"You have not taken her to any parties as yet have you?"
"No. I waited till she was ready for it. People only know that I have had a girl with me for the last two years, they know very little about her. And I want her to be a surprise."
"You don't suppose, do you, that the circumstances of your adoption of her is not known? My dear child we cannot live in this world without our actions being criticised. Everyone knows about Meg, you may be sure."
"Well, that will be all the more exciting. When they see her they will never think that she is the one they have heard about. She really can quite pass for a lady couldn't she?"
"Quite, as far as her looks go. And it certainly is wonderful how she has copied you and adapted herself to her new environment. But let me give you a hint my dear girl. Don't overawe her. That will give her away at once. Even if she makes mistakes at your party take no notice of them. Let her be natural; a person never shines if she is wondering all the time if she is doing the right thing. You have no idea what your approval means to Meg. She must forget you if she is to be a success at your party."
"Must she?" said Sheila doubtfully.
"Yes, I am sure of it. I have been watching her this afternoon and have been quite struck by the difference in her when you are near. When you are away she is perfectly natural."
"I wonder if you are right," said Sheila ponderingly. "I've noticed lately that she is more diffident than she used to be. It somehow provokes me. Perhaps I nag at her too much."
"Don't nag, and don't try and tame her too much. Remember she is a girl of the heather, a kind of wild bird. You have put her into a golden cage, but don't take away all her freedom."
"But she makes such mistakes. I have to try and teach her the ways of my world if she is to be treated as my sister."
Peter shook his head.
"Well anyhow," he said, "don't try and make her like yourself. Imitations are always uninteresting and generally bad."
"I hope I was not wrong in having up tea before you came home this afternoon," said Meg, "Mr. Fortescue and his friend were just awful hungry."
Her companion hastily put her hands over her pretty little ears, exclaiming—
"Awful hungry! Oh Meg, how can you say such things! It is better not to talk at all than to make such fearful mistakes."
"I'm sorry," said Meg miserably.
"I wonder how you have been talking to Mr. Fortescue and his friend," continued Sheila severely, "and, by the bye, you must try and not look quite so eager during your conversations. It's scarcely the thing to show your feelings in the way that you do. People of the world in which you now live, do their utmost to hide emotion. When a girl looks with such extraordinary animation into the face of her companion as you were doing this afternoon, it attracts attention and makes one wonder what the conversation is about. What were you talking about?"
Meg was silent. If it had not been Sheila who was questioning her she would have been angry, but anger with Sheila was quite out of the question. Had not she done everything in the world for her? But for all that the girl was silent for a moment; not because she did not wish her companion to know what her conversation with Peter had been about, but because she found it difficult to explain herself.
They were sitting in the garden after dinner with their books, but neither of them had made much progress in their reading as both were busy with their thoughts. Sheila had forgotten her vexation with her protégé and was going over in her mind her conversation with Peter, when Meg interrupted her train of thought by her question. Now however that her companion had reminded her of the events of the afternoon her old feeling of vexation returned.
"I was telling Mr. Fortescue how ignorant I felt," said Meg.
"I almost think that you had better make those kind of confessions to me," said Sheila coldly. "We don't want to be constantly reminding people of our mistakes. The great thing, Meg, is to try with all your power to improve. Now at this concert that I am giving next month, do try and remember that it is far better to be silent than to forget your grammar and to use those terrible expressions."
Meg, who two years ago had been wishing to tame lions, was entirely shorn of her strength by the young girl beside her. She was conscious that in Sheila's presence she had no courage. A look of reproach or anger from her benefactor, though only a girl of twenty-one, was more appalling to her than the roar of a lion. She sometimes wondered at herself, as she remembered how in the old days the only thing she was in the least afraid of was her supposed father's stick, and even then she would never confess or show her fear. Now however the fear of disappointing her friend was so great that she lived a life of dread; and every day the feeling of nervousness increased.
When Sheila had first taken her up and showered gifts upon her Meg was much less afraid of her benefactress than she was now, and consequently was more natural in her behaviour. Everything she did then pleased her friend, who would constantly praise her for her efforts to break herself of little habits and expressions that belonged to her old life. Now Sheila seldom praised, and had grown much more critical; consequently her protégé had become nervous, and made many more mistakes than formerly.
As Sheila took up her book to read her companion followed her example, but both girls' thoughts were engaged with one another. Sheila was thinking how tiresome Meg was growing, and Meg was wondering what she had done to make Sheila speak and look so coldly at her. Did not she like her talking to Peter? Perhaps it was not the correct thing to do. The girl wished she knew more of the world and its ways: she was afraid that through ignorance she made endless mistakes, which must vex her friend who had done so much for her. It seemed to Meg that there was really no such thing as freedom in Sheila's world. There were evidently so many rules and regulations, about which she knew nothing, which could not fail to rob a person of her individuality. If only she might be herself and act without fear of making some terrible mistake.
The girl let her book fall on her knee and looked around at the lovely garden, feeling it for the moment to be a prison. Her old longing for freedom took possession of her. What would she not give to be out on the wide heath able to live her own life without let or hindrance! The scent of the heather and bracken seemed to be wafted to her. She closed her eyes in the hope of being better able to realise it, but instead of the wide heath there came the sound of the tap, tap of her 'father's' wooden leg, and she looked up quickly with a sense of gratitude that she was at Friars Court, protected from all the misery and evils that had surrounded her old life. And, after all, how she loved the place. What could she have been dreaming about to think for a moment that the heath was preferable. Meg looked gratefully at Sheila. She fancied she saw her shiver.
She rose at once to fetch a shawl. When she appeared with it over her arm, her friend looked up with an annoyed expression on her face.
"I knew you had gone for that, but I am not in the least cold. Who could be on such an evening? I wish you would not watch my every movement, Meg, in the way you do. It quite gets on my nerves." She ended her sentence with a slight laugh, but it did not hide the fact that she did not appreciate the attention that had been paid her.
Meg looked contrite, and felt miserable. What could she have done to make Sheila in this mood? The girl sat down again feeling depressed, then suddenly she wondered why she should not ask outright what her offence had been.
"I know I've vexed you," she said, leaning forward with her hands clasped on her knees, and looking remorsefully at Sheila. "I expect I didn't do the right thing this afternoon. I don't suppose I ought to have had up tea before you came home."
"You were perfectly right. You could not have done anything else as Peter and Mr. Poynter had had that long walk, and it was so late. If it had been earlier of course you should have waited for me."
