MEG lay on her bed staring out into the darkness.
She had seen no one since her conversation with Sheila, having asked for her meals to be brought up into her room on the plea of a headache. Later, Miss Gregson had knocked at her door and had turned the handle to find it locked. Meg hoped she would think that she was asleep. She had carefully locked also the door between her room and Sheila's. All she wanted was to be left alone to think.
And now, after some hours of lonely thought, she lay staring up into the dark sky spangled with stars. The darkness frightened her. It brought back to her mind some of her former experiences before she had come to Friars Court. She remembered the drunken man who had put a stop to her singing one day. She recalled the coarse jokes and rowdy laughter that she had heard in the public houses. She shivered as in memory she once more tramped through the lonely lanes or hunted for a safe place in which to pass the night. She had hoped all that dreadful life was passed for ever; but now it loomed before her again as a possibility and she was more lonely now than she had ever been in her life, for she no longer had Jem's love and protection in the background of her mind.
Although Sheila had given her a month in which to arrange her plans, Meg had no intention whatever of staying a day longer at Friars Court. She was only waiting for the sun to rise to start out alone once more in the world. She had already packed her few things in a bag, taking only what was positively necessary.
She had five pounds in her purse, and with that and the few necessary clothes, she meant to leave for ever the house in which she had been sheltered so comfortably for two years. She had made no plans, and could think of none. Her only hope was in her voice. But how to set about making a living by her voice she did not know.
Of one thing she was resolved. She would rather die than go again on the tramp. She must get a cheap room somewhere, and after the five pounds had been spent, unless she was fortunate enough to have found pupils, she must starve. But as she lay staring out into the darkness she shivered—and was afraid.
If only she had not behaved so badly to Jem she would have felt that there was at least someone in the world who cared whether she was dead or alive. But how could she expect him to love her any longer now that by her action at the concert she had refused to have anything to do with him. At the thought Meg turned her face to her pillow and cried. If only she had Jem's love in the background she would have felt less lonely.
Then her thoughts turned to Sheila, and in the darkness her eyes blazed. She did not know how she could ever forgive her heartlessness.
Meg tossed on her bed feeling utterly miserable. She began to long for the dawn, yet when it came she looked around her, almost dazed with grief at the thought that at last the time had arrived for her to take the inevitable step and leave Friars Court for ever.
She rose and put a few remaining things in her bag, after which she opened the wardrobe to select the plainest and most useful dress she possessed. She chose a tweed coat and skirt, and before she closed the cupboard she glanced for the last time at the lovely dresses that Sheila had given her, smoothing them tenderly with her hand. She wondered who would wear them now.
Then she unlocked her jewel case, and put away the locket and bangle that she had worn the day before. They were marks of Sheila's former love for her. She did not want to see them again and was determined to take away nothing but what was absolutely necessary. No one should be able to say that she had decamped with everything on which she could lay her hands. Perhaps Sheila would suspect her now of behaving in this kind of manner. She would give her no opportunity of so doing.
The hat was the difficulty. She could not find one quite suitable for the kind of life which she knew would now have to be hers. But at last she decided upon a shady white straw trimmed with a blue scarf.
Then she went to the door of Sheila's room and listened. As she stood there the bitter unforgiving thoughts subsided. She remembered how the girl had befriended her. How she had taken her in, though a complete stranger, and showered gifts upon her. She remembered, too, when she was feeling like a caged bird and longed for the freedom of the fields, how Sheila's kiss had changed everything, how she had shared her pleasures with her, and given her beautiful clothing and every comfort.
Meg stood weeping by the locked door, longing to open it and to beg forgiveness for her harsh words of the day before, but she knew full well that she would not be welcome, so turned away, and taking up her small bag, noiselessly stole downstairs.
The house looked ghostly in the light of dawn, and its quietness made the girl shiver. She unbolted the door into the garden shutting it softly after her.
Once in the garden she lingered. A slight morning mist lay about the distance, and the grass was glittering with dew at her feet. The silence was absolute, till suddenly a lonely bird awoke and sang. In a moment its song was answered by another, and before a minute had passed there was a happy chorus of birds congratulating one another on a new morning.
Meg, standing there in the dewy dawn, sighed. Even the birds spoke of friendship and love. They all seemed to have a comrade to answer to their call, while she had no one. The tears fell fast.
Then she turned once more to give a parting look at the only home she had ever known. The drawing-room and library windows were shuttered, but above them were the windows of her own room and Sheila's, wide open. She could catch sight of a picture of the Good Shepherd that hung over her bed and about which she had asked many a question of Miss Gregson when she had first arrived at Friars Court. It was the picture of the Shepherd reaching down to save a little lamb that was standing on a dangerous cliff. Meg loved it. Suddenly remembering that she was in full view of Sheila should anything cause her to awake and look out of her window, the girl moved on making her way to the wood.
By going through the wood she could avoid the few houses that formed the village, and the path by the field took her within a short distance of the railway station at Elminster.
The only destination she could think of was London.
She remembered how London in the old days contained for her all that at that time seemed to make life worth living for, but it held for her now no hope of any kind.
Finding that she was much too early for the train Meg sat down in a field within ten minutes' walk of the station. She was feeling tired, as besides having had no sleep she had had no breakfast, and now that she had become accustomed to regular and good meals she felt the want of food. She remembered how often she used to sit and rest in fields and under hedges in the days that seemed so long ago, and contrasted her feelings now with what they were then.
Her future looked grey and hopeless. She wished she could cut out of her life the two last years, which had robbed her of spring, and had made it impossible for her to find happiness in nature as of yore. She had loved then the scent of the heather and bracken, the song of the birds, the little flowers that grew by the wayside. They had all added to the almost wild joy that she had felt as she had marched towards Minton on the day of the thunder storm. Now she could do nothing but look back and sigh. The present and the future were equally dark to her; and the birds and sunshine had no power to raise her spirits.
She was thankful when she found it was time to go to the station. She wanted to get out of reach of all that had contributed to her happiness in the days that were now past recall, and was glad that no one whose face she knew was apparently travelling by the early train for London. In the third class carriage in which she travelled her only companion was a young widow dressed in rusty black, with her little boy.
The woman had a nice, plain, kind face.
The boy grew restless during the journey, and his mother failing to quiet him, looked anxiously at her companion, who was sitting with closed eyes in her corner of the carriage. She hoped he was not annoying her.
