CHAPTER X.
O lover of my life, O soldier saint, No work begun shall ever pause for death.
"I thought I'd ha' to die without this," said Barnabas. "Now--I amcontent."
He was sitting on the bench under the narrow barred window, which washigh above their heads. The winter sun was setting through a liftinghaze of fog; it threw a faint red gleam on the stone wall, and touchedthe heads of the man and woman who were making love in the condemnedcell. Is there any place, short of the grave, where men have never madelove?
"Hush!" said Meg. "_We_ have met life, not death, to-day."
The last occupant of this place had been hanged, the next poor wretchwould be waiting execution. The thought struck coldly on her.
"Oh, Barnabas! I have never feared death before," she cried; "for I didnot understand what life means." And the preacher, looking at her, knewshe spoke truth. This vivifying passion had sent a stronger tide throughher veins. Happiness, new-born, was in her face, and the fresh wonder atthat everlasting miracle which changes our water into wine.
"All the world seems new!" cried Margaret. "But other people have todie. And some of them never know what this means; and some, knowing,leave it all behind. Barnabas, to-morrow you will be free, and I shallbe by your side, and all the happiness that is ours shall make us strongto help. I will help as I never did before!--Oh, I am so sorry forthem."
"Ay, sweetheart; ye may well be that," he said.
The minutes were flying by. He must tell her. Her head was on hisshoulder, her hands were in his,--hands so delicate that one of his heldboth. He remembered how their smallness had touched him, long ago.
"I ha' ta'en ye by rough ways, an' ye'll ha' a hard time; though I meantto shelter ye all I could." The pain in his voice made her cling closerto him.
"It is my turn to say to you, 'It is worth while,'" she whispered. "Whatdoes it matter now how rough the road is? we will tread it together."
"But, if we are not together? My little lass, if we are not together?Will ye say that then? It is true! Ay--God help me--I believe it; butwill ye think so too?"
"Whatever comes now, I will think so too!" said Margaret. She smiled asshe spoke, ominous though his words were. She forgot to be afraid, inher womanly longing to comfort him.
"What do you think is coming? Do you fancy that the verdict will goagainst you?" she asked steadily. "But that cannot be! Would _He_ desertyou?"
"No," said Barnabas. "Not though the sky should fall, or I forget ye."And he put the last as the more impossible marvel of the two.
"But there's no want o' faith in believing that one may ha' to leaveone's body behind a bit afore the natural time. I've som'ut to tell ye,Margaret. It's best to face it. I'd liefer ye heard it now, thanto-morrow i' th' court."
"Go on," said Meg. And with his arms round her he told her. Meg listenedsilently when he described his interview with his enemy. "He must ha'overhauled my things somehow, though I doan't know how he got hold on'em," he said. "Ye see that must go against me. I can't explain it." Hespoke steadily, and not despairingly,--he had conquered his despair. Thefight had been fought; the "black minute" was at an end for him. Itmight be hard,--harder than the actual wrench of parting soul and bodywould be,--to part from her; but he could do it now. To relinquish Megunwon had indeed taxed severely the fortitude of the man who had oncetold her that he desired no peace in heaven, unless she were happy too;but this love, awake at last, he believed to be his now to all eternity;and, indeed, with an "all eternity" in view, they might well afford tolose a few score years.
"I don't understand," said Meg, in a voice she tried to keep fromtrembling. "Mr. Sauls found the diamonds in your cap. Ah, I let thatdrop with the other things I was bringing you, and he must have pickedit up. He saved me too. One would rather not be saved by such a--ohwell, it isn't worth while to think of him with you beside me; but howdid the diamonds get there?"
"They were hidden by the man who knocked Mr. Sauls down and robbed him,"said the preacher. "I _was_ a fool, Margaret! The man told me where theywere, an' I thought it was just a mad fancy. It never came to me to takemy knife and rip up the lining; I just shook it, an' seeing naught,flung it in a corner where it stayed. Ye see, I didn't wholly credit hisstory. It was all so mixed up wi' delusions. One minute he was seein'Mr. Sauls' double at th' foot o' his bed, beckoning him to hell, an' th'next he were raving about diamonds bein' on fire an' burning him, an'the next he were pouring out such sickening confessions as I think thedevil himself must ha' been prompting his tongue to. No man could ha'committed all the sins he told of. An' the longing to deliver him fro'Satan was strong on me, an' he kind o' clung to me, as if he was bein'hunted, an' I promised him I wouldn't betray him. One can't allus bethinking what 'ull be the consequences to onesel' when a poor soul turnsto one in mortal terror."
"And you will keep your promise at any cost to yourself--and to me?"said Meg.
"Little lass, ye wouldn't ha' me _not_ keep it!" he cried. He turned hishead away for a moment. Was even Meg against him? Dr. Merrill had toldhim that he sacrificed his wife to a skulking sneak; did she think sotoo? He looked at her with an involuntary sad entreaty that none but Meghad ever seen in his eyes.
He was used to being considered rather mad. Truth to tell, being in aminority troubled him little as a rule; but, for once, the pain ofloneliness touched him very sharply.
"Dear heart, do 'ee think I doan't care for 'ee?" he said. "I'd give mysoul, if it were only that, for yours. But one must follow where one'sMaster calls. Would ye ha' me such a cowardly hypocrite, that having inHis name bid ye give up the world for Him, I should mysel' shrink from apath where there's only room for one? Would ye ha' me break a promise,gi'en in this service, because keeping it means shame and death? Shamefor ye too, for ye too! Forgi'e me, if ye can't think me right," hecried sadly. "Oh, my little lass, I wish I could bear it all! It cuts melike a knife when I think it means shame for you. It's the sore part."He caught his breath sharply, and Meg felt his arm tremble for a moment.Then: "But I'd not say that to any one else," he said. "Ye are like myown soul, an', even to you, I'll not say it again. It's a bit mean o' meto cry out so. When I took service I didn't promise to follow the Masteronly so long as I could on velvet. I've no need to complain; an' yemustn't say He deserts us because He treats us like men, an' takes us atour word. Yet"--and again his face softened--"if ye _could_ think withme--but, happen, that's ower much to expect."
His voice, ringing with the eager loyalty which was so large a factor inhis religion, then breaking into human tenderness, ceased. He could notsee her face, for she sat with it hidden against him. He touched herfair head gently, with his hand. "Poor little lass!" He could not putinto words the remorseful tenderness he felt. He hoped she would not tryto dissuade him; it could make no difference, but he found Meg's griefhard to bear.
"Happen that's ower much to hope for?" he said again softly, but withmore wistfulness than he knew. "But I'd like ye to forgive me, Margaret,any way. Will ye do that, if ye think me wrong?" His voice sank to awhisper she barely caught. "The temptation was sore, but if I'd loved yeless it ha' been stronger; for I'd not ha' felt it so shameful then todrag that love i' the mud. Margaret, say _something_ to me."
Then she lifted her head and answered him--such an answer as no humansoul had given his before.
