The girl planted herself on the end of the sofa and surveyed her companion with grave eyes.
"I wonder on the other hand," she said, "if it would be perfectly horrible of me to send them away at once. I don't feel as if I can endure them another day."
"My dear," exclaimed Miss Gregson. "Just think what a terrible disappointment it would be to them all."
"But just think on the other hand what a terrible time we shall have with them! If only they were nicer children! They are little horrors."
"What can you expect from their bringing up? We should have thought of this before. How can children from homes where they probably only hear bad words and see drunken brawls, behave decently? And I must own I had quite a shock this afternoon. I have never heard such language! It was frightful."
"Oh, I know. They swear like grown up people. It's horrid."
"Poor little things! I feel we must do something to help them before they go away. I long to have a talk with them, but it takes all one's strength to keep them tolerably occupied. There seems no time to talk about better things. It must be done before they leave."
"Then it must be done to-night," said Sheila, "for I feel to be in a regular nightmare, and really I can hardly bear the sight of them. Do you suppose there are many such wicked children in the world? I have been appalled at the things they say."
"We can't let them go back without telling them of the Good Shepherd," said Miss Gregson softly.
"You are an angel," said Sheila, holding out her hand affectionately to her old governess. "You are only thinking of the children, and I am only thinking of myself. But you can understand how very humiliating it is to fail in this way. I hate to think of Peter knowing about it."
Miss Gregson took the proffered hand in her own.
"Tell me," said Sheila, "why it is I so often fail? This is the worst failure I have had. Why don't things go right?"
"I think, my dear, you did not count the cost before you invited these children, and did not make proper provision for them."
"Count the cost!"
"I mean you acted on the impulse of the moment and never thought what it would involve. The impulse was good, but it does not do to act on impulse alone. You wanted to do a real kindness, but I doubt as a matter of fact if it has proved anything of the sort. The children will go back the worse rather than the better, as far as I can see, for their visit. You see you consulted no one; and you are quite ignorant of the poor of London, and have no idea how much supervision these children really need if any good is to be done. I hope I am not discouraging you?"
"I feel fearfully discouraged, all the more as every word you say is true. I am afraid I am a creature of impulse. I wonder if I shall ever do anything that is worth doing. I know too that I have worn everyone out. I suppose you know Jane, nice Jane, has given warning."
"Yes, I know."
"And as for you, you are quite prostrate with it all, poor dear. I've been simply horrid not to take you into account. I don't seem to give pleasure to anyone."
"You can't say that, so long as I am with you," said Miss Gregson patting the girl's hand.
"I'm afraid," said Sheila, "that you don't think I really ought to send those children away."
"No, I don't. But it is no use keeping them if we do not make some effort to make them better than when they came. I should advise you to get in some nice woman who is used to children, to take the charge of them while they are here. That will set us free to do what we can to influence them aright."
"Oh, you must not expect me to do that," said Sheila, "it is quite beyond me. Besides I want doing good to myself. But you, dear Angel, will be able to talk to the children. I should like you to. But you look dreadfully tired. I reproach myself very much. However," she added suddenly with an amused twinkle in her eyes, "you have your dear little pilules to keep you company. Did you remember to take one after every shock you had, and was it ignatia this time or Bella Donna?" and with this she rose laughing, and danced out of the room.
"Will the child ever steady down!" sighed Miss Gregson.
BUT Miss Gregson did not at all agree with Sheila in her opinion of the children. To her they were not "little horrors" but lost lambs, for whom the Good Shepherd of the sheep was seeking, and during the last week of their stay at the Court she did what she could to tell them of the Friend Who loved them.
Sheila took now but small notice of her young guests. She had secured a nice woman from the village to look after them, one who knew how to manage, having had children of her awn, and except for occasional games Sheila saw little of them. She was tired, she informed Miss Gregson; and they had utterly disappointed her by their rude and ungrateful behaviour.
But Miss Gregson saw to it that the poor children had a thoroughly good time, and that they enjoyed their last few days in the country.
As for Jemmy, he had stolen into her heart, and every evening she would tuck him up in his little bed and give him a kiss.
"You're like mother, you are," he said one day after she had given him his good-night kiss. "I'd just as soon stay on here as go back to her. You'd do as well, and you're never drunk."
Miss Gregson was somewhat startled at the remark. She wondered wherein the likeness lay.
"Do you love your mother, Jemmy?" she asked, looking down upon the little pale face that rested amidst the white pillows.
"Yes, I love her well enough at times," he answered. "She kisses me at night when she's sober, but she's just awful when she drinks. Are you ever like that?"
"Like what, my dear?"
"Why, drunk of course. You've never given me any cuffs like mother when she's in the drink. I had to go to the hospital once because she hit me in the eye. Are you ever like that?"
The grave eyes looked earnestly up into the face bending over him, while an overwhelming pity took possession of Miss Gregson, for the little boy who evidently looked upon drinking mothers as an ordinary fact of life.
After assuring him that she was never the worse for drink, she tried to lead his thoughts into a happier groove before she left, and as she told him a story of a little boy who grew up to be a useful strong man, Jemmy's eyelids gradually closed in sleep.
Then Miss Gregson did what she felt was perhaps the surest way of helping the little lad—she knelt by his bed and prayed to the Good Shepherd.
Sheila was thankful when the last morning came, and the children were packed off to London with arms full of presents, cakes, and good things to take home. This part of the proceedings she really enjoyed. She had spent a great deal of time over the choice of these presents in the neighbouring town, the day before they left, and returned home in a state of excitement with the parcels at the bottom of the cart.
When the children had gone and Miss Gregson had said goodbye to Jemmy with tears in her eyes, Sheila stood at the window of the library looking out into the garden, playing with the cord of the blind, absently.
"I almost wish those children had never come," she said to Miss Gregson who was knitting. "When they were here I longed to get rid of them, and now that they have gone it seems rather dull. Why is it that one always feels a little flat when anyone leaves, although one may not care for them a bit!"
"It is partly the quiet no doubt," said Miss Gregson.
"Nothing ever satisfies me," said Sheila, "and everything is disappointing. I looked forward to having those children, and to making them happy, more than anything I can remember; and yet when they came I passed them over very quickly to you, poor Angel. I don't know what I should do without you! You really are an angel. You never grumble at anything. I fancy sometimes that dear old Peter thinks I treat you rather badly, I am selfish. Well, Walter, what is it?" for the butler had made his appearance.
"It's a young girl, M'am, who is asking if you will be good enough to allow her to sing to you. She's a tramp I take it, but looks so bad and pale that I hadn't the heart to send her away."
"Where is she?"
"At the front door, M'am."
