Meg Blake. The Story of an Old Maid

Irish Jesuit Province

Meg Blake. The Story of an Old MaidAuthor(s): Mary ConnollySource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 21, No. 242 (Aug., 1893), pp. 431-441Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20498559 .

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( 431 )

MEG BLAKE.

THE STORY OF'AN OLD MAYD.

CIHAPTER VII.

FATHERLESS.

W tTEHEN I awoke next morning, rather late, I was suffering from

v~ T a violent headache. Nan, Wno came into the room a

moment afterwards, said I should remain in bed until it had worn

away; she then went off for her infallible cure-brown paper steeped m vinegar-which she applied to my burning forehead, while Miss

Thyme prepared for me a cup of strong tea. My stepmother paid me a visit in the course of the morning, bringing me an unsatisfactory account of my poor father, who had passed a restless night, and was

suffering a great deal. She did not remain long, and, when going away, remarked with a smile, that I did not look very sick or as if I

had much pain.

Charlie came into me a few times; but the restraint of the sick

room was irksome to him and Victoria, and that common feeling between them I suppose drew them together for the day and made them the best of friends, as they enjoyed themselves at all sorts of

noiseless games, while good-natured Florence remained by my side;

she read to me, talked to me, and helped in many a way to alleviate my suffering. I was grateful for all these kind offices. I liked

Florence, and I wished sincerely that our friendship might not end

with my recovery.

My headache disappeared before evening; and when I had got up, I went in search of my stepmother to tell her that I wanted to see my

father. I could not find her anywhere, but I met Dr. Ryan in the hall,

and he said my father had been asking for Charlie and me, and that

we ought to go to him. I answered 'that was exactly what I wanted I do, and I was now looking for my stepmother to get her permission.

I went in search of Charlie then, and I found him and Victoria down at the lake, amusing themselves with the dogs. I told him my

message; but he would not wait for anybody's permission to visit

Papa, and started off at once for the house. I followed him, thinking that he had taken the matter very easily all day, and that he had

not asked me if my headache were better; but boys are thoughtless ereatures, rendered so (I felt sure) by their immunity from sueh petty illnesses a, headaches, etc.

When we had reached our father's room, Charlie whispered, "' go



432 2he i-ish Monthly.

in first, -Meg, and be sure you do not remain long, or we might weary Papa."

Ah, Charlie, it was not Papa you wished to spare but yourself. The room was darkened, and at first we could distinguish nothing

but the bed, which we approached noiselessly. But 'judge of oulr

s,urprise, when our stepmother, who we thought was out walking, rose up quickly from beside it, and in a whisper ordered us to go out

again, and not to disturb our father. When he was able to see us, she would bring us to him. Not wishing to make a noise, we were about to obey her when my father spoke in a low, weak voice; he had

evidently heard our parley. " Who are those, Janet ? If Charlie and Meg, let them come in;

they will not disturb me, and I wish to see them." We vent gently over to the bedside and 'kissed our poor father,

who was scarcely recognisable, so bruised and cut was his dear face. We did not remain long, and we spoke but little; we could not speak,

indeed, for we were weeping all the time, and Mrs. Blake took advan tage of that to send us away soon. 'During the evening afterwards

Charlie was very quiet; he was in no humour for play, and spent

nearly all his time sitting at one of the schoolroom windows pretendink to read, for I am sure he did not even know what"book he held in his hand, nor could he have made out its title if he had tried, for his eyes were filled with unshed tears, which must have spread a thick mist over

,every object he looked upon. My poor boy has always shrunk from suffering of every kind with (as I used to phrase it to him) an " un christianlike horror"; his gay, thoughtless nature would make one think it was never intended that he should meet with sorrow, but his

was one of those souls which require to pass through the purifying fire of affliction in order to be freed from their dross: if it were possible that he could have gone through life without meeting any of those trials and troubles which lie in wait for us all, he would have

grown more selfish for himself, more thoughtless of others, less good and kind and true than (thank God) he is to-day.

