Into the Highways and Hedges

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  INTO THE HIGHWAYS & HEDGES

  BY F. F. MONTRESOR

  _SEVENTH EDITION_

  London 1896

  HUTCHINSON & CO. 34 PATERNOSTER ROW

  "Let a man contend to the uttermost for his life's set prize, be it what it will."

  Dedicated TO MY MOTHER

  PREFACE.

  This is not meant to be a controversial novel. I by no means agree withall Barnabas Thorpe's opinions. Nevertheless I believe that the men whofight for their ideals have been, and always will be, the saving elementin a world which happily has never yet been left without them.

  Before and since the days when Socrates found that it was "impossible tolive a quiet life, for that would be to disobey the deity," there havealways been some souls who have counted it worth while to lose all else,if haply in the losing they might get nearer to the light from whichthey came. Their failures, their apparently hopeless mistakes, are oftenevident enough, yet the mistakes die, and the spirit which animates themlives. It would be dark, indeed, if the torches of those eager runnerswere to go out.

  F. F. M.

  INTO THE HIGHWAYS AND HEDGES.

  FIRST PART.

  CHAPTER I.

  The woman whose story is written here, was in the fulness of her youthsome fifty years ago.

  She is dead now, and so are the two men who loved her best, who wouldeach, according to his lights, have given his life for her happiness.

  Her name is inscribed in the family Bible, that holds on its flyleaf thegeneration of Deanes, but there is a thick stroke through it, whichalmost obliterates the delicate characters, and there is no recordeither of her marriage or of her death.

  She made a great mistake; she was one of the people who blunder on alarge scale, who put all their eggs into one basket, and who are apt tobreak their hearts as well as their goods; but, in so far as her lifedid not end in pure tragedy, it seemed to me worth the telling.

  One lifts one's cap to those who never go wrong, but Heaven knows it iseasy enough to stumble, and there are two sides to every ditch; let us,at least, cry "Hurrah!" when any one scrambles out on the right bank.

  Margaret was the third daughter of Charles Deane--(so much we findchronicled); she was five years younger than her sister Katherine, andseven years younger than Laura, and she must have been barely six whenher father, then newly widowed, brought his children to London, and leftthem in charge of his sister.

  The three little girls were heiresses, and plentifully provided for. TheDeanes and Russelthorpes have always been rich; money seems to haveclung to their fingers, though there was never a miser among them. Thefamilies had intermarried for two generations, before Mr. Deane's sisteraccepted Mr. Joseph Russelthorpe, and took possession of the house inBryanston Square. The marriage was not blessed with children, and "AuntRusselthorpe" had consequently plenty of spare energy to expend on thetraining of her nieces. She was still handsome, though past her youth,when little Margaret first made her acquaintance. A tall striking woman,with very erect carriage, a decided manner, and a hard voice. She was abrilliant talker, and her parties were the rage at one time, though shewas a shade too fond of monopolising attention to be a perfect hostess.

  She wore her hair in little ringlets on her high narrow forehead,according to, what was then, the fashion. Her hair and eyelashes werefair, her eyes wonderfully bright, though yellowish in colour, hercomplexion was exquisite, and her features were regular, save that herupper lip was rather too long.

  Her small nieces thought her "ugly" when they first saw her, butchildren never took to Mrs. Russelthorpe, and motherliness was not amongher charms.

  Margaret clung fast to her father, and hid her face in his coat tailswhen he tried to introduce her to her new guardian; Laura and Kate heldeach other's hands tightly, and stared hard at their aunt, trying not toblink in the sudden blaze of light.

  The grand drawing-room, with its chandeliers and tall mirrors andgilded chairs, rather overawed them. "Children were out of place there."

  "Miss Cripps is waiting for the girls in the schoolroom; James can showthem the way," said Mrs. Russelthorpe; and then her bright eyes fell onMargaret.

  "You spoil your youngest, I am afraid," she remarked.

  Margaret clung closer to her father.

  "Oh, don't let me be taken away from you," she sobbed; and Mr. Deanelifted her on to his shoulder, where she stopped crying; and lookeddefiance at her aunt, with one chubby hand resting on his wavy brightbrown hair.

  "You must forgive our bad manners to-night. Meg is very fond of her oldfather, aren't you, lady-love?" he said; and he carried her down to thedining-room (though with an apologetic glance at his sister), and shesat on his knee while he ate his dinner, and sipped sherry from hisglass, and listened wide-eyed to his talk.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe shook her head, and bided her time. Charles was goingaway to-morrow, and Meg should be taught how to behave herself before hecame back.

  In the meantime the little lady had a short-lived triumph.

