But a weathered sign at the end of the driveway had announced in fading script, miss veal's school for females, and the driver had brought the carriage to a halt. As John had looked down the long avenue of overgrown trees, his first instinct had been to turn about.
But worse than his initial impression of Miss Veal's establishment had been the white face seated opposite him in the carriage, a face that he'd had to endure throughout the tedious journey from London, an image made doubly grotesque by the foolish wig which Elizabeth had aflBxed to cover her butchered hair, an image that had said nothing.
Fully aware that he could not endure too many more minutes in that presence, he'd been forced to give his driver directions to turn
into the long driveway and had comforted himself with the rationalization that it was the storm and wind and rain that had made everything so ugly.
*'Come, Mr. Eden," Miss Veal urged, "the young ladies must be left to concentrate, and I have yet to show you the refectory and the-"
"I believe Fve seen enough, Miss Veal. About Mary—" Even as he talked he fled the room and tried to see down the corridor where he'd left Mary, seated on a wooden bench in the entrance hall in the company of a female attendant.
"No need to worry about your cousin, Mr. Eden," Miss Veal soothed, coming up alongside him. "I assure you, you've taken the right step and she's in her proper place."
As the woman drew closer, John stepped back, finding her as disreputable as her establishment.
"We pride ourselves here, Mr. Eden," she went on, "on being able to take headstrong young girls and convert them into proper young ladies, ready to take their proper places in the world. Most of our young women come from pampered atmospheres," she said. "Nothing more difficult than to refuse oneself anything when all the world would grant one everything." She stepped closer. "So, I suppose we really mustn't be too harsh on our young charges. Frequently they hear a firm *No' for the first time in their Hves from the lips of my staff."
He nodded—to everything, and wished that the passage were a bit darker, thus preventing him from seeing this macabre creature dreadfully old, older than any human had a right to be. Also, she was as thin as a cadaver, her stick figure without shape, and she wore a badly cut dress of no color at all, but which appeared to be stained with bits of dried food and lightly flecked with a residue of white rice powder. Another repulsive touch was her white hair cropped close about her head.
"Say no more. Miss Veal, I beg you. I must be on the road immediately and request now that I be shown Mary's quarters."
He detected a look of peevishness on the woman's gaunt face, but she recovered and announced, "Of course, Mr. Eden. I fully understand. This way, please."
As they drew near the entrance hall he took momentary refuge in the winter sky just visible through the slit in the heavy oak door. It looked as gray and hard as metal, the mists blurring the black outline
of trees that rose from the distant ridges. The cold was even more acute than it had been in the schoolroom, whistling in under the door in razor-sharp drafts.
"Ah, here's our young lady,** Miss Veal pronounced, and John dragged his eyes from the desolate landscape to the equally desolate vision seated on the bench. As far as he could tell, she had not moved.
He saw Miss Veal encircling her, one blue-veined hand inspecting Mary's face, an intimacy from which anyone would have withdrawn. But as the hand moved across her lips, the expression on Mary's face did not alter.
"She looks—ill, Mr. Eden," the woman announced.
How much to tell her? John wondered. Thus far he'd told her nothing. "She's not ill, Miss Veal," he began, "though she had an unfortunate experience about a month ago. In the park, it was. She was riding and ruffians overtook her."
Miss Veal listened closely to the vague account. "And what precisely did these ruffians do?" she asked, suspiciously.
"Frightened her, primarily."
"And what was she doing alone in the park?"
"She was not alone," John replied, "though her chaperone was some distance removed."
"Then she was alone." Miss Veal smiled, as though she'd won a victory.
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
The inspection continued, the old woman prodding in an almost obscene fashion, loosening Mary's cape, her inquisitive hands studying the wig and at last, in brutal fashion, stripping off both bonnet and wig, leaving the mutilated hair clear for all to see, a sight which had become even more unattractive in the last month as the hair had started to grow out in jagged tufts all over the small, pink scalp.
"Well, now"—she smiled down on Mary—"haven't we gone and got ourselves into a fine pickle?"