"I'll come," said Sheila.
Arrived at the door she found the girl seated in the hall looking tired and ill, and the butler, who evidently did not like to leave her unwatched under the circumstances, mounting guard over her.
"You can go, Walter," said Sheila and then turned to look at the girl.
Meg was leaning her head against the wall. Her eyes were closed. Her lovely auburn hair was uncovered, for Jem's hat had come quite to an end, and had to be left regretfully in a ditch. Sheila stood looking at the girl and was struck by her beauty, and still more by the intense weariness depicted on her face.
Meg's soft brown eyes gradually opened and she looked up and smiled.
"If you'll be so good as to let me rest a bit I'll sing to you, Miss," she said. "But till I sat down I didn't know I was so dead beat. I'm just-played-out," then her head drooped and Sheila was only just in time to catch her before she fell.
Her head was on Sheila's lap so that the latter could only call for assistance and was thankful to see Miss Gregson hurrying towards her.
"Oh, Angel, I believe she's dying," she cried, "do get some brandy or something to restore her."
Walter and Elsie the maid who had hurried to her help now ran off for restoratives.
"Carry her up to the West room," said Sheila on their return.
"It's being scrubbed out, M'am," said Elsie, "and disinfected."
"Disinfected! What rubbish! Whose idea was that? I never gave orders for it to be done."
"My dear, I thought it would be advisable," said Miss Gregson, thinking to herself that Sheila's ignorance of the laws of hygiene was appalling.
"Well, if she cannot go there she must be taken into the blue room," said Sheila a little annoyed.
Miss Gregson interposed.
"Is that wise? It opens out of your own room, and you know nothing about this girl. For all you know she may be one of a gang."
Sheila ignored this remark.
"To the blue room, Walter," she said, adding, "she's come to my very door and I'm not going to turn her out."
It was on the tip of Miss Gregson's tongue to remark that no one had suggested such a thing, but she wisely refrained; she knew that it would be of no avail to advise further caution of any kind, or to remind Sheila that there were other rooms more suitable for this poor stranger.
Miss Gregson and Sheila followed Walter and Elsie as they carried Meg upstairs and deposited her on the sofa.
Sheila leant over the girl, fanning her.
"Just about my age, Angel," she said, "and I have everything I want, and she nothing."
The pity and emotion displayed on Sheila's face greatly pleased her old friend, who had never known her to be so touched before by another's sorrows.
Meg took some little time to recover from her swoon, and when she at last opened her eyes she was too tired to speak, and was only conscious that she lay on a comfortable couch by the window, through which came the song of birds, and that a girl of about her own age was kneeling by her side. She wondered vaguely if this was dying. If so she was glad to die.
When the doctor, for whom Sheila had sent, arrived, he informed her that the girl was half starved—and that a warm bath, food, and rest were what she was chiefly in need of.
"Is this another of your hobbies, Miss Dennison?" he said as he left the room. "I have heard of the children. How did that go off?"
"They only left this morning," said Sheila evasively. "I hope you do not hold the same view as Miss Gregson, and think I ought not to take this girl in without knowing more of her." Sheila looked at the doctor half reproachfully.
"It is very charitable of you to harbour her," he said. "But you must remember that there are many frauds about. It would be a pity to be taken in yourself."
"A worse pity to let her starve!" said the girl hotly.
"Of course you must not let her starve. But there is moderation in all things, and there is a medium course surely. However, I have no doubt that this poor girl will reward you by her gratitude. She does not look like a fraud, and she would certainly have died if no one had taken pity on her."
Sheila held out her hand impulsively to the doctor while a rich colour suffused her face.
"There," she said, "you have already given me my reward. To think that my action has perhaps saved a girl from death! Do you really think that?"
"I didn't mean that she would have died at once. But such privation must eventually end that way. Even if you are deceived in her," he added warmly, for the girl's enthusiasm had touched him, "you will know you have done the kindest thing you could."
Sheila ran upstairs, two at a time, delighted. At last she had done something that might be considered worth doing. Her eyes were bright with excitement. And to increase her happiness the girl whom she had apparently rescued from death was sweet to look upon and most interesting.
The next day or two passed quickly in tending Meg, for Sheila would let no one look after her but herself. Then she informed Miss Gregson of her intention regarding the newcomer.
Miss Gregson and Sheila had just finished dinner and were lingering over dessert when the bomb fell.
"I have determined to keep Meg altogether," Sheila announced.
"Altogether, my dear! Have you told her so?"
Miss Gregson remembered how soon the girl's enthusiasm with regard to the children and her other hobbies had passed away; with what ardour they had been ridden for a time, and how complete the collapses had been! She trembled for the poor girl who lay upstairs in the blue room.
"Yes, I have told her so and you should have just seen her face."
"No doubt she is delighted," said Miss Gregson, a little pink flush rising on her cheeks. "You will have her trained I suppose under Elsie. She might possibly be made into a good lady's maid or housemaid."
"No such thing," said Sheila triumphantly. "My plan is much more interesting than that. I am going to train her myself and to turn her into a lady."
Miss Gregson dropped the nut crackers and stared.
Sheila laughed. She had been prepared for this and was enjoying herself to the full.
"You always say I am surprising," she said, "but you never thought I should be quite so surprising did you? Don't you think, dear Angel, that you ought to take a little ignatia? I am really worse than the bull. I see it in your face."
Miss Gregson ignored the remark about her medicine.
"You certainly take my breath away," she said as she lifted the nut crackers again.
"I knew I should," said the girl gleefully. "I am full of plans. I shall treat her just like a sister. She shall have everything that I have, and in the first place she shall have some of my nice dresses to wear. Oh, how I shall enjoy dressing her up! Think of her hair! How magnificent it will look. And though her skin is of course very much tanned I don't know that she will look any the less pretty for that. Besides it will soon improve. You know the doctor told me distinctly that I have saved her from death. That very fact binds us together with a wonderful link. I'm quite sure I shall love her."
Miss Gregson leaned back in her chair and contemplated the girl's eager face. She could not but admire the generous feeling that had prompted the strange resolution on Sheila's part, but for all that she pitied the poor girl who was to be the recipient of her charity. Knowing Sheila as she did, she did not for a moment suppose that her enthusiasm would last.
The day would surely come when she would turn to her old friend, as she had lately done, and ask her to get her out of the difficulty. The auburn hair and long eyelashes would not charm for ever.
And what was more, the poor girl, who had lived for years without a single advantage, would soon show a want of refinement, and give way to little habits of speech or roughness of voice, which, though they might amuse Sheila for a time would assuredly offend her good taste before long. Miss Gregson felt that for the sake of the poor pretty girl who lay upstairs in the blue room, she must at least raise her voice in remonstrance for once.