"Then I don't think I ought to have stayed and talked to Mr. Fortescue. Was it not the proper thing to do?"
Sheila flushed up angrily. Really, Meg was getting on her nerves. "What nonsense," she said shortly. "The natural thing is always the right thing to do."
The tears welled up into Meg's eyes but they did not fall.
Sheila rose and walked away leaving Meg looking sadly after her.
A sudden fear knocked at the girl's heart.
Was Sheila growing tired of her, did she want her to leave Friars Court? The very suspicion of such a thing was paralyzing. She sat quite still for a few minutes as if she had been struck.
That night Miss Gregson, who was sitting by her bedroom window reading before preparing for bed, heard a knock, and the door opened to admit Sheila, who, throwing herself on the sofa with her hands clasped behind her head exclaimed—
"Angel dear, I do hope you are not tired, for I simply must have a talk with you."
Miss Gregson shut up her book and looked towards her visitor. There had been a time in her life when she had had hopes of being an artist and had indulged in absorbing dreams of her pictures hanging on the line at the Royal Academy. These dreams had gradually vanished like many another hope of her young days; but she still had great delight in beauty and was quick to see it when it came in her way. As she looked at Sheila she longed for her paint brush. The girl was wearing a soft pink silk, draped with ninon, low at the neck, on which gleamed a diamond pendant. She looked the picture of worldly prosperity, and Miss Gregson wondered what caused the shadow that lay in her eyes. She was soon to learn.
"Angel dear, prepare for a shock. You know I always surprise you, but I'm afraid this time it will be more than a surprise." Then she added, while the shadow was displaced by a merry twinkle, "Have you your Homoeopathic box at hand? I know you will need it."
"My dear, what is the matter?" asked Miss Gregson, ignoring the last remark.
"Well I've come to the conclusion that I am the most unsatisfactory person in the world. What am I to do?"
Miss Gregson was somewhat of the same opinion, but all the time the girl was talking she could not help thinking what a lovely creature she was.
"Do help me, Angel," pleaded Sheila.
"I can't unless you enlighten me a little more."
"But I don't know that I wish to; you rather like me I know, and if I let out how horrid I am, you will never care for me again. But you know I am horrid."
"Well, we'll take that for granted," said Miss Gregson laughing. "What next?"
"I simply can't tell you till I see the Homoeopathic box by your side. Where is it?"
"Don't you think you had better get this confession off your mind?" said Miss Gregson, leading her companion's thoughts away from her medicine box.
"What you say reminds me of my conversation with Meg. Don't you agree with me that it is scarcely the thing for a girl like her to confide in a man like Peter? I find she has been confessing her ignorance to him. I'm not sure that Meg is not spoiling. Have you noticed any signs of it?"
"No, I can't say that I have. She always strikes me as a most sweet girl. Of course she makes mistakes both in regard to behaviour and conversation, but what can you expect? It is almost pitiable to see how hard she tries to do and say the right thing."
"Shall I confess something? Do you know, Angel she is getting on my nerves. What on earth am I to do?"
Miss Gregson nearly groaned aloud. What she had dreaded had come to pass! She felt it her duty for once to speak severely. She must do it even at the risk of losing her comfortable berth. Perhaps it would result in her also getting on Sheila's nerves! But for the poor child's sake she must risk it.
She took off her spectacles and wiping them put them on again before she spoke. It was amazing that that scrap of humanity lying so comfortably on the sofa, and looking sadly into her face, had nevertheless the power of making this elderly woman's heart beat so fast, that if she could have done so without being seen, she would have stretched out her hand for the Homoeopathic box and have taken one of her little pilules to quiet her nerves. This comfort was, however, denied her, by Sheila's presence. She felt the girl's really anxious gaze as she awaited for her verdict.
"Isn't it very despicable of me?" asked Sheila.
"I scarcely like to tell you what I really think," said Miss Gregson slowly, "for fear lest it may seem rude."
Sheila laughed.
"Oh dear! how quaint you are!" she cried. "Of course, I shan't mind whatever you like to say. You may tell me I'm a brute, or use any strong language you like. It will be refreshing, for as you know I never do get the truth about myself, and it is quite amusing when I hear it from your lips. Peter sometimes begins to lecture but I won't have it from him."
"Well then," said Miss Gregson quietly, "the truth is that you must make every effort to get rid of this feeling about Meg. It would be a sheer act of cruelty to send her out into the world again after all you have taught her to like and to depend upon. I could never for a moment believe you would be capable of such a thing."
There was a slight flush on Miss Gregson's face as she spoke these strong words, but this was the only sign that could be detected that her heart was beating and that she felt agitated. Sheila watching her from the sofa did not notice the flush, and had no idea of the tumult her words had aroused in the heart of her companion. Had she imagined for a moment that her old governess found it difficult to reprove her, it would have been fatal. Miss Gregson's influence lay a great deal in the fact that her former pupil deemed her quite impervious to her own moods; she was the one person who dared to tell her the truth about herself.
"You really are original," she said laughing. "You just say what you think, regardless of consequences. That is why I like you so much and don't tire of you. You know, Angel, you are quite as surprising in your way as I am. I had no idea that anyone could think so badly of me if I acted as my feelings prompt me at this moment. You use very strong language. But do you really think it would be so wicked of me to change my way of acting towards Meg, and to advise her to try and find her own living? I mean, of course, after the concert. You see I have given her thoroughly good singing lessons. Don't you think she might teach?"
"Teach after only a year's lessons! My dear, you are dreaming. Who would go to her for lessons considering all the first rate teachers there are in the world."
Sheila sighed, and knitted her brows.
"I'm afraid I've got into a muddle," she said.
Then the two relapsed for a few minutes into silence. Miss Gregson, relieved that her words had not offended, took off her spectacles, and seeing that the girl's eyes were closed, opened the little black box at her side, and selecting a bottle from the many that lay in neat rows, took a dose. When, however, she had accomplished her desire she looked round to find Sheila's laughing eyes fastened upon her.
"Ah! you can't hide it from me!" she said. "I knew I was going to give you a terrible shock, and that you would want the support of your little friends. But I won't tease you as I want you to answer a question that has been weighing on my mind for the last few weeks. How is it that everyone with whom I have to do becomes so tame? You are the only exception."
