MEG awoke the morning following the expedition to Hampstead Heath, full of courage. She knew she must set to work without fail, or the very few shillings that remained of her five pounds would be exhausted.
"I mean to go and see the Rector," she informed Mrs. Webb who had come up to her room to give her a look before starting off to her work.
"If you like to wait till the evening I'll go round with you," Mrs. Webb answered. But Meg longed to set to work at once, and moreover did not feel any fear at interviewing the Rector.
So ten o'clock found her in his study.
It was a large room, the walls of which were lined with books. In the centre stood a writing table at which Mr. Wentworth was sitting. He laid down his pen as the servant opened the door to admit Meg. His visitor corresponded curiously in appearance with the description he had just received of a girl for whom search was being made.
Mr. Wentworth had heard of Meg from Mrs. Webb, but had not been told her story and was not prepared for the lovely girl who now sat gravely before him. Before he asked her why she was anxious to see him he turned over several letters that lay on his desk and placed one before him.
If the details tallied he would have the delight of being the means of setting his friend's heart at rest.
As Meg told him her story, with reservations, however, she noticed that his attention often seemed to be wandering to the letter before him. She was somewhat discouraged; on the other hand his manner was so kind and sympathetic when he turned towards her that she told him more than she had intended. At the close he looked up with a smile.
"And now what do you want me to do for you?" he asked.
"Mrs. Webb tells me you sometimes have parish concerts. I was wondering if you would let me sing. Perhaps in that way I might get pupils."
"And what songs can you sing?"
The Rector had pushed the letter, that had engaged his attention, on one side, and now sat with his elbow on the table resting his head on his hand and looking kindly at the girl.
Meg gave an exclamation of dismay.
"I've just remembered that I left all my songs at Friars Court," she said colouring with vexation, "so I can only sing unaccompanied. That wouldn't do, would it?" She looked at him anxiously.
"Why not?"
"I don't suppose they would care for unaccompanied songs."
"Could you sing 'The Last Rose of Summer?'" he asked with a smile.
Meg could not interpret the smile. There was almost a look of mischief in it.
She flushed.
"I'd a deal rather not," she stammered.
"Rather not? But it is one of my favourite songs. I wonder now why you dislike it."
"I don't dislike it, but I made up my mind I'd never sing it again. You see I told you it brought Jem to me, and I turned my back on him. I couldn't sing it again. I hate the song."
"And if it brought him again would you still hate it?"
"How could I?" said Meg quietly. There was a tone in her voice which Mr. Wentworth noticed and interpreted.
He rose.
"Well then I don't see why you need mind singing it," he said holding out his hand to her. "I should like much to hear it again. I have not heard it for years and it does not signify in the least that you will have to sing it unaccompanied. I have a Temperance meeting in my schoolroom to-morrow night. Come and sing 'The Last Rose of Summer' to please me."
Meg had not gone many minutes before Mr. Wentworth, taking his hat from a peg in the hall prepared to go to a Committee Meeting at which he was due at half past ten o'clock. On the way to the vestry he stopped at a post office.
He smiled as he wrote the following telegram.
"'The Last Rose of Summer' will be sung in my schoolroom to-morrow at eight o'clock." He was never so happy as when he knew he was making others so. The telegram was to Peter Fortescue and was addressed to the London Hotel where he was staying.
* * * * * *
Meg was feeling nervous as she put on her hat and prepared to go to the schoolroom. All her courage seemed to have forsaken her.
When Mrs. Webb had looked in on her early in the morning she found the girl pacing up and down in trepidation.
"I can't do it," she exclaimed to her friend. "I don't believe a note will come to-night. I can't think why I am so frightened."
"It's because you ain't strong yet. That's what it is, my dear; you should have taken my advice and not tried to sing yet awhile."
"I wish I had," said Meg looking at Mrs. Webb with distressed eyes. "I don't think I shall get through. It's so funny, as I wasn't a bit nervous when I sang to the grand company at Friars Court."