"You are right!" she said. "Except that you ask me to forgive you.Forgive what? Shame? I am not ashamed. Do you think I shall not beprouder of you than if all the world were at your feet? I have neverbeen ashamed of you. Never once! Even when I didn't love you, I knewbetter than that! Ashamed! I will try to be a little sorry for theblindness of all the people who did not know you innocent, who cannottell light from darkness! if you like, dear,--if you like--but there isno shame for you, or for me, who am yours."
Ah, had ever the condemned cell echoed to such words before? suchpassionate vibrating love, and pride of love?
"If you had betrayed a man for me, then you might have said, 'forgiveme,'" she
cried. "But you couldn't do that; you would not be you, if youdid! The Barnabas I love could never do it! Yes, then I should have beenashamed--bitterly ashamed, perhaps. Then our love would be in the mudindeed. Not now!"
"I allus knew ye a brave woman, my lass," said the preacher. "Happen Inever knew it quite enough!" But Meg clung to him again, choking back asudden desire to sob.
"Ah! but we shan't be parted!" she cried. "It can't be! it can't be!Barnabas, say to me that it can't be."
"Ay, wi' all my heart," he said. "Margaret, I believe, as I believe inmy God, that no pain nor death can part us two for ever. It _can't_ be!Ye are mine now. By the love God has given me for ye, an' by the love yebear for me, my sweetheart, I'll swear to ye that I hold the old enemynot strong enough to part us. It can't be."
But, for all the hot love in them, his words went through her like asword: he was bidding her look to the life everlasting, when she wantedhim here, and now. They both sat silent for a few minutes, preciousminutes! how fast they went!
"I had so much to say," he said. "I'd a deal to tell ye; but, somehow, Ican't remember it now. I want to hear ye say once more, 'I love ye'.I've wanted for it so long! Nigh on two years I've hungered for it. An'I've not pressed ye, have I, Margaret?"
And there came across Meg as he spoke the remembrance of those twoyears. How many times had he crushed back this deep, fierce love forfear of "scaring" her, cold-hearted as she had been? And now, perhaps,there might be only minutes left to give in, though there had beenmonths in which to deny.
"I love you," she said. "With all my soul and heart and mind andstrength; with all of me there is; with more of me than I ever knewthere was. I didn't know I _could_ love like this. As you love me, Ilove you, my dearest. You are more to me than all in heaven and all onearth besides. I would rather die with you than stay here without you.Ah, how feeble one's words are, for, _of course_, I would rather! thatwould be easy enough. If I have to live without you, I am still yours.While I am, I--I love you. If this can die, there is no life that lives!It is the most living part of me. If this grows cold, then I am dead.Barnabas, I love you, I love you! Do you know it _now_?"
"Time's up!" said the doctor, putting in his head. "Have you brought himto his senses at last, ma'am? I hope so."
* * * * *
She stood outside again in the snow. The doctor was talking eagerly.
"I am convinced that your husband is keeping something back," he said."He knows more than he will say. I hope you have preached a sermonto-day to good purpose. He won't listen to mine."
"I told him he was right," said Meg; and the doctor swore.
"Then, let me tell you, you've encouraged him in a most immoral course,"he said, "and in one that leads straight to the gallows! It's no timefor picking one's words--and--well, here's the truth. You had a chanceof saving him, if any one had,--which I doubt, for a more pig-headedsaint I've never come across--you had the only chance. You might atleast have tried; and you've lost it!"
In his heart he was saying angrily, what did she suppose she had beensmuggled in for--to talk sentiment? If Thorpe had married some lusty,rosy-cheeked barmaid, she'd have been of more good. She would have criedheartily and scolded; his high-flown nonsense wouldn't have had ahearing; it might have been swamped in her tears and in his naturalinstinct. Mrs. Thorpe's eyes were dry. Pshaw! she was only half a woman!He hadn't an exalted opinion of the other sex anyhow; but, at least, hepreferred them "womanly". Little fool! if she couldn't cry on occasion,what _was_ she capable of? He couldn't quite say that aloud, though. Megwas no barmaid, and not an easy person to be rude to.
"I am very grateful to you for letting me in," she said. "I think myhusband _is_ right, so what else could I say? But, if I had thought himwrong, I could have made no difference, practically--only," said Megsoftly, "it would have been rather harder for him."
"Rather harder! he'll find being choked out of life with a rope ratherharder; but you know your own affairs best, I suppose," said the doctor."Good-night, ma'am;" and he turned away, and Meg walked on alone.
"He'll find being choked out of life rather harder!" Meg felt as ifDoctor Merrill had roughly shaken her awake. When she had been withBarnabas his unwonted appeal for spiritual sympathy, his faith in theundying quality of their love, his belief in the impossibility of aneternal parting had somehow hidden from her the physical horror of sucha death. The doctor had brought it before her, had made her see the ropeand the coffin, and the actual death struggle. She saw it so vividly,poor woman, with that over-vivid imagination that had always been herbane, that, as she walked, she held out her hands instinctively.
"Don't, don't!" she cried. "He has been hurt enough. I can't bear him tobe hurt any more!" She did not know that she had spoken aloud, till someone passing put a hand on her arm.
"Mrs. Thorpe! may I see you home? You are ill, or very unhappy."
It was the parson from Lupcombe, the preacher's friend. Meg, standingstill, recognised him.
"Did I say something?" she asked. "Yes--I am unhappy; but you can't helpme, thank you. Don't try to, please. Only God can help."
The parson, looking at her, bared his white head.
"It is true," he said. "There are times when only He can help." And helet her go, but went on his own way with a sigh.
"Poor thing, poor thing!" he said to himself. "Saints are all very well,but they've no business to marry."
The interruption made Meg aware that she must have been looking ratherstrange. Tom would see at once that she had had bad news, and she couldnot tell him yet. She wanted to collect her thoughts, to repeat toherself what Barnabas had told her, coolly, without his over-stronginfluence, that made her see everything just as he saw it. Coolly! butthe time had passed when Meg could think coolly of suffering to him.
A church door stood open (oddly enough, for the church in those days,except at stated times of service, was harder to enter than the prison).The darkness and silence invited Meg. She turned into it, thankful for aquiet place to hide her troubled face in; and walking up the aisle, tookrefuge in the high curtained pew which was used by the Mayor andCorporation when they honoured St. Matthew's with their presence.
She drew the curtains close, then sat down on a hassock, and buried herface in the red bombazine cushions.
She went over the whole interview again. It was her doing that thediamonds had been found. If only she had not been knocked down and notlet Mr. Sauls pick up her bundle! It was like him to take promptadvantage. While she sat in the dark, Meg clenched her hands with thewild desire to kill George Sauls. If Barnabas were hanged how could _he_be allowed to live? Then she crushed that mad anger down again; it washer fault. She had persuaded her husband to come to London. She had lefthim alone while she nursed her father, she--what had the doctor said?She had lost the last chance of saving him, but _that_ had not been fromwant of love. In her soul she knew she had never loved him more thanwhen she had told him he was right. She knew it; for it was his soulhers loved,--a disgrace that touched that would be disgrace indeed.
