Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER V.

  So Margaret Deane was numbered amongst Barnabas Thorpe's converts; andof all the inexplicable miracles that the man was said to work, societycounted that the most extraordinary.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe was not a popular woman, and she was too proud toelicit much sympathy; but, on the whole, public opinion sided with her,rather than with her niece.

  Barnabas Thorpe was essentially the people's preacher; and even hisgreatest admirers felt that it was unbecoming of him "to try and convertthe gentry".

  As a matter of fact he was less presumptuous than they fancied; and, farfrom being triumphant, experienced at times a most unusual qualm of painat this unexpected result of his teaching.

  Years ago in the days of his boyhood, long before he had, to use his ownphrase, "been taken by religion," he had once plunged his hand into aspider's web with intent to save a butterfly that got entangled. He hadbroken the creature's wing in trying to free it, and the mishap hadstuck in his memory, because both as child and man he had been unusuallypitiful to physical suffering. That bygone episode was fantasticallyassociated in his mind with Miss Deane.

  There was no doubt to him that but one answer was possible to the "Whatshall I do to be saved?" of man or woman cursed by riches. "Leave allthat thou hast" seemed the inevitable prelude to "Follow me".

  He had quoted that reply on the Downs to a group in the midst of whichstood Margaret, in the soft grey dress which was the most quakerishgarment she possessed.

  He had seen her wince at the words as if they startled or hurt her; andhad had a quick feeling of compunction, such as he had experienced whenhe had found the butterfly's purple and gold down staining hisover-strong and clumsy fingers.

  No one in after days would have believed it, but it was none the lesstrue, that Meg's evident sensitiveness rather deterred than encouragedhim in his dealings with her, till an incident, grotesque enough initself, changed his attitude, and he felt himself suddenly challenged bythe world through the mouth of a worldly woman. The combative instinctwas thoroughly roused then, and his doubts fled. It was a very smalllink in the chain that was to bind his life and Margaret's, butnevertheless it was a link.

  Barnabas was one day sitting by the roadside carving, when Mrs.Russelthorpe, coming through the great gates of Ravenshill, saw, andmade up her mind to deliver her opinion to this impertinent preacher.

  Barnabas was chiselling a little chalk head with his pocket knife; hewas intent on his occupation, his hair and beard were powdered withwhite dust, and he looked up only now and then to speak to a child whowas eagerly watching him, and for whose benefit the image was beingfashioned.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe deliberately paused in front of him, and studied himthrough her gold eyeglass. Meg had never thought about the _man_, shehad seen only the preacher, but the elder woman recognised that this wasno weak opponent or hysterical babbler.

  She lifted her silk skirt--she was never hurried or awkward in hermovements,--and drew out of the pocket that hung round her waist asovereign, which she held out to him.

  "We are in your debt," she said, "for the trouble you had in returningmy niece's locket. It was exceedingly honest of you. You had better takethe money, my good fellow;" for the preacher had raised his head with anexpression of utter amazement, which would have confused a less intrepidwoman. "I am sure"--a little patronisingly--"that you quite deserve it."

  "No--thanks," said Barnabas shortly. "In the part I come from we don'tfancy it 'exceedingly honest' not to steal, nor look to be paid for notbeing rascals." And he went on with his work.

  "Tut, tut!" said Mrs. Russelthorpe. "You cannot afford to fling awaygold, I am sure." And she dropped the sovereign on to the man's hand.

  The preacher started up as if the coin falling on his brown fingers hadburnt them.

  "Here, ma'am. Please take it back. I thought I'd made it clear, I'll ha'none o' et," he cried; and there was a ring in his voice, which soundedas if the "Old Adam" were not quite dead yet.

  "I shall certainly not take it. I do not approve of unpaid services,"said Mrs. Russelthorpe. And Barnabas with a quick movement drew back hisarm, and pitched the sovereign over her head, far away into the park.

  It span through the air like a flash of light, and Mrs. Russelthorpe'slips compressed as she saw it.

