OF THE HEATHER

BY

EVELYN R. GARRATT

Author of "Peggy's Wolf," "Irene's Lame Dogs,"

"Against the World," "Free to Serve," etc., etc.

R.T.S., 4, Bouverie Street, London, E.C.4.

Contents

CHAP.

I. THE STORM

II. THE SINGER

III. ANGEL

IV. A DREAM OF LIONS

V. A CREATURE OF IMPULSE

VI. FAILURE

VII. ONE OF SHEILA'S SURPRISES

VIII. THE DRESSING UP OF MEG

IX. PETER'S OPINION

X. GOLDEN CHAINS

XI. SHEILA IS NOT PLEASED

XII. MISS GREGSON'S HEART SINKS

XIII. THE STARS AND THE DARKNESS

XIV. "THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER"

XV. REPULSED

XVI. BROUGHT TO BAY

XVII. FLIGHT

XVIII. SHEILA'S CONFESSION

XIX. A CONTRAST

XX. IN THE DARKNESS

XXI. THE ROSE THROWN FROM THE TRAIN

XXII. REMORSE

XXIII. JEM

CHAPTER I

THE STORM

MEG lay face downwards on the heath. Her auburn hair gleamed gold among the bracken, and her faded green dress mingled well with the pink and green of her resting place.

She had chosen a comfortable couch on which to rest her tired limbs, and of this she was fully conscious. She had been walking for hours without food and her strength was nearly played out; but though tired and hungry she was exulting in the fact that she was alone.

As she had stood panting for breath after her quick walk, which had often turned into a run, she had looked all around to make quite sure that no one was in sight, and on coming to the conclusion that she was alone on the wide heath she had thrown herself down with a sigh of relief.

It was good to be alone, her tired limbs resting on the soft grass and her head buried in her folded arms. The quiet was as balm to her spirit, and the sweet scent of the heather was better just then than food. As a tired child creeps into his mother's bosom, so Meg felt almost a human companionship in mother earth. And the sun in all its glory poured down its beams on her auburn head and lithe young figure.

How long she lay there, half sleeping, half waking, she did not know; but suddenly she was aroused to consciousness by a cold shiver which made her start and sit up. She saw then that the heath was no longer steeped in sunshine; but that its pink had turned into a deep coppery colour, and that facing her were masses of dark cloud, edged with a sulphurous yellow. A low peal of thunder greeted her ears.

She sat up now with her hand clasping her knees, looking with wild excited eyes towards the dark sky. She was conscious that a fearful storm was brewing, but the knowledge brought with it no fear; rather she noticed its approach with exultation. It suited her present mood; and as she watched the lightning playing around her, she laughed.

Suddenly she heard her name called, and sprang to her feet, looking about her like a hunted animal. Then a hand was laid on her arm, not too gently, and she was pulled down again to her place.

"Lie flat girl, or you'll be struck dead. Do you want to make a target of yourself?"

The look of apprehension on the girl's face disappeared as she obeyed, and not a moment too soon. A fearful flash, followed instantly by a peal of thunder struck a tree close by, and a branch fell within a few yards of her, withered and blackened.

Meg made a movement as if to spring to her feet, but her companion held her down.

"Lie down," he cried, "lie flat, Meg. We shall be dead in a moment if you don't heed what I say."

Meg buried her face again feeling a little frightened. They were silent for some minutes, while they listened to the peals of thunder that followed the flashes so quickly that they knew the centre of the storm must be just above them. The rain was pouring down and Meg's companion divested himself of his rough coat, threw it over the girl, and then crept a little further away to a spot where he could get more shelter. He lay and gazed at the head buried amidst the bracken, and in his heart a tempest was raging, in harmony, with nature's wild mood.

Jem knew that he had come to a crisis in his life. Two ways opened before him, one meant a life of misery and sordidness for his companion, the other a possible escape from her present misery. But this possible way was worse than death for him.

He was a tall young man, with an honest, rough looking face, surmounted by a head of curly brown hair. His eyes were of the brightest blue, almost fierce in their brightness. A red handkerchief was knotted round his throat, and the hat which lay on the ground beside him was battered and torn. But had you met him you would have looked at his blue eyes rather than at his shabby clothes. These eyes were bent now on his companion, and in their expression there lay almost a look of worship.