"And yet--ah, it isn't only that," sobbed Meg. "Barnabas may go onloving me in heaven; but I want him, spirit and body both, on earth."
She clenched her hands, and pressed her face down on the cushion,struggling with the sobs that rose in her throat. Alas! it did notcomfort her to think of a disembodied spirit, however perfect, when shewas longing for her own living husband. She loved his faults as well ashis virtues; she loved him wholly and completely--as he was: the accentwith which he spoke, the very look of the brown hands toil-roughened. Inthe mortal agony of that parting, visions of heaven would _not_ supporther womanhood. "God have mercy on us, have mercy on us!" cried Margaret."Have mercy, Thou who hast made us what we are! who hast given us soulsand bodies both."
She must not fail him in any case; _that_ thought braced her again. Ifthe worst should happen, she must be by him. Could she bear to see it?Meg asked herself, and found the answer clear enough. Yes, she bothcould and would--an
d she would have no tears then.
"But oh, if it might be that I might bear it all!" she cried in herheart, with the cry which is old as love itself.
"Lord, let the pain be mine--if only my darling may go free!" Deepest,most fervent prayer of all humanity!--prayer that seems as if it mustpierce the veil and force an answer, that is born of our holiestinstincts, and has in it the sacrifice that is in motherhood;--prayerthat how many women's lips have prayed since the beginning of the world!
"Mine be the pain! Ay; and the sin and the shame too," we cry, knowingthat the cry is futile; for who shall deliver his brother? Surely lovehas been crucified since love first was!
"Ah, it is no wonder, no wonder that God died upon a cross," thoughtMeg; "if He loves as we love, where else could _our_ God be?"
* * * * *
"If you ask my opinion, I should say that you had better put up atriangle," said a decided voice at the far end of the church. The vestrydoor slammed, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs--quickbrisk footsteps--treading over the "Hic Jacets".
"Mr. Muller says that a cross is popish; and you think the commandmentsLow Church, don't you? or is it old-fashioned? Well, try a triangle. Itwon't mean anything. Now, that's an advantage to start with; you can'tquarrel so much over a purely secular symbol."
"Now, Mr. Sauls!" (a giggle), "if you say such things, I declare we'llset you to work as a punishment. Isn't Mr. Sauls too bad, Ethel? Oh,there comes Mr. Simkyns at last. Please light the candles, Mr. Simkyns."
The speaker was a plump bright-complexioned girl, who, with her sister,stood, with arms full of holly, looking over the berries at Mr. Sauls,who, however, had not the least intention of being beguiled intoassisting at Christmas decorations, an amusement not at all in his line.
"I came to find an entry in the register for 1802 that bears on a case Iam interested in," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt your good work;and, since you won't be grateful for my advice, I'll take myself off."
"Oh, we are only going to sort the ivy and holly, ready to beginto-morrow. It was all in a heap in the vestry. We hadn't an idea youwere there, had we, Ethel? But we'll forgive you this time; you maystay, if you like."
"Ah, thanks; but I won't put your generosity to too severe a test," herejoined drily.
The candles were lighted now; the quiet solemnity of the place was gone.On one side of the red curtains a woman in bitterest agony had prayedfor her husband's life; on the other, the girls laughingly prickedtheir fingers with holly leaves, and tried hard to flirt with Mr.Sauls.
"Mr. Sauls doesn't believe much in the generosity of our sex; do you,Mr. Sauls?" said the second girl, with another giggle and an upwardglance.
"Pardon me," said George, "I've the most exalted reverence for it;that's why I refrained from putting it to vulgar proof. It is alwaysunwise to test one's pet ideals; the results are apt to be disastrous,particularly to men of a naturally quixotic and sentimental turn, likemyself; I never do it, on principle. That's why I've arrived at matureage with all my little high-flown illusions so intact. You wouldn't liketo upset any one's principles, would you, Miss Miller? No, I thoughtnot. Good-evening then."
Miss Miller, during this speech, had looked as if she were not quitesure whether she was expected to laugh or not. At the last words herface fell; she threw the holly down pettishly as Mr. Sauls left thechurch.
"What's the use of going on? I hate Christmas decorations! And I'vepricked myself," she cried. "Oh, what's that?"
She gave a little shriek, as the red curtain was pushed aside.
"I beg your pardon. I am afraid I have startled you," said Meg gently."I did not know that any one else was in the church when I came in. Icame to--to rest. I am going now."
"_We_ will go; we have disturbed you; I wish we hadn't come in andchattered and laughed," cried the girl impulsively. She was verysoft-hearted; and this pale fair woman somehow impressed her, she hardlyknew why, with a sense of tragedy. "I am so sorry, but we'll go. Come,Ethel, let's go."
But Meg had already walked quickly down the aisle, and opened the churchdoor. In the act she looked back at the two bright-faced girls clingingtogether, still a little startled, under the candles, with the scarletberries at their feet.
"No, don't be sorry," she said. "I am very glad you came in, for now Iknow what to do. You needn't be sorry; but I should put up a cross if Iwere you, even though it means a good deal."
The church clock was striking the half-hour, the lamps were lighted; itwas too cold to snow hard, but a few fine, powdery flakes were fallingfrom the unbroken yellow-grey sky. Meg was just in time to see Mr. Saulsturn the corner of the street. She followed him, running at first; then,when she was within a few yards of him, walking again, keeping the samedistance always between them. She would not speak to him in the street;she remembered too vividly how she had repulsed his offer of help. Sheknew he would remember it too; he was not the person to forget it. Shemeant to follow him home, where he must listen to her. She did notconsider what argument she could use; she did not even think howterrible a thing it was to ask a favour of this man of all men. She onlyknew that he could prevent Barnabas from being hanged, and that when shewas pleading for her husband's life she should know what to say.
Mr. Sauls went straight back to his rooms, Meg following him. Sometimespeople came between them, and she momentarily lost sight of hishigh-shouldered, thick-set figure. At those moments a nervous agony offear would take possession of her, as if she had indeed lost the "lastchance," and seen him disappear with that same precious life in hispocket. Her pride was not so much consciously renounced as absolutelyburnt up in the flame of her love. As Tom had remarked long ago,"Barnabas' wife couldn't do anything by halves". She was one of theunfortunate people who must give "full measure running over," if theygave at all.
They went through miles of streets. George wondered afterwards that hehad not felt her behind him. When he reached his rooms, she waited aminute to let him get in first; then rang. The servant who opened thedoor looked doubtfully at her. His master had the strongest objection tobegging ladies; he had got into trouble only last week because he hadlet in a sister of mercy with a pitiful tale.
"I don't know that my master is at home," he said, "but I'll go andinquire. What name shall I say, miss?"
Meg hesitated a moment; it was possible that Mr. Sauls might refuse tosee her. "Mr. Sauls is at home," she said, "and he will know who I am."And the man, after another prolonged stare, let her in.