In her cold objectivity John discovered a curious comfort. For weeks he'd been forced to endure not only the ghostlike Mary but Elizabeth's constant sympathy as well, the woman a fountain of tears. And Dhari had been little better, and Andrew even worse. It was a genuine relief to look down on the silent young woman and hear her ordeal described quaintiy as a "pickle."
"Well, the hair will grow, won't it, my dear?" Miss Veal was say-
ing to Mary, as though she were confident of a response. "But there will be no wigs here," she added, and handed the hairpiece gingerly to the large female aide with whispered instructions to "Bum it!"
She looked back at Mary and commenced speaking, lifting her voice as though she wanted John to hear as well.
"One of the most important lessons to be learned at Miss Veal's," she pronounced, "is the courage to face oneself as one really is. Cosmetics are against the rules, as are frills and ribbons, hair curlers and most certainly wigs. We must concentrate all our energies on identifying our vanities and ripping them out by the roots. Only in penance and self-denial can we hope to reach that high level of awareness which will make us responsible women and obedient ones."
John nodded in agreement and searched Mary's face for the slightest reaction and found none. Apparently Miss Veal had launched the same search with the same futile results.
"The girl is not—addled, is she, Mr. Eden?" she inquired.
"No, not at all," John replied. "The experience has sobered her. And, of course, these surroundings are new and she is, by nature, very shy. In time she will—"
"Good. Good." Miss Veal smiled. "Well, then—come, child, and I'll show you to your room. You, too, Mr. Eden. I want you to see it all."
With Miss Veal in the lead, John following after and the aide and Mary bringing up the rear, the grim parade started up the staircase, encountering an even deeper chill and two stern-faced women garbed in black just starting down the stairs, their beaklike noses causing them to resemble birds.
"Two of our finest instructors, Mr. Eden," Miss Veal called down as the women passed him by. "Miss Andrews, Geography, and Miss Leonard, History."
John pushed close to the wall to give them easy passage. They did not acknowledge him in any way, but slowed their descent as Mary passed them by, their eyes focused on the ruined hair.
If Mary was aware of their scrutiny, she gave no indication of it and continued on up the stairs, eyes down. John felt he could not look upon her a moment longer and hurried down the corridor after Miss Veal, consoling himself with the thought that in a quarter of an hour at most he would be on the road to Cambridge.
"Ah, here it is," Miss Veal pronounced, stopping before a low,
narrow door identical to the others which lined the corridor. John glanced about and saw no wall lamp and thought how black the passage would be at night.
Miss Veal pushed open the door and stepped back to permit John first entry into the cubicle, which measured no more than six feet in both directions, with one small window reinforced on the outside with two crisscrossing bars, and containing in the way of furniture one low cot with a single rolled blanket, one straight-backed chair, one desk and one washstand.
It resembled a prison cell. As the wind whistled in through the panes of barred glass, John asked, "The—source of heat. Miss Veal, I see no fireplace."
"There are no fireplaces in the individual rooms," she replied. "Too much warmth is not good for the system. The girls are allowed to congregate each evening after dinner in the parlor and there we have a large fireplace burning constantly. They are permitted to warm their nightclothes and, on extremely cold nights, we provide them with the luxury of heated bricks."
Still, John stood at the center of the cubicle, suffering a sharp sense of doubt, thinking that he should take Mary and flee this place. He suffered a painful image of her private chambers at Number Seven, St. George Street, a lovely den of soft fabric and color, the massive rosewood bed which he'd purchased for her when she'd moved to London, with the white lace canopy and rose-embroidered coverlet, the mahogany wardrobe filled with gowns and furs.
"Mr. Eden, you must remember," Miss Veal said at his elbow, "we here at the school are not intent on duplicating the young ladies' home environment. If those indulgent atmospheres had produced the desired results, there would be no need to place them in our care."
The voice was confident and John could not dispute the truth of her words.