The woman looked long at the lovely face surrounded with the auburn hair, and wondered what made it wear such a sad expression. To the poor widow in her rusty black Meg looked as if she had much of this world's goods. Her dress was made of an expensive tweed, though it was plain and neat; and the boots below it were of good leather and were a pretty shape. What could such a girl have to make her sad?
The woman looked down at her own black dress worn in memory of her husband who had died three years before, comparing her lot with that of the girl with closed eyes in the corner, and could not but wonder how it was that apparently she, a widow, and with a child to support, was happier than this well-dressed young lady.
Presently, as her little boy brushed unceremoniously past Meg, causing her to open her eyes, the woman ventured on a remark.
"I hope my little boy don't annoy you, Miss," she said. "He do get so restless travelling. I can't keep him quiet no how."
"I don't mind him," said Meg wearily. "Have you come far?"
"Just the other side of Elminster. I've been to see my father and mother," she added. "I've not seen them for six years and of course they've never seen my boy. May I make so bold Miss as to ask if you're going all the way to London?"
"Yes. I'm going to London," said Meg. "What kind of a place is it? I've never been there."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed the woman. "Why I've lived in London ever since I first went to service. I expect you'll have a good time. There's no end to see, what with pictures and cinemas and the like. I expect you've friends coming to meet you at the station, Miss."
"No. I've no one coming," said Meg.
The woman looked at her.
"I'm afraid you're in trouble," she said softly, for Meg had closed her eyes and was again leaning her head against the back of the carriage.
Meg did not answer at first but kept her head turned away from her questioner.
"I know what trouble is," said the woman. "I lost my husband three years ago, and my little girl ten days after him. I didn't think I'd ever get over it; but God helped me through."
"But you've got a father and mother," said Meg, turning dreary eyes towards her. "I've no one."
"To think of that!" ejaculated the woman. "Poor dear! Have you lost them all?"
"Yes," said Meg.
"All dead?"
"No. They are none of them dead. But they are as good as dead to me."
"Have you gone and done something very bad my dear?" asked the woman with concern.
"No. But I've lost them all. And I've not a friend in the world that cares whether I'm dead or alive."
"Come, come," expostulated the woman, "I'm sure you're making a mistake. You're running away from them all I'll be bound. A young lady like you isn't likely to have no friends. Take my word for it your friends are all longing for you to go back to them."
Meg laughed bitterly, and remained silent, so silent that her companion thought that she did not wish to talk; but as they neared London she could not refrain from asking another question.
"What are you going to do when you get to London, Miss?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know where you're going! But that ain't safe. There 're wicked people about that takes advantage of a girl like you. Beg your pardon, Miss, I ought to have said young lady."
"No," said Meg hastily, "I'm no lady. I tried to be one and failed. That's just my trouble. I ought never to have tried."
The woman was silent. She began to wonder what sad story was connected with the sweet looking girl opposite to her.
They were nearing London. Meg looked out on the backs of the houses that they passed, and grew frightened.
"Is this London?" she asked fearfully.
"We are getting near. Ain't there a lot of houses?"
"It's dreadful."
"You'll soon get used to it. I wish I knew of some nice rooms to tell you of. You oughtn't to be alone. If it wasn't that I have such a poor place I would ask you to come along of me. But it ain't fit for such as you."
"It's very kind of you," said Meg. "But I shall make my way somehow. I shall be all right."
Yet when she emerged from the train and stood among the crowd on the platform at Paddington station she felt in a maze of fear. Where to go or what to do she did not know. She was utterly bewildered.
The little widow had said goodbye to her with a kind shake of the hand, wishing her good luck, and now the girl felt absolutely alone. She hesitated as to what to do next.
Suddenly a well-dressed woman came up to her and asked her if she was waiting for anyone and if she could be of any service to her, she supposed she was looking for friends.
Looking at the face of the woman Meg shrank back instinctively, and moved away.
But the woman was insistent.
"If there is anything that I can do for you," she said, "I'll be glad to do it. I can tell you of comfortable lodgings and reasonable. It isn't fit for young ladies to be alone in London, and I make a practice of meeting the trains so that no girl whose friends fail to meet her need find herself alone."
Meg stood bewildered. The woman seemed kind, but her instinct told Meg to have nothing to do with her. However, being quite at a loss as to what to do, she was just about to accept the proffered help, when she felt her arm touched, and on looking round saw the little widow standing by her side.
"If you don't mind my poor place," she said looking anxiously at the girl, "you're welcome to come home with me." Then taking her arm she gave it a little pull.
Meg took the hint.
"I shall be glad to come," she answered and hurried away.
"Oh, my dear, my dear," cried the widow, "I'm just thankful that I thought of turning back and seeing after you. Anyway, though I'm poor, I'm respectable and will do my best for you. I'm thankful that you didn't go with that dreadful woman. You don't know the wickedness of cities. Keep close to me, my dear. We'll take this bus and we'll be home in a quarter of an hour. You won't mind it being poor will you? It's a deal better to be poor than to be wicked."
Meg, pale with her experience, sat thankfully in the motor bus by the widow, and wondered if she would ever get out of London again. Already she hated it. Why did people stare in the way they did? It frightened her so that she sat as close to her friend as possible and wondered if she would ever venture into the streets alone.
A quarter of an hour afterwards she was standing in the little room belonging to the widow, looking out on a dingy street crowded with the poorest of the poor. They were over a small greengrocer shop, and in the street below there were stalls piled with vegetables, fruit, fish and other eatables. The smell of these provisions ascended through the open window and made Meg turn sick, but she was thankful to be safe, and full of gratitude to the good woman who had given up her own little bedroom for her.
"I can put a shake-down on the floor easily in the next room," she said cheerfully, when Meg expostulated, "and Tommy won't know the difference. I'm more accustomed to roughing, I take it, than you are. To-morrow perhaps we may find something more comfortable for you. But anyway, my dear, you won't come to no harm here."
Meg stood looking down at the hurrying crowd. There were dirty lace curtains hanging before the window and a sickly geranium in a little red pot on the sill.
Everything in the room looked grey with dirt to Meg's eyes. She glanced around comparing it with the room with the white paper covered with roses at Friars Court, and thought of the smell of lavender that she had delighted in when she lay in bed her first night there.
Then her thoughts flew to the still garden in which she had stood only this morning, with her feet on the dewy grass and the birds singing to one another. What a contrast?
