CHAPTER X.
REBELLION.
The second week of the holidays had come. For close upon a fortnight Meghad been alone with Miss Grantley. The self-centered chilliness of theEnglish teacher deepened the solitary child's sense of isolation. MissGrantley affected her like the embodied quintessence of censure upon allher moods and actions.
This lady always made Meg feel in the wrong. An increased brusqueness ofgesture, a more rigid set of the defiant lips, expressed the protest ofthe wild little soul.
During the first week of her holidays she had a companion in hersolitude. It was a battered doll, with rough hair and faded cheeks. Itlooked deserted. Rosamund Seely, a kind-hearted child, as a partinggift, had offered it to Meg on receiving the present of a beautiful newdoll. "Poor Meg, you are going to be left alone. There's a dollie foryou," the child had said, in transferring the belated toy; and Meg'sdesolate soul had been touched by the words.
For a week she had loyally carried the plaything about with her; she hadperched it on a branch of the yew tree when she sat on her leafy throne;she had got to feel so lonely that she sometimes talked to it, and felttoward it as toward a companion, bidding her answer when she spoke.After awhile that constant comrade, sitting opposite to her with itsgrimy cheeks, its faded and ragged finery, became in its look ofabandonment an emblem to Meg of herself. She grew to hate the sight ofthe doll; but still she would not part with it for the sake of thedonor, and she thrust it in a corner of the shelf assigned to her in thedormitory.
The loneliness chilled the marrow of the child's life. The object everin view, the repellent attitude toward her comrades, the consciousnessthat her replies were waited for and sometimes admired, had kept upMeg's spirit. It flagged in the length, the languor, the emptiness ofthose July days. There was nothing to be done but to sit up in the tree,to read, to think, and remember. As the hare seeks its form, so Meg'sthoughts returned to the home where she had spent her childhood. She wasalways seeing that place on the stairs from which she had watched thecoming and going of her only friend during those neglected years. Whydid he not write to her? Why? Her lonely heart asked itself thisquestion with insistence. He had promised to write to her, he was true,he never told a falsehood. Why did he not write? Then the conviction wasborne in upon her that a letter was waiting for her at Mrs. Browne'shouse. Mr. Standish thought the landlady would forward it, but perhapsthe stern white-haired gentleman, who told her she must forget herchildhood and every one she had then met, would withhold her addressfrom Mrs. Browne. The conviction haunted Meg. If she could but get toLondon she would make her way to Mrs. Browne and get that letter. Megwould lie awake, thinking of this, "If she could but get to London." Thecontemplation was still vague in her mind. It wanted something tocondense it into a resolution, and that something came.
One late afternoon Meg sat at tea with Miss Grantley. She was alwaysawkward under this lady's censorious glance. Stretching her hand for thebread and butter she upset her cup of milk on the teacher's dress. MissGrantley had on her best mauve silk. She was going out to supper with afriend. As she wiped the stain from her draperies she looked icily atMeg.
"Your manners are deplorable, Miss Beecham. I do not wonder that yourcompanions shun you. It must be most painful for young ladies to beassociated with one who so richly deserves her nickname of the'savage.'"
"I am not a savage," said Meg shortly.
"Do not answer me. Your untamed nature, which neither religion norculture has softened, does not possess the very rudiments of civilizedsociety. You shame this establishment. I had meant to take you out thisevening."
"I would not have gone," retorted Meg, her eyes brilliant withindignation.
"Impudent little thing! Don't venture to talk to me like that!" andforgetting herself, Miss Grantley rose and gave a slap with the back ofher hand on Meg's ear.
A fit of fury seized the child. She was once more the old wild Meg. Sherushed into the garden, running blindly she knew not whither. A coupleof slugs were crawling across her path. With an impulse of revenge shepicked them up, and hurrying to Miss Grantley's room, hid them in thebonnet that lay on the bed ready to be put on.
From the dormitory Meg listened. She heard Miss Grantley go in, and whentwo short shrieks reached her ear she shook with impish laughter Thenext moment Miss Grantley appeared on the threshold.
"I know you did this," she said.
"I did," replied Meg.
"You might have given me my death. I might have had a fit. Miss Reevescomes home to-morrow, and the first thing I will do on her return is toreport you to her. Meanwhile, you shall not leave this room."
Miss Grantley left, and Meg heard the key turn in the lock.
She was locked in.