Neither of them spoke till the storm had worn itself nearly out and the thunder had rumbled away in the distance. They were both hard at work, thinking. Meg was shedding tears at the thought that her short lived freedom had come to an end; while her companion was fighting for her freedom in his heart. Should he tell her what would set her free? Should he throw away from his own life the only thing that gave it happiness? At one moment he made up his mind that he would keep the girl in ignorance of the truth, at the next the sight of that little head buried in the bracken made him feel that any sacrifice on his part was worth making to secure her happiness.

At last he sat up.

"Meg," he said.

The girl did not answer or look at him. She was feeling too miserable to make the effort, and too tired. Now that the prospect of freedom had been taken from her, all her strength seemed to have ebbed away, and she knew she was hungry and deadly weary.

"If I hadn't come just when I did," said the man, "you'd have been in the place of that tree I take it. You were sitting right in the line. I saw the flash go over your head. Ain't you glad I saved you, Meg?"

"I don't know," said the girl slowly: "no, I think I'm sorry. I'd as lief be dead than go back to 'em all. The earth is kind: I don't see why I should mind lying here for ever: I think I'd like it." She gave a great sob as she spoke, and buried her head deeper in the bracken.

Her companion was silent for some time, still struggling within himself; then he said, looking away from the prostrate figure of the girl.

"There ain't no need as I know of for you to go back at all."

Meg sat up, while a look of incredulity crossed her face.

"But ain't you sent to fetch me?" she asked.

"No; they said you'd come back quick enough when you were hungry. I came on my own account."

"Oh, Jem, why did you come?" she asked reproachfully. "I want to be lost to 'em. I don't want ever to go back. Hunger won't drive me. I'm hungry now, but I'd starve, rather than that. I hate 'em, mother and father and all," Meg's voice rang out with passion and pain. "If I can't get as far as Minton," she added, "I'll just go to sleep in the heather and not wake up."

"Are you very hungry, Meg?"

"Yes," said the girl bluntly.

"You've had no breakfast?"

"No, I started as soon as there was a streak of light in the sky, and I've been walking ever since. What's the time?"

"It's getting on for six o'clock. If you don't make haste the sun will set and you won't get to Minton before dark."

The girl turned and gazed at her companion with a look of surprise.

"You seem to want me to go," she said.

Jem did not answer. He looked away from her towards the western sky. The dark clouds had disappeared and the setting sun was shedding its radiance once more over the heath. Meg noticed almost unconsciously how it lighted up Jem's face.

She moved a little nearer to her companion.

"Jem, I don't understand. Why have you followed me if you weren't sent to bring me back?"

"I came to tell you that as far as I can see there ain't no call for you to go back at all if you've not a mind to. They can't complain or compel you."

"Not father or mother?" exclaimed the girl.

"No. They ain't got no right to; they haven't had a right all this time to keep you. You can leave 'em straight away if you've a mind to."

"But," persisted the girl, "there's mother."

"No there ain't. She's no mother of yours. She's my aunt, worse luck, but she ain't your mother, and uncle ain't your father. You don't belong to 'em by right and no one could compel you to go to 'em. They know that right enough."

The girl looked dazed.

"She ain't my mother?" she said, "nor that man my father? But then who am I? Where is my mother?"

"That I can't tell you. You're a child of a friend of Aunt's, but I don't know who. She didn't want you, so let Aunt have you. That's all I know."

The girl leant forward eagerly, looking up into her companion's face.

"Look at me, Jem. Look at me and say that you ain't tellin' me a lie."

The man turned and looked at her. His eyes blazed as only blue eyes can.

"Have I ever told you a lie?" he asked, "and do you think I'd be likely to tell you this one?"

"How long have you known this?" asked Meg, breathing quickly.

"For a year come this October."

The girl sprang up clenching her hands.

"You knew it and yet never told me?" she cried. "Then you've acted a lie for nearly a year and you've never given a hand to set me free, though you have known how I have longed for it. You call yourself my friend, and yet you've let me live the life of a dog all these years. I call it—"

But while Meg was searching the depths of her brain for a suitable word—a word in which to express all the scorn that she felt for her companion, he had risen, and now stood towering above her and looking down upon her with a dangerous expression in his eyes.

"You don't know what you're saying," he said sternly. "You don't know what it means to me to tell you even now. It's just the killin' of me. But you don't know and don't care. Do you think it means nothin' to me to help to set you free? When I can't come along of you to see you're safe and happy. You'll have no one to look after you and the world's a wicked place."

