Meg, of Valencia Part 11

"Mrs. Malloy, knowing me to be dying of love for Robert, and being accustomed to gratifying his slightest whim, hands me to him on a platter, with her compliments. And he, so polite, having been taught to say 'Please,' and 'Thank you,' accepts me graciously. 'Thank you, Mother dear; you have the knack of always getting me just what I want.

It's very pretty. I would prefer it to that monastery or any other toy.'"

Just then a glowing log separated, and fell with a hissing sound; gradually the glow faded from it and it became gray and lifeless.

"That's it," Meg soliloquized; "that log represents life. One moment so full of color and warmth, the next, a handful of ashes.-I hate Robert.-He looks very badly.-I wonder if he was in any danger.-I suppose his mother must have been terribly anxious.-Auntie would say I was sentimentalizing.-I wonder-" The tired head fell back against the cus.h.i.+on of the chair, and she slept dreamlessly and sweetly, till she was summoned to dinner.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"Her children arise up and call her blessed."

Meg, refreshed by her nap, was her usual sprightly self at dinner. Mrs.

Malloy looked weary and old, and had little to say. Robert, who dined only by courtesy, his repast consisting of a bowl of bouillon, conversed with Meg on the impersonal topics she selected.

He found it impossible to get on the old familiar footing. Even the subject of Aunt Amelia, she treated with respect, refusing to see the opportunities for ridicule which his polite inquiries furnished, and of which, once, she would have taken advantage. She was bright and gracious, but there was a new dignity about her, which forbade any approach to the doorway of her emotions.

Robert had forborne to reproach his mother. Being by instinct and breeding a gentleman, he did not say a word to wound her. Yet ever in his deference, she was conscious of his resentment. She knew that he attributed his failure to win Margie, to her interference. That, had he been left alone to shape his fate, his desire would have led him back to Valencia, there to woo and win the maiden in the old-fas.h.i.+oned conventional manner.

And through her over-zeal, his bubble had burst,-the prize was beyond his seeking!

She was very miserable in her self-communion. More so, perhaps, than either of her companions. With Robert, hope was not by any means extinct. With Margie, in spite of her schooling, and her wounded pride, the warmth and glow of life came into her heart, as she looked across at Robert, listened to his deep, expressive voice, and met his eyes, containing the message of love he dared not speak.

As they started to leave the dining-room, Mrs. Malloy turned suddenly white, and before Robert could catch her, she sank in a crumpled heap on the floor. It was only a fainting spell, induced by her unhappiness following so closely upon the exhaustion and anxiety attending Robert's illness.

But this they did not know, those two young creatures! To them it resembled the sleep of death, and they both knelt beside her, frantic with self-reproach, crying and calling to her to open her eyes and speak. When she finally emerged from the swoon, she looked from one to the other of them. Thinking she was dying, and that the wish she could not frame in words was her last request, Meg sobbingly cried, "Yes, dear Mrs. Malloy, I _will_ marry him if he wants me, for I do love him."

Whereupon Robert, putting his arm around Meg, said solemnly, "Mother darling, it shall be as you wish. We love each other, and will send for the priest at once if you say so."

Mrs. Malloy closed her eyes from sheer weakness, but even in her half-swoon the look of youth stole back to her features, and a beneficent expression of peace came over them. When she felt strong enough to speak, she asked to be helped to the couch.

The young couple bent over her solicitously, and when she again opened her eyes, Robert asked in a low voice, "Shall I send for the doctor for you, and the priest for us, Mother dear?"

She smiled faintly. "I do not need the doctor, for I simply fainted. As for the priest, suit yourselves, but don't send on my account, for I think I will live till morning. And now, if Margie will come to help me, I am going to my room to lie down. I would rather have you than a servant, dear. Good-night, my boy. I will send Margie back to you soon."

A little later, Meg whispered to Robert, "I believe she fainted on purpose!"

CHAPTER XIX.

"Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet."

Meg was writing to her aunt, and Robert leaned over her shoulder and read: "So I will be married here, and then we will take a trip for Robert's health. Auntie, please don't suspect me of marrying for money, but did you guess they were rich? _I_ didn't, till I came here, and then I saw. Most of the rich people we know make such a vulgar display, and that is why, I suppose, I did not suspect it of them. I feel like a fairy princess-"

Meg stopped writing and leaned back in her chair. "Robert Malloy," she said with pretended severity, "I am surprised that your mother never taught you it was impolite to look over people's shoulders. I suppose she wanted to leave part of your education to me."