"Well, you must just do the best you can. You see you've promised and it would never do to draw back now. And you might practice a bit on Willie and me when I come home to tea. It would give you courage."
"If only I hadn't promised to sing 'The Last Rose of Summer,'" sighed the girl.
"Don't you worry my dear. That's my advice. It don't do no good to worry," and Mrs. Webb hurried away leaving Meg in a state of miserable excitement.
And now she stood before the looking-glass arranging her hair under her hat.
She was sorry that she had nothing better to put on for the occasion than her tweed coat and skirt, for these, having been drenched with showers more than once and worn at all times, began to look somewhat shabby, and her hat was certainly the worse for wear. But these were minor matters. It was the nervous fright in which she found herself that was her chief trouble.
She had sung over her song to Mrs. Webb and to Willie, but finding that her voice was rather weak had not ventured to sing it more than once and felt terribly out of practice. However, she knew that there was now no drawing back, so set out for the schoolroom at a quarter before eight o'clock. Mrs. Webb was on one side of her and Willie on the other. His mother was allowing him, for a treat, to stop up late so as to hear Meg sing, and the boy was full of excitement.
Arrived at the schoolroom they found it filling fast, and on the platform Meg saw the Rector in conversation with one or two of those who were going to take part.
There was to be a reading as well as music, and a short address on Temperance.
When Mr. Wentworth caught sight of Meg he came to meet her and showed her to a seat just below the platform, where she could have Mrs. Webb and Willie by her side.
As the evening wore on the girl grew accustomed to her surroundings. The audience was not a formidable one; in fact she looked around her rather disappointed, as there seemed few in the room who could possibly afford singing lessons, so that she feared, as far as her future was concerned, the meeting might not be much of a help. But this fact, though it was disappointing, helped to restore her nerve. It was pleasant to know that she could give pleasure. So when at last Mr. Wentworth called upon her to sing, she was relieved to find that she was not so fearful as she had expected to be.
Perhaps it was a good thing that she did not catch sight of the chairman's face as she began. He had opened a little door at the back of the platform and had smiled at someone whom he evidently found there. He left it open and returned to his seat with a face full of delight.
Since Meg had last sung she had passed through deep waters. She had known what it was to feel absolutely alone and forsaken, to experience darkness and the shadow of death; she had as it were had a look into Hell. It was impossible that these experiences should not affect her singing. When last she had sung the "Last Rose of Summer" she was living in the midst of comfort and luxury; and though the pathos in her voice had affected people to a marked degree, it was nothing to the emotion that was stirring in the heart of one present this evening.
Hidden from view on the other side of the door, leading off the platform, sat a young man, a rather rough looking man with a pair of bright blue eyes, a red handkerchief tied round his throat, and a faded rose in his buttonhole. As Meg's pure voice, rich, and full of feeling was wafted towards him, he bowed his head on his hands and sobbed.
The audience inside the room were also full of appreciation. Many of those present were mothers with babies in their arms, who had been looking forward to a good cry or a good laugh this evening, they cared little which, so long as their emotions were stirred. And they were not disappointed. It was the look of the singer almost as much as her voice that stirred them. Mrs. Webb boldly took her handkerchief out of her pocket and cried, and Willie, not knowing what it was all about, and seeing the tears on his mother's face, set up a howl.
"I must take him out," said his mother to Meg as the latter, having finished her song, came back to her seat. "You won't mind coming home alone, will you? He's sleepy, poor little man, that's what it is."
The meeting over Meg rose to go, but the Rector asked her to stay for a moment, while he shook hands with his flock, as he wanted to speak to her.
Meg was a little disappointed when after the last person had disappeared, and the Rector returned to her, that he said nothing about singing lessons, but simply thanked her for her help, adding with a smile, "particularly for putting your feelings on one side and singing my favourite song." Then he told her that she would be saved several steps if she left by the door behind the platform. "God bless you," he said. To Meg those three words seemed to mean much, as the tone in which they were spoken was that of a prayer, and took off the edge of disappointment at nothing being said about the possibility of her getting pupils.
