Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER VII.

  I am too weak to live by half my conscience, I have no wit to weigh and choose the mean. Life is too short for logic; what I do, I must do simply; God alone shall judge, For God alone shall guide, and God's elect.

  --_The Saint's Tragedy._

  The events of that evening followed on each other so quickly that itseemed to Meg afterwards as if she had been impelled by some poweroutside herself, though whether of Heaven or hell she doubted later inlife.

  She heard the crunch of gravel under the carriage wheels, as her auntdrove away to the ball over which they had had such contention; then shedried her eyes and drew a breath of relief.

  Meg always felt happier when Mrs. Russelthorpe was out of the house; andher antipathy was the more painful because she blamed herself for it. Itwas wicked to hate any one. Unfortunately, naming the devil doesn'talways exorcise him!

  One thing at least was clear to the girl,--it was impossible to go on"for the next few years" as they had been going on lately; and thatlightly written sentence of Mr. Deane's stung her almost into despair.

  Then she remembered that at least she had his address now, and couldsend the letters that Aunt Russelthorpe had refused to forward, and inwhich she had poured out all her difficulties, and asked his decision onthem, as if he had been confessor as well as father. Meg looked uponthat refusal as a piece of gratuitous and incomprehensible cruelty; butthen, in spite of Laura's plain speaking, she never quite understoodMrs. Russelthorpe. She might have abjured gaieties if she had onlyrefrained from claiming her father's sympathy and counsel in hertemporary insanity; though even if she had fully recognised that fact,it is doubtful whether she would have sold her birthright. She threw itaway instead, which, to some temperaments, is easier than selling.

  Balls were early in those days, and it was only eight o'clock, when,with her letter in her hand, she started for the Dover post-office.

  It was a long lonely walk; and an older woman than Meg might havethought twice about it, but the girl was too ignorant of evil to beafraid.

  She had scruples about asking a servant of her aunt's to accompany her,but she had no doubt that she was justified in her own action.

  Her father had told her to write to him,--that was reason enough, and todo anything was a relief to her.

  Meg's strength and weakness both rose from the same source: she could beunhesitatingly daring for the person she loved, but if that supportshould fail, would slip into confusion and despair. Even now there was aleaven of bitterness working in her, a terror that was making herrestless. Were Aunt Russelthorpe and Laura right? Did "father" not"care" much after all?

  She turned instinctively from that suggestion, and tried to fix her mindon the topics that had lately filled it. As she took the short cut overthe cliffs, and walked quickly along the footway that skirts their edge,she thought of that still narrower path which Barnabas Thorpe hadpointed out as the only way of salvation.

  The sky still glowed behind Dover Castle, though the sun haddisappeared; there was hardly a breath of wind to stir the short crispgrass, the broad downs lay still and peaceful in the gathering dusk: Megwas the only human being to be seen, but the little brown rabbitsscurried by, and peeped at her from a safe distance, making her smile inspite of her sadness. She was as easily moved to smiles as she was tosighs.

  It had been a hot summer, and there were ominous cracks across thefootway, which had been deserted of late. Meg, who was Kentish born,ought to have known what those fissures and gaps meant. Perhaps therabbits would have warned her if they could; for one of them loosened amorsel of chalk as he leaped, which bounded and rebounded down the sideof the cliff. She watched it idly, not considering the signification.

  Earlier in the day there had been a heavy thunderstorm, which wasgrowling still in the far distance. Meg lingered a moment, listening tothe echo among the chalk caves below,--smuggling haunts, where many akeg of brandy had been hidden.

  If she had not paused, her light footsteps would have carried her safelyover the dangerous bit. As it was, the "crack" she had just steppedcarelessly over suddenly widened to a chasm, the earth seemed to giveway under her; she stretched out her arms with a wild cry, andfell,--fell, with a vision of clouds of white powder and flashinglights, stopping at last, with a sharp jarring shock, to find herselfgrasping desperately at something steady, just above her, in a reelingtumbling world! She lay on her side on a narrow ledge a quarter of theway down the cliff, her right shoulder and arm bruised by the fall; butshe was hardly conscious of pain, her mind being set on clinging fast tothe friendly poppy root that was keeping her from death.

  She could hear the sea washing hungrily, with a sullen break, and astrong backward suck, many feet below; she shuddered, and then screamedwith all her might, again and again, waking the echoes and the seagulls,who answered her derisively.

