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.