  Her baby face was like her handsome father's, and the two made a prettypair. She put up her soft red lips to kiss him once, and her aunt turnedaway sharply. It was ridiculous to be angry with a child, and she wasirritable with herself as well as with Meg.

  "Uncle Russelthorpe" sat at the bottom of the table, watching, ratherthan joining in, the conversation. He had a way of slipping lower andlower in his chair, a trick which rather fascinated Meg, who wonderedwhether he would slide below the tablecloth if they sat long enough.

  He was an insignificant little man, dull-complexioned, with wiryiron-grey whiskers that seemed to twitch with nervousness, and sharpferret-like eyes that surprised you at times by a sudden humoroustwinkle. He had given up contending with his wife long ago, and consoledhimself for his abdication by sly internal comments on her proceedings.His remarks stung her occasionally, and she never quite ruled him,though he was not man enough to rule her.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe and her brother waxed hot over politics; and Meg,understanding about one remark in ten, was yet unwittingly charmed bythe flow of her father's sentences and the tone of his musical voice.

  The taste of sherry always brought back a remembrance of him, with hischin swathed in the stiff stock of those days, his face aglow withenthusiasm, his blue eyes kindling as he spoke.

  He was a very gallant gentleman, to whom all women were good and pureand beautiful; it was no wonder they liked him.

  Mr. Deane was the one Radical in a Tory family at a time when partyspirit ran high, and his sister was genuinely shocked at the tendencieshe displayed, and combated them with excellent force and some wit. Mrs.Russelthorpe enjoyed an argument, but her brother was too keenlyinterested to fence well.

  "My dear Augusta, it's easy to sit at an over-heaped table, and preachabout the insubordination of the starving," he cried. "We've done thatlong enough. No wonder Lazarus outside becomes impatient!"

  "Is Lazarus just outside?" asked Meg, raising her head, which wasnestled against his breast.

  "Ay, God knows he is!" said her father. "And this bitter winter isnipping his toes and freezing his marrow, Meg, so that he threatens tocome in, and take his share of the good things. You see, sis," he addedapologetically, "there are two sides to every question."

  Uncle Russelthorpe emitted a sudden unmusical chuckle.

  "Very true, Charles," he said. "But _you_ are not the man to see both."

  Here Meg began to cry. "I'm frightened of Lazarus," she gasped. "I don'twant him to come in!" and her father laughed at and com
forted her, andfinally bore her up to bed, being rather flattered at her devotion tohim, as well as touched at parting with his motherless children, whosehearts he had quite won during the long coach journey to London.

  He saw very little of his girls as a rule, he had so many other thingsto think of (he was a great patron of art and letters, a dabbler inpolitics, and the most popular man in the county), but when he was withthem he was charming, and petted them far more than was the fashion inthose days.

  Meg's predilection for him became quite inconvenient when he tried toleave her; and she clung to him more desperately than ever, partly fromterror at her new surroundings and at being left to sleep alone in astrange room.

  "I'll show you something beautiful if you'll only stop crying," he said,as he put her down on the nursery-maid's lap and knelt in front of them,Meg still clutching at the lace frills of his cuff to prevent hisdeparture.

  "You'll never, never come back no more if I let you go," said the childbetween her sobs; but, like a true little daughter of Eve, she allowedherself to be overcome by curiosity and her hold loosened.

  He drew out a small diamond-circled miniature that hung concealed roundhis neck.

  "Who is it?" he asked in a whisper.

  "Mother!" cried Meg; and he was delighted at the recognition.

  "There! You shall keep it for me if you'll let me go," he said, and putit in her pink baby fingers, closing them gently over it.

  Meg smiled at the shimmer of the stones. "I'll look in and see youasleep," he told her, and kissed her very tenderly as he left; but hedid not look in again. Another scene was more than he could stand, andhis sister advised him not to.

  Meg fell asleep at last with the miniature in her hand, but woke in themiddle of the night with a terrified consciousness that some one wasbending over her, and feeling stealthily under her pillow.

  "It's Lazarus! Father, father!" she screamed, but the figure fledincontinently--and in the morning Meg's diamonds were gone. She neverspoke of her loss: like many a nervous child she could not bear to talkof nightly terrors; but for years she was haunted with the idea of thatgaunt hungry figure "just outside," who might creep again into her roomand stand by her with freezing hands and frost-bitten feet,--a sort ofembodied and revengeful poverty.

  Nursery days ended under the new regime, and the pretty spoilt babydeveloped into a shy little schoolroom girl, who curtsied demurely, andspoke in a whisper when she appeared with her sisters in thedrawing-room, for a terrible half-hour before dinner.

