CHAPTER IV.
It was Meg's twenty-first birthday. She woke early, and went into thegarden while the dew was still thick on the grass, and there was a wethaze, precursor of a broiling day, over everything.
"How old I am growing!" she thought, as she shut the door softly behindher and smiled with pleasure, and a most youthful sense of adventure, atbeing out at that hour. She buried her nose in a cluster of seven-sisterroses, and their fragrant wet little faces covered hers with dew. Megwas too fond of flowers to pick them.
How lovely it was! The earth smelt so sweet, the spider's webs sparkledlike silver traceries.
It was an enchanted land, seen through the mist; even the stones on thegravel path showed wonderful colours, though they felt cold through thinslippers.
The girl looked as if she had stepped out of a fairy story herself,while she wandered along with a soft wonder in her eyes. Her mind wasfilled with guesses as to what would happen to her in the year to come.A birthday was a fresh turning-point to Meg, from which she tried topeep down a vista of possibilities.
She leant over the garden gate presently, resting her round white armson it, and gazing idly up the quiet road.
The flickering shadows played on her face, and made leafy patterns onher white dress, and the honeysuckle touched her shoulder caressingly.
Meg bent her head, and just put her lips to the fresh dew-washed flower,then started violently, for a harsh laugh greeted her childish action.
"Why, my pretty lady; you ought to have something better worth thekissing!" cried some one.
Meg stood erect, both offended and frightened, but much too proud to runaway.
"What are you?" she said. And then a thrill of recollection came to her;the voice was the voice of the hungry tramp who had begged from her onthe Dover beach. The woman scrambled up from the deep shadow of thehedge under which she had spent the night, and stepped into the road.
There was something gipsy-like about her bearing, and her cold eyesscanned the young lady sharply.
"There's no mistaking the nest you come from, my pretty," said she."You've your father--and a handsome gentleman he is too--written allover you. You've got his smile too," as Meg's mobile face involuntarilybrightened at the compliment. "Sweet as sugar-sticks, and proud as thedevil. Hold out your hand, my lady, and let the gipsy read your life foryou. Why, you ain't scared, are you?"
Meg hesitated a second, then stretched out her hand over the gate. Thewoman was dirty, and too free in her speech to please the little lady,who was used to being treated to low curtsies and deepest respect by herfather's tenants; but then there was a taste of excitement about thefortune-telling, and Meg was half superstitious and half amused.
Her hand looked very white and delicate in the tramp's grimy fingers.The woman glanced from it to the girl's fair face, and began to prophesywith an earnestness and apparent belief in her own words, which wereperhaps not wholly simulated. The blue veins stood out too clearly, andthe lines on Meg's palm were deeply cut.
"You've more than one lover already," said the prophetess. "But yourheart's not touched yet. There's a dark man who is set on having you,but you'll only bring him ill-luck. There's a woman who hates youbecause she's jealous. Take care, or she'll do you a mischief. There's agreat change coming in your life soon--and----" But Meg snatched herhand away and stood ashamed. The preacher of the beach was coming up thehill.
She stepped back into the shadow in order that he might go by withoutseeing her: she did not care to be caught having her fortune told like asilly servant girl. She knew of no reason in the world why he shouldstop at the Ravenshill gate; and yet an absolute certainty that he wouldso stop, and that he would speak to her, came over her. Perhaps it wasbecause he was walking with an evident purpose, looking neither to theright nor left; but she was hardly surprised, only slightly dismayed, asat a fulfilled presentiment, when the man turned as she expected, andcame straight towards her.
His hand was on the latch before he saw Meg; then he went to the pointwithout any preamble.
"I've come to bring you this," he said. "Will ye take it? It's yours byrights."
He was not in the least astonished, as Meg observed, at finding herthere. Barnabas Thorpe possibly did not know how seldom Miss Deane wasout at five in the morning; besides, it took a good deal to move him towonder. "The Lord had led her," he supposed, which was sufficientexplanation for anything.
Meg was rather awe-struck. She felt as if it were highly probable thatthis miraculously gifted preacher, who looked like a fisherman, butspoke with the authority of inspiration, might deliver some supernaturalsign into her keeping. He drew a handkerchief out of his pocket; it wasrolled into a tight ball, and he handed it to her without more ado. Shecould feel something cold and hard through the cotton.
