Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "I DON'T WANT TO BE MARRIED YET, JEM DEAR. I WANT
TO BE FREE, YOU SEE."]
MEG
OF THE HEATHER
BY
EVELYN R. GARRATT
Author of "Peggy's Wolf," "Irene's Lame Dogs,"
"Against the World," "Free to Serve," etc., etc.
R.T.S., 4, Bouverie Street, London, E.C.4.
Contents
CHAP.
I. THE STORM
II. THE SINGER
III. ANGEL
IV. A DREAM OF LIONS
V. A CREATURE OF IMPULSE
VI. FAILURE
VII. ONE OF SHEILA'S SURPRISES
VIII. THE DRESSING UP OF MEG
IX. PETER'S OPINION
X. GOLDEN CHAINS
XI. SHEILA IS NOT PLEASED
XII. MISS GREGSON'S HEART SINKS
XIII. THE STARS AND THE DARKNESS
XIV. "THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER"
XV. REPULSED
XVI. BROUGHT TO BAY
XVII. FLIGHT
XVIII. SHEILA'S CONFESSION
XIX. A CONTRAST
XX. IN THE DARKNESS
XXI. THE ROSE THROWN FROM THE TRAIN
XXII. REMORSE
XXIII. JEM
MEG OF THE HEATHER
CHAPTER I
THE STORM
MEG lay face downwards on the heath. Her auburn hair gleamed gold among
the bracken, and her faded green dress mingled well with the pink and
green of her resting place.
She had chosen a comfortable couch on which to rest her tired limbs,
and of this she was fully conscious. She had been walking for hours
without food and her strength was nearly played out; but though tired
and hungry she was exulting in the fact that she was alone.
As she had stood panting for breath after her quick walk, which had
often turned into a run, she had looked all around to make quite sure
that no one was in sight, and on coming to the conclusion that she was
alone on the wide heath she had thrown herself down with a sigh of
relief.
It was good to be alone, her tired limbs resting on the soft grass
and her head buried in her folded arms. The quiet was as balm to her
spirit, and the sweet scent of the heather was better just then than
food. As a tired child creeps into his mother's bosom, so Meg felt
almost a human companionship in mother earth. And the sun in all its
glory poured down its beams on her auburn head and lithe young figure.
How long she lay there, half sleeping, half waking, she did not know;
but suddenly she was aroused to consciousness by a cold shiver which
made her start and sit up. She saw then that the heath was no longer
steeped in sunshine; but that its pink had turned into a deep coppery
colour, and that facing her were masses of dark cloud, edged with a
sulphurous yellow. A low peal of thunder greeted her ears.
She sat up now with her hand clasping her knees, looking with wild
excited eyes towards the dark sky. She was conscious that a fearful
storm was brewing, but the knowledge brought with it no fear; rather
she noticed its approach with exultation. It suited her present mood;
and as she watched the lightning playing around her, she laughed.
Suddenly she heard her name called, and sprang to her feet, looking
about her like a hunted animal. Then a hand was laid on her arm, not
too gently, and she was pulled down again to her place.
"Lie flat girl, or you'll be struck dead. Do you want to make a target
of yourself?"
The look of apprehension on the girl's face disappeared as she obeyed,
and not a moment too soon. A fearful flash, followed instantly by a
peal of thunder struck a tree close by, and a branch fell within a few
yards of her, withered and blackened.
Meg made a movement as if to spring to her feet, but her companion held
her down.
"Lie down," he cried, "lie flat, Meg. We shall be dead in a moment if
you don't heed what I say."
Meg buried her face again feeling a little frightened. They were silent
for some minutes, while they listened to the peals of thunder that
followed the flashes so quickly that they knew the centre of the storm
must be just above them. The rain was pouring down and Meg's companion
divested himself of his rough coat, threw it over the girl, and then
crept a little further away to a spot where he could get more shelter.
He lay and gazed at the head buried amidst the bracken, and in his
heart a tempest was raging, in harmony, with nature's wild mood.
Jem knew that he had come to a crisis in his life. Two ways opened
before him, one meant a life of misery and sordidness for his
companion, the other a possible escape from her present misery. But
this possible way was worse than death for him.
He was a tall young man, with an honest, rough looking face, surmounted
by a head of curly brown hair. His eyes were of the brightest blue,
almost fierce in their brightness. A red handkerchief was knotted round
his throat, and the hat which lay on the ground beside him was battered
and torn. But had you met him you would have looked at his blue eyes
rather than at his shabby clothes. These eyes were bent now on his
companion, and in their expression there lay almost a look of worship.
Neither of them spoke till the storm had worn itself nearly out and
the thunder had rumbled away in the distance. They were both hard at
work, thinking. Meg was shedding tears at the thought that her short
lived freedom had come to an end; while her companion was fighting for
her freedom in his heart. Should he tell her what would set her free?