"Take Meg for instance. When she first came I was attracted to her partly because she was so different to other girls. Do you remember how she almost insisted upon sleeping in the garden, and then authoritatively said she must have more air and I had to fly at her bidding to open the window. She was full of surprises in those days. I never knew what she would say or do next. She provided me with a lot of excitement."
"But now she is quite tame! and cringes to me. All her strong delightful personality has dwindled away. She looks scared if I move, and watches me like a cat watches a mouse, or rather like a mouse watches a cat. What is it in me that has changed her?"
"You see, Sheila, my dear," said Miss Gregson, "you are one of those people who entirely dominate others unless they have the courage to defy you. But it would not have done for Meg to defy you. Besides, unfortunately for you both, she is so devoted to you that she does not wish to."
"Then I wish she was not so fond of me. What can I do to cure her? If only she would stand up to me I should like her much better. But she, like the rest of the world, entirely gives into me. I suppose I ought to be going to bed," she added as she rose. "I believe you are right, and I suppose I must make the best of it, as it seems to be my own fault. I must have patience, and anyhow she'll be an addition to my party. I know she is a really nice girl, but oh! for a little more spirit."
"Then you must see that you don't depress her," said Miss Gregson.
"Well then you really must tell her, that if she looks at me and watches me, anticipating my every want with those anxious eyes of hers, that I shall go mad. I can't stand it. Tell her to be her own natural self."
"That's just what you won't let her be, dear."
Sheila laid her hands on Miss Gregson's shoulder and looked down at her laughing.
"I shall never get tired of you, so long as you don't eat humble pie before me. You are a dear," and to her old friend's surprise, the girl bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. As she disappeared out of the door, she turned round saying, "I am sure my kiss gave you another shock, by the surprise I read in your eyes. My advice is that you should take ignatia at once."
Miss GREGSON'S heart yearned over Meg.
After Sheila had left her room she sat a long time by the open window, thinking of the girl whose happiness as far as this world and its comforts were concerned, hung on such a slender thread.
Much as she cared for Sheila her thoughts were entirely now filled with Meg. Was she to be thrown on the world again? Was it to be her lot to fight and struggle and perhaps to fail after all?
The night was very warm and the garden still. Suddenly as she looked into its comparative darkness she caught sight of a shadowy figure crossing the lawn underneath her window.
For a moment her heart beat, but looking more steadily she recognized Meg's walk. She knew the girl's love of the stars, and that she often stayed out at night until the house was locked up, but consulting her watch she saw it was past twelve o'clock and Meg ought to be in bed.
Miss Gregson was a nervous woman, but where duty was concerned her nerves were allowed no place, anyhow they seldom got the better of her on such occasions. To-night it was her evident duty to follow Meg and persuade her to go to bed. Throwing a shawl over her shoulders she made her way down the dark staircase, candle in hand.
She found the garden door unbolted, so setting the candle on a table by its side she stepped on to the terrace.
Standing on the top of the steps she looked around her, but she could catch no sight of Meg. This was not to be wondered at, as there were many green walks branching out from the middle path that ran as far as the gate into the wood.
It was not really a dark night, and she was able to see for some distance dimly, but the garden struck her as very still and lonely as she stood hesitating on the terrace. Nevertheless she must face those long lonely grass paths.
It was sometime before she caught sight of Meg sitting upon a garden seat, her arms flung round the back and her face hidden in them. She looked the picture of depression. She was still wearing her white evening dress and had no wrap of any kind over her.
Miss Gregson, afraid of startling the girl, called her name from a distance. To hear her own voice in that still garden sent a shiver into her heart.
Meg looked up at the sound, then let her head drop again on to her arms.
"My dear, you will catch cold," said Miss Gregson drawing near. "Do you know that it is past twelve?"
"I don't care if it is," answered the girl passionately, "let me be, I say. It ain't no business of yours that I can see." Meg had raised her head and sat looking defiantly at her companion.
Miss Gregson could hardly believe her ears. This was being natural with a vengeance! She had never heard the girl speak in so common a tone of voice before. She might have been talking to one of her acquaintances of old. But though it gave the good woman a shock, she knew that the fact of Meg taking no pains whatever either with her manner, tone of voice, or grammar, meant that she was in the deepest dejection, so deep that she did not care what anyone thought of her. Miss Gregson sat down by her side.
Then Meg whose head had sunk again after her words of passion, looked up.
"I don't advise you to come near me. I ain't fit for the company and friends of Sheila," she said, glaring fiercely at her companion. "I tell you I don't want to be fit either. I'm tired of it all. I'm going back to Jem and the rest of them."
"My dear child we can't spare you," said Miss Gregson laying her hand on Meg's arm.
The soft voice and kind words melted the girl's anger. She began to sob violently.
"What are you unhappy about?" asked Miss Gregson.
Meg sat up, wiping her eyes with her lace pocket handkerchief which seemed somehow so incongruous with the speaker.
She stuffed it into her mouth to prevent her sobs being heard, a habit of hers which was very distasteful to Sheila who had reproved her for it more than once.
Then dropping her handkerchief she started up, throwing her arms over her head in a wild way that nevertheless, Miss Gregson could not help noticing, became her. She stood up before her, tall, and strong, but the picture of despair.
"If I only knew where to go to I'd go right away," she said.
"Has anything happened to make you so sad?" asked Miss Gregson.
"Yes, it has been happening for days and days. Sheila don't love me as she used to do. I can never please her or do anything right, and try and try as I may, it ain't no good. I worry about it till it makes me nearly mad. I couldn't stop in to-night. I wanted the stars and the darkness, and I wanted to feel once more what it would be like to be without somewhere to go to at night. I just had to come."
The girl sat down again by Miss Gregson's side and covered her face with her hands.
"Is there anything else troubling you?"
"That's enough ain't it?" said Meg, forgetting her manners again in her distress. "I can't stop here if Sheila don't want me to, and I just can't go back to my old life. I can't, I can't."
"Whatever happens, God will take care of you," said Miss Gregson. "Wait patiently for Him. You need not worry, dear child."
"Mr. Fortescue believes all that. I wish I was sure of it," sighed the girl.
"We seem quite alone in this quiet still garden, Meg, but if we had eyes to see we should find that the place is peopled with angels, and we know that God is here."
Meg was silent, only an occasional sob making her quiver.