  She was in terror lest her fingers should relax their hold, in spite ofher will. She lost count of time, and began to feel as if she had lainfor ages between earth and sky.

  Her left arm was getting numb, and her brain dizzy; she was dreadfullyafraid of losing consciousness, and tried hard to keep possession of"herself," knowing that if she fainted she would slip down at once, andthe green water would roll her over and draw her back.

  "Like a cat with a mouse," thought Meg. Her reflections were gettingindistinct, and she gathered her strength together to scream once more.A horror of losing her identity, of being swamped in a "blacknothingness," was strong on her.

  "Help me!" she cried, with an effort to make the words articulate, thatwas followed by a vague recollection that she had asked some one to"help her" once before, but he never did or never could.

  She couldn't quite remember how it was: her past life seemed to have gotfar away, to have dropped off her, leaving her soul all alone, face toface with this black empty space that was trying to engulf it.

  "There isn't any help," she said to herself. "It's all really like thesea, or cats and mice, and my fingers don't seem to belong to me anymore," and then----

  "Hold on!" said a voice above her. "Don't move, I'll run for a rope."

  She opened her eyes and tried to collect her wits.

  "I can't hold on more than a minute more," she said a littleindistinctly. "If you go I shall fall." While she spoke the root she wasclinging to "gave" a little, and a light shower of chalk fell on herface.

  "I'm falling! oh be quick!" she cried; and the next moment somethingblue dangled above her face.

  "Let go those leaves, and catch hold of my jersey. I'll pull ye up byit," shouted the voice, the owner of which had flung himself full lengthon the cliff, his face and arms over the edge.

  "Do it at once!" He called, this time as peremptorily as he could, forhe was in momentary terror lest yellow poppy and girl should go togetherto the bottom.

  To his relief she obeyed him.

  "Both hands!" he cried encouragingly. "I can't pull you up by one."

  "I can't move my right arm," she answered. "It's twisted somehow;" andhe whistled in dismay.

  Meg was as white as the chalk, but she showed some courage now that helpwas at hand, and she managed to pull herself into a sitting posture,holding tight to his jersey. Further than that he couldn't get her, andhe did not dare to leave her lest she should turn giddy.

  "I tell you what," he said at last. "There is only one way; I can't pullye up, an' I doan't risk leaving ye on that narrow bit: ye must e'encome down to me. If I drop over the face o' the cliff there's a footholdclose beside ye, now that you're sitting up, and a drop below thatagain, there's a broader ledge and a cave. Ye'll be safe enough there.Will 'ee try? but we must, for there's naught else to be done. Can yelet go my jersey and sit quite still one minute? Doan't 'ee look, lass,shut your eyes and put your hands down each side."

  Meg nodded and held her breath. She felt him alight at her side, andthen heard him shout from below.

  "All right! There's room enough here," he cried. "Edge along sideways a
sfar as ye can to the right. Don't be scared, ye won't fall! It's quitepossible."

  He spoke with assurance, and his confident tone gave her courage as heintended it should; but, nevertheless, his own pulses were beatingrather fast, albeit his nerves were good as a rule.

  Would the girl do it, or would she slip before he could catch her? Shewas directly over him at last. "Now," he said, "your foot almost touchesmy shoulder. Ay--that's it, put your weight on it and--ah! that's right.Thank God!" He held her in his arms now, and the next moment she wassafe at his side.

  Meg leant against the entrance of the cave, half laughing and halfcrying.

  She was not in the least surprised to see that it was the preacher whohad saved her, but the absurdity of the situation struck her with asudden reaction.

  The cave was dark, and very damp and ill-smelling; the ledge was justwide enough for them to stand quite safely on it. They were perched liketwo big birds on the face of the cliff, with a sheer descent that noteven Barnabas could have swarmed down, below them.

  "Yes, yes!" she gasped in answer to his ejaculation of thankfulness."But--we shall never, never get up again!"

  The preacher made no reply directly. Possibly the same idea had occurredto him.

  She sat down in the entrance of the cave, and he tied up her bruised armas well as he could, improvising a sling with the lace scarf she woreround her neck.

  Fortunately, no bones were broken; and she assured him with a smile thathe "hardly hurt her at all," though the muscles had been badly strainedand her arm was still quite useless. He looked at her doubtfully, butcould hardly gather from her face how much or how little she wassuffering. He was not accustomed to women of Meg's class, and was sorelypuzzled as to what he had best do next.