"Speaking of fairy princesses, tell me the rest of that story you began the day that poor, dear little boy stubbed his poor, dear little toe."

She blushed at the remembrance, but pa.s.sed on the reference, and began her story without a preface: "Well, the beautiful, amiable princess, almost too good for this world, finally met her Prince, or at least a very good imitation of one, but he thought _he_ was too good for this world-"

"I don't think I care for your story," and he pretended to yawn.

"And I don't think you would make a good monk. You are not fat enough,"

remarked Meg irrelevantly; and then, seeing a tense look on Robert's face, she leaned forward and said contritely, "Oh, Bobbie, I never will make light of it again! Honest! Cross my heart and hope to die!"

"I hope not, dear one," he said gently; "I have given it all up, and I have no regrets, but,-"

"Yes," seriously, "I understand."

Robert had drawn a chair up beside her, and was holding and caressing her hand. "Tell me, little girl, where you would like to go, when we leave the world behind us."

Her face a.s.sumed a prim look, as she replied: "I have always been taught that if I mended my ways and became very, _very_ good, I would go to Heaven."

Robert laughed. "But in the meantime? I would like to travel more or less for a year, especially as Mother can be with us part of the time.

After that, I will come home and go into some kind of business."

Meg's eyes were s.h.i.+ning with excitement. "Won't it be fine!" she exclaimed; "I have always longed to see the world. I want to view the universe from the summit of Pike's Peak. I would like to gather oranges in Florida, to be prodigal with flowers in California. It is my desire to be made dumb by the magnificence of Yellowstone Park,-temporarily dumb, you understand,-and deaf by the roar of Niagara!"

"And you have never been to any of these places?"

"No, but I once went to Tec.u.mseh! That's fifteen miles from Valencia,"

she replied confidentially.

Robert laughed. Her voice became softly reminiscent, as she continued: "I used to 'pretend' that I was traveling. I wandered through quaint old streets in the unfrequented northern parts of Great Britain. I spent whole weeks in that little town with its one street, paved with cobblestones, leading straight down to the sea. I reveled in the strong, salt air, and the odor of the fish, freshly caught,-though I never could bear to smell them in a meat market in Valencia!" and her small nose went up at the recollection.

"And did you never visit France, Germany, or Italy?"

"Oh, yes,-and Spain, where were all my possessions! I didn't miss any of the usual places, but I was contrary enough to prefer the unbeaten path. That, I suppose, is the spirit of my pioneer ancestors in me. I dearly loved Ireland, and the warm-hearted Irish people,-indeed, indeed, I'm not saying it to flatter you!"

Robert was enjoying himself thoroughly, and to encourage her in her whimsicalities, he asked, "Did you never visit j.a.pan?"

"Yes, it was there I learned the exquisite art of arranging flowers.

But auntie, being a born and bred Valencian, could never be convinced that it was not artistic to stuff a vase full of nasturtiums, geraniums and sweet peas, with a garnis.h.i.+ng of alyssum and petunias!"

"You must have gained quite a smattering of the languages in your travels," Robert said idly.

"_Just_ a smattering! Not enough to make me forget the everyday language which years of a.s.sociation had made familiar, if not dear. My travels usually ended as abruptly as though a cablegram had called me home. Just as I would alight from one voyage, and, living over again my delight in the scenes which had enchanted me, before preening my wings and preparing for another flight, I would be jerked back to my commonplace existence by a familiar voice saying, 'Meg, tell Delia to boil some cabbage for dinner!' Auntie was addicted to cabbage," she concluded plaintively.

There was something of sadness in Robert's smile, as he said: "Poor little bird with the clipped wings! How much of pleasure and happiness you have missed. Please G.o.d, I shall make it up to you!"

Meg gave him a grateful, upward look, as she exclaimed impulsively, "Oh, Robert, my dear, you will have to give me so much love to make up for the fifteen years I have missed it."

"For twenty years, for forty years, if you say so, sweetheart, for the supply is unlimited. And you,-will you turn on your shaded lights for me?"

"No," she said, with sweet gravity, "for shaded lights are artificial.