They crossed the hall, and he opened a door on the right. No one was inthe room; but a huge fire was blazing, and a swinging lamp that hungfrom the ceiling by silver chains was alight. A great tiger skin wasstretched in front of the hearth, an armchair was drawn up on one sideof it.
Meg stood leaning against the mantelpiece and waited.
It was a luxurious room--the room of a rich man, with a good idea ofcomfort. All the chairs were delightfully easy, the carpet was thick andsoft, the light arranged with a view to reading and writing comfortably.Artistic it was not, and there was no bric-a-brac, and there were fewbooks about.
Over the mantelpiece was the picture of an undraped nymph, lying on softcushions in a bower of roses. A rounded-limbed, sensuous beauty, withvelvety eyes half closed. The petals of the roses rested on her warmskin.
George's sister made a great many jokes about that picture, and calledit George's ideal woman.
Meg, in her shabby black dress, looked whiter than ever as she stoodbeneath it tensely waiting.
There were groups of wax fruit (not remarkably well done) about the roomtoo. Meg, had she seen them, would have guessed why she had got suchremarkably good prices for her work; but she saw neither the fruit northe picture--she saw only Barnabas and Newgate.
"What an ass you are, Lucas!" said Mr. Sauls, his voice sounding in thehall. "Go and tell the young woman that you know I am out on the bestauthority, for that I have just told you so myself."
A pause, and a deprecatory m
urmur from Lucas; then: "Would come in? Thedevil she would! These begging ladies deserve a snub. It's anotherQuakeress. Oh, very well, I'll tell her myself that I am out; and Idon't think she'll do it again." And Meg heard his footsteps crossingthe hall.
She pictured the imaginary Quakeress come to beg of George Sauls, andpitied her, imagination working in a curiously independent and rapidway, as it does in moments of suspense. Poor Quakeress! How could anywoman stoop to beg from this man? Unless, indeed, it were a woman whosehusband might have the life "choked out of him," and who was past caringfor aught else!
What would he have said to the Quakeress? Would she have worn a bonnetlike Mrs. Fry? Would Mr. Sauls have made her feel very hot and shy andashamed?
The door opened. Meg stood quite still, keeping her eyes on the fire.She would let him get over his astonishment, for she knew he hated beingsurprised. He held the handle in his hand for a second; he didn'texclaim, but there was a moment's breathless pause. This woman, standingsad and pale under his Nymph of the Roses, was quite the last he hadexpected to see. Then he shut the door firmly behind him and cameforward.
CHAPTER XI.
"Mrs. Thorpe!" he said. "The world must certainly be coming to an endwhen you come to me!"
He did not even pretend not to be astonished; he was too clever a man towaste time in futile conventionalities. He had always his wits abouthim; and he spoke in a tone that expressed neither enmity norfriendliness; a surprise put George instinctively on guard.
"It is in danger of it--for me," said Meg. And then he guessed why shehad come; and his face hardened.
"Nothing but the fear of losing what is more than all the world wouldhave brought me. You are right."
"Ah! I won't insult you by sympathy this time," he said. "I rememberthat mine offends you; but--and I mean no offence, Mrs. Thorpe--I thinkthat you had better not have come. A woman should always keep therefusing on her side; it answers best on the whole."
She had refused his aid with scorn when he had offered it, and now itwasn't to be had for the asking; but he preferred to spare her afruitless entreaty. Where Margaret was concerned, revenge was not sweetto George. His words were meant for a fair warning (if she would only bewise enough to take it), and Meg understood them so.
"Much the best, when there is any choice," she said. "But there isnone."
George looked at her for a moment in silence. The people who leadforlorn hopes never see "any choice".
"Then please sit down," he said; and came round to her corner of thefireplace, and pushed up a chair. She shook her head, and he shruggedhis shoulders slightly, and stood facing her again.
"I have come to ask you for something," said Meg. "You gave my locket tome once, and I returned it to you."
"Your husband returned it to me," interpolated George, who stood playingwith the china on the mantelpiece.
"With my entire consent," said Meg. "It only meant a dear memory to methen, but I thought it too valuable a gift to take from you. It means myhusband's liberty, and probably his life, now; but----"
"Don't go on," said George. "It is of no use; it is not for me, of allmen, to hinder natural consequences. You were right before when you toldme that nothing should induce you to accept a favour from me. You wereperfectly right."
Again it was with an honest desire to save her from a refusal that hespoke; but he felt as if he had struck her when he saw her white faceflush.
"Yes, I remember," she said. "I knew that you would remember too. I toldyou it would be easier to take hot coals in my hands than help from youwho injured him--so it would." She stretched out her hands to the firewith an unconsciously dramatic gesture. "So it would! If pain to my bodycould save his pain, I would do _that_ first. Shall I prove it?"
"No, thanks," said George drily. "I quite believe you. I always havebelieved you, even when your remarks have not been conducive to mynatural vanity. We both meant what we said, I fancy."
"Yes," said Meg bravely. "I did mean it. I meant every word. And youswore that nothing should ever tempt you to try to help me again, and_you_ meant it. And yet I ask you. Give me the diamonds now, for theyare the price of his life. Nothing that I could say if I begged on myknees, though I will do that if you like, could be stronger than this. Ido remember, and yet I ask you."
He turned his head away, not caring to look at her. Was this Margaret?Ah, yes! No other woman could so have moved him--"I remember--and yet Iask you--_even_ you," was what she meant; she was proud even in herself-abasement.
"You will?" she said.
"No!" he answered gravely. "I am sorry. I warned you not to ask me. Onecan't say such a 'no' so that it does not give pain, or I would. I don'twant to be more of a brute to you than I need. I would say it gently ifI could--but I cannot--I mean I will not--give you that."
He twisted his eyeglass cord rapidly round his finger, as she rememberedhis doing of old, when he was a trifle excited in an argument. Then hemade a mistake. He should have left his refusal there; but he did not;he began to justify himself; he could not bear that she should think himworse than he was.
"I should like to say that it is not because of what passed between usoutside the governor's house that I refuse your request now," he said."I am _not_ quite mean enough to revenge myself on you for that--Ishould not have given the diamonds up in any case."
"Why not?" said Meg.
He shrugged his shoulders again.
"Because _I_ am not quixotic," he said. "You mustn't expect a man tobelie his nature. Look here, Mrs. Thorpe. You always knew me to be afellow with what you and your father called 'low aims,' didn't you?That was what you didn't like about me years ago. Oh, you never said so;and you were too good to despise any one; but you thought me on adifferent level; and I lost you; and Barnabas Thorpe married you. Verywell! I had no right to complain; but, then, you mustn't expect _me_ tobe high-minded now."
"If I offended you then----" began Meg in a low voice; but he stoppedher.
"No, no. I don't mean that. I wasn't offended. Don't think I am sayingthis out of spite. I am _not_. I am only explaining. You were perfectlyright, you judged me truly enough. I don't go in for being generous. Inever give something for less than nothing. Naturally we both know thatif I give you your locket I give you the case;--that is what you mean,isn't it?" He paused a moment, and Meg bowed her head.