"What we must do here," she went on, "is to strip away the layers of artifice and ease and self-indulgence. We must re-create what adoring parents and generous guardians have corrupted. And, in the case of young Mary there, I would say that the corruption has been devastating."
"Then see to everything, Miss Veal," he announced on renewed determination. "I'll leave her in your capable hands. And from time
to time please inform me of your needs here and HI see what I can do."
He was out of the door and a few steps beyond when Miss Veal cauht up with him.
"You're not going to say goodbye?" she aslced, obviously stunned by the fact that he was prepared to leave Mary without ceremony.
Reluctantly he stepped back to the door and suffered instant regret. Mary was standing precisely where the aide had left her, beside the low cot. Her eyes lifted for the first time since they had arrived and focused on him. He thought she would speak and prayed that she wouldn't, and, unable to endure that gaze any longer, he turned away, thinking that he'd seen tears in her eyes.
"Mr. Eden, wait and I'll escort you," Miss Veal called after him.
But he was in no mood for waiting.
"Mr. Eden, there are papers you must sign," Miss Veal called again.
"Send them to London."
"Mr. Eden, we would like you to stay for tea, if you will. We had planned—"
But he didn't give a damn what they had planned. All that mattered was to put as much distance as possible between himself and that last image of Mary standing alone in her cell, her mutilation visible for all to see, and the devastating awareness of the part he'd played in bringing it about.
She deceived me, betrayed me. . . .
Only by repeating those statements of fact could he find the strength which enabled him to gain his carriage through the steady downpour of rain, wave aside his driver's offer for help, simultaneously shouting, "Make for Cambridge!" as he hurled himself inside the small door, where he promptly closed it and drew down the window curtains.
As the carriage started forward he heard his own breath coming in gasps, his hands still clutching at the curtains.
She was crying, though the tears were insignificant and had been provoked by that reoccurring and lovely memory which for days had played hide-and-seek in her mind. Sometimes at the most unexpected moments she caught a brief glimpse of a strong brow, a lock of dark hair. . . .
She sat down on the low cot, aware for the first time that she was
alone in the cell. She should have said goodbye to the man who had brought her here. That would have been the polite thing to do, and she'd tried, but he'd not given her the chance and, although she would never have said it to anyone else, she was glad to be here, away from Elizabeth's constant weeping and Dhari's sympathetic eyes and the whispers of everyone around her, and sometimes they hadn't even bothered to whisper but had discussed her openly, as though she were dead and incapable of hearing.
But she'd heard everything and understood more, and knew better than anyone that she was ugly and soiled and must hide herself away.
Then here she was, and perhaps in the safety of this place she might cleanse herself and learn to forget the hideous odor that always accompanied her nightmare, the sensations which still descended without warning and left her terrified-
Nol She mustn't even think on them, and quickly she lifted her head and spied the small window and the gray day beyond, and left the cot and looked down on a rank and overgrown garden, no pretense at flowerbeds or any manner of cultivation, straggling bushes matted together above the dead grass, the ceaseless wind blowing against dead fruit trees, their crucified branches rotting under the nails that held them up.
The landscape suited her. Surrounded by such ugliness, who would notice her?
She heard a disturbance at the door and looked back to see a large woman in black holding a black dress draped over her arm.
"Lady Mary?" she inquired politely. "I've brought you this. You'll be more comfortable in it. My name is Frieda. Come, let me help you change."
How kind she seemed, Mary thought, and with what straightforwardness did she look her in the eye, unlike others who recently had looked around her or over her.
Without objection, Mary allowed the woman to remove her garments, her dark blue traveling suit first, then her petticoat, then her chemise, stooping herself to remove her slippers and hos^ shivering in the chill without protection of garments.
The woman named Frieda was just in the process of swinging the coarse black fabric over her head when from the door she heard voices.
**Not so fast, Frieda. Let's have a look at the goods before you put the shroud on."
Mary looked beyond Frieda's shoulder to two women in blacL She'd seen them earlier on the stairs. They hadn't been smiling at her. They were now, and Mary liked their smiles. It had been so long since anyone had smiled at her.