Each day my father grow wotse, yetthe lingered much longer than ithe doctors had hoped, and we had many another chat with him, yet

we were never able to have a few iinutes all alone with him until the very last day. My stepmother accompanied by her two daughters

went out for a drive rather late in the evening, and my father, who appeared to be improving, sent for us. Much to our surprise we found him sitting up in the bed, propped by, pillows. I ran

delightedly towards him, exclaiming: "0 Papa, I am so glad you are able to sit up. You will be soon

quAte well again. We are very lonely without you."



Meg Blake. 433

"My poor little one ! And you are lonely without me. But tell

se is not Charlie lonely? Does he not miss me as much as you, Meg?7"

' 0 yes, yes, I do, Papa," Uharlie hastened to answer, III am very

lonely too." " My dear children, for your sakes, I hope I shall soon be better.

But what would you do, tell me, if I were to go away to Heaven, please God, to join your mother ?"

"0 O no, no, you must not die, you shall not leave us," I cried

vehemently. "' What would become of us ? Who woulld care us or love us? We coulld not live without you."

Charlie, who had flung his arms around father's neck, was sobbing

bitterly. "0 Papa," he said, "why do you speak like that when

you are getting better ?" " Well, my child, though I feel a little better to-day, I am afraid I

shall never be well again. It is well you should know the worst; the

doctors hold out no hope of my recovery; for years I have suitered from heart disease-my darlings, do not cry, it paius me Listen to

me now It wasbecause I feared a sudden and early death, that I

gate you a second mother. I did not wish to leave you to the care

of relatives, who are all perfect strangers to you, and who could not

have cared for you, I thought, when I was gone; and, having led so

secluded a life for years, I had no friends to whose guardianship I

could commit you except Father Reilly and Dr. Ryan, and they are too

old and have already too many other duties to perform, without being burdened -with the responsibilities and cares of your guardianship. I am afraid now xou do not care for your stepmother. I have

noticed, with much, anxiety, how you dislike her, and I have spent

many weary days and nights on account of it. You misunderstand her, I know; but how can I convince you of that? You are prejudiced against her, why or how I cannot tell: you think she means to treat you badly, whilp sho earnestly wishes to be good and kind to you. She has told me of her many efforts to gain your love and confidence; but you have always met her friendly overtures in an ungenerous spirit, and now she has almost despaired of ever winning your hearts. I know the girls are often thoughtless and perhaps ill

tempered, as children will be, as you yourselves have sometimes

been; but if you were, less reserved with them, and showed them more affection, they would be sure to return it. At any rate is it not a bad thing to visit the children's faults on the mother ? I have

never before spoken to you on this subject, and I hope, if I live, 1

shall not have to do so again; and if I die-0, my children, remember

that nobody will be so near to you as your stepmother. Try to love



434 Tle Irish Monthly.

her if only for my sake, or for the sake of your own idear angel mother, who would surely wish you to do so, and show her that you will not be ungrateful for the interest she has always taken in you. I am tired "-and he sank ba'ck on the pillows, pale and exhausted. "' Run away now. Kiss me. Good-bye, my darling children. God bless you, God bless you."

Those were his last words to us, that was the last time we saw him alive. When we got up next morning, we were told he was no more; he had passed away during the night. There was nobody present except Mrs. Blake and Miss Thyme, who were keeping watch that night; and so suddenly did the last change come on, that they were unable to call up anybody till the soul had left the poor worn body.

Again the same crowd of relations filled the house as at the time of my poor mother's death; coming and going through every room, peering curiously into every corner; criticising, talking, pitying, envying. Oh, how I hated them ! Nowhere were we secure from them. They had the place all to themselves,-my stepmother spent the days between her room and my father's, while the girls, Charlie, and I rarely left the schoolroom; we hid and moped and wept there.

Aunt Anna took upon herself all household cares. She was a kind heaxted creature, but a bit fussy and irritable; she and Uncle Stephen, and strangely enough Vincent Blake-w,ho would be owner of our

dear old home, should anything happen to Charlie-were the only members of that army of relatives and connections whom we cared for in the least. They were kind and considerate towards us.