"And some men, your father among them, would have let a man who hadinjured them go for the sake of the woman they--who asked them. Iacknowledge that; but I am not of that kind. I have never even pretendedto be. You have always understood that before so well," said George alittle bitterly, "that you ought in fairness to understand it now."
"But Barnabas never injured you," said Meg, with a feminine begging ofthe point that brought an unmirthful smile to George's lips.
It was a hard fate that would not allow him to strike his enemy withoutwounding her. He hated this scene, and he hated his own weakness inhating it.
"You told me that you believed me; and indeed you must know that I amspeaking the truth," she cried earnestly, with that instinctive feeling,that we most of us have, of the overpowering force of any fact that wethoroughly believe. "Barnabas could never strike a blow from behind. Ifyou don't know that yourself, believe me for I do know him. Do you thinkI should be here now if I thought him guilty?"
"I have implicit faith in your word, which is more than I'd say of mostmen or of any other woman of my acquaintance," said George. "Since yousay so, I am certain that you believe him innocent. I don't think thatyou could lie in any circumstances, certainly not well enough to carryconviction; but--I might say, consequently--you must pardon me if Ican't pretend to equal faith in your judgment."
"My judgment is often wrong," she cried. "And yet, for that very reason,you may believe when I say I know him. Who do you think has ever hadsuch cause to know him as I have had? I, who was his wife in name beforeI understood what love and marriage meant; who threw up everything athis bidding, and lived to recognise that he was not infallible?"
/>
And George was silent. The boldness of this avowal surprised him. Meg,from their first acquaintance, had surprised him at times.
"We made a mistake," she said. "If Barnabas had been one shade less thanutterly honest, it would have been an irretrievable mistake." She wasthinking of a past despair, of which this man knew nothing, of blackdepths of water and a wind-swept marsh, and the thought gave herstrength now. "You think that I believe in the preacher because I lovehim? It is not so, for I did _not_ love him. I know that he is honest.What do you suppose would have become of me if he had not been good?"she cried with a shudder. "Should not _I_ have had cause enough to knowthat?"
And Mr. Sauls felt the force of that shudder.
"I allow it," he said. "You certainly ought to know. We'll grant thepreacher honest, if you like;--that is honest according to the gospel ofBarnabas Thorpe, which quite passes my humble understanding. Apparentlyyou comprehend it. I'll take it on trust that he never steals diamonds,though he stole a wife; and that he could possibly explain everything,if his very remarkable code of morality did not include the shelteringof criminals. I'll grant you all that,--but it makes no difference. Lethim carry out his own principles; far be it from me to prevent him thistime. I would have prevented him once, but I was too late."
His voice lost self-restraint, and sounded momentarily hoarse andfierce; then he regained his coolness.
"You are a little illogical," he said. "All that you advance may beabsolutely true, Mrs. Thorpe; but it is no reason at all why I shouldsuppress evidence, and give you the diamonds. His innocence is his ownaffair--not mine."
"Do you expect a woman to be logical when her husband is in danger ofbeing hanged?" said Meg. She was trying to speak quietly, but theterrible strain was telling on her.
"Well, no--I seldom expect it in any circumstances," he answered; andthen was ashamed of his words; they sounded like a taunt. "It is morethan flesh and blood can stand!" he said suddenly. "You should not havecome, Margaret! Don't you know that no one can bear to hear the woman heloves beg for the man who has----"
"Whom she loves!" cried Meg. "Give me his life! If you know what lovemeans, give it to me! I know that you hate him! I know now that you hatehim because he married me,--but _I_ love him so. For him? No, I am notbegging for him. Do you think that Barnabas would have let me come hereto ask favours of you? I think he would rather have been hanged. Heshall never know this. I am begging nothing for him. Death must meangain for him--but for me! Ah, think of it, think of it! for I hardlydare to. Will you leave me desolate, whom you say you love? I could facedeath; but life without him is so terrible. If I must bear it, I must,"said Meg drawing herself up. "Other women have seen their husbands die,and have lived, and so can I--but----" and her voice broke. "Ah, save mefrom it!" she cried; "you who say you love me. This is more than my ownlife to me (_that_ I would never beg for). For my sake, for my sake giveme this thing, because _I_ ask it of you."
"Because you ask it of me!" said George.
He stared at her, repeating her words almost stupidly. The agony of herentreaty, the sight of her love, fully awake at last, moved him, hehardly knew himself whether most strongly to jealousy or love.
So she was transformed! Well, he had always known it possible, alwaysfelt that there was fire behind her ice! Indeed, it was that possibilityof passion under her cold pure ideality that had attracted Georgealways. But it was not he, it was Barnabas Thorpe who had awakened it.
"Do _you_ believe that the preacher hasn't injured me?" he cried, with ahot bitterness in his heart. "Oh, yes; he has won, all the way round."
He walked to his desk, unlocked it, and held out the diamonds. "Youshall have what you ask," he said; "because _you_ ask it; but never tellany one, Mrs. Thorpe, for I am ashamed of being such a fool."
Then, as she gave a little cry of joy, his fingers closed again on thelocket.
"Margaret, Margaret! is his life worth a kiss?" he said. "You shall giveme that for it. Ah, God! What a brute I am!" as she shrank backterrified. "There, take it--and go--go quickly." He threw the locket onthe table, and turned his back on her. "It may as well still besomething for nothing; for, where you are concerned, it always hasbeen," he said. "No; don't stop to thank me. You'd better not. Theblessedness of giving isn't at all in my line, you know, and if you stayI shall repent."
And Meg went quickly, with the diamonds in her hand.
* * * * *
The trial ended on the Monday; but the last act of the drama was not sodramatic as had been expected. A rumour had, somehow, got about as tothe finding of the jewels. It had been whispered that George Sauls wasgoing to enter the witness box again, and startle every one with a grand_coup de theatre_. But nothing of the sort happened. No additionalevidence was forthcoming. The judge, in summing up, pointed to the factof the prosecutor's pockets having been rifled, as indicating thatgreed, rather than vengeance, had prompted the crime. The prisoner'scharacter for probity was unimpeachable. The doctor's evidence showedthat the blow had been given by a sharp-edged instrument. The prisonerhad had nothing in his hand when he encountered Mr. Sauls on the marshby the pool. It had been said that the accused was of a naturallypassionate disposition, and that a "violent impulse" might have assailedhim, such as had possessed him sixteen years before in the churchyard;but, apparently, he had shown considerable self-control in the interviewthat had been described. If he was guilty, he was guilty of adeliberate and premeditated assault, and the weapon with which theassault was committed must have been concealed about his person when hecame up to the prosecutor. It was a crime apparently at variance withthe whole tenor of his life. It was _not_ the sudden yielding totemptation of a passionate and sorely provoked man, but a cowardly andcunningly planned attempt at murder. If Barnabas Thorpe was not guiltythe case remained shrouded in mystery. There was absolutely no clue toguide to the discovery of the offender.