"My dear," she said, "I am afraid you are making a fatal mistake. Is it unalterable?"
"Mistake! Fatal!" exclaimed Sheila, turning her surprised eyes on her companion. "What can you mean? Surely if I like to adopt a girl I may do so. And by the bye she is not nearly as old as I am. I thought she was nineteen, I find she is only sixteen. I am so glad, as of course it will make it easier for me to train her. Why, don't you see, that it will be simply lovely to have a sister? I have longed for one."
"But you cannot expect a girl who has been on the tramp all her life to be fit company for one who has been born and bred in the lap of luxury."
"But that is just the thing which makes it so delightful. It would not be the faintest pleasure to me to adopt a girl who has had the same good things as myself. Everything will be a treat to Meg. You should just hear how she speaks even about the little blue room. It is to her a kind of heaven. Now, Angel dear, do like my plan. You really must sympathise with me, I am full of it."
While this conversation was going on, Meg lay in the blue room thinking hard. At first when she found herself awakening, on the morning after her arrival, in a comfortable bed surrounded with every care and luxury, a feeling of great thankfulness overwhelmed her; and when she discovered that the one who had encompassed her about with such good things was a girl not much older than herself, she felt happy and at ease. But when, after confiding her history to Sheila, the latter broached the subject about which her mind was full, Meg drew back. Her love of freedom was too great to allow her to fall in at once with the wonderful suggestion that had been made to her. She was taken so by surprise that her lips were tied for some time. It meant turning her back on all for which she had been striving. She had looked forward too long to Bostock's wild beasts to wish to give them up in a moment, and she felt sure that Jem would never find her under such novel circumstances. Besides, already she began to thirst for the open air. Though it had seemed wonderful at first to be housed in such a comfortable room and to rest her weary limbs on such a soft bed, she was already beginning to pant for the open air and for freedom.
When Sheila had propounded her astonishing plan the warm colour had suffused Meg's face and neck, which her companion had interpreted to mean extreme pleasure; but it was fear, more than anything else; fear, lest her plan of finding Bostock should be frustrated, and fear lest she should lose her freedom.
At the same time she was conscious of the extreme kindness of the proposal, which made the difficulty of refusing the offer ten times worse. After such kindness showered upon her, how could she refuse? So great was her perplexity that the idea of running away when strong enough crossed her mind, but was banished almost as soon as thought of, as the girl was no coward.
While Sheila was discussing her plan with Miss Gregson at the dinner table, Meg lay thinking, in great distress of mind. She sat up in bed panting at the very idea of living within four walls instead of under the blue sky and shining stars. When Sheila, full of spirits and satisfaction at having given Miss Gregson a shock of surprise, ran upstairs, she found her patient leaning out of the window.
"Meg! Meg! what are you doing? You were not to get up the doctor said till to-morrow. Get back to bed again."
Meg panted.
"I want the air," she said. "I want to lie under the stars again. I ain't used to walls, Miss, they fairly choke me. Let me sleep under the sky to-night."
"Indeed you will do no such thing," said Sheila authoritatively, conscious of her superiority of age, "I want you to get well as soon as ever you can."
Meg turned round after giving a hungry look at the sky. She knew it would be ungrateful to do anything but obey. But her eyes were sad. Sheila tucked her up again and then sat down on the bed.
"To-morrow," she said, "we'll have such fun. The doctor will let you get up and you shall wear one of my pretty dresses, and Elsie shall do up your hair like mine is done. Then I shall take you into the garden and show you what your new home is like."
"The garden is lovely, ain't it?" said Meg, trying to appear interested.
"Yes, quite lovely. But you must not say 'ain't it', Meg. You are to be my sister you know, and will have to try and talk like I do. We never say 'ain't it.'
"I think I'd best be gone," murmured Meg.
"That I'm quite determined about," said Sheila. "I'll give you lessons every day and explain just what you may say and may not say, and you'll pick it up very quickly. Your tone of voice is quite sweet. It's only just your expressions that need altering. Your voice is musical you know. I expect it is because you sing. I want to hear you sing so much."
Meg turned her face away and tears trickled down her cheeks. She felt desperately lonely. If only Jem knew where she was! Every word that Sheila uttered seemed to make her feel more lonely, though she was aware that her hostess meant to be kind.
"I want to lie under the stars," she murmured.
"You are much better in this comfortable bed," said Sheila.
"Is every window open?" asked the girl, sitting up with a wild look in her eyes.
"No, I'll open them all quite wide. There! now you can see a lot of the sky can't you?"
"Yes, that's better," said Meg, lying down again.
"I think you are tired," said Sheila, "so I'll go away. Try and go to sleep, Meg, and dream of to-morrow. I feel so excited about it that I don't believe I can sleep a wink. Good-night, dear." Sheila bent down to kiss her.
It was the first kiss that Meg had ever received in her life. It suddenly dawned upon her in a flash that her loneliness was passed. Why should she cry? She had found a friend.
THE dressing up of Meg was a business entirely after Sheila's heart. She brought out all her pretty gowns and held them up in front of her protégé to try their effect. It was not difficult to suit her. As dress after dress was tried on, Sheila exclaimed in astonishment at the extraordinary difference they made in the girl's appearance. As far as looks went she was satisfactory.
She was delighted too at the admiration which her pretty clothes excited in her protégé.
"My!" Meg would cry. "Ain't that just lovely!"
The tone of voice and the words spoken were so incongruous with the dress and whole appearance of the speaker that it was all that Sheila could do to keep her countenance. Her great aim however at present, was to make her feel at home in her new surroundings, and to avoid frightening her, so that expressions which were decidedly startling were allowed to pass without comment; and with the optimism of youth Sheila felt sure that she could in time cure Meg of all her dreadful colloquialism if she devoted herself to her with this aim in view.
Meg was quite unconscious of the extraordinary effect her language, combined with pretty clothes, produced on her companion. She was beginning to feel at home with her, and talked as naturally as she would have talked with Jem. It never struck her that different clothing to that which she had been used, would necessitate a change of vocabulary on her part, meaning great difficulty and an immense amount of perseverance. Had she at this time realized what it would entail she would have escaped at her first opportunity from Friars Court. Her love of absolute freedom would have impelled this action on her part.
It was altogether an easier matter to improve her appearance than her voice and grammar. For the girl had a charming figure, upright and lithesome. Her movements were free and graceful. She swept about in Sheila's long evening dresses as they were tried on one after the other, laughing merrily as she caught sight of herself in the pier-glass. When she laughed, her companion thought her lovely; her expression was full of childish glee.
