ARRIVAL.
Past stretches of meadowland and woodland, past undulating fields
sleeping peacefully in the sunshine, past busy towns and reposeful
hamlets sped the train bearing Meg to her unknown guardian's home. The
solitude of the empty carriage oppressed her. The flurry of the
farewells and the pain of sundered associations increased the timidity
of her spirit, as she realized more vividly that she was hurrying she
knew not whither to meet she knew not whom.
Meg had not yet recovered from the recoil she had experienced on hearing
that she was so soon to meet her mysterious benefactor. As every moment
lengthened the space that parted her from surroundings which, if not
altogether sympathetic, had yet the sweetness of familiarity, the
unknown future presented itself to her invested with a touch of fear.
She combated this mood. Was she not hastening toward the human being
who had shown solicitude toward her in her forlornness?
She felt almost sure that her protector would prove to be the stern
stranger whom she had twice seen in her childhood, and yet there would
drift up to her mind the possibility that Mr. Standish might turn out to
be this unknown friend.
"I hope not," Meg said to herself, sudden shame overcoming her at the
possibility of meeting so soon, and of owing so much to one upon whose
personality her thoughts had dwelt so long. "I was a foolish sprite of a
child when I cared for him. I am a young woman now," she murmured.
When she stepped out on the platform of the wayside station of Greywolds
she looked about. Mr. Fullbloom was not there. No one appeared to be
waiting for her. A farmer's cart and a private carriage were drawn up on
the other side of the paling that separated the country station from the
roadside. The single passenger who had alighted besides herself from the
train got into the carriage and drove off; the cart after depositing a
load of metal casks jogged away. Meg felt bewildered. If Mr. Fullbloom
did not come for her, what was she to do? She had no money with which to
pay her fare back. She did not know the name of the place to which to
direct the porter to take her luggage after she had identified her
modest trunk. The old sense of isolation so familiar to her in her
schooldays paralyzed Meg, and her eyelids smarted, as if she were about
to cry.
Suddenly a carriage drove up, the gate of the station was pushed open,
and the dandified figure of Mr. Fullbloom came gayly forward.
"So, you have found your way," he said airily.
"I was afraid you had forgotten your appointment," Meg answered with
dignity.
"I always associate this train and ladies with unpunctuality," the
solicitor replied with unruffled equanimity.
Offering Meg his arm he led her out. Nervousness conquered every other
feeling, even curiosity. She asked no questions as she perceived a
carriage with two horses and liveried servants awaiting her. She stepped
inside, sank back into the cushioned seat, with Mr. Fullbloom by her
side. As she felt herself bowled along she gave a little gasp.
The solicitor was very chatty. He inquired after her journey. He asked
details of the parting with schoolfellows. He pointed out pretty bits in
the landscape. Meg could not follow what he said; a longing for silence
was upon her. She wished with all her heart her companion would hold his
tongue and let her think and realize.
Presently the carriage drove through gates, thrown open to let it pass
in. The way lay under an avenue of trees. A park stretched to right and
left. As Meg looked round she felt sure this stately domain could not
belong to William Standish.
"This is Greywolds Manor," said Mr. Fullbloom with a chuckle, pointing
to a solid gray pile flanked with turrets at either end. "What do you
think of your new home?"
Meg did not answer. Now that she knew for certain it was not the friend
of her childhood who would welcome her when she alighted she was aware
of an inconsistent disappointment. There came a sudden chill in the air.
The owner of this lordly place would not understand her. Everything
seemed gigantic, repellent. The trees threw too much shadow, the
sunshine was too bright, the massive house too large for homeliness.
"Sir Malcolm Loftdale is the proprietor of this place. Now the mystery
is out. You know the name of your benefactor," chuckled Mr. Fullbloom,
the signals of mischievous enjoyment alight in his eyes.
The carriage had drawn up before the door of the mansion. Meg descended;
she was aware of a discreet-looking elderly man helping to gather
together her loose traps, of a respectable-looking dame in an
impressive black silk gown coming forward to meet her.
"This is Mrs. Jarvis, Sir Malcolm's trusty housekeeper. I cannot leave
you in better hands. Good-by, my dear," said Mr. Fullbloom. Kissing his
finger tips and spreading them in the air, he disappeared through a side
door.