The jury were absent half an hour, and returned a verdict for theprisoner. The diamonds that George Sauls had been robbed of were restingsafely on Margaret Thorpe's neck, and she kept pressing her hand overthem during the judge's summing up. She had not dared to leave thembehind her. George Sauls guessed where they were, and laughed rathersardonically to himself as he reflected that "the clue" was not far off.
Well! he gave the "case" as well as the diamonds. He had given Meg agood deal from first to last; and, though he wasn't aware of the fact,he was no loser, seeing that no man can give of his best and yet receivenothing.
Barnabas Thorpe looked immensely surprised when he found himself free."Do ye mean to say that that's all?" he said. "That I may go where Ilike? Hasn't Mr. Sauls any more to say? But I know he has."
He did not seem to realise his liberty, even when Tom seized him by theshoulders.
"I believe he's disappointed! I never saw a fellow so determined to behanged! Never mind, you may come to it yet, Thorpe," said the doctor,who had fairly shouted over the verdict.
"I am more heartily glad than I can say," said Mr. Bagshotte, wringinghis hand; "but I should like to see an action for damages broughtagainst Mr. Sauls."
"We'll gi'e him what for, if ever he shows his black face in our partagain," said Long John. "The man as tried afore didn't do the jobproperly."
"What did he mean? Was he lying?" said Barnabas.
"Was he?" said Tom scornfully. "Why, man, ye know he was!" He lookedrather anxiously at his brother, half fearing that the captivity andhard usage had touched his brain.
"Where's Margaret?" said Barnabas.
"Waiting for 'ee by the door."
"No, I couldn't wait; I'm here," said Meg behind him. "Barnabas, let usgo home."
"Ye'd no business to come into the court again. She turned faint at th'end, when there wasn't any more need to," said Tom. "Well, ye'd ha'gi'en us a pretty time of it, lad! Come along, Margaret, ye are as whiteas a sheet still."
But Barnabas turned quickly to her. "I'll take care of my lass, if I amreally free," he said.
&nb
sp; "Let them go together," said the doctor. "Then he'll take it in."
"The blackguards! I'd like to throw 'em all into Newgate for threemonths wi'out trial," said Tom between his teeth. But whether he meantjudge, jury or Mr. Sauls remained uncertain.
When the preacher and Meg left the court together, there was a mingledsound of hissing and cheering. The cheering predominated then, for hisown friends were in force; of the hissing he heard more later.
The snowy east wind cut like a knife, blowing in their faces as theycame out of the crowded court. Barnabas felt the flakes on his lips, andsmiled and drew a deep breath. "How good the snow tastes!" he said."But draw your hood well over your head, lass. Ay, now I know I amfree."
They supped together in Tom's room later; Tom inveighing against thedirtiness, darkness, wickedness and manifold horrors of London, andswearing that he owed his brother "som'ut for dragging him up; he'dnever ha' come without he'd been obliged;" but breaking off occasionallyinto bursts of hilarity, tempered again by the sight of the change inBarnabas;--Barnabas very silent, finding it still somewhat startling tobe met by liberty and love, when he had made up his mind to acceptimprisonment, and probably death--Meg sitting between them, too thankfulfor many words.
"I wonder now how Mr. Sauls is feelin'--pretty small I hope," said Tom.
"I doan't understand it," said Barnabas. "He told me i' the prison thathe had evidence as would ha' proved me guilty."
It was a sign of how thoroughly the brothers knew each other that he hadnever considered it necessary to assert his innocence to Tom.
"The deuce he did!" said Tom. "He's found it not so easy as he thought,then. If ever that gentleman gets his deserts, may I be there! Your wife'ud look t'other way out o' her sense o' duty,--but she'd _want_ to clapher hands; she allowed as much as that."
"Not now," said Meg quickly. "You don't know, Tom. No one ever knowsexactly what another man's deserts are." She coloured, fearing to betraywhat she had promised to keep secret; and Tom laughed.
"Ye may well blush when ye turn devil's advocate," he remarked. "Iwonder ye dare stand up for him; only ye've allus got Barnabas to backye now. Ye weren't so charitably disposed on Saturday," pursued Tom,looking rather hard at her.
"Eh, my lass!" said Barnabas. "Did Tom bully ye so that ye didn't daresay what ye liked when I wasn't by?"
He smiled, and Meg laughed, relieved at the change of subject. "Yes,"she said; "Tom beat me with a poker and threw boots at me--whenever hehad the chance!"
"That's why she's glad to see ye," said Tom coolly. "She's larnt as ahusband may be useful--she missed ye on occasions."
"No, I didn't," said Meg. "When one wants any one much, one doesn't wanthim 'on occasions'; one wants him every time one draws one's breath."
"Well, he ain't much to boast on, now ye've got him," said Tom. "I say,lad, come back wi' me to-morrow, and shake the dust o' this ant-hill offyour feet and pick up your flesh again. Ye'd do to scare the crows atpresent!"
"I'll get all right again. I'm tougher than ye think," said thepreacher. "But I wouldn't be able to do farm work for a bit, and I ain'tgoin' to live on dad--no, not for a day. It's natural like that heshouldn't ha' been sure o' me, for he never did think much o' me.Happen, if I'd been hanged, he'd ha' thought I desarved it; but I'll nottake help from him."
"Did not your father believe in you?" cried Meg. "Oh, Barnabas, I cannever understand it--he is so good to me always."
"So he is," said the preacher. "I'm beholden to dad for that anyway."
After supper, when the two men sat together, Tom recurred to thatsubject.
"It's a shame, lad!" he said gravely. "Dad's been down on you all yourlife; but it's just the queer twist in his mind; I doan't know as he canrightly help it. Times when ye were a lad, I've thought if I could standup for ye more; but ye were allus strong enough to stand by yoursel',and he ain't. It's odd how he turns the best side to your wife; she'snever even seen him at his worst."
"Poor old dad!" said Barnabas. The firelight played on the brothers'faces, both strongly marked, both bearing the impress of hard lives. Thequeer strain in the father's character had not turned to weakness in thesons; but, probably, there were traces of it in them too.
"Poor old dad! he sartainly couldn't abide me as a boy, but o' lateyears I fancied he'd come round quite wonderful. Ye've been right tostick by him; but I fancy there'll be a good many his way o' thinkin'.I'm _not_ fairly cleared, Tom."
"There's more nor I can feel the bottom to," said Tom; "but ye'll liveit down."
"Ay, I'll do that, an' I'll live it down here," said the preacher."Giles 'ull be glad to ha' me back; an' I can keep a roof overMargaret's head an' to spare at that trade; and do my special work aswell."
"Do 'ee think your preaching 'ull go down after this?" asked Tombluntly. "Happen they'll refuse to listen to ye."
"Very like," said Barnabas; "but if one won't be silent, one 'ull beheard--i' th' end. I larnt _that_ in Newgate."
Tom nodded with rather a grim smile. How far he sympathised with hisbrother's religious views he never said; but he had long ago given upopposing them.
