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    Meg, of Valencia
    Meg, of Valencia
    Meg, of Valencia
    Ebook97 pages1 hour

    Meg, of Valencia

    By Myra Williams Jarrell

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Meg, of Valencia

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      Book preview

      Meg, of Valencia - Myra Williams Jarrell

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Meg, of Valencia, by Myra Williams Jarrell

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license

      Title: Meg, of Valencia

      Author: Myra Williams Jarrell

      Release Date: October 3, 2012 [EBook #40926]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEG, OF VALENCIA ***

      Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed

      Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      Meg

      MEG, OF VALENCIA

      BY

      MYRA WILLIAMS JARRELL

      MONOTYPED BY

      CRANE & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

      TOPEKA, KANSAS

      1905

      This little book is lovingly dedicated to my parents.

      "’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print:

      A book’s a book, although there’s nothing in’t."

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER I

      CHAPTER II

      CHAPTER III

      CHAPTER IV

      CHAPTER V

      CHAPTER VI

      CHAPTER VII

      CHAPTER VIII

      CHAPTER IX

      CHAPTER X

      CHAPTER XI

      CHAPTER XII

      CHAPTER XIII

      CHAPTER XIV

      CHAPTER XV

      CHAPTER XVI

      CHAPTER XVII

      CHAPTER XVIII

      CHAPTER XIX

      CHAPTER XX

      CHAPTER I.

      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

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