SHEILA'S CONFESSION
To send for Peter was Sheila's first thought when she heard to her
dismay that Meg had fled from Friars Court. Her heart had almost
stopped beating when the news was brought to her. The look on Miss
Gregson's face as they met at breakfast was one of deep anxiety and
distress.
"Something must be done at once," she said in a firmer tone than that
in which she usually spoke to Sheila.
"Of course something must be done," said Sheila irritably, "I have sent
for Peter."
Miss Gregson gave a sigh of relief. Mr. Fortescue would tell them what
to do. What a mercy that Sheila had sent for him so quickly. She felt
sure too that their friend would hasten to their help; that was his
way when anyone was in trouble. Miss Gregson blessed him in her heart.
Even now she saw the good man hurrying up the avenue towards the house;
he had lost no time; and the expression of his face as he came into
the room satisfied her that he was as convinced of the gravity of the
occasion quite as much as she was.
Sheila started up from the breakfast table and faced Peter with a look
of apprehension. Her conscience was smiting her and she dreaded having
to confess to her cousin, whose heart overflowed with kindness, the
cause of Meg's disappearance. What would he think of her?
"Is it true," he asked, "has Meg really run off?"
"Yes, this morning before breakfast. Walter found the side door
unlocked. She must have gone very early."
Peter looked gravely at the distressed face before him.
"What made her go?" he asked.
"She was upset I think," said Sheila breathlessly. "What happened at
the concert disconcerted her."
"But of course you did all you could to ease her mind. I know she
was afraid you would be vexed, but I assured her that she need not
fear. Something more must be at the back of this flight. I suppose it
couldn't have anything to do with that young man."
Sheila was silent and rather white.
"It's most mysterious," added Peter, "as she had no wish to see
anything at all of him and was so devoted to you. It is much more
likely that she was unhappy about something connected with you. Had you
been scolding her?" he asked the question with a half-smile.
"Yes. But she could not have been so silly as to feel it so much as to
run away. I was vexed with her and told her so."
"I am sure your scolding could not have been severe."
"Yes it was. You see I was very cross with her. I felt her conduct was
disgraceful and I told her so."
Peter looked grave.
"You don't mean that seriously do you?"
The gravity of his face had the effect of making Sheila excuse herself
quickly.
"Yes I do," she said. "You must confess that Meg was very extraordinary
at the concert. I was really obliged to speak to her."
"But not in such a way as to hurt her."
"I didn't of course mean to hurt her. But it made me hurry to say a
thing that I had been intending to say for a long time."
"What was that?"
"That I felt that it was time for her to earn her own living." Then as
Sheila saw a strange expression pass across Peter's face she hastened
to say, "I gave her a whole month in which to find work, and you can't
accuse me of not doing all I could to train her to support herself. I
don't see, Peter, why you should look like that."
"Were you tired of your plaything?" he asked quietly.
"Dreadfully," said Sheila. "You know, Peter, that I have always told
you that some people get on my nerves and Meg is one of them. I see you
think me horrid but I can't help it."
She was looking at her cousin eagerly, not understanding his expression
of face, and hoping that he would not judge her harshly. His extreme
quiet deceived her; perhaps he did not think so badly of her as she
feared.
"And you told her to go?"
"In a month's time," said Sheila, breathing a little quickly, for Peter
was looking at her so strangely. All the softness had gone out of his
face. She felt she was standing before a judge, instead of talking to
one of whom she had always imagined she could turn round her little
finger.
At her answer he moved away towards the window.
Sheila followed him laying a hand on his arm.
"Do you think me quite horrid?" she asked.
"What steps have you taken to find her?" was his answer.
"We have looked everywhere in the garden and park and I have sent
Walter to Elminster to find out all he can. But he has come back
baffled."
"Has she no friends at all?" asked Peter. "Except that young man? Did
she ever talk of anyone to you to whom she may have gone?"
"No, I'm afraid she has no friends," said Sheila, and her own assertion
added to the shame she was beginning to feel at her action. "I was
afraid," she added, "that you would not approve of what I have done."
"Approve of what? Of sending a friendless girl adrift in the world? A
girl who would have laid down her life for you, and whom you taught to
love all that you enjoy? You are right. You could scarcely expect me to
approve of that."
"Oh, Peter!" Sheila looked at him reproachfully. He had never spoken so
severely to her nor looked so stern. She burst into tears.
He took no notice of her tears.
"Every step must be taken to find her," he said shortly, "and to place
her in a place of safety. It is terrible to think of a girl like that
alone in the world, and," he added, as he turned to look at Sheila, "it
is sad indeed to think that she is placed in this condition by one who
has all the good things of life around her. I am disappointed in you,
Sheila. But I must go and see what can be done."