Charlie went to the funeral wifh Uncle Stephen and Vincent Blake. I am afraid he did not show much sorrow then, not half the sorrow I knew he felt; but he should be excused, for he was very young, and f unerals are very distracting, especially large, "showy" ones. One is likely to forget that it is one's parent, brother, or friend

who is conveyed to the last, dark, narrow, resting-place when there are so many things to look at, so many people, so many familiar faces; one somehow comes to imagine that it is not a funeral at all. Charlie told me afterwards it was' so with him; all the way to the graveyard, he kept, looking out at the long string of vehicles which followed the hearse, and became so interested in watching them, and trying to make out the people he knew in that vast crowd that he

scarcely once thought of the poor father he would never see again. Even when standing beside the newly opened grave, he could not

bring himself to think that it was his father who lay stiff ancd cold in death within the coffin they were lowering into it. It was only

when about to leave the cemetery and return home that the terrible

reality forced itself upon him, and he was able to understand and



Meg Blake. 435

feel the void which would heneeforth be in his life; then they could

hardly tear him away from the grave or calm his storm of grief,

which for many a day afterwards flled with pity the hearts of aUl who heard him.

After a very dismal dinner that evening, we all repaired to the

library to hear the will read. Charlie anld I were obliged to go with

-our elders, being the parties most concerned, though we understood so little about it, and would have been much better pleased to have been

allowed to go quietly to bed. We seated ourselves in a recess between

the windows from which we could watch everything that went on.

My stepmother was the last to enter, and very stately and handsome,

I remember, she looked in her widow's weeds, bearing herself as

-calmly as if a co-uple of dozen pairs of eyes were not bent upon her.

She sat down beside us. Then Mr. Howard, who had been sitting

near the fire, stood up and advanced towards the table at which sat

Mr. Martyn, the family lawyer, handed him a sealed paper, saying: " This is the last will of my lamented friend, Mr. Charles Blake.

It was made the day before his death. I drew it up. I am a

solicitor. There was not time to send for you, sir. He refused to

make it until almost the last moment, and then became so impatient

to have it finished that he would not allow a moment's delay."

Mr. Martyn broke the seal, when a paper with some writing upon

it, and another sealed packet, fell out. He took up the paper and

read aloud:

Ihe enclosed sealed packet contains my last will, made and signed to-day in presence of my wife, Janet Stopford Blake, eEgbert Hoenry Howad,

Austin Moran and Alicia Thyme; but it is my wish that it shall not be

opened and read until my son. Charles Yirwan Blake, completes his twenty

first year. 1 appoint the aforesaid Egbert Hlenry HToward and Janet

Stopford Blake my executor and executrix and guardians of my children,

Charles ICirwan Blake and Xaryaret MlacMahon Blake, with full powers to act Jor them as they think best until the timee mentioned above.

(Signed) CHABRLES I IR WAN BLA.IK

The whole pf this was in my father's cramped and shaky hand

writing, and dated the day before his death. I know this because, I

-aw it then and often afterwards.

There was much 'discontent and disappointment visible on the

-contenances of nearly all those present during the reading of this docu

ment. Many ofSthem thought that Mr. Martin might well get that paper set aside, as it was merely a sick and dying man's w himsical humour. Of Course (they said) everybody knew before the principal dispositions;



436 The Irish Monthly.

the property being entailed should go to Charlie the next male heir, while my mother's fortwie was long ago settled on me. Mr. Martin answered that it was necessary to respect the last wishes of the dead, and never with his consent would the will be read until the time

mentioned in that paper. He at once handed the packet back to Mr. Howard. to whose keeping Papa had entrusted it; he did so rather

ungraciously, for he resented his place having been taken by a com

parative stranger; and no wonder, indeed, for he and his family had been always the legal advisers of my father and grandfather.

CHAPTER VIII.

C1ARLIE GOES TO SCHOOL.