Meg followed the housekeeper up a softly-carpeted staircase, fragrant
with the perfume of flowers. She was vaguely aware of statues in niches,
of limpid pictures dreaming on the walls. A knight of old entering an
enchanted castle could not have felt more strange and bewildered, or
could not have summoned more desperate courage than did Meg as she moved
up that grand staircase.
She was ushered into a pretty bedroom, hexagon shaped. Through the
windows looking out on the park at different angles poured the mellow
light of the late afternoon. Meg, at the request of a trim maid in a
dark gown and dainty muslin cap and apron, gave up the key of her trunk,
painfully realizing as she did so the slenderness and shabbiness of the
wardrobe that would be exposed to this smart young woman's gaze. With
brusque shyness she answered the housekeeper's bland expressions of
hospitality and exhortations to rest. In a trice the deft-handed,
nimble-footed attendant had disposed of the modest stock of wearing
apparel in wardrobes and drawers, and arranged on the tables the books,
desk, and cheap knickknacks--parting presents from some of Meg's school
friends; after which she disappeared with the housekeeper, to return
after a few moments carrying a delicate porcelain and silver five
o'clock solitaire tea-service, which she deposited on a table by Meg's
side. Then the trim attendant, in tones as respectful as if Meg's
belongings had revealed her to be a duchess, asked if she could do
anything more for Miss Beecham. On receiving a timorous negative she
announced that dinner was served at seven-thirty; that the dressing bell
would sound at seven. Could she help Miss Beecham to dress? "No, thank
you," replied Meg hastily; "I am accustomed to dress myself."
With a sense of relief Meg heard the door close, and reflected that
probably until dinner-time she would be left alone.
She poured herself out a cup of tea and looked round the room. It was a
charming little chamber. Its shape showed that it was placed in a tower.
On all sides she was surrounded by sky and trees. After awhile she set
about making a journey of discovery. One of the windows was over the
mantelpiece; she tried to find how the flue of the chimney went to
allow of this quaint arrangement. A bookcase stood in a corner; its
shelves held a delightful selection of books. A water-color drawing
representing a stormy sea, another of a peaceful and Arcadian scene,
hung on the walls. Two miniatures--one of Queen Elizabeth in an immense
ruffle, another of Mary, Queen of Scots--adorned a recess. The bed was
large, with two pillows; the coverlid and hangings, of delicate sea-blue
damask, matched the curtains at the windows. An electric bell was placed
near the bed. Meg thought it was the prettiest, coziest little chamber
she had ever seen, and her spirits rose.
She was still in a kind of half reverie when the gong sounded, and
looking at the clock, she perceived that the short hand pointed to
seven.
Taking out her white muslin gown, Meg began to array herself with care.
She had never devoted much thought to her toilet before, but she was
eager to please her benefactor. She coiled her brown hair smoothly round
her head, and fastened a red rose in her bodice. Then she waited till
the gong sounded again.
Timidity once more overcame her as she descended the grand staircase;
realizing at every step more keenly that the moment had come when she
would be ushered into the presence of her benefactor. Two footmen in
plush and gold lace stood on either side of an open door; this was the
room in which her host awaited her.
Meg paused on the threshold. A somewhat short elderly man in evening
dress stood near the table. This was no familiar figure; but she
remained where she was, overwhelmed with emotion, looking dumbly at this
protector of her forlorn youth. She could not speak for her beating
heart. Her shyness was enhanced by the silence of her host. He did not
advance to greet her; he did not stretch out a hand of welcome. He stood
close to a chair in a somewhat deferential attitude. Then suddenly Meg
recognized him to be the butler who had received her in the hall on her
arrival. She had not identified him in her fright.
With a painful sense of the absurdity of her mistake she took the seat
he placed for her and looked hurriedly round the table. The flower and
fruit-decked expanse, the white cloth, the plate and delicate glass,
glowed rosily under the crimson-shaded suspension lamp; no second cover
was laid, no other chairs near the board. She was to dine alone.
Meg had scarcely realized this when a plateful of soup was placed before
her, and she felt the two magnificent lackeys standing on either side of
her chair, watching as she dipped the spoon and raised it to her lips.
The thought that she was to eat her dinner under the inspection of this
frigid and observant gaze struck her with palsied nervousness. She upset
a tumbler as she stretched her hand for the salt-cellar; she helped
herself to everything that was offered to her by her attendants; she
allowed the butler without protest to fill the glasses at her side with
claret, hock, and champagne, and let the beverages stand there untasted.