Few people could boast moreover of such glorious hair, and Elsie wound it round her head in such a becoming way that the effect astonished its possessor.
When the dress for the evening had been decided upon and the maid had gone, Meg stood for some time surveying herself before the glass. She could hardly believe that the girl who looked her in the eyes was herself. She had never seen herself before, and what she saw now astonished her. She had no idea that she was so beautiful. She placed herself in different attitudes to see the effect, clasping her hands behind her back, and over her head, then danced before her silent audience. The excited colour spread over her face.
Sheila, who had left the room for a few minutes, returned to find her laughing joyfully at her reflection in the glass.
"Ain't I lovely," she cried. "If only Jem would come along and see me dressed up fine like this he'd be fairly stemm'd." Meg looked down admiringly at the long clinging soft black skirt.
Sheila laughed.
"Who is Jem?" she asked, thinking to herself that the girl looked almost regal.
"Jem's my pal. You'll see him soon I guess as he'll be looking for me till he finds me, that's to say when Steve dies; he won't think of leaving Steve till he dies, poor little chap."
This news took Sheila's breath away for a moment, she felt alarmed.
"But he didn't know, did he, where you were going when you left?" she asked.
"Oh yes, he did. He knew right enough I was going to London, though of course he didn't know no more than I did what places I should have to pass through."
"I doubt if he'll ever find you, Meg," said Sheila, devoutly hoping that this young man would not turn up.
"He'll come right enough," answered the girl with decision. "When Jem says a thing he does it, and he's ever so fond of me. He'll find his way somehow I reckon."
"Anyhow, he would scarcely recognise you now," said Sheila laughing.
Meg's face fell, it was a new idea.
"I think I'd best go back to my old clothes," she said, looking at the same time regretfully at her lovely dress.
"You can't," said her companion gleefully, "they're burnt."
Meg, who was surveying herself somewhat regretfully in the long glass, turned round suddenly upon her companion.
"Burnt!" she exclaimed fiercely. "How dare you burn my clothes? You shouldn't ought to have done it!"
The girl felt she had been trapped. Her ships had been burnt behind her. How could she ever return to her old life now, however much she wished to! Besides which she felt her clothes to be a part of her old familiar life—almost her friends—and the only property she possessed in the world, the very sight of the faded green skirt would have reminded her of the heather and bracken and the blue eyes of Jem. Her eyes filled with tears, but they were tears of rage.
As for Sheila she was undergoing a new experience. She had not been reproved since she was a child, her uncle having spoilt her hopelessly; so to be called to book by this pretty beggar maid, diverted her immensely, and would have done so more had it not been for the angry flash of the brown eyes confronting her.
"You surely can't mind losing your old clothes, Meg, as you have such lovely ones in their place. I never thought you would want to see them again. I thought they would remind you of those sad times you have told me about."
"But they were mine," said the girl with a passionate ring in her voice. "You had no right to put 'em away without asking me. They didn't belong to you."
"I'm so sorry," said Sheila really distressed. "I wish I hadn't done it. I never thought you'd mind."
Meg made no answer, but the fact that her old clothes had been consigned to the flames took away the pleasure for a time of the new ones. However it was not long before she recovered, and that evening she spent trying all the easy chairs and sofas in the drawing-room, and looking curiously at the various bits of china and pictures.
It all seemed wonderful to her. She sometimes almost wondered if she were still living in the same world, or if it was the beginning of heaven. Sheila was so kind and interested in her that she could not but be happy.
That night after saying good-night to Meg, Sheila went into Miss Gregson's room to see her before going to bed.
"She's quite fascinating," pronounced the girl, "and how lovely she looked in my black dress. And you can't think what a character she is. She was tolerably quiet while you were in the room, but you should just hear her when we are alone. She is the quaintest creature."
"She is certainly very pretty," said Miss Gregson, but she was so certain that this fancy of Sheila's would not last, that her tone of voice was not enthusiastic enough for her companion.
"I don't believe you approve of my plan of keeping her," said Sheila.
"I think it a doubtful experiment."
"But then every experiment is more or less doubtful, and if one was always hesitating nothing would be done. However, I'm quite certain it will succeed. If I have patience, Meg will soon get out of her tricks of speech. I mean to devote myself to her."
"I don't quite understand why you object to having her properly trained under Elsie. That would be doing something that might turn out to be a real advantage to the girl."
"But that would be so ordinary. It's just what everyone else might do. I can't move in a groove, I never could. Besides I love experimenting."
"But one must consider the good of the subject upon which one experiments," said Miss Gregson.
"That's just what I am doing. What could be better for Meg than to be treated as my sister? When once she learns to speak properly I mean to take her about with me, and she shall share all my pleasures with me. What could be happier?"
Miss Gregson was silent a moment then she said—
"I like to think that our Heavenly Father places us in just the position of life in which we can best serve Him, and make the best of our lives. I very much doubt if it is a happy thing for a girl to be taken out of her station."
"It depends I should say on who gives her the lift up, and if she is adaptable to circumstances."
"Not altogether. I wonder if it will really end in her happiness. That girl is at present perfectly free and fearless. She has a strong personality, and is just at the age when she is most easily influenced. If she adapts herself too readily to the new world in which you are about to place her, there is a chance of her being conformed to it, and of it robbing her of her sincerity and unaffectedness."
"Oh, you dear old pessimist! I won't wait to hear any more of your doleful prophecies," said Sheila laughing. "I only hope Peter will be more hopeful. Anyhow, whatever anybody says I am bent on trying to turn that pretty little tramp into a lovely lady. And I shall do it!" And with a nod of determination Sheila left the room.
WHO on earth was that?
Peter Fortescue had come to see Sheila after having been away for three weeks, and as he made his way towards some chairs he saw placed on the lawn, he had come face to face with a stranger.
What a lovely girl! He had never seen such a wealth of auburn hair or such expressive eyes as she turned towards him. He was perfectly sure too that she was wearing one of Sheila's dresses.
Where had this new friend of Sheila's sprung from?
Peter lifted his hat and asked if she could tell him where Miss Dennison could be found. The answer, or rather the words in which the answer was given, gave him a shock. It neither matched the face nor the frock. What did it mean? This must be due to some freak of his young cousin—some preposterous freak.
He turned in search of her and on entering the hall caught sight of Sheila flying down the stairs to meet him.
"I've got such a surprise for you," she exclaimed. "Have you seen her?"
"I suppose your surprise is sitting at this moment in the garden, isn't she?" said Peter.
"Don't you think her lovely? And did you notice her hair? Come," she added, "I want to tell you all about it."
