CHAPTER III.
But the living out was difficult.
Meg awoke at the farm. After the strange and wonderful journey by theside of the preacher; after the days of wandering over hill and dale,with exhausted body, but with mind so fixed on the vision beautiful,that she would not have been surprised at any moment had the cloudsparted, and the second coming of the Lord blazed forth; after thatcurious "intoxication" of the soul that such natures as hers seem liableto,--she "came to herself" in the old house among those northernmarshes, and tried, a little desperately, to meet the demands of a lotshe had not been born to.
The loneliness was all on her side; for to the Thorpes the advent ofBarnabas' wife was, perhaps, on the whole a not unwelcome piece ofexcitement.
In the winter the road across the marshes was all but impassable formonths together. Often from November till February the little strongholdwhich the first Thorpe had wrested, and his successors kept, from thedevils of desolation, was left to its own resources.
The family characteristics had probably been fostered by thecircumstances of their life; they were sufficient to themselves.
There were Thorpes; there were--but some way behind them--their fellowcountry, or rather county-men; and then there was the rest of the world.Weak-knee'd outsiders, with bad constitutions and "queer ways" andindifferent morals. The preacher's wife was not even north country; shewas, in fact, almost a "foreigner".
Poor little "outsider," thrust down in their midst to take root in astrange soil, if she could; or to shrivel and droop withstarvation!--which would she do?
"The best thing for the lass 'ud be to pack her in cotton wool, and sendher back to her own kind," Tom Thorpe had declared. But the boats wereburnt, and the going back was impossible!
On the whole, of all her new relatives, Tom alarmed Meg most; but"Cousin Tremnell" was the member of the family she liked least.
The prim little woman, with plaintive voice and sharp curiosity, withuneasy pretensions to "gentility" and small affectations, seemed morehopelessly out of touch with her than were her husband's rougherkinsmen. Cousin Tremnell asked questions with the eagerness of a borngossip, who had been starving for dearth of any subject more personalthan "crops" and "horses"; and Meg shrank from her inquiries as if theywere so many small stabs.
"It is not becoming for you to be sitting in the kitchen, ma'am," shehad said on the morning after Meg's arrival, and had forthwith conductedher into the best parlour, which was the one ugly room in the house,with its carpet beflowered with magenta roses; its gauze-swathed frames,and bunches of worsted convolvuli under shades.
Mrs. Tremnell brought out her work, and settled herself down to see whatshe could "get out" of this extraordinary cousin-in-law, towards whomher feelings were at present rather mixed. It was something to have aconnection who had been one of the Deanes of Kent; but what a degenerateDeane she must be! Mrs. Russelthorpe herself could not have had akeener sense of Meg's degradation.
"How could she ever have done such a thing?" Mrs. Tremnell keptrepeating to herself, with little mental gasps and notes ofinterrogation; and the burden of her thoughts was embarrassinglyapparent, even though something in the stranger's manner, a shy dignitythat Mrs. Tremnell durst not quite outrage, prevented her from askingthe question point blank.
"It must seem very strange to you here, ma'am," she said tentatively."Of course, it can't be what you were accustomed to. _I_ find mycousin's ways rough myself--not meaning no comparison to what _your_sensations must be. I understand you was brought up in a differentstation altogether."
"I have been in many rougher places than this," said Meg; "and the pastis quite dead."
Mrs. Tremnell's eyes fairly twinkled with eagerness. The preacher's wifewas "very peculiar-looking," she said to herself, glancing at Meg'sshort curls and shabby dress; but there was no doubt that she was alady, and the lady's "past" possessed a wonderful fascination.
"Is your honoured father still alive?" she ventured; and the colourrushed to Meg's cheeks.
"Oh yes--I--I hope so!" the girl cried. But the idea that he might bedead and buried, for all she knew or would ever know about him, suddenlymade her heart contract with a sharp spasm of fear.
She made a hasty effort to draw "Cousin Tremnell" away from the subject;and, asking questions in her turn, elicited a stream of informationabout the Thorpes in general, and Barnabas Thorpe in particular, astream which was only checked by occasional little flights back to "theDeanes," whose very name seemed to attract Cousin Tremnell as honeyattracts a bee.