  "Look here!" he said at last. "It's not possible that ye should spendthe night in this wet hole; ye'd be fairly starved wi' cold, and noone's likely to come by before morning. I'll climb up somehow and run tothe coastguard for help. Ye won't be scared here, eh?"

  He bent down and put his jersey between her and the wall of the cave.

  "It's been an Irish way of helping ye up!"

  Meg looked at him. Her face was very pale, but she had quite recoveredher self-command now.

  "Don't go," she said. "You might so easily be killed trying to climb inthe dark. It is dark. I can hardly see the sea now. It would be my faultif you were to fall, and really I don't think I am worth it."

  "If I am to die it 'ull happen the same whatever I do, an' if not, I'llbe as safe as if I were in my bed," said Barnabas Thorpe. "But I doan'tfancy ye need be scared, for I believe neither you nor I ha' come to anend o' things yet. It has been on my mind that I'd see ye again."

  He turned, and began to swarm up the cliff as he spoke; and Meg stoppedher ears, for the sound of the crumbling chalk sickened her, and waitedin the dark.

  The preacher shouted cheerfully when he scrambled to his feet at thetop; and then, without further loss of time, started off towards thecoastguard station. He was barefooted, having taken off his boots inorder to climb; but that troubled him little, as he ran steadily acrossthe night-curtained sleeping country.

  Some hours later they stood together in the hall at Ravenshill, Mrs.Russelthorpe facing them.

  It was one o'clock; the short summer's night was nearly spent, but thebig swinging lamp was still burning. To Meg and Barnabas, coming in fromthe sweet dark garden, the house seemed in a blaze of light.

  The men were all out, searching far and wide for Meg. Only Mr.Russelthorpe had not been told of her absence: he had gone early to bed,and locked the door on himself; giving orders that no one was to disturbhim.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe was white with passion. Meg was quite silent.

  Barnabas Thorpe stood looking from one woman to the other.

  "You are a disgrace to the house! You have no shame left!" said Mrs.Russelthorpe. Then the man's blue eyes flashed angrily.

  "There's only one of us three has any cause for shame, an' it's not thismaid nor me. It's not fit that any should say such things to her. Haveye no brother or father, lass? If ye have, I would like to speak wi'him."

  Meg shook her head.

  "Yes; but he is a very long way off; and I don't quite know where," shesaid; "and, perhaps, he'll believe Aunt Russelthorpe."

  Mrs. Russelthorpe's face hardened; the preacher could not have doneworse than appeal from her to Meg's father. She was a hard woman, andrather a coarse one; but she would scarcely have said what she said thatnight, if the jealousy which always smouldered between her and herbrother's child had not been fanned by his words.

  "He will most certainly believe me," she said. "But it is almost a pity(for his sake) that, having stayed away so long, you ever came back atall."

  Meg caught her breath with a low cry, as if she had been stabbed; but asudden light broke over the preacher's face.

  "Cast thy garments about thee, and follow me," he cried. "I did notunderstand before. My eyes were holden; but now it is made clear to us:it is the message from the Lord."

  He made one stride forward and stretched out both his hands.

  "Come _now_!" he cried. "I will snatch you like a brand from theburning. Come with me! Let us go out together and preach the Master inthe Highways and Hedges. Your example shall be as a shining light toguide the feet of those who are snared by riches. Come! The world hascalled you on one side and the Master on the other, and you havehesitated; and now the call has been made clearer. Choose quickly,before it is too late. Let me take you from the evil that you feel toostrong for you. No one can stay us. You shall go like Peter through theprison doors at the call of the Lord, an' in His strength I will hold yesafe."

  Meg looked at him, one long earnest look, then away from him, at thefamiliar hall, where she had danced gaily three months ago. She thoughtof the portrait of the great-aunt whose eyes always followed her, andwho had done something mysteriously "dreadful". Aunt Russelthorpe wouldsay she was as bad, but she wasn't, she was following a call. Shethought of her old uncle, who was sleeping through all this commotion;she thought of Laura and Kate; her aunt's words about her father hadhurt her so much that she tried not to think of him; she saw again thepreacher on the beach, ah! that was the beginning, and to-night onlygrew out of it; or was the beginning further back still in the days whenher father had told her of Lazarus waiting "outside"?

