Meg's Friend: A Story for Girls

by Percy F. Westerman

  CHAPTER III.

  MEG TO THE RESCUE.

  Mr. Standish saw no more of Meg for some days. He made no attempt atreconciliation. It amused him to think how Meg magnified his offense. Itseemed comical that the child should set him down as a drunkard. Helaughed out loud over it as he drank his single glass of lager beer atdinner. In his workaday life he avoided taking his glass of grog. Henever indulged in it, for economical reasons. With his brothers of thepress he took a convivial glass, but as for squandering money, he hadnone to spend.

  After a few days, as Meg remained sternly invisible, he began to missher, as a man might miss a favorite dog. To his inquiries concerning thechild, Mrs. Browne or Jessie replied, she was "that" cross there was nobiding her.

  If he caught a glimpse of Meg she would vanish at his approach, and nocall or song could entice her from her retreat. Then Mr. Standish madeup his mind the child was absurdly unjust, and that in time she wouldcome round; still he was more sorry than he allowed himself toacknowledge at her desertion. His work had grown upon him, an old debtharassed him, and he had lately received a sufficiently unpleasantsurprise to occupy his mind.

  Meanwhile, the passionate little figure, hidden in the shadow of thehalf-open door, watched his coming and going with keener vigilance. Fromher hiding-place the child scanned his countenance as he came and went;and at night fell into broken slumbers, until the sound of his returningfootsteps brought peace to her unquiet heart. If Meg had known how topray, or had realized that she could effectively and without indecorumpray out of church, she would have climbed in spirit to the throne ofthe Most High, and with insistent appeal have interceded for the friendshe confusedly felt was passing through some dread peril. But Meg'sconception of the world beyond the grave was as of a great darkness,against which outlined itself a simpering countenance wreathed withroses, which was her mother's face. To that dear vision Meg was eloquentconcerning her grief--brokenly, and with impatient and angry misery,murmured to it of Mr. Standish's breach of faith, of the certain ruinthat was waiting him, and of her own wretchedness.

  Mr. Standish's ways completely puzzled her, and the mystery added tothat desperate sense of estrangement between them. Some time beforetheir quarrel she had watched one day a shabby-genteel-looking man knockat the journalist's door, and, on its being opened, hand to Mr. Standisha paper which he received and glanced over, the child noticed, with anexpression of surprised consternation. He did not invite the visitor in.Meg could not distinguish the purport of the talk that ensued betweenthem, but heard Mr. Standish's last words, in the anxiously confidenttones of which, she detected a ghost of displeasure: "There has beensome delay, but give me time to write again to him and I am sure it willbe all right."

  On her inquiries concerning this mysterious visitor, with a face shedescribed as a red plum-pudding, Mr. Standish had given evasive answers.From that day she noted, however, that he changed his hours of goingout; he appeared anxious; he locked his door after him. Sometimes, as apledge of confidence, he had left his key with her, and he had told hernot to let anyone in during his absence.

  A week after their falling out, Meg, in looking over the superscriptionof Mr. Standish's letter in the hall, recognized the delicate andfamiliar handwriting of one of the young man's friends--who was also herfavorite antipathy. She had at one time often brought epistles in thishandwriting that she suspected were begging petitions. This letter borea foreign stamp.

  That afternoon Mr. Standish's voice, for the first time since hisquarrel, was uplifted in song. As he went out he paused, and softlycalled "Meg." But Meg, in the shadow, straightened herself; anaggressive light brightened her eyes; she hesitated. Had he called againshe might have come, but with a half-vexed laugh and a shrug he randownstairs.

  For the first time, also, he had left the key in his door. The childstole toward the room, opened the door, and looked in. Her heart smoteher with remorse and pity as she beheld the disorder, the uncared-forconfusion that reigned within--slippers pitched at different corners ofthe room; the tobacco-pouch half emptying its contents in a manuscript,the dust lying heavy on papers and books, the boot-jack inside thesilver inkstand that had belonged to his father.

  In a moment Meg was at her old task of setting the room in order.Flitting hither and thither, she zealously dusted, swept, put the booksback into their accustomed places. She knew exactly where every volumewas to stand. As she scrubbed and worked, the hard knot at her littleheart loosened. She had proceeded some way at her task when she cameupon a paper. She recognized the nature of the paper at a glance; shehad seen such a missive in Mrs. Browne's possession before. It was asummons to appear before the county court. She read the words on thepaper. The summons was taken out by one Abraham Samuels, who held a billoverdue for L25. The court was to sit on Wednesday, November 16th.To-day was the 26th--ten days later.

