Meg, of Valencia Part 9

All the glory had departed from her face, and she only nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath."

Meg did not see Robert again before he left. Mrs. Malloy she saw only for a moment, in the presence of her aunt, when she came to tell them "Good-bye." "We leave to-morrow," she explained with an attempt at a smile; "Robert has only six weeks more of liberty."

They looked into each other's eyes, the two women who loved him. Soul recognized soul, and Meg, throwing her arms around his mother, whispered, "G.o.d give you strength to bear it."

For reply, Mrs. Malloy clasped her close a moment and said so low that Mrs. Weston could not hear, though she strained her ears. "If I find I cannot bear it alone, and send for you, will you come?"

Meg could only nod. A moment more, and she was gone. Meg stood staring after her till her aunt's rasping voice broke the spell: "Do you want the neighbors to say that you are dying of love for that young man? No?

Well, then, don't act so mawkish about his mother!"

Meg could stand no more, and ran up to her room to escape the persecution.

The days dragged on hopelessly and drearily. One day, about three weeks after Robert's departure, Ada Walker came to see her. She looked very pretty in her mourning-clothes, and her face wore a pensive air which was becoming to her.

"I have come to say 'Good-bye,'" was her greeting. "Good-bye!" asked Meg in astonishment.

"Yes, I am going to put Gertie in boarding-school, and then I am going East to study music."

"And the home?"

"I have sold that," was the reply.

"Sold Charlie's home!" gasped the girl.

"Certainly. He always wanted me to keep up my music, and I couldn't be bothered with a house."

Meg said nothing. "You know, Meg, Charlie would have wished it," she said somewhat peevishly.

"Yes, Charlie would have wanted you to do just as you wished," replied Meg drearily. Then suddenly she burst into tears, and throwing her arms around Ada's neck, cried, "Oh, I can't bear to see you go! You are all of Charlie that is left to me, and _everybody_ is going from me!"

Ada looked surprised at her burst of emotion, and said patronizingly: "Why, I didn't know that you cared so much! We people of deeper feelings are sometimes at a loss to understand you frivolous ones!"

The words acted like a tonic on Meg, who dried her eyes, and said with bitter lightness, "You must allow us frivolous ones to mope occasionally. We are not always gay."

"I suppose not," said her cousin, eyeing her disapprovingly.

After she had gone Meg went up to the attic where she kept the little trunk containing her mother's things. Unlocking it, she clothed herself in the dress and ap.r.o.n of which she had spoken to Mrs. Malloy. With the addition the spectacles, the use of which her mother's near-sightedness had compelled, and the piece of unfinished work, she looked like a child masquerading in grown-up clothes. But no child could have worn the look of absolute despair depicted upon her face.

She sat gazing into vacancy for a while, and then, remembering her game, began to talk: "Margie, dearie, don't you realize that you are only a light-minded little thing? You must try to be serious, darling, try to have sober thoughts, try to feel as people of deeper natures do.

"And another thing you must remember,-you must not stand in anybody's way. When you find that you are standing between anyone and the light, just step aside. Never mind about yourself. You are of no consequence.

You are just a waif,-you don't belong anywhere, and don't belong to anybody-"

Suddenly the little red head went down on the folded arms, and she began to sob, "Oh, mother! mother!"

CHAPTER XV.

"As a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings."

For a week or so after their return, Mrs. Malloy found herself, in spite of her philosophy, growing bitter. She compared her life, replete with all the bodily comforts that wealth procures, with that of other women, who knew not the luxury of ease and comfort and beautiful environments, but who, nevertheless, were surrounded by the dear ones who alone make happiness.

She looked around her house, which in the minutest detail evidenced exquisite refinement of taste, and thought with despair that in a few weeks those rooms would be empty,-empty of the presence of her best beloved.

But something occurred which obliterated her reflections, and roused all the strength and courage of her character. Robert became very ill with typhoid fever, and for days it was impossible to foresee the issue.

During his delirium he was like a child who dreads the dark, except that the thing he feared was the monastery, that haven of rest for which he had longed. He would beg his mother piteously to keep Margie from pus.h.i.+ng him through the gates.

One day he returned from the Crossway leading into the Valley, and smiled a sane, rational smile. And simultaneous with his recovery, fell the scales from his eyes.

He looked at the havoc anxiety had wrought in his mother's face. Back of the ever-ready smile, was a look he was beginning to understand.

And from having doubts as to his duty to fulfill his vows, he became positive that his place was with her. As day after day he thought it out, he felt horror of himself for the wrong he had unconsciously intended.

Finally he told his mother. He begged her forgiveness for ever having contemplated leaving her after his father's death, and promised that in the years to come he would try to make it up to her. She clasped him in her arms, and murmured incoherent words of love, as she pressed her face to his dark curls, as a mother does with a baby. "Oh, mother mine, has it meant so much to you?" he asked in sorrow.

"So much more than you can ever know," she answered, "but this moment compensates for a whole lifetime of suffering!"

After a pause, during which he stroked her hand in silence, Mrs. Malloy said gently, "Robert, I don't want to rush in where angels would fear to tread, so just stop me if the subject pains you,-but I don't understand why Margie refused to marry you."

"She didn't exactly refuse me, Mother," he said hesitatingly; and then he told her of their conversation.

His mother regarded him, during the recital, with amazement, amus.e.m.e.nt, and consternation. When he had finished she observed quietly: "My son, I see I neglected an important part of your education. You are not schooled in woman-lore."

A little later a telegram went out to Meg from her, saying, "I need you. Come."

CHAPTER XVI.

"To know, to esteem, to love,-and then to part, Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart!"

Valencia, to Meg, had become a barren spot on the map. Nothing relieved the dreary monotony but the nagging tongue of her aunt, who, it would seem, had found her mission in life, that of saying and doing the little things which crucify.

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.