The look of indignation on the girl's face was giving way to one of tender surprise.

"I didn't know you liked me so well," she said, "or that you'd mind me goin' so much."

He rammed his hands deep; into his pockets and stood looking at her with the reflection of the sunset full on his face. He looked ruddy and strong and good.

"If it wasn't for Steve we'd go away together," he said gravely, "and we'd be married in the first church we came across, and then you'd always have someone to look after you. But I can't leave Steve."

A look of amusement crossed the girl's face and a little laugh escaped her; but it was cut short at the sight of a fierce flash from the blue eyes confronting her. To marry Jem was not her idea of freedom, and was the last thing she wanted to contemplate, but at the sight of the expression which lay in the blue eyes she said meekly—

"I don't think I want to be married yet. Jem dear. I want to be free, you see."

"You should be free."

"You say so now, but in a year or two you'd think differently I take it. I daresay father said that kind of thing to mother when he went courtin' her, but he don't care a hang for her now, and leads her a pretty life."

"He ain't your father," said Jem roughly, "and don't you be a comparin' me to that brute. Let me look at your arm. Was that him?"

The girl held out her arm and his eyes fastened on an ugly scar just above the wrist. "The brute," he exclaimed savagely, "he shall pay for that."

"What's the use," said Meg. "He was angry with me because I said I'd never sing at the 'Cart and Horse' again. Nothin' vexes father like the thought of losin' money. But it ain't worth bein' angry about, and if I'm to be free what does it matter?"

"He shall pay for it," repeated Jem fiercely. Then after a pause he said in a gentler tone of voice, "You'll take your freedom then, Meg?"

"Yes, I'll take it. But you've been ever so kind to me and I shall miss you badly. Why don't you make up your mind to leave 'em all and get good work."

"It's Steve. I can't leave the poor little chap to aunt's care. They'd starve him if I wasn't there to see. They grumble as it is at the milk he has to have. And when they move on they'll never give a thought to him, or think if he's fit for a tramp. They ought always to put him in the van, but they don't think ought about him. No, I can't leave him yet."

"How much longer will they stay on Boxley Common?" asked the girl.

"I heard 'em talkin' of leavin' this mornin'. They've stayed there longer than in most places, as that pit is convenient at night, but now if you don't come back they'll leave sure enough. I saw this mornin' when they found you'd gone that they were a bit uneasy, they were afraid you might complain of 'em to the police. And now if you don't come back they'll be off. But what do you mean to do?"

"I mean to be free. I shall go towards Minton this evening and beg a night's lodging and some food, and if I can I'll work my way to London. I can sing in the streets and earn enough to keep myself."

Jem looked at her anxiously.

"I hope you'll never sing again in a public house," he said.

"I shall sing in the streets," said Meg evasively, "and when I go to London I shall see Bostock."

The lad's eyes glared.

"Not to be with the wild beasts?"

"Yes, why not? I'd be a deal happier with them than with father and mother in that van; it only wants courage, Jem, and I ain't afeared."

Jem paced up and down in front of his companion to work off his feelings.

"I shan't let you go," he said.

Meg laughed, showing a pretty row of little teeth.

"It'll be fun," she answered. "I'd love to hear 'em growl. It would be excitin' and worth livin' for to tame a lion. You have to stroke their paws through the bars first." She watched her companion's face and laughed again. "I heard all about Bostock's advertisement in the 'Cart and Horse.' I could earn seven pounds a week at Bostock's."

"You shan't do it," growled Jem.

"I'd love it," answered Meg. "I don't think I should be a bit scared. And then I'd want you to come and look at me sittin' among 'em all when my training was done. You'd like that wouldn't you? You'd be proud to have known me I guess."

But the girl had gone too far. Jem caught hold of her wrist, holding it in his iron grasp.

"If I thought you meant it," he said fiercely, "I'd take you back this moment to the van. You'd best take care how you talk to me."

Meg laughed up into his face.

"I'm afraid they'd never take me. Why, what do you think they'd say to me if I went to 'em like this," she added looking down at her dress. "I'm not fine lady enough for them London folks. I fear there ain't much chance for me."

But he still held her wrist, and stood looking down upon her with his bright blue eyes.

