CHAPTER XXII.
THE EDITOR OF THE "GREYWOLDS MERCURY."
Morning after morning Meg appeared at her post. She was punctual. As theclock struck ten her knock sounded at the library door, and she glidedin. The greeting between her employer and herself was always the same--aformal and courtly bow from him, an inclination of the head and low"Good morning, sir," from her. Then she would begin to read. She knewthe order in which he liked to listen to the contents of the variousjournals. Sometimes also Meg remained to write letters. She had rebelledat first against the business contract her benefactor had proposed toher; she liked it well enough now that she had entered upon it. Thetouch of frigidity it brought into the more emotional relationship ofgratitude with which she regarded him imparted definiteness to theirintercourse. The somewhat elaborate courtesy with which he treated herlent a charm to service.
On Wednesday and Saturday the _Greywolds Mercury_ appeared among thepapers to be read. Its columns usually contained an attack, covert orpersonal, against Sir Malcolm Loftdale. Sometimes he was mentioned byname; sometimes he was alluded to in pointed and unmistakable terms as"a large landed proprietor living in unsympathetic isolation." In hisdealings toward his tenants he was represented as a tyrant, not so muchactively as passively; and "passive injustice," the writer maintained,"is worse than active, for it leaves no hope behind."
Meg felt a flame of indignant protest rising against this persistentabuse. She would have skipped the censure so relentlessly pursuing theold man, who listened in silence with jaw set and lips compressed; buthe always detected the attempt, and bade her "go on" in a voice so sternthat its tone stopped the reluctant quaver in hers. Meg knew that herauditor, who never offered a word of remonstrance or vouchsafed anexclamation as she read, suffered from these scathing attacks. He lookedpaler and feebler, she thought, during the day, and wandered with morepiteous aimlessness about the park.
One hot Wednesday afternoon she came upon him asleep in a garden chairin the sunshine. The feebleness of his aspect strangely appealed toMeg. He looked so frail and pale. The pride of his appearance wasrelaxed. The colorless features, the delicate hands loosely crossed,might have been modeled in wax. In the immobility of sleep the face hada tragic cast. Meg thought it looked like that of one dead, who in lifehad suffered beyond the ordinary lot of man. Pity and indignation thatone so old and stricken should be made to suffer stirred Meg's heart.For a moment she looked upon her benefactor, and then she turned awaywith moistened eyes.
Meg was no dreamer. She was of an active nature. As she walkedfeverishly about the grounds she found herself remonstrating inimagination with this venomous persecutor of one who had cast a spell ofinterest over her, and to whom she owed so much. She sometimes stoppedin her walk to complete some angry appeal. Suddenly a daring thoughtarose in her mind. She would call upon this man, and in the strength ofa just cause she would meet him face to face without anger, and tell himthe injury he was doing to an old man's life. Would she dare to do it?She did not know the editor's name, but she had noticed that letterspublished in the paper were simply addressed to him in his officialcapacity. She knew where to find the office of the _Greywolds Mercury_.She had seen it one day that she had had occasion to visit the markettown two miles distant. After the first flash of courage her spiritfailed as she approached the gate. She hesitated. She thought of thatnewspaper in the library, and went back and read the article again.Again her indignation blazed up. Holding the paper in her hand she setout on her mission. As she walked she read over portions of the articleto keep her zeal warm. Thus she proceeded on her way, filled with hertheme, yet faltering.
She reached the town, and turned into the High Street where the officestood. She easily recognized it by the posters outside and theadvertisements in the windows. Meg entered the shabby interior with adesperate effort, and while trembling, yet full of moral courage,impelled to act by what seemed to be a duty. A clerk sat at a desk; asmall boy was posting and rolling up the papers. It was the dingiestcorner from which a thunderbolt could be launched.
"I want to see the editor," she said brusquely.
"He is busy, miss," answered the clerk, surveying her slowly over hisspectacles.
"I want to see him on important business," said Meg determinedly, tryingto look unabashed.
"What name shall I say?" asked the clerk.
"Miss Beecham; but he will not know me," replied Meg.
The clerk disappeared, and returned after a moment to say the editorwould be glad to see the lady.
They climbed a narrow, dusty flight of stairs that led to a glass door.It was opened by her guide, who ushered her into a room that impressedher as a medley of papers and books. A man, who had been sitting beforea large table, rose at her entrance. She perceived that he was tall andbroad-shouldered, that his countenance was energetic and expressive, andhis glance brilliant. The lower part of his face was hidden by a reddishbeard; the closely-cropped hair was of a darker and less ruddy hue. Hebowed to her.
"Are you the editor of the _Greywolds Mercury_?" she asked, makinganother desperate effort to conquer her shyness.
"I am," he answered.
"If anything appears in the paper that is unjust it is to you one mustappeal?"
"Certainly. I hope nothing of this kind has appeared," he answered. Histone was curt, his voice deep and not inharmonious.
"It is because something unjust has appeared, and has been repeated,that I have called upon you," said Meg.
"Indeed! Would you tell me the particulars? Pray, sit down," said theeditor. If his manner had a certain _brusquerie_ it was that ofself-possession; it was characteristic of a man accustomed to speak tobusiness men, and who could listen as well as talk.
He was dressed with a certain negligence, but with great neatness. Megnoticed, she knew not why, his large, well-shaped hand.
"There have been a number of articles upon Sir Malcolm Loftdale," beganMeg.
The editor acknowledged the truth of this statement by an inclination ofthe head.