It was curious to hear Barnabas spoken of familiarly; curious how theman's individuality was becoming stronger and the prophet's fainter tohis wife's unwilling eyes.
"The Thorpes are all as sure as sure of everything," said CousinTremnell. "_I_ take after my father's side myself, and he was agentle-spoken man, and quite different; it was my mother was a Thorpe.And my dear husband was south country. I never saw much of Cousin Thorpetill after I was left a widow. Then, when my daughter was growing up,Barnabas used to be a deal over at L----, where we lived; but Tom andLydia could never abide each other. I shouldn't have believed that Icould ever come and live here then, nor that Tom Thorpe would ask me to;but blood is thicker than water, and I must allow that Tom's alwayskind, if one's in trouble. I was ill this spring, and I was sitting bymyself, for I hadn't cared to have folks about since--since she left me,when Tom Thorpe walked in quite unexpected. I had got that weak andnervous--for living alone never suited me--that I fairly screamed whenhe opened the door. 'Now, you come along back with me, cousin,' says he;'for I can't leave you here to think of your own funeral all the day.'And I hadn't the heart to say no, though I am half sorry now I didn't. Iwas that lonesome, you see; and a man does give one a feeling ofsupport, especially if the man's Tom or Barnabas. Barnabas was the one Iliked best as a lad, and, to be sure, I thought he would neverforget--but there! it's nearly sixteen years ago now, since he wascourting my poor Lydia."
Her voice dropped to a reverently lowered tone when she spoke of herdaughter. The shadow of her grief momentarily dignified her pinched andrather fretful face; and Meg, who had been listening listlessly, lookedup with awakened interest.
"Did she like him?" asked the preacher's wife shyly. Her quick fancypictured the pretty girl, whom Barnabas had loved when a boy; and hersympathy was moved at once by the mother's sorrow.
Mrs. Tremnell, however, seemed half offended at the question.
"Oh, as for that, Lydia had plenty to admire her without Barnabas," shesaid.
And Meg could not guess how the little woman's sore heart was hurt,because the preacher's was healed; no one but her mother mourned for herpretty Lydia now.
"When he was a boy he would run the twelve miles from here to the townto get a talk with her; for all he was sure of a thrashing from Tom forplaying truant when he got back," she went on. "But that's long past,and forgotten; and, perhaps, I shouldn't even have alluded to it to_you_, ma'am."
"Why not to me?" asked the girl; and then coloured, and laughednervously when Cousin Tremnell's meaning dawned on her.
"To be sure, he is another man altogether since his conversion, and Ihear the miracles he does is wonderful; though I do hope you'll persuadehim to lay by and take money for his cures, now that he has got a wifeand may have children," continued the plaintive voice, which was touchedwith asperity now. "He might make a very good thing of it, and peoplewould think a deal more of him if they had to pay. Indeed, with yourconnection with the aristocracy, which is far beyond what he might haveexpected, I don't see why he shouldn't start a regular business. It wasa sister of yours that married Lord Doran, was it not, ma'am?"
"Oh, _won't_ you understand?" cried Meg, with sudden energy. "That isall done with--I--I--don't think about it."
"I beg your pardon, I am sure, ma'am; I was not aware that I had saidanything amiss," said Cousin Tremnell huffily. And to herself sheremarked that Barnabas had gone far to fare badly.
Meg went for a solitary walk in
the marshes after that, and tried tosort and adjust her ideas and to "lay" decently several ghosts CousinTremnell had brought out of their graves. They had never, perhaps, beenso entirely buried as she had fancied.
The incidents of that first day at the farm always remained in hermemory, standing out from the many rather monotonous days that followed;not that they were remarkable in themselves, but because firstimpressions are cut sharp and clear as with a new die.
She came in after the mid-day meal had begun. The two or three farmlabourers who ate in the same room, though at the other end of the longwooden table, turned round to stare at her with a stolid and deliberatestare. Tom Thorpe remarked that she was late, and they had "nigh done,"though more by way of something to say than as a rebuke; and then, inthe middle of the meal, "Foolish Timothy" lounged in, and effectuallyrobbed her of her appetite.
