Chapter XXI: The Rose Thrown From the Train

No one came to meet Meg when, having recovered from her illness, she left the Union. She knew that Mrs. Webb could not do so on account of her work, so was not disappointed. But she was surprised to find how pleased she felt as she drew near the unsavoury street in which Mrs. Webb's rooms were located.

She looked up at the window of the room in which she had slept on first arriving in London. How she had hated the room that day! Now the one above it stood for home, and she thought of it with tenderness.

Meg was still feeling weak, and walked slowly up the stairs, pausing at Mrs. Webb's door. She knew that her kind friend would not be at home, but Willie would in all probability be there. She opened the door gently. Willie was playing with a broken toy on the floor and recognising his visitor he jumped up and threw his arms round her.

Meg clasped him close. She felt she had come to her own folk. "Oh Willie, I am glad to see you," she said. Her voice trembled with emotion, as she recognized that this was the first home coming that she had ever had in her life.

Willie tugged her towards a chair and then seated himself on her knee.

"I've two secrets to tell you," he said in a loud whisper. "Would you like to hear them?"

"Ever so much," said Meg with shining eyes.

He threw his arms round her neck, nearly throttling her in his anxiety to whisper right into her ear.

"We're going to have sausages to our dinner," he said, "and mother, she say you're to have it along with us. She's got them for you."

"Oh, how nice!" said Meg, but she was thinking of the sensation of having the child's arms around her, not of the sausages.

"Ain't you fond of sausages? I am, and mother she got 'em on purpose for you. You ain't had 'em I guess where you've been."

"I'm ever so fond of sausages," said Meg.

"It's part of my birthday treat come before the day," continued Willie.

"When is your birthday, Willie?"

"It's to-morrow that ever is, and I've got another just lovely secret for you. You like my secrets don't you?"

"I love them."

"Well then, bend your ear down as no one must hear this one as it's just lovely. Where do you think we're going to-morrow, me and you and mother?"

"I don't know, I can't guess."

"You'd never guess if you sat up all night. It's ever so far away. Miles and miles and miles. Where do you think it is?"

"I can't imagine. Tell me."

"Why it's on to a heath. It's to be my birthday treat you know. What, ain't you glad?" Willie looked amazed as he saw tears falling down Meg's face.

"I'm so glad that I don't know what to do," said Meg sobbing.

"But you're crying." The boy put up his little hand to wipe away the tears. "I thought you'd just be thinking it lovely. Mother said you would."

"And so I do, Willie," said Meg laughing hysterically. "I'm just delighted. It's because I'm so happy that I'm crying. People do sometimes you know."

"I don't think you really like it," said the child, slipping off her knee and surveying her dejectedly.

"I like it more than anything you can think of," said Meg, wiping away her tears. "I'm a bit tired I suppose, that's all, dear. But oh, Willie, I'm glad it's your birthday to-morrow."

A great sob escaped her. To think of being again in the country! Of lying out on the heath under the sun! Of drinking in the sweet pure air! It seemed almost too good to be true. But she tried for the sake of her little companion to restrain her inclination to sob out loud again, and instead looked up laughing. Willie was reassured. He knelt, resting his elbows on her knee and looking up into her face.

"Mother, she say she'll take off my shoes and stockings and let me run about on the grass without 'em. Won't that be fine. You'll do it too won't you?"

"I shouldn't wonder if I did. I shouldn't wonder at anything," said Meg laughing.

"And we're going to take our food along of us and sit out on the grass and eat it. Won't that be fun? I expect you've never done such a thing before, have you?"

"It'll be lovely," said Meg anxious not to clamp the child's pleasure by telling him she had eaten her dinner out of doors scores of times.

"And we shall go in the train first. I've once been in a train before, when I went to see my Granny. And then I've another secret, but that ain't till to-morrow. Mother says I'm not to tell you that."

