Meg, of Valencia Part 6

She counted them off on her fingers, "The 'poonch,' salad, dessert, and coffee. And as you and Mr. Spencer are sociably inclined, Auntie will forego the pleasure of withdrawing, and leaving you with your wine and walnuts. After coffee, the porch."

"Thank you for the information," he said humbly.

When the dinner was finally finished, they went out on the porch. There the conversation was general for a time, and then Robert said lightly to Meg, "'Come into the garden, Maud,' and get me a flower for my coat."

She rose without demur, and together they strolled down the walk. Mr.

Spencer looked after their retreating forms, and then, meeting his sister's eyes, he deliberately winked.

That wink, while not elegant, served as an elixir to Mrs. Malloy, and under its influence she became fairly sparkling and gay. Mrs. Weston was astonished, for she had never seen her in such a mood, though she had never seen her despondent. Her gayety was short-lived, however, for Mrs. Weston killed it with a word.

"What a fine-looking boy Robert is," she began; and then, enthusiastically, "I think it is just lovely that he is to go into a monastery!"

There was no response, but she prattled on. "So romantic! And he will be such a handsome monk in his brown bath-robe! And will he have to go barefooted, and have his pretty curly hair shaved?"

She waited a moment, and then asked gus.h.i.+ngly, "Don't _you_ think it romantic?"

Mrs. Malloy's voice was even but cold, as she replied, when forced to do so by the direct question, "I would hardly call it romantic."

"Oh, _wouldn't_ you? Most people see more romance in a love affair, but I confess that the idea of a monastery appeals to me!"

"Let's join the youngsters," interrupted Mr. Spencer. "They probably are boring each other to death by now."

Mrs. Weston started up with alacrity, but his sister, with the look of a wounded animal in her eyes, said, "I will be there presently. I want to enjoy these wild roses a little longer."

CHAPTER IX.

"Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us n.o.bler loves, and n.o.bler cares."

A strong friends.h.i.+p sprang up between Robert and Charlie Walker, unusual in its warmth, and surprising, as the two men were totally different in taste and character, and as there was considerable disparity in their years.

Charlie Walker was a man of many friends, for he loved the world, yet of them all, none was, perhaps, so dear as this young friend. Robert was a man of few friends.h.i.+ps, for he was as reserved as the other was open-hearted.

Scarcely a week pa.s.sed that did not see them together. Charlie was never well from the time he had the first attack of indigestion, though he was able to be at his office most of the time, and still kept his hearty, healthy appearance. His hand-clasp was as strong, his laugh as infectious as ever, but there was a strained look about his eyes, which told of suffering borne in silence.

Robert and Meg, who went often together, commented on it to each other, but his wife remained ignorant of the real seriousness of his condition, which was what he desired. She still kept up her music and her club duties, at his request. It was evident that the man, in his great unselfishness, was determined to s.h.i.+eld her from worry or trouble, while there was life in his body.

One day Meg and Robert went to see him, for they had learned that he had been unable to be at his office for a week. When they reached the home, they found Mrs. Walker softly playing the piano. Greeting them, she asked sweetly, "Do you want to see Charlie? Just go upstairs. He will be _so_ glad to see you. I will come up as soon as I finish my practicing."

In silence they ascended the stairs and stepped to the open door of the bed-chamber. Charlie was propped up in bed with pillows, and they were both shocked at the change in his appearance, wrought by his illness of the past week. Gertie was curled up awkwardly by the foot of the bed, and her eyes were big and woe-begone.

"Well, well, young people," he called heartily when he saw them, "this is all the medicine I need!"

At the word "medicine," Gertie started, and going over to a stand where there was an array of bottles, said, "It's time for your powder, Papa."

He made a slight grimace, and addressing himself to Meg, said: "Now did you ever see such an unnatural child? Every time I really begin to enjoy myself, she comes and stuffs some vile medicine down my throat!"

The child's eyes were solemn as she said, "But, Papa, you have to take it. The doctor told me not to neglect it."

"Well, little Miss Literal, I see you are 'she who must be obeyed,' so I'll take it. Though I can't imagine why I need anything else when I have these two youngsters to look at."

Meg turned to Robert and said, "Delia isn't the only descendant of Brian Boru in these parts, you see." There was a little laugh at her remark, but it was only half-hearted, for both Robert and she were too much grieved at the change in Charlie to enjoy any joke.

He tried to be gay and natural, but after each effort he sank back among the pillows exhausted. As he laid there, a light of exquisite enjoyment came over his features, for the strains of the piano floated up from below.

Ada was playing something in a minor key, and the strange, sweet notes were so in harmony with the sadness of the occasion, that Meg was obliged to rise suddenly and go to the window, that Charlie might not see the tears in her eyes.

There was no sound in the room till the notes died away, and then turning to Robert, Charlie said: "Did you ever hear anything like that?

Her music is an indication of her soul."

Just then Ada came noiselessly into the room, and going over to the bed, asked gayly of her husband: "Did you like that piece? I think I will play it at the recital next week."

"I would," he replied, without a break in his voice, looking at her adoringly; and then, to Robert and Meg, who had exchanged glances, and were preparing to leave: "Must you go now? You will come again, won't you?-Come soon-" he added, in a voice he tried to make expressionless.

After they were outside Meg could contain her grief no longer, and began to sob. "Oh, can't _you_ see that he is dying?" she asked.

"I fear so," was the grave rejoinder.

"And after he is gone, some one will have to shake that woman and say, 'Wake up,-Charlie is dead!'"

CHAPTER X.

"Life's a short summer,-man a flower- He dies-alas! how soon he dies!"

For the next few weeks Meg and Robert were almost daily visitors at the Walker home. They could see that Charlie was failing very rapidly, but it was plain that his wife did not realize it, and that he did not wish her to.

One day Robert drove up to Mrs. Weston's in his uncle's phaeton, and Meg knew instinctively why he had come. Throwing on her hat, she ran out and asked breathlessly, "Oh, is it about Charlie?"

His face was grave as he answered, "The doctor has just told me that he cannot live through the day."

"And Ada?"

"She knows,-now," was the low reply.

"Poor, poor girl!" Meg said in quivering accents.

Robert looked at her with an expression he was himself unconscious of, but she did not meet his eyes.

Nothing more was said by either till they reached the home. Tossing a coin to a boy who was loafing in the yard, Robert asked him to take the horse back to the stable.

They went upstairs, and Ada came from the room with eyes swollen and red, and said, "You may go in,-he will want to see you."