Should he throw away from his own life the only thing that gave it
happiness? At one moment he made up his mind that he would keep the
girl in ignorance of the truth, at the next the sight of that little
head buried in the bracken made him feel that any sacrifice on his part
was worth making to secure her happiness.
At last he sat up.
"Meg," he said.
The girl did not answer or look at him. She was feeling too miserable
to make the effort, and too tired. Now that the prospect of freedom had
been taken from her, all her strength seemed to have ebbed away, and
she knew she was hungry and deadly weary.
"If I hadn't come just when I did," said the man, "you'd have been in
the place of that tree I take it. You were sitting right in the line. I
saw the flash go over your head. Ain't you glad I saved you, Meg?"
"I don't know," said the girl slowly: "no, I think I'm sorry. I'd as
lief be dead than go back to 'em all. The earth is kind: I don't see
why I should mind lying here for ever: I think I'd like it." She gave a
great sob as she spoke, and buried her head deeper in the bracken.
Her companion was silent for some time, still struggling within
himself; then he said, looking away from the prostrate figure of the
girl.
"There ain't no need as I know of for you to go back at all."
Meg sat up, while a look of incredulity crossed her face.
"But ain't you sent to fetch me?" she asked.
"No; they said you'd come back quick enough when you were hungry. I
came on my own account."
"Oh, Jem, why did you come?" she asked reproachfully. "I want to be
lost to 'em. I don't want ever to go back. Hunger won't drive me. I'm
hungry now, but I'd starve, rather than that. I hate 'em, mother and
father and all," Meg's voice rang out with passion and pain. "If I
can't get as far as Minton," she added, "I'll just go to sleep in the
heather and not wake up."
"Are you very hungry, Meg?"
"Yes," said the girl bluntly.
"You've had no breakfast?"
"No, I started as soon as there was a streak of light in the sky, and
I've been walking ever since. What's the time?"
"It's getting on for six o'clock. If you don't make haste the sun will
set and you won't get to Minton before dark."
The girl turned and gazed at her companion with a look of surprise.
"You seem to want me to go," she said.
Jem did not answer. He looked away from her towards the western sky.
The dark clouds had disappeared and the setting sun was shedding its
radiance once more over the heath. Meg noticed almost unconsciously how
it lighted up Jem's face.
She moved a little nearer to her companion.
"Jem, I don't understand. Why have you followed me if you weren't sent
to bring me back?"
"I came to tell you that as far as I can see there ain't no call for
you to go back at all if you've not a mind to. They can't complain or
compel you."
"Not father or mother?" exclaimed the girl.
"No. They ain't got no right to; they haven't had a right all this time
to keep you. You can leave 'em straight away if you've a mind to."
"But," persisted the girl, "there's mother."
"No there ain't. She's no mother of yours. She's my aunt, worse luck,
but she ain't your mother, and uncle ain't your father. You don't
belong to 'em by right and no one could compel you to go to 'em. They
know that right enough."
The girl looked dazed.
"She ain't my mother?" she said, "nor that man my father? But then who
am I? Where is my mother?"
"That I can't tell you. You're a child of a friend of Aunt's, but I
don't know who. She didn't want you, so let Aunt have you. That's all I
know."
The girl leant forward eagerly, looking up into her companion's face.
"Look at me, Jem. Look at me and say that you ain't tellin' me a lie."
The man turned and looked at her. His eyes blazed as only blue eyes can.
"Have I ever told you a lie?" he asked, "and do you think I'd be likely
to tell you this one?"
"How long have you known this?" asked Meg, breathing quickly.
"For a year come this October."
The girl sprang up clenching her hands.
"You knew it and yet never told me?" she cried. "Then you've acted a
lie for nearly a year and you've never given a hand to set me free,
though you have known how I have longed for it. You call yourself my
friend, and yet you've let me live the life of a dog all these years. I
call it—"
But while Meg was searching the depths of her brain for a suitable
word—a word in which to express all the scorn that she felt for her
companion, he had risen, and now stood towering above her and looking
down upon her with a dangerous expression in his eyes.
"You don't know what you're saying," he said sternly. "You don't know
what it means to me to tell you even now. It's just the killin' of me.
But you don't know and don't care. Do you think it means nothin' to me
to help to set you free? When I can't come along of you to see you're
safe and happy. You'll have no one to look after you and the world's a
wicked place."
The look of indignation on the girl's face was giving way to one of
tender surprise.
"I didn't know you liked me so well," she said, "or that you'd mind me
goin' so much."
He rammed his hands deep; into his pockets and stood looking at her
with the reflection of the sunset full on his face. He looked ruddy and
strong and good.
