"Suppose," she began, "some one had been very kind to you, very good, would you not run away from people who were unkind to you, and laughed at you, and despised you?"
"No, I would stay to conquer them," said the cripple, stamping his crutch.
"How would you conquer them?" said Meg.
"I'd wear 'em out," said the lad. "Spite can't stand pluck; that's what I've found out. I'd give 'em a laugh, and if they pushed me hard I'd give 'em a slip of my crutch."
Meg was silent awhile with appreciation of such courage. Then she said:
"But suppose you felt sure there was a letter waiting for you, would you not go to get it?"
"Depends upon that ere letter," replied the cripple with circumspection. "If it was to tell me what to do to better myself I'd go and fetch it were it at the other end of the country."
"But," said Meg, with a quivering voice, letting out the secret fear at her heart, "suppose there was no letter waiting for you when you got to the place?"
"I'd go and look for the one as should ha' written it everywhere. I'd not give over till I found him," said the cripple.
"You would!" said Meg.
"I would!" repeated the boy.
"I wish you were going all the way to London," said Meg.
"To take care of you?" asked the lad. "Wish I could, but I can't, miss. I have the kid and the mistress to think of. It's not so far; to-morrow you'll get there."
"To-morrow!" repeated Meg, aghast.
"It's getting late," said the boy, "ye can't walk in the night. Now, what I say is, if ye find a barn, creep in there and lie in the straw; but if ye can get a hayrick and cover yerself all up to yer head, that's fit for a king—better than a bed. I've slept in 'em, so I ought to know."
Meg could not speak from consternation; the prospect for a moment overwhelmed her.
"Perhaps ye'll meet a cart, and the driver will give ye a lift. My faither once gave a lift in his cart to a little girl going toward London," the cripple suggested.
"I wish I could meet some one who would drive me," said Meg in faltering accents.
"If ye're frightened ye'll never find the person as was good to you," the lad replied rousingly.
"You were not frightened at night, all alone?" asked Meg.
"I'm frightened of nothink," said the lad; "but ye're a little lady, so that makes a difference."
Meg asked herself if her companion's shriveled leg did not make up for the disadvantages of sex, and she trudged along, resolved not to give in, but she wished she did not begin to feel so hungry again.
Presently they came to a fingerpost.
"What's written up there?" said the cripple.
"Can't you see?" asked Meg, astonished.
"I can't read," said the boy.
"Oh!" exclaimed Meg, whose admiration received a great shock.
"I'm ignorant," replied the boy, no whit disconcerted. "I'll conquer that, too. I conquered that school-board because I wanted to earn. I'll conquer ignorance; it's as bad as the school-board."
Meg's admiration revived.
"Weybridge is written on that side," she said.
"That's my way, then," said the cripple. "Good-by to ye, miss. I hope ye'll get all right. Don't forget the barn, or the hayrick if ye can get one."
"Good-by," said Meg, wishing to shake hands, yet hesitating.
The boy touched his hat and set off on his way.
Meg listened to the thump, thump of the little crutch going off into the dusk, and to the sound of merry whistling, and she turned to pursue her way. The thought of that small lad with his crooked leg and his great courage roused her spirit. No obstacle now appeared too great to overcome, no road too long to walk in order to achieve her object; and she trudged bravely along.
She was very hungry. Her feet were beginning to ache again; but she was not going to stop yet; nothing would induce her to do this; so long as she could hold out she would walk. She would then look out for a proper resting-place in which to spend the night, and set off on her journey in the early morning. She tried to distract her mind by weighing the merits of sleeping up in a tree, or down on the ground, or in a haystack; but her thoughts would fix themselves upon nothing but upon something to eat and drink. She passed a village where all the cottagers seemed to be at their supper. Meg trudged valorously along, neither looking to right or left. Still she debated whether the time had come for breaking into that threepenny-piece. She looked at the matter all round. It stood between her and starvation. Until she reached Mrs. Browne's house she had nothing else to count upon.
Was she hungry enough yet? Had supper-time come? A whiff of the perfume of buns and hot loaves from a wayside shop decided the question. She felt weak and limp from longing for food, and she went in. There were tumblers of milk on the counter. A halfpennyworth of milk and a pennyworth of bread must make up her meal. The remaining penny and halfpenny must be left to pay for her breakfast to-morrow. She drank the milk in the shop, and she ate the bread in the open air, sitting on a common outside the village among great ferns. Meg thought she had never tasted bread so delicious as this. She felt as if she would like to sleep here among the crisp ferns; but she got up, resolved to walk all the way to London if the daylight would but last.
The fingerpost pointed down a road bordered on either side by pine trees. It ran through a wood. The west glowed before her, and the trees marshaled darkly against the light. The birds flew twittering across the sky, and all the insects seemed to be singing good-night to the day. The straight road seemed to stretch like a white ribbon before Meg. It was very lonely. She did not like the solitude; but she would not admit to herself that she was frightened. Yet an awe was creeping over her. The trees seemed supremely dignified. She felt very small and insignificant as she walked under their silence.
After awhile she heard a sound. It was a distant rumble. She looked round. A cart was coming along. It was filled with hay. Meg thought how pleasant it would be to creep within, tuck herself inside the hay, and sleep while the plodding horse bore her on to her destination. She loitered and waited until the cart passed, and then went right out into the road; but at the sight of the large, red-faced man, whose chin was resting on his chest and whose eyes were closed, Meg went quickly back into the path. The rumble of the cart died away, and again nothing was heard but the twitter of birds and the drone of the insects. Presently she heard a voice spreading in song through the dusk. It sang loud and discordantly. In Meg's childish experiences songs sung in such tones had a place; she gave a fierce little shiver, and hid behind the trees. She was naturally fearless; but she remained quiet as a little ghost until the figure, with unsteady gait, had passed. Then Meg resumed her way determinedly.
All at once she began to realize how tired she was. It seemed as if she had lost all her strength. She must lie down. In the faint light and silence, amid the calm trees, she must lie down and rest.
How quiet and still it was, as if all nature were bidding Meg trust to its protection and sleep till morning.