"An' your wife 'ull bide with ye?"
"She'll do as she likes," said the preacher; "but I've small doubt whichthat 'ull be." And Tom shot a quick glance at his brother, as heknocked the ashes out of his pipe.
"Oh, ay, ye've won her at last," he said. "It's ta'en a near sight o'the gallows to make her like ye, lad; but I fancy it 'ud take a dealmore nor that to kill the liking. She's not the soart as 'ull be anytrouble to keep. She'll hold to 'ee now through thick and thin; but,--yemight mind, times, that the ways ye walk _are_ rough to a woman's feet;in especial one as was born i' cambric sheets. She'll never remind ye o'that; doan't 'ee quite forget it."
"I doan't," said the preacher. "But the ways must be stiff that leaduphill;" and Tom, looking at his brother's whitened hair and bowedshoulders, was silent.
Barnabas' wife was not likely to have an easy time of it; but, afterall, there are a good many things that are more worth living for thaneasy times. He went back to the farm the next day, carrying with him asmall packet, which Meg had charged him to throw unopened into thebottomless depths of the Pixies' Pond. It was not safe for her to keepit, for more reasons than one; and she felt no pang at parting with it.She had flung away more than diamonds for Barnabas! Tom asked noquestions, and accepted and carried out the commission with no comments.If he guessed anything, he kept a still tongue on the subject. Barnabas'wife trusted him utterly, and neither he nor the pixies betrayed thetrust. This time the diamonds did _not_ return.
Timothy never confessed. After a time, he reappeared, limping ragged andfoot-sore over the marshes to his mother's hut, looking over hisshoulder as he shambled along. He was nearly starved and very thin, andweak and dirty. His mother received him with unbounded joy. He did nottell her where he had been; only vouchsafed the information that "thepreacher had 'lain' the fellow, else he could never have come back".
No one connected him with the attempted murder of Mr. Sauls, but he wasless mischievous and less restless than of old. He never understood thatBarnabas Thorpe had nearly been hanged in his stead; but he hadcertainly lost his hatred of the preacher, and even, oddly enough,showed some rudimentary signs of a conscience. Barnabas would possiblyhave counted that in itself worth going to prison for; and, that beingso, Barnabas was hardly, perhaps, to be pitied, though the cloud on hisname was never cleared, and though there were always some, generallythose who had not fallen under his personal influence, who consideredhim more knave than fool.
He never betrayed that confession, and the consequences that followedhis hearing it did not make him one whit more cautious; but, to the endof his days, he felt "'shamed" when he reflected on his own"cowardliness" in the prison. He believed he might have done more forhis Master, if he had not been weighed down during the whole of oneafternoon by a most despicable and self-seeking weakness. His devotionto the miserable, his deep sympathy with the fallen, were the greaterfor t
hat recollection.
It must be owned that from the moment he was certain that he possessedMeg's heart, his hatred of George Sauls ceased to trouble him; thatknowledge exorcised _that_ devil more effectually than all his prayersand fastings,--a fact which he put down to his want of faith, but whichwould rather have amused the doctor; though it is doubtful whethereither Dr. Merrill or Barnabas Thorpe had arrived at an entirely justconclusion about the universe in general, and themselves in particular.
Both being honest men in their way, perhaps both had got hold of asplinter of the truth. Perhaps there will be a general piecing one day,when each generation and even individual will bring the preciousfragment he has practically believed in, to the "saving of hissoul"--materialist and mystic alike!
The last chapter of the story necessarily inclines one to end one'ssentences with a query, seeing that an ending must always mean a freshbeginning somehow and somewhere.
The preacher and Margaret moved into the rooms over Giles' shop. Herecovered his health to a certain extent; for his constitution, like hiswill, took a great deal of breaking. His horror of living in a city waslost in his growing desire to fight against the evil of it.Nevertheless, he meant to take a holiday and see the country he loved,when he should be no longer needed. I do not know when that daydawned;--possibly when his body was in its coffin; but one would notlike to be sure even of that, for the rest of Heaven must surely mean tosuch strenuous souls as his, but "increased service".
His mistakes, at any rate, we may hope are over now; his battles fought,his besetting sins burnt away in that fire of the Lord in whom hebelieved. He followed the light, when he saw it, to the best of hisability, and he fell into bogs and ditches! Was the light therefore adelusion? Was his zeal wasted? I trow not. Our martyrs are troublesomepeople, troublesome both to themselves and to their generation. They seethrough curiously coloured glasses, they have a huge capability fortilting at windmills, and tumbling into pitfalls. They spill their ownblood freely, and occasionally their brothers' as well; and yet,clinging to their ideal at all costs and to the uttermost, they arestill saving salt in the world, witnesses of something that is worthsuffering, worth dying--worth even living for. That noble army is drawnfrom every nation, and its members are of every creed. They aresometimes, alas! persecutors as well as persecuted; but in one pointthey are alike: their lives and actions preach the gospel of enduranceand courage. They lift anew symbols of sacrifice, and so draw men'shearts after them.
George Sauls never met Meg again after the interview which lost him thecase. She considered herself under an everlasting debt of gratitude tohim; but it was a debt which, unfortunately, could never be cancelled.Gratitude, like friendship, was "not what he wanted". She never did fulljustice to the nature that was so unlike her own; but then "justice" isa rather rare commodity.
"I didn't know that I had it in me to be such a soft idiot," he said tohis mother curtly, when he had told her that the preacher had beenacquitted and that she must forget that dream they had had about thefinding of diamonds.
Mrs. Sauls looked at him, with the rare tears standing in her eyes. "Mydear, the world would have been a worse place for me anyhow, if you hadnot had any soft spot in your heart," she said.
"Oh d----n my heart! One should be made without one," said George.
And the old lady laughed and shook her head. "It's too good to bedamned, my son." And, to herself she added: "And two women can swear tothat who've good cause to know".
Of her own blood relations Meg saw little in the years that followed.Her life and theirs were too wide apart for it to be practicable for herto hold both to them and to her husband. Some women might, perhaps, havemanaged to cling to both; but Meg was not capable of a dividedallegiance. She lived and worked for and with Barnabas, giving herstrength and heart and soul as entirely and ungrudgingly as ever womangave, and finding her happiness in the giving. No doubt she found sorrowtoo, seeing that increased capabilities of joy mean also increasedcapabilities of grief; but, after all, roses are worth their thorns evenin this world.
On the evening of the day following the trial she stood beside thepreacher at the window of their room in Stepney. The sun was going downlike a red ball, sinking slowly behind the many twisted chimney-pots.Meg looked out on the murky yellow haze, and the crowded street, and inher heart was a great thankfulness.
"I've been thinkin' ower som'ut that Tom said last night. Would ye aslief bide wi' my father a bit till I ha' got things straighter for ye?"said Barnabas.
Meg shook her head. "No, I wouldn't. What has Tom been saying?"
"That my ways are rough for your feet; for that, when all's said anddone, ye come of a different kind. _Are_ ye quite content now, Margaret?Ye told me once that we had made a mistake."