The idiot shambled up to the table, and sat down beside her unasked, butunrebuked; and Meg could not repress a shudder of disgust.
The man's coarse loose mouth, and cunning shifty eyes, with theirfurtive sidelong glances, were unspeakably repulsive to her; andTimothy, unfortunately, saw the shiver, and hated her on the spot withthe malicious, easily roused hate of a low nature. He was one of thoseill-conditioned fools who have just cunning enough to pretend to berather more idiotic than they are, when it suits their convenience; helived on the kindness of the countryside, and lived well, occasionallyrepaying hospitality by buffoonery of a somewhat profane kind; but, atthe Thorpes, he was generally on his good behaviour.
"What's wrong wi' ye?" Tom suddenly asked his sister-in-law. "Isn't thefood to your liking, or aren't you hungry?"
"Yes, thank you, quite--I mean it's very nice," stammered Meg; but somefascination made her look at the creature by her side, who wascontorting his face into sudden, hideous grimaces whenever he couldcatch her eyes unobserved by his host.
"What's the good o' telling lies?" said Tom. "It's plain ye can't eatthat; and we all know ye've not been used to fare like us. Here,Timothy, make yourself useful, and fetch an egg from the barn; happenshe'll relish it better."
"Oh no, please don't!" cried Meg, who felt that she could not for thelife of her taste anything that Timothy had touched. "The pie is verygood, but I have had plenty."
Tom frowned impatiently. "My good girl, _that_ you've not," he said. "Iam not going to force food down your throat if you don't want it; butwhy you persist in saying you like it when you can't swallow half amouthful, goodness knows. Lord bless us! I am proud of our cooking, asCousin Tremnell 'ull tell you; but I don't make a meal off the peoplewho don't agree wi' me. Hands off, Timothy! Where are your manners?" ForTimothy had surreptitiously stretched out a long-nailed, dirty handtowards the food in Meg's plate. She jumped up with a start at the touchof the idiot, and with a hastily murmured excuse fled from the kitchen.Tom Thorpe gave vent to a long, low whistle.
"It's a pretty business," he remarked; "an' the hottest water Barnabashas ever got into. What had he to do wi' a fine lady, as can't even sitdown to table by us?"
"I must say the way she has been trapesing about the country half themorning isn't much like a lady," said Cousin Tremnell.
"Well, I've done. Ye may tell her I've gone out. So she can come andpick up a few more crumbs in peace," he said good-naturedly. "An', Isay, cousin, ye might tell her I am not such an ogre as I look, eh? Thefact is, I've got so used to myself living here alone wi' dad, that Idon't think how I scare other people, unless a stranger comes to showme."
But Cousin Tremnell was still huffy, and didn't see that she had anycall to "run after Mrs. Thorpe".
It was not a remarkably good beginning; and the preacher's wife feltmuch ashamed when she had recovered from her sudden horror.
She took herself to task for her disgust, as if it had been a crime, butcould not prevail upon herself to return to the kitchen. Tom's deformitydid not cause her the least repulsion; it was as it were accidental, andthe man himself inspired her with respect; but Timothy seemed to herlike some horrible brute, whose very likeness to humanity made him themore repulsive.
She sat down on the wide sill of the staircase window, and tried toforget the troublesome details of this rough-edged life, the while hereyes rested on the reed beds bowing in the wind, and the low grey sky,where a buzzard hung poised.
Thus seated, she clenched her hands; and, presently, began to sing verysoftly to herself, to the tune of an old Roundhead battle hymn. Theinspiration of hard fighting was in it, and it did her good.
In the middle of a bar, she became aware that some one was listening;and, turning round, saw Mr. Thorpe standing on the stair above her.
The old man looked worn and tired; but smiled, and spoke to her with arather melancholy gentleness that won her heart.
"Ye've a very sweet voice, lassie," he said. "Are ye for driving the oldenemy away with it? Ye were singing as if ye were leading a forlornhope. Ye had better not stop till ye've routed him."