"There lived only a few years ago," continued her companion, "a good man of the name of George Macdonald, who used to think a great deal about life and its mysteries. Listen now while I repeat some words of his that always strike me as being specially beautiful—"
"So lies my journey—on into the dark,Without my will I find myself alive,And must go forward. Is it God that drawsMagnetic all the souls unto their home,Travelling, they know not how, but unto God?It matters little what may come to meOf outward circumstance, and hunger, thirst,Social condition, yea, or love or hate;But what shall I be, fifty summers hence?My life, my being, all that meaneth me,Goes darkling forward into something—what?O God Thou knowest. It is not my care.If Thou wert less than truth, or less than love,It were a fearful thing to be and growWe know not what. My God, take care of me.Pardon and swathe me in an infinite lovePervading and inspiring me, Thy child.""Unfolding the ideal man in me!Which being greater far than I have grown.I cannot comprehend. I am Thine, not mineOne day completed unto Thine intent,I shall be able to discourse with Thee;For thy idea, gifted with a self,Must be of one with the mind where it sprang,And fit to talk with Thee about Thy thoughts.Lead me, O Father, holding by Thy hand;I ask not whither, for it must be on.This road will lead me to the hills I think;And there I am in safety and at home."
Miss Gregson repeated the words in a soft voice as if afraid of waking the birds and flowers with which they were surrounded. As she ended a rustle in the bushes made her start. But Meg, accustomed to all night sounds, did not stir. Though the thoughts expressed were somewhat beyond her, the words, "My God take care of me," impressed themselves on her mind. She was glad to have heard them and they comforted her.
Miss Gregson shivered as a night hawk cried out in the darkness and a slight breeze swept past them.
"You will come in now, my dear child," she said, as she rose.
As they parted outside her bedroom door, Meg threw her arms around her friend, then ran hastily into her room.
THE day of the concert arrived all too soon for Meg, who would have liked a little more time in which to perfect her songs, but as she awoke with the sun streaming in upon her she sprang up with a strong feeling of exhilaration.
She was not afraid of disappointing her audience, being fully conscious that her voice was far above the average, and that it would give real pleasure to those who listened. She had no conceit in her composition; she simply recognised the truth, that she had been given a remarkably beautiful voice, and was grateful.
On coming down to breakfast Sheila was struck by the happy expression of the girl's face.
"I believe that you are really looking forward to the ordeal," she said laughing.
"Yes, I am," said Meg simply. "I mean to give 'em a treat."
The smile on Sheila's face faded.
"You'll spoil it all if you talk like that," she said.
"What did I say?"
"Didn't you know that you said 'give 'em?' You must be very careful not to get excited to-day or you will make no end of mistakes."
Meg felt as if a wet blanket had been thrown over her, but she soon recovered her spirits as the sun was shining and the birds singing, and moreover she heard in the distance the sound of hammering which told her that men were already engaged in putting up the platform on the lawn.
After breakfast she ran out to see how they were getting on. Two men were engaged on the work; one man's face she knew well as he was often employed in various jobs about the Court; the other, whose back was turned towards her, was a stranger; but something in his build produced a curious sensation of shock in the girl. The head and shoulders were so remarkably like those of Jem.
She was within only a few feet of the platform and had asked the man facing her when it would be finished, when she noticed his companion who did not raise his head.
Meg hastily made up her mind that though the likeness was remarkable it could not possibly be Jem, or he would have turned round at the sound of her voice. Nevertheless she was glad to escape into the house again, as the likeness took away her breath and gave her a strange sensation of fear.
As Meg turned away the man whom she had noticed looked round and watched her. His bright blue eyes in a moment took in every item of her dress, and the fact that the sun was shining on her lovely hair turning its auburn to gold. Had it not been for her hair and indeed for her atmosphere, which was unmistakable to the man who loved her as his own soul, he would scarcely have recognised her, for her voice had changed and her way of speaking, not to mention the extraordinary difference that clothes make.
Meg was in a white cotton frock, so white and clean it looked to Jem, that it had almost the same effect upon him that the sight of angels wings might have had. He straightened himself when he discovered that her head was turned away, and gazed wonderingly after her.
"Thank God," he cried in his heart, but the man by his side only saw the wonder displayed on his fellow worker's face.
"She's a beauty, ain't she?" he said following Jem's example and watching Meg's hasty retreat to the house. "They do say as how Miss Dennison picked her out of the gutter; but that's all moonshine. She's a queen if ever there was one."
But Jem did not hear his companion's words. He was transfixed.
At last he had his reward. Ever since his little brother Steve had died he had been searching for Meg, getting odd jobs in this town and that while he made enquiries. He had been in Elminster for a fortnight, and some gossip he had overheard about the singer at the concert to be held at Friars Court raised his hopes, and finding that the carpenter for whom he was doing odd jobs was engaged to put a platform in the garden, he had been rejoiced at being told that he was wanted to help one of the workmen at Friars Court.
As he bent over his work his ears were straining all the time to hear a footfall that he might recognise, and as after two or three hours he heard a girl's voice and then the sound of footsteps on the gravel path, his heart beat to suffocation. He could not mistake that footstep, though when the question as to the time of finishing the platform had been put to his fellow workman, he would not have recognised the voice. On hearing the retreating footsteps he had raised himself, and seeing Meg and learning from her whole appearance that she was apparently well, happy, and evidently cared for, he thanked God.
It was this that he meant to satisfy himself about. He could not rest till he knew she was in good hands, Many a time since he had bidden her goodbye on the heath, he had blamed himself for letting the girl run such a risk as to tramp to London alone, even though it meant freedom for her. At night he would lie awake wondering where she was, if she had managed to reach London without mishap, or if she had changed her mind and had found a home nearer at hand. Was she starving, or dying of cold?
He could hardly bear his thoughts at these times, and when poor little Steve had breathed his last, without a word Jem left his uncle and aunt, and went in search of Meg, paying his way by doing odd jobs, generally in the way of carpentering, for which he had a natural talent.
He had traced her from place to place and had arrived at Elminster meaning to stay only a few days. But a chance word had changed his mind, and he got work at a carpenter's shop, the owner of which happened at that moment to be in great need of men.
And now his search had been rewarded. He had found Meg, and had satisfied himself that she was well and happy—was that to be the end?
As Jem turned back to his work, his next move filled his mind. He had never thought what the result to himself would be should he find Meg in comfortable circumstances. It was a new situation; it would have to be thought out. But he made up his mind quickly on one point; he would not let Meg know of his proximity until he had settled what steps he should next take. He would wait and see.