Margaret turned to him with a smile that was answer enough. "Contentmentis hardly the right state of mind for your wife, is it?" she said. Thewistful tenderness in her face deepened. "_You_ will never restcontented while there is a single 'unawakened' person left. I am morethan contented now; though I am not so hopeful as you are. Only keep mevery close to you, please, if your way is rough."
"What a sight o' houses, an' full--full to the cellars!" said thepreacher. Meg knew what he was thinking when she saw his nostrils dilateand his eyes brighten like those of an old war horse when he hears thesound of a drum.
"To-morrow," cried Barnabas, "to-morrow I'll begin again. These lastmonths have gi'en me a lesson. Ay, they've taught me I am too ready bytimes to serve two masters; that I've thought a deal too much o' mybodily life."
And his wife sighed under cover of her smile. That moral was perhapshardly the one that most people would have drawn from late events. But aman sees what he has eyes to see, and that only!
"Barnabas," she said, "do you think from the bottom of your heart thatyour mistakes in life have generally arisen from a time-servingbackwardness, from over-prudence and cowardliness?"
After a moment's silence, he answered, with reddening cheek:--
"Ay, lass; those ha' been my sins; I'd not call 'em mistakes. Mistakesone's bound to make, but they doan't matter. So long as a man followsthe light as he sees it, he's bound to near it in time, and naught elseis worth th' counting; but an' he holds back for fear o' mishaps, and isneither hot nor cold, phew!--the devil himsel' might be 'shamed o' thatsoart. Happen it takes all hell to warm some into life! For the rest, ofcourse one must pay for blunders; it's a child's part to cry over that.We are apt to make a deal too much fuss about suffering, though we callourselves the servants o' Him who chose it."
He frowned, looking over the housetops with eyes that saw the inside ofNewgate and Jack dying.
"As a man sows, he reaps," he said. "An' there ain't no such thing asescaping payment. One sees that payment in the hospitals and the streetsand the prisons. But it's a just law; and a remission of it 'ud meandeath, not life. There is none, I fancy, lass, unless the Lord ceases tobe merciful."
"Ah," said Meg, "I never know whether I think your creed most stern ormost merciful, Barnabas; but, if there is no such thing as escapingpayment, then what does the Cross mean?"
"It saves us from our sins!" said the preacher. "The devil tempts us tobe cowards through our lusts, through our love o' ease; His Cross is theovercoming o' the fear o' suffering, the banner o' Him who chose andconquered pain."
And she laid her head on his shoulder as they stood together, hoping inher heart that her womanly fears for him might be forgiven, seeing thatthey could never hold him back. "Ah, you may be right," she said. "Atany rate yours is a brave creed, and one fit for a man who lovesfighting. But I shall never rise to thinking that 'nothing else matters'so long as one is following the light. Barnabas, that is beyond me! Icould pretend I did not mind being hurt," said Meg; "but at the bottomof my soul I should know it was a pretence. I can't understand that!"
"_You_ can't understan' that?" said the man; and he drew her closer tohim. "Sweetheart, who was it that said that if she stood with me on thescaffold there would be no
such thing as shame for her? That she wouldfind it easy if she might die with me? Was that a pretence?"
"No, no. It was truer than anything else," cried Meg. "But that was foryou, and any woman would have felt that if she cared for you. Why, thereis not a poor creature who haunts Newgate but would understand _that_.It is so simple! A sacrifice is no pain when it is for the person oneloves. It ceases to be a sacrifice. One doesn't 'count' it."
"I see," said the preacher. "So any woman finds that simple, eh?" Helooked at the woman by his side, _his_ truly now, and there crept overhis face that tender reverence which a good man gives so freely, andwhich always half shamed, half touched Margaret.
"Help me, lass," he said; "that _I_ may find it simple too. I am cold attimes. I doan't allus practise what I believe. I am a terrible coward,Margaret. Help me, that the fire o' th' Lord may be kindled afresh inme, to the savin' o' many!"
"I think it will be," said Meg, her own eyes kindling. "Oh, Barnabas, itis a difficult world; but, at least, you never tell one to be satisfiedwith makeshifts, because there is nothing else to be had."
A recollection of her girlhood was in her mind when she spoke.
"God forbid!" said Barnabas Thorpe. "Shall we satisfy our souls withswine's food? Better go hungry than that! That creed is fit for neitherman nor woman. It's born o' despair an' ower-softness, an' it means agivin' up o' th' fight, which is a shamefu' thing. Isn't it queer tothink o' th' hundreds i' those houses? I'll preach by the riverto-morrow. It's good to be free again! One got kind o' sick with feelingeyes always on one by night and day, and no place to breathe alone in."
"Forget Newgate now, dear," said Meg.
"No, I'll not do that," he answered. "One has no business to 'forget'till the day when the coming of the Lord shall set the prisoners free.But we'll begin afresh to-morrow, an' we'll ha' fewer doubts, an' we'lldo more."
THE END.
* * * * *
A FEW PRESS OPINIONS
ON
INTO THE HIGHWAYS and HEDGES
Academy.
"This book is so admirably conceived and written that Mr. Montresor'snext venture must excite unusual interest."
Speaker.
"This book will undoubtedly rank high amongst the notable novels of1895."
Athenaeum.
"Whoever wrote 'Into the Highways and Hedges' wrote no common novel. Atouch of idealism, of nobility of thought and purpose, mingled with anair of reality and well-chosen expression, are the most notable featuresof a book that has not the ordinary defects of such qualities. With allits elevation of utterance and spirituality of outlook and insight it iswonderfully free from overstrained or exaggerated matter, and it hasglimpses of humour. Most of the characters are vivid, yet there isrestraint and sobriety in their treatment."
Daily Telegraph.
"This exceptionally noble and stirring book. Recounted with unflaggingverve and vigour, we unhesitatingly say that it has hardly a dull orsuperfluous page."
New Age.
"A remarkably strong novel. I often thought of George Eliot when readingthis book, which I advise every one to read." (_Katherine Tynan._)
Manchester Courier.
"Mr. Montresor's next book will be eagerly awaited by all those who makethe acquaintance of his first, for a more strikingly original or astronger novel has not appeared for some time."
World.
"'Into the Highways and Hedges' would have been a remarkable work offiction at any time; it is phenomenal at this, for it is neithertrivial, eccentric, coarse, nor pretentious, but the opposite of allthese, and a very fine and lofty conception. The man is wonderfullydrawn, realised with a masterly completeness, and the woman is worthy ofhim. The whole of the story is admirably conceived and sustained. Awonderful book."
Glasgow Herald.
"This is a remarkable and powerful book, which is likely to leave astrong impression of itself upon every intelligent reader. One of themost interesting novels that one has seen for some time."
Manchester Guardian.
"The characters are conceived strongly. Since the days of Dinah Morristhere has not, perhaps, been quite so successful a portrait of a man orwoman consumed by the passion of humanity. The dialogue throughout thebook is excellent."
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