  "Choose while ye may," said Barnabas Thorpe. And she put her hand in hiswith an odd sense that very little "choice" was left.

  "You say it is a message?" she said. "Very well. Let it be so--I will gowith you."

  Mrs. Russelthorpe had stood with lips compressed, rigidly still, duringthe preacher's extraordinary proposal; she made one faint attempt tostop them now--but it was too late.

  Barnabas Thorpe put her aside as easily as he would have brushed away afly. "You ha' said your say. It was a cruel one," he said. "You ha' donewi' this maid." And they went out together into the night.

  * * * * *

  The men who had been sent out to search for Meg returned in the earlymorning. Their mistress met them in the hall; she had evidently taken norest, and her face in the pitiless daylight looked haggard and worn.

  It had been known in the household that Mrs. Russelthorpe and MissMargaret didn't get on; but the servants whispered to each other now,that Mrs. Russelthorpe took it harder than might have been expected.

  Later in the day, the coastguard from the station on the downs broughtnews of Miss Deane, and told how Barnabas Thorpe had come to his cottagefor ropes, and of how they had gone together to the young lady'sassistance.

  The coastguard would hardly believe that the preacher had not broughthis charge safely home. "I would have trusted my own daughter with himanywhere," he kept repeating. Of that strange scene in the hall, no onebut the three concerned ever knew.

  Later still they heard of Meg's marriage;--the bare announcement and nomore. Mrs. Russelthorpe handed the missive to her husband.

  "The girl i
s crazy," she said. "There is no other explanation."

  Mr. Russelthorpe laid down his book--they were in the library--with agroan.

  "I can't face Charles. I shall go away when he comes back," was the onlycomment he made.

  "Why? It wasn't your fault," said his wife impatiently. "You had nothingto do with the unhappy child."

  "Nothing, nothing!" muttered the old man. "She told me she wasdesperate, and I did nothing."

  Mrs. Russelthorpe turned on him sharply; her face was hard and drawn.

  "Margaret told you that? Then hold your tongue about it, Joseph. It isbetter she should be mad, than that she should have taken this scamp ofher own free will."

  Mr. Russelthorpe shook his head.

  "You have never liked the girl," he said. "But she is no more mad thanyou are. She was in our charge, and we have been bad guardians; and whenyour brother comes----"

  "When he comes _I_ will meet him," said Mrs. Russelthorpe; "it isbetween him and me."

  The old man gave her a quick furtive glance.

  "You have never wanted any one else to come between you and him," hesaid; and Mrs. Russelthorpe winced.

  "We'll talk of it no more," she cried. "Meg is dead to us."

  "Yes," said Uncle Russelthorpe, "but that won't prevent there being thedevil to pay."

  * * * * *

  There is--or rather there was when Margaret Deane was young--a fishinghamlet on the Kentish coast that consisted of just one line of tarredwooden huts, and a square-towered chapel.

  The women would put their candles in the windows after the sun haddipped, that the twinkling friendly eyes of their houses might guide thefishermen home; but whether it was day or night Sheerhaven had alwaysthe air of a watcher by the sea.

  The glow of dawn was just warming the grey water when a boat grated onSheerhaven beach, and a man and a woman climbed slowly up the yellowshelving bank. When they had gone a few steps the man turned and heldout his hand. "You are over weary, an' it's no wonder," he said. "Bestlet me help you."

  A fisherman who was pushing off his boat paused and marvelled, as wellhe might.

  "That's Barnabas Thorpe. But who is the girl?"

  They walked along the queer old street, that was bounded on one side bythe shingle, and was often wave- as well as wind-swept, in the highspring-tides.

  Barnabas knocked at a door. His mind was still running on St. Peter andthe angel. "It 'ull be the mistress not the maid who will open to ushere," he remarked.

  The smell of a clover field was blown to them, and a cock crew lustilywhile they waited.

  "The new day has begun," said the girl in a low voice.

  The woman who opened the door, a muscular large-featured fish-wife,started when she saw them.

  "Dear heart! it's the preacher,--and wet through," she cried. "Now stepin, Barnabas, and I'll have a fire in a minute. Eh! what's this? What doyou say? A maid as wants shelter?" her good-natured face fell. She hadlittle doubt that it was some "unfortunate" the preacher had rescued.

  "We--el--yes; let her come along, she'll do us no harm."

  She took them into the parlour, and began to lay the sticks.

