REBELLION.
The second week of the holidays had come. For close upon a fortnight Meg
had been alone with Miss Grantley. The self-centered chilliness of the
English teacher deepened the solitary child's sense of isolation. Miss
Grantley affected her like the embodied quintessence of censure upon all
her moods and actions.
This lady always made Meg feel in the wrong. An increased brusqueness of
gesture, a more rigid set of the defiant lips, expressed the protest of
the wild little soul.
During the first week of her holidays she had a companion in her
solitude. It was a battered doll, with rough hair and faded cheeks. It
looked deserted. Rosamund Seely, a kind-hearted child, as a parting
gift, had offered it to Meg on receiving the present of a beautiful new
doll. "Poor Meg, you are going to be left alone. There's a dollie for
you," the child had said, in transferring the belated toy; and Meg's
desolate soul had been touched by the words.
For a week she had loyally carried the plaything about with her; she had
perched 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 felt
toward it as toward a companion, bidding her answer when she spoke.
After awhile that constant comrade, sitting opposite to her with its
grimy cheeks, its faded and ragged finery, became in its look of
abandonment an emblem to Meg of herself. She grew to hate the sight of
the doll; but still she would not part with it for the sake of the
donor, and she thrust it in a corner of the shelf assigned to her in the
dormitory.
The loneliness chilled the marrow of the child's life. The object ever
in view, the repellent attitude toward her comrades, the consciousness
that her replies were waited for and sometimes admired, had kept up
Meg's spirit. It flagged in the length, the languor, the emptiness of
those 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's
thoughts returned to the home where she had spent her childhood. She was
always seeing that place on the stairs from which she had watched the
coming and going of her only friend during those neglected years. Why
did he not write to her? Why? Her lonely heart asked itself this
question 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 was
borne in upon her that a letter was waiting for her at Mrs. Browne's
house. Mr. Standish thought the landlady would forward it, but perhaps
the stern white-haired gentleman, who told her she must forget her
childhood and every one she had then met, would withhold her address
from Mrs. Browne. The conviction haunted Meg. If she could but get to
London she would make her way to Mrs. Browne and get that letter. Meg
would lie awake, thinking of this, "If she could but get to London." The
contemplation was still vague in her mind. It wanted something to
condense it into a resolution, and that something came.
One late afternoon Meg sat at tea with Miss Grantley. She was always
awkward under this lady's censorious glance. Stretching her hand for the
bread and butter she upset her cup of milk on the teacher's dress. Miss
Grantley had on her best mauve silk. She was going out to supper with a
friend. As she wiped the stain from her draperies she looked icily at
Meg.
"Your manners are deplorable, Miss Beecham. I do not wonder that your
companions shun you. It must be most painful for young ladies to be
associated 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 nor
culture has softened, does not possess the very rudiments of civilized
society. You shame this establishment. I had meant to take you out this
evening."
"I would not have gone," retorted Meg, her eyes brilliant with
indignation.
"Impudent little thing! Don't venture to talk to me like that!" and
forgetting herself, Miss Grantley rose and gave a slap with the back of
her hand on Meg's ear.
A fit of fury seized the child. She was once more the old wild Meg. She
rushed into the garden, running blindly she knew not whither. A couple
of slugs were crawling across her path. With an impulse of revenge she
picked them up, and hurrying to Miss Grantley's room, hid them in the
bonnet that lay on the bed ready to be put on.
From the dormitory Meg listened. She heard Miss Grantley go in, and when
two short shrieks reached her ear she shook with impish laughter The
next 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 Reeves
comes home to-morrow, and the first thing I will do on her return is to
report 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 things
Miss Grantley had said, realizing the bankruptcy of her little peace.
She saw herself brought up solemnly before Miss Reeves, who appeared to
her to live against a kind of ethereal background. A touch of fear
chilled her courageous spirit. The silence of the school, the empty
dormitory, deepened the impression of reprobation cast upon her. She
felt herself disowned by a law-abiding community. Suddenly an idea came
which held her breath in suspense--she would run away! She would go to
London. There was a finger post on the highroad they sometimes passed in
their walk which pointed to London. She would get out and follow that
road, and make her way to Mrs. Browne. The immensity of the resolve
overcame 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 of
excitement held her lips rigid as she set about collecting what she
would take with her.