Sheila led the way into the library where she told her story.
"You are not half so interested in it as I thought you would be," said the girl, when somewhat out of breath she came to an end of her explanation, "or is it that you don't approve. You might say something."
"You have not given me time to speak," said Peter laughing. "We can't both talk at once."
"How disagreeable you are! I've been longing to tell you, and you make no comment whatever."
"Do you want me to say what I really think about it? Yes? Very well then; I wish you had consulted me before you made any definite plan about keeping this girl. The plan is fraught with difficulties, and in fact is quite impossible."
"But what difficulties are there? I could understand your view if Meg was not a really nice girl, but she is sweet, and so ready to learn. She is a most apt pupil."
"Then you have, I suppose, constituted yourself as her teacher?"
"Yes, why not? You laugh, Peter, but I can do rather more than you imagine when I put my mind to it. I mean to turn her out a lady."
"My dear child, ladies are not turned out."
"Well then I mean to help her to grow into a lady, is that better? She is trying hard to copy me, and it is quite touching to see what pains she takes in speaking. But come, I want you to talk to her," she added, as she led the way into the garden.
"By the by," said Peter, "has this young woman relations or friends who are likely to demand her?"
"I'll tell you about that another time," said Sheila as they came in sight of Meg.
The girl rose at the sound of their voices. She was wearing a tweed coat and skirt and white blouse, and as she stood under the chestnut tree, her auburn hair gleaming in the sunshine, Peter could not but confess to himself that she was extraordinarily pretty. There was no timidity about her; she looked him straight in the face with fearless eyes.
"You've chosen a lovely spot for your chair," said Peter.
"Yes," answered Meg, "it's just lovely. Them flowers are gorgeous in that bed there, I've seen none like 'em. The heather and the bracken is all I know about, you see."
"Then you know about something very beautiful," answered Peter. "There is nothing more lovely than heather and bracken. Even this garden does not come up to a Scotch moor."
"Yes," said Meg simply, "when the sun shines on it or the clouds pass over it, turning it all colours, the heather is just beautiful."
Sheila stood by delighted at the impression that she was convinced Meg was making on Peter. She was pleased too as she noticed that the girl was taking special pains to speak softly. Sheila had talked a great deal to her about her voice, and her words were evidently taking effect.
So anxious was Sheila to hear Peter's opinion of her protégé that she would not allow him to stay too long talking with her.
"I have a lot to talk over with you," she said after a few minutes conversation. "Come and see the new beds I have had arranged by the lake." Then when they were out of earshot she asked, "Well? didn't I describe her correctly? Don't you think she is lovely?"
"Yes. But I don't approve of the plan any more than I did."
"Don't approve! Why, what is wrong with her?"
"Nothing. She strikes one as a thoroughly nice young woman, but I think it is the most cruel thing you can do for her, to rob her of her freedom and to keep her here."
Sheila stood still, confronting Peter with an expression of deep indignation in her eyes.
"Cruel? What on earth do you mean? I'm doing the kindest thing I possibly can. I'm treating her like a sister. She is to share my pleasures and all that I have. I can't understand what you mean."
"I'll tell you what I mean. When I was a boy we brought from Wales a little dog to which I took a great fancy, it belonged to a woman who lived on the mountains, and the dog had lived a thoroughly free life. I took it to London; we were living there at the time. The dog could only be taken for walks at stated times and its whole manner of life was changed. What do you think was the consequence? It drooped and died."
"That has nothing in the world to do with the question," said Sheila crossly.
"On the contrary. That girl taken out of her proper environment will suffer. She is a girl of the heather, and is not intended for your world and its ways. I consider it is cruel kindness on your part to make the experiment."
"Then I won't talk to you any more," said Sheila crossly, "I hate pessimistic people. I consider it very wrong of you not to try and encourage me in this good work. You are just like Miss Gregson. She throws cold water on the whole thing. You had better go and groan over it together. You are much more suited to her company than to mine."
MEG soon grew to like the luxury of living in a comfortable house and among people who really cared for her.
At first she had felt stifled by the soft carpets, rich curtains, and closed doors; and there were times when she had had to run out into the garden and breathe the pure air of heaven to satisfy the cravings of her nature.
Sheila began to understand these sudden movements on the part of her protégé. As the Autumn drew to a close and winter set in, bringing with it warm fires and closed windows and doors, she noticed that the girl grew restless, and often when in the act of reading to her, Meg would spring up, catching her breath. "I must have air," she would say, and before there was time to answer she would have left the room and escaped into the garden. Then Sheila who had forgotten the necessity of air for her protégé would fling open all the windows in the hope of tempting her back again.
But those sudden movements on the part of Meg became less frequent, and the girl gradually got reconciled to all the comforts of the house, and to really like its luxuries. Her past life began to seem a long way off, and as every day she grew to love Sheila more, even the thought of Jem was thrown into the background, and she strove as hard as she could to do Sheila credit, and to drop all that was out of place in the behaviour and conversation of a gentlewoman.
Sheila had been right in assuring Peter that the girl was extraordinarily quick to adapt herself to her environment. Miss Gregson was touched again and again to see how Meg studied her friend's behaviour and attitudes, and copied them. She was her ideal in everything.
Miss Gregson herself was greatly loved by the girl for taking such pains with her education, for Sheila soon tired of teaching reading and writing, and passed her over to her kind old friend who was glad of this piece of work; it gave her the opportunity of teaching Meg more than mere earthly knowledge. Gradually she taught the girl to understand that there was One above Who rules our lives, and that "Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of Lights, with Whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning."
"You must remember, my dear child," she would say, "that change is our portion here, as you have indeed found, change in our lives and in our friends; but supposing everything should change and every person we know and love cease to care for us, we still have God, Who changes not."
Miss Gregson could never forget when talking to her eager pupil, now so happy and contented with the good things which were being showered upon her, that the day might not be far distant when Sheila, notwithstanding all her good intentions, might tire of her new hobby, and she determined to do all she could to prepare the girl for that day should it ever come, so that Meg should not be anchorless or rudderless when the storms of life swept over her.
Meg proved herself an adept pupil as far as reading, writing, and arithmetic were concerned. Moreover, because she wanted to do credit to Sheila, she spent hours over her lessons and took immense pains with her voice and grammar.
At the close of her first year at Friars Court few would have imagined had they seen and heard the girl for the first time, what had been her origin, or under what circumstances she had come to live at the Court. It was only when she was entirely off her guard that she would relapse into her old way of speaking, and use the expressions to which Sheila so objected.