Her slim fingers trembled a little when they struggled with the knot;then she gave a scream of joyful surprise.
"Oh! it's father's locket!" she cried. There in her hand lay thediamond-circled miniature, her mother's face looking out from the midstof the shimmering stones, with the gentle wistful expression sheremembered of old.
Meg had thought more of the setting than of the portrait, when it hadlain in her baby hand; but the face had impressed itself on her memoryall the same. Now it seemed to her like a birthday present from bothparents.
Barnabas Thorpe watched her ecstasies disapprovingly; and when shelifted her beautiful eyes to his with a "Thank you, with all my heart,"he said gravely:--
"You have not me to thank. I was only an instrument, and I'm thinkingsuch stones as those are bought wi' too high a price."
"I don't understand you," said Meg.
In the pause that ensued, the tramp, who had been watching this curiousepisode with some interest, thought fit to put in her claim. "You musthave been born with a caul, missy," said she. "For folk who losediamonds don't generally get 'em back so easy. Let me just finish yourfortune for you: it will be worth the telling."
"No, no," said Meg. "It was silly of me. I don't want to hear it now."She put her hand in her pocket, meaning to pay the woman and get rid ofher; but, alas! it was empty.
"I'll wait here, honey, and you'll run in and fetch your purse, and thenI'll tell you the rest," coaxed the gipsy, when the preacher interposed,"What do ye want playing with the devil?" he said. "I can't stand by andsee a maid dabble wi' witchcraft. God has your fortune in His own hand.Leave it there. It's safe with Him."
"Oh, ay, you're one of the pious ones!" cried the woman angrily. "Downon a poor body for picking up a scrap here and there, while you'repocketing pounds yourself! Where did you get them diamonds from? What'llshe give you for 'em? The pretty lady don't ask where you got 'em, 'cosfor why, you're young and lusty, and she----"
"Off with you!" said Barnabas. And Meg was rather shocked to see himtake her by the arms and march her down the hill. He did itgood-naturedly enough, however.
When they reached the bottom, the woman wriggled out of his grasp, andshook her fist at Meg.
"Oh, it's all very fine! You may laugh, and welcome; but it's the wrongside of your mouth you'll laugh with one day," she shouted hoarsely,though Meg was in truth little inclined to be merry. "You'll leave yourfinery behind you. You'll run out of the garden into the highway. Andyou'll repent it every day of your life! You'll be cold and hungry andfoot-sore; and you'll wish you were in your grave, and your people willsay, 'She had better not have been born'. They love their name betterthan they love you; for there's none so cold-hearted as gentlefolk, andso you'll find. They will call you a disgrace to ----"
"That'll do!" said the preacher. "Let the lady be. Cursing is an illtrade, missus. Which way are ye going?"
"I've told her her fortune, though she cheated me out of my due," saidthe tramp; and she strode off grumbling. She was not half so irate withthe preacher as with the "fine lady," though it had been he who hadpractically interfered with her. She could understand Barnabas Thorpe'sforcibly expressed rebukes, but Meg's shilly-shallying she put down to am
ean desire to escape payment. "Gentlefolk were very mean," shemuttered.
Meg still stood with the diamonds in her hand, when the preacherreturned to the gate.
She wondered whether she ought to offer him a reward, or whether heconsidered himself above that. She wished that she had not got up quiteso early, no one was awake to consult. Barnabas Thorpe shook his head ather embarrassed suggestion. "No, thank you," he said. "I never takemoney for doing the Lord's work; and your trinket there was given me toease a poor soul whom Satan had in his clutches. Will ye come with meand see her? She's sore afflicted, and I doubt it's as much mind asbody."
"Who is she?" said Meg.
"I'll tell ye," said the preacher, "if ye'll not set the police on her."And Meg reddened, and drew herself up.
"It is not likely I should do that," she said haughtily. "I have not theleast desire to know her name, if she would rather I did not. I onlyasked that I might thank her for returning my locket. I value it verymuch. Please thank her for me. Good-morning!"
"Stop!" said the preacher eagerly. "Don't turn away from one ye canhelp. I see I've angered ye, but it's not for _me_ ye'll come. I'm notused to speaking to ladies. Happen I'm a bit rough. I didn't mean tobe. But what can it matter what the messenger is? The message is thesame. This woman asks your forgiveness in Christ's name. You can'trefuse. Come to-morrow she may be gone to where she'll ask yourforgiveness no more. Have ye so few sins of your own that ye can let hergo unforgiven?"
