Part 17 (1/2)
As the meal proceeded, Anthony noted that she grew less haggard. The tears still hung on her eyelashes, but the eyes themselves were a thought less tragic.
When Hannah came for the tray she gave a grunt of satisfaction at the sight of the egg-sh.e.l.l and the empty plates.
”Now,” said Anthony, ”we must thresh this subject out and settle what's to be done. I suppose you left a message for the Trents. What did you tell them?”
”Lies,” said Meg. ”He said we must have a good start. His yacht was at Southampton. And I left a note that I'd been suddenly summoned to Papa, and would write from there. They'd all gone for a picnic, you know--and it was arranged I was to have a headache that morning ... I've got it now with a vengeance ... It seemed rather fun when we were planning it.
Now it all looks so mean and horrid ... Besides, lots of people saw us in his motor ... and people always know me again because of my hair.
Everyone knew him ... the whole county made a fuss of him, and it seemed so wonderful ... that he should care like that for me....”
”Doubtless it did,” said Anthony drily. ”But we must consider what is to be done now. If you said you were going to your father, perhaps the best thing you can do is to go to him, and write to the Trents from there. I hope you didn't inform _him_ of your intention?”
”No,” she faltered. ”I was to write to him just before we sailed ... But you may be perfectly sure the Trents will find out ... He will probably go back there to look for me ... I expect he is awfully puzzled.”
”I expect he is, and I hope,” Anthony added vindictively, ”the fellow is terrified out of his life as well. He ought to be horsewhipped, and I'd like to do it. A babe like you!”
”No,” said Meg, firmly; ”there you're wrong. I'm not a babe ... I knew what I was doing; but up to to-day it seemed worth it ... I never seemed to see till to-day how it would hurt other people. Even if he grew tired of me--and I had faced that--there would have been some awfully happy months ... and so long as it was only me, it didn't seem to matter. And when you've had rather a mouldy life....”
”It can never be a case of 'only me.' As society is const.i.tuted, other people are always involved.”
”Yet there was Marian Evans ... he told me about her ... she did it, and everyone came round to think it was very fine of her really. She wrote, or something, didn't she?”
”She did,” said Anthony, ”and in several other respects her case was not at all a.n.a.logous to yours. She was a middle-aged woman--you are a child....”
”Perhaps, but I'm not an ignorant child....”
”Oh, Meg!” Anthony protested.
”I daresay about books and things I am, but I mean I haven't been wrapped in cotton-wool, and taken care of all my life, like Jan and Fay ... I know about things. Oh dear, oh dear, will you forbid Jan ever to speak to me again?”
”Jan!” Anthony repeated. ”Jan! Why, she's the person of all others we want. We'll do nothing till she's here. Let's get her.” And he pushed back his chair and rushed to the bell.
Meg rushed after him: ”You'll let her see me? You'll let her talk to me?
Oh, are you sure?”
The little hands clutched his arm, her ravaged, wistful face was raised imploringly to his.
Anthony stooped and kissed the little face.
”It's just people like Jan who are put into the world to straighten things out for the rest of us. We've wasted three-quarters of an hour already. Now we'll get her.”
”Is she on the telephone?” asked the practical Meg. ”Not far off?”
Jan was quite used to being summoned to her father in a tremendous hurry. She was back in St. George's Square before he started for the dinner. Meg was lying down in one of the dismantled bedrooms, and when Jan arrived she went straight to her father in his dressing-room.
She found him on his knees, pursuing a refractory collar-stud under the wash-stand.