  The girls had their meals in the schoolroom at the top of the house,with Miss Cripps, who, poor thing, had a dull enough time of it; andtheir world was quite distinct from their aunt's as a rule, though sheoccasionally invaded it, very much to their dismay.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe had no intention of treating her nieces unfairly, andno money was spared over their education; if little love was lavished onthem they certainly never expected, and probably never consciouslymissed it.

  Laura and Kate held together with a close and exclusive alliance; andlittle Meg, who was rather "out of it" so far as her sisters wereconcerned, would nurse her doll in a corner, and wear the pink off itscheeks with her kisses.

  Laura was a sturdy broad-shouldered girl, with a square jaw and clearblue eyes. She was abnormally solemn in the drawing-room, as indeed theyall were, but possessed a fund of dry humour that would bubble upsuddenly and quaintly even in schoolroom days, and a philosophicalself-reliance that unfortunately had a tendency to degenerate intoselfishness.

  Kate was graceful and delicate. She had languid and rather plaintivemanners, and gave promise of unusual beauty. She was lazy and apparentlyyielding, though, as a matter of fact, she possessed a gentle tenacityof purpose that seldom readily gave way to anything; but none of theDeanes were wanting in obstinacy.

  One unhappy day Aunt Russelthorpe made a sudden descent on theschoolroom. She had a habit of bursting in at irregular intervals inorder to see how things were going: for she never quite trusted anygoverness, and was genuinely determined to do her duty by the girls. Heradvent was generally a prelude to storms.

  "A good storm clears the air," she used to declare; and doubtless shewent away the happier for having relieved her mind; as for theatmosphere she left behind, it is open to doubt whether that benefited.

  This especial storm marked a crisis in Meg's life, warming her distrustof her aunt into an absolute dislike, that tended to make her childhoodand girlhood both morbid and unhappy.

  It was seven o'clock, and lessons were over--Miss Cripps was caughtnapping, and Laura and Kate were interrupted in the game they wereplaying together, when Mrs. Russelthorpe opened the door.

  Miss Cripps had no _savoir faire_ whatever, and they were all taken bysurprise, and stared silently at the apparition in evening dress,suddenly appearing in that dull room.

  "How sleepy you all are!" cried Mrs. Russelthorpe. "I never saw suchquiet children! Do you _never_ have any conversation? One would think Ibeat you. Where's Margaret? Oh, sitting in a corner as usual. You aregetting much too old for dolls, Margaret. Miss Cripps shouldn't allowyou to be such a baby--why, how old are you?"

  Meg crimsoned up to the very roots of her hair, clasped her doll moretightly, her eyes growing round and dilated, and remained speechless.

  "The child's a fool! How--old--are--you?" with exaggerated clearness,and a full stop between each word.

  "Twelve," murmured Meg; and then began to cry from sheer nervousness.There are some natures whom tears aggravate beyond endurance; AuntRusselthorpe lost patience and shook her niece, and the doll fell to theground.

  It was an old and worn and dirty doll, and Mrs. Russelthorpe hatedanything old; it was awkward of Meg to drop it, and awkwardness set hernerves on edge. She caught the doll up by its leg, and with anexclamation of disgust threw it into the fire.

  Meg screamed, and sprang forward to save it, with her face suddenly aswhite as her pinafore. Before any one could stop her, she had plungedher hand into the flames, and dragged out a melting mass.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe, with praiseworthy presence of mind, caught up the rugand smothered her niece in it.

  The blaze was out in a minute, but Meg's arm was badly burnt, and herdoll was a blackened stump.

  The child was beside herself with grief, and for the moment she no morefelt physical pain than if she had been under chloroform. She turned toher aunt with her grey eyes blazing.

  "Oh! how I _hate_ you, Aunt Russelthorpe!" she cried. "I can't burnyou--I wish--I wish I could; but I will hate you every moment of everyday just as long as ever I live!"

  It was after this episode that Meg took to slipping away in play-hours,and wandering off on her own devices. She felt secretly sore with MissCripps, and Laura and Kate, who had all looked on, and done nothing toavert the tragedy. She buried her doll in a corner of Bryanston Square,wrapped in a cambric handkerchief; but she could never laugh or playthere afterwards.

  She had suffered for that bit of wax as if it had been a sentientcreature, that she had seen writhe in the flames. The object had beenabsurd enough, but the love that enveloped it had been living, and thatdied hard.

  Meg shot up, mentally and physically about this time, and grew lanky andpale: she was beginning to leave childish ways behind her; but herchildish grief had one odd result,--it led to a curious alliance betweenherself and her old uncle, who, of all people in the world, was supposedto most detest children.