She looked around. There were no hayricks, but there were clumps of fern and soft sand covered thickly with the brown needles of pine. Then again Meg thought she heard the rumble of wheels, distant like wheels heard in a dream, not jolting wheels, but soft swift-rolling wheels. A carriage drawn by two horses was driving down the road toward London. Meg dreamily remembered how once she had driven in just such a beautiful carriage by Mr. Fullbloom's side; how easily they had traveled. In her weariness came a longing to be taken up into this carriage and to be driven along. She stood looking in its direction. It came nearer. It was an open carriage; a man was sitting inside it alone. She discerned the gleam of white hair on which the western light fell. Then she became aware of a stern face thrust forward, looking out at her. She had seen that face before. Where had she seen it? She dreamily remembered. It was that of the old gentleman who had bidden her never mention her childhood.
At a word from him the carriage stopped, and he beckoned to Meg. She hesitated to come forward; she felt inclined to run away. There was a vague motive in that impulse of flight. It partook of all the past alarm and misery, and she felt very much as if she stood on the brink of a precipice. The old gentleman beckoned again impatiently, and a grotesque idea flitted through Meg's mind that she must have lain under that tree, gone to sleep, and had a dream. The carriage, the horses, the servants, the dreaded old gentleman, were all a vision that would pass if she made an effort. She shut her eyes. When she opened them there was the figure still bending forward.
It beckoned to her. "Come here!" said a voice; but Meg did not move.
"Drive on!" exclaimed the impatient voice, and the carriage moved off.
A sudden revulsion of terror seized Meg as she watched it driving away. She roused herself and began to run.
Again the figure stooped forward—beckoned to her as the carriage stopped.
Meg approached.
"Are you not Meg—Meg Beecham?" the old gentleman said in a voice of stern surprise.
"Yes, sir," Meg answered faintly. There was a pause; the cold blue eyes rested heavily upon her as they had done that day, and their gaze suggested dislike.
"Come inside. I do not hear you," her interlocutor said, opening the carriage door. He did not stretch his hand out to help her; and Meg scrambled up, and at his bidding sat down on the seat opposite.
"Why are you here at this hour and alone? Why is your dress and your whole appearance so soiled and tattered? Have you strayed from your teachers? Have you lost your way?"
"No, sir," answered Meg.
"No, what?" repeated the old gentleman. "I do not understand your answer."
"I have not lost my way," said Meg.
"Then where are the persons in whose charge you are? Where are your schoolfellows?"
"They are not here. I did not go out with them," said Meg, and paused again.
Her dauntlessness was quelled by fatigue, and by the chill weight of these eyes fixed upon her.
"Will you answer me plainly? Why are you here, and why are you alone?"
"I have run away," said Meg with a flicker of her old spirit.
"Run away from school?" asked the old gentleman in an icy voice.
Meg nodded.
There was an awful pause.
"Why have you run away?"
"Because," said Meg, "they despise me—they say I shame the school. That's why I've run away."
"You say you have not lost your way," replied the old gentleman, taking no heed of her answer. "Where were you going to?"
"To London."
"To London!" repeated her interlocutor. "What would you have done there?"
"I would have gone to Mrs. Browne. I would have asked my way until I found her house."
There came a pause, during which the old gentleman looked at her and muttered himself.
Meg thought she heard him say, "Like parent, like child. The same evil disposition." Then lifting his voice, he called to the coachman, "Drive to Greyling; when you get there ask the way to Moorhouse, Miss Reeves' school for young ladies."
"No, no! I will not go back!—I will not!" cried Meg, jumping to her feet as the carriage began to turn round.
"You shall go back," said the old gentleman, pushing her down in the seat opposite and holding her there.
The carriage moved swiftly, and so noiselessly that Meg heard every word her companion said.
"You shall go back this time; but if ever you seek to run away from that school again, no one will take you back again. You shall be left to achieve your own willful ruin. I will wash my hands of you forever.
"Listen," he continued, with upraised finger, as Meg, awed by his manner, did not reply. "Do you know what will happen if you try to escape from that school again? You will become a pauper. You will have to beg by the roadside. You will sink lower and lower, until you get into the workhouse."
"No!" cried Meg, with a flash of confidence. "Mrs. Browne will take me in."
"Mrs. Browne has left that house. It is occupied by strangers who do not know you, who would shut its doors upon you."
"Gone!" repeated Meg, aghast. "Where is she gone to?"
"You will never know," said the stranger. Then after a moment he resumed: "If I had not been driving down that road this evening you would have begun your downward course already. Remember what I say to you. If you try to escape again you will become a little casual. A ruffianly porter will let you in and order you about, you will be put into a dirty bath, obliged to wear clothes other beggars have worn before you."
"No, no! It can't be—it won't be!" cried Meg.
"Who will prevent it?" said the old gentleman.
"Mr. Standish. He is my friend—he shall prevent it! I will write to him—he will fetch me away!" cried Meg incoherently, with a despairing sense of the futility of her assertions.
"Where will you write to him?" asked the stranger sharply. "Listen, child. You do not deserve that I should trouble myself on your account, and it seems as if you did not care to deserve that I should. There was one whom I loved who proved base and ungrateful. I left him to his fate."
He paused. Meg had not understood this mysterious speech. Her blood grew cold. After a moment the stranger resumed: "I do not doubt this Mr. Standish showed you much kindness, and I will not blame you because you are grateful to him; but from the moment you left your former life Mr. Standish passed out of it. He does not know where you are. He never will know. You do not know where he is. I do not know it; I could tell you nothing about him. Dismiss him from your thoughts." He made a gesture as if, with his uplifted hand, he were tearing the tie between her and that friend of her childhood. "Remember you owe duty and gratitude to another now. Be silent!"
"Oh, I want to know where he is—I want to know!" cried Meg, breaking again into incoherent appeal.
The old gentleman did not reply. He sat there silent, his face growing dimmer as the evening deepened. Suddenly Meg realized the desolation that had overtaken her, and throwing herself forward with her face prone down upon the cushions, she burst into weeping, with speechless sobs.
The stranger made no effort to comfort her. When the paroxysm of weeping had spent itself Meg turned her head, and saw that the night had come. The stars were out in the sky. By their light she dimly discerned the old gentleman's face. She thought that he was looking at her, then she saw that he lay back with his eyes closed, as if asleep.
She did not move. A hope and an assurance which had hitherto filled her heart had gone out of her life, and she lay there an atom of despair lost in a void of desolation. The carriage drove noiselessly on. She was vaguely aware of the still freshness of the night spreading about her. She knew when the carriage stopped, and when lights flashed, and familiar voices, speaking excitedly, sounded near. Still she did not stir.