  "That was a most insolent exhibition of temper for one who preaches toothers," she said coldly; but the answer surprised her.

  "Ay, an' that's true; so it was," he said, reddening.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe was not generous enough to take no advantage of heradversary's slip.

  "Your rudeness to me can only injure yourself," she went on, "and iscertainly not worth remark; but I am glad to have this opportunity ofsaying that I believe you to be doing great harm by your preaching.Religious excitement is always bad, and I have had to remonstrateseriously with my niece, who is very young and foolish, about the ideasyour unwise words have put into her head. She sees her mistake now,"added Mrs. Russelthorpe, rather prematurely. "But had I not been at handto guide her, you might have done an infinity of evil in attempting todictate to her about the duties of a position which you cannot in theleast be expected to understand."

  An anxious look came over the preacher's face; his own pride wasforgotten on the instant.

  "Tell me," he said eagerly, "she is surely not turning back?"

  "I do not understand your expression," said Mrs. Russelthorpe; "but MissDeane will shortly accompany me to London, and take her part in societyas usual. I am glad to say she recognises the folly of your teaching."

  That last assertion was unfounded; but then, "If it is not true yet, itshall be," thought Mrs. Russelthorpe, and she couldn't resist a triumph.

  She departed after that, with the last word and the best of theencounter, well pleased; but if she had known the preacher better shewould not have told him that his disciple was "giving in".

  "She is doing the devil's work, an' the poor maid is over weak," hereflected, "an' hard beset; an' what shall I do?"

  He took his worn Bible from his pocket and laid it open on the road;the wind stirred the pages gently, and the man shut his eyes with aprayer for enlightenment. Then he opened them and picked the book up. Heread in the bright glancing sunlight one sentence: "And He saith untohim, Cast thy garment about thee and follow Me".

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Russelthorpe and Meg were sitting together in the drawing-room.

  The girl looked ill and nervous. The constant strain of a conflict witha stronger willed antagonist told on her. She had slept little of late,she had suffered a veritable martyrdom in the carrying out of BarnabasThorpe's principles.

  All at once the blood rushed to her white face.

  "I hear footsteps in the hall," she said.

  "You are going crazy about 'footsteps'!" cried her aunt impatiently, andthen lifted her eyebrows in some surprise. "Some one _is_ comingupstairs. Who can be calling at this hour?"

  "It is the preacher. They are his footsteps that I've heard comingnearer all the week," said Meg quietly, and before Mrs. Russelthorpecould say a word of reproof to this extraordinary statement, BarnabasThorpe stood in the doorway.

  "I ask pardon for interrupting you, but I ha' a message for this maid,"he said. "I ha' been told that havin' put your hand to th' plough ye arein danger o' turning back. Is it true?"

  "The man is mad!" cried Mrs. Russelthorpe, "or he is drunk!"

  She stood upright, putting her frame aside without haste or flurry. Shehad never felt fear in her life, though her indignation was strong.

  "Go at once, sir!" she said.

  "Is it true?" said the preacher.

  His eyes were fixed on Meg. He was too eager to be self-conscious. Inthe intensity of his effort to arrest and turn again a wavering soul, hedid not even hear Mrs. Russelthorpe; and for a moment his absorption,his utter imperviousness to all that was "outside" his mission,impressed even her.

  The preacher was as "one-ideaed" as a sleuth ho
und in pursuit of hisquarry. The simile is not a pretty one, but it flashed across her mind,when her command fell futile and powerless.

  "Is it true?" Then, while Meg, who had been sitting with dilated eyesstaring at him, covered her face with her hands, his voice melted intoentreaty.