"I know Sir Malcolm well. I am staying at Greywolds Manor. I am takingthe place of his secretary," said Meg, determinedly ignoring the shynessthat, without chilling her indignation, yet threatened to overcome herunder the scrutinizing glance of the editor. "I am under greatobligations to Sir Malcolm, I owe him everything."
The editor bowed his head, but did not break the silence. He appeared tobe waiting for more cogent reasons to be advanced. Meg felt to a certaindegree baffled by his manner.
"You do not know how good he is," she resumed with energy, "and yourepresent him as unjust and tyrannical."
"You must remember the criticisms are upon Sir Malcolm in his publiccapacity of landlord and magistrate. They do not apply to him as aprivate individual," said the editor.
Meg made a movement as if repudiating this line of argument.
"A man cannot be one thing in his public capacity and another in hisprivate relationship," she said quickly.
"I am afraid he can," answered the editor, with a smile distantlybrightening his glance.
"I cannot believe it," said Meg with energy. "He is old and feeble. Itis cruel to hurt him, and I know those attacks hurts him. He never saysa word. He has never mentioned the subject to me. I watch him as I readaloud to him, and I think they will kill him."
"I think you exaggerate their importance," said the editor, averting hisglance in which Meg thought she detected a sparkle of amusement. After amoment he resumed with seriousness. "You must understand me. I do notlike to hurt your feelings, but this is a matter of principle with me.To put it plainly, Sir Malcolm Loftdale is a bad landlord, and in apublic sense a bad man."
Meg gave an exclamation. "I do not believe it; I do not accept thisstatement. You misjudge him, You do not know him as I know him. Heleads a lonely life and perhaps does not know."
"Exactly! That is one of the reasons that make him a bad landlord. Heignores the needs of his tenants by indulging his selfish love ofloneliness, he becomes utterly unsympath
etic. He cares nothing for thelaborers who look to him for securing them the commonest rights, moredecent dwellings, fair rents. And yet what wonder," continued theeditor, turning his head away and speaking as if to himself, "that heshould not care for them, when he did not care for his own son."
Meg thought of the picture with its face turned to the wall. She feltshe touched a boundary that lay beyond her self-imposed task, and sherose.
"I see that I am making no way," she said in hurt accents. "I cannotinfluence you to abandon the cruel course you seem determined to pursue.Nothing remains for me to do but to apologize for having made theattempt, and to go."
"Indeed," said the editor, rising also, "I am sorry I should have giventhis wrong impression of the interest with which I have listened to yourarguments in favor of Sir Malcolm Loftdale, and of your appeal againstthe censure pronounced upon him in the _Greywolds Mercury_. But, believeme, there are many upon his estate who daily talk of him more bitterlythan I do; many who have been compelled to leave and to face ruin inalready over-crowded cities after accepting his offer of compensation,which was a hard bargain driven on his side alone. You do not know,perhaps, the merits of the case against him. He turns his tenants out,if they are not punctual with their rents as soon as the law allows. Inhis selfish desire for isolation he allows no cottages to be built onhis extensive estates. He has checked innocent amusements; barred theright of way. These sufferers represent the people. I shall not offendyou by stating what I could of the class to which Sir Malcolm belongs.You see I have argued and discussed the matter fairly with you,"continued the editor, checking the warmth of his tone.
"I cannot judge the case as you state it," said Meg with a pained frown."I am sure it is one-sided." Then with gathering energy she went on:"Cannot you conceive that your continued persecution may drive him toworse acts? It is enough to make him shun his neighbors to be thusalways held up to them as cruel and exacting. It is enough to make himwish to remove them from his sight when he knows that they are taught torevile him. I know that he is good. Take my case. I owe him everything;yet I have no claim upon him. Doubtless mine is not an isolated case.He may be helping many others in an obscure way. Noble natures shrinkfrom publicity. I know he shrinks from being thanked. He will not allowme to thank him. It almost led to a misunderstanding between us when Itried to express to him my gratitude. You talk of his getting rid oftenants after giving them compensation. What is that suffering comparedto the one you inflict upon him by these words that may sting to death?"
Meg's defense of her guardian was not logical, but it was of the heart,and womanly. She ignored all her antagonist's arguments, and saweverything colored by her emotions of the moment. The editor looked ather with a sort of half-amused amazement. Her vehemence was not to beanswered by balanced sentences or editorial dignity.
"You are so good an advocate," he said, smiling, "that you almostincline me to be a convert."
"I wish I could convert you to believe in his goodness--to me, andperhaps to many others," said Meg, with the constraint of shyawkwardness upon her, as she accepted the homage of his softened mood.
"His kindness to you is all that I care for," said the editor,gallantly.
"Will you promise me not to write any more articles against him?" askedMeg, with the childlike almost primitive directness that occasionallydistinguished her speech when greatly in earnest.
"I promise to remember your advocacy whenever I begin to write, or tothink of Sir Malcolm Loftdale," answered the editor.
"You promise it?" repeated Meg.
"I promise it," said the editor.
After a pause of awkward hesitation Meg bowed and turned away. Theeditor held open the door for her, and she passed out of the dingyoffice.
As Meg walked home she was conscious of a certain light-heartedness. Theinterview had been, on the whole, antagonistic; yet the impression itleft on her mind was pleasant. The editor was a stranger, and yet healmost seemed to her a friend. She could not account for a sense oftrustfulness with which she felt inclined to regard him. There wasnothing to justify this confidence, yet the impression remained.