  Meg stood stock-still with the paper in her hand. This was the paper thestrange man had brought. She thought of Mr. Standish's brightened mood;what did it mean? Had he paid the debt? A tear dropped on the summons asshe dwelt upon that past anxiety. How could she atone for having keptaway so sternly? The only way that presented itself to her mind fordisplaying the energy of her repentance was by rubbing the furnituretill it shone in the firelight. She put the last touch to her work byfilling the two vases with late autumn foliage and yellowchrysanthemums, bought with her remaining pence. It was late that nightwhen the journalist returned, but she noticed that he bounded lightlyup the stairs, and she turned happily on her side and fell asleep. Mr.Standish was not up next morning when Meg set off for school.

  He was out when she returned. As she was sallying forth on an errand forMrs. Browne she perceived Jessie in deep confabulation with asmooth-voiced stranger in the hall, who was apparently making himselfagreeable to the slavey. At a glance she recognized him to be thestranger with the face like a red plum-pudding, who had handed thatsummons to Mr. Standish.

  In a flash she recollected the key was in the door of the journalist'sroom. The next moment her bounding young feet had carried her up thestairs, and she had locked the door, and dropped the key into her apronpocket, before the representative of justice came panting up on thescene. Meg's experience of life had included strange branches ofeducation. She had watched the maneuvers of debtors to keep bailiffs atbay, and the strategy of the men in authority to get into possession.

  "What do you want?" she inquired, standing before the threshold she wasdefending.

  "I want Mr. Standish--a writing gent. I've got news for him," repliedthe stranger with an air of business.

  "Can't see him," said Meg briefly. "He's out, and the door's locked."

  "Now, that's awful unfortunate," replied the visitor, with an air ofperplexed consternation. "Those writing gents make their living bygetting news, and my news is so important that he ought to know it."

  "What news is it? I'll tell him when he comes in," said Meg curtly.

  "Can't do that, missy. Now, I take it," continued the strangerinsinuatingly, "you know where the key of that room is. If you let mein, I'll give you the prettiest, shiniest sixpence you ever saw. Come,now, let me in, and I'll write my news down for the gent. My time'sprecious-like, you see."

  "Who are you? Where do you come from?" asked Meg.

  "I come from his newspaper office. I am what these writing gents call aprinter's devil, ha, ha, ha!"--and the stranger bubbled over withenjoyment of his own joke.

  "You're telling an awful fib," said Meg, red to the roots of her hair."You are a bailiff. I've seen bailiffs," and she nodded, "and I knowtheir dodges. You want to get into Mr. Standish's room to take histhings--that's what you want to do."

  "Eh, now, you are clever--as clever as clever can be--the prettiest,cleverest little girl!" rejoined the visitor admiringly.

  "Do you think," said Meg, evidently taking no notice of the compliment,"that a man ought to be punished who is always very kind and good, andwho works--works so hard--I could not tell you how hard; who eats verylittle, and who s
carcely drinks ever at all--that is, very seldom." Megdashed away a tear, and went on with energy, advancing with restlesssteps. "If this good man has friends who are bad, dishonest, lazydrunkards, who take all his money and don't give it back, don't youthink it is they who ought to be punished, not the good man?"

  "Well, missy, there's a deal in what you say--a deal," said the strangerponderingly; then, as Meg approached, lost in her pleading, he made asudden flop forward, and almost clutched her skirt, gasping, "That's apretty apron, missy--a nice little apron."

  But Meg had whisked the apron out of his grasp; and, dancing back, shookthe hair out of her eyes. "You wickedest man! trying to get the key outof my pocket! But I'll not let you have it. I'll throw it out of thatwindow into the gutter that runs down there sooner than let you haveit." Meg as she spoke opened the window in the lobby, and kept near it.

  "Then here I'll sit!" said the bailiff, depositing his burly form on thestair.

  "How long will you sit there?" asked Meg.

  "That's none of your business. I'll sit till he comes up. I believe he'sa scamp. Those hauthors and hartists are. I know lots of 'em. I warranthe's in the tavern spending his money."

  "I hate you!" cried Meg with a flash, her bosom heaving, her little redlips drawn tight over her teeth.

  There was something pitiably droll in the attitude of the child,standing at a safe distance, clutching her pocket, quivering withhelpless wrath, before the impassable persecutor. With a sudden springshe turned and dashed away, pausing to open a little wider the windowthat let in the draft upon the bailiff.