When Mrs. Webb came home she found Meg on the floor playing with Willie and his broken toys, looking perfectly happy and contented. It quite surprised her. And she also noticed that Meg's eyes were bright and full of courage and hope. She looked a different creature to what she had been before her illness.

"I'm ever so glad to be at home," she said.

"It's a poor home, my dear, I'm thinking. But with your fine voice you won't be here long I take it. I've been talking to folks about you and I've been telling the lady for whom I work, and she means to try and help you to get pupils. You won't be long with us I guess."

"I shan't leave you," said Meg. "This is my home, the first I've ever had. It's mine you see, and I can be myself."

Mrs. Webb, though pleased that the girl seemed so contented, did not understand it. Considering that only six weeks had passed since she was living in the lap of luxury, it was strange that she did not seem to dread the privations before her. She would have been still more perplexed if she had been able to read the thoughts that were flitting through Meg's brain.

For the girl was recognizing the fact that once more she was free, free to live her own life without let or hindrance; free to be herself and not obliged to copy another. And behind this knowledge was the fact that SOMEONE cared; that she possessed a Friend Who would never cast her off and that in trying to please Him, instead of losing her own personality, He would help her to perfect and ennoble it. In fact she was tasting for the first time the liberty of Christ's service: Whose service is perfect freedom.

Not that Meg could possibly have put her vague thoughts and feelings into words. Had she been asked what had happened to make her look at life so differently and with such hope and courage, she would probably have answered in the common parlance of the London factory girl, "I've turned," and perhaps no words could have expressed or explained better her present position.

Her face was turned towards the light, and consequently a different view of life had presented itself.

The glory of the Radiant City was transfiguring the landscape, and it was only behind her that the darkness of despair lay.

Even her thoughts about Sheila had changed. Bitterness had now no place in her heart.

"She made a mistake, that's all," she would say to herself. "She didn't mean to hurt or harm me, and she was wonderful good to me." And Meg began to think that she saw now why she had been brought so low. Had she lived on at Friars Court, possibly she would never have recognized her need of the Great Friend because the lesser friend was engaging all her thoughts.

Looking at Meg, Mrs. Webb began to wonder if to-morrow's excursion might not prove too much for her strength, but when the morning broke and the sun shone down in its glory, she felt that a day in the country would be just the thing for the girl. And she saw that Meg was anticipating it greatly.

"My lady when I asked if she could let me off to-day seemed as anxious as I that we should go. I was telling her about you, Meg. And now Willie just you run into Mrs. Green's and get that secret I told you about. There's a good boy."

The secret proved to be a lovely red rose which he handed with pride to Meg.

"It's Mrs. Green that's given it to me," he said, "and told me I might give it to you. She's mighty pleased to hear you're back, she say, and I'm to tell you it's the last rose of summer."

"How kind," said Meg. "But where did she get this rose? It's just a beauty."

"Her uncle he's a gardener and came to see her yesterday. It comes from the country, and mother says you must wear it as it's my birthday."

Mrs. Webb made Meg take her arm to the station and told Willie to walk the other side of her so the girl found herself well-guarded on both sides. She felt delightfully happy.

* * * * * *

Jem was feeling discouraged and anxious. He had been seeking for Meg for six weeks and without any result.

He had been fortunate in getting odd jobs to do in which his days were employed, but his evenings were spent in search. Many a time he thought he had a clue, always to be disappointed, and as the days passed he grew more and more anxious. London struck him as a place full of pitfalls, and the thought of Meg alone and uncared for, almost paralyzed him at times with fear. He was growing thin and pale, and was often so tired with his efforts that he could not sleep.

He had obtained a job in one of the suburbs of London to which he went daily by train, and the day on which Mrs. Webb took Meg and Willie into the country, found him at the same station but on another platform to the one from which the train for Hampstead Heath started.

He was leaning against the corner of a smoking carriage looking weary and despondent, lazily watching a train that was slowly moving out of the station. The train was so close to the one in which he sat that he could have shaken hands with the people in the carriages which were passing him.