NExT morning there was a general clearing out of all the funeral guests, except Aunt French and -Uncle Stephen, who remained until the following day. They showed us great kindness and condoled with our step-mother, and they were the only persons she could bear to speak to during that day; but for all that, it was very apparent, they did not try much to hide it-that they were deeply disappointed over

the will. They felt very much that my father should pass over his own near friends, and appoint as his executors two strangers, who could henceforth have no interest in his children: it was a slight, they

said, which they did not deserve. Before they left us next day, Aunt Anna called me into her

room. My dear Margaret, you must cease weeping. What is the

good of all those tears? You are rebelling against the will of God, a wicked and foolish thing. My child, if you have lost a father, I I have lost a brother, the only brother I had, and one I loved devotedly, one who was all the world to me, since my husband and son died. You look surprised, but I am speaking the truth: though I seldom came to see your father, and never made a show of my affec-, tion, yet I loved him tenderly. Poor dear Charles never knew it; he

thought me too much taken up with myself to care very much about

any one else. I regret now I was so reserved; had I been otherwise, things might be different from what they are to-day."

She paused, and for some minutes seemed lost in thought, and

qutite unconscious that I was by. It was so unexpected, so untike

her matter-of-fact, reserved manner that I could scarcely bring myself to believe she was my aunt at all. How imperfectly we kaow each other, or even ourselves ! It is only when somb great event, some calamity, or unexpected stroke of good fortune occurs, that we

appear in our true light. Free, for the moment; through the shock



Meg Blake. 437

Df either sorrow or joy, from the shackles of conventionality, we are a revelation to even our dearest friends. Some of us hide a warm

and loving nature behind a cold, forbidding manner; why, it were

difficult to say, unless it be that we all have a horror of appearing

as we are-we will be either better or worse. A few minutes later my aunt roused herself from her fit of

abstraction, and with some of her old bluntness asked: " Do you know the provisions of the will, Margaret? or any of them? You

don't? Could you not ascertain ? Miss Thyme might know; she is

one of the witnesses. I am anxious to know how you and Charlie are

left. Of course, Stephen MacMahon says, Charlie must get the

property into his hands when he is twenty-one, and you, your mother's fortune; but nobody knows if the one is unencumbered and

the other is all kept together. Your poor father was bound in honour

not to touch a penny of that, but "

"You may be perfectly sure, Aunt Anna, that my father never

did a dishonoutable thing," I interrupted rather hotly, for young as

I was I understood her. She looked at me curiously for a few

seconds, and then continued:- I

"I should be sorry to think he would; but he must have had

some reason for not wlshing the will to be read until that time. I

never heard of such a case before, and I think we all acted wrongly

in not insisting on Mr. Martyn reading it. But I suppose he would not have done it for us, he seemed obstinate enough. It was very

foolish of your father not to have appointed some of his own family his executors; your Uncle Stephen and Vincent Blake would have

been the proper persons. I think your father must not have known

what he was doing when he wrote that paper, and I said so to your

Uncle; bUt he answered me that the doctor saw him a few minutes

after signing the deed, and he was then quite able to transact any

business. Will you call Miss Thyme, Margaret dear? Perhaps she

knows something about it."

Miss Thyme could tell nothing. Mr. Howard called her into the

room that day to sign her name to a paper which he said was Mr.

Blake's will; Mr. HoWard showed her where to write it, and when

shhe had finished she left the room, without hearing or seeing anything contained in the will

My a-unt on hearing this kept silence for some time, and then said

in a low voice, as if speaking to herself:

" There is some mystery, something wrong in this, and it ought

not to be let rest. I wish I could find out what money has been left

to that woman and her two daughters. A considerable sum I'm

sure, which of course is kept out of those children's means Meat



438 lThe Irish Monthly.

while she has complete control of the property. What a fool Charlea was! "

At this moment a servant opened the door and announced that

lunch was ready in the library; thither we all repaired and found our

stepmother before us. She looked very thin and pale, and seemed

to have suffered a great deal. Uncle Stephen had left very. early in the morning, and immedlately

after lunch Aunt French prepared to go, as she had a drive of close on

forty miles before her. When bidding us good-bye, she gave us some parting words of advice.