As Meg stood looking down into the narrow grey street she could see nothing but sadness and dreariness in the faces of the passers-by. The cries of the hawkers ascended into her ears and the rumble of omnibuses and cabs. Oh why had she come to London? Why had she not been content to roam the sweet lanes once more, to sleep out under the stars, even though that meant weariness and sometimes hunger. Anything was better than this. To find herself in a barn or under a hedge would seem paradise compared to this close breathless atmosphere, this hot summer air laden with the scent of stale vegetables, fish, and refuse of all kinds.
She looked round for a chair on which to sit, and found there was only one in the room, and that broken and moreover in want of a washing. Meg did not know what London smuts could do, nor that her kind friend was a constant scrubber and prided herself on her cleanliness.
It was only after they had sat down to a dinner of stew and potatoes that a ray of hope entered the girl's heart.
She told Mrs. Webb, for that was the widow's name, her story, and mentioned the fact that the only way in which she could hope to make a living was by her voice; singing at concerts or giving lessons.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Mrs. Webb after hearing all that the girl had to say, "I'll go straight round to our clergyman and tell him that I've a rare singer along of me that 'ud be pleased to sing at the next Parish concert, and just ask his advice. I expect you'd get pupils when they've heard you, and you wouldn't mind singing for nothing would you now, if it was to lead to that."
The thought put a little hope into Meg, till, as she lay in her small hard bed at night, she suddenly remembered that there was no one to care if she sang well or not at the concert. Then tired out she fell asleep, and dreamt that she heard Sheila's voice saying eagerly—
"You won't disappoint me, Meg dear, will you?"
To send for Peter was Sheila's first thought when she heard to her dismay that Meg had fled from Friars Court. Her heart had almost stopped beating when the news was brought to her. The look on Miss Gregson's face as they met at breakfast was one of deep anxiety and distress.
"Something must be done at once," she said in a firmer tone than that in which she usually spoke to Sheila.
"Of course something must be done," said Sheila irritably, "I have sent for Peter."
Miss Gregson gave a sigh of relief. Mr. Fortescue would tell them what to do. What a mercy that Sheila had sent for him so quickly. She felt sure too that their friend would hasten to their help; that was his way when anyone was in trouble. Miss Gregson blessed him in her heart. Even now she saw the good man hurrying up the avenue towards the house; he had lost no time; and the expression of his face as he came into the room satisfied her that he was as convinced of the gravity of the occasion quite as much as she was.
Sheila started up from the breakfast table and faced Peter with a look of apprehension. Her conscience was smiting her and she dreaded having to confess to her cousin, whose heart overflowed with kindness, the cause of Meg's disappearance. What would he think of her?
"Is it true," he asked, "has Meg really run off?"
"Yes, this morning before breakfast. Walter found the side door unlocked. She must have gone very early."
Peter looked gravely at the distressed face before him.
"What made her go?" he asked.
"She was upset I think," said Sheila breathlessly. "What happened at the concert disconcerted her."
"But of course you did all you could to ease her mind. I know she was afraid you would be vexed, but I assured her that she need not fear. Something more must be at the back of this flight. I suppose it couldn't have anything to do with that young man."
Sheila was silent and rather white.
"It's most mysterious," added Peter, "as she had no wish to see anything at all of him and was so devoted to you. It is much more likely that she was unhappy about something connected with you. Had you been scolding her?" he asked the question with a half-smile.
"Yes. But she could not have been so silly as to feel it so much as to run away. I was vexed with her and told her so."
"I am sure your scolding could not have been severe."
"Yes it was. You see I was very cross with her. I felt her conduct was disgraceful and I told her so."
Peter looked grave.
"You don't mean that seriously do you?"
The gravity of his face had the effect of making Sheila excuse herself quickly.
"Yes I do," she said. "You must confess that Meg was very extraordinary at the concert. I was really obliged to speak to her."
"But not in such a way as to hurt her."
"I didn't of course mean to hurt her. But it made me hurry to say a thing that I had been intending to say for a long time."
"What was that?"
"That I felt that it was time for her to earn her own living." Then as Sheila saw a strange expression pass across Peter's face she hastened to say, "I gave her a whole month in which to find work, and you can't accuse me of not doing all I could to train her to support herself. I don't see, Peter, why you should look like that."
"Were you tired of your plaything?" he asked quietly.
"Dreadfully," said Sheila. "You know, Peter, that I have always told you that some people get on my nerves and Meg is one of them. I see you think me horrid but I can't help it."
She was looking at her cousin eagerly, not understanding his expression of face, and hoping that he would not judge her harshly. His extreme quiet deceived her; perhaps he did not think so badly of her as she feared.
"And you told her to go?"
"In a month's time," said Sheila, breathing a little quickly, for Peter was looking at her so strangely. All the softness had gone out of his face. She felt she was standing before a judge, instead of talking to one of whom she had always imagined she could turn round her little finger.
At her answer he moved away towards the window.
Sheila followed him laying a hand on his arm.
"Do you think me quite horrid?" she asked.
"What steps have you taken to find her?" was his answer.
"We have looked everywhere in the garden and park and I have sent Walter to Elminster to find out all he can. But he has come back baffled."
"Has she no friends at all?" asked Peter. "Except that young man? Did she ever talk of anyone to you to whom she may have gone?"
"No, I'm afraid she has no friends," said Sheila, and her own assertion added to the shame she was beginning to feel at her action. "I was afraid," she added, "that you would not approve of what I have done."
"Approve of what? Of sending a friendless girl adrift in the world? A girl who would have laid down her life for you, and whom you taught to love all that you enjoy? You are right. You could scarcely expect me to approve of that."
"Oh, Peter!" Sheila looked at him reproachfully. He had never spoken so severely to her nor looked so stern. She burst into tears.
He took no notice of her tears.
"Every step must be taken to find her," he said shortly, "and to place her in a place of safety. It is terrible to think of a girl like that alone in the world, and," he added, as he turned to look at Sheila, "it is sad indeed to think that she is placed in this condition by one who has all the good things of life around her. I am disappointed in you, Sheila. But I must go and see what can be done."
Peter ordered his cart and drove at once to the carpenter's shop and asked for the address of the young man who had put up the platform at the Court for the concert.
"What kind of a man is he?" asked Peter.
"All right I think, Sir. I have no fault to find with him, except that he is a bit dreamy sometimes. He came home from Friars Court the day before yesterday, saying that he wished to end his engagement with me as soon as possible. I asked him on what ground, and he had nothing to say for himself. I told him, however, he must stay anyhow till to-day as I was depending on him. He's a good workman."
After getting Jem's address from the carpenter Peter drove to a street in the centre of Elminster, and throwing the reins to his man made his way into a dark court in one of the houses of which he had been told Jem had his lodgings.