She confusedly heard the old gentleman ask for Miss Reeves, and this lady reply. She recognized Miss Grantley's accents angrily asserting she ought not to be taken back. Then again she knew the stranger requested that she should be put to bed and given some food, while he had a private talk with the head-mistress.
Meg felt herself taken out; she recognized that she was in Rachel's arms. She was carried upstairs and undressed. She made no resistance, except to refuse the food Rachel pressed upon her.
At last she lay in bed and in the dark, communing and wrestling with her soul—living the troublous day over again. Sometimes thinking that she was once more struggling up that dusty highway; that she was falling and stumbling along; drifting away and then coming back to half-consciousness; and then dreamily hearing the thump, thump of crutches coming toward her, and catching a glimpse of a bright, bold face looking at her.
As she lay there oppressed by the weariness and bewilderment of that feverish time, a thirst for comfort rose in her little heart. She vaguely heard the rumble of carriage-wheels driving away, and she knew the old gentleman was gone.
In her sadness and longing for solace Meg was dropping off to sleep, when suddenly and softly she felt a kiss alight upon her forehead. She did not stir or question; she was too exhausted to wonder or to fear. After the day's fever and alarm she could not quail or wonder any more.
She fancied she heard light steps leave the room; but that kiss had brought the solace she yearned for, and she fell asleep.
A year and a half had elapsed since that wild outburst of rebellion against discipline had sent Meg flying Londonward. She had settled down into the routine of the school. Nothing now existed for her outside its boundaries. She had parted company with her childhood. The goblin past lay behind her, and as she looked back upon it the child who watched over the staircase almost appeared to have been a visionary creature.
She concentrated all her attention upon her studies. If still Miss Grantley was prejudiced against her she won the approbation of her other teachers. Signora Vallaria rolled her dark eyes as Meg's fingers still lagged behind in execution; but there was an energy, an intelligence in her apprehension that made the signora, while wringing her hands, yet consider Meg's lesson a treat to give. If Meg's answers occasionally still lacked exactitude in the historical class they were always roughly brilliant and intelligent. She was still apt to pass beyond her own depth, but her fellow-pupils felt the impetus of a rashness that was the outcome of energy. Meg had an unconscious ascendency over her schoolmates. A vigorous nature will always sway more languid spirits; but her influence over them was due rather to the fact that since she was eight years of age she had begun to think, and, like all suffering creatures, to observe. This power of observation, of drawing her own conclusions, and of acting upon them, was the secret of her ascendency over her schoolfellows. It was the ascendency of character.
Some called her repellent; for there was a childlike bluntness, a certain defiant awkwardness about her still. Others, like Miss Pinkett, treated her with contempt as a nameless waif. Others again, like Gwendoline Lister, wove a web of romance about her; nothing short of Meg being the deserted child of a duchess satisfied the Beauty. Meg knew she continued to be the object of this speculation, and these castles in the air made about her future wounded her, and she repelled curiosity. She still remained solitary in that busy republic of girls. Still her sensitive pride impelled her to refuse sweets when offered to her, because she had none to give in return; still she refused invitations, because she could not ask others to be guests at her home.
The day of her attempted flight had proved memorable; that day of feverish adventures had brought her an experience over which, in her loveless life, she often pondered. That spectral kiss placed on her forehead, which had brought such solace to her as she lay in misery and loneliness, haunted her. Who had given her that kiss? At first she had thought it might be Miss Reeves to assure her of pardon; but why should the schoolmistress have made a mystery of her kindness? The balanced composure and impartiality of the lady's manner dispelled this conjecture. The more Meg saw Miss Reeves the more she felt sure the lady would not yield to any emotional demonstration, and, if she yielded, she would not conceal it. Miss Grantley could not have taken this fit of pity. Her frosty behavior precluded its possibility. Then Meg thought it might be the cook who was kind to her.
"Did you come up to my room that night when I was going to sleep?" she asked the old servant; but the surprised denial she received was conclusive. Who then could have given her that kiss? It could not be the old gentleman. She had heard the wheels of his carriage driving down the garden, and nothing could well be more unlikely or unlike his stern, unsympathetic nature. There was no one else in the house that day except the servants, and no servant could have approached with that gliding footfall. Meg sometimes fancied it might be her dead mother attracted to her grieving child's bedside; but Meg asked herself, "If it were, why had she not come to kiss or comfort her before?" and then she added, "there are no such things as ghosts." But still this solution seemed to rest upon her mind as a notion more akin to her feelings, if it were the least probable explanation of the mystery.
Meg, during the year and a half that had elapsed, had given way to no more bursts of impish rage; she had become a reticent, grave, and silent girl. She was rather stern-looking, but this expression of sternness, if to a superficial observer it might have seemed an outcome of her nature, was in truth but that of a habit acquired by its enforced repression. Her sympathies bid fair to languish and die from want of soil, when an event happened which gave a force and a color to her school-life.
One afternoon after class, Meg, entering the schoolroom, perceived the girls gathered in a knot at the further end. She pushed her way through to discover what was attracting them. A golden-haired child was the center of the group. She was a new pupil come from India, and the girls were lavishing caresses upon the little stranger. The child was pretty and frail-looking enough to justify their enthusiastic effusiveness. She submitted to the kisses and hugs and general petting with a half-resigned air that suggested endurance of what she was already over-satiated with, rather than gratitude for the accorded welcome. Meg looked on, unsympathizing with these cheap caresses, but still attracted by the prettiness of the child as one might be by a strange bird of great beauty. The wistful gaze of large blue eyes encircled with lilac shadows met hers; but still Meg took no notice, repelled by that excess of demonstration lavished upon the little stranger by the other girls. "They don't see how they worry the poor little thing," she muttered as, taking up what she had come for, she went upstairs.
Some time after, as she knelt before her trunk, putting its contents in order, a slight touch on her elbow caused her to look round.
"What pretty things!" said a little voice. It was the child. With tiny fingers she pointed to the gayly-bound volume Meg was restoring to the box.
"There are pictures inside," Meg replied, turning the pages. The child looked coldly at the prints. She apparently did not care for the illustrations. It was the gold-edged leaves and the gold pattern on the cover which attracted her.
"How it sines!" she said with her baby lisp, and she passed her rosy fingertips over the gilding.
