Meg's Friend Part 16

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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed 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 c.h.i.n.ks 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 b.u.t.ter there was a large slice of currant cake.

Rachel was a conscientious and sullen young woman, who executed orders and delivered messages with the exact.i.tude 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 a.s.surance 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.

CHAPTER XI.

AWAY.

The day had shot a golden arrow across the uncurtained window of the dormitory when Meg awoke. The sense of something to be done confusedly urged itself upon her mind, and she jumped out of bed. In a flash she remembered everything, and with trembling trepidation she asked herself was she late? Were the servants stirring? The profound silence in the house rea.s.sured her. Outside she saw the sky saffron and rose behind the trees, and she heard the birds singing their matins. Meg began to dress rapidly. She was careful in her speed. She was going on a long journey on foot, and she must not look like a little tramp.

Having completed her toilette she took up her parcel and softly opened the door. Her nerves were tense with excitement, and a restrained trembling shook her from head to foot. How still it was! She had a strange fancy; the silence seemed as though some unseen presence was there listening and watching. The shutters were closed everywhere; only a gleam of light flickered through the skylight on the lobby. If she stumbled she would wake some of the inmates; she kept thinking as she stole down. Once she nearly lost her footing. She fancied she had come to the last step of a flight of stairs when two or three still remained to descend. Had she not caught herself up in time she would have fallen, and, weighted as she was, the clatter would have been heard through the house.

As she crossed the hall she knocked up against something which fell with a m.u.f.fled sound, that in the gulf of silence came like a boom. Meg listened. She heard the furtive clicking of a door above. She waited motionless. It was succeeded by no sound of footsteps, and she concluded it was the creaking of an unclosed door. Then she resumed her progress.

She groped her way down to the kitchen--she knew there was no possibility of letting herself out by the hall door--it was dark there, and she knocked her foot against a chair and hurt herself. But she did not mind the pain. All her capabilities of feeling were strained in listening. Had she been heard? The silence still lay like a spell over the house. She shut the door that isolated the downstairs premises and she felt safer.

All depended still upon the caution of her movements, as she turned the key and unbarred the bolts of the door of the servants' exit. With determined quiet the deft brown hands proceeded upon their task when another danger met Meg. Pilot began to bark outside. His kennel was close to the kitchen door, and the furtive sounds had caught his ear and roused his suspicions. Every bark grew louder, and he growled savagely.

Meg controlled the trembling that seized her, and the next movement opened the door and encountered the dog. Pilot was reputed dangerous by the schoolgirls, but Meg had no fear. In her isolation she had made friends with the mastiff. At sight of the little figure with hand uplifted to enjoin silence, Pilot paused in the spring he was crouching to make, and stopped barking.

"Hush, Pilot," whispered Meg in a concentrated voice; "don't bark, not on any account, Pilot! I am running away because I am miserable.

Good-by, old Pilot!"

Pilot looked at Meg with questioning eyes, debating the reasonableness of her speech. He apparently hesitated to commend the step she was taking, for he did not return her greeting with any demonstration, but remained with head erect and p.r.i.c.ked ears surveying her, and let her go in silence.

Meg went round to the kitchen-garden. She had decided to escape that way. The wall was covered with a trellis-work on which fruit was trained. Meg threw her parcel lightly over and began to clamber. She heard the unripe plums fall as she climbed with a sure-footedness that was one of her claims to the t.i.tle of "savage" bestowed upon her by her schoolmates. With the agility of a squirrel she swung herself over and dropped among the nettles that grew at the base of the wall.

She sprang to her feet, picked up her parcel, conscious of one dominant emotion only--she was out of Moorhouse; she was free! Like a bird winging its way to more genial climes Meg dashed forward.

Across two fields at the back of the house, the bright road lay before her; her escape was made. Not a soul was up, and forgetting that she should economize her strength she ran gladly along, when suddenly an object arrested her eyes and riveted her to the spot. There, at the stile, facing the field, the path through which issued on to the highroad, stood a figure. The face was turned away, but Meg recognized that straight back, that dark dress with austere folds, that severe straw bonnet. It was Miss Grantley.

Was it some waking nightmare, an illusion of frightened fancy? Meg remembered the furtive click of the door. Could her escape have been discovered, and the mistress be lying in wait for her? With desperate resolve, after a moment, Meg determined to chance it. She would creep beside the hedge that led round the stile, and once on the other side she would trust to fortune and to her heels to escape pursuit. She began softly to move; a spray of woodbine caught her skirt--she disentangled it with trembling fingers; a puddle barred the way; she prepared to leap over it, watching that figure with terror. Something in its stillness, its stiffness, and its bent head frightened her. She thought she would call out and speak to it. As she hesitated the figure turned round, and Meg saw, not Miss Grantley, but a stranger whom she had seen at church and admired for her young and peaceful countenance. The lady was holding carefully something lying in her hollowed hand. Perceiving Meg she beckoned. The coil of fear about Meg's heart loosened, and she breathed again.

"Look at this poor chick!" said the stranger. "It has dropped from the nest. See how the mother is hovering round. Poor mother, we will not hurt your little one. G.o.d takes care of the fallen nestlings."