The girl looked wonderingly for a moment; and then her heart went out tohim with instinctive womanly sympathy. "I can sing as long as ever youplease," she said; and she sang on with gathering courage, till the duskbegan to creep over the landscape, and the shadows broadened on thestairs, and her voice failed from weariness.
She slid down from her place, warmed and cheered by a sense ofcomradeship, and stood beside him as he thanked her. The preacher's wifebecame wonderfully clever, as time went on, in foreseeing and wardingoff the black fits of depression that laid hold on the man; but, on thatfirst evening, he had helped her, as a stronger and more cheerful spiritnever could have.
"I am ashamed to go back to the kitchen," she said shyly; "I was sosilly at dinner-time."
"An' so ye are Barnabas' wife!" he answered irrelevantly. "Well, well,it's no wonder ye feel a bit strange; but ye have driven the devil back.Come along wi' me, lass." And they went down together.
The preacher came home in the evening; he had been out all day. His eyesturned at once to the chimney corner, where Meg was sitting with herhead bent down, fondling a kitten on the hearth.
"How is dad?" he asked of Tom, who hopped into the room with atablecloth, which was entirely for their guest's benefit, under his arm.
"All right," said Tom. "Thanks to your wife, she's witched away theblues this time, and I thought we were in for a spell of 'em. I'llforgive ye for having the bad taste not to like me, if ye can cheer updad;" turning round on Meg. "But what are we to call ye? Ye can't allusbe 'Barnabas' wife!'"
"My name is Margaret," said Meg slowly. "I suppose that is what you hadbetter call me."
"Oh, not if you don't like it," cried Tom, who perceived with wonderfulquickness the "unwilling" inflection in her voice. "I'd not call anywoman by her name against her will. Ye needn't think it. Will 'ee sitdown to supper with us, Barnabas' wife, or would ye liefer stay at asafe distance till we've quite done, eh?"
"Doan't ye heed him; he talks a deal o' nonsense by times," saidBarnabas. And Meg was rather thankful for once to have his broadshoulders between herself and Tom's over sharp-sighted eyes.
And so the first day at the farm came to an end, and in the course ofthe many that followed the stranger settled down among the Thorpes, evenif she didn't take root, and still remained more or less strange.
She grew fond of Mr. Thorpe, who pitied the "little lady" from hisheart. She was uneasily conscious of Tom's shrewd observation, which wasuncomfortably keen to live with; and she saw very little of the man whohad been her daily companion for the last three months.
The preacher seldom came in till late, and then exchanged few words withher. There had been nothing like a quarrel between them, and Meg had themost absolute trust in him; nevertheless, she breathed more freely whenhe was not present, sitting on the bench in the kitchen netting orcarving silently, and looking at her every now and then with a look thathaunted her.
She had been some weeks at the farm, when, one day, something occurredto break the surface calm that seemed to have settled on them, an
dfrightened her with a glimpse of the Thorpe temper that Mrs. Tremnellhad talked about, and of something else as well, which she was unwillingenough to reckon with.
Barnabas Thorpe had been away for several days, and was striking homeacross the flats. He quickened his pace on nearing the farm. The dullache of anxiety he constantly felt when absent, had changed to a sharperexcitement that made his pulses beat fast, when suddenly the faint echoof a scream caught his ear, and with a shout that rang out over thesnow-covered marsh, he ran at full speed towards the farm.
Tom, seeing him in the distance, and wondering at the headlong rush,followed him as fast as his lame foot would allow, and arrived fiveminutes after him panting and curious.
By that time the preacher was standing in the middle of the kitchen withthe fingers of his left hand twisted in "Foolish Timothy's" collar, andhis right arm raised in the act of striking. Timothy was howling like awild beast, and livid with mingled rage and fright and pain; the weightof Barnabas Thorpe's arm was not light, and he did all things with asuperabundant amount of energy. Barnabas' wife was standing in a cornerwith a face as white as the snow outside.
"I say," said Tom, "whatever Tim's been doing, I think ye'd better putoff the rest o' that thrashin' till your wife's out o' the way."