Peter ordered his cart and drove at once to the carpenter's shop and
asked for the address of the young man who had put up the platform at
the Court for the concert.
"What kind of a man is he?" asked Peter.
"All right I think, Sir. I have no fault to find with him, except that
he is a bit dreamy sometimes. He came home from Friars Court the day
before yesterday, saying that he wished to end his engagement with me
as soon as possible. I asked him on what ground, and he had nothing to
say for himself. I told him, however, he must stay anyhow till to-day
as I was depending on him. He's a good workman."
After getting Jem's address from the carpenter Peter drove to a street
in the centre of Elminster, and throwing the reins to his man made his
way into a dark court in one of the houses of which he had been told
Jem had his lodgings.
As he was about to knock at the door it opened and the man he was
looking for appeared. Jem fell back a pace or two at the sight of his
visitor, then his eyes flashed dangerously.
"Do you live here?" asked Peter. "If so, may I come in?"
Jem turned round without a word, leading the way up some dark rickety
stairs. At the top he turned a handle and Peter found himself in a
room low and comfortless. Only bare furniture could he see, and the
furniture did not exactly match with the man who used it, who looked at
his visitor with a pair of honest though fierce eyes.
It was some time before Peter could make Jem understand the drift
of his words. The man seemed dazed when he told him of Meg's
disappearance. But when once he took in that she had fled from Friars
Court he sprang from his seat in agitation and took up his cap, which
he had flung on the table.
"Do I know where she is?" he said roughly and fiercely in answer to
Peter's question. "Am I likely to? Meg don't want no more of me. I've
made sure of that. It ain't likely that after what she did at that
house she'd come and look me up. But for all that I shan't leave off
looking after her. Now she's left the Court I'm her only friend, and
if I don't see after her, no one will." Then he leant his hands on the
table and looked Peter fiercely in the face.
"I'd just like to know though why she left. If anyone was unkind to her
I'd wish to repay them."
"It was a surprise to everyone at the Court," answered Peter. "And she
left no word of explanation. That's why I came to you. I knew you were
her friend."
"You knew it? How did you know it?" demanded Jem roughly.
"Because she told me," said Peter quietly, watching the effect of his
words on the face of the man before him.
Jem's mouth worked as he tried to keep down his emotion. Then Meg still
looked upon him as her friend. He breathed quickly.
"I'll seek her till I find her," he murmured in a low voice, "and if
luck don't come my way I'll die seeking her."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Peter gravely. "You took her by
surprise the other day. But my belief is that she depends upon you more
than on any human being, though perhaps she hardly knows it herself
just at present. I also mean to search for her."
"You?"
"Yes, I. The young lady she lived with is my cousin, and for her sake I
don't mean to leave any stone unturned. My cousin is very unhappy about
it all."
But the words instead of comforting his hearer had the opposite effect.
He sank down in his chair and looked hopelessly at Peter.
"Then it must be me after all," he groaned. "If you've all been kind
nought must have driven her away but the sight of me. She's afeard of
me. I might have known how it would be."
"You make a mistake; she didn't leave because of you. I can't explain,
and we're only wasting time and words, but I'm going to the station
now and shall interview the station master, and you'd better come with
me in time to catch the next train if we find she has one to London or
elsewhere by rail."
Jem rammed his hand into his pocket and brought out a few silver
pieces. Then after counting them he put them back and looked across at
Peter.
"I can't go by rail," he said, "I must tramp it. No," he added as he
saw Peter take out his purse, "I won't be beholden to any man. I'll
tramp it. I've tramped many a mile already looking for Meg and I'll do
it again. It ain't no hardship to me."
"No, but it is losing time. Think what harm your friend may get into
while you are tramping day after day. For her sake, and I will add for
all of our sakes, you must allow me to pay your expenses. I can't go
myself to-day, but it is your bounden duty to do so. And remember you
are bound to apply to me for more when you run short."
This put another complexion on the matter. Peter waited while Jem
gathered together his few belongings into his small bag, and then
the two drove to the station and on finding from the station master
that Meg had gone off to London by the early train that morning, Jem
determined to follow by the next and was soon on his way.
Peter drove home wondering what would be the end of it all. He was
satisfied that Meg's friend was an honest, trustworthy young man, whose
love would make him leave no stone unturned to find the lost girl. But
his own heart was sad, and he paced up and down the terrace of the
garden for hours that night thinking of Sheila and wondering how he
could help her to be what he had believed her capable of being.