"Oh, it wasn't _that_," said Meg, who, indeed, felt no difficulty inpardoning an unknown thief.
Barnabas opened the gate.
"It's not above a shortish walk," he said. "You'll come." And Megstepped into the road. As the gate shut behind her with a click, shefelt as if she had passed some invisible line, taken some more decisivestep than she knew. The gipsy's prophecy touched the superstitiousstrain that was strong in her, but she would not turn back for all that."I'll not give in to being afraid," thought she.
They walked on some way in silence, then Meg paused to take breath, andsmiled in the midst of her earnestness, when she watched her conductorswinging along up the hill without noticing her defection, his headbeing fuller of the penitent he was hurrying to than of his strangecompanion.
Barnabas Thorpe had a tenderness for publicans and sinners, that hadbeen broadened and deepened by much personal experience; but as for therich and educated, his work had not lain in their direction, his warmhuman sympathy had had no chance of correcting his narrow theoriesthere, and it is to be feared he looked upon them all as in very evilcase, remembering always the saying about the rich man and the needle.
He was singularly illiterate considering his opportunities, for hisfather had been a great reader, and had sent or rather driven him to agood middle-class school.
He had read and re-read his Bible and the _Pilgrim's Progress_; butbooks in general had no charm for him, though the prophets of the OldTestament impressed him, and probably influenced his style in preaching.He would tramp miles over down or marsh, hill or dale, to speak a word,whether in or out of season, to some hesitating convert whom he had"almost persuaded". He never failed to know when his words had touched,or, as he would have put it, "when the spirit that spoke through him haddrawn" any one.
He was a man of passionate temper, as the red tinge in his curly hairtestified; but no mockery could hurt or opposition rebuff him in pursuitof his calling. All the superabundant vehemence of his nature was throwninto the fight for his "Master". The preacher was absolutely sincere,but he was also absolutely certain of his right to deliver his messagewhen and wherever he felt "called". The sheer force of undoubtingconviction impelled him, and coerced his hearers. Meg had felt thatcoercion on the beach; she was to see it again now.
He remembered her when he had reached the top of the hill, and paused."I've been going too fast for ye," he said; "I clean forgot. I amsorry."
She noticed the burr in his speech, and the independence of his manner;but the frank honesty of his face disarmed her.
Children and women generally trusted the preacher, and she suddenly madeup her mind to throw aside her shyness and talk to him.
"Why did you say my diamonds were bought with too high a price?" sheasked.
The preacher turned and looked at her, as if half doubtful of thesincerity of the question. She expected a tirade on the wickedness ofluxury; and perhaps such a sermon was on the tip of his tongue, butapparently he checked himself.
"I havena felt called to preach to the women who live in palaces and areclothed wi' fine linen," he said. "But I ha' seen ye before, and Ibelieved the Master had called ye. If so, ye'll learn from Him that ye_canna_ wear for an ornament what should be bread to the starving. If yehad seen what I have ye wouldna ha' asked me that."
"What have you seen?" said Meg; and the colour mounted to BarnabasThorpe's high cheek bones, and his blue eyes lit up.
"I've seen the wicked flourish like a green bay tree," he said, "and Iha' seen the defenceless trodden down, and the bairns wailing for food.I ha' seen the rich man who tempts by his sinfu' waste, and the poor manwho is tempted and falls, like the poor lass we are going to now."
"Where are we going?" asked Meg; "and how did you find her?"
It was a question that the generality of people would have asked beforethey set out. Meg had walked two miles, and her thin shoes were rubbedand her feet sore, before it occurred to her.
"Over to River. It's not more nor a mile on," said Barnabas Thorpe. "Itwas this way I was brought to her. I had been preaching on the Downs theother evening. It was getting to dusk, and I was going back to Dover,when a woman, who had been listening, followed me. 'Can you really curediseases?' she asks, coming close behind. I said, 'Ay, if the Lordwilled'. 'My daughter is sick,' she says, 'and I am not one that holdswith doctors; for if a woman's to die she'll die, and if she's to liveshe'll live, and it stands to reason they can't do nothing against Themthat's above.' 'And that's true,' I said."
