BROUGHT TO BAY
MEG woke up the next morning with a bad headache, and a feeling of
misery.
She had not seen Sheila since the concert, and dreaded the thought
of doing so. But what weighed on her mind still more was her conduct
towards Jem. It was no use trying to excuse herself with the
remembrance that she had been taken by surprise and had had no time
to make up her mind how to act. She knew in her heart that what she
had done when off her guard proved her state of mind, and it was the
thought of her ingratitude, that depressed her with a sense of shame.
She could not forget the expression of his bright blue eyes and his
eager radiant face as he had hurried towards her. She had not seen
such an expression on any face since she had last seen him. No one
had looked at her with such love ever since she had come to live at
Friars Court, and yet she had turned away from him! She had turned away
because she could not face the hardships that would have to be faced if
she put in her lot with Jem. How could she marry him now that she had
learnt what it meant to live in comfort and luxury?
Then her thoughts flew to Sheila. It was somewhat consoling to feel so
sure that had she welcomed Jem, Sheila would not easily have forgiven
her, and would then have had a right to think that all the advantages
she had given her had been ruthlessly thrown away. What would be the
use of the love of books and music, and all the other good things she
had learnt to appreciate, if she decided to marry Jem, and put in her
lot with him? Yet Meg knew that nothing else would satisfy him if once
they met as friends.
And surely her friend would accuse her of ingratitude if she
deliberately chose life with Jem. She was glad to remember this; for
her whole soul clung to Friars Court. Her world was filled with Sheila,
Peter, and Miss Gregson. Jem had become an outsider, only to be thought
of with tender pity and gratitude.
Meg sat by her open window waiting for the breakfast gong to sound,
with eyes that feasted passionately on the garden below. Now that there
had come a chance of her losing it, Friars Court and its occupants had
become doubly precious.
Sheila's love had disappointed her; but her own love for Sheila had
grown rather than diminished, and she would not for the world have
displeased her benefactor. But though the girl came to this decision,
she did not hide from herself that her action had been despicable, or
imagine that Jem would ever forgive it; neither could she endure to
think of his radiant smile being quenched. She tried to forget all that.
The garden was bathed in sunshine; the hum of the bees as they
fluttered among the flowers reached her ears, and the scent of the
roses that climbed around her window was wafted in upon her. She had
never quite realized how sweet the place was till this morning, nor how
deeply seated in her heart was her affection for it. No, she could not
leave! It would kill her. She was thankful to remember that in obeying
her own wishes she would be pleasing the one to whom she owed all she
possessed.
The gong sounded, and Meg made her way to the breakfast room with a
beating heart, as she knew she deserved Sheila's displeasure. She had
of course spoilt the concert to which her friend had been looking
forward, and possibly had debarred herself from ever again helping her
by her voice.
Besides, Sheila had constantly told her that self-control was
absolutely necessary to exhibit in the society among which she now
found herself, and what must she think of her now that she had so
completely forgotten the admonition in the presence of the many guests.
Sheila was reading letters by the window: she barely noticed Meg except
to say good-morning coldly.
But the girl did not resent this, nor was she surprised. This had for
long been her friend's way of showing her disapproval. Meg felt she
deserved it, and took her seat at the table opposite Miss Gregson
feeling in disgrace. She was somewhat cheered by the latter's kind
smile.
Miss Gregson had knocked at her door the night before, meaning to give
her a word of sympathy; but Meg was in bed and as she supposed asleep.
The girl had recognised the footstep but had felt too depressed and
weary to make any effort, so had not opened her eyes. Now however she
was grateful for the smile she received across the breakfast table.
Meg did not know that her kind friend's heart was yearning over her.
For Miss Gregson felt quite sure of the result of yesterday's action,
and that Sheila was probably planning to get rid of Meg.
Miss Gregson was coming to the decision that if Sheila parted with
Meg, she herself would make a home for her. She knew it would mean
the loss of much worldly comfort and ease; but Meg and she might find
some work together, and she had her hardly earned savings to fall back
upon. Anyhow she was determined that if Sheila was bent on carrying out
the inhuman proposition which she had hinted to her, she would not be
silent on the matter; and if she remained obdurate she would herself
give up her post; sorry though she would be to leave the pupil, who,
notwithstanding all her faults, was dear to her. Meg ate her breakfast,
quite unconscious that plans concerning her were filling the minds of
both her companions.
