PETER'S OPINION
WHO on earth was that?
Peter Fortescue had come to see Sheila after having been away for three
weeks, and as he made his way towards some chairs he saw placed on the
lawn, he had come face to face with a stranger.
What a lovely girl! He had never seen such a wealth of auburn hair or
such expressive eyes as she turned towards him. He was perfectly sure
too that she was wearing one of Sheila's dresses.
Where had this new friend of Sheila's sprung from?
Peter lifted his hat and asked if she could tell him where Miss
Dennison could be found. The answer, or rather the words in which the
answer was given, gave him a shock. It neither matched the face nor the
frock. What did it mean? This must be due to some freak of his young
cousin—some preposterous freak.
He turned in search of her and on entering the hall caught sight of
Sheila flying down the stairs to meet him.
"I've got such a surprise for you," she exclaimed. "Have you seen her?"
"I suppose your surprise is sitting at this moment in the garden, isn't
she?" said Peter.
"Don't you think her lovely? And did you notice her hair? Come," she
added, "I want to tell you all about it."
Sheila led the way into the library where she told her story.
"You are not half so interested in it as I thought you would be,"
said the girl, when somewhat out of breath she came to an end of her
explanation, "or is it that you don't approve. You might say something."
"You have not given me time to speak," said Peter laughing. "We can't
both talk at once."
"How disagreeable you are! I've been longing to tell you, and you make
no comment whatever."
"Do you want me to say what I really think about it? Yes? Very well
then; I wish you had consulted me before you made any definite plan
about keeping this girl. The plan is fraught with difficulties, and in
fact is quite impossible."
"But what difficulties are there? I could understand your view if Meg
was not a really nice girl, but she is sweet, and so ready to learn.
She is a most apt pupil."
"Then you have, I suppose, constituted yourself as her teacher?"
"Yes, why not? You laugh, Peter, but I can do rather more than you
imagine when I put my mind to it. I mean to turn her out a lady."
"My dear child, ladies are not turned out."
"Well then I mean to help her to grow into a lady, is that better? She
is trying hard to copy me, and it is quite touching to see what pains
she takes in speaking. But come, I want you to talk to her," she added,
as she led the way into the garden.
"By the by," said Peter, "has this young woman relations or friends who
are likely to demand her?"
"I'll tell you about that another time," said Sheila as they came in
sight of Meg.
The girl rose at the sound of their voices. She was wearing a tweed
coat and skirt and white blouse, and as she stood under the chestnut
tree, her auburn hair gleaming in the sunshine, Peter could not but
confess to himself that she was extraordinarily pretty. There was no
timidity about her; she looked him straight in the face with fearless
eyes.
"You've chosen a lovely spot for your chair," said Peter.
"Yes," answered Meg, "it's just lovely. Them flowers are gorgeous in
that bed there, I've seen none like 'em. The heather and the bracken is
all I know about, you see."
"Then you know about something very beautiful," answered Peter. "There
is nothing more lovely than heather and bracken. Even this garden does
not come up to a Scotch moor."
"Yes," said Meg simply, "when the sun shines on it or the clouds pass
over it, turning it all colours, the heather is just beautiful."
Sheila stood by delighted at the impression that she was convinced Meg
was making on Peter. She was pleased too as she noticed that the girl
was taking special pains to speak softly. Sheila had talked a great
deal to her about her voice, and her words were evidently taking effect.
So anxious was Sheila to hear Peter's opinion of her protégé that she
would not allow him to stay too long talking with her.
"I have a lot to talk over with you," she said after a few minutes
conversation. "Come and see the new beds I have had arranged by the
lake." Then when they were out of earshot she asked, "Well? didn't I
describe her correctly? Don't you think she is lovely?"
"Yes. But I don't approve of the plan any more than I did."
"Don't approve! Why, what is wrong with her?"
"Nothing. She strikes one as a thoroughly nice young woman, but I
think it is the most cruel thing you can do for her, to rob her of her
freedom and to keep her here."
Sheila stood still, confronting Peter with an expression of deep
indignation in her eyes.
"Cruel? What on earth do you mean? I'm doing the kindest thing I
possibly can. I'm treating her like a sister. She is to share my
pleasures and all that I have. I can't understand what you mean."
"I'll tell you what I mean. When I was a boy we brought from Wales a
little dog to which I took a great fancy, it belonged to a woman who
lived on the mountains, and the dog had lived a thoroughly free life. I
took it to London; we were living there at the time. The dog could only
be taken for walks at stated times and its whole manner of life was
changed. What do you think was the consequence? It drooped and died."
"That has nothing in the world to do with the question," said Sheila
crossly.
"On the contrary. That girl taken out of her proper environment will
suffer. She is a girl of the heather, and is not intended for your
world and its ways. I consider it is cruel kindness on your part to
make the experiment."
"Then I won't talk to you any more," said Sheila crossly, "I hate
pessimistic people. I consider it very wrong of you not to try and
encourage me in this good work. You are just like Miss Gregson. She
throws cold water on the whole thing. You had better go and groan over
it together. You are much more suited to her company than to mine."