Goldsmith's "Animated Nature," the "Stories from the History of
England," and "Cinderella," would go into one parcel with the little
writing-case. She had still the brown paper and the bit of cord that had
held them at her coming. The silver pencil-case and the roll of articles
she resolved to carry inside the bodice of her dress. The single
threepenny-piece with a hole through it which she possessed, a present
from Mrs. Browne, she put into her pocket to serve in case of
emergencies.
She would take nothing more with her.
As Meg was tying up her books she caught sight of the doll, with its
demoralized, abandoned air, seeming to be watching her. With a movement
of sudden, unaccountable anger she took it up and threw it to the
furthest corner of the room.
Her preparations made, Meg began to turn over in her mind means of
escape. She set about calculating the chances like a little general.
She looked out of the window. The door being locked, this was her
single means of exit. The porch stood right under the center dormitory
window, the wall stretched sheer and blank between.
Meg was gazing down with neck craned to discover if the wall contained
any chinks or irregularities that might serve as stepping-stones, when
the door opened, and Rachel the housemaid entered, bringing Meg's supper
on a tray.
Meg perceived that besides a liberal amount of bread and butter there
was a large slice of currant cake.
Rachel was a conscientious and sullen young woman, who executed orders
and delivered messages with the exactitude of a sundial and the
surliness of a bulldog. She laid the tray sternly down.
"Cook sends her duty, miss, and this bit of cake which she made for the
kitchen. She hopes you'll accept it."
"Thank cook kindly, and say I am much obliged," replied Meg with
alacrity, recognizing the value of this contribution to her
commissariat. 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 the
provisions. She took a page of newspaper lining one of the drawers and
carefully packed the cake and bread and butter, fastening this smaller
parcel to the larger one of books.
Then again she returned to her meditations and calculations as to her
mode of escape. If she had but a stout rope with which to swing herself
down!
Then suddenly she remembered stories of hairbreadth escapes from fires,
recounted to her by Mr. Standish, effected by the aid of a ladder made
of sheets and blankets knotted together.
The materials were at hand with which to attain her freedom. Meg's mind
was made up. As soon as she was safe from interruption: when Miss
Grantley had returned and the household had retired to rest, she would
begin making a ladder of sheets.
She determined not to go to bed, but to sit up till daybreak, and at the
first streak of dawn scale the wall and escape.
Then she remembered that it would be probable that Miss Grantley would
conform to the habit of the school, and make her round over the various
rooms. At this thought Meg swiftly set about obliterating every trace of
disorder from the dormitory. She stowed her parcel out of sight, and
drew the curtains, and began to undress.
She was not yet in bed when she heard steps coming up the garden path
and voices bidding each other good-night.
A few moments later the key of her door was turned, a step entered, and
Meg heard the rustle of a silk dress. Miss Grantley was making her
rounds. Meg appeared to be profoundly asleep; she was conscious of
candle-light directed upon her face, but her eyelids did not quiver.
Miss Grantley stole out of the dormitory. Meg listened for the click of
the key turned again upon her, but this time Miss Grantley contented
herself with closing the door.
Meg could not believe her ears. She got out of bed, and by the moonlight
she examined the lock. No, the second bolt was not drawn; the key was
not turned. There was no necessity to make a ladder of bedclothes, no
need to have recourse to this perilous mode of escape. This difficulty
removed 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 that
all the household was asleep, she softly drew back the curtains from
the windows. Then she lay down, determined to keep awake.
She would not go to sleep; she struggled to keep slumber at bay. She sat
up when she felt drowsiness overtake her; unconsciously she slipped off
into a doze. She had a dream, rather the sketch of a dream. She had a
glimpse of a road--she was walking. She started up frightened, got out
of bed, rubbed her eyes, plunged her face into water; she was wide awake
now. Then she lay down again; unaware she dropped asleep.