After breakfast Sheila put on her gardening gloves and taking her
basket and scissors passed out into the garden. Meg was about to follow
when Miss Gregson called her back. The girl noticed that there was a
pink flush on her face and that her eyes were bright. "My dear I would
not go out into the garden just yet if I were you; Sheila is, as you
see, feeling annoyed. Let her have time to work it off." The eagerness
of the voice was born of the desire to delay what she knew was coming.
Something might happen to prevent the catastrophe. Mr. Fortescue might
call and give advice. Meg must, for as long as possible, be saved from
meeting her fate.
The girl looked up in surprise.
"I want to explain," she said, "and to tell her how sorry I am. When
she knows what made me so silly I think she will not be vexed but
pleased."
"Pleased?"
"Yes. I think I did what Sheila would have wanted me to do."
Miss Gregson put her hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Explain to me first," she said. "Did you lose your nerve?"
"Yes. But not about singing. I wasn't a bit frightened of the people or
that my voice would not please. It was something quite different. It
was to do with Jem."
Miss Gregson was mystified.
"My dear, how could it have been to do with Jem. I don't understand."
The girl's eyes filled with tears.
"I scarcely like to tell you," she said, "it was so hateful of me. And
yet I don't know that you would have advised me to do anything else. I
remember you once told me you thought it might be right of me to run
away from him."
"You are talking enigmas. That young man you told me about could not
possibly have been at the concert. You are dreaming, my dear."
Miss Gregson began to wonder if the strain of the concert had been too
much for the girl.
"Jem was there," said Meg; "he was standing in among the trees of the
plantation all the time, but I never saw him till I sang 'The Last Rose
of Summer.' I wish, oh how I wish I had never sung it; I shall never
sing it again as long as I live."
"Are you sure you didn't imagine you saw him?" inquired Miss Gregson
with concern.
"No. I know it was Jem, and when he came towards me I ran away: it was
hateful, hateful of me; and yet I just believe that I'd do it right
over again. I don't want Jem. I couldn't leave you all."
Sheila's voice was heard calling in the garden.
"I must go," said Meg hurriedly. "But I feel sure Sheila will
understand and forgive when she knows. She would never let me have
anything to do with Jem—I know she wouldn't." Miss Gregson watched the
girl hastily making her way into the garden and sighed.
"What have you and Miss Gregson been talking about?" said Sheila, as
Meg came in sight, "I'm surprised that you have not already apologized
for your conduct yesterday. I suppose you are aware that you spoilt my
party."
"I've been longing to tell you how sorry I am, and to explain."
"Explain? I don't think an explanation is needed. It was stupid
self-consciousness of course on your part, and you never thought of
my disappointment or vexation. You have humiliated me before all my
friends; and then instead of coming to express your sorrow to me last
night, you went quietly to bed as if nothing had happened."
"I felt too miserable last night to tell you what happened."
"Nonsense," said Sheila irritably, "nothing happened. It was mere loss
of self-control on your part. Your conduct only proves to me that
environment is not as powerful as I imagined. I'm utterly disappointed
in you. Indeed I could never have thought you capable of repaying
my kindness in this way. You have made me ridiculous before all my
friends."
"I don't understand," said Meg slowly.
"I daresay not. It was foolish of me ever to dream for a moment that
the effect of all those years before I knew you could be washed out
like writing off a slate."
Meg stared at Sheila. What did she mean, she wondered; was she going to
send her away? The girl felt too stunned at the thought to speak.
It was as if in a nightmare that she heard Sheila's next words.
"Well, have you nothing to say?"
Jem was forgotten in the awful suspicion that Sheila wanted to get rid
of her. The girl's lips were white as she stammered out the question
the answer to which meant so much to her.
"Do you want me to go?" she asked faintly.
"Well, I can't say that I see much good in you staying much longer,"
said Sheila, turning away so as not to face those large pathetic eyes
that were fastened on her face. "I don't mean you need go at once. You
can stay a month to look round and to make your plans, and happily I
have put you in the way of earning your living. You ought to be able to
give singing lessons by this time."
For a moment there was silence, then Meg of the Heather forgot all her
efforts to please Sheila, and was once more the untamed wild creature
of the hedges and ditches.
"I ain't fit for all your grand friends, I reckon," she cried, while
she clenched her hands together in the anguish of her discovery, "and
you're going to throw me over just as you throw them weeds into the
basket. That's what I call bein' a fine friend. You that promised I'd
be your sister! I ain't good enough or grand enough. Well, I ain't
surprised," she added with a sob, "that's what I've done to Jem, and
it's all through your fine promises. If it hadn't been for you I say, I
should be happy sleepin' under the stars; you've been my undoin', and I
won't thank you," then with a sob Meg turned and fled, leaving Sheila
rooted to the spot with astonishment.