As he was about to knock at the door it opened and the man he was looking for appeared. Jem fell back a pace or two at the sight of his visitor, then his eyes flashed dangerously.
"Do you live here?" asked Peter. "If so, may I come in?"
Jem turned round without a word, leading the way up some dark rickety stairs. At the top he turned a handle and Peter found himself in a room low and comfortless. Only bare furniture could he see, and the furniture did not exactly match with the man who used it, who looked at his visitor with a pair of honest though fierce eyes.
It was some time before Peter could make Jem understand the drift of his words. The man seemed dazed when he told him of Meg's disappearance. But when once he took in that she had fled from Friars Court he sprang from his seat in agitation and took up his cap, which he had flung on the table.
"Do I know where she is?" he said roughly and fiercely in answer to Peter's question. "Am I likely to? Meg don't want no more of me. I've made sure of that. It ain't likely that after what she did at that house she'd come and look me up. But for all that I shan't leave off looking after her. Now she's left the Court I'm her only friend, and if I don't see after her, no one will." Then he leant his hands on the table and looked Peter fiercely in the face.
"I'd just like to know though why she left. If anyone was unkind to her I'd wish to repay them."
"It was a surprise to everyone at the Court," answered Peter. "And she left no word of explanation. That's why I came to you. I knew you were her friend."
"You knew it? How did you know it?" demanded Jem roughly.
"Because she told me," said Peter quietly, watching the effect of his words on the face of the man before him.
Jem's mouth worked as he tried to keep down his emotion. Then Meg still looked upon him as her friend. He breathed quickly.
"I'll seek her till I find her," he murmured in a low voice, "and if luck don't come my way I'll die seeking her."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Peter gravely. "You took her by surprise the other day. But my belief is that she depends upon you more than on any human being, though perhaps she hardly knows it herself just at present. I also mean to search for her."
"You?"
"Yes, I. The young lady she lived with is my cousin, and for her sake I don't mean to leave any stone unturned. My cousin is very unhappy about it all."
But the words instead of comforting his hearer had the opposite effect. He sank down in his chair and looked hopelessly at Peter.
"Then it must be me after all," he groaned. "If you've all been kind nought must have driven her away but the sight of me. She's afeard of me. I might have known how it would be."
"You make a mistake; she didn't leave because of you. I can't explain, and we're only wasting time and words, but I'm going to the station now and shall interview the station master, and you'd better come with me in time to catch the next train if we find she has one to London or elsewhere by rail."
Jem rammed his hand into his pocket and brought out a few silver pieces. Then after counting them he put them back and looked across at Peter.
"I can't go by rail," he said, "I must tramp it. No," he added as he saw Peter take out his purse, "I won't be beholden to any man. I'll tramp it. I've tramped many a mile already looking for Meg and I'll do it again. It ain't no hardship to me."
"No, but it is losing time. Think what harm your friend may get into while you are tramping day after day. For her sake, and I will add for all of our sakes, you must allow me to pay your expenses. I can't go myself to-day, but it is your bounden duty to do so. And remember you are bound to apply to me for more when you run short."
This put another complexion on the matter. Peter waited while Jem gathered together his few belongings into his small bag, and then the two drove to the station and on finding from the station master that Meg had gone off to London by the early train that morning, Jem determined to follow by the next and was soon on his way.
Peter drove home wondering what would be the end of it all. He was satisfied that Meg's friend was an honest, trustworthy young man, whose love would make him leave no stone unturned to find the lost girl. But his own heart was sad, and he paced up and down the terrace of the garden for hours that night thinking of Sheila and wondering how he could help her to be what he had believed her capable of being.
MEG awoke the next morning to the sound of dripping rain. She had been dreaming of Friars Court, and had thought she was in the garden listening to the birds. When she awoke she was listening to the rain. Instead of the sun streaming in, making the white wall gleam and shine, the dirty white curtains before her window were blowing on to her bed, and she could see nothing but grey wherever she looked.
A church clock chimed seven, but she was in no hurry to rise although she heard the little widow bustling about in the adjoining room which served for a parlour and kitchen, and last night for a bedroom also, for herself and her boy.
Sounds from the street found their way up through the open window, and the smell of herrings which Mrs. Webb was preparing as a surprise for breakfast, was mingled with the unsavoury atmosphere below.
Meg turned her face to the wall and wept. She wished she could die. There was nothing to look forward to, no work to take up her time, no books with which to beguile the hours away, and the knowledge that the only money she possessed in the world had already somewhat dwindled in her pocket during the journey, was troubling her mind. Well, when that was finished she would have to die. That was all.
The cheery voice of the little widow interrupted her sad thoughts.
"My dear, the breakfast is nearly cooked, and I have to be out at my work in half-an-hour's time. I've brought you some hot water. You're used to that I'll be bound."
"I've a mind to stop in bed," said Meg.
Mrs. Webb looked at her visitor aghast.
"Stop in bed! Ain't you well?"
"Oh yes, I'm well enough I suppose," said Meg drearily. "But I don't see any use in getting up. I haven't got anything to do."
"You've got your work to find," said Mrs. Webb briskly. "It don't do no good to lie and fret. I take it you're just fretting, and that ain't right nor wise. Come, my dear, take my advice and get up. I've ever such a nice herring for you. You want food I guess."
"Very well, I'll get up," said Meg.
When she had dressed and taken her seat at the breakfast table she noticed for the first time that Mrs. Webb had got on her bonnet.
"You're not going out are you?" she asked.
"Why, to be sure I am. I shouldn't get along in this world if I wasn't in good work. And you'll be busy too I take it before you've had time to turn round. What do you mean to do, my dear?"
Meg looked hopeless.
"I can't think. I'm not fitted for service. I only wish I was. But I don't know the commonest things. I can only sing, and I should be frightened to sing in London streets now. My courage is all gone. I shouldn't have had a fear two years ago."
"It'll come back," said Mrs. Webb, cheerfully. "But I tell you what. I wonder if you'd mind giving your room a scrub to-day? It ought to have been done, but this last week I've been away. I'd be ever so grateful if you would."
"I'll do the best I can," said Meg. "But I must look for another room too. I can't let you sleep to-night in here."
"Tut, tut, my dear. Don't you worry about that. And, by the bye, I've got good news. The lady upstairs is leaving I hear, so you can get a room in this house if you've a mind to. It would be nicer for you than to be among strangers."