  "Ran down with the tide from Dover, eh? Well, you've given the lass asalt baptism; she's not got a dry stitch on her. Come nearer, my woman;the fire will blaze up in a minute. Why!" with a sudden change of voiceas Meg obeyed her. "The Lord have mercy on us, Barnabas! What have youbeen about?"

  "I'll tell ye by-and-by when she is a bit dryer," said the preacher; butMrs. Cuxton's eyes did not wait for his telling. She took one more longstare at her strange visitor, who had taken off the rough coat Barnabashad wrapped round her in the boat, and who stood shivering a little bythe fire.

  Her glance fell from the delicate refined face to the small nervoushands, and the dainty shoes soaked in salt water.

  "You belong to gentlefolk, missy?" she said. "Ah, yes! I can see----"

  "I don't belong to them any more," said the girl, speaking for the firsttime with a thrill of excitement, but with an intonation and accentwhich belied her words; and their hostess shook her head, and lookedagain at Barnabas, who was staring thoughtfully at the flames.

  "I'd as lief speak a word to 'ee," he said gravely; and she followed himout of the room with the liveliest interest depicted on her face.

  When she returned alone she found her guest sleeping from sheerexhaustion, her head on the seat of the wooden chair, her slim girlishform on the sanded floor.

  Mrs. Cuxton bent over her, her gratified curiosity giving place to aprotective motherly compunction; Meg's fair hair was wet with the sea,and shone in the firelight like a halo, her lips were just parted, shelooked less than her twenty-one years.

  "Poor lamb! to think what I thought of her! Eh! but it's a bad enoughbusiness as it is!" muttered the woman; and even while she watched herheart went out to the girl.

  Meg awake might possibly have aroused criticism or disapproval; Megsleeping took her unawares.

  Mrs. Cuxton made up a bed on the settle, and drew it to the fire andthen took off the wet shoes and stockings, warming the cold feet betweenher hands. Meg woke up and remonstrated faintly, but was too utterlyworn out to care much what happened. The reaction from the tremendousexcitement of the night was telling on her, and she was almost too wearyto stand, though she felt a sort of comfort in this rough woman'stenderness.

  "How kind you are, and what a deal of trouble I am giving you!" shesaid, as Mrs. Cuxton made her lie down in the improvised bed, and tuckedher in with a motherly admonition to "put sleep betwixt her and hersorrows".

  "I can't think whatever your people were about to let you do such athing, and you only a slip of a girl. Trouble? you're no trouble in theworld, missy; but your mother must be breaking her heart to-night foryou!" cried Mrs. Cuxton; and there were actually tears in her eyes.

  "I haven't got a mother," said Meg. "Nobody's heart will break for me,so it really doesn't much matter, you know, what happens, and I am tootired to think; besides, it's done now!" Her eyelids closed again,almost while she was speaking; and Mrs. Cuxton left her with a mutteredejaculation, worn out with weariness and excitement, sleeping like achild over the very threshold of the new life.

  It was in Sheerhaven that Meg was married to Barnabas Thorpe. She tookthat last irrevocable step with a curious unflinching determination,--asense, half womanly, half childish, that having gone so far, there hadbetter be no going back; that having trusted him so much, theresponsibility was his altogether.

  "I can't do any other way," he had told her. "I couldn't take ye with mewithout that; ye must have the protection o' my name, and give me thatmuch right i' the eyes o' the world to fend for ye,--that's all I amwanting. I ha' never thought to marry since I was 'called'."

  The girl, standing in the door of the black hut where he had brought herthe night before, was quite silent for a full minute, her face full ofconflicting emotions.

  "If you say we must do it, then--very well," she said at last. "I may aswell be Margaret Thorpe as Margaret Deane."

  The preacher turned quickly; her quiet assent discomposed him, though inhis heart he believed his own words: for the sake of the maid's goodname there was no other way.

  "Lass!" he said earnestly, "it seemed to me a call o' the Lord's, an' Ihad no doubts; but ye are young, an' I'm no natural mate for ye. If yechoose, I'll find that father ye talk of, wherever he may be, an' makehim understan' the truth. I'll leave ye here this hour and go; but,having come out o' the city o' destruction, to my mind ye had betterstay out."

  "You will find my father?" Her face brightened and flushed for a second,and then rather a painful look crossed it, and she shook her head.

  "Aunt Russelthorpe will see him first," she said; "so it is of no use."

