Chapter VII: One of Sheila's Surprises

BUT Miss Gregson did not at all agree with Sheila in her opinion of the children. To her they were not "little horrors" but lost lambs, for whom the Good Shepherd of the sheep was seeking, and during the last week of their stay at the Court she did what she could to tell them of the Friend Who loved them.

Sheila took now but small notice of her young guests. She had secured a nice woman from the village to look after them, one who knew how to manage, having had children of her awn, and except for occasional games Sheila saw little of them. She was tired, she informed Miss Gregson; and they had utterly disappointed her by their rude and ungrateful behaviour.

But Miss Gregson saw to it that the poor children had a thoroughly good time, and that they enjoyed their last few days in the country.

As for Jemmy, he had stolen into her heart, and every evening she would tuck him up in his little bed and give him a kiss.

"You're like mother, you are," he said one day after she had given him his good-night kiss. "I'd just as soon stay on here as go back to her. You'd do as well, and you're never drunk."

Miss Gregson was somewhat startled at the remark. She wondered wherein the likeness lay.

"Do you love your mother, Jemmy?" she asked, looking down upon the little pale face that rested amidst the white pillows.

"Yes, I love her well enough at times," he answered. "She kisses me at night when she's sober, but she's just awful when she drinks. Are you ever like that?"

"Like what, my dear?"

"Why, drunk of course. You've never given me any cuffs like mother when she's in the drink. I had to go to the hospital once because she hit me in the eye. Are you ever like that?"

The grave eyes looked earnestly up into the face bending over him, while an overwhelming pity took possession of Miss Gregson, for the little boy who evidently looked upon drinking mothers as an ordinary fact of life.

After assuring him that she was never the worse for drink, she tried to lead his thoughts into a happier groove before she left, and as she told him a story of a little boy who grew up to be a useful strong man, Jemmy's eyelids gradually closed in sleep.

Then Miss Gregson did what she felt was perhaps the surest way of helping the little lad—she knelt by his bed and prayed to the Good Shepherd.

Sheila was thankful when the last morning came, and the children were packed off to London with arms full of presents, cakes, and good things to take home. This part of the proceedings she really enjoyed. She had spent a great deal of time over the choice of these presents in the neighbouring town, the day before they left, and returned home in a state of excitement with the parcels at the bottom of the cart.

When the children had gone and Miss Gregson had said goodbye to Jemmy with tears in her eyes, Sheila stood at the window of the library looking out into the garden, playing with the cord of the blind, absently.

"I almost wish those children had never come," she said to Miss Gregson who was knitting. "When they were here I longed to get rid of them, and now that they have gone it seems rather dull. Why is it that one always feels a little flat when anyone leaves, although one may not care for them a bit!"

"It is partly the quiet no doubt," said Miss Gregson.

"Nothing ever satisfies me," said Sheila, "and everything is disappointing. I looked forward to having those children, and to making them happy, more than anything I can remember; and yet when they came I passed them over very quickly to you, poor Angel. I don't know what I should do without you! You really are an angel. You never grumble at anything. I fancy sometimes that dear old Peter thinks I treat you rather badly, I am selfish. Well, Walter, what is it?" for the butler had made his appearance.

"It's a young girl, M'am, who is asking if you will be good enough to allow her to sing to you. She's a tramp I take it, but looks so bad and pale that I hadn't the heart to send her away."

"Where is she?"

"At the front door, M'am."

"I'll come," said Sheila.

Arrived at the door she found the girl seated in the hall looking tired and ill, and the butler, who evidently did not like to leave her unwatched under the circumstances, mounting guard over her.

"You can go, Walter," said Sheila and then turned to look at the girl.

Meg was leaning her head against the wall. Her eyes were closed. Her lovely auburn hair was uncovered, for Jem's hat had come quite to an end, and had to be left regretfully in a ditch. Sheila stood looking at the girl and was struck by her beauty, and still more by the intense weariness depicted on her face.

Meg's soft brown eyes gradually opened and she looked up and smiled.

"If you'll be so good as to let me rest a bit I'll sing to you, Miss," she said. "But till I sat down I didn't know I was so dead beat. I'm just-played-out," then her head drooped and Sheila was only just in time to catch her before she fell.

Her head was on Sheila's lap so that the latter could only call for assistance and was thankful to see Miss Gregson hurrying towards her.

"Oh, Angel, I believe she's dying," she cried, "do get some brandy or something to restore her."

Walter and Elsie the maid who had hurried to her help now ran off for restoratives.

"Carry her up to the West room," said Sheila on their return.

"It's being scrubbed out, M'am," said Elsie, "and disinfected."

"Disinfected! What rubbish! Whose idea was that? I never gave orders for it to be done."

"My dear, I thought it would be advisable," said Miss Gregson, thinking to herself that Sheila's ignorance of the laws of hygiene was appalling.

"Well, if she cannot go there she must be taken into the blue room," said Sheila a little annoyed.

Miss Gregson interposed.

"Is that wise? It opens out of your own room, and you know nothing about this girl. For all you know she may be one of a gang."