  "Perhaps it is so," he said. "But the Master is full of pity. Still Hesays 'Come'. He knows our backslidings. He bears wi' us again and again,as a mother wi' a bairn who stumbles running to her. His feet bear thebruises o' the stones by the way," cried Barnabas. And again, as on thebeach, his blue eyes had the expression of eyes that _see_ that of whichthey speak. "An' ye shall not be afeard o' th' path they trod! His handsare marked wi' th' nails o' Calvary, an' by those marks they shall leadus men, who are feeble and sore discouraged. Behold, I _know_"--and hisvoice rang through the room, making Meg wonder whimsically in the midstof her excitement whether the very chairs and tables were not startledin their spindle-legged propriety--"Behold, I know that it is sweeter towalk wi' Him through th' valley o' death, than to walk wi'out Himthrough th' sunshine o' the World."

  "My good man," said Mrs. Russelthorpe, "whatever may be the case in 'thevalley of death,' you are very much out of place in my drawing-room. Wehave had enough."

  She pointed to the door while she spoke.

  Outside in the road the man had had the worst of it when he had crossedswords with her; here, strangely enough, she had no more effect on himthan a child's breath against a boat in full sail.

  He was acting under authority now. He believed himself as much bound totestify as ever Moses before the Egyptian king.

  "My Master has called this maid," he said; "who is it bids you hinder?Promise," and he turned again to Meg, "that ye will follow Him to thegiving up of all He disallows. Promise! an' I will go my way in peace."

  Meg let her hands drop on her lap, and looked at him with the saddestsmile he had ever seen. The pathos of it touched the man as well as theapostle, though he wasn't himself aware of that fact; and his innermostthought of her was free from any taint of self-consciousness.

  "I will promise nothing," she said; "I should only fail."

  Her low voice sounded weary and dispirited, the very antithesis of his.This time she said to herself she would not let herself go.

  His enthusiasm might carry her a little way by its own strength, but sheknew what the end would be. This narrowly strong preacher, with hisnorthern burr, his gesticulations, his intense conviction, came, afterall, from another world. She envied his assurance, she admired hiscourage, but he could not "help her".

  "I may be miserable, and know I am wrong, and yet give way at last,unless something happens," said Meg. The "something" meant support fromher father. Then she was ashamed of her own words.

  "I will try--but I won't promise," she said wistfully.

  There was a tense silence. "I have a message for ye, an' I cannaunderstand it," said Barnabas at last, "but the Lord will make it clear.Listen, these are the words, _And the angel said unto him, Cast thygarment about thee and follow Me._"

  "The man is raving!" exclaimed Mrs. Russelthorpe. And she put her handon the bell; but he had already turned to go.

  He would add no words of his own to the inspired "mandate"; and hewalked out of the room and out of the house unmolested, as he had come.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe drew a deep breath, that was not so much of relief asof utter astonishment.

  "I do not know why I allowed him to go on so long. He is the mostextraordinary person I have ever set eyes on! Upon my word, I believe hehas walked straight out of Bedlam; but, mad or sane, this is beyond ajoke. Margaret! if you so much as look at him again, I'll wash my handsof you. I'll make an end to this."

  "Will you?" said Meg dreamily. She did not speak in defiance, onlydoubtfully, with a vague sense that Barnabas Thorpe's especialProvidence might be too strong even for Aunt Russelthorpe. Had he notsaid his say in spite of her?

  "Will you, Aunt Russelthorpe? But I don't think one has really much todo with what happens."

  "I've something to do with it," said Aunt Russelthorpe grimly; "and sohe will find." And so indeed he did find,--though not in the way shemeant.

  * * * * *

  Another and widely different acquaintance was at least as deeplyinterested in the change in her. Mr. Sauls was the very last personwhom any one would have expected to champion an impracticableenthusiasm; yet he certainly stood up for Margaret at this time, to herimmense surprise and rather perplexed gratitude.

  This slip of a girl, who shrank from the least touch of love-making, butyet loved and hated so vehemently, who was more innocent than any otherwoman he had ever known, and who yet did such terribly rash things, whowas full of shy dignity and sudden indiscreet revelations, was the firstperson who had inspired him with any awe of womanhood.

  He laughed at himself a good deal, but thought of her, whom most peoplesneered at, with a sort of half-amused reverence. If in the first placehe had been in love with Meg's good name and prospective fortune, hislove for Meg's self was striking deeper roots than he shouldconsistently have allowed; but we all of us fail to stick to ourprinciples at times.

