Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER V.

  "A small piece of good fortune having fallen to Mrs. Thorpe's share,it's really time that her old acquaintances should ask what has becomeof her, isn't it?" said Mr. Sauls.

  He was standing in Laura Ashford's drawing-room, whither he had come toextract any knowledge she might possess as to her sister's whereabouts.Unfortunately she knew nothing.

  "I am very glad that my poor old uncle has left Meg that money," saidLaura; "and that you mean to see that she gets it. Her cause is in goodhands."

  "Mr. Russelthorpe was uncommonly kind to me, and one has a foolishsuperstition about carrying out a man's last wishes," said George. "It'sfor his sake I am doing it. His widow means to dispute the will on theground of incompetency; but she won't gain much by that. It is odd whata tendency women have for going to law. Of course it is fortunate forthe lawyers; quite a 'special dispensation,' as no doubt Barnabas Thorpewould say."

  There was a suppressed elation in his voice that was not lost on Laura.

  "I wonder why he hates my aunt. How she must have snubbed him! Thisclever gentleman would keep a stone in his pocket seven years, and turnit, and keep it seven more, for the chance of hitting his enemy with itat last, I fancy. Well, well! we all rather condescended to Mr. Saulsbefore I married," she reflected; "but he has the laugh on his side now.Meg had better have taken him."

  Her thoughts flew back to the evening of the ball at Ravenshill longago, and she sighed.

  "How pretty Meg had looked that night, and how set she had been onliving with their father, and how unreasonable, poor child!"

  Laura had grown stout and matronly since then. The philosophy ofhalf-loaves had answered well enough apparently. If her husband wassomewhat of a fool, why, her own excellent sense served for two. Wellenough! But she would not recommend it to her own child as she hadrecommended it to poor Meg.

  Motherhood had softened Laura; and, on glancing at Mr. Sauls seatedunder the lamplight, she recognised that he too had altered.

  He had the ball at his feet now. He had always had plenty ofself-assurance, but during this last year he had proved his strength,and justified his own belief in himself in the eyes of all men; he wasno longer on sufferance anywhere, and his manner showed that he knew it.He was quieter and less eager than he had been; he looked successful,but he no longer looked young.

  "Will you take charge of a letter from me to my sister, and give it toher, if you find her?" she asked.

  "I will, _when_ I find her," said Mr. Sauls. "I do not expect muchdifficulty. The preacher ought not to be hard to trace; for he certainlyis not given to hiding his light under bushels; besides, my news will beto his advantage. We did our best to prevent his reaping inordinateprofits, and he can't actually pocket much. There are a good manyconditions, but, no doubt, he will live on her, and live in clover. Mr.Russelthorpe was fond of your sister, wasn't he? I do not remember hervery clearly myself; I've a bad memory for faces. She had brown eyes anda fresh complexion, hadn't she? No? Ah! I must have been thinking ofsome one else. Well, if you'll write your letter I will deliver it."

  "Meg's eyes are grey," said Laura shortly; and she turned to thewriting-table with a sigh.

  Poor Meg! who had so often been sinned against, as well as sinning, whomeven her quondam admirer had forgotten!

  Laura wrote her letter and folded it, then felt that it wasunsatisfactory and tore it up, and tried again.

  Mr. Sauls looked at his watch, and she took yet another sheet andscribbled a hasty postscript.

  Her letter was stiff and rather cold, but in the postscript her heartshowed itself; it was a warmer after-thought, such as had made her longago turn back at the door to offer her silly little sister an unexpectedkiss.

  She thrust the loose sheet, which was thinner and of a different colourfrom the rest, into the envelope, and put her missive into Mr. Sauls'hands.

  "Grey eyes and pale! I'll try to recollect. Good-bye," he said. "Oh yes,I'll give her your love, when I see her again."

  "When I see her again!" His voice betrayed nothing this time; but herepeated the words to himself on his way down the stairs, not quite socalmly.

  "When I see her again!" He would see her across a gulf; but, at least,he would know at last whether Meg on the other side of it was in heavenor hell. She was sure to be in one or the other; for there had neverbeen much debatable land for her.

  * * * * *

  A fortnight later he had redeemed his promise. He had found his way tothe preacher's house. It was, to Mr. Sauls' mind, the most God-forsakenspot he had ever come across. Holding Margaret Thorpe's hand in his, hetried to discover what had happened to Margaret Deane.

  He was prepared for the meeting, and, even if he had not been, hisnatural instinct for the expedient would have led him to behave as ifnothing very remarkable had occurred since he had last talked to her inher aunt's drawing-room; as if this encounter were the most ordinarything in the world. But Meg, who was not prepared, started at sight ofhim as though she had seen a ghost.

  Tom Thorpe, whom he had met about a mile from the farm, stood staring atthem both from under his heavy eyebrows. Mrs. Tremnell hurried into thekitchen, attracted by the sound of a strange voice, and peeped overMeg's shoulder at the visitor, wondering in her own mind what Barnabas,who didn't like gentlefolk, would have said to him. But Mr. Sauls talkedon in an even tone about his journey and the weather, to give Meg timeto recover herself.

  "Is my father well?" she said at last. "Oh," with a smile of relief,when he had reassured her, "then nothing else matters!" For a moment shehad feared that this messenger from the past had come to tell her thather father was dead.

  Mr. Sauls smiled a trifle bitterly. He had always known that Megexpended an immense amount of affection on her father, and that she hadnever had any sentiment to spare for himself; but familiarity does notalways blunt the sharp edge of a fact, and at that moment he would havefelt himself "less of a fool" if her emotion had been awakened on hisown account.

  He sat down to the mid-day meal with them, Tom inviting him somewhatunwillingly; and Meg, after the first shock of surprise, lost hernervousness, and brightened up.