  No stranger could ever understand how much despair there was in thatlast sentence.

  "Then there's just naught else possible," said the man: and she bent herhead in assent.

  She did not see him again t
ill she saw him in the church, where theyexchanged vows. Mrs. Cuxton gave her away with grim disapproval.

  The guest whom the sea had brought in the early dawn, and who had spenttwo whole days under her roof, had charmed the heart out of the womanlike a white witch.

  Meg's fineness and slenderness touched the big fish-wife. Meg's sweetsmile, the manner that was her father's, and her pretty voice, when shesat singing the whole of one morning to the little cripple lad whoselife Barnabas Thorpe had once saved, were all part of the witchery.During the whole of her chequered life there were always some people(and generally people of a very opposite type to her own) who wereinclined to give her that peculiarly warm and instinctive service thathas something of the romance of loyalty in it; her home had beensomewhat over-cold, but more than once the gift of love, unexpected andunasked, was held out by strange hands as she passed by.

  It was a gusty morning, and the break of the waves sounded all throughthe short service when Meg was married. She paused when they stood onthe steps of the church and looked across the sea,--a longlook--(somewhere on the other side of that water was her father); thenthey went inside.

  The bride had on a close-fitting plain straw bonnet that Mrs. Cuxtonhad bought in the village, and her white dress was simpler than whatmight have been worn by a woman of the preacher's own class; but the oldclergyman who was to tie the knot (blind and sleepy though he was)peered hard at her, then looked at Barnabas Thorpe uncertainly. Theywere a strangely matched couple, he thought. If Meg had seemedfrightened he would possibly have spoken; but when her courage was atthe sticking-point she did not hesitate, and nothing would have inducedher to show the white feather then. It was a plainly furnished church,small and light. The walls were whitewashed, the communion table wascovered with a much-patched cloth. It was so small that the fishermenseemed almost to fill it.

  They were a deeply interested congregation. All of them knew thepreacher; many of them were bound to him by close ties.

  Meg's fresh sweet voice, with its refined pronunciation, troubled theclergyman afresh; but it was too late to ask questions, and the servicewent on undisturbed to its conclusion.

  The two signatures are still visible in the vestry. "Margaret Deane," inthe fine Italian hand that Mrs. Russelthorpe had inculcated; andunderneath, in laboured characters like a schoolboy's, "BarnabasThorpe".

  Meg's pride carried her safely through the meal that waited them ontheir return; it was spread in the kitchen, and some of the fishermenwho had been in the church lounged in, and stared silently at herthrough the sheltering clouds of tobacco. She made a valiant attempt toeat, and then escaped to change her dress, for the blue serge skirt andcotton body, that Mrs. Cuxton had got with the slender stock of moneyMeg had had in her pocket.

  Mrs. Cuxton followed her after a minute.

  "Barnabas is writing them word at home that he has married you. He sayshave you aught to say?" she said.

  "No," answered the girl; "there will never be anything more said betweenthem and me."

  Mrs. Cuxton nodded: her manner had changed slightly since the deed hadbeen done, and the last gleam of doubt as to Meg's "really going on withit" had disappeared.

  "I don't know what led you to this," she said, putting her hand on Meg'sshoulder; "but you say true--you've done it! And whether the blame wasmostly yours or not, it's you that must take the consequences! Butyou've a bit of a spirit of your own, that I fancy may carry youthrough; and Barnabas Thorpe is a good man, for all I blame him for thisday's work. You just stick by him now, and don't never look back at whatyou've left--it's your only way!"

  Meg made no answer: an odd frightened expression crossed her face; thenshe drew herself up. "I am ready," she said; "only just say 'Good Luck'to me before I go."

  "God help you and bless you," said Mrs. Cuxton earnestly, "and him too!"

  There was a hush when the bride came in, as unlike a fish-wife in herfish-wife's gear, as well could be.

  Barnabas Thorpe sprang to his feet and cut leave-takings short. A cartwas waiting for them; he threw up a bundle and lifted Meg in, before sheknew what he was about, and they were off at a rather reckless pace downthe uneven street.

  Meg leant back to wave her hand to Mrs. Cuxton; she had not saidgood-bye, or thanked her, but she watched her till they were out ofsight. It seemed to the good woman that those grey eyes were saying agood deal that Meg's tongue had not said; and as the cart dwindled to aspeck in the distance she turned indoors with a heavy heart.

  SECOND PART.