Meg found her voice at the same instant. "Oh do let him go--I only wanthim to go!" she cried. And the preacher let his arm drop at the sound ofher voice.
"All right, I won't hit him again. You needn't look at me like that.He's not half so much hurt as he deserves," he said. And then, halftwisting the idiot round with a turn of his strong wrist, he spokebetween his teeth.
"If I gave you your deservings," he said, "I'd thrash you till youhadn't a whole bone left. I can't do that now; not that it wouldn't doyou good, but it's against my calling. You'll get off a deal too easy;but if ever I catch you frightening my wife or any other woman again,I'll take it it 'ull be my duty to pay ye with interest; and I swear youshall have enough to last your life. Off wi' ye! and don't let's seeyour face under this roof again."
With that, he loosened his grasp; and Timothy, choking, made for thedoor. Before passing through it, he turned and shook his fist atBarnabas.
"I'll be even with you and your fine wife yet!" he cried. "Curse youboth! Bad luck is on your scent, Barnabas! She always follows them aslays hands on me; and you've tempted her before. You've taken to wife amaid as wasn't born for the likes of you or yours, and every drop ofblood in her body shrinks from you. She's pining after her own peoplealready, and she'll go back to them and leave you to whistle for her.She's theirs, not yours! and if ye try to hold her she'll hate you. Youcan force man to obey you, but you can't make a woman cleave to you.She'll leave you, I say, and there'll be worse to follow. I'll live tosee you brought low, and----"
"Clear out!" said Tom. "Or ye'll sartainly live to see yourself 'broughtlow' in half a second." And Timothy fled; but the brothers looked ateach other with foreboding in their faces. Neither of them was abovesuperstition.
"It is terrible unlucky," said Tom, "to lay a hand on such as him. Iwish ye hadn't, lad!"
"He may think himself fortunate. I'd not ha' dealt so gently by himonce," said the preacher grimly. "But," with a sudden change of tone,"I've scared my poor lass nigh as much as that varmin did!"
He turned to Meg, who was still standing with a blanched face in thecorner. "How came it ye were alone wi' him?" he asked.
"Mrs. Tremnell and your father have gone into town to-day," said Meg,trying rather vainly to steady her voice. "Tom thought I was with them,but my head ached, and I stayed behind. I didn't come down to dinnerbecause Timothy was there; but, after dinner, I heard him go out withTom, and thought it was quite safe. He crept back when I was alone inthe kitchen." She shuddered, and Barnabas clenched his handunconsciously.
"Do you mean to say ye had ever reason to be scared of him before?" heasked thickly.
"It was chiefly my silliness before," said Meg. "He only made faces atme and tried to pinch me one day when Tom's back was turned; but, ofcourse, I knew he hadn't all his wits, and I didn't like to make a fuss.Oh, Barnabas, _please_ don't go on talking about it; let's forget."
"I am sorry, lad," said Tom, who was watching his brother curiously."Aren't you wishin' you were unconverted an' free to wring his neck?But," with a swift wheel round, "doan't ye think ye really were a littlefool not to ha' told me, Barnabas' wife? Ye might ha' known, by thistime, tha' I'd not ha' let that scamp bother you."
"I thought you would say I was behaving like a fine lady, and fancyingmyself different from the rest of you," said Meg.
And Tom laughed loudly. "There wouldn't be much fancy needed," said he.
The episode seemed, by the very fact of its having stirred theiremotions, to have brought the woman's aliency into stronger relief. Shelooked longingly at the door, and made a step towards it, when Barnabasinterposed.
"I'll leave ye in peace in a moment, Margaret," he said; "but afore Igo, will 'ee promise me one thing? Will ye tell Tom next time if aughttroubles ye while I am away? or I'll have no rest for thinking some'utmay be wrong with 'ee."
He spoke insistently, and Meg hesitated for an appreciable second; thenshook her head, the colour coming back to her cheek with a rush: she hadalready promised this man more than she could perform.
"I would rather not promise," she said. "I might not want to. If you sayI must, I will, because you have a right, I suppose; but I would rathernot."
