Meg, of Valencia. Myra Williams Jarrell

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СКАЧАТЬ different from other boys, Bob,” she said smilingly; “he and I have had many a romp together.”

      “Maybe so, maybe so,” he muttered.

      “If I should say ‘booh!’ you’d run,” said Margaret with conviction, to Robert.

      “Try me and see,” was his good-humored response, just as dinner was announced.

      Mr. Spencer had seated the two young people together, for he rightly concluded that the ice would be broken sooner, over soup and fish, with the assistance of warm candlelight and flowers, than in a drawing-room with the accompaniment of voices no longer young.

      In taste, Robert was no acolyte, and he gave a little sigh of satisfaction as his eyes took in the exquisite details of the table of polished, massive mahogany, with gleaming silver and glass, the bowl of gorgeous, rich red roses, and the candles with their red shades.

      Turning, he met the eyes of his companion, and involuntarily thought that she fitted with the environments. Her hair had a decidedly reddish cast, and framed a face which was small and white, with a refractory red mouth and an insignificant nose.

      Her eyes were peculiar, but very beautiful, large and full and greenish in color, shaded by lashes so long and dark that they gave a dazzling brilliance to her face.

      As she met his eyes she smiled and said, as though he had spoken, “Yes, isn’t it pretty?” Then she added, “But I am a gourmand. I like the pretty surroundings and a good dinner, but if I had to choose between the two, I would take the latter.”

      “That’s because you are such a child,” he said patronizingly.

      “Of course, judging from the standpoint of your experience, I must appear like one,” was her lofty reply.

      Her remark reduced him to an awkward consciousness of his inexperience, and beside this small girl he felt himself suddenly to seem like an uncouth school-boy.

      After this little encounter they listened to the conversation of their elders. Mrs. Malloy was expressing her opinion of a new book which she did not like, and said that people were better off with no books at all than with one of that character.

      Mrs. Weston, who had never delved very deep into any subject, said with a little giggle: “I would hate to acknowledge, though, that I had not read a book of which every one was talking. But I have often heard Meg express herself the way you have been doing.”

      After they were back in the drawing-room Robert said to Margaret, “Did I understand your aunt to call you ‘Meg’?”

      “You did,” was the reply; “I have as many names as Eugene Field’s ‘Bill,’ in the little poem ‘Jes ’fore Christmas.’ You remember it?”

      He nodded.

      “Well, it’s this way with me: Father called me Margaret, the girls they called me Peg, Mother called me Margie, but Auntie calls me Meg.”

      “And—?” he queried.

      A sudden gravity settled over her face, as she replied, “There is no one now to call me Margaret or Margie. Auntie’s name for me sort of sticks. But I suppose it’s all right. I’m not big enough to be entitled to the big, dignified name of Margaret.”

      “When I know you well enough, I shall call you Margie,” Robert said confidently.

CHAPTER III.

       Table of Contents

      “A child of our grandmother Eve, a female;

      or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman.”

      The life which opened up for Robert Malloy was so full of surprises, new sensations and experiences, that he was both bewildered and delighted.

      His uncle watched him hopefully, his mother anxiously. There could be no doubt that she would have welcomed anything which would turn her son from his desire, but she was paradoxically jealous for the strength of character and singleness of purpose which had determined him for the life which would take him from her. Also, she could not be certain that he would be happy, should he walk into the trap so obviously set for him by his uncle.

      A few weeks after they reached Valencia she had a chance to study Meg more closely, and to obtain an insight into the character of the girl who puzzled her, and who very evidently attracted her son. There was something so subtle and elusive about her, that Mrs. Malloy, with her ear attuned to simplicity and directness, had not been able to form an opinion concerning her.

      She had taken a favorite book and started for a quiet spot in the woods adjoining her brother’s place, when she met Meg. The girl flushed with pleasure when Mrs. Malloy asked her to join her. There was little said by either as they walked along, yet there was no constraint. Finally Mrs. Malloy turned to her companion and said smilingly, “I believe you are one of those rare persons who are good company without saying a word.”

      Meg laughed as she answered, “I hope I know the value of silence.”

      Just then Meg’s quick eyes detected a little bird which had been wantonly shot, and was lying under the tree where probably it had made its home. Picking it up, she murmured a few broken words of pity, which might have been a requiem over the little dead body.

      “Isn’t it cruel?” she asked, raising her lovely dark-lashed eyes to Mrs. Malloy’s face, “and so useless—a little bird that never harmed anyone—and not even good to eat,” she added mournfully.

      Mrs. Malloy was impelled to laugh, though she, too, felt the pity of it.

      They finally sat down under a large tree, whose branches afforded a refreshing shade. Leaning her back against the tree, and sighing restfully, Mrs. Malloy turned to look at her companion. Meg wore the most inexpensive white dress, but she wore it as she did all of her home-made clothes, like a small princess.

      As she sat there, with her hands clasped around her knees, and her small head, with its refractory reddish hair, drooping, there was a pathetic look about her that went straight to Mrs. Malloy’s warm heart. She put her hand out and slightly touching Meg’s shoulder, said softly: “You look unhappy, dear—sort of lonely. Can I help you?”

      The girl’s face changed instantly, and looking up at Mrs. Malloy she said gayly, “But I’m not lonely—not now.”

      Mrs. Malloy withdrew her hand and said simply, “Pardon me. I no doubt seemed intrusive.”

      “You intrusive! oh, dear Mrs. Malloy, you couldn’t be intrusive! Why, if you should tell me my hair was red, I would not be offended. And that’s what I wouldn’t take from anyone else,” she added under her breath.

      “Well, I won’t be so rude, nor so untruthful. It is beautiful auburn, a color I’ve always liked.”

      “Of course,” Meg admitted reluctantly, “it isn’t exactly the color one could wear red with—not but what I would if I wanted to.”

      Mrs. Malloy threw her head back and laughed, and her laugh was as pleasant as it was rare.

      Meg СКАЧАТЬ