REMORSE
MISS GREGSON'S knitting was a source of real comfort to her during this
time.
It soothed her troubled mind, for not only did the thought of Meg
sadden her, but also Sheila's extraordinary callousness.
While Mr. Fortescue was leaving no stone unturned in his efforts to
get a clue to Meg's whereabouts, Sheila threw herself into every kind
of gaiety, in apparent complete forgetfulness of her cruel behaviour
towards her protégé. Miss Gregson watched her employer with surprise
and concern. It would have consoled her to know that the girl passed
many a restless miserable night, shedding tears of remorse when no one
could see her. Her pride forbade her showing any anxiety before others,
being determined that she would give them no excuse for thinking that
she considered herself to blame in the matter.
But in the presence of her cousin Peter Fortescue, her pride had no
place. He had not hidden from her what he thought of her conduct; and
had told her plainly that he felt ashamed to think that one of his own
family could have acted in the way she had done. More than once the
girl had been reduced to tears before him.
He told her that he blamed himself and everyone who had had to do with
her, in giving way to her fancies and combining together to spoil
her. They ought to have seen to it too, that she did not live in such
culpable ignorance of the world of sin and sorrow around her. They had
hidden sad facts, instead of enlightening her in such a way as to help
her to feel for and sympathise with the misery of her fellow creatures.
But this did not, he explained, exonerate Sheila in the least from the
severest blame for her heartless conduct.
Sheila had never before seen the stern side of her cousin's character.
She had always looked upon "dear old Peter," as she called him as the
incarnation of gentleness and kindness. From her childhood she had
been accustomed to run to him in her childish sorrows, knowing that
however naughty she had been he would dry her tears and make her smile
again. He had never failed her yet. And the girl was aware, that though
Peter was showing this strange stern side of his character, he was
not failing her now. She always respected those who dared to tell her
the truth about herself, and Peter was pitiless in the way he held up
before her her conduct towards Meg. Her conscience was now beginning to
work, making her realise that the picture her cousin drew of her was a
true one. It depressed her dreadfully.
Miss Gregson, as she sat one day in the drawing-room knitting and
thinking, saw Sheila enter and sink down into one of the large
comfortable armchairs with a book in her hand.
The girl was looking depressed and unlike herself.
For a long time she read silently, the distressed pucker of her
forehead showing that it was not the usual novel in which she was so
engrossed but some book that evidently surprised and worried her.
Miss Gregson watched furtively. At last noticing very evident emotion
depicted on Sheila's face she said:
"What is that book, my dear, that you are so interested in?"
Sheila held it up for her to see the title.
"It's rather a sad book isn't it?" remarked Miss Gregson. She had not
read it, but the title proved to her that it depicted life among the
poor in its darkest colours.
"Yes, it's a dreadful book, full of horrors and misery."
"Then why read it?"
"Because you see, Angel," said the girl letting it drop on to her
knee, "I've been living in a false world. Peter says I ought to know
something of the life of those less favoured than I am. I expect he's
quite right. I haven't known and I haven't cared. If I had," she added,
her voice trembling, "things would have been different."
"What things, and how different?"
Sheila was silent, biting her lips. She was trying to keep down the
bitter tears remorse was causing. She did not want Angel to know how
terribly guilty she felt herself to be. After a moment in which she
recovered herself, she said in a low voice:—
"I'm thinking about poor Meg."
"Ah!" said Miss Gregson, a feeling of thankfulness taking possession of
her.
"I've been kept in ignorance of things I ought to have known," said
the girl bitterly. "Peter says at my age it's disgraceful that I am so
ignorant of the sufferings and sorrows of my sisters, as he calls them,
and advised me to get hold of some literature on the subject so as to
get enlightened. I found this in the library. Why have you never tried
to tell me that I was living in a false world?" she demanded.
"My dear, I have tried, but you always—"
"Oh yes, I know," interrupted Sheila, "I wouldn't listen to anything
that wasn't pleasant. It isn't your fault, poor Angel. It's because
I've been so abominably self-engrossed and selfish." Then after a
pause, she added, "If we don't find Meg I don't know what I shall do. I
can't sleep at night for thinking of her."
"Mr. Fortescue is leaving no stone unturned," said Miss Gregson.
"I know, but it may be too late. Poor Meg may be dead by this time. I
saw Peter this morning and he tells me the man Jem spends all his spare
time looking for her. He has not yet given up hope. I can't tell you
how many letters Peter has written. If I find her I shall try and do
all I can to make her life happy. That is to say if she will let me. If
not, perhaps I could help her through you or Peter. He said something
about the possibility of getting the man back as estate carpenter or
something of that sort. Jem assures him he would never receive charity.
Peter has taken a fancy to him, and hopes if Meg is found she will
reward his faithfulness by marrying him. But oh, Angel, if she is lost
for good," added Sheila, unable to restrain her sense of wrong doing
any more, "I think I shall die of remorse."
Miss Gregson knew Sheila well enough to know that this mood would pass,
but she had a firm hope that she had learnt her lesson, and that,
besides reading sad books about the state of the world, she would turn
to the only One Who could teach her to do the best for that corner of
it in which He had placed her. Till she knew what it was, like Mary, to
sit at His feet and learn to be meek and lowly, Miss Gregson had little
hope of her feeling permanent sympathy for her sisters' sorrows and
sufferings.