Meg looked at the bright hair falling in soft abundance over the tiny shoulders, at the dark lashes that shaded the eyes, surrounded by pearly shadows, at the sculptured lips, the upper lip lying softly curled over the lower. She thought she had never seen anything so dainty and delicate as this child. She seemed to be like a feather blown out of heaven across her path.
"What is your name?" asked Meg.
"Elsie," said the child; "and what is yours?"
"My name is Meg."
"Did your mamma give you those books?" asked the child.
"I have no mamma," Meg replied curtly.
"I have no mamma either; she is dead," said Elsie.
Meg was moved by one of those sudden emotions which come with a rush. She lifted her box with violence and carried it some paces off.
"How strong you are!" said the child. "Can you lift me?"
Meg felt inclined to be impatient. Then, meeting the glance of eyes the appeal of which was irresistible, she took the child in her arms and tossed her up.
That night, through the silence of the dormitory, Meg heard subdued sobbing. All the other girls were asleep. Elsie's bed had been placed on the other side of the room. Meg listened for a moment. Her heart was wrung by that low sound of weeping. She thought of her own anguish of loneliness, and of that haunting kiss which had brought such solace to her in her night of sorrow. After awhile she stole out of bed, and bending over the child, she kissed her forehead.
Elsie had taken a fancy to the stern, silent girl. She put out all her little arts to please Meg. Indifferent and inclined to be fitful to the girls who petted her and offered to carry her in their arms, she followed Meg about with pathetic persistence. Meg felt the delight of a devoted nature, thankful for opportunities given to it of sacrificing itself, and mingled gratitude with the feeling she returned. She devoted herself to Elsie. She played with her, she taught her lessons, she spent time and ingenuity in making learning easy to her; and Elsie accepted this devotion. There was pity for Elsie mingled in Meg's solicitude. She was so strong, and the child looked so frail. She was so fearless, and the child was as easily frightened as a little bird. A severe word made Elsie tremble; and it was pitiful to see the little hands, with their network of veins, trembling at any harshness.
The girls were astonished to see a return of the terrible Meg one day when Laura was teasing Elsie, mimicking her nervous ways, her frightened starts and turns of the head. Meg suddenly leaped forward and pushed Laura with such force that this damsel found herself sitting on the ground at some yards' distance.
"How dare you be so cruel to a little child!" Meg said, standing between Elsie and her tormentor.
"I shall have you punished, you gypsy!" Miss Laura replied.
"Have me punished if you like," said Meg; "but if you dare hurt this child I will give it to you again."
A peculiarity of the child which perplexed Meg, besides an almost abnormal timidity, was the singular fascination exercised over her by bright objects. Like a little grayling that rises to the light, every shining object attracted Elsie. It seemed almost uncanny to Meg, whose æsthetic sense was yet in its elementary stage, and who was unconsciously stirred by the moral suggestiveness of beauty, rather than by its physical appeal. Flowers, birds, Elsie herself, came to her as vague yet tangible revelations of a greater calm, a higher goodness and sweetness than earth holds. Elsie's delight in brilliancy was purely sensuous, and its influence over her nervous little frame puzzled Meg. A Salviati glass that stood in Miss Reeves' sanctum fascinated the child. She seized every opportunity to catch a sight of the wonderful vase; the shifting opal tints seemed to throw her into an excited dream. She would go and peep at it through the open door. Meg missed her one day from the playground, and found her perched on a chair in the room no one was allowed to enter without the mistress' permission, touching the vase, cooing and kissing the cold and glittering glass.
"Come down, Elsie! You must not come in here, you know, without Miss Reeves' permission," she said, alarmed, gently taking the child up in her arms. Then as Elsie struggled she went on: "Everything in this room is a present from an old pupil or a friend. Everything is very dear to Miss Reeves in it. She would be very angry if an accident happened to the vase. You would be punished for disobedience."
Elsie at this prospect let Meg carry her away, but she began to cry:
"I want it—I want it. I want to take it to bed with me! I want to have it all to myself!"
Meg soothed her. She endeavored to divert her attention by telling her the story of a mine of diamonds, more wonderful than that of the field of diamonds in "Sindbad the Sailor." For Elsie's sake Meg had developed the gift of telling stories. Her inventive powers were as the wand of a magician over the child. Her tales were distinguished by a touch of the grotesque and grewsome, a spice of humor and adventure. Meg's voice, which was of a peculiar quality, helped the effect. It was low and feeling at times, and again it had a spirited emphasis kept under gentle restraint. A child was the heroine of these stories, inspired by incidents enlarged upon and drawn from her childish recollections.
The stories that attracted Elsie most were those of splendor and of perfume. She would listen enthralled to the adventures in the bowels of the earth of a little girl, who met there the giant who took care of the fire, the sparks of which formed the diamonds, rubies, and topaz.
One day Elsie crept like a lizard to Meg's side. Miss Pinkett, who was a parlor-boarder now, had certain privileges, and was going to a party. She had called Elsie in to see her dressed, and she had shown the child a diamond star her father had sent from India on her last birthday.
"She put it here"—Elsie's little hand touched her forehead. "It looked all alive, twinkling—twinkling! It was more beautiful than the glass vase. It shot out now a lovely red ray, then a yellow light or a bit of shiny blue. Miss Pinkett said her mother had more beautiful diamonds," Elsie concluded, with a sigh of exhausted happiness.
"It is only a bit of coal—black coal that has been buried a long time in the earth," Meg replied with practical coldness.
"I don't believe it. It shines—shines—shines!" said the child. "Do you think Miss Pinkett would let me touch it, put it on, and play with it?"
"No," said Meg bluntly. "I would not ask her. You might lose it, and she would never forgive you."
But the diamond star had taken possession of Elsie's mind, and the fear of punishment did not lift the spell it exercised.
"Do you see that little red-morocco box?—it is in there. I saw her put it in there," she whispered to Meg next morning, dragging her by the skirt into the room Miss Pinkett still shared with Miss Lister alone.
"Do leave that diamond alone," said Meg brusquely. "Don't think of it so much, Elsie. It will get you into trouble and you will get punished. Did you ever see a drop of water through a microscope? That is ever so much more wonderful. Dr. Flite showed us this at the chemistry class this morning."
"I don't care for drops of water," said Elsie pettishly.
"There are monsters in it that fight each other and eat each other up. I'll tell you a story about a drop of water," said Meg suggestively, still trying to divert Elsie's attention.
One morning Meg was running down the corridor that led out of the dormitories.