Meanwhile Meg was growing more and more accustomed to her new life, and thought as rarely as she could of the old. In fact her past seemed to her a kind of nightmare. She could hardly believe that she was the same girl who used to tramp the lanes footsore and weary, and be thankful if she had a bed of clean straw to sleep upon. At times she would dream that she was back again in the van enduring all the hardships and rough treatment of those days, dreading to hear the tap, tap of the wooden leg of her 'father,' and the oath that would be flung at her if she had earned no money by her singing. She would wake trembling, to find herself lying in her little white bed with the scent of lavender around her, and the roses nodding in at the window.
There were other times, however, in which the longing for freedom took possession of her, and these times occurred as a rule after some mark of Sheila's disapproval had been evident, for at the close of the second year, Meg was conscious that her friend was not as easy to please as formerly. Any slight trip in the matter of words or manner on her part quickly called down the wrath of her patroness.
Meg did not know that as the newness of the situation wore off, Sheila found it difficult to be patient with her mistakes, neither did she know that the very fact of her showing so plainly her love and devotion had the effect of irritating her friend. Meg supposed the irritation that would sometimes arise was due to her own stupidity in not more quickly adapting herself to circumstances, and determined to make still greater efforts to please.
But the very efforts had the opposite effect, for they made her unnaturally careful in her pronunciation and manner, and this Sheila felt at times unbearable. Meg did not know that the only way to keep her friend's affection was never to show signs of weakness or to knock under to her. Sheila had to be dealt with as a nettle, which unless grasped fearlessly, stings. Her protégé's very anxiety to please or rather not to offend, provoked her; in plain words she was growing tired of her newest hobby.
Her change of front towards Meg had the effect at times of making the latter pant for freedom. The effort to please robbed her of the ability to live her own life and to be herself. She felt tied and bound, and yet she would not for the world have obtained freedom if it would mean leaving Friars Court. She could not contemplate that for a moment. The longer that she was there the more passionately she grew to love it and all that it meant. But for all that, she felt at times like a bird beating its wings against the bars of its golden cage. And yet had the cage been opened she would not have flown away.
One morning in the early summer Meg came down to breakfast looking rather sad. She did not enter much into the conversation, and when she had finished breakfast she sat looking out into the garden with a wistful expression of face.
Sheila was in very good spirits, talking over with Miss Gregson a garden party that she meant to give soon. She was going to procure a band from London, but the chief item of the programme was to be a song from Meg. Sheila had given her singing lessons, and the girl's voice had grown both in power and sweetness. No one but Miss Gregson had ever heard her sing; not even Peter, as Sheila was bent on giving him a surprise.
She was vexed at Peter's very sparse praise of her protégé.
She could hardly get him to talk about Meg, and took his silence to mean that he had not forgiven her for adopting the girl without asking his advice. She felt sure he had expected some terrible consequences, and perhaps was annoyed that his pessimistic prognostications had not come to pass. No harm whatever had happened from her action. It had all turned out as she had hoped it would, and Peter must be aware of this, she thought to herself, but manlike would be slow in acknowledging that an unusual proceeding on the part of a woman had turned out so thoroughly satisfactory.
She was triumphant at the thought of the surprise she was bent upon giving. Peter was musical, and would at once acknowledge that Meg's voice was as good as any professional's.
Meg took no part in the discussion that was going on between her companions. She sat gazing out of the window wistfully.
Suddenly Sheila became aware that the girl was not listening. "What are you thinking of?" she asked.
Meg started.
"I've had a dream," she said colouring.
"A dream? Let's hear it. Was it anything very tragic?"
"It was about Jem," faltered the girl.
"Jem? Who's Jem?" Sheila had quite forgotten that Meg had told her on first arriving about this friend of hers.
"He was my pal—I mean," she added hastily, "my friend."
Sheila coloured with vexation at the unlucky word that had slipped out so naturally from Meg's lips, notwithstanding all her lectures; but she did not interrupt the girl, as she was anxious to hear what the dream was about.
"I was in the cage with Bostock's lions," continued Meg, still looking away from her companions, "when I caught sight of a face that I knew. It was Jem's face."
"Well?" questioned Sheila. She was feeling irritated with the girl for recalling those old days. She wanted them to be forgotten. But she was curious also as to the end of the dream. "Well?" she asked.
But Meg's tears began to fall, and knowing how Sheila disliked want of self-control she left the room.
Miss Gregson rose to follow her.
"Don't go," said Sheila irritably. "I can't think why she should be so stupid as to mind a dream about those horrid people. They are nothing to her now and never will be. Besides, she ought to have learnt by this time to control herself. If I have told her once I have told her a dozen times that she must never show her feelings in that way."
But Miss Gregson, though she considered Sheila's wishes at the time, before long found an opportunity to knock at Meg's door. The girl was sitting by the table, her face hidden in her folded arms. She looked up as Miss Gregson came in.
"What is it, my dear, that is troubling you?" she asked.
"It's Jem," she sobbed.
"What about Jem?"
Meg sat up drying her tears.
"I was in the cage all among Bostock's beasts," she explained gazing at her companion with sad eyes, "and I looked up and saw Jem. He was trying to tear down the bars of the cage and calling out to me, but I wouldn't listen or look at him again. I didn't want to see him, you see." Meg hid her face again and shook with sobs.
"My dear child you must remember it was only a dream," said Miss Gregson kindly. She put her hand on the bowed head and gave it a kind little pat.
"But," sobbed the girl, "if Jem came now and I heard him call to me I'm not quite sure that I'd go.''
"But I don't suppose Jem is ever likely to come, and if he did I'm not at all sure that it would not be right for you to run away from him."
Meg raised her head and looked at her companion.
"You don't know Jem," she said softly, "nor how good he was to me."
No, Miss Gregson did not know Jem, but she knew enough of the world to believe that no event could probably be worse for the girl before her than to find her old companion and chum. She did not suppose that he was unlike other tramps. But she kept her thoughts to herself.
"Well, dear child, I think you had better put your dream quite out of your head, and get something to occupy your mind at once," and with a kind smile she left the room.
But Meg could not so easily forget her dream. All through the day she kept asking herself the question, "Do I love Jem less just because I have now so much more? Could I possibly share the old life again with him? the hardships, the squalor, the hunger? And yet Jem was my best and only friend in those days, and if it had not been for him I should never have lived to have the good things that I now have." The question worried and harassed her, and took away from the pleasure of motoring, in the afternoon, to a place twenty miles away which was famed for its ruined castle and lovely view, an expedition to which she had looked forward eagerly.
"If you think of that young man any more," said Sheila severely, after some time of silence, "I shall turn back. You are most uninteresting this afternoon."
So the girl had to pull herself together and banish thoughts of Jem and his voice calling her.