Tom grunted impatiently; Barnabas picked up the stick he had brokenacross Timothy's shoulders and turned away.
"Do as ye choose; it'll be a bad day for us both when I take to sayingye must do a thing because I've a right," he answered.
The moment the door had closed upon his brother Tom swore.
"Do 'ee want him made o' ice?" he said. "Why didn't ye give him a wordor a kiss, lass? Barnabas has no end of patience with ye. If ye were mywife----"
"What would you do?" said Meg, looking up with a sudden flash in hergrey eyes. "Beat me? I have seen husbands do that; it generally answers,I suppose, if they go on long enough."
"Hullo! we've struck a bit o' fire this time. Thank the Lord for that!"said Tom. "But ye've a nice opinion of us, haven't ye? Well, there's noknowing what atrocities I mightn't ha' gone in for, if a mercifulProvidence hadn't made it clear impossible for me to marry."
Nevertheless, when Meg came down the next day looking whiter and shyerthan usual, he held out his hand to her with a kindly twinkle in hiseyes. "Ye'd much better be friends wi' me, Barnabas' wife," he said."Happen ye'll improve our manners in time."
"I oughtn't to have been angry," said Meg quickly; for she was at leastas susceptible to kindness as to unkindness. "I was all wrong, and oneought to obey one's husband."
"Oh! ye do plenty o' _that_," cried Tom. "Lord love ye, my dear, if yeobeyed him a bit less, an' liked him a bit more, Barnabas 'ud notquarrel wi' the change, and he might bide at home a spell."
Which last suggestion made Meg feel sick at heart, with a halfself-reproachful, wholly miserable sensation, that fairly frightened herat times.
She went with the preacher that afternoon to a tiny hamlet, some milesoff. She had not accompanied him of late, and it was strange to findherself alone with him again.
The marshes were still snow-covered in parts; the last vestige of greenwas frozen away, the ground lay stretched in drab and grey; save where,here and there, a salt-water pool showed black against the snow.
The preacher was on his way to baptise a child that had been born in oneof a cluster of wooden huts, that were planted like brown mushroomsunder the scant shelter of a group of alders.
His feet and Margaret's made a track all the way from the farm; and thegirl kept glancing back at the double row of footprints, as though theyhad a fascination for her.
It struck Meg that the baptism was regarded as a sort of lucky charm, orincantation; but, when Barnabas stood outside the huts to preach, therewas no doubt that, as usual, he carried his hearers with
him.
Meg stood a little apart and watched him with new eyes.
She had thought of the message, not of the messenger, when she had firstfallen under the spell of his enthusiasm. She tried now--and she foundit strangely difficult--to keep possession of her soul; to stand aloofmentally, as well as actually, and to look on.
The man's reddish hair and beard and sunburnt face made a spot of colourin the leaden grey landscape; his vigorous personality was in strongcontrast to the impersonal solemnity of the marsh. And his religion waspersonal too; it was the passionate uncalculating loyalty of one who hasseen his God in the Man of Sorrows, and cannot rest for following thoseblood-stained footsteps that have drawn so many after them, and haveleft so deep a print in the world's history.
The half-dozen men and women who surrounded Barnabas were of as low atype as Margaret had ever seen; a wizened, stunted race, dwarfed bymarsh fever and unhealthy living. But more than one of them were movedto tears, at the words they heard. How much did they really understandof his discourse? and how much was due to the curiously overpoweringand personal influence that Barnabas possessed? This power "from theLord,"--was it indeed from the Lord? or would he have wielded it,whether "converted" or not, purely by reason of his undoubting decision,and splendid physical strength? What had turned his life into thischannel? and what--her eyes turned again to the double line across thesnow--O God, what was to come of it all, in the many years before them?
It was bitterly cold, and the grey mists clung around them on their walkhome.
Born and bred in the marshes, the preacher knew his way blindfolded, butthe pathless expanse had something awe-inspiring in it. Meg reflectedaloud that strangers might be drowned in a salt pool, and be never heardof more, if left guideless.
"The wild ducks would scream over one, and there would be the end ofeverything!" she remarked.