"Promise me," he said, and his voice had a ring of tenderness in it which touched the heart of his companion. "Promise me that you won't be up to tricks, but will take care of yourself. Promise me now."

"Of course I shall," said Meg. "Don't you be afeared. I'm not a fool. And I'll remember you, dear; I'll never forget you, and when little Steve is dead and you leave 'em, marry you right enough."

He dropped her arm then, and without another look left her standing alone among the bracken and heather.

Meg felt a lump rise in her throat, as she watched him out of sight. Then she looked down at his hat which he had left behind him and which lay at her feet.

She took it up and examined the battered crown with a tender little smile hovering on her lips. Then with a laugh she stuck it on her head and ran towards Minton and freedom.

CHAPTER II

THE SINGER

IT was dark when Meg first caught sight of the lights of Minton. The fact that she was free had so buoyed her up, that till she looked on the distant town she had not realized her hunger or weariness. But now that she knew she was within a mile or two of her destination she felt as if she could walk no further; and sinking down on the grass that edged the roadside she fell asleep.

She was well used to sleeping under the stars, but on awaking at the sound of a passing cart, she sat up suddenly, and experienced for almost the first time in her life a sensation of fear. She had dreamt that she heard the tap—tap—of the wooden leg of the man who for years she had supposed to be her father—and that she was hiding in the dark ditch to escape him. She longed now for Jem's protecting presence. A terrible sense of loneliness oppressed her, due no doubt to her tired and hungry condition. Then she realized that it was imperative for her to get some money before she could either satisfy her hunger or procure a night's lodging.

Jem's hat had fallen off her head and it took some little time to find it in the dark; but she would not on any account have left it behind her, and when she found it she held it tight, feeling it almost a protection. Anyhow it filled her with comforting thoughts as she trudged along towards Minton. She was sure that Jem would not forget her and would somehow or other find out where she was. She had a strange kind of feeling about him. So long as he was in the world she felt she could not come to much harm without his knowing it and coming to her help.

About a mile from Minton Meg found she was passing some large white gates. They were open, and looking up the avenue she caught sight of a brightly lighted house. This might be her chance of earning money, she thought, so made her way towards it.

The blinds were not drawn, and the girl stood fascinated with what she saw.

A dinner party was in progress, Meg leaned against a tree watching eagerly all that went on.

The table was lighted by shaded candles, which cast a soft glow over the white cloth and gleaming silver and glass. Silver dishes were being handed round, and Meg, hungry and tired, could have wept with longing and weariness as she compared her lot, out in the dark, with that of the guests who apparently had more than enough of this world's good things. But she knew she must not give way to tears or her chance of earning food would be diminished.

The conversation round the dinner table suddenly stopped, as there floated into the room the air of "The Last Rose of Summer," sung in a rich contralto voice.

"What's that?" asked the host in a very vexed tone of voice. "Some beggar no doubt." Then turning to the butler he added, "Send her away, we don't want vagabonds about the premises."

"Oh don't," cried a girl, leaning forward to try to get a glimpse of the singer, "she has the most lovely voice. I thought you had arranged it on purpose to give us a treat."

"It's a rich contralto," said one of the guests. "She ought to be given a chance of being trained."

The host beckoned the butler to his side, while his guests were commenting one to another about the singer.

"Give her two shillings and send her away," he said in a low voice.

Dessert being now on the table, Dent, the butler, went to follow out his master's injunctions, but being a musical man, he was bent on hearing more of that wonderful voice that he had listened to as he had handed round the fruit.

He soon discovered the girl in the dark.

"The master he don't like no beggars about," he said in not too gentle a voice, "so I advise you to be off my girl. Come now are you one of a clan?"

"No, I'm by myself," answered Meg. "But if you'd be so good as to give me a glass of milk I'd pay you right well. I'll sing six songs straight off and you'd be lucky to hear 'em," she added with spirit, "I wouldn't do it if it wasn't that I'm just beat with tiredness and hunger."

Meg was looking up at Dent with a pair of eyes that made him feel, he told the servants afterwards, and that, together with her promise of singing and her very evident sincerity, worked on his feelings to such an extent, that he slipped his master's Florin into his pocket and led the way round to the back of the house. Then opening the kitchen door he introduced the girl with a flourish.

"This young lady wants some milk, and you'll be pleased to give it to her post haste, Mrs. Brown, or you'll lose the chance of your life."

The cook looked round quickly.