  The Russelthorpes seldom dined alone; but Mr. Russelthorpe, havingestablished a reputation for eccentricity, left the entertaining to hiswife, and would often shuffle off to his quiet study, even before dinnerwas fairly over.

  One night he was earlier than usual.

  His slippered feet made no noise as he crossed the hall, but he drew abreath of relief on entering his own den, and his breath was echoed by astartled gasp from the top of the library steps.

  There sat a slim pale girl, with three volumes in her lap, and a fourthin her arms. She had taken sanctuary in his lib
rary (which evenhousemaids durst not invade) for three weeks, but she was discovered atlast.

  The two gazed at each other in silence. Uncle Russelthorpe's sharp eyesbegan to twinkle under their heavy brows, Meg's grew large with despair.

  "Upon my word!" he said slowly. "And what are you here for?"

  The dining-room door opened at this moment, and the sound of voicesreached them, Aunt Russelthorpe's high above the rest.

  "Oh, don't call her! Please, please," cried Meg, with desperateentreaty. "I didn't mean any harm, I didn't really--I always have gonebefore you came in--I won't ever stay so late again--I came to--to getaway from them all."

  "Hm--so did I," said Uncle Russelthorpe; and he shut the door, and drewthe thick curtain before it.

  "How long do you generally stop, ghost?"

  "Till the clock strikes half-past seven," said Meg.

  "Oh," said he, "you had better keep to your time. Ghosts are alwaysregular in their visitations, but don't make any noise if you want tohaunt me. I don't allow bodies in here, only spirits." He glanced at heragain under his eyebrows.

  "You've not flesh enough to speak of," he said. "Yes, I think you maystay."

  So Meg stayed till the half-hour, when she took off her shoes in orderto make no noise, stole from her high perch, and vanished on tip-toe.

  She was pathetically grateful to him for the privilege; and theirfriendship prospered.

  It was a characteristic of the old gentleman that he felt noresponsibility for her. She devoured his books as she chose, and so longas she treated them carefully, he was only amused at her choice. He lether go her own way, as he let his wife; Meg worshipped him for hisso-called kindness, and answered with eyes full of reverence when headdressed her; she thought his laziness patience, and his toleranceangelic.

  All her life she saw heroes in ordinary men and women, and wasdisappointed if they failed to act up to her ideal of them. It was apropensity that cost her bitter tears--but, after all, the world mightbe the worse without the few fools who go on believing all things ofthose they love.

  Sometimes Uncle Russelthorpe would take no notice of his "ghost"; andthen, true to her part, she never spoke; sometimes, when the humour tookhim, he would draw her out and amuse himself with her quaint remarks.Occasionally her questions slightly discomposed him, "irresponsible"though he was.

  "What does Socrates mean by _this_?" the clear, unabashed voice wouldask; and Uncle Russelthorpe would interrupt the reading aloud thatfollowed, with a hasty,--

  "Oh, that is meant for old men like me, not for women or girls. Youneedn't think about it."

  Fortunately, Meg had no morbid curiosity; and the ancient writers withwhom her childish spirit communed left no stain on her innocence.

  Sir Thomas Browne fascinated her; for the twelve-year-old girl, like thevisionary doctor, had a strong leaning toward the supernatural.

  Once Uncle Russelthorpe saw her shudder, as she bent over the big folioon her knee.

  "What's the matter?" he inquired.

  "Sir Thomas Browne says rather frightening things sometimes," said Meg,and proceeded to quote.

  "_But that those phantasms appear often, and do frequent cemeteries,charnel houses, and churches, it is because those are the dormitories,where the devil, like an insolent champion, beholds with pride thespoils and trophies of his victory in Adam._"

  "Do you think he really does do that, uncle?"

  "Eh? Who? Does what?" said Uncle Russelthorpe, taking snuff.

  "The--the devil," whispered Meg. "Does he truly walk about thecemeteries like an insolent champion?"

  "We all make our own Devil, as we make our own God," said Mr.Russelthorpe. "You and your friend Sir Thomas make a very terrific one,with uncommonly long horns, because you are both cursed withimagination."

  "I don't understand," said the child, after puzzling some time over thisreply; and perhaps it was as well she didn't.

  On the whole, the hours in the library were good for Meg. Mrs.Russelthorpe observed that she was getting less babyish, and put thechange down to her own excellent treatment. She would probably havedisapproved of the evening "hauntings" had she known of them; but Mr.Russelthorpe held his tongue on the subject, and they continued tillMeg's lesson hours were lengthened with her petticoats, and she was wellinto her "teens". The cleverest of us are allowed less management thanwe sometimes fancy, wherein Providence shows some mercy.