POOR MEG.
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."