"Meg, Meg!" called a little voice in a whisper. Meg looked round; it was Elsie standing at Miss Pinkett's door. She was holding something in the palm of her small, shaking hand. Meg, approaching, saw it was the diamond star.
"Elsie, put it back at once," she said peremptorily.
"The box was open. I saw it shining and I took it out. I could not help it. Is it not lovely?"
The tiny fingers caressed the stone, and the baby voice gurgled and laughed to it.
"You will get into trouble, and I shall not be able to save you from being punished," said Meg. "Put it back."
As she spoke Elsie gave a sudden start, dropped the diamond, and took to flight.
Meg picked up the gem and went inside the room to place it in its box. She encountered Miss Pinkett and Miss Lister coming in by another door.
"What are you doing in my room?" asked Miss Pinkett coldly.
Meg, without answering, put down the diamond.
Miss Pinkett flushed. "What right have you to touch anything of mine—this diamond especially?"
Meg remained silent, as if pondering what she would say.
"If I find you fingering anything that belongs to me I will report you, Miss Beecham," resumed Miss Pinkett in her most chilly tones.
"You ought to lock up your diamond," said Meg, at last, with an effort. "It it not right to leave it about—not right to others. It might bring some one into temptation."
"I understand," replied Miss Pinkett with cutting point. "I see there is necessity to lock it up." She shut the box with a snap, and closed the drawer with an elaborate jingle of keys.
The diamond was hidden, but Elsie still thought of it. One evening, as Meg sat on the window sill absorbed in reading an account of the condor, and following with tremendous interest the flight of the bird over mountain and seas, Elsie suddenly interrupted her.
She pointed to the evening star hanging in the suffused light of the sunset. "I wonder if papa sees that star in India," she said.
"Not just now, at any rate," answered Meg a little roughly. Any sign of yearning in Elsie's voice affected her painfully.
"Do you think Miss Pinkett's lovely jewel is like that star?" said Elsie, after a pause.
"No, it is not more like it than a lighted lucifer match is like a sun," replied Meg.
"She is gone out to a dinner-party to-night, and she did not wear it. I wonder why," continued the child, undismayed by the blunt reply.
"I do not care for that diamond more than if it were a pebble from the gravel of the playground," answered Meg impatiently; then with abrupt transition she asked, "Did you ever hear of the condor?"
"The what?" asked Elsie.
"The condor," repeated Meg, and she pointed to the picture of the bird. But Elsie's mind was not to be so easily diverted.
"If I had that diamond," she said in a subdued tone, "I would carry it about wherever I went. I would talk to it, and kiss it."
"I think," said Meg, "that if you had it you would want nothing but that hard, glittering stone."
"Nothing! At night I would put it under my pillow and it would come into a dream," continued Elsie.
"You dream of it already," said Meg impatiently.
"I wish you would tell me a story about it," replied Elsie with a sigh.
Meg shut her book. She drew her breath heavily
"I don't like that diamond," she said. Then pausing, she began abruptly:
"Once upon a time there was a little girl like you, who wanted a diamond, and she cared for nothing because she could not get that diamond; and a spirit put her into a small bare world all alone, to own it and be its queen. And the spirit gave her a beautiful diamond, twenty times as big and as beautiful as that one of Miss Pinkett's."
"Oh!" said Elsie, with a pant.
"The little girl," went on Meg, "jumped about for joy, and said she would want nothing now that she had this diamond.
"And the spirit said to her, 'There is something better and more beautiful than this diamond. When you have got tired of that jewel you will find this out, and then you will want that greater blessing.'"
"Blessing!" repeated Elsie petulantly. "I am sure she never did want anything more."
"And so the little girl," continued Meg, "talked to her diamond, and kissed it, and put it under her pillow at night and dreamed of it. But the diamond did not answer her, did not kiss her back; if she were sad or if she were glad it glittered the same. So the little girl at last grew tired of the diamond. It was not a companion. She felt a great want. There is something better, she thought; something that would be good and pleasant to have in sorrow as well as in joy. She asked the spirit to tell her what was that better thing. But the spirit did not answer. So the little girl went wandering about her bare world to find it. She walked till she was footsore, and still she could not find it; for she did not know what it was. Only she yearned for it. One night she was so weary and lonely that she felt as if she must die, and she prayed to the spirit to have pity upon her and give her that better thing; and at last it came to her."
"What was it?" said Elsie eagerly.
"She was dropping off to sleep, sobbing to herself in her weariness and solitariness, when on her forehead there was laid a soft kiss."
"A kiss!" repeated Elsie in a tone of disappointment.
"It was a kiss of love, like this," said Meg, bending forward and gently kissing Elsie's forehead. "And when she felt this kiss the fatigue, the loneliness and sadness left her, and the next morning she awoke quite happy."
"Was it the spirit gave her the kiss?" asked Elsie, with cold interest.
"She sometimes thought it was," said Meg.
"And the diamond—what became of the diamond?" asked Elsie.
"It had vanished," said Meg.
"I do not like that story," said Elsie pettishly; but she remained thoughtful by Meg's side.
Meg thought that a change had come over Elsie. The child was attentive at her lessons, and softly dependent upon the protection of her friend. Elsie's mind had also become full of a school-party that was shortly to be given. There were to be theatricals. Miss Pinkett, who was to leave school after this term, was to play a grand piece on the pianoforte. The evening was to close with dancing. Some of the girls' brothers were asked to the party. Elsie was to take part in the theatricals—she was to appear as a fairy, in a white dress ornamented with tinsel.
Nothing else but the coming party was talked of. The girls discussed the festivity between lessons, and it was the theme of their speculation as they walked abroad. Meg alone was uninterested, and would have wished to escape and remain in her room that night. On the appointed day there were no lessons, and the schoolroom was decorated with flowers and sketches; the pupils lending their aid and their taste to Signora Vallaria, who supervised the arrangements.
The evening was approaching. All the girls who were to take part in the theatricals had dropped in one by one dressed for their parts. There was to be a rehearsal before the guests arrived. Elsie alone was missing. Meg sought her high and low. Once she thought she caught sight of the little figure in Miss Pinkett's room, but when she entered she found the room empty. As she was turning away she encountered Miss Pinkett, who looked at her with surprised coldness.
"I was looking for Elsie," Meg explained.
"She is not in the habit of coming into my room uninvited," replied Miss Pinkett. "Indeed no one is but yourself, Miss Beecham," and Miss Pinkett shut the door without waiting for Meg's reply.