Meg felt thankful. She had been dreading finding a room for herself and clung to this woman who had befriended her as her one safeguard against all the horrors of London.
So when Mrs. Webb had left, leaving Willie in her charge, Meg set to work to scrub, but never having been taught housework of any kind she found it wearisome and difficult, and moreover grudged working in this way as she was wearing her one and only dress.
Mrs. Webb came home to find the floor of the bedroom wringing wet and with little chance of its drying in the damp weather.
"You've used too much water," she said. "It'll take long to dry I fear. But you don't know no better, poor dear, so don't worry."
"I only wish I'd been taught useful things," sighed Meg, "besides reading and writing. I was only taught to sing."
"Aye, it's a pity," answered Mrs. Webb. "I don't hold with all that they teach in the schools neither. The piano I believe, and drawing and such like; what have we got to do with them things. What the children want to learn is to scrub and dust and sew. I don't hold with the edication now-a-days."
"Anyhow I can read," said Meg. "I could teach Willie his letters if you like."
"That would be real kind of you. But my dear you mustn't sit at home all day. Willie can go along with you and show you the shops in Oxford Street and Regent Street. He knows the way well enough. And this evening I mean to go to our Rector and tell him about your voice."
But though Mrs. Webb managed to get the Rector's sympathy for Meg without any difficulty, and he arranged for her to sing at the next parish meeting, Meg could not fulfil her engagement.
The confinement, close air, and poor food had upset her, and she lay sick for many a day greatly to the poor little widow's concern.
Meg had moved into her own room, having bought a few bits of furniture, and had made it as bright as she could with a pot or two of flowers in the window and a clean curtain, and she kept her window wide open day and night; but the summer was an unusually hot one and the girl drooped before she had been a week in London. One morning as Mrs. Webb came back from her work expecting to find Meg with Willie, she found he had seen nothing of her, and on knocking and getting no answer she opened the door to find the girl in bed in a state of high fever. Mrs. Webb was not aware that Meg, fearing that her money would come to an end before she had earned any with which to replace it, had been living on next to nothing; so that when she was attacked by fever she had no strength to resist it.
The girl was moaning and tossing from side to side.
"You ain't well, my dear," said Mrs. Webb.
"It's my head," groaned Meg. "It's so terrible hot. Can you give me a drink of water?"
"Surely, and I'll send for the doctor right away."
"No, don't send for the doctor. I ain't got no money to pay him. And it don't matter. I want to die. Just leave me."
"I'll get an order for the parish doctor," said Mrs. Webb. "And don't talk so foolish about dying. You're not going to die. Not a bit of it."
Meg groaned.
"I wish I could. I wish I could," she sighed. "No one wants me. No one would care if I died."
"That ain't true my dear. I guess that young man you told me about, your Jem as you call him, would be mighty put about to find you dead. Men don't forget like that."
"Yes they do. Jem has a right to forget because I turned my back upon him. They've all forgotten. Sheila and Miss Gregson and the lot of them. I want to die."
"You'll be better by and bye," said Mrs. Webb, putting a kind though hot hand on the girl's forehead. "And anyway God hasn't forgot you."
"Hasn't He? How do you know? I've prayed many a time 'O God, take care of me,' and look at me now."
"And ain't He answered your prayer?" said Mrs. Webb. "How about that wicked woman that tried to get hold of you? If it hadn't been that I had been sent by that very train where would you be now? Wasn't it God that took care of you then?"
"Yes, I suppose He's given me you," said Meg, the tears coursing down her face. "I'm afraid I've been ever so ungrateful talking like this, you've been more than kind; and you're the only friend I have in the world."
"Come, come, my dear. Don't worry over it, there's a dear. It won't do you no good to cry. I'll go for the parish doctor and see what he says about you."
By the time Mrs. Webb had returned, delirium had set in and Meg was talking softly and hurriedly to herself.
"I'd do anything to please you," she whispered, turning her head restlessly from side to side, "and I'll try hard to talk grammar. It ain't because I don't try. Oh! hark, that's the night hawk. Miss Gregson do go away and leave me, I ain't fit for fine company. Jem! Jem! Jem!"
When the doctor came, he ordered Meg off to the Infirmary.
WHEN Meg awoke to consciousness she looked about her in consternation. She was in a large ward containing many other beds, and as she looked with startled eyes around, it gradually dawned upon her that she was in the Infirmary. From the sunshine, brightness and comfort of Friars Court to the Infirmary. Meg turned her face to the wall and wept. The iron had entered into her soul, she wished she could die.
She felt she was forgotten and absolutely alone. The pain at her heart was so fierce and strong that it was almost unendurable. She could scarcely trust herself to think of Sheila. She felt that had it not been for her she might still have been comparatively happy, tramping the lanes and sleeping under the stars.
What had been the good of taking her up in the way she had done and then casting her off? Meg wished she had never seen her; that she had never entered Friars Court, that Miss Gregson and Mr. Fortescue had never crossed her path. What good had it been? It had only made her discontented with her own life and unprepared for the struggle that she had now to face.
And what had been the good of Sheila's apparent love and kindness? It had not been worth having, it was nothing to be compared with Jem's love for her, the love she had spurned and turned her back upon.
Tormented with these thoughts Meg tossed about too depressed to look again at her surroundings. Then she heard a faint sound coming from the bed next to her own. She turned to listen and look.
An old woman lay gazing at her as she murmured words that arrested Meg's attention.
"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."
The voice was very weak, and the owner of it very old, but the patient lay looking at Meg with a pair of sweet calm eyes. The gray hair was brushed smoothly over the forehead, and the whole aspect of the woman spoke of peace and content.
Meg looked away from her to the other occupants of the ward. At the opposite corner lay a woman who constantly burst out into idiotic laughter. No one took any notice of her.
Across the ward was a little group of women chattering. They were all more or less in a state of convalescence, and their voices were loud and coarse. Meg occasionally caught the sound of oaths and foul language. She stopped her ears not to hear.
But the woman lying so still and peaceful by her side seemed quite oblivious of all her sad surroundings. Had she been in a palace she could scarcely have looked more contented. She kept repeating the words of comfort, looking at Meg all the time.
"Why are you so happy?" asked Meg.
The old woman looked dazed for a moment. Then she murmured, "Neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."
After that, Meg did not venture to speak to her again. The woman was evidently past making any kind of mental effort, but she kept repeating the same words, and smiling at the girl.
Meg was feeling too sad to return the smile. She lay and stared at her fellow sufferer, wondering how she could possibly be so peaceful in such surroundings. She envied her.