In the awful silence she started when the door opened. After awhile the
tension of her nervousness was relieved by a freakish fancy. What a good
story it would make to tell the girls in the dormitory! How she had sat
in a skimpy muslin dress in this splendid room, hung round with family
portraits which seemed to be watching her; of the sumptuous repast
served to her alone; of the obsequiousness of the servant men; how
terrified she had been; with what clumsiness she had behaved, and with
what attempts at dignity!
There came a moment at last when, every trace of heavier diet having
been removed, the servants retired, after having placed the dessert and
three decanters of wine before Meg. She drew a breath of relief as she
made sure that she was alone. A girlish love of fruit came over her, and
she helped herself to a bunch of grapes. She remembered she had once
heard the story of a girl who for a day had been mistaken for a queen.
The people cheered her, the courtiers obeyed her slightest wish. Meg
smiled as she thought this girl must have felt as she felt to-night.
She glanced around as she ate her grapes. The table made a patch of
brilliancy in the long room, the corners of which remained dusky.
Gleaming frames caught the light of the suspension lamp, and here and
there revealed the superb apparel of the dignified full-length men and
women gazing down upon her from the walls. As Meg's eyes traveled slowly
round this stately company she was vaguely revolving in her mind how she
would summon up courage to leave this room and make her way back to her
own.
Presently her eyes rested on what looked like a blank framed space at
the furthest end of the apartment. She could not distinguish the cause
of this effect. It puzzled her, so she rose from her chair and drew
nearer. She found it was a picture with its face turned to the wall.
The discovery affected her like the touch of a spectral hand. That
disgraced canvas riveted her attention. What did it mean? She looked
away; but the spell continued to work, and once more she drew near. The
sight of its disgrace brought a piteous feeling. It looked like an
outcast in the midst of this painted pageantry of splendid men and
women.
Whose face was it thus turned away? Was it that of a man or of a woman?
Meg felt as if she would give anything to know. Everything else faded in
interest near the story of that picture. She tried vainly to discover a
trace of revealing outline. The fascination grew too strong. She got up
on a chair and tried with all her strength to turn the picture round and
get a glimpse. She had succeeded in moving it slightly when she heard
behind her the door open.
Meg dropped her hold of the frame and turned round.
The housekeeper was standing on the threshold looking at her aghast.
"Miss Beecham, what are you doing?"
"I was trying to get a peep at this picture," said Meg, jumping down.
"Why is its face turned to the wall?"
Mrs. Jarvis shook her head. "Why, miss, it would be worth a servant's
place in this house to turn that picture round. Sir Malcolm Loftdale has
forbidden the name of the person whose portrait that is to be mentioned.
He never comes into this room. I am sure it is because of that
picture."
"Indeed; I am sorry," said Meg in some confusion.
"I could tell you all about that picture, Miss Beecham. I have been in
this house these thirty years, and I was there the day it was turned to
the wall. It was a day I'll never forget--not so long as I live; but
it's laid upon me not to tell," went on the housekeeper, who looked
packed with mystery.
"Do not think I would wish you to tell me," exclaimed Meg hurriedly. "I
would not--not on any account." Then she asked with abrupt transition:
"Shall I see Sir Malcolm Loftdale to-night?"
"No, Miss Beecham, not to-night. Sir Malcolm sent me down to ask you to
excuse him. He is old, miss, and not strong. He hopes that you will
forgive his not welcoming you himself, and that you will make yourself
at home."
"Thank Sir Malcolm Loftdale for me, and say that I feel very grateful to
him for his hospitality," Meg replied, relieved yet vaguely nettled by
her host's neglect.
"Coffee is served in the drawing-room, Miss Beecham."
"Thank you; but I think I shall return to my room," said Meg.
She hurried up the staircase. A confused pain seemed to haunt the
surrounding splendor. It oppressed her as might the scent of flowers in
a room of death.
When she opened the door of her pretty room, the sea-green silk curtains
of which had been drawn, the daintiness and comfort contrasted
pleasantly with the alien magnificence outside, saddened as it was by a
jarring note of brooding grief. A black cat had found its way in, and
came forward to meet Meg with tail uplifted and a welcoming purr. The
homeliness of the scene revived her drooping spirits.