But that one glimpse of the girl convinced him that during the two years of separation, Meg had travelled far ahead of him. She was no longer a girl to take care of, but a woman to serve. He felt her to be so far above him, that he could, hardly imagine himself touching her hand, or talking in the least freely to her. The knowledge brought pain with it.
As he put his tools into his bag and made his way, in company with his companion, out of the Court, a great depression took hold of him. He felt as if he had buried someone—his hope, on which he had lived ever since that day of the thunder storm on the heath, lay dead. He had lost "Meg of the heather" for good, and in her place had found a queen; one whom he might reverence and serve, but could never possess as his own.
* * * * * *
Sheila was not satisfied with the platform. She insisted on some small alteration being done and Jem was sent over again from Elminster to do it. He arrived only about an hour before the concert began.
Meg and Sheila were dressing and he caught no sight of either one or the other. But knowing that Meg was to sing, after finishing his work, he lingered about the lanes outside the Court in the hope of hearing once more the voice which he had loved of old.
As he noticed the carriages and motor cars that continually passed him on their way to the party, the pain that was gnawing at his heart became almost unendurable. This then was Meg's world! These her friends! How could he ever hope for a return of the intimacy which had, in the old days, existed between them. He paced up and down the road outside the park trying to work off his feelings; then the strains of a band attracted him and leaping over a hedge he found himself in a small plantation from which he could obtain a distant view of the platform on the lawn. His eyes searched the crowd in vain for Meg. He felt sure she was not there or he would have seen her at once.
Suddenly he caught sight of a lonely figure moving slowly across the grass.
Meg wore a pale sea green dress made of a soft clinging material and a broad brimmed black hat trimmed with ostrich feathers.
She was walking slowly, for remembering Sheila's words that it would be better for her to be silent than to talk ungrammatically, she had avoided the guests as much as possible, and did not wish to mingle with them till the time for singing had arrived. But Mademoiselle Margot, the violinist, whom Sheila had secured for the afternoon, had finished her solo and Meg knew that her time had come.
As she drew near she looked at the audience before her; but her heart did not fail her in the least. She knew she was about to surprise them and was happy in that knowledge. There was hardly a familiar face among them, for Sheila had kept her somewhat close, not wishing her protégé to mix with others till her manner and voice were such that her own action in adopting her would be vindicated in the face of the world, for she was aware that in some quarters her action had been unfavourably criticised, and she intended that the concert should be a triumph.
The only face that Meg recognized among the audience was that of Peter Fortescue, who came forward at the sight of her and handed her on to the platform. His kind smile was encouraging.
"I mean to sing ever so well," she said in a soft voice, "just to pay back Sheila for all her goodness to me."
"That's right. We are expecting great things. Are you nervous?"
"No, I'm not nervous, I'm going to sing fine."
She was quite unconscious that she had relapsed into her old way of speaking. Happily Sheila who was to play her accompaniments was not within earshot.
Meg stood with her eyes raised to the sky and her hands clasped behind her for she knew her song by heart. No one seeing her for the first time could possibly have guessed that only two years ago she was sleeping under hedges, and was thankful if she could find a resting place in a barn or on straw.
Peter wondered if, when she opened her mouth to sing, her origin would be betrayed. He felt nervous for her and for Sheila, who, he saw was rather pale as she took her place at the piano. But the first few notes dissipated his fears; the tone was pure as a bird's, full and rich; and the singer, he was aware, was thinking entirely of the music so that the audience did not alarm her.
People looked at one another with amazement.
The fact that the singer at Sheila's party was to be none other than the girl who had been a tramp but two years ago had leaked out, and the audience were in a state of amused expectation as they waited for her. But when they caught sight of her moving slowly towards them, they came to the conclusion that the news they had heard could have no foundation whatever. This lovely girl in the pale sea green dress could certainly never have been a tramp; and as the first notes escaped her lips they sat in astonished silence. Such a voice had not been heard for many years round about Friars Court. Where could she have come from?
Sheila flushed with pleasure as her eyes caught Peter's. That he was pleased and surprised she saw at once, also that the audience was entranced.
Meg's song over she took refuge in the drawing-room. She was afraid of talking after Sheila's advice to be silent, but she felt strangely excited. She had pleased her friend and had surpassed herself. That her singing had given supreme satisfaction she could not doubt, and that this audience had appreciated her voice quite as much if not more than her former audiences used to do, she was well aware. She had been thankful too to find that even when she stood up before the fashionably dressed crowd, she was no more nervous than when she had stood on the chair in the kitchen that day, which now seemed so long ago. The feeling of elation of which she was conscious was not born of conceit, but simply of delight that she had satisfied those for whom she cared. Sheila and Peter were pleased, that was all that signified.
It seemed to her that only a few minutes had passed when Peter came to the drawing-room window telling her that they were waiting for another song.
"They are impatient to hear you again," he said smiling, "and so am I. I never expected anything like this."
"I'm glad," said Meg, her eyes shining.
She was hardly aware of the clapping that heralded her approach, so delighted was she at the reception Sheila herself gave her; it excited her so, that for the first moment her voice trembled as she began her song, but before many bars were sung, she forgot Sheila and her audience and was conscious of nothing save the music which she was making and which delighted her soul.
A murmur of applause broke on her ear as the last notes trembled on the air.
Sheila had prepared a song for an encore, and Meg was nothing loath to sing it. But even then those listening were not satisfied, and the girl without thought and forgetful for the moment of Sheila, broke out into "The Last Rose of Summer."
It was a song that she had not sung since her tramping days. After the first moment of surprise that the singer should have chosen an unaccompanied song the audience sat spellbound; for the extreme pathos and sympathy displayed in the voice touched them to an unusual degree.
Meg threw out her notes with all the force and feeling of which she was capable, quite unconscious of the fact of Sheila sitting idle at the piano with a slight frown of annoyance puckering her forehead.
As for the audience they scarcely missed the accompanist after the first moment or two, their attention being entirely riveted on the lovely girl standing before them singing her heart out.
They were entranced.
Then suddenly they became aware of a look of intense and sudden fear crossing the face of the singer, as her voice faltered.
"It's a case of stage fright," whispered a man to a girl sitting next to him. "She'll recover in a moment."
But Meg stood panic stricken, as she watched a young man vaulting the wire fence that divided the trees from the garden and making his way hastily towards her, his fierce blue eyes blazing in the sunshine and his tanned face radiant.