In the morning the bed was empty.
For some days after the death of the old woman, Meg lay in a kind of stupor; then one morning she awoke to the full perception of what was going on around her. The darkest hour of her life had arrived.
A fierce rebellion took possession of her. Looking around at the faces of her companions in misfortune, she could see nothing but marks of sin, reckless despair, or sullen indifference, and now that the restraining influence of the old saint had been removed, Meg took no pains to shut her ears to the profane and foul language that abounded.
She had tried not to listen so long as the old woman had lain and smiled at her from the next bed, but now she sat up and laughed fiercely. She felt a bitter inclination to join with these others as the oaths were flung about with violence; a reckless spirit seemed to take possession of her, and the language, instead of making her shrink away in horror chimed in with her present mood. Meg had come to the turning point of her life. The crisis was at hand. She was on the verge of disaster; standing on the very brink of the road that leads to hell. She could see nothing before her but sin, darkness, and despair.
She flung her arms above her head and laughed, a mirthless bitter laugh, so bitter that a woman who now lay in the next bed to her turned round and stared. But the girl offered no explanation of her action. Instead she gazed up into the sky, which she could see from the opposite window, with wild angry eyes.
When night came she tossed from side to side full of misery, then lay wide eyed still gazing up into the sky.
A star had fixed her attention. Her eyes were riveted upon it, and against her will she found her thoughts wandering into the garden at Friars Court, and she stood once more on the dewy grass in the morning sunshine, looking up at her bedroom window from which she could catch a sight of the picture of the Good Shepherd rescuing the lamb. It brought to her mind the voice of Miss Gregson as she had explained the picture to her on her first arrival at the Court. She remembered how she had listened with interest, and then had forgotten all about it in the delightful excitement of her life. She was unconscious of the need of a Saviour. Now all had changed for her. She felt as if in a dark pit; without hope. Her need was great. She was conscious that she was standing on the edge of a precipice, and the faintest push would mean death and darkness to her.
She groaned, stretching out her hands over the coverlet as if groping for something.
Then out of the depth she cried, and something wonderful happened.
The same experience has been undergone by many a soul that has lain in darkness and the shadow of death.
It happened to Musgrave Reade, the atheist, at "the height of his rebellion against God"; to Max Muller, Professor of Comparative Philology at Oxford, as after many years of prejudice and neglect of the New Testament, he opened it again. It happened to St. Paul as he rode on his way to Damascus, breathing out threatenings and slaughter against the disciples of the Lord.
So as Meg lay looking up into the starry sky with despairing eyes, a "still small voice" spoke to her, and in the darkness, she listened.
From that moment life was changed, for she had found a Friend and a Saviour.
No one came to meet Meg when, having recovered from her illness, she left the Union. She knew that Mrs. Webb could not do so on account of her work, so was not disappointed. But she was surprised to find how pleased she felt as she drew near the unsavoury street in which Mrs. Webb's rooms were located.
She looked up at the window of the room in which she had slept on first arriving in London. How she had hated the room that day! Now the one above it stood for home, and she thought of it with tenderness.
Meg was still feeling weak, and walked slowly up the stairs, pausing at Mrs. Webb's door. She knew that her kind friend would not be at home, but Willie would in all probability be there. She opened the door gently. Willie was playing with a broken toy on the floor and recognising his visitor he jumped up and threw his arms round her.
Meg clasped him close. She felt she had come to her own folk. "Oh Willie, I am glad to see you," she said. Her voice trembled with emotion, as she recognized that this was the first home coming that she had ever had in her life.
Willie tugged her towards a chair and then seated himself on her knee.
"I've two secrets to tell you," he said in a loud whisper. "Would you like to hear them?"
"Ever so much," said Meg with shining eyes.
He threw his arms round her neck, nearly throttling her in his anxiety to whisper right into her ear.
"We're going to have sausages to our dinner," he said, "and mother, she say you're to have it along with us. She's got them for you."
"Oh, how nice!" said Meg, but she was thinking of the sensation of having the child's arms around her, not of the sausages.
"Ain't you fond of sausages? I am, and mother she got 'em on purpose for you. You ain't had 'em I guess where you've been."
"I'm ever so fond of sausages," said Meg.
"It's part of my birthday treat come before the day," continued Willie.
"When is your birthday, Willie?"
"It's to-morrow that ever is, and I've got another just lovely secret for you. You like my secrets don't you?"
"I love them."
"Well then, bend your ear down as no one must hear this one as it's just lovely. Where do you think we're going to-morrow, me and you and mother?"
"I don't know, I can't guess."
"You'd never guess if you sat up all night. It's ever so far away. Miles and miles and miles. Where do you think it is?"
"I can't imagine. Tell me."
"Why it's on to a heath. It's to be my birthday treat you know. What, ain't you glad?" Willie looked amazed as he saw tears falling down Meg's face.
"I'm so glad that I don't know what to do," said Meg sobbing.
"But you're crying." The boy put up his little hand to wipe away the tears. "I thought you'd just be thinking it lovely. Mother said you would."
"And so I do, Willie," said Meg laughing hysterically. "I'm just delighted. It's because I'm so happy that I'm crying. People do sometimes you know."
"I don't think you really like it," said the child, slipping off her knee and surveying her dejectedly.
"I like it more than anything you can think of," said Meg, wiping away her tears. "I'm a bit tired I suppose, that's all, dear. But oh, Willie, I'm glad it's your birthday to-morrow."
A great sob escaped her. To think of being again in the country! Of lying out on the heath under the sun! Of drinking in the sweet pure air! It seemed almost too good to be true. But she tried for the sake of her little companion to restrain her inclination to sob out loud again, and instead looked up laughing. Willie was reassured. He knelt, resting his elbows on her knee and looking up into her face.
"Mother, she say she'll take off my shoes and stockings and let me run about on the grass without 'em. Won't that be fine. You'll do it too won't you?"
"I shouldn't wonder if I did. I shouldn't wonder at anything," said Meg laughing.
"And we're going to take our food along of us and sit out on the grass and eat it. Won't that be fun? I expect you've never done such a thing before, have you?"
"It'll be lovely," said Meg anxious not to clamp the child's pleasure by telling him she had eaten her dinner out of doors scores of times.
"And we shall go in the train first. I've once been in a train before, when I went to see my Granny. And then I've another secret, but that ain't till to-morrow. Mother says I'm not to tell you that."