"If it wasn't for Steve we'd go away together," he said gravely, "and
we'd be married in the first church we came across, and then you'd
always have someone to look after you. But I can't leave Steve."
A look of amusement crossed the girl's face and a little laugh escaped
her; but it was cut short at the sight of a fierce flash from the blue
eyes confronting her. To marry Jem was not her idea of freedom, and
was the last thing she wanted to contemplate, but at the sight of the
expression which lay in the blue eyes she said meekly—
"I don't think I want to be married yet. Jem dear. I want to be free,
you see."
"You should be free."
"You say so now, but in a year or two you'd think differently I take
it. I daresay father said that kind of thing to mother when he went
courtin' her, but he don't care a hang for her now, and leads her a
pretty life."
"He ain't your father," said Jem roughly, "and don't you be a comparin'
me to that brute. Let me look at your arm. Was that him?"
The girl held out her arm and his eyes fastened on an ugly scar just
above the wrist. "The brute," he exclaimed savagely, "he shall pay for
that."
"What's the use," said Meg. "He was angry with me because I said I'd
never sing at the 'Cart and Horse' again. Nothin' vexes father like the
thought of losin' money. But it ain't worth bein' angry about, and if
I'm to be free what does it matter?"
"He shall pay for it," repeated Jem fiercely. Then after a pause he
said in a gentler tone of voice, "You'll take your freedom then, Meg?"
"Yes, I'll take it. But you've been ever so kind to me and I shall miss
you badly. Why don't you make up your mind to leave 'em all and get
good work."
"It's Steve. I can't leave the poor little chap to aunt's care. They'd
starve him if I wasn't there to see. They grumble as it is at the milk
he has to have. And when they move on they'll never give a thought to
him, or think if he's fit for a tramp. They ought always to put him in
the van, but they don't think ought about him. No, I can't leave him
yet."
"How much longer will they stay on Boxley Common?" asked the girl.
"I heard 'em talkin' of leavin' this mornin'. They've stayed there
longer than in most places, as that pit is convenient at night, but now
if you don't come back they'll leave sure enough. I saw this mornin'
when they found you'd gone that they were a bit uneasy, they were
afraid you might complain of 'em to the police. And now if you don't
come back they'll be off. But what do you mean to do?"
"I mean to be free. I shall go towards Minton this evening and beg a
night's lodging and some food, and if I can I'll work my way to London.
I can sing in the streets and earn enough to keep myself."
Jem looked at her anxiously.
"I hope you'll never sing again in a public house," he said.
"I shall sing in the streets," said Meg evasively, "and when I go to
London I shall see Bostock."
The lad's eyes glared.
"Not to be with the wild beasts?"
"Yes, why not? I'd be a deal happier with them than with father and
mother in that van; it only wants courage, Jem, and I ain't afeared."
Jem paced up and down in front of his companion to work off his
feelings.
"I shan't let you go," he said.
Meg laughed, showing a pretty row of little teeth.
"It'll be fun," she answered. "I'd love to hear 'em growl. It would be
excitin' and worth livin' for to tame a lion. You have to stroke their
paws through the bars first." She watched her companion's face and
laughed again. "I heard all about Bostock's advertisement in the 'Cart
and Horse.' I could earn seven pounds a week at Bostock's."
"You shan't do it," growled Jem.
"I'd love it," answered Meg. "I don't think I should be a bit scared.
And then I'd want you to come and look at me sittin' among 'em all when
my training was done. You'd like that wouldn't you? You'd be proud to
have known me I guess."
But the girl had gone too far. Jem caught hold of her wrist, holding it
in his iron grasp.
"If I thought you meant it," he said fiercely, "I'd take you back this
moment to the van. You'd best take care how you talk to me."
Meg laughed up into his face.
"I'm afraid they'd never take me. Why, what do you think they'd say to
me if I went to 'em like this," she added looking down at her dress.
"I'm not fine lady enough for them London folks. I fear there ain't
much chance for me."
But he still held her wrist, and stood looking down upon her with his
bright blue eyes.
"Promise me," he said, and his voice had a ring of tenderness in it
which touched the heart of his companion. "Promise me that you won't be
up to tricks, but will take care of yourself. Promise me now."
"Of course I shall," said Meg. "Don't you be afeared. I'm not a fool.
And I'll remember you, dear; I'll never forget you, and when little
Steve is dead and you leave 'em, marry you right enough."
He dropped her arm then, and without another look left her standing
alone among the bracken and heather.
Meg felt a lump rise in her throat, as she watched him out of sight.
Then she looked down at his hat which he had left behind him and which
lay at her feet.
She took it up and examined the battered crown with a tender little
smile hovering on her lips. Then with a laugh she stuck it on her head
and ran towards Minton and freedom.