Before the audience had had time to recover from their surprise the song had suddenly ceased and the singer had fled.
Peter, who could not bear to see any living creature in pain, waited for a moment to see if Sheila was following Meg, and finding that she evidently had not thought of doing so, and, in fact, was trying to do what she could to make excuses for her to her guests, he went after the girl himself.
He found her sobbing on the library sofa.
"What is it?" he asked kindly. "Are you feeling faint?"
But Meg was too overcome to answer. Her face was hidden in the cushion as she tried hard to stifle her sobs.
"You sang so wonderfully well," said Peter. "You needn't mind in the least breaking down over 'The Last Rose of Summer.' Everyone will understand."
"Sheila won't," sobbed Meg almost incoherently.
"Of course she will. Your beautiful singing at the beginning ought to more than make up for it."
"I wish I'd never sung it," sobbed the girl passionately. "It brought Jem."
Peter looked mystified and began to wonder if the excitement had been too much for the poor girl's brain.
"I advise you to think no more about it," he said, "and to rest here till all the people have gone. I'll tell Elsie to bring you some tea."
Meg looked up again from the sofa cushion and shivered.
"I'm afraid," she said.
"Afraid? What of? No one will hurt you. You are unstrung that is all that is wrong. Tea will set you right."
"No," cried the girl, "I've done a wicked thing. I've been a coward; I, who longed to tame lions!" and she broke out afresh into sobs.
Peter thought of asking the country doctor who happened to be one of the guests to come and see the girl. He was more than afraid that her brain was affected; but instead he took a chair and sat down by her side.
"Come, tell me what is troubling you," he said quietly.
"It's just my dream come true. I've been ungrateful and horrid and have turned my back on my best friend. But it gave me such a start to see him." And then between her sobs Meg told Peter of the shock she had had in the morning, and of the realization of her suspicions while she was singing her song.
Peter was quite at a loss how to act. Was the girl dreaming? Or was it true, and if true what was to be done?
"I'll send Elsie here with some tea," he said.
Meg sprang from her seat.
"I can't stay here alone," she cried. "Jem may find me and I'm just ashamed to meet him. I'll go to my room."
Peter went in search of Sheila and of Miss Gregson; but the former was too put out with Meg to listen to his story, and Miss Gregson was not to be found; so he decided to wait till the morning to talk the matter over.
JEM had been listening to Meg with rapt attention as she sang her songs. He could hardly believe that the girl standing so quietly on the platform dressed in that green shimmering dress, and surrounded by all the rank and fashion of the neighbourhood, was the same with whom he had sat out the storm and to whom he had spoken of marriage on the heath two years ago.
He remembered her soft laugh as he had mentioned the subject that day, and how quickly she had stifled it on seeing it hurt him. But if she laughed then, when he had all to give her and she had nothing, what would she do now?
It was during the intervals that these bitter thoughts crowded across his mind. While the girl was actually singing he could think of nothing but her and her song.
He loved her so that he wondered that she did not feel him even right away on the platform. Had Meg looked at him as he was looking at her he knew she would be conscious of the fact. Perhaps if he looked long enough her eyes might be drawn towards him.
When her first song was finished and she had disappeared, the time dragged. So long were the minutes, that he began to wonder if she were going to sing again or if his chance of watching her was over. He could hardly bear the thought of this. How he was to endure the fact that she was at Friars Court, within a mile or two of the town in which he lived, without seeing her or speaking to her, he did not know. But as these thoughts coursed through his mind he heard a loud clapping and once more Meg stood before him. Her eyes were shining and a happy smile played about her lips.
Jem groaned. He had imagined that to see her happy and cared for, would satisfy him, but he had deceived himself. As he stood and looked at her, he felt he could not do without her—and he groaned, as he became aware that she could never be part of his life again. She did not want him. Had he had a suspicion that she was in difficulty or need he would have taken no time in making her aware of his presence, but that happy smile and those shining eyes were a death knell to his hopes: for he loved her too much to disturb her in any way, or to come between her and happiness. If Meg became aware of his proximity he knew her well enough to be sure that she would welcome him. But to make himself known to her would put her in an awkward position and perhaps disturb her peaceful existence. He was not going to be such a brute as to run a chance of doing this. So he listened hungrily to her singing and drank in every expression of her face.
Suddenly the song stopped and a loud clapping told him that others beside him knew how to appreciate her voice. His heart beat. Was this to be the last of it? Was he to hear her voice no more?
But even before there was time to answer the question she had broken out into "The Last Rose of Summer." Jem stood entranced.
Then it seemed to him that Meg looked straight into his eyes over the heads of the people. Surely she had recognised him and was singing directly to him and for him. It seemed like a call. Forgetful that he was trespassing, forgetful of all his surroundings and of the grand folk that sat in groups before the platform, he pushed through the undergrowth, breaking branches on his way, vaulted the fence and made for the platform.
Then he stopped still as if he had been struck. Was she—could she be running away from him? Could it be true that Meg did not wish to see him; did not want to remember her old life; preferred to drop her old friend? Was it possible that he was nothing to her now?
He stood rooted to the spot. Then he saw a man servant coming towards him. It was doubtless to inform him that he was trespassing.
He would not wait to be told that. He turned away, stumbling blindly towards the road.
* * * * * *
Sheila stood and looked at the empty chairs and laughed bitterly. The day that was to celebrate her triumph had closed in disappointment. Meg had behaved shockingly. She had had no business to sing "The Last Rose of Summer" without consulting her; and as for her final denouement! She had acted like a common schoolgirl.
Sheila had not been near her since she had disgraced herself by springing off the platform, so she had no idea as to the cause of her extraordinary action. But whatever it was it only proved that it was quite impossible to inculcate proper behaviour into a girl who had spent her life among hedges and ditches. Well, Meg had had her chance and had not profited by it. She had thoroughly disappointed the one who had given it to her, and it seemed to Sheila that now there was nothing more to be done.
"Of course everyone will laugh at my failure," she thought bitterly. "It's most provoking. However, it will be an excuse for sending Meg away. I am quite tired of her companionship. She will have to look out for herself and get her living the best way she can."
Meg did not come down to dinner, and Sheila took no pains to find out the cause. No doubt she was ashamed of herself, she thought, and dreaded meeting her after such unwarrantable behaviour.
MEG woke up the next morning with a bad headache, and a feeling of misery.