When Mrs. Webb came home she found Meg on the floor playing with Willie and his broken toys, looking perfectly happy and contented. It quite surprised her. And she also noticed that Meg's eyes were bright and full of courage and hope. She looked a different creature to what she had been before her illness.
"I'm ever so glad to be at home," she said.
"It's a poor home, my dear, I'm thinking. But with your fine voice you won't be here long I take it. I've been talking to folks about you and I've been telling the lady for whom I work, and she means to try and help you to get pupils. You won't be long with us I guess."
"I shan't leave you," said Meg. "This is my home, the first I've ever had. It's mine you see, and I can be myself."
Mrs. Webb, though pleased that the girl seemed so contented, did not understand it. Considering that only six weeks had passed since she was living in the lap of luxury, it was strange that she did not seem to dread the privations before her. She would have been still more perplexed if she had been able to read the thoughts that were flitting through Meg's brain.
For the girl was recognizing the fact that once more she was free, free to live her own life without let or hindrance; free to be herself and not obliged to copy another. And behind this knowledge was the fact that SOMEONE cared; that she possessed a Friend Who would never cast her off and that in trying to please Him, instead of losing her own personality, He would help her to perfect and ennoble it. In fact she was tasting for the first time the liberty of Christ's service: Whose service is perfect freedom.
Not that Meg could possibly have put her vague thoughts and feelings into words. Had she been asked what had happened to make her look at life so differently and with such hope and courage, she would probably have answered in the common parlance of the London factory girl, "I've turned," and perhaps no words could have expressed or explained better her present position.
Her face was turned towards the light, and consequently a different view of life had presented itself.
The glory of the Radiant City was transfiguring the landscape, and it was only behind her that the darkness of despair lay.
Even her thoughts about Sheila had changed. Bitterness had now no place in her heart.
"She made a mistake, that's all," she would say to herself. "She didn't mean to hurt or harm me, and she was wonderful good to me." And Meg began to think that she saw now why she had been brought so low. Had she lived on at Friars Court, possibly she would never have recognized her need of the Great Friend because the lesser friend was engaging all her thoughts.
Looking at Meg, Mrs. Webb began to wonder if to-morrow's excursion might not prove too much for her strength, but when the morning broke and the sun shone down in its glory, she felt that a day in the country would be just the thing for the girl. And she saw that Meg was anticipating it greatly.
"My lady when I asked if she could let me off to-day seemed as anxious as I that we should go. I was telling her about you, Meg. And now Willie just you run into Mrs. Green's and get that secret I told you about. There's a good boy."
The secret proved to be a lovely red rose which he handed with pride to Meg.
"It's Mrs. Green that's given it to me," he said, "and told me I might give it to you. She's mighty pleased to hear you're back, she say, and I'm to tell you it's the last rose of summer."
"How kind," said Meg. "But where did she get this rose? It's just a beauty."
"Her uncle he's a gardener and came to see her yesterday. It comes from the country, and mother says you must wear it as it's my birthday."
Mrs. Webb made Meg take her arm to the station and told Willie to walk the other side of her so the girl found herself well-guarded on both sides. She felt delightfully happy.
* * * * * *
Jem was feeling discouraged and anxious. He had been seeking for Meg for six weeks and without any result.
He had been fortunate in getting odd jobs to do in which his days were employed, but his evenings were spent in search. Many a time he thought he had a clue, always to be disappointed, and as the days passed he grew more and more anxious. London struck him as a place full of pitfalls, and the thought of Meg alone and uncared for, almost paralyzed him at times with fear. He was growing thin and pale, and was often so tired with his efforts that he could not sleep.
He had obtained a job in one of the suburbs of London to which he went daily by train, and the day on which Mrs. Webb took Meg and Willie into the country, found him at the same station but on another platform to the one from which the train for Hampstead Heath started.
He was leaning against the corner of a smoking carriage looking weary and despondent, lazily watching a train that was slowly moving out of the station. The train was so close to the one in which he sat that he could have shaken hands with the people in the carriages which were passing him.
Suddenly he became aware that coming towards him was a carriage out of the window of which leant a head of auburn hair.
The head was uncovered, for Meg, having a headache, had thrown off her hat. As Jem caught sight of her she was leaning far out with her eyes fastened on him.
The carriages were nearly opposite now. They both stared at one another as if dazed, then Jem sprang to his feet and tried to wrench open the door. He must get to her; there would be just time in which to spring on to the foot rail for the train was moving very slowly. But the door being locked resisted all his efforts. The veins on his temple stood out like cords, as he was conscious that the speed of the train was increasing. Then something hit his shoulder and fell at his feet and the next moment a curve in the line took Meg out of his sight.
Jem dropped into his seat gasping, and took out his pocket handkerchief to wipe his forehead. His disappointment was so bitter that he could only groan. Then suddenly his foot touched something and on looking down he caught sight of a deep red rose. The expression of his whole face changed, as he realized from whom the rose must have come and gradually it dawned upon him that the girl who had looked at him with such startled eyes from the moving train was Meg of the heather rather than Meg of Friars Court. There had been none of the queenly dignity he had noticed on the day of the concert, which had seemed to put her at such a distance from him as she had stood on the platform dressed in her shimmering green dress. The head of hair that leant out of the window was a little rumpled, and the look of the eyes had been eager and excited. Jem, as he remembered these things, could have shouted for joy. Supposing that Mr. Fortescue had been right and Meg after all loved him still! But no, he must put that wild idea out of his mind; the possibility of being a second time disappointed was unbearable; he would not build his hopes so high.
But it was something to know that Meg did not repulse him, had leaned out of the carriage window towards him instead of hiding from his sight, that she had evidently forgiven him his mad action on the day of the concert. It was everything too to know that she was alive and apparently happy. He picked up the rose and stuck it into his button hole, with the resolve that it should stay there till Meg herself replaced it with another, for the sight of the girl had filled him with fresh courage and a firmer resolve to look for her till he found her.
Meanwhile Meg, after throwing the rose, looked round at Mrs. Webb with love light in her eyes.
"It was Jem," she said in an awed tone of voice.
Mrs. Webb had been watching the extraordinary conduct of her companion with astonishment. It had been quite a shock to her, and she was experiencing a keen sense of disappointment. To think that such a nice respectable girl should so lose her sense of what was right and proper as to throw a rose in at a carriage window to a strange young man. Mrs. Webb's sense of propriety was outraged.
At Meg's words however she began to wonder if the poor girl was going daft.
"My dear, you shouldn't do such things," she said.