Meg was startled into a faint exclamation at this wholesale condemnationof doctors, but he went on unheeding.
"'But if you come who don't mess about with physics, but just call onThem,' she said, 'perhaps They'll hear you and cure her.' So I went. Ifound the poor thing labouring for breath and sore afflicted, and ingreat terror of death, seein' her conscience was laden wi' heavy sin."He paused. "Ye'll no' be hard on her?" he said pleadingly.
"No, of course not," said Meg.
"She was nursery-maid in Mr. Russelthorpe's house sixteen years back.Her name is Susan Kekewich."
"I remember her," said Meg, her thoughts flying back to that far-awaytime. "She came up to London with us, and cried nearly as much as I didin the coach. She was quite young, and I think she was pretty. She wasvery kind to me."
"Ay, was she?" said Barnabas. "I could fancy so. She wasn't meant to gowrong. Poor maid! but there is many one's heart aches for. It seems shesaw her master give you the trinket one night."
"I know the rest," said Meg; "and she came into my room at night, andput her hand under my pillow and stole it. I was too frightened toscream. I thought she was Lazarus."
"It was not for herself," said Barnabas eagerly. "Her lover wasstarving; he'd lost his place; they thought he was one of them that setfire to the ricks in Hampshire that winter; he was a poor creature, andafraid to stand a trial, tho' innocent as a baby of that piece of work;and he hung about in hiding in London, and came and begged at thekitchen door for scraps, and she had given him all she could, and hadn'ta penny left, and he thought that if he could get beyond the sea, hemight start again and make a home for her. She was anxious to get himoff, and the devil tempted her. She knew the lad was sinking lower,loafing round, afeart o' the daylight, and wi' no decent place to puthis head in that city of iniquity. She went out meaning to sell thediamonds, and to give him the price, and afore she was three paces fro'the door she got a message fro' her lad to say he was in gaol forstealing a loaf; but she didn't go back to the house. Happen she thoughtthey'd ha' found her ou
t, and couldn face it. Happen she was a bitmazed. She just lived on her savings till they were gone; an' ye canguess the rest. Her lover got the gaol-fever, and made no fight againstit; he was dead within the week. She was afeared to sell your locketthen, and afeared to give it back. She buried it once, and then got afancy that the wind 'ud blow the earth away, and the rain 'ud wash itclear, and couldna keep hersel' fro' the place till she had it up again.She's a bit out o' her mind about it by now with the constant thinking;and her mother says as she believes her lover's death turned her queerfor a time, an' she wasn't wholly responsible. She drifted away fro' thestreets, and wandered home i' the end."
Meg shuddered. "It's a dreadful story," she said. "Too dreadful to thinkof."
"Do ye say so?" said the preacher. "Ay, ye scatter temptation i' the wayo' the poor, ye rich, an' are too soft-hearted to hear tell o' theirfall!" after which they both relapsed into silence.
The sun was beginning to beat down on their heads, when they reached thelittle hamlet of River.
It consisted of one chalk road, on either side of which were very whitecottages, which had a deceptive air of comfort and prettiness. Pinkchina roses clustered against their walls, and low-thatched roofs shonegold in the morning light.
The villagers were out in the fields: only one old man, and a baby withsore eyes and an eruption all over its face, stared open-mouthed at theoddly matched pair. Barnabas stooped to pass through the doorway of oneof the cottages; and Meg following him would have tumbled down the onestep into the room, if he had not held out his hand to save her.
She never forgot the sudden plunge out of sunshine into that dark room,close and hot, and yet with a damp smell about it.
Labourers' cottages sixty years ago were so bad that one wonders, whenone thinks of them, that the wave of revolution that was passing overEurope, did not utterly submerge us too!
Meg stood leaning against the door, watching the preacher; too shy toventure further. Her eyes dilated, and she turned whiter as she looked.The damp clay floor, the sickening odour, the room that was bedroom andsitting-room as well, horrified her. Yet Barnabas had been in many aworse place, and this was no exceptionally bad case; indeed, it wasdecent compared to many a cottage in Kent. But Meg lived before the dayof district visiting, and the world of poverty was a new world to her.
A woman was lying on a press bed in the farthest corner, her eyes shut.Meg thought at first that she was dead. Her thin pinched little mothercame hurrying from the inner room to meet them.