Meg did not come home for lunch. Miss Gregson's heart sank.
"Do you know where Meg is?" she asked.
"No. I had to speak sharply to her this morning and I suppose she is
sulking. There is something of the lion in that girl. Do you know,
Angel, that she has a most violent temper? I've done the deed," added
Sheila with a faint smile. "You mustn't blame me. I really can't stand
her any longer."
"Do you mean you have told her to go?" Miss Gregson folded up her
dinner napkin as she spoke and avoided Sheila's eyes. She was afraid
lest her own should express too truthfully the feeling the news had
aroused in her.
"Yes. But I've given her a month, in which to make her plans. But after
the wild manner in which she turned upon me I shall shorten the time to
a week. She isn't safe to have about the house. Now, Angel, why don't
you let out, I'm quite expecting an explosion from you."
But Miss Gregson did not rise to the occasion. Neither did she smile.
"How do you think the child is to live?" she asked quietly.
"I'm quite happy about that. No one can accuse me of sending her out
into the world unprepared. Even you must acknowledge after hearing her
sing at the concert, that I have fitted her for her future work. She
will be able to give singing lessons, and of course I shall make her a
present of money before she leaves."
Miss Gregson was silent.
Sheila laughed.
"I see you disapprove of me utterly. I'm a wretch, you think."
Then her companion put on her spectacles and faced her.
"I must tell you the truth at all costs," she said quietly, "and that
is that I cannot think how anyone calling herself a Christian could
possibly do such a cruel thing as you contemplate doing. It would have
been far better to have left her as you found her, to have sent her
to the hospital when she was taken ill on your doorstep, and when she
recovered to have tried to set her up in some good business. But to
take the poor girl out of her proper station of life, to shower gifts
upon her, to teach her to grow dependent on comforts and luxuries—quite
unnecessary luxuries—and then to cast her adrift is to my mind the most
un-Christian cruel thing you could possibly do."
"But then I don't profess to be a Christian, you see," said Sheila.
Miss Gregson looked straight at her former pupil. All fear of her, all
nervousness in speaking to her, had fled. She was too aghast at the
prospect held out for Meg to fear.
"You are ignorant my dear," she said firmly, "and do not perhaps know
the terrible dangers that are likely to befall a lovely girl like Meg,
who has no one to protect her. I do know, and I feel so strongly about
it that rather than let that poor child wander out into the world alone
I shall resign my post here. She and I will fight the world together.
I shall not let her be bereft of friends, particularly as I happen to
know what I suppose she has already told you, that that young man whom
she has mentioned more than once is hanging about here."
Sheila flushed. She had never contemplated for a moment the effect of
her action. That Miss Gregson should leave her was a blow that she had
not anticipated.
"What young man?" she asked.
"Did not she tell you? Yes, but surely she explained to you the reason
of her sudden flight from the platform."
"She told me nothing," said Sheila. She was flushed and cross and was
determined that Miss Gregson should not keep to her threat of leaving,
so resolved not to vex her by showing her anger.
"Told you nothing! But how strange! I thought she was going to explain
all to you. It was the sight of that tiresome young man of the name of
Jem, that scared her and robbed her suddenly of her nerves."
"I don't believe it," said Sheila knitting her brow. "You may say what
you like, but Meg is terribly deep."
"You are mistaken. Walter has been telling me," continued Miss Gregson,
"that the young man who came and helped the carpenter in the morning
appeared at the concert in the afternoon, and just as Meg was running
away he caught sight of him standing quite still and stupid behind the
guests. Walter's opinion is that the man was drunk. He hardly seemed to
understand him when he warned him off the premises."
Sheila flushed again. She was glad now that she had not hurried Meg
away quickly. A month would allow her full time to make arrangements,
and she herself would look out for pupils for her in a neighbouring
town. Sheila felt happier. She looked up at Miss Gregson with a smile.
"You've been rather hard on me," she said, "but I'll forgive you! You
are the only person in the world from whom I could bear such plain
speaking. And of course, dear Angel, you must not talk again of leaving
me. Just think how demoralised I should get if I had no one to reprove
me now and again. You are quite necessary to me if I am to keep within
bounds," and with a light laugh she walked away.
But Miss Gregson did not move. She sat lost in deep thought, and her
face was grave. Then she rose and went upstairs to her room.