FLIGHT
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?"