MEG was sitting under the chestnut tree preparing her lesson for Miss Gregson. A tempting array of cakes and biscuits were on the table before her, and Walter, the butler, was simply waiting for the return of Sheila and Miss Gregson, who had driven into the town to shop and to change the library books, to bring up the hot buttered toast and tea.
Meg was dressed in white, with a bunch of carnations at her waist. Her auburn hair, picturesquely arranged at the back of her head, was shining in the sunlight which came in patches through the leaves of the tree.
She was so engrossed with her occupation that she did not see Peter Fortescue approaching with a friend. They were close to her before she looked up with a start to find them. Peter introduced his friend as Mr. Poynter, and sat down by Meg's side.
"Now what were you so engrossed with I wonder so that our approach made no impression upon you?" he asked.
Meg coloured. She was conscious that there were very few girls of her age who would be occupied with such a simple lesson book; but though she did not want Peter's friend to know what she was about, she was on too intimate terms with Peter himself to mind, so put the book into his hands with a little laugh.
Peter saw at a glance what it was, and smiled back.
"Where is Sheila?" he asked.
"She has gone to Elminster with Miss Gregson. I am expecting them back every minute." Then she looked doubtfully at Peter. "Do you think it would be right to have up tea before she comes? Or had we better wait?"
Meg never lost her anxiety to please her friend and to do the right thing. Though Sheila was only three years older than herself and was constantly telling her she must behave as if she belonged to the house, the girl felt in awe of her benefactor and was not certain of her approval if she attempted to do the natural thing at all times. So she looked hesitatingly at Peter.
"Yes," he said, "let us have tea without waiting. It is long past five, and my friend here is thirsty. Go and tell Walter."
Mr. Poynter wondered who the pretty girl could be. Peter had forgotten to mention her to him, and her beauty had taken him by surprise. He was still more surprised at a certain diffidence of manner that seemed unnatural under the circumstances.
During the few minutes that they were left alone his wonder increased. He could find no point of union whatever with the girl by his side. Meg knew nothing of the world save that which she had seen while tramping the lanes in company with Jem's uncle and aunt, and what she had learnt during her two years at Friars Court, so that it seemed to Mr. Poynter impossible to find a subject on which they could meet. Where could this pretty girl have been educated, he wondered, or had she just emerged from a convent?
They were both relieved when Peter made his appearance again. But even then the conversation somehow flagged. Peter was anxious not to talk of matters about which Meg knew nothing, and yet the kind of conversation that as a rule he took part in with the girl was not such that would interest his friend. He knew at once from the hopelessly perplexed expression on Meg's face when they had got beyond her depth, or were using words which had no meaning for her. So to keep up appearances, and not to leave her out in the conversation, he would turn towards her asking for her opinion, and when she hesitated, he would supply the answer himself.
When Walter arrived with the tea, Meg looked at Peter hesitatingly.
"Had you better pour out or shall I?" she asked.
"You, by all means. You may be sure that I should make a muddle of it."
Mr. Poynter was amazed to notice with what nervousness the girl performed her duty. So engaged was she over it that she listened no more to the conversation, and Peter felt it was safe to indulge in a subject in which he knew she would not be able to join. It turned on the question as to which was the strongest factor in life, heredity or environment. Suddenly Mr. Poynter turned round to the girl with the question—
"Don't you agree with me that environment has a greater influence than heredity?"
Meg coloured. She had no idea what the word environment meant. She looked across at Peter, who smiled at her encouragingly.
"Don't answer that question," he said laughing. "He wants to get you on his side, and then there will be two against one, that would not be fair, would it? Come now you are forgetting, and are actually giving me sugar? You ought to remember after what occurred at the picnic."
Meg looked her gratitude. She knew Peter had understood her appeal for help and had got her purposely out of a difficulty. That was like Peter. She had noticed that trait in him a hundred times. He never liked to see anyone placed in an awkward position. Many a time indeed he had come to her rescue when Sheila had felt it her duty to administer a snub. But the question Mr. Poynter had asked had made her nervous, and she nearly upset a teacup which she was handing across to him, but which Peter rescued in time.
They were laughing over the averted catastrophe when Sheila and Miss Gregson drove up to the house.
The former looked in astonishment at the group round the tea-table and was not too pleased with what she saw. Peter had just discovered that some tea had fallen on Meg's pretty dress and was drying it with his pocket handkerchief amidst a good deal of laughter.
"What is Meg doing?" exclaimed Sheila to Miss Gregson. "She might at least have waited to have tea till I returned. She is evidently acting the hostess to Peter and a stranger."
Sheila quite forgot that she had many a time tried to impress upon Meg that she was to consider herself, and to act, as her sister, and now that the girl had obeyed her she was not altogether pleased.
Meg, just because she loved her so much, was at once conscious that Sheila was displeased with her as she walked across the lawn towards the group by the table. Her gaiety fled. Had she done wrong in having up tea? Ought she to have waited? Or perhaps Peter after all should have poured out. Of course being what she was she had no right to take Sheila's place. The girl was perplexed and uncomfortable.
Peter introduced his friend to Sheila.
"I've heard of you," she said, "and Peter promised that the next time you were at Nettlebrook he would bring you over." Then she looked at Peter. "I'm glad you have had tea. Is it cold? Miss Gregson and I are dying for it." She ignored Meg altogether.
"I think I heard that Walter was to bring some fresh tea when you arrived, did I not?" said Peter looking towards Meg who had not as yet learnt to hide her feelings and was sitting in a dejected attitude next to Mr. Poynter. "We've not transgressed I hope in having it up before you arrived, Sheila? But it is, you know, long past five, and Poynter and I walked over from Nettlebrook and were impatient."
"Long passed five?" exclaimed Sheila. "I had no idea it was so late. I am thankful that you did not wait. Ah here it is," then she looked at Meg with a smile. "Pour it out please as you are near the teapot."
Peter noticed how Meg's whole expression of face changed. Once more she was sunning herself in Sheila's smiles.
When after tea Sheila took Mr. Poynter to see the gardens, Meg sat down by Peter and sighed.
"Oh! I feel so dreadfully ignorant. What does heredity and environment mean?
"Heredity means the transmission or passing of characteristics of parents to their children, and environment means surroundings. But you need not feel uncomfortable about it. Poynter had no idea that you failed to answer because you did not know what the words meant."
"But I feel so ignorant! I'm afraid I shall never be able to take my place in Sheila's world as she hopes. Sometimes at meals when Miss Gregson and she are talking I don't know what they mean by the things they say."
"I hope you ask when you don't know? That is the only way to learn."