  "You'll get frightful rheumatism waiting there, and I'm glad of it," shecried, as she disappeared.

  Mr. Standish, returning half an hour later, saw a small figurepromenading up and down before the house under a dripping umbrella. Itwas Meg. She was by his side in a moment.

  "Come this minute," she said, putting her hand into his.

  "Why, Meg," he said cheerily, yet surprised at her manner; "so you haveforgiven me at last!"

  She did not answer; but as he was about to open the hall door with hislatchkey, she said laconically, "Not this way," and led him round by theback way.

  Meg flitted up the narrow stairs before him, every now and then turningback with forefinger on lips to enjoin silence. Up, up she went, untilshe reached the attic that was her own room. She signed to him to enter,and then shut the door.

  "Why, what is this for, Meg," said Mr. Standish, looking round.

  "He's here--the bailiff--waiting on the stairs, but he can't get in. Ilocked the door and kept the key; here it is." With an expressivetwinkle of her eyes she whisked it out of her pocket, and put it intohis hand.

  Mr. Standish sat down, looked at Meg, scarce understanding. "Bailiff!"he repeated. "Then Gilbert has not paid! I backed his bill because Itrusted his sacred promise that he would meet it in time!"

  "It was kind, but foolish," said Meg briefly.

  "He wrote the other day to say he would make it all right with Samuels,when I told him of the writ. He assured me the money was going by thenext post," Mr. Standish went on blankly.

  "He's an old cheat," said Meg, with scornful directness of speech.

  "What is to be done? I have no money, Meg," said the young man, with awretched flicker of a smile.

  "Pawn your watch and chain--they're real gold; they're big and heavy;they'll raise the money," said Meg, with her usual unhesitancy.

  The journalist flushed red. "I can't, Meg!" He drew the watch out of hispocket. It was a large hunting watch, that had been presented to therector, his father. Inside the lid the names of the donors wereinscribed in minute characters. "I can't, Meg," he repeated, looking atit and shaking his head. "A token of affectionate gratitude, atestimonial to his faithful work--I can't place it where there are somany associations that are disgraceful. It would be degradation----"

  "Not a bit of it!" said Meg with fearless rapidity, as he rose andwalked up and down the attic. "You'll get it back soon. You'll work hardto get it out. If you don't pawn it you'll have to let that man in,"nodding in the direction of the staircase. "He'll sit in your room.You'll be able to do no work with him there, smelling of gin, and hisred face looking at you. He'll take the silver ink-bottle--and thebooks. Pawn your watch, and if you work hard you'll get it out soon."

  "Wise, practical Meg," said Mr. Standish, scarcely able to repress asmile, moving irresolutely about the little room.

  "Give it to me! I'll pawn it for you," rejoined Meg, intent andbusiness-like. "I've been there before. Last time Mrs. Browne put thesilver teapot up the spout I went for her. She was tipsy; she could notgo. The man knows me. He'll give me the money."

  "I have not the heart to do it Meg--I have not the heart," said Mr.Standish, hesitating as the child approached.

  "It's better than having the man inside your room, sitting on your greenvelvet armchair or the chintz sofa, taking the silver ink-bottle and thebooks, and preventing your working," continued Meg, pressing heradvantage; and as Mr. Standish began slowly to unloose the chain, herdeft fingers came to the rescue and helped him.

  He looked down at the eager, determined child-face. "How good you are tome, Meg; how good!" he said, the words rushing almost unconsciously tohis lips.

  A quiver of the eyelids only showed the child felt the tones. "Give itto me," she repeated imperatively.

  The next moment the watch and chain, wrapped in a cleanpocket-handkerchief, were in Meg's grasp, and she had departed. Mr.Standish, stooping under the shelving ceiling on a level with the stripof window, looked out and watched the wet umbrella making its way underthe flaring gas and over the muddy street. When it disappeared he turnedand looked about him. There was a sincerity, a poverty, a purity aboutthe tiny chamber that affected him with a wholesome shock. Over thelittle white bed hung the fashionplate that he had mended, in thepasteboard frame he had manufactured for it. A bit of scarlet ribbonfastened it to a nail, with an elaborate bow. Above it, as a piousCatholic might have crossed about some saint's image branches of blessedpalms, so Meg had placed sprigs of lavender, that delicately scented theroom. On the peg behind the door hung the little Sunday frock, turnedinside out. On a table, under a clean pocket-handkerchief, were placedthree books that he had given her--a volume of ballads, "Stories fromthe History of England," a gaudily illustrated shilling copy of"Cinderella." Also under the pocket-handkerchief was a bundle of paper,tied with scarlet ribbon, that proved to be some of his articles neatlycut out. A black clay pipe of his, which Meg had mended, was put up likea little Indian idol over the table. The little room, so spotlesslyclean, and so characteristic in all its details, was distinctly Meg'sroom, telling of that mystic love for her mother, and of her solitaryfriendship.