"Perhaps he doesn't think I sing well enough," she thought as she mounted the platform and passed through the door into the lobby; then she paused breathless, for at the outer door stood Jem.
Without a word Jem placed her hand on his arm, and piloted her out from among the crowd that was lingering around the door.
"Don't you be afeard," he said quietly, "I've learnt my lesson. I'm not worthy to black your boots; I know that well enough by this time. But I'm going to take care of you for all that."
"Jem dear," murmured Meg, while the tears filled her eyes, "Jem dear."
It was all she could say; words had deserted her. The sight of the bright blue eyes that had met hers, had unnerved her completely, and the wonderful feeling of being cared for again, and protected, robbed her of ordinary powers of speech.
"Just tell me where to take you," he said again, "and I'll see you safe home. I'm here to take care of you, not to worry you."
"Jem!"
"I see you're a bit upset. Don't try to talk. I don't want no words. It's done me a sight of good just to know you're on the earth still and to have heard you sing again. But tell me where to take you."
"Jem, let me speak. I'm just ashamed."
"Ashamed? You've no call to be. There's them that think a lot of you and they wouldn't do that if there was ought to be ashamed of. But you ain't the one for me that's what it was. Don't you now go and talk ill of yourself. I was a bold fool to think for a moment that I'd got any right to you, or could be anything more than one just to take care of you. You were only an ignorant girl when you gave me that promise on the heath, mind that Meg, and I was a brute to think of keeping you to it. No, don't try to talk. You're upset and I don't want to frighten you again. Just tell me though, are we going the right way?"
But what did it matter to Meg what way they were going. Jem was with her. "Oh, Jem, if you'd just listen and let me tell you how sorry I am, and how I'd like to cut that day of the concert right out of my life."
"Out of your life! Why it did me a sight of good. It just brought me to my senses. How I could ever have thought of it I can't tell. Are we going right?"
They had been walking fast and far; quite unconscious of the direction in which they were tending. It was raining, and neither Meg nor Jem had an umbrella; but love was warming their hearts, and they were unconscious of the wetting they were getting. Love when at its height takes small heed of such matters.
"Yes," said Meg with a soft laugh, "any way is right to-night. You're just wonderful, Jem."
Then it suddenly struck Jem that he was scarcely acting the part of protector, as he felt the cold rain beating about his face.
"I must take you home," he said with determination in his voice. "It would be poor love on my part if I let you catch cold the first time we've met. But tell me where to go."
They walked silently home after this. Meg's hand had stolen into his and he held it with a feeling of rapture. What did it mean? He was too overwhelmed to question, still more to talk of other matters. She had given him her hand. His heart beat wildly. At the door of the house in which Meg had her room, they stopped.
"Jem," said Meg.
He still had hold of her hand and did not speak.
She stood looking up into his face and could not misunderstand the love light in his eyes.
"It's just the other way," said Meg. "It's I that's not half good enough for you. I think I was mad that day, dear."
Jem let her hand fall.
"Take care what you say," he said hoarsely, "take care! If you say a word more than you mean I guess it'll drive me mad this time. I've lived through a lot since that day but I can't do so again."
They were standing in the lobby at the foot of the stairs. It was dark and uninviting. The rain was dripping off one of the pipes that ran outside the house. The smell of the fish and stale vegetables still lingered about, but the two who stood there were unconscious of their surroundings.
"Jem, if you'll have me I'm ready," said Meg softly. "I'm ready whenever you can take me to Church. I won't disappoint you this time."
Jem trembled and leant against the wall.
"Be careful, Meg, be careful," he implored, "if you say it again I'll be bound to keep you to it. Don't say a word more than you mean."
Meg stretched out her hands to him. He held them fast.
"It was 'The Last Rose of Summer' that brought you again," she said, laughing quietly, though tears were raining down her face, "and I'll give you a rose to wear at our wedding."
THE END.
W. JOLLY AND SONS, LTD., ABERDEEN.