Meg, of Valencia

"What's in a name?"

When Mr. Robert Spencer was annoyed, he made it known by pacing the floor with his hands under his coat-tails. When he was pleased, he quickened the pace, and his hands caused his coat-tails to stand out in a most jaunty and undignified manner. He was pacing up and down a handsomely furnished room, one bright May morning, with annoyance visibly depicted in every line of his coat-tails.

The other occupant of the room, his sister, was watching him with an expression half amused, half sad. They were much alike, both sandy in coloring, and both wearing the same humorous, half-quizzical smile, which in her was saddened by the loss her deep mourning indicated. She had never been a handsome woman, but she possessed an attractiveness far greater than that of mere outward beauty.

Suddenly her brother paused in front of her and began explosively: "I tell you it's tommy-rot. And it's all because you wouldn't call him Bob! How the deuce do you expect a boy you have called 'Robert' for twenty-five years, to have any worldly sense?"

"Wait a minute, Bob," interrupted his sister, quietly; "how could I be expected to call such a splendid boy anything else? 'Bob,' for him, would have been nothing short of sacrilege,-no offense meant, my dear brother."

"Don't mention it," he growled; "but I protest that you can make or mar a boy by a name. You called him 'Robert.' What was the result?"

"Very fine, I call it."

Unheeding the interruption, he continued in a mocking voice: "Lacy dresses which he never tore, wax dolls, kittens, and long curls. Now that just naturally led up to books, study, church!"

"That is a combination few people object to, Bob," his sister gently interpolated.

"If taken in moderation, my dear Stella,-in homeopathic doses. Your boy went on the principle by which some people govern their medicine-taking, that if a little is good, much is better."

He paused for her reply, but as she was evidently waiting for the close of his harangue, he continued: "Now, look here. Suppose you had called him 'Bob.' There would have been no long curls or doll-rags for him. It would have been baseball, marbles, fresh air, boy friends. And now, hang it all, look at him now!"

Mrs. Malloy sat up with dignity, and asked, "Well, what of him now?"

"That's just it," he sputtered. "If he wasn't so handsome, manly, honest and lovable, I wouldn't care; but to think of all those virtues being shut up in a monastery, makes me wish I were a profane man, so I could ease my mind by swearing."

Mrs. Malloy had become very white, and she made no answer. Her brother glanced at her, and added softly, dropping into a chair by her side: "It's all because he was brought up in that Faith. I don't see how you could do it, Stella."

"You forget," she answered sadly; "it was John's religion, and it was understood that he should do that if he were so inclined."

"But John never meant for you to be left alone in the world. He wouldn't have wanted the boy to leave you, if he had known."

"Perhaps not," she said with white lips, "but I would not lay one straw in the way, or stand between my boy and what he considers his duty."

"Duty be-," vociferated Mr. Spencer. "I beg your pardon, Stella,-it almost slipped out. But can't the young whelp see where his duty is? Now, don't be angry, Stella. Do you think I wouldn't whale any other man within an inch of his life if he called the boy that?"

"Nothing is gained by discussing it," Mrs. Malloy wearily replied, "and I insist that you say nothing to Robert on the subject. His mind is quite made up, quite. He believes it to be his father's wish. He does not know but that it is mine, though it is, as you say, not my faith."

"'He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow,'" quoted Mr. Spencer, softly.

"To say anything to him would make him very unhappy, but would not alter his decision."

"Perhaps some way may yet be found," he ventured.

"I am sure nothing would change him. You see, he has had this idea ever since he was a mere child. It has grown with him. It is so interwoven with the very fibres of his being that it could not be uprooted. No, no, Bob, it will have to stand. If I can bear it, surely you can."

"If you can bear it," he answered. "Oh, yes, you can bear it. You will wave your handkerchief and smile as the gates close upon him, and then you'll come home and die of a broken heart!"

"Don't,-don't," she begged, piteously.

"Forgive me, Stella; I didn't mean to hurt you so. But I've a scheme to stop this foolishness and make you happy, and the boy, too."

She shook her head hopelessly, but her brother patted her on the shoulder and said, "But yes, I say. Will you be a party to it?"

For one moment her eyes flashed up with a look of hope, then it died out as she said slowly, "I cannot conspire against my boy and what I know to be his earnest desire."

"Well, don't," was the brusque reply. "Your co-operation isn't necessary anyway. But you and Robert will come next week to visit me as you promised, won't you?"

After Mrs. Malloy nodded in reply, he walked out of the room with his coat-tails expressing satisfaction.

He had not been gone long when the door was gently opened, and a young man entered. Coming up to Mrs. Malloy, he stooped and kissed her on the forehead. The look of passionate adoration she gave him was not surprising, for he was undeniably good to gaze upon. He was tall, well formed and athletic in build, with the fresh coloring, the warm, honest gray eyes, clear-cut features and rippling dark hair of a long race of Celtic ancestors. His brow was frank and noble, his smile charming. There was nothing about him to suggest the parochial calling he was about to adopt. He looked merely a healthy, wholesome, happy and unusually handsome young fellow.

"Always cheerful, little mother," he said, balancing himself on the arm of her chair, and meeting her smile with tender, earnest eyes. "That thought makes me very happy, for I know you are never lonely, and will not mope after I am gone, as some mothers would."

Her face blanched; with teeth shut hard together, she pressed her face against his sleeve until she could control her voice, and finally answered: "No, I was never given to moping, my son. But to be irrelevant, I promised Uncle Bob that we would go to Valencia next week and stay with him through the summer."

"That will be jolly; I think I would enjoy one good old spree of that sort before-"

"Let's go out and find Uncle Bob," said his mother quickly.

"And both were young and one was beautiful."

