Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER VI.

  Uncle Russelthorpe sat alone in his library on the evening of the ball:the habit of shuffling out of family gatherings had grown on him, hisqueer slip-shod figure was seldom seen beyond its own precincts now. Hisdistaste for his wife increased with increasing age, and her loud voiceand rather aggressive strength jarred more on him.

  Perhaps, after all, Meg's was not the saddest tragedy in that house; forit is better to burn than to rot, and it is doubtful whether theover-hasty actors who bring grief on themselves, and other people, intheir attempts to make the world turn round the other way, do half theharm of the easy-going philosophers, who sit with their talents innapkins, and say, "Let be! why struggle against the inevitable?"Stagnant water is not a healthy feature in the landscape at any time.

  It was late in the evening, the soft air came in at the window ladenwith dew, as well as with sweetness. The old man got up to close theshutters; he had a morbid dislike to intrusion, and the servants did notdare invade his sanctum. He lit his lamp, and fell back into the depthsof his armchair with a sigh of relief, because that small effort wasaccomplished. He had grown weaker lately, though no one had noticed it.He no longer studied with the avidity of old, but sat often, as he satto-night, with his hands on his knees, peering into the fire. Perhapshe saw shadows of the past there--ghosts of possibilities that werenever realities, saddest of all ghosts are these "might-have-beens,"pale phantoms that have never known life. He had started with rathermore than the average share of brains and money, and come to theconclusion, now that his days were few and evil, that the game hadhardly been worth playing, sorry fun at the best! Presently some onespoke behind him, and he frowned irritably.

  "Who is it?" he asked rather crossly. "I'm busy. What do you want inhere?"

  "It is I--Margaret!" said a voice with a suspicion of tremor in it; andhis niece walked round his chair, and after a moment's hesitation, satdown on a high-backed seat opposite him.

  Uncle Russelthorpe straightened himself with a jerk. This was a mostunprecedented visit, and his curiosity overcame his annoyance. Meg hadhardly been in his study since the days when she had haunted it as achild. What could she want? It was not a house where the young ones everintruded unnecessarily on their elders' leisure; and Mr. Russelthorpe,though he had a secret partiality for his youngest niece, did notconsider her any "affair of his". His wife managed the girls, and "veryfunnily too," he sometimes thought.

  Meg sat pressing her fingers together and looking straight at him. Shehad not taken this unusual step without a pretty strong motive.

  "Uncle," she said, "I want advice! You used to be very kind to me when Iwas a little girl. Will you give it to me, please?"

  "Eh? What?" said her uncle. "You'd better go to----" he was about to say"your aunt," but feeling that that counsel was rather a cruel mockery,seeing that Meg's relations with Mrs. Russelthorpe were more thanusually strained just then, ended, "to your father for it."

  "Yes, but I don't know how," said Meg; "he is somewhere in Greece, Isuppose."

  "Hm--wise man!" said Uncle Russelthorpe. "I don't, as a rule, think muchof Charles' worldly wisdom; but that way he has of going off, withoutleaving an address, has always struck me as admirable; it secures suchabsolute immunity from worries."

  "I suppose I am one of the worries," said Meg, with a smile that wasmore sad than merry. "Since I can't bother him, I'm worrying you!"

  "Not at all!" said the old gentleman politely; but he drew his watch outof its fob and fidgeted.

  "You see there is no one else," said Meg apologetically. "UncleRusselthorpe, I mean to go away. I _can't_ stay here any longer. Fatherpromised me that he would write soon, and perhaps send for me. He hasbeen gone nearly two months, and I have not heard from him.Perhaps,"--with her ungovernable desire to shift the blame from hisshoulders--"perhaps, he is ill, or he may have sent a message that hasnot been given to me. Anyhow, I can't--oh I can't--wait much longer."

  "Tut, tut!" interrupted Mr. Russelthorpe. "You are young and impatient.When you are my age, you will not say 'can' and 'can't' so easily. Thereare few things we can't endure, hardly any I should say; and our skinsbecome toughened with age, fortunately, and our hearts colder, also mostfortunately."

  Meg shivered involuntarily.

  "But I haven't begun to be old yet!" she cried. "That doesn't help me!"

  The old man looked at her uneasily; he had something of the feeling thatone of the audience of a play might have, if suddenly appealed to by anactor: he hated being dragged out of his safe place as spectator, andbeing asked for practical advice.

  "I think the sort of life we lead is all wrong from beginning to end,"said this inconvenient niece; and the corners of Mr. Russelthorpe's lipstwitched a little, he was genuinely sorry for her unhappiness, but herrevolutionary sentiments amused him.