The dress rehearsal had begun without Elsie, when suddenly the door flew open and Miss Pinkett entered in great agitation. Her diamond star was gone. Had any one seen it? The case was on the table where she had put it, but it was empty. Blank astonishment greeted the announcement. There was a rush to the young lady's room to help in the hunt for the missing jewel. The servants were called and asked if any of them had seen it; but all declared they had not entered that room. At last all adjourned to the schoolroom, where the wild excitement resolved itself into a solemn inquiry as to who had been last in Miss Pinkett's room. Whispers grew around Meg. More than one glance of suspicion was turned upon her. At last Miss Reeves asked quietly, "What were you doing, Miss Beecham, in Miss Pinkett's room a little while ago?"
"I?" replied Meg, amazed.
"You cannot deny that you were there. I met you there!" Miss Pinkett rejoined excitedly.
"What do you mean?" said Meg. She looked round in a dazed manner, then a sudden fury gripped her throat as she understood the drift of the questions.
"Do you mean to say that you accuse me of stealing?"
"It does not amount to an accusation," said Miss Reeves. "I only ask you what you were doing in Miss Pinkett's room?"
"I never touched the diamond star," said Meg.
"Never! Do you mean," cried Miss Pinkett, "that you did not touch it that day I found you in my room with the diamond in your hand?"
"I touched it that day," said Meg, and paused; she had caught sight of Elsie, cowering pale and trembling against the wall.
"Why did you touch it? Why did you say I ought not to leave it about?" hotly questioned Miss Pinkett.
"I had a reason for touching it that day."
"What reason?" asked Miss Reeves.
"One which I cannot tell. It was a good reason. Believe it or not, I don't care. But I did not touch it to-day. I did not see it."
"You were in my room," said Miss Pinkett, "and the diamond case was on the table, and the diamond was in it, I know."
"I was in your room," Meg began.
"What for?" asked Miss Pinkett.
"I was looking"—again Meg encountered that appealing look from Elsie, cowering a white trembling little scrap against the wall.
"Your explanations are lame," said Miss Reeves gravely.
"I don't care if they are lame or not," Meg interrupted fiercely. "I have not taken that diamond. That is all I have to say. I have not taken it. I had it one day in my hand. Appearances may be so far against me; but if you condemn me on that, you do it out of your hatred to me."
"Hush, Miss Beecham!" said Miss Reeves severely.
"You hate and despise me because I have no one who belongs to me in the world," continued Meg. "You call me a gypsy girl and a tramp, that's what you call me. I don't care if you hate and despise me. I can't help what I was born, and I don't want to help it. What I know is that I have not taken that diamond."
A murmur ran round the room, but Meg did not pause to consider its nature. She turned in her ungovernable indignation, and pushing through her companions she flung open the door and slammed it after her. Again she caught a glimpse of Elsie's terrorized face and figure as she rushed past.
She went out into the playground to breathe the fresh air, trembling with fury. The old wild self had returned to her, taking with it seven devils. Her heart felt too big for her breast. Tearless sobs shook her as with all the vehemence of her spirit she repelled the charge brought against her.
Then again she seemed to see before her the wretched, cringing little figure of Elsie, and the large eyes fixed wistfully upon her. A suspicion fell cold and terrible on Meg's heart and checked her wrath. She had vaguely interpreted that look as an entreaty not to reveal Elsie's admiration for the gem. It seemed now to convey another meaning. How could she see that child alone, get a few secret words with her?
She went indoors, and in the hall she met Elsie, like a little ghost, furtively creeping out, holding something in her shaking hand.
"What is it, Elsie?"
"They are going to search our things, everybody's things," gasped Elsie. "I am going to throw it away."
"Throw what away?" asked Meg energetically.
"The diamond," the convulsive voice of the child answered; and still she held something tight hidden in the small shaking hand covered with a network of blue veins.
"Oh, Elsie, did you take the diamond?" asked Meg sadly.
"Yes, I thought—I thought Miss Pinkett would not wear it. I wanted to have it for one night. I—I thought she would not find it out. I heard her say she was not going to wear it. Where shall I throw it away?"
"You must not throw it away," said Meg. "Some one else would be suspected. Come, Elsie, you must be brave. You must say that you took it. Come with me, I'll say it for you."
She put her arm about the child. But Elsie struggled like a little mad animal from her grasp.
"No, no; don't say it was I—don't say it was I!"
An infinite compassion seized Meg when she saw the big tears welling in Elsie's eyes, and she asked herself how she could save this little one. Pity grew into the stronger motive and smothered fear. It was Meg's nature that what she undertook to do she did thoroughly.
"I will ask to be punished in your stead, Elsie," she said.
"They won't punish you for me—they won't let you be punished for me!"
Meg drew her breath.
"They don't think it is I—they don't think it is I!" sobbed Elsie, clinging to Meg. "Don't say it is I!"
The child was cold with anguish.
"Very well; I will not say it is you."
"You'll not say it—you'll not say it?" repeated Elsie, clinging to Meg's skirt.
"No; I'll manage it," said Meg.
"How will you manage it? Who will give the diamond up?"
"I," said Meg.
The child put her arms round Meg's neck, kissing her over and over again, and reiterating her cry not to say she had taken it.
Meg put her gently away, marched out and went straight into the room where all were assembled.
Miss Reeves with Signora Vallaria and two other teachers were preparing for the search of the boxes. Meg walked up to the head-mistress.
"There is the diamond!" she said, holding it out with outstretched hand.
A dead pause greeted this speech. Then Miss Pinkett's laugh rippled up.
"I thought so," she said.
Miss Reeves took the jewel, lifting her hand to enjoin silence.
"What does this mean?" she asked.
"I return Miss Pinkett's diamond," Meg replied.
"Do you mean to say that you took it notwithstanding your repudiation of the accusation which shamed some of us into believing you innocent?"
"I restore it now," said Meg huskily.
"Had you heard that the boxes were to be searched?" demanded Miss Reeves.
"Yes," said Meg.
Again there was a pause.
"I will stake my word upon it, there is a mystery," said Signora Vallaria, fixing her dark eyes upon Meg.
"Miss Beecham," resumed Miss Reeves, "did you take this diamond?"
Meg remained silent.
"I repeat the question," said Miss Reeves. "Did you take this diamond?"
"I restore it, and I am ready to submit to any punishment you may decree. Is that not sufficient answer?"