"She's had two more of them spasms since you left," she said toBarnabas. "I should think the next would about carry her off." She spokein a querulous tone, as if the spasms were somehow the preacher's fault,but her face twitched nervously. She had small features like herdaughter, and black eyes, and spoke with the south-country accent.
The woman on the bed stirred and then gave a quick choking sound, andBarnabas was by her side in an instant, supporting her in his arms. Itwas literally a fight for life!
The poor thing's eyes started, and the veins on her forehead swelled;Barnabas held her up with one arm, and fanned the air towards her mouthwith the other hand.
"Open the window!" he shouted; but the window was apparently not made toopen. Such a thing had never been done. "Take the poker and break thepane!" he said; and the woman hesitated. "I can't see as making adraught is good," she murmured; but Meg obeyed him at once. The greensubstance, grimed with dirt, did not break easily, but it gave at last;and Meg was thankful to turn her back on that awful sight.
When she looked again, Barnabas was blowing into Susan's lips, pausingevery now and then to ejaculate, "Lord, help me!" The gasping breathswere getting easier, the grip of the clenched hands was relaxing;presently the patient fell back exhausted.
"She's going!" said the mother. "Lord, if I had a drop of brandy left,it might save her!"
The preacher covered his face with his hands a second,--he, perhaps, wasa little exhausted too; then he stood upright, and put his hands on herforehead.
"Oh merciful Lord, heal her!" he cried. "Pour Thy strength into her!Pour Thy strength into her! Let it flow through me to her now while Ipray." He repeated the same words again and again at intervals. Itseemed to Meg that his face was as the face of some strong healingangel, so bright with undoubting faith.
Presently the patient opened her eyes, looked at him, and smiled. Itmight have been an hour that he had stood there. "I've got new life inme," she said. "I feel it;" and Barnabas fell on his knees.
"Now, the Lord be thanked," he said, "who has given us the victory overdeath, through Christ our Master." And Meg drew a breath of relief; shehad felt as if he had been fighting some tangible enemy, and now thedreadful presence was routed--she almost fancied she saw it like a blackshadow flee past her, out into the open air.
The fight was over.
"My maid," said Barnabas, "God has been good to you. You will not die,but live, and your sins are forgiven, both by Him and the woman youstole from: she has come to tell you so."
Meg came forward quickly and knelt by his side.
"Oh Susie," she said. "I am so sorry you have been unhappy all theseyears! and I would have forgiven you at once if I had only known. Why, Iwould lose all I have ten times over rather than that any one should beso unhappy!" And Susie looked at her with the black eyes that had suchdepths of sadness in them.
"It's Miss Meg! She always was a dear little lady, and so soft-hearted.I thought if she could understand she wouldn't mind," she said. "And hewas so hungry, it went to my heart to feel him hungry! but God wasagainst me, and sent him to gaol to punish me, though I would have givenmy soul to save him. I was a bad girl, and they punished him forit--to--to--how was it?--because I stole? They are uncommon hard upabove, but it's just justice, I suppose!"
Meg took the wasted hands in hers; she could not preach, the problem wasbeyond her; but she laid her cheek against Susan's for a moment, and thepreacher said gently, "You see _she's_ not hard, and the Lord who madeher merciful must be more merciful Himself. He's better nor the thingsHe makes." Then he rose from his knees. "Good-bye," he said simply, "I'dkeep that window open, and let the air in, Mrs. Kekewich. I've oftennoticed it's got a deal of healing in it."
Meg followed him out of the cottage; they were outside when Mrs.Kekewich regained the use of her tongue, and ran after them to pour outa volley of thanks to both. Meg blushed. Barnabas Thorpe took off hishat reverently when she said "God bless you".
Meg told her aunt exactly what had happened the moment she got home; shewas too proud ever to stoop to petty concealments, but she knew that ifshe waited her courage would cool. Uncle Russelthorpe chuckled behindhis newspaper (they were at breakfast) and Aunt Russelthorpe was, notunnaturally, very wroth.
"It's high time this sort of thing were stopped," she said. "As for hernot going to balls, or wearing trinkets any more, she _shall_ go!"
"Meg's much the most amusing of the three," said Uncle Russelthorpe;"and nothing makes a faith grow like a little persecution."
Into the Highways and Hedges Page 4