  "Father really thinks so too. I have never forgotten something he saidwhen I was a child, about Dives preaching contentment to the starvingacross an over-loaded table."

  Uncle Russelthorpe took snuff and shook his head.

  "My dear young lady, don't you begin to talk cheap Chartist cant," hesaid. "One Whig in the family is enough, and Charles' harangues don'tsound so well at second-hand; it is his voice and manner that makes anynonsense he chooses to spout go down; besides, he would be considerablyderanged, I fancy, if you were to take upon yourself to put all histheories into practice; that's a very pernicious habit that you'vecontracted--not inherited--I doubt its being so pleasing to him as youimagine."

  "But that's worse than anything, and I won't believe you!" cried Meg,with a passion that actually startled him. "Uncle, it makes me feelmiserable when you say that; as if father were not ever in earnest! AuntRusselthorpe tells me that too! She says he never really meant me tolive with him, and that I'd taken everything too seriously. It isn'ttrue. I want to go to him, and to hear him say it isn't true. Will youhelp me? I believe Aunt Russelthorpe knows where he is. Will you makeher tell you? Will you give me the money, and send some one with me if Imustn't travel alone? I won't run away. It isn't wrong to want to go tomy own father," cried poor Meg, with a rather pathetic pride. "I'll doit openly. My aunt will be angry, but he will understand. I am hischild, and he always says I am to come to him in any difficulty. I knowthat he will be glad!"

  There was a confidence in her tone, that made Mr. Russelthorpe wonderfor a moment what sort of a man he would have been, if he had had achild with such unlimited faith in him. Really, it was a pity Charlesdidn't do more to justify it; and that reflection gave rise to another.

  "It seems to me," he said, "that a more interesting and younger admirerthan your old uncle would be charmed to point an obvious way out of yourdifficulties. There was a young sprig here the other day; it struck methat his interest in my coins had shot up rather suddenly, like Jack'sbean-stalk. I shouldn't wonder if it withered when it's served its turn,eh? My old eyes are not so sharp as they were, but I'm not in my dotageyet. I don't see how I can interfere, my dear; but if you are anxious toleave us,--why, there's the church door conveniently near. Laura andKate got out by it. I've no doubt the escort to Greece could be providedtoo."

  "You mean Mr. Sauls," said Meg, with a calmness which boded ill for thatgentleman's hopes. "I don't think he would be so silly; but, anyhow, Ishould hate a husband who let me believe what I liked, and do as Ithought right because 'it didn't matter'. Mr. Sauls has been rather kindto me. I don't want my gratitude spoilt by that kind of nonsense;_please_." The last words were a protest against Mr. Russelthorpe'scharacteristic chuckle. Meg had an impatience of any approach tolove-making, that was more boyish than girlish; and the least attempt atsentiment was enough to chill her rather doubtful liking for herfather's quondam _protege_.

  "I really am in earnest!" she cried. "Don't laugh at me! AuntRusselthorpe has been saying things I cannot repeat: she says otherpeople say them too. I think," lifting her head proudly, "that theyshould all be ashamed of themselves, and I don't care in the veryleast--but"--with a sudden illogical
break-down--"I _must_ go away! Noone will miss me, you see,--it isn't as if this were home, or as if Iwere any good to any one, or had any real place. It seems a waste oflife to stay and make her angry, and fight every day because I don't anylonger do the things she does. Besides," added Meg despairingly, "Idon't know how to go on struggling for ever. Aunt Russelthorpe ratherlikes it, I believe, but I don't. Uncle, I'm so terribly afraid ofgiving in, and doing everything she wants, and feeling a shameful cowardall the rest of my life."

  "Dear, dear!" said Mr. Russelthorpe. "'The rest of life!' and, 'for everand ever!' Eh! how tragic we are at twenty, to be sure!" But again hefelt uneasy. The girl _was_ unhappy. He knew she must have been hardpressed before she took the initiative and appealed to him--also therewas no doubt that tongues were wagging too fast about her.

  He sometimes shrewdly suspected that Augusta wouldn't be sorry to driveher niece into any decently good marriage; and he knew that the one planher heart was set against was this of Meg's keeping house for Mr. Deane.Why were women such fools? Why, above all, did Meg bother him? He hadgiven up contention on his own account so long ago. Yet it would be goodfor the poor child to get away; and if Charles understood how matterswere, he would be indignant enough. Charles had plenty of spirit,though a baby could hoodwink him. Should he interpose for once, and tellhis wife that----

  "Margaret!" said a voice behind them. They both started like guiltyconspirators; but Meg recovered herself in a second, and stood upright,white and defiant.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe was in the doorway dressed for a ball, as she had beenlong ago when she and Meg had had their first pitched battle. She had anopen letter in her hand, and a smile on her lips.