Again there was a murmur round the room.
"I am afraid it is a sufficient answer," said Miss Reeves gravely. "The punishment is expulsion from school. I give you till to-morrow morning, Miss Beecham, to explain your strange conduct. You cannot attend the party. You have turned an occasion of festivity into one of humiliation and unhappiness for us all. Go upstairs. You can no longer occupy the dormitory with your fellow-pupils. You will be taken to a room on the other side of the corridor where you will sleep alone. Miss Grantley will show you the way."
Meg turned to follow her guide in silence. The stern girl seemed turned to stone.
Through the evening Meg heard the intolerable dance music going on and on. Little by little there came to her in her isolation the realization of the thankless load she had taken upon herself—a burden of guilt of the meanest kind. What would Mr. Standish think of her now? He had for some time past fallen into the background of her thoughts; but now there returned to her the memory of this friend of her childhood. With anguish she felt that when they met again, instead of appearing before him grown into a lady, full of the grace of blossomed womanly ways, and with the dignity which comes of loving protection to the weak, what would she seem to him? For years, thought Meg, for all her life, she must seem a miserable wretch and a thief.
She walked up and down the little room contemplating this picture. She could not face the prospect; and still, as there rose before her that vision of a cringing, shrinking child, an atom of terror outlined there against the darkness, appealing to her, Meg once more took up the load of guilt. Up and down she wandered, unable to concentrate her thoughts, sometimes contemplating how two hours ago she was a different being—all the change that had happened in two little hours!—then feeling that one comfort remained to her—the thought of Elsie's gratitude. In an alien world this little blossom of love would sweeten her lot. She turned from the realization of her own ruin to linger on this consolation that round Elsie's heart would hang the rich perfume of thankfulness for the sacrifice she had made. And then still, as she walked up and down, she thought how downstairs as they danced they all knew it. She was worse to them than a beggar in the streets. "If I were to go downstairs they would all shrink from me," she muttered bitterly. There was a stain upon her never to be wiped off. In two years would it be forgotten? she asked herself drearily. No, it would not. In three years? No, it never will, answered the thought; and then always, like the burden of her plaint, that Mr. Standish would hear of it.
The intolerable dance music stopped at last. She heard the rustle of dresses, the rush of feet. The party was over. The girls were going to bed. The gas was turned off and the house was plunged into darkness.
Meg lay down upon her bed and from sheer fatigue of sorrow fell asleep. She woke with the dawn, and for a moment she forgot what had happened. Then the heavy misery shaped itself and pressed upon her soul again. The calm morning held a promise of hope. What would the day bring her? Would not Elsie tell?
Just before the bell for prayers rang she heard a step outside. The handle of the door turned and Miss Reeves entered.
There was a moment of silence as the head mistress and the pupil faced each other.
"Meg, how did that diamond come into your possession?" Miss Reeves asked, not unkindly.
Meg did not answer.
"Will you not explain? I have come here to win your confidence. Why did you not return it before the order came for searching the boxes?"
A passing moment of temptation came to Meg to explain, to admit that certain reasons kept her silent, but she sternly repressed the impulse.
She repeated what she had said before—she had restored the jewel, was that not enough? She would say nothing more.
"Then," said Miss Reeves sternly, "I can give but one interpretation to your obstinate silence. You are guilty of an act which seems to me the meanest that ever occurred in my school. There remains but one course for me to take. I will write to your guardian. You must be removed at once. The disgrace of your presence must be removed from your comrades. You will join your schoolfellows at prayer-times only. Your meals will be brought up and served to you here. I must forbid you to address any of your schoolfellows; nor must you speak to any of your teachers except to make the small reparation of a full confession."
Miss Reeves turned and left the room with cold stateliness. Meg remained standing where she was till the prayer-bell rang. The fury of the night was over. Her mind seemed a void. She could think no more, scarcely could she suffer. When the bell ceased, she left the room. A few laggard girls were hurrying out of the dormitory. They passed her with averted faces and in silence; and they whispered with each other. There came upon Meg the first bitterness of the realization that she was an outcast from the community.
She entered the room where all were assembled, feeling dizzy. Then a sort of courage of indignation came upon her, for she was innocent. She looked in the direction of Elsie's place, eager to receive a glance that would repay her for all that she was bearing; but Elsie's eyes were carefully turned in another direction, and she appeared bent upon hiding behind another girl, as if to avoid seeing Meg. A pang of anguish shot through Meg's heart. Was that little hand lifted with the others against her? Was Elsie also thrusting her out as did all those who refused her fellowship in their lot? She felt so dazed that she remained for a moment standing, unaware of the general kneeling around her as Miss Reeves' voice was raised in prayer. Then her heart began to harden, and she looked toward Elsie no more.
When the girls were filing out she thought she would give Elsie another chance. The child must pass her in going out. Meg was conscious of her pet's approach, although she did not openly look her way. She felt if she watched Elsie and the child made an advance it would not be spontaneous. And yet, when there came no furtive touch on her hand, no whispered word as Elsie passed, Meg could not withhold from glancing toward her. Yes, Elsie had passed with eyes averted. That last link of sympathy which had given her hope gave way and broke.
Meg went up to her room, and the day passed. She sat with her chin buried in her hands looking heavily out. She felt stunned; she no longer protested or pondered over the future. At prayer-time that evening she did not look toward Elsie.
The next morning there was again a moment of forgetfulness when she awoke. Then again the horror gradually shaped itself, but this morning nature brought to her no reassurance. At the sound of the bell Meg rose with a heart like lead. She dressed herself and went down slowly. A mood of indignant bitterness had replaced the chilled misery of her bewildered heart. After prayers Miss Reeves informed her that she had received a letter from Mr. Fullbloom. He would fetch her away that afternoon. She must be prepared to leave then.
Meg received the news mutely, and went upstairs to begin her packing as directed.
She mechanically folded and put her belongings into her trunk. When she took out the presents Mr. Standish had given her, and that bore the marks of much handling, a movement of enraged despair seized her, and she trembled. "He'll never care to see me again, and how could I see him?" she muttered.
The girls were out in the playground as she finished her task. "I'll be glad to get away!" she said, as she sat on her box a moment and looked round her. But even as she said this her mind called up before her the departure. "Where am I going to?" she muttered. With compressed lips she whispered to herself as she rose, "No matter! no matter!"