"C My dear Meg and Charlie," she said, "O Cahirbrough is a long

and weary journey from this, and I am afraid I won't have the courage to undertake it often, so that I shall see you but seldom. I

should like to take you home with me "

" Ah, do, do take us, dear aunt," we both exclaimed together, "I we

should be so happy with you."

"4But, my dears, when I suggested this to your stepmother she

would not hear of it at all, and I may not take you without her leave; she will let you come for a few weeks in the summer."

"I What right as she? "-4 was beginning when my aunt

interrupted me. " I Hush, Margaret, you ought to know that she now stands in the

place of your own parents, she is your guardian, and she is responsible for your well-being, and you shall be, from this, responsible to her

for all your actions. If you take my advice, dear children, y.u will, even for your own sakes, do nothing deliberately to displease or

annoy her. She has complete control over you now, and nobody can

interfere in her treatment of you. It is likely that Mr. Howard will

have nothing to do with you, he will leave the whole management to her; he is hardly the man to neglect his own business and come all

the way over here from England to look after yours. Give your step

mother no reason to be unkind to you; be obedient and submissive to

her, and perhaps you will find that she is not so bad as we think. Her

daughters seem to be nice girls-all I have seen of them-and they

will be company to you, and, besides, you will have Miss Thyme and

Nan. Do not weep any more for your poor father, but pray for him

often. Now kiss me, my darlings, I must be going; -you know what

a journey I have before me. I shall expect to find you very good

children when I come to see you again." After she had left, we were very lonely; we wept and moped all

day, and nothing that they could do or say would comfort us. But

was that any wonder? In the evening we went with our stepmother

and her daughters to visit our poor father's gravA' and place fresk



Keg Bike. 439

flowers upon it, and this we did nearly every day for a long time

afterwards. Mr. Howard remained for a week, he had so much work to do, so

many arrangements to make as our guardian, that he could not get

away sooner, but indeed we saw very little of him. Every moment of his day was taken up, and I am afraid we were rather glad of that;

he was no favourite of ours.

Wearily and slowly the time passed for us, though it was the

beautifuil season of the year. 0 how wearily and slowly, those only

who have suffered as we, can know! Every night we wished for the morning and every morning for the night, and each month we

wished might be the following month, so much did we long to be at

as great a distance as possible from the day when we were left fatherless, while we hopedl and prayed that Time, the great healer,

might lay his soothing hand upon our bruised and torn hearts;

though he could not cure them, his magic touch could ease the pain

and rob it of its bitterest sting. For a short time we got on very happily with our stepmother, but

it was for a short time indeed; she suddenly changed towards

Charlie, while remaining the same to me; she foucnd fault with

everything he did and said, punished him very often for very slight

causes, and altogether treated him very harshly and unjustly. I was

mnuch more saucy with her and not at all as obedient as he; yet she

overlooked my faults, while she tried to prove him guilty of many things

which he never did. She seemed to have taken a sudden and strange dislike to himr. I resented her conduct towards him, but she took no

notice of my behaviour, and seemed to wish to keep on friendly terms

with me. She often consulted me, child though I was, on business

matters. One day towards the end of August she sent for me.

When I entered the library, I found her sitting on a low chair, beside

one of the windows, with a bundle of letters in her lap; she

beckoned me to come close to her, which I did reluctantly, and she

caught my face between her hands and pulling me down to a level with herself pressed a kiss upon my. forehead, then she made me

sit on a stool at her feet and assuming her sweetest smile said:

" My dear Meg," that was the first time she called me Meg, " do

you know that you are the most unselfish and the most affectionate of

sisters ? I have often watched you with Charlie, and have thought you more like a little mother than a sister. You love him dearly. You would like to see him grow up as true and p-erfect a gentleman as your father?"