"Dunnot say it, lass! Ye'll not be wandering alone here when I'm not by,will 'ee?" cried the preacher, with a ring of pain in his voice; and herreassurances seemed barely to satisfy him. Timothy had filled him withforebodings, though he had also brought matters to a climax.
It was partly to turn the subject that Meg asked him one of thequestions that had filled her mind during his preaching.
The preacher reddened, so that, under all the sunburn, she could see theflush mount to his forehead.
"There are things it goes against a man to talk about," he said. "MyMaster knows where He found me." But, after a few minutes, he addedwistfully: "But an' ye care to hear, Margaret, I'd tell ye anything".
The story came out rather jerkily then, while they struggled against thewind. Meg, seeing the effort the telling caused, was sorry she hadasked; was touched, too, with a painful feeling of compunction at theeagerness of his desire to more than meet hers.
Every now and then his speech was blown away from her; and once, whenshe lifted her face to listen, he paused a moment and said, with rathera sad smile: "But ye'll not understand it all, Margaret, any more thanthe snowflakes would". The snow was resting on her black hood at thetime.
"When I was a boy, dad couldn't bear the sight o' me," he continued,stating the fact with an outspoken simplicity that was characteristic.
"It made him a bit sour to see me straight and hale, when Tom, as wasworth a dozen o' me, was bent like a crooked stick. That was why I tookto going over to Cousin Tremnell's whenever I could.
"Tom was keen on my getting schooling, though, and sent me over themarshes an' back every day, till I was too big a lad for any man tosend. I wasn't fond o' learning, nor ain't now. It seems to me peoplestuff their minds too much wi' other men's thoughts. God's truth can'tshine through the tangle, and they doan't give their own souls the roomto stretch in. I cut the books and ran away to sea, when I was sixteen,wi' a cargo of oranges.
"It were after I came back fro' my first voyage that I fell in love wi'Cousin Tremnell's girl."
"I know," said Meg softly. "Cousin Tremnell told me."
There was a long pause; then: "She ran away to another man," he saidshortly. "An' I followed, being wistful to kill him, an' mad wi' thelonging for her. He had come fro' London, I knew; so I went there an'walked about the streets looking for her all the day long; an' times Iwould strangle her an' I met her, an' times I would kiss her; but eitherway, he shouldna hold her ever again, nor should any other maid be th'worse for him. I hankered so after the open flats when I was hemmed inby that cursed town, that I used to wake mysel' o' nights fighting wi'the wall o' my room thinking an' I could knock it down I'd see God'sworld again the other side. I made my knuckles bleed, but the othersthought it war drink, an' didn't interfere.
"It was like a nightmare, a horrible hell! But I'll go back there yet;there are souls to save there too; an' the Master is there: ay, even i'the lowest depth. It's a fearfu' place, Margaret; the very air o' Londonis foul wi' their iniquity; I was sick wi' the taste an' smell o' it.Well, I traced her at last, and found her dead; I saw her coffin.
"They buried her in a great waste o' graves; I disremember what theycall it. I hid among the stones, being possessed like the man i' theBible, and scared lest they should take me away; and after they shut thegates I crept out an' sat by the side of her.
"The soft slush o' mud hardened to ice in the night; but I was hot, notcold, an' I wondered whether she couldna feel me through all thenew-turned-up earth. It seemed as if she must. I bided all through thedarkness, for she were always scared o' being alone at dusk; an' whenthe day broke, I saw the Lord. He came in the early morning, walkingover the mounds.
"At first I didna know Him. He was dim like a shadow, through the orangefog; but He called me by name, 'Barnabas, Barnabas!' and my soul leapedup; an' He came nearer an' stood by her grave, an' touched me; and thedevil went out o' me; and I got up to follow Him, and to call all who Imet to follow Him, who is the very God, till the day when I see Himagain."
The preacher's breath came quickly while he told the story. It was realto him, as the ground he trod on; no one could listen to it and doubtthat.
But, after a moment, he recovered himself and looked at her with akindly smile.