She had not seen Sheila since the concert, and dreaded the thought of doing so. But what weighed on her mind still more was her conduct towards Jem. It was no use trying to excuse herself with the remembrance that she had been taken by surprise and had had no time to make up her mind how to act. She knew in her heart that what she had done when off her guard proved her state of mind, and it was the thought of her ingratitude, that depressed her with a sense of shame.
She could not forget the expression of his bright blue eyes and his eager radiant face as he had hurried towards her. She had not seen such an expression on any face since she had last seen him. No one had looked at her with such love ever since she had come to live at Friars Court, and yet she had turned away from him! She had turned away because she could not face the hardships that would have to be faced if she put in her lot with Jem. How could she marry him now that she had learnt what it meant to live in comfort and luxury?
Then her thoughts flew to Sheila. It was somewhat consoling to feel so sure that had she welcomed Jem, Sheila would not easily have forgiven her, and would then have had a right to think that all the advantages she had given her had been ruthlessly thrown away. What would be the use of the love of books and music, and all the other good things she had learnt to appreciate, if she decided to marry Jem, and put in her lot with him? Yet Meg knew that nothing else would satisfy him if once they met as friends.
And surely her friend would accuse her of ingratitude if she deliberately chose life with Jem. She was glad to remember this; for her whole soul clung to Friars Court. Her world was filled with Sheila, Peter, and Miss Gregson. Jem had become an outsider, only to be thought of with tender pity and gratitude.
Meg sat by her open window waiting for the breakfast gong to sound, with eyes that feasted passionately on the garden below. Now that there had come a chance of her losing it, Friars Court and its occupants had become doubly precious.
Sheila's love had disappointed her; but her own love for Sheila had grown rather than diminished, and she would not for the world have displeased her benefactor. But though the girl came to this decision, she did not hide from herself that her action had been despicable, or imagine that Jem would ever forgive it; neither could she endure to think of his radiant smile being quenched. She tried to forget all that.
The garden was bathed in sunshine; the hum of the bees as they fluttered among the flowers reached her ears, and the scent of the roses that climbed around her window was wafted in upon her. She had never quite realized how sweet the place was till this morning, nor how deeply seated in her heart was her affection for it. No, she could not leave! It would kill her. She was thankful to remember that in obeying her own wishes she would be pleasing the one to whom she owed all she possessed.
The gong sounded, and Meg made her way to the breakfast room with a beating heart, as she knew she deserved Sheila's displeasure. She had of course spoilt the concert to which her friend had been looking forward, and possibly had debarred herself from ever again helping her by her voice.
Besides, Sheila had constantly told her that self-control was absolutely necessary to exhibit in the society among which she now found herself, and what must she think of her now that she had so completely forgotten the admonition in the presence of the many guests.
Sheila was reading letters by the window: she barely noticed Meg except to say good-morning coldly.
But the girl did not resent this, nor was she surprised. This had for long been her friend's way of showing her disapproval. Meg felt she deserved it, and took her seat at the table opposite Miss Gregson feeling in disgrace. She was somewhat cheered by the latter's kind smile.
Miss Gregson had knocked at her door the night before, meaning to give her a word of sympathy; but Meg was in bed and as she supposed asleep. The girl had recognised the footstep but had felt too depressed and weary to make any effort, so had not opened her eyes. Now however she was grateful for the smile she received across the breakfast table.
Meg did not know that her kind friend's heart was yearning over her. For Miss Gregson felt quite sure of the result of yesterday's action, and that Sheila was probably planning to get rid of Meg.
Miss Gregson was coming to the decision that if Sheila parted with Meg, she herself would make a home for her. She knew it would mean the loss of much worldly comfort and ease; but Meg and she might find some work together, and she had her hardly earned savings to fall back upon. Anyhow she was determined that if Sheila was bent on carrying out the inhuman proposition which she had hinted to her, she would not be silent on the matter; and if she remained obdurate she would herself give up her post; sorry though she would be to leave the pupil, who, notwithstanding all her faults, was dear to her. Meg ate her breakfast, quite unconscious that plans concerning her were filling the minds of both her companions.
After breakfast Sheila put on her gardening gloves and taking her basket and scissors passed out into the garden. Meg was about to follow when Miss Gregson called her back. The girl noticed that there was a pink flush on her face and that her eyes were bright. "My dear I would not go out into the garden just yet if I were you; Sheila is, as you see, feeling annoyed. Let her have time to work it off." The eagerness of the voice was born of the desire to delay what she knew was coming. Something might happen to prevent the catastrophe. Mr. Fortescue might call and give advice. Meg must, for as long as possible, be saved from meeting her fate.
The girl looked up in surprise.
"I want to explain," she said, "and to tell her how sorry I am. When she knows what made me so silly I think she will not be vexed but pleased."
"Pleased?"
"Yes. I think I did what Sheila would have wanted me to do."
Miss Gregson put her hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Explain to me first," she said. "Did you lose your nerve?"
"Yes. But not about singing. I wasn't a bit frightened of the people or that my voice would not please. It was something quite different. It was to do with Jem."
Miss Gregson was mystified.
"My dear, how could it have been to do with Jem. I don't understand."
The girl's eyes filled with tears.
"I scarcely like to tell you," she said, "it was so hateful of me. And yet I don't know that you would have advised me to do anything else. I remember you once told me you thought it might be right of me to run away from him."
"You are talking enigmas. That young man you told me about could not possibly have been at the concert. You are dreaming, my dear."
Miss Gregson began to wonder if the strain of the concert had been too much for the girl.
"Jem was there," said Meg; "he was standing in among the trees of the plantation all the time, but I never saw him till I sang 'The Last Rose of Summer.' I wish, oh how I wish I had never sung it; I shall never sing it again as long as I live."
"Are you sure you didn't imagine you saw him?" inquired Miss Gregson with concern.
"No. I know it was Jem, and when he came towards me I ran away: it was hateful, hateful of me; and yet I just believe that I'd do it right over again. I don't want Jem. I couldn't leave you all."
Sheila's voice was heard calling in the garden.
"I must go," said Meg hurriedly. "But I feel sure Sheila will understand and forgive when she knows. She would never let me have anything to do with Jem—I know she wouldn't." Miss Gregson watched the girl hastily making her way into the garden and sighed.
"What have you and Miss Gregson been talking about?" said Sheila, as Meg came in sight, "I'm surprised that you have not already apologized for your conduct yesterday. I suppose you are aware that you spoilt my party."