  When the first faint rumour of a scandal reached him, Mr. Sauls wentstraight to Ravenshill to call.

  He met Mr. Russelthorpe in the hall, and stopped to speak to him, beingon very friendly terms with the old man, whose society he had cultivatedof late.

  "It is so long since I have met your niece anywhere, that I have come toinquire after her health," he said boldly.

  "Hm! she has 'repented' and taken to religion, as I have no doubt youhave heard," said the other; he held on to the banisters with oneshrivelled hand, and peered up into George Sauls' strong dark face tosee how his announcement was taken.

  "Repented! but she was always a little saint!" cried Mr. Sauls.

  "Ah! that's it," responded Meg's uncle. "It is the saints who repent;the sinners have other things to do."

  Mr. Sauls stood twisting the cord of his eyeglass rapidly round hisfinger: he had a trick of apparently absorbing himself in some physicaldetail of the sort when he was more than usually interested.

  "I want to be converted," he remarked. "Do you think that she wouldundertake me?"

  Mr. Russelthorpe chuckled. This young Jew, with his keen eye to the mainchance, always entertained him.

  "There's no knowing. Young women are very hopeful," he said. "Go on--goon and try."

  Mr. Sauls went on into the drawing-room.

  A buzz of conversation greeted him. Mrs. Russelthorpe was entertainingabout twenty ladies; Meg was standing apart in the bow window.

  Mr. Sauls joined in the talk at once; he made smart speeches to hishostess, and conversed with every one: he was never in the least shy.

  Presently some one mentioned the ball that was to be given at theHeights. "You are going, of course?" she said.

  The question sounded innocent enough, but it sent a thrill through theatmosphere.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe made a distinct pause, and then said, in cleardecisive tones: "My niece sets all her elders to rights on that subject.You had better explain why we are not to go, Margaret; for your viewsare beyond me."

  Mr. Sauls glanced at the girl's white face, and swore under his breath."I'd like to duck Mrs. Russelthorpe," he said to himself; and then hethrew down his glove, to the general astonishment.

  "If Miss Deane does not choose to give us the pleasure of her company,it is so much the worse for us," he said. "But society would becomeunbearable if it were allowed to demand explanations each time any onestayed away from an entertainment. I can't see why we should bother MissDeane with impertinent questions, and I protest against them onprinciple. They encroach on the sacred rights of the individual."

  He had diverted attention from Meg anyhow. What did it matter whatrhodomontade he was talking? It was curious how that little nervousshudder of hers affected him; it had seemed to run like fire through hisveins. How durst they distress her? prying closely into the sec
rets ofher sensitive conscience, frightening her (for he could see that she wasfrightened) by their irreverent curiosity. Reverence was not a qualitythat any one had suspected in him heretofore, but Meg had awakened it.

  He did not quite know her, however, in spite of his sympathy: she wasthin-skinned enough in all conscience; but she was something else aswell. She lifted her head and faced Mrs. Russelthorpe: she was not goingto take shelter behind Mr. Sauls, though she was grateful to him.

  "I have explained to you over and over again," she said. "I don't go toballs because I don't think I ought. I like them so much I forgeteverything else when I do. I don't know about other people, I daresaythat they are perfectly right to go."

  Mrs. Russelthorpe laughed.

  "Other people are on a lower level of sanctity evidently," she said."Come! We are all of us waiting to be enlightened. Where does theiniquity lie? You of the young generation are wonderfully quick atseeing evil--where is it?"

  George twirled his eyeglass furiously.

  "Don't answer!" he cried, with assumed jocosity. "Miss Deane, yourcounsel advises you not to--this is a bad precedent--against allfairness."

  Meg flushed painfully, there were tears in her eyes.

  "In me, I suppose," she said softly, and left the room.

  Mr. Sauls took up his hat.

  "I think we ought all to feel pretty well ashamed of ourselves afterthat," he remarked; and he went out, shutting the door sharply afterhim.

