ada's sobs, above which, with remarkable strength, arose Charlie's voice, encouraging and cheering.

Then weaker and weaker it grew,-and ceased altogether.

A moment later a wild shriek rang through the house, and Meg, running in, found Ada in a swoon on the floor, while Gertie, the child, with an expression of heart-breaking despair, was striving to lift her mother's head, though she never took her eyes from the still, white face on the bed.

Meg and Robert left the house an hour later. There was nothing more they could do, for the Masons, to which lodge Charlie belonged, were in charge of the body, and the neighbor-women had taken possession of Ada and Gertie.

It had grown almost dark, and the lights were beginning to s.h.i.+ne in the houses along the way. There was little said between them, for both were too deeply stirred by the sad events of the day to talk much.

Finally Meg broke the silence. With a little catch in her voice, she said: "I am so wicked! When poor Charlie told me that Ada would have fifty thousand dollars, my first thought was that there were many men whom that amount of money would tempt."

As there was no reply, she said, with attempted lightness, "Will you absolve me?"

Meeting her mood, though both their hearts were heavy, he answered, "There is no need of absolution where there is no sin."

Nothing more was said until her gate was reached, and she cried: "It doesn't pay! It doesn't pay to love, and marry, and be separated by death!"

CHAPTER XI.

"Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradise that has survived the fall!"

About a week after Charlie's funeral, Meg and Robert chanced to meet at the Walker home, where both had gone to see the desolate young widow.

As they walked home together, both were silent. When within a block of Meg's home they pa.s.sed a little cottage, plainly the home of people in moderate circ.u.mstances. When they were just opposite the gate, a comely young woman came out of the door and called, "Supper's ready."

Her husband, who was on the lawn in front, picked up one child, swung him on his back, while the youngster squealed with glee, and called, "Supper's ready. Didn't you hear Mama call, boys? The first one in gets all the hot biscuit."

Off he capered over the yard, the child on his back kicking and pounding, and crying, "Get up, old horsie," while the other two little lads raced after him as fast as their short legs would carry them. The mother stood in the open door, her hands on her hips, watching the race, her face radiating good-humor and joy.

It was such a domestic scene! Rough and uncouth though they might be, these people typified home, with all of the sweet meaning which is often lost amid the environment of wealth.

Robert watched with his heart in his eyes. He noted each of the little lads, for he loved children very dearly. He saw the look of idolatrous pride on the mother's face. He was absorbed in the delight of the domestic scene.

And then they entered the house; the door closed upon them! It was as though he had been given a glimpse of Heaven through a crack in the door, which had suddenly been closed, leaving him out in the dark and the night of his own despair.

Something of what he felt was in his eyes as he turned and looked at Meg. Then the veil which had obscured his mental vision was lifted, and he found himself face to face with his great soul-problem!

He seemed to see her for the first time. He took in the pure little profile, the fresh red lips, the dark-lashed eyes, in a way he had never done before. He even found himself looking with tender, amused eyes at her reddish hair, and vaguely wondered what she would do if he were to call her, school-boy fas.h.i.+on, "Sorrel-top."

Suddenly he remembered! Not for him those charms, not for him the companions.h.i.+p of this winsome little creature, of whose deeper nature he had been given a glimpse, during the sad communion of the last few weeks!

When they reached her gate he dared not trust himself to shake hands with her. He feared the touch of the soft little hand, and knew he must be alone to fight it out by himself.

As Meg stepped up on the porch and was about to go in, a querulous voice said: "Well, I see you have been gallivanting around with Robert Malloy again. I should think he would be disgusted with you, the way you run after him!"

"Oh, Auntie, don't, please," she pleaded, holding out her hands beseechingly.

"Every one sees it," continued the merciless voice, "even his mother.

And from the way she spoke that night she was here, I could tell that she was very much displeased."

"Are you sure of that?" Meg asked quietly.

"Of course I'm sure," was the impatient answer.

"Very well. I'll see that no one has reason to criticise my actions again. Thank you for telling me. Good-night," she said gently, as she started to her room.

CHAPTER XII.

"_Pray, goody, please to moderate the rancour of your tongue._"