A rush of passion swept over Meg as she realized that she was a captive.For a moment she stood stock still, thinking of all the terrible thingsMiss Grantley had said, realizing the bankruptcy of her little peace.She saw herself brought up solemnly before Miss Reeves, who appeared toher to live against a kind of ethereal background. A touch of fearchilled her courageous spirit. The silence of the school, the emptydormitory, deepened the impression of reprobation cast upon her. Shefelt herself disowned by a law-abiding community. Suddenly an idea camewhich held her breath in suspense--she would run away! She would go toLondon. There was a finger post on the highroad they sometimes passed intheir walk which pointed to London. She would get out and follow thatroad, and make her way to Mrs. Browne. The immensity of the resolveovercame Meg for a moment. She walked restlessly up and down the room.Then, with shaking hands, she began to pack up her treasures. A spasm ofexcitement held her lips rigid as she set about collecting what shewould take with her.
Goldsmith's "Animated Nature," the "Stories from the History ofEngland," and "Cinderella," would go into one parcel with the littlewriting-case. She had still the brown paper and the bit of cord that hadheld them at her coming. The silver pencil-case and the roll of articlesshe resolved to carry inside the bodice of her dress. The singlethreepenny-piece with a hole through it which she possessed, a presentfrom Mrs. Browne, she put into her pocket to serve in case ofemergencies.
She would take nothing more with her.
As Meg was tying up her books she caught sight of the doll, with itsdemoralized, abandoned air, seeming to be watching her. With a movementof sudden, unaccountable anger she took it up and threw it to thefurthest corner of the room.
Her preparations made, Meg began to turn over in her mind means ofescape. She set about calculating the chances like a little general.She looked out of the window. The door being locked, this was hersingle means of exit. The porch stood right under the center dormitorywindow, the wall stretched sheer and blank between.
Meg was gazing down with neck craned to discover if the wall containedany chinks or irregularities that might serve as stepping-stones, whenthe door opened, and Rachel the housemaid entered, bringing Meg's supperon a tray.
Meg perceived that besides a liberal amount of bread and butter therewas a large slice of currant cake.
Rachel was a conscientious and sullen young woman, who executed ordersand delivered messages with the exactitude of a sundial and thesurliness of a bulldog. She laid the tray sternly down.
"Cook sends her duty, miss, and this bit of cake which she made for thekitchen. She hopes you'll accept it."
"Thank cook kindly, and say I am much obliged," replied Meg withalacrity, recognizing the value of this contribution to hercommissariat. The offering appeared to her in the light of a good omen.
Rachel received Meg's thanks in gruff silence, and departed,deliberately locking the door behind her.
Meg drank the tumbler of milk, but abstained from touching theprovisions. She took a page of newspaper lining one of the drawers andcarefully packed the cake and bread and butter, fastening this smallerparcel to the larger one of books.
Then again she returned to her meditations and calculations as to hermode of escape. If she had but a stout rope with which to swing herselfdow
n!
Then suddenly she remembered stories of hairbreadth escapes from fires,recounted to her by Mr. Standish, effected by the aid of a ladder madeof sheets and blankets knotted together.
The materials were at hand with which to attain her freedom. Meg's mindwas made up. As soon as she was safe from interruption: when MissGrantley had returned and the household had retired to rest, she wouldbegin making a ladder of sheets.
She determined not to go to bed, but to sit up till daybreak, and at thefirst streak of dawn scale the wall and escape.
Then she remembered that it would be probable that Miss Grantley wouldconform to the habit of the school, and make her round over the variousrooms. At this thought Meg swiftly set about obliterating every trace ofdisorder from the dormitory. She stowed her parcel out of sight, anddrew the curtains, and began to undress.
She was not yet in bed when she heard steps coming up the garden pathand voices bidding each other good-night.
A few moments later the key of her door was turned, a step entered, andMeg heard the rustle of a silk dress. Miss Grantley was making herrounds. Meg appeared to be profoundly asleep; she was conscious ofcandle-light directed upon her face, but her eyelids did not quiver.
Miss Grantley stole out of the dormitory. Meg listened for the click ofthe key turned again upon her, but this time Miss Grantley contentedherself with closing the door.
Meg could not believe her ears. She got out of bed, and by the moonlightshe examined the lock. No, the second bolt was not drawn; the key wasnot turned. There was no necessity to make a ladder of bedclothes, noneed to have recourse to this perilous mode of escape. This difficultyremoved seemed like another good omen, an assurance of success to Meg.
She felt as if some guardian angel child were directing her project.
Before returning to bed, and when by the perfect silence she judged thatall the household was asleep, she softly drew back the curtains fromthe windows. Then she lay down, determined to keep awake.
She would not go to sleep; she struggled to keep slumber at bay. She satup when she felt drowsiness overtake her; unconsciously she slipped offinto a doze. She had a dream, rather the sketch of a dream. She had aglimpse of a road--she was walking. She started up frightened, got outof bed, rubbed her eyes, plunged her face into water; she was wide awakenow. Then she lay down again; unaware she dropped asleep.