  "I have been looking for you. What are you doing in here, I wonder?"said she. "Here is an answer from your father, Margaret; and now I hopeyou are satisfied."

  Meg held out her hand without a word. Mrs. Russelthorpe gave her theletter over Mr. Russelthorpe's head, who peered up out of his deeparmchair. "'So they two crossed swords without more ado,'" he quoted tohimself.

  Margaret read the letter all through before she spoke. A few monthsearlier she would have protested at her aunt's having broken the seal,and mastered the contents; now, rightly or wrongly, she felt that theissue of this contest was too serious for her to waste strength inresenting small grievances.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe noted the change. Margaret was not quite socontemptible an adversary as she had been: she was growing more womanly.

  Meg turned to her uncle when she had finished reading, as to a supremecourt of appeal.

  "If father had ever got my letter," she said, "he would not have writtenlike this. Please judge for yourself, uncle."

  "Charles' hand tries my eyes," murmured Mr. Russelthorpe fretfully.

  "Then I will read it aloud," said Meg; and her aunt raised her eyebrowsand laughed, but not very mirthfully.

  "Margaret is determined on having a scene!"

  The first part of the letter was all about the place Mr. Deane wasstaying in, and the people he was meeting. It was illustrated withpen-and-ink sketches, and was charmingly descriptive and good-naturedlywitty. Then came a tender half-playful recommendation to his daughternot to addle her brains with overmuch thinking.

  "Your aunt actually tells me that she can't persuade my Peg-top to spin any more!" he wrote. "Of course I only wish you to follow your own conscience, dearest; but don't, even for heaven's sake, turn into a severe old maid, or get crow's-feet and wrinkles before I come home again. I couldn't forgive you! As for that delightful plan which we concocted last time I was at Ravenshill, I fear, on thinking it over, that it is impossible to carry it out,--at least, for the next few years. There are many objections to it, which I lost sight of before; and I believe, that, after all, you are better and happier in your uncle's house, than you would be wandering about with me. Your aunt always writes most kindly of you. It is a long time since I have heard from you.

  "Your very affectionate father,

  "CHARLES DEANE."

  "That is all," said Meg; "and," looking at her aunt, "I am not in theleast satisfied;" and then, with a sudden impulsive movement, she kneltdown by the old man's chair, and the loose sheets of that ratherunsatisfactory epistle floated aimlessly to the floor.

  "Father is so far away, and nothing I do or say seems to reach him," shecried; and there were tears in her voice now. "Uncle, I am desperate!_Do_ help me!"

  Mr. Russelthorpe glanced nervously from her to his wife.

  "Upon my word, Augusta," he began, when Mrs. Russelthorpe interrupted,her louder voice drowning his, as her quick decision mastered his slowchampionship.

  "We've had enough theatricals!" she said. "Get up, Margaret, you arespoiling your dress and wasting your uncle's time, and mine too," with aglance at the clock. But Meg's eyes were still fixed on UncleRusselthorpe; he had been kind to her when she was a child, and she hadalways consequently (though illogically) believed in him. Surely, surelyhe would take her part now.

  He fidgeted, shifting his position as if to turn from her eager,pleading face. It was hard on him to be called so suddenly to espouse aside,--on him, who liked to smile at the fallibility of all causes.Prompt action, too, was almost impossible at seventy, when at sixty hehad let the reins drop. Yes! it was hard on him, though Meg in herpassionate youth couldn't see that.

  "I--I don't see what you come to _me_ for," he said feebly. "You are soviolent, Meg. Nothing is probably so bad as you imagine, you know; and,if you wait long enough, grievances burn themselves out, like everythingelse. You may be mistaken too, and fancy--fancy----"

  "Yes--I was mistaken," said Meg slowly. She had risen from her kneeswhile the old man mumbled on; the eagerness had died out of her face andleft it rather scornful. "I did fancy you would help me, but I shall notfancy it again. I was foolish to trouble you, uncle. I am sorry. I neverwill any more."

  She went out of the library, holding her fair head very high, andwithout looking at either uncle or aunt; but when she got to her ownroom she threw herself down on her bed and sobbed, all her dignityvanishing.

  "Oh father, father, I do so want you! I can't be good all alone!" shecried. "Why aren't you ever here?"