It was two o'clock; in less than an hour she knew Mr. Fullbloom would be here. Her trunk, locked and strapped, stood in a corner; her hat and cloak lay upon it ready to be put on at his summons. No one had come near her. All her preparations were made. The old restlessness had returned; and she was walking up and down, thinking, thinking where was she to go to. What would happen to her?
"Meg! Meg!" said a little voice in a whisper. She turned; it was Elsie standing on the threshold of the door. There was a pause, during which Meg eyed the little figure, huddling up into a corner, its hands convulsively working together with a pitiful resemblance to older grief.
"Speak to me, Meg! won't you speak to me? I am so miserable," lisped the child piteously.
"You ought to be," replied Meg.
"If they would only let me go away with you!" moaned the child. "Oh, Meg, if they would only let me go away with you!"
"How could they let you go with me? I am a thief; you are a white, pure, innocent child," Meg said in bitter sarcasm.
"It is I who am wicked, not you. Oh, Meg, I love you so much, I love you so much!" reiterated the child, with that piteous quaver in her voice, stealing into the room, still wringing her little hands.
"Love me!" repeated Meg, her voice shrilly bitter; "and you do as the others do. You turn your face away when I come into the room."
"I am frightened, I am frightened. The girls say no one must look at you, or talk to you. I am frightened."
"Yes, I know you are frightened," Meg replied with softened gruffness. Elsie looked changed, she seemed a little wasted.
"I cannot sleep. Oh, Meg, I cannot sleep, I am so miserable!" sobbed Elsie, touching Meg's dress.
A pang of pity shot through Meg's heart.
"Hush! Elsie. Never mind, never mind," she said, stroking the child's hair. "Don't speak loud, some one may be listening."
"I wish I could tell," said Elsie, with heaving bosom. "I try to make myself tell. It stops here!" and the child put her hand to her throat. "I try to say I took it; but I can't, I can't. And you won't tell, Meg, you won't tell?"
"No, I won't," said Meg. "I won't. Do not be afraid, my pet."
She kept stroking Elsie's hair, grateful for that moment of solace.
"I wish I were dead!" cried Elsie, with a sudden wail, flinging herself into Meg's arms.
"Come away this moment!" said a voice, and a hand took hold of Elsie and dragged her away.
Meg recognized Ursula. She stood stock-still for a moment. Then she threw herself prone down upon the ground with a passionate cry.
That touch of comfort so rudely taken from her; that word of love from the child who had most right to give her love, silenced so abruptly! Why? Because in their rude honesty her comrades had decreed to exile her and abhor her like a thief.
She remained with her face pressed down to the ground, as if she would press herself into the heart of the cold floor. Vaguely she was aware of the bell ringing as for classes, and she knew the time had come—in a few moments more she would be gone on her way. But she did not move.
She became aware of steps approaching. Some one touched her on the shoulder. Ursula's voice said, "Meg, you must come down at once."
Meg turned her head round.
"You must come down at once," repeated Ursula, as Meg kept looking at her stupidly. "You had better come down," continued Ursula gently, putting her hand upon hers. Meg rose.
"I am going, but I will go alone," she said with returning fierceness, flinging Ursula's hand away. She pushed her hair roughly from her eyes and went toward her trunk to put on her hat and cloak.
"You need not put on your things," said Ursula. "It is in the schoolroom you are wanted."
"In the schoolroom? Very well," said Meg. She passed Ursula. She went downstairs, and with a reckless bang she opened the schoolroom door. What new ordeal or humiliation was awaiting her?
The room was full. Miss Reeves advanced to meet her.
"Miss Beecham," said the head-mistress, "Elsie has confessed everything. Young ladies, I have sent for you all, for before you all Miss Beecham was declared guilty and before you all she must be cleared of this charge. She is entirely innocent."
The ground seemed to sink under Meg's feet; the surroundings to fade away as in a splendor. She was aware of a murmur all round her, of the girls looking at her with a new expression of regret.
"Has Elsie confessed?" she panted.
"Not of her own free will," replied Miss Reeves gravely. "She was forced to confess by the suddeness of Ursula's action. Ursula had crept up to say good-by to you. She never thought you guilty. When she came into your room she overheard enough to convince her of the truth. She dragged Elsie before me, and forced her to tell. It was not a right thing, Meg, to shield this action. But it was so generous I cannot blame you. You were ready to sacrifice yourself for a child who would have let you go forth disgraced."
"It was splendid!" said Ursula. "Meg Beecham is a noble girl."
"She is," circled round the room.
Then Miss Pinkett stepped forth, elegant and straight-backed even in her evident emotion. Tears stood in her eyes, yet her voice was high-pitched and smooth.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Beecham; I apologize with all my heart to you. It was I who first accused you. Will you forgive me?"
"I forgive you," said Meg automatically, taking Miss Pinkett's extended hand. Then Ursula, with spectacles shining with tears, came forward and kissed Meg, who received the embrace in the same dazed fashion. All the girls trooped around, taking her listless hand.
Suddenly Meg recognized Elsie standing alone, wringing her little hands with that piteous gesture of older grieving. Sinking down on her knees, she stretched out her arms.
"Elsie, Elsie!" she cried, and in a moment the sobbing child was clasped to her heart.
"Oh, Miss Reeves, Miss Pinkett, young ladies!" said Meg, looking round, holding Elsie tight, tears coursing down her cheeks, "do not punish her, she is so little, so tender. She took the diamond as a child might take a shining bit of glass, only because it was pretty. Do not punish her, she is so delicate, so little! It was fright that kept her silent. Forgive her!"
There was a pause, broken by Elsie's sobs, repeated in various corners of the room.
"How can Elsie be forgiven?" said Miss Reeves gravely. "Worse than taking the diamond was her willingness to let another be expelled."
Then again Miss Pinkett stepped forward.
"Madam," she said, "we owe Meg Beecham some reparation. I owe it to her more than any one. For Meg's sake, pray let Elsie go unpunished!"
"For Meg's sake!" said Ursula, seconding Miss Pinkett's petition.
"For Meg's sake!" was repeated all round the room.
Miss Reeves hesitated. Then laying her hand on Elsie's head:
"Let it be so. For Meg's sake you shall be forgiven; for the sake of the girl whom you would have injured beyond words to tell, you shall go unpunished. This miserable incident will never be referred to again. That is all that we can do to make it up to Meg—to forgive you, Elsie, for her sake."