Читать книгу Meg, of Valencia - Myra Williams Jarrell - Страница 5

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“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.