Suddenly he became aware that coming towards him was a carriage out of the window of which leant a head of auburn hair.

The head was uncovered, for Meg, having a headache, had thrown off her hat. As Jem caught sight of her she was leaning far out with her eyes fastened on him.

The carriages were nearly opposite now. They both stared at one another as if dazed, then Jem sprang to his feet and tried to wrench open the door. He must get to her; there would be just time in which to spring on to the foot rail for the train was moving very slowly. But the door being locked resisted all his efforts. The veins on his temple stood out like cords, as he was conscious that the speed of the train was increasing. Then something hit his shoulder and fell at his feet and the next moment a curve in the line took Meg out of his sight.

Jem dropped into his seat gasping, and took out his pocket handkerchief to wipe his forehead. His disappointment was so bitter that he could only groan. Then suddenly his foot touched something and on looking down he caught sight of a deep red rose. The expression of his whole face changed, as he realized from whom the rose must have come and gradually it dawned upon him that the girl who had looked at him with such startled eyes from the moving train was Meg of the heather rather than Meg of Friars Court. There had been none of the queenly dignity he had noticed on the day of the concert, which had seemed to put her at such a distance from him as she had stood on the platform dressed in her shimmering green dress. The head of hair that leant out of the window was a little rumpled, and the look of the eyes had been eager and excited. Jem, as he remembered these things, could have shouted for joy. Supposing that Mr. Fortescue had been right and Meg after all loved him still! But no, he must put that wild idea out of his mind; the possibility of being a second time disappointed was unbearable; he would not build his hopes so high.

But it was something to know that Meg did not repulse him, had leaned out of the carriage window towards him instead of hiding from his sight, that she had evidently forgiven him his mad action on the day of the concert. It was everything too to know that she was alive and apparently happy. He picked up the rose and stuck it into his button hole, with the resolve that it should stay there till Meg herself replaced it with another, for the sight of the girl had filled him with fresh courage and a firmer resolve to look for her till he found her.

Meanwhile Meg, after throwing the rose, looked round at Mrs. Webb with love light in her eyes.

"It was Jem," she said in an awed tone of voice.

Mrs. Webb had been watching the extraordinary conduct of her companion with astonishment. It had been quite a shock to her, and she was experiencing a keen sense of disappointment. To think that such a nice respectable girl should so lose her sense of what was right and proper as to throw a rose in at a carriage window to a strange young man. Mrs. Webb's sense of propriety was outraged.

At Meg's words however she began to wonder if the poor girl was going daft.

"My dear, you shouldn't do such things," she said.

"It was Jem," repeated Meg, a wonderful smile radiating her face, "and he didn't scorn me."

"Sit down," urged Mrs. Webb, "you're fairly done that's what it is. I ought never to have let you come. Sit down and be quiet there's a good girl. You ain't well."

Meg laughed joyously.

"Not well! Oh, what nonsense! Why I'm feeling better than I've felt for weeks. Don't you understand that I've just seen Jem? and I gave him my rose. You don't mind, Willie, do you?"

But Willie looked up with a face red with anger. As Meg caught his hand intending to give him a kiss to make up to him for her action he pushed her away.

"You've given away my rose," he cried, "the rose I gived to you this morning. She shouldn't have done it, should she mother."

"I'm sorry," said Meg laughing, "but I couldn't help it. When you're a man you'll understand. Come give me a kiss and make it up."

But Willie would not be reconciled, he gave her a kick instead. The kick hurt the girl, but she scarcely felt it, her mind was full of the joy of seeing Jem again.

Mrs. Webb began to think that after all perhaps Meg might be speaking the truth.

"Are you sure it was Jem?" she asked doubtfully.

"Sure! How could I make a mistake? And he's forgiven me. I believe he's looking for me, and if so he'll find me. He found me last time."

The rest of the day passed like a dream to Meg. She lay out on the heath in the sunshine with a heart full of happiness.

"Jem will find me," she kept thinking, "and he's forgiven me."