Sheila ignored this remark.

"To the blue room, Walter," she said, adding, "she's come to my very door and I'm not going to turn her out."

It was on the tip of Miss Gregson's tongue to remark that no one had suggested such a thing, but she wisely refrained; she knew that it would be of no avail to advise further caution of any kind, or to remind Sheila that there were other rooms more suitable for this poor stranger.

Miss Gregson and Sheila followed Walter and Elsie as they carried Meg upstairs and deposited her on the sofa.

Sheila leant over the girl, fanning her.

"Just about my age, Angel," she said, "and I have everything I want, and she nothing."

The pity and emotion displayed on Sheila's face greatly pleased her old friend, who had never known her to be so touched before by another's sorrows.

Meg took some little time to recover from her swoon, and when she at last opened her eyes she was too tired to speak, and was only conscious that she lay on a comfortable couch by the window, through which came the song of birds, and that a girl of about her own age was kneeling by her side. She wondered vaguely if this was dying. If so she was glad to die.

When the doctor, for whom Sheila had sent, arrived, he informed her that the girl was half starved—and that a warm bath, food, and rest were what she was chiefly in need of.

"Is this another of your hobbies, Miss Dennison?" he said as he left the room. "I have heard of the children. How did that go off?"

"They only left this morning," said Sheila evasively. "I hope you do not hold the same view as Miss Gregson, and think I ought not to take this girl in without knowing more of her." Sheila looked at the doctor half reproachfully.

"It is very charitable of you to harbour her," he said. "But you must remember that there are many frauds about. It would be a pity to be taken in yourself."

"A worse pity to let her starve!" said the girl hotly.

"Of course you must not let her starve. But there is moderation in all things, and there is a medium course surely. However, I have no doubt that this poor girl will reward you by her gratitude. She does not look like a fraud, and she would certainly have died if no one had taken pity on her."

Sheila held out her hand impulsively to the doctor while a rich colour suffused her face.

"There," she said, "you have already given me my reward. To think that my action has perhaps saved a girl from death! Do you really think that?"

"I didn't mean that she would have died at once. But such privation must eventually end that way. Even if you are deceived in her," he added warmly, for the girl's enthusiasm had touched him, "you will know you have done the kindest thing you could."

Sheila ran upstairs, two at a time, delighted. At last she had done something that might be considered worth doing. Her eyes were bright with excitement. And to increase her happiness the girl whom she had apparently rescued from death was sweet to look upon and most interesting.

The next day or two passed quickly in tending Meg, for Sheila would let no one look after her but herself. Then she informed Miss Gregson of her intention regarding the newcomer.

Miss Gregson and Sheila had just finished dinner and were lingering over dessert when the bomb fell.

"I have determined to keep Meg altogether," Sheila announced.

"Altogether, my dear! Have you told her so?"

Miss Gregson remembered how soon the girl's enthusiasm with regard to the children and her other hobbies had passed away; with what ardour they had been ridden for a time, and how complete the collapses had been! She trembled for the poor girl who lay upstairs in the blue room.

"Yes, I have told her so and you should have just seen her face."

"No doubt she is delighted," said Miss Gregson, a little pink flush rising on her cheeks. "You will have her trained I suppose under Elsie. She might possibly be made into a good lady's maid or housemaid."

"No such thing," said Sheila triumphantly. "My plan is much more interesting than that. I am going to train her myself and to turn her into a lady."

Miss Gregson dropped the nut crackers and stared.

Sheila laughed. She had been prepared for this and was enjoying herself to the full.

"You always say I am surprising," she said, "but you never thought I should be quite so surprising did you? Don't you think, dear Angel, that you ought to take a little ignatia? I am really worse than the bull. I see it in your face."

Miss Gregson ignored the remark about her medicine.

"You certainly take my breath away," she said as she lifted the nut crackers again.

"I knew I should," said the girl gleefully. "I am full of plans. I shall treat her just like a sister. She shall have everything that I have, and in the first place she shall have some of my nice dresses to wear. Oh, how I shall enjoy dressing her up! Think of her hair! How magnificent it will look. And though her skin is of course very much tanned I don't know that she will look any the less pretty for that. Besides it will soon improve. You know the doctor told me distinctly that I have saved her from death. That very fact binds us together with a wonderful link. I'm quite sure I shall love her."

Miss Gregson leaned back in her chair and contemplated the girl's eager face. She could not but admire the generous feeling that had prompted the strange resolution on Sheila's part, but for all that she pitied the poor girl who was to be the recipient of her charity. Knowing Sheila as she did, she did not for a moment suppose that her enthusiasm would last.

The day would surely come when she would turn to her old friend, as she had lately done, and ask her to get her out of the difficulty. The auburn hair and long eyelashes would not charm for ever.

And what was more, the poor girl, who had lived for years without a single advantage, would soon show a want of refinement, and give way to little habits of speech or roughness of voice, which, though they might amuse Sheila for a time would assuredly offend her good taste before long. Miss Gregson felt that for the sake of the poor pretty girl who lay upstairs in the blue room, she must at least raise her voice in remonstrance for once.