  Mr. Standish was not tired of waiting when Meg appeared, her handclutching the bodice of her dress.

  "Here, I've got the money," she said, as carefully pulling out thehandkerchief and opening it she displayed a roll covered with paper;"twenty-five pounds--count; and here's the ticket. Don't lose it on anyaccount. Perhaps I'd better keep it for you."

  "Twenty-five pounds, Meg!" said Mr. Standish.

  "He wanted to give me twenty. I said 'No, twenty-five.' He was smilingwhen he said twenty. Those men always smile when they want to cheatyou," said Meg, with a nod of retrospective observation. "He gave metwenty-five pounds at last, though. Count."

  The child cut short the words of thankfulness that rose to Mr.Standish's lips.

  "Go," she said imperatively, taking him by the hand and leading him tothe door; "pay the man and get him off."

  A few minutes later, with great glee, Meg watched the departure of thebailiff; she thought with pleasure as he made his way downstairs that heseemed a little stiff, as if he had got rheumatism. After the hall doorhad slammed behind the representative of the law she stood hesitating.Soon her diffident feet slowly brought her to Mr. Standish's threshold.She pushed the door softly open. He was sitting by the table, his facecovered with his hands. He looked up as she entered
.

  "He's gone," said Meg, nodding. "Aren't you glad?"

  "You have done me a great service, Meg. How can I thank you for it?"said the young man, rising and taking the child's two hands in his.

  "Don't thank me--not at all," said Meg with ardor, looking up into hisface. "Just promise never to lend your money again--never."

  "No--never again!" replied Mr. Standish, shaking his head. He led thechild in and sat down, still keeping her hand in his. "How did you guessthat man was a bailiff?"

  "Oh," said Meg, with the scornful brevity of wide experience in hervoice, "I knew him by his sleeky ways. I've watched them at theirdodges. They're up to almost anything."

  Mr. Standish laughed out loud; but the laugh suddenly fell as hethought of all that knowledge implied. He said gently, after a pause:

  "I thought the little friend who used to sit by my fireside had left me.I missed you, Meg."

  "You were tipsy that night," the child answered, with a quaver in hervoice that did not take from its severity.

  "You punished me hard, Meg. Don't you know I had to drink so manyhealths. There was the queen's health to drink, and I should have been adisloyal subject if I had not drunk that; and there was the lord mayor'shealth, I should have been a bad citizen if I had not drunk that; thenthere were the directors' healths, and there were one another'shealths." As Meg remained unmollified, he went on, "Meg, I will tell youa secret. I was not so bad as I looked that night--I put it on a littlefor your benefit."

  "That was wicked of you," said Meg with spirit.

  "It was," agreed Mr. Standish candidly. "Come, Meg, won't you forgive meif I promise----"

  "You promised before," interrupted the child.

  A desire to rehabilitate himself in the child's eyes seized Mr.Standish. He felt a touch of awe of that creature regarding him withsteady gravity, and he found himself pleading his cause before her as ifshe were a little chief justice.

  "If he got himself into difficulties for his friends, they were often tobe pitied; so many in this world were born weak, like spiritual crippleswho needed a helping hand."

  "No use to them when they get it," said Meg. "They're always in amuddle."

  Mr. Standish once more repressed an inclination to laugh at the child'sprecocious wisdom. He admitted there was truth in what she said. Once,three years ago, just before coming here, he had given all he had to afriend, and it had been of no use.

  "Did you lend him much money?" asked Meg.

  "Yes; he was in the greatest distress. I loved him, Meg. I would do itagain if he came to me. If he was reckless, he was so handsome and sojolly. He came and told me all about his trouble. His father was verystern; he would not see him or help him. My friend wanted three hundredpounds. It was all the money that I had."

  "And you gave it?" she said, and stopped.

  He nodded.

  "Did he never pay you back?" she faltered.

  "Never, Meg. It is a sad story. There was some disgrace, and he died."

  She did not speak; the fate of the stranger seemed to affect her butlittle.

  "You gave him all your money?" she repeated, and again she paused; thenshe put out her hand and stroked his head, with a look of tender andineffable admiration.