"Y Ies,"' I answered, wondering what she meant by such a ques

tion.



440 The Irish Mfonthly.

" I am sure you would, and so should I; but there is no chanos that he will, if things are allowed to go on as they are at present. His education is being neglected, for now he is too far advanced to con

tinue any longer with Miss Tyme. The only thing is to send, him away to some good school."

"c Sen:d Charlie to school! Surely you cannot mean that, step mother."

" My dear child, could you not call me by some other name than that ?"

I was very much surprised at this request, being too young to know why the name was offensive. I used it, thinking it was quite proper. One day, speaking to our maid, Bridget, I said that I did not know what to call Mrs. Blake; I could not, likeher own daughters, call her mamma, as mine was in fleaven, and to nobody else could I give her name. Bridget answered that of course I was quite right in that; she was not my mamma, only my stepmother. I was going to tell her this when I recollected that it might get Bridget into blame, so I remained silent until she spoke again.

" Well, Margaret, you do not answer me. If you will not give me any dearer name, I must request that at any rate you will not call me 'stepmother.' " After a pause she Jontinued. "Cal me Mrs.

Blake, Margaret, for the future-yourself and Charlie. And now about Charlie's education. You do not approve of the school scheme ?"

"Oh! no; not at all. Charlie is much too young to go away from home. He would be lonely without us, and they would work him too

hard and feed him too poorly." Wise little woman. "t That's all nonsense, child. You don't suppose I would sead

him anywhere except to a place in which I know he would be kindly treated; and as to being. lonely, he would have forgotten us all in a

week.s time. I had a letter from Mr. Howard this morning, and lie altogether agrees with me. He says I will not be doing &fy duty if

I do not send Charlie away, and he recommends a very good school where his own nephews were educated, about fifty miles from Liver pool; and I have made up iimy mind to write to the President to

morrow. I have written telling Mr. Howard so, and asking him to make all arrangements for Charlie's entrance when school re-opens. It is the most suitable that could be found, and being so near Mr.

Howard, he can often visit Charlie there, and see how he is getting on."

This last ought to have consoled me, but it did not. I burst into tears when she -had finished. I knew there was no use in saying

anything; her mind was fully made up, and nothing on earth would alter her determination. That no words of mine or of anybody else



Meg Blake. 441

would have the least effect on her now I understood, and I rose from the stool on which I had been sitting and went out silently, feeling

very sad and desolate. What, indeed, would my life be without

Charlie in the many years he would be away? " I think you are a foolish girl to grieve like this," was her part

ing shot as I was opening the door. " Charlie will not regret leaving

you so much, and will forget you in a very short time." fler words roused my temper, and I resolveed never more to give

:her an opportunity of saying such things. I dried my eyes and ran

upstairs singing, and calling Charlie that I might tell him the news. I found him in the school-room, and was amazed to see that he was neither wholly displeased, nor yet wholly pleased, with the project,

when I expected he would get into a rage at the very mention of -school. He was pleased at the novelty, at the thought of seeing strange places, of travelling in a railway train-a great thing in those days-of mixing and playing with boys of his own age, and especially >of getting away from the hateful guardianship of Mrs. Blake; but he was afraid of the hard study, and of the confinement and restrictions .of school life. However, the advantages quite outshone the disad

vantages, and, being always used to look upon the bright side of things, he readily consented to go, and was in high spirits during the rest of the time at hoine, every day of which nearly was filled with

preparations for his departure; and in the excitement even I quite

forgot my tears, and was the brightest and gayest in the hou-se, much

to the surprise of all, but especially of my stepmother, who had feared much trouble and annoyance from me. She thought me a strange

treature. I kept my resolution well, and earned for myself the title of being

hard-hearted, for I never after showed a sign of grief nor shed a tear, not even on the day that Charlie left, when, at the last moment, he

utterly broke down. But, oh ! how my poor heart suffered, dragged and torn with sorrow and loneliness, which my face must not show

lor many and many a day.

79



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Meg Blake. The Story of an Old Maid