  He had burnt his boats, and he knew it. He had made an enemy, and forcedhis own hand; he had rebuked Mrs. Russelthorpe in her own drawing-room,and closed the Ravenshill gates against himself; and he shrugged hisshoulders at his own rashness as he went downstairs. Meg was by no meanswon yet, and he had been bolder than he could well afford.

  "I never guessed I was such a fool," he said to himself; and then hesmiled in spite of his cooler after-thoughts.

  "If, after all, my luck holds good, and I do get her, and I _will_," hereflected, "won't I make that aunt of hers feel the difference? I shouldlike to see the woman who will bully my wife. I should like itimmensely."

  His sympathy for his shy lady was very genuine, but he felt a thrill ofexhilaration all the same. Mrs. Russelthorpe's anger, the growinggossip, this very "religious mania," were all playing into hishands--they would drive the girl nearer to him.

  He meant to be very patient; it was only once in a blue moon that hisfeelings got the better of him; he would wait, and watch; and when Meg'sposition became unbearable, he would step in and say, "Here am I! Withme you shall do as you choose. Follow your very exacting consciencewhere you like; dip your pretty fingers into my purse, and dress insackcloth if it pleases you." He would not bully Meg. She was none theworse for a touch of asceticism in his eyes.

  Like many men who believe in little themselves, he held that the morebeliefs a woman has the better--and the safer.

  Let her be as saint-like as she chose; if he was of the earth (as hecandidly allowed he was) his wife should be of heaven, a thing apart,set in a costly shrine which he would delight in decorating.

  Her religion was a fitting ornament, a halo round her fair head! Far beit from him to wish to discrown her.

  Women's pretty superstitions became them even better than theirdiamonds--he would grudge Meg neither.

  He went to the ball at the Heights three weeks later, and found, as hehad expected, that Mrs. Russelthorpe cut him, that Miss Deane was notpresent, and that Miss Deane's name was overmuch in people's mouths.

  One little bit of innuendo, which he happened to overhear, made hisblood boil, in spite of his conviction that it was unfounded.

  Miss Deane in love with a canting tub-preacher! Miss Deane, who was onlytoo fastidious! If Mr. Sauls' idea of a woman's position had just atinge of Orientalism about it, at least his respect for Meg was trueenough for him to be sure that that scandal was absurd on the face ofit. But it showed how her innocence needed protection.

  Poor Meg! He would have shielded her from every rough breath, yet thewinds of heaven were to blow harder on her than on him; he would havelined her path with velvet, but for her the road was to be stony indeed."Give our beloved peace and happiness," we pray--but they are givenpain, and the stress of the battle. "Deliver them from evil"--but theyfall.

  "I will write soon, very soon," George Sauls decided, as he left the hotball-room behind him, and walked towards the twinkling town, with thesound of the dance ringing in his ears.

  He had actually rather a longing to turn up the road to Ravenshill,where Mrs. Russelthorpe's carriage was disappearing, and take a look atthe shell which held his pearl; but a sense of the ridiculous withheldhim, or, perhaps, the bad luck that dogged his footsteps where his lovewas concerned.

  If he had followed his impulse, the upshot of that night's events mighthave been different.

  If Meg had married him, he would have loved her long and well, for hiswas a grasp that never loosened easily; but for once in his life, Georgegave more than he received, and he certainly did not count theexperience blessed.

  The three weeks that had followed that scene in the drawing-room hadbeen trying ones at Ravenshill. Meg's courage was of the kind that canlead a forlorn hope, but finds it very difficult to sustain a siege.

  Poor child! it was hard enough that the first avowedly religious man shehad met should be also a bit of a fanatic.

  That our consciences have so little judgment is surely one of the oddestthings in this queer world!

  Martyrs go to the stake for false gods, as well as for the truth; mendie heroically for mistakes, loyal to blundering leaders; and what isthe end of it all, we ask? Is it a farce or a tragedy? or does theloyalty live somehow, though the error wither as chaff that has held thegrain?