Valencia was a western town, with about forty thousand inhabitants who believed in and were immeasurably proud of the place. There were no factories, and there was no great value in real estate, since the wild boom of the early eighties, which made and broke so many western towns; but it was quite a railroad center, one of the principal western roads having headquarters there. Amusement there was none, save band concerts twice a week in summer, and an occasional show in the opera house in winter.

The town had perhaps more than a fair allotment of that class of people who find fault with everything, from the price of ice to the sparsity of amusements. It was said, also, to be no more free from public officials with itching palms, than other cities of its size.

Saloons were supposed to be unknown in Valencia, in accordance with the laws of the State, and it did truly present a clean, moral aspect to the casual observer.

Valencia was essentially a "home" town, with its wide streets, its many trees, comfortable homes and green lawns, and it was much beloved by its inhabitants, who, if they moved away, inevitably moved back again, with untiring loyalty.

Robert Spencer had been borne into the town on the tide of prosperity that had carried so many into it in 1882, and he was one of the barnacles who had remained, firmly fastened, when the tide receded, taking with it a few of the industries that had sprung up like mushrooms during the boom. He had had a competence when he drifted into Valencia, which by judicious investment had increased until he was independently rich.

The first few years of his life there had been uneasy ones, for he had to be constantly on the alert to avoid matrimony, so many were the enticements thrown out to land him. He was unquestionably the biggest fish in the pond, and the hooks had been baited for him repeatedly, but he had not bitten.

The first evening after Mrs. Malloy and Robert reached Valencia, Mr. Spencer entertained two of his nearest neighbors, a widow and her young niece, at dinner.

Mrs. Weston had been a pretty girl in her youth, and it was a hard habit for her to break from. She still affected baby blue, which had set off to advantage her pink-and-whiteness twenty years before, but which now exaggerated the faded lemon color into which that complexion had degenerated. In place of dimples, there were creases in her cheeks, but she clung to her original conception of them, and used them accordingly. Her hair, from being golden, had become dull and lifeless, but she still wore it in the jaunty frizzes which had once set off her doll-like face.

She was an easy victim for complexion agents, and her generous patronage had done much to hasten the decay of her delicate complexion. She was entirely satisfied with herself, but nevertheless she felt a pang of jealousy whenever she looked at her young niece, and was only moved out of her complacency and simplicity, to indulge in caustic remarks to her.

Robert Malloy felt himself shy and awkward in the presence of girls, for his life had been spent close to his mother, with books and study, and he was ignorant of their ways.

Before dinner was announced he found himself seated by the girl, Margaret Anthony, vaguely wondering what to say, and wishing he dared look at her to see what she really was like.

He ventured a remark about the weather, and looked at her as he did so. She answered in a monosyllable, but kept her eyes cast down. Following the direction of her eyes, he saw that she was twirling her thumbs.

In a flash he glanced at his own hands, and then he realized that he was being ridiculed.

He looked hastily at her again, and this time she met his eyes with an unmistakable gleam of laughter in hers. For a moment he was inclined to be angry, but changed his mind and laughed outright, a musical, boyish laugh, with which hers chimed.

The older folks looked over at them, and an expression of satisfaction appeared on Mr. Spencer's face.

"That little vixen is up to some mischief, I know," twittered Mrs. Weston.

"Whatever it is, I am grateful to her," responded Mr. Spencer. "I don't think I ever heard Robert laugh like that before. Did you, Stella?" he asked, turning to his sister.

"He wasn't so 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.

"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 looked at her in a pleased manner. Then Mrs. Malloy said: "What a spunky little girl you are! It's regular red-headed spunk, though of course your hair is not red. My dear, it's a blessing you are so independent, having no one to do your fighting for you."

The wistful look came back into Meg's eyes as she answered: "It has never seemed just right that I didn't have a father, or mother, or even a big brother to take care of me. Sometimes,-" there was a little catch in her voice,-"oh, dear Mrs. Malloy, sometimes I feel as if there were no fight left in me!"

"You poor little thing!" exclaimed Mrs. Malloy, reaching out for her hand, "this is really yourself that I see now,-a little tame canary made wild because it has no one to shield it, and must look out for itself!"

Meg looked at her adoringly.

"You are the first person I have ever known who has seemed to understand me, and somehow, I feel that my mother was like you. You won't laugh at me or tell any one if I tell you something?" she asked anxiously.

"You may count on my silence and sympathy, dear."

"When I was a little girl, my principal amusement was to 'pretend' things. I would pretend I was a princess, or something else equally improbable. One day, I wanted some one else to play with me so badly, that I told Aunt Amelia about it."

"Yes?" queried Mrs. Malloy softly, as she paused.

"Oh, she slapped me, told me I was nothing but an ugly, red-headed little object of charity, and not to go imagining any more nonsense."

Mrs. Malloy bit her lip to keep back the disparaging words which longed for utterance. Instead, she stroked the hand she held, and Meg continued:

"Since then I have played my little games by myself. Sometimes I go up to the attic, where I have a trunk containing mother's things. I put on her dress and apron, and take a piece of crochet work in my hands,-the one she was making when she was taken sick,-and then I pretend that I am she, and that I am there, too,-you understand?"

Mrs. Malloy nodded. "And then I talk as I know she would talk to me if she were here. I give myself lectures for my frivolity, and good advice,-and,-and,-oh, I say the tender little things that I know she would say, and that no one ever does--" She stopped, and began to sob quietly.

Mrs. Malloy drew her up beside her, so that the little red head rested on her shoulder. There were unshed tears in her eyes, which had looked out bravely and hopefully upon a world that had little enough to offer her, and she felt, in this moment, that a very strong bond was between this girl, almost a stranger, and herself.