"I don't like to ask. It's a trouble to people if I do. I'm ignorant you see about so many things. I've had hardly any schooling, as we were continually on the move. I want to know such a lot of things." Then she added after a pause, "What I want to know more than anything else, is about God. Why is it that no one mentions Him?"
"Sometimes it is from cowardice."
"From cowardice! But how do you mean? If God is really what Miss Gregson tells me He is, He is King of Kings. Why should people be ashamed of mentioning Him?"
"It does seem strange certainly when one comes to think of it. But I suppose it arises from the fact that in the world people are considered somewhat peculiar who bring the subject of religion forward, and it is always difficult to swim against the stream. I suppose, however, if one runs it to its source, it is because there is so little true faith. If people really believed in a God Who is the King of Kings they would find no difficulty in mentioning His name. But one must remember too that many a man is conscious that his life is not what it should be, that he feels that he has no right to talk of God before others for fear of bringing dishonour on His name."
Peter was silent for a moment then added, "I suppose one should also take into account the difference of temperament. Some naturally speak of things nearest to their hearts, while others are so reserved that they feel their tongues tied when perhaps they are wishing to speak. If a man really believes in God and loves Him and makes it his aim to serve Him, God stands for more in his life than anything or anybody, and if he is naturally reserved, he feels as if he cannot speak of his faith, because it means so much to him."
"Does God mean all that to you?" asked Meg softly.
"Yes. I try to think that God stands for all that in my life."
"I am glad. You are the second person that I have met here who believes in God. Does Sheila?"
"Surely, why should you doubt it?"
"Because she never mentions Him. And yet she talks about everyone else she cares about."
Peter was silent. Meg's words had set him thinking. It was the first time in his life that he had had this kind of conversation. Had anyone else ventured to talk about the secrets of his soul to him he would have shut him up at once. But Meg's simplicity, together with her evident longing to know something about God, had been the means of opening his mouth, and he was astonished to find how natural it had been to talk to her on the subject, about which he had spoken to no one since his confirmation, when he had learnt through the lips of his vicar what God might be to him.
His reverie was broken in upon by Meg saying—
"I'm so glad I am getting to know a little more. I used to look up at the stars at night and wonder all kinds of things, why I was I, and what we were all here for. And I wondered if anything was beyond the stars, and if the God, whose name I sometimes heard spoken in oaths, was really anywhere. But I can't explain: do you understand what I mean? I think Jem did, but he could only feel; I guess he could not talk."
"Yes, I think I understand," answered Peter. Then after a pause he asked, "Who was Jem?"
"Part of my old life; he was my very best friend. I know I once mentioned God to him and he smiled at me. He could not say his thoughts out aloud you know. He was slow in thinking and speaking. But I think now, that God may have meant to Jem what He means to you. Although of course he was not clever like you are, and would not have known so much."
"Cleverness has nothing to do with the matter," said Peter.
"Hasn't it? I'm glad of that, for I feel to know nothing. Do I make a very great many mistakes when I talk?" she added. "I want to pay Sheila back for all she has done for me, by learning quickly what I ought to know. Do tell me. Am I very unlike other girls in my behaviour or talk?"
"I think you are wonderful," said Peter. "Of course you make mistakes sometimes, but they are becoming fewer and fewer."
"I'm so glad to think that. You see I have Sheila to copy, and that is everything. I would do anything in the world for her—anything. When I think of what she has done for me and the life she has saved me from, I seem to want to do something great for her."
Meg's eyes were shining, as she bent forward eagerly to look at Peter.
"What can those two be talking about," thought Sheila as she suddenly came in sight of them. For the second time this afternoon she was not pleased. Meg seemed to her to be getting a little uppish. Had all the luxury and good things that she had showered upon her begun to spoil her? Anyhow Sheila was determined to put an end to that absorbing conversation and so wafted Peter off to another part of the garden, leaving Meg to entertain his friend as best she could.
"Well, how do you like Poynter?" asked Peter. "He was very anxious to see you."
"He is quite nice. You must bring him over again if he stays long enough. Will he be here next month?"
"No, he has to go next week."
"What a pity, as he could have come to my party and have heard the singer who is to make her debut on that day."
"What party and what singer? I've heard nothing about it."
"No I have only just decided. Now, Peter, I want you to keep a secret and to do all you can to help me. I've been longing to tell you about my plan."
"Who is the singer and when is the concert to be?"
"On the twelfth of July. Now don't say you cannot come."
"That is the very day I am due at Plymouth."
"You mustn't go, that's all. You must put off your engagement whatever it is."
"Why didn't you consult me before you fixed the date if you wanted me to come?"
"I never wait for that kind of thing. Why, you know, Peter, I always act on the spur of the moment; it is not in me to wait; and I have been writing all the invitations this morning."
"I suppose then I shall have to give up Plymouth," said Peter with one of his kind smiles.
"Of course you will, for I can't really change my day for that. I've written already to engage the band, and my singer has booked the day. You can't get a great singer to change her day just because one of the audience wishes to go to Plymouth, can you?" Sheila laughed contentedly now that she had won her point.
"And who is the singer?"
"Will you promise me to keep a secret? It is Meg. I have, as you know, been giving her lessons and she is to make her debut at my garden party. You don't seem half as surprised as I thought you would be."
Peter smiled.
"There! that's what I can't stand. You never will be taken by surprise. It's most provoking of you. And if you smile at me again I shall scream."
Peter laughed.
"What do you want me to do? I'll try to fall in with your wishes."
"Now don't be exasperating. I want you to say something. If you like my plan say so. If you don't tell me why. Only I really can't stand another wordless smile."
"I wonder why you object to my smile?"
"Because your smile so often covers your disapproval. I have found that out. I would a hundred times rather that you spoke and let out."
"I like to think before I speak. My opinions are not formed like yours, at motor speed. All the time, though it may be difficult for you to believe, I am going through the pros and cons of the situation."
"Well, and what is your conclusion?"
"In the first place I should like to know what Meg thinks of the plan. Does she approve?"
"Very much so; she is used to singing before people and has not an atom of fear."
"Before people! Yes, but what people? Her audience at your garden party will be scarcely of the same class as those to whom she was used to. Does she realise what it will mean?"
"Yes, and really Meg is very nice. She assures me that even if she did object she would make an effort for my sake. You see she is very fond of me and knows she owes everything to me."
"Still I don't think she should be asked to make too great an effort; however, from what you say she will not feel it to be an effort at all. But are you sure that she is fitted for such an audience?"
"Fitted! Why, Peter, she has a glorious voice. And think of the lessons I have given her. Of course she is fitted. You really must leave that to me."