"I've been longing to tell you how sorry I am, and to explain."
"Explain? I don't think an explanation is needed. It was stupid self-consciousness of course on your part, and you never thought of my disappointment or vexation. You have humiliated me before all my friends; and then instead of coming to express your sorrow to me last night, you went quietly to bed as if nothing had happened."
"I felt too miserable last night to tell you what happened."
"Nonsense," said Sheila irritably, "nothing happened. It was mere loss of self-control on your part. Your conduct only proves to me that environment is not as powerful as I imagined. I'm utterly disappointed in you. Indeed I could never have thought you capable of repaying my kindness in this way. You have made me ridiculous before all my friends."
"I don't understand," said Meg slowly.
"I daresay not. It was foolish of me ever to dream for a moment that the effect of all those years before I knew you could be washed out like writing off a slate."
Meg stared at Sheila. What did she mean, she wondered; was she going to send her away? The girl felt too stunned at the thought to speak.
It was as if in a nightmare that she heard Sheila's next words.
"Well, have you nothing to say?"
Jem was forgotten in the awful suspicion that Sheila wanted to get rid of her. The girl's lips were white as she stammered out the question the answer to which meant so much to her.
"Do you want me to go?" she asked faintly.
"Well, I can't say that I see much good in you staying much longer," said Sheila, turning away so as not to face those large pathetic eyes that were fastened on her face. "I don't mean you need go at once. You can stay a month to look round and to make your plans, and happily I have put you in the way of earning your living. You ought to be able to give singing lessons by this time."
For a moment there was silence, then Meg of the Heather forgot all her efforts to please Sheila, and was once more the untamed wild creature of the hedges and ditches.
"I ain't fit for all your grand friends, I reckon," she cried, while she clenched her hands together in the anguish of her discovery, "and you're going to throw me over just as you throw them weeds into the basket. That's what I call bein' a fine friend. You that promised I'd be your sister! I ain't good enough or grand enough. Well, I ain't surprised," she added with a sob, "that's what I've done to Jem, and it's all through your fine promises. If it hadn't been for you I say, I should be happy sleepin' under the stars; you've been my undoin', and I won't thank you," then with a sob Meg turned and fled, leaving Sheila rooted to the spot with astonishment.
Meg did not come home for lunch. Miss Gregson's heart sank.
"Do you know where Meg is?" she asked.
"No. I had to speak sharply to her this morning and I suppose she is sulking. There is something of the lion in that girl. Do you know, Angel, that she has a most violent temper? I've done the deed," added Sheila with a faint smile. "You mustn't blame me. I really can't stand her any longer."
"Do you mean you have told her to go?" Miss Gregson folded up her dinner napkin as she spoke and avoided Sheila's eyes. She was afraid lest her own should express too truthfully the feeling the news had aroused in her.
"Yes. But I've given her a month, in which to make her plans. But after the wild manner in which she turned upon me I shall shorten the time to a week. She isn't safe to have about the house. Now, Angel, why don't you let out, I'm quite expecting an explosion from you."
But Miss Gregson did not rise to the occasion. Neither did she smile.
"How do you think the child is to live?" she asked quietly.
"I'm quite happy about that. No one can accuse me of sending her out into the world unprepared. Even you must acknowledge after hearing her sing at the concert, that I have fitted her for her future work. She will be able to give singing lessons, and of course I shall make her a present of money before she leaves."
Miss Gregson was silent.
Sheila laughed.
"I see you disapprove of me utterly. I'm a wretch, you think."
Then her companion put on her spectacles and faced her.
"I must tell you the truth at all costs," she said quietly, "and that is that I cannot think how anyone calling herself a Christian could possibly do such a cruel thing as you contemplate doing. It would have been far better to have left her as you found her, to have sent her to the hospital when she was taken ill on your doorstep, and when she recovered to have tried to set her up in some good business. But to take the poor girl out of her proper station of life, to shower gifts upon her, to teach her to grow dependent on comforts and luxuries—quite unnecessary luxuries—and then to cast her adrift is to my mind the most un-Christian cruel thing you could possibly do."
"But then I don't profess to be a Christian, you see," said Sheila.
Miss Gregson looked straight at her former pupil. All fear of her, all nervousness in speaking to her, had fled. She was too aghast at the prospect held out for Meg to fear.
"You are ignorant my dear," she said firmly, "and do not perhaps know the terrible dangers that are likely to befall a lovely girl like Meg, who has no one to protect her. I do know, and I feel so strongly about it that rather than let that poor child wander out into the world alone I shall resign my post here. She and I will fight the world together. I shall not let her be bereft of friends, particularly as I happen to know what I suppose she has already told you, that that young man whom she has mentioned more than once is hanging about here."
Sheila flushed. She had never contemplated for a moment the effect of her action. That Miss Gregson should leave her was a blow that she had not anticipated.
"What young man?" she asked.
"Did not she tell you? Yes, but surely she explained to you the reason of her sudden flight from the platform."
"She told me nothing," said Sheila. She was flushed and cross and was determined that Miss Gregson should not keep to her threat of leaving, so resolved not to vex her by showing her anger.
"Told you nothing! But how strange! I thought she was going to explain all to you. It was the sight of that tiresome young man of the name of Jem, that scared her and robbed her suddenly of her nerves."
"I don't believe it," said Sheila knitting her brow. "You may say what you like, but Meg is terribly deep."
"You are mistaken. Walter has been telling me," continued Miss Gregson, "that the young man who came and helped the carpenter in the morning appeared at the concert in the afternoon, and just as Meg was running away he caught sight of him standing quite still and stupid behind the guests. Walter's opinion is that the man was drunk. He hardly seemed to understand him when he warned him off the premises."
Sheila flushed again. She was glad now that she had not hurried Meg away quickly. A month would allow her full time to make arrangements, and she herself would look out for pupils for her in a neighbouring town. Sheila felt happier. She looked up at Miss Gregson with a smile.
"You've been rather hard on me," she said, "but I'll forgive you! You are the only person in the world from whom I could bear such plain speaking. And of course, dear Angel, you must not talk again of leaving me. Just think how demoralised I should get if I had no one to reprove me now and again. You are quite necessary to me if I am to keep within bounds," and with a light laugh she walked away.
But Miss Gregson did not move. She sat lost in deep thought, and her face was grave. Then she rose and went upstairs to her room.