"My dear," she said, "I am afraid you are making a fatal mistake. Is it unalterable?"

"Mistake! Fatal!" exclaimed Sheila, turning her surprised eyes on her companion. "What can you mean? Surely if I like to adopt a girl I may do so. And by the bye she is not nearly as old as I am. I thought she was nineteen, I find she is only sixteen. I am so glad, as of course it will make it easier for me to train her. Why, don't you see, that it will be simply lovely to have a sister? I have longed for one."

"But you cannot expect a girl who has been on the tramp all her life to be fit company for one who has been born and bred in the lap of luxury."

"But that is just the thing which makes it so delightful. It would not be the faintest pleasure to me to adopt a girl who has had the same good things as myself. Everything will be a treat to Meg. You should just hear how she speaks even about the little blue room. It is to her a kind of heaven. Now, Angel dear, do like my plan. You really must sympathise with me, I am full of it."

While this conversation was going on, Meg lay in the blue room thinking hard. At first when she found herself awakening, on the morning after her arrival, in a comfortable bed surrounded with every care and luxury, a feeling of great thankfulness overwhelmed her; and when she discovered that the one who had encompassed her about with such good things was a girl not much older than herself, she felt happy and at ease. But when, after confiding her history to Sheila, the latter broached the subject about which her mind was full, Meg drew back. Her love of freedom was too great to allow her to fall in at once with the wonderful suggestion that had been made to her. She was taken so by surprise that her lips were tied for some time. It meant turning her back on all for which she had been striving. She had looked forward too long to Bostock's wild beasts to wish to give them up in a moment, and she felt sure that Jem would never find her under such novel circumstances. Besides, already she began to thirst for the open air. Though it had seemed wonderful at first to be housed in such a comfortable room and to rest her weary limbs on such a soft bed, she was already beginning to pant for the open air and for freedom.

When Sheila had propounded her astonishing plan the warm colour had suffused Meg's face and neck, which her companion had interpreted to mean extreme pleasure; but it was fear, more than anything else; fear, lest her plan of finding Bostock should be frustrated, and fear lest she should lose her freedom.

At the same time she was conscious of the extreme kindness of the proposal, which made the difficulty of refusing the offer ten times worse. After such kindness showered upon her, how could she refuse? So great was her perplexity that the idea of running away when strong enough crossed her mind, but was banished almost as soon as thought of, as the girl was no coward.

While Sheila was discussing her plan with Miss Gregson at the dinner table, Meg lay thinking, in great distress of mind. She sat up in bed panting at the very idea of living within four walls instead of under the blue sky and shining stars. When Sheila, full of spirits and satisfaction at having given Miss Gregson a shock of surprise, ran upstairs, she found her patient leaning out of the window.

"Meg! Meg! what are you doing? You were not to get up the doctor said till to-morrow. Get back to bed again."

Meg panted.

"I want the air," she said. "I want to lie under the stars again. I ain't used to walls, Miss, they fairly choke me. Let me sleep under the sky to-night."

"Indeed you will do no such thing," said Sheila authoritatively, conscious of her superiority of age, "I want you to get well as soon as ever you can."

Meg turned round after giving a hungry look at the sky. She knew it would be ungrateful to do anything but obey. But her eyes were sad. Sheila tucked her up again and then sat down on the bed.

"To-morrow," she said, "we'll have such fun. The doctor will let you get up and you shall wear one of my pretty dresses, and Elsie shall do up your hair like mine is done. Then I shall take you into the garden and show you what your new home is like."

"The garden is lovely, ain't it?" said Meg, trying to appear interested.

"Yes, quite lovely. But you must not say 'ain't it', Meg. You are to be my sister you know, and will have to try and talk like I do. We never say 'ain't it.'

"I think I'd best be gone," murmured Meg.

"That I'm quite determined about," said Sheila. "I'll give you lessons every day and explain just what you may say and may not say, and you'll pick it up very quickly. Your tone of voice is quite sweet. It's only just your expressions that need altering. Your voice is musical you know. I expect it is because you sing. I want to hear you sing so much."

Meg turned her face away and tears trickled down her cheeks. She felt desperately lonely. If only Jem knew where she was! Every word that Sheila uttered seemed to make her feel more lonely, though she was aware that her hostess meant to be kind.

"I want to lie under the stars," she murmured.

"You are much better in this comfortable bed," said Sheila.

"Is every window open?" asked the girl, sitting up with a wild look in her eyes.

"No, I'll open them all quite wide. There! now you can see a lot of the sky can't you?"

"Yes, that's better," said Meg, lying down again.

"I think you are tired," said Sheila, "so I'll go away. Try and go to sleep, Meg, and dream of to-morrow. I feel so excited about it that I don't believe I can sleep a wink. Good-night, dear." Sheila bent down to kiss her.

It was the first kiss that Meg had ever received in her life. It suddenly dawned upon her in a flash that her loneliness was passed. Why should she cry? She had found a friend.