"It was Jem," repeated Meg, a wonderful smile radiating her face, "and he didn't scorn me."
"Sit down," urged Mrs. Webb, "you're fairly done that's what it is. I ought never to have let you come. Sit down and be quiet there's a good girl. You ain't well."
Meg laughed joyously.
"Not well! Oh, what nonsense! Why I'm feeling better than I've felt for weeks. Don't you understand that I've just seen Jem? and I gave him my rose. You don't mind, Willie, do you?"
But Willie looked up with a face red with anger. As Meg caught his hand intending to give him a kiss to make up to him for her action he pushed her away.
"You've given away my rose," he cried, "the rose I gived to you this morning. She shouldn't have done it, should she mother."
"I'm sorry," said Meg laughing, "but I couldn't help it. When you're a man you'll understand. Come give me a kiss and make it up."
But Willie would not be reconciled, he gave her a kick instead. The kick hurt the girl, but she scarcely felt it, her mind was full of the joy of seeing Jem again.
Mrs. Webb began to think that after all perhaps Meg might be speaking the truth.
"Are you sure it was Jem?" she asked doubtfully.
"Sure! How could I make a mistake? And he's forgiven me. I believe he's looking for me, and if so he'll find me. He found me last time."
The rest of the day passed like a dream to Meg. She lay out on the heath in the sunshine with a heart full of happiness.
"Jem will find me," she kept thinking, "and he's forgiven me."
MISS GREGSON'S knitting was a source of real comfort to her during this time.
It soothed her troubled mind, for not only did the thought of Meg sadden her, but also Sheila's extraordinary callousness.
While Mr. Fortescue was leaving no stone unturned in his efforts to get a clue to Meg's whereabouts, Sheila threw herself into every kind of gaiety, in apparent complete forgetfulness of her cruel behaviour towards her protégé. Miss Gregson watched her employer with surprise and concern. It would have consoled her to know that the girl passed many a restless miserable night, shedding tears of remorse when no one could see her. Her pride forbade her showing any anxiety before others, being determined that she would give them no excuse for thinking that she considered herself to blame in the matter.
But in the presence of her cousin Peter Fortescue, her pride had no place. He had not hidden from her what he thought of her conduct; and had told her plainly that he felt ashamed to think that one of his own family could have acted in the way she had done. More than once the girl had been reduced to tears before him.
He told her that he blamed himself and everyone who had had to do with her, in giving way to her fancies and combining together to spoil her. They ought to have seen to it too, that she did not live in such culpable ignorance of the world of sin and sorrow around her. They had hidden sad facts, instead of enlightening her in such a way as to help her to feel for and sympathise with the misery of her fellow creatures. But this did not, he explained, exonerate Sheila in the least from the severest blame for her heartless conduct.
Sheila had never before seen the stern side of her cousin's character. She had always looked upon "dear old Peter," as she called him as the incarnation of gentleness and kindness. From her childhood she had been accustomed to run to him in her childish sorrows, knowing that however naughty she had been he would dry her tears and make her smile again. He had never failed her yet. And the girl was aware, that though Peter was showing this strange stern side of his character, he was not failing her now. She always respected those who dared to tell her the truth about herself, and Peter was pitiless in the way he held up before her her conduct towards Meg. Her conscience was now beginning to work, making her realise that the picture her cousin drew of her was a true one. It depressed her dreadfully.
Miss Gregson, as she sat one day in the drawing-room knitting and thinking, saw Sheila enter and sink down into one of the large comfortable armchairs with a book in her hand.
The girl was looking depressed and unlike herself.
For a long time she read silently, the distressed pucker of her forehead showing that it was not the usual novel in which she was so engrossed but some book that evidently surprised and worried her.
Miss Gregson watched furtively. At last noticing very evident emotion depicted on Sheila's face she said:
"What is that book, my dear, that you are so interested in?"
Sheila held it up for her to see the title.
"It's rather a sad book isn't it?" remarked Miss Gregson. She had not read it, but the title proved to her that it depicted life among the poor in its darkest colours.
"Yes, it's a dreadful book, full of horrors and misery."
"Then why read it?"
"Because you see, Angel," said the girl letting it drop on to her knee, "I've been living in a false world. Peter says I ought to know something of the life of those less favoured than I am. I expect he's quite right. I haven't known and I haven't cared. If I had," she added, her voice trembling, "things would have been different."
"What things, and how different?"
Sheila was silent, biting her lips. She was trying to keep down the bitter tears remorse was causing. She did not want Angel to know how terribly guilty she felt herself to be. After a moment in which she recovered herself, she said in a low voice:—
"I'm thinking about poor Meg."
"Ah!" said Miss Gregson, a feeling of thankfulness taking possession of her.
"I've been kept in ignorance of things I ought to have known," said the girl bitterly. "Peter says at my age it's disgraceful that I am so ignorant of the sufferings and sorrows of my sisters, as he calls them, and advised me to get hold of some literature on the subject so as to get enlightened. I found this in the library. Why have you never tried to tell me that I was living in a false world?" she demanded.
"My dear, I have tried, but you always—"
"Oh yes, I know," interrupted Sheila, "I wouldn't listen to anything that wasn't pleasant. It isn't your fault, poor Angel. It's because I've been so abominably self-engrossed and selfish." Then after a pause, she added, "If we don't find Meg I don't know what I shall do. I can't sleep at night for thinking of her."
"Mr. Fortescue is leaving no stone unturned," said Miss Gregson.
"I know, but it may be too late. Poor Meg may be dead by this time. I saw Peter this morning and he tells me the man Jem spends all his spare time looking for her. He has not yet given up hope. I can't tell you how many letters Peter has written. If I find her I shall try and do all I can to make her life happy. That is to say if she will let me. If not, perhaps I could help her through you or Peter. He said something about the possibility of getting the man back as estate carpenter or something of that sort. Jem assures him he would never receive charity. Peter has taken a fancy to him, and hopes if Meg is found she will reward his faithfulness by marrying him. But oh, Angel, if she is lost for good," added Sheila, unable to restrain her sense of wrong doing any more, "I think I shall die of remorse."
Miss Gregson knew Sheila well enough to know that this mood would pass, but she had a firm hope that she had learnt her lesson, and that, besides reading sad books about the state of the world, she would turn to the only One Who could teach her to do the best for that corner of it in which He had placed her. Till she knew what it was, like Mary, to sit at His feet and learn to be meek and lowly, Miss Gregson had little hope of her feeling permanent sympathy for her sisters' sorrows and sufferings.