"No one knows this but Him and you," he said. "Nor ever will! I told ye,because ye asked me, my lass; but doan't ye look sad; it war sixteenyears ago, an' it war worth the pain."
The tears stood in his companion's eyes; she was both touched andpuzzled.
"But it wasna to tell ye _that_ that I wanted ye to come wi' me to-day,"he went on, after a pause. "I've summat else to say to 'ee, Margaret."
He looked away from her over the marshes, and his voice took the tone ofdogged resolution that Meg was beginning to recognise.
"I'm going to leave you here and tramp to Lupcombe, an' happen I shallbe away some months. They've got the black fever there, and I doubtthey'll have a pretty bad bout. There was three houses struck last week,an' the game's only just beginning. I've fought wi' that fever oncebefore, an' happen I'll be some help. The doctor was the very firstdown, an' the scare's terrible. I'm going to start this evening whenI've seen ye home. I canna bear ye to be out o' earshot since thatrascal----Margaret," and his voice changed, "it's just all I can do toleave ye!"
"Shall I come with you?" said Meg in a low voice. "I'm not afraid of anyfever. Would you like me to come?"
"Are ye glad or sorry I'm going?" said the man suddenly. He put hishands on her shoulders and looked for a moment into her face.
"No," he said; "ye shan't come. God forgi'e me! but that 'ud be more norI could stand. Look now, I want to give ye what I've saved. Here! I wishit was more, my girl; but anyhow, ye'll be beholden to no one wi' that;it 'ull more nor pay dad for your keep. Hold out your hands, lass," andhe held the money out to her.
"Oh, Barnabas, it's all wrong!" cried the girl sadly. "I wouldn't takeit if I could help it."
"Ye needn't grudge me the working for 'ee," he said; "I think I'd go madif I couldn't do that much. I'll try and save more next year. I neverhave before, not thinking as I was one to marry, or to hanker aft
er anywoman." He stood still, they were just in sight of the farm, and heldout his hand as if that were the natural ending of his statement.
"At least, I'll not fash ye," he said. "I canna bide here unless ye'lllike me better. The best thing I can do for 'ee now is to leave ye; buttake care o' yourself, since I'm no' to take care for 'ee; take doublecare, my lass."
"You need not be afraid," said Meg. "Nothing is in the least likely tohappen to me. It is those whose lives are worth the most who run therisks; _I_ shall probably live to a ripe old age."
The perplexed self-reproach that had weighed heavily on her all the wayhome prompted the speech. She hardly knew herself how sad it was, untilshe saw him wince, as if she had hurt him.
"Are ye so unhappy?" he said; "an' I'd give my soul for yours! My littlelass, what shall I do? If there's aught i' this world 'll make yehappier, I'll do it somehow. I'd be glad if the fever took me, if that'ud be easiest for ye; but it's easy saying I'd die for ye, when it'sthe living is the puzzle. Ay, I know I am scaring ye even now; I love yea deal more nor ye want me to, but ye are a woman after all. Margaret,Margaret, have ye _no_ heart for me?"
Meg covered her face with her hands; the appeal moved her, though not tolove.
"Don't, don't!" she cried. "It's my fault that it's not in me tocare--like that. I can't help it, Barnabas; but it's all wrong from thebeginning to end; and it's my fault."
Barnabas drew himself up with a quick gesture.
"Shame on me!" he said. "I hadn't meant to ha' said that. Ye must forgetit, lass. Ay, it's time I went. See now, I'm going. But doan't 'ee cryso; gi'e me one look; for I canna leave ye like this. I'm sore ashamedto ha' made ye cry."
Meg lifted her head and looked at him, ashamed too, though with a smilethrough her tears.
"It was something in your voice that made me so silly," she said. "But Iam not going to be unhappy, and I wasn't crying for myself."
"Good-bye," said the preacher steadily. "But I want no pity, my lass.I'll not have ye waste tears for me. We've not come to the end yet."
With that he turned away, and set his face in the other direction. Hewas glad there was a stiff bit of work before him; after facing theproblem of life, it was somewhat of a relief to turn to a grapple withdeath.
Into the Highways and Hedges Page 10