  She had often in old days had reason to be grateful to Mr. Sauls for his_savoir faire_; now she was once more thankful for it.

  He made no allusion to her former life; looked as if he were accustomedto dining in a kitchen at twelve o'clock, and discoursed on the breedingof horses, as if that, of all subjects in the world, interested himmost. Tom talked with a broader accent than usual, and with anunderlying antagonism that puzzled Meg. Mrs. Tremnell's manner becamemore superfine and her words longer; but, except for one moment at theend of the meal, Mr. Sauls was his ordinary and imperturbable self. Itwas a pleasure--Meg was ashamed to find how great a pleasure--to beagain with some one who did not drop his _h_'s, or answer with his mouthfull, or put his knife between his lips, and on whose tact she couldrely.

  "What this poor lady must have suffered here passes a man'sunderstanding, I suspect," George reflected grimly; and, although he wasnot a forgiving person, he forgave Margaret a good deal of the pain shehad most unwittingly brought on him, when he saw Tom Thorpe help her tothe dish in front of him with his own fork, and noticed that she triedto "look as it she liked it". Possibly the things for which he pitiedher were not those which weighed most heavily on her; but even thewarmest sympathy is apt to be undiscriminating.

  Margaret was thinner and paler and gentler than she used to be; he notedeach change with secret indignation. No doubt her short cropped hair andblack dress accentuated the difference, but he fancied that an ordinaryacquaintance would hardly recognise her.

  There had often been a touch of defiance in her manner to Mrs.Russelthorpe; she was not defiant now, but on the contrary, painfullyanxious to get on with her husband's relatives.

  Meg had once believed that all her troubles were her aunt's fault; but,since then, she had failed entirely on her own account--an experiencewhich, I suppose, comes to the m
ajority of us sooner or later, and has awonderfully humbling effect.

  George observed also that Tom Thorpe was rather fond of her. He couldnot have explained how he knew it, but the fact irritated him.

  "I wish ye'd coax dad to come and take a bite o' some'at," Tom saidpresently. And she went at once, leaving Mr. Sauls racking his brains toremember some remark he had heard about the preacher's father. Was itthat he was melancholy mad?

  Dinner was nearly over when she came back.

  "I have tried and tried," she said rather sadly; "but it is of no useyet. I think he hardly knew I was there, and I could not get him toattend to me to-day. He would do nothing but walk up and down, and quotebits out of the 'Lamentations'. It is dreadful to see him like that.I'll go and sing presently; sometimes that does it."

  George looked up from his plate with the sudden dilating of hisshort-sighted eyes that Meg remembered of old.

  "It must be very bad for Mrs. Thorpe to try and try," he remarkeddecidedly. "And you ought not to let her do it."

  There was a moment's silence, then Tom laughed aggressively.

  "Oh we allus bully her when th' husband's away," he said. "We mindthere's noan to look to her then, an' we make the moast on it: butthat's our business; which in this part we stick to, an' let otherfoalk's affairs bide. Will 'ee have some more cider, sir?"

  The preacher's wife looked from one man to the other in some anxiety.

  "Why do you say that, Tom? it isn't true!" she cried. "You are all verykind to me!" And Mr. Sauls, meeting the look, shrugged his shoulders,and accepted the cider and the snub peaceably. He hadn't followed her inorder to make life harder for her, or even in order to quarrel with herrelatives-in-law.

  She took him to a deserted mill after dinner, for he had hinted that hehad news he preferred giving her alone. And there, under the black wallsof the old ruin, with the marshes round them, he told her of her olduncle's illness and death--with more feeling than, perhaps, most peoplewould have given George Sauls credit for.

  "He slipped out of life, much as he used to slip out of a dinner-party,with no fuss, giving no trouble to any one," George said. "I had been tosee him every day during the last week; for after--well, after you left,the old fellow seemed to have a sort of liking for me. One afternoon Ifound him on the sofa, instead of in his armchair, too feeble to sit up,and only able to whisper. I insisted on fetching a doctor, but he wouldnot have his wife disturbed, and I saw no reason to send for her. Shewas out driving, and expected back in time for dinner. Mr. Russelthorpefell into a doze, as the afternoon wore on. He was quite unable to read,but he had begged me to take down one volume after another, and he keptfingering them, and they were all piled round him on the sofa and on thetable by his side. Presently he opened his eyes. 'Plenty of company,' hesaid; 'but you are the only bit of flesh and blood, Sauls, among themall, except Meg, who cries to me--and I didn't help!' And then he sleptagain. His hand was in mine (flesh and blood is what one clings to atthe end, I suppose, and books must give rather thin comfort); I felt itgrow cold while I held it; but he was often very cold. I stooped overhim to listen to his breathing, but not a sound was to be heard. He wasgone."

  Mr. Sauls paused for a minute; his liking for Mr. Russelthorpe had beenclosely bound up with the love that was--unfortunately, he toldhimself--the love of his life. He saw Meg was touched by his story, andespecially by her uncle's self-reproach. Yet the old man _had_ donenothing; and he, who would have done anything, who would have movedheaven and earth for her in his youthful energy, had she only appealedto him, would never touch her at all.

  "That, however, is not the really important part of my news," he wenton, with a slight change of tone. "The point of it is that you have comein for a fortune--though only on certain conditions."

  He explained the conditions at some length; he generally spokeconcisely, but there was no need to hurry this interview.

  "He was very good to me when I was a little girl," Meg softly said atlast, when every detail had been made clear. "When I grew up I fanciedhe did not care what happened to me. I spoke to him unkindly the lasttime I saw him. I wish! oh, how I wish I hadn't! So he remembered meafter all!"

  "To some purpose," said George drily. It was like Meg to be moreimpressed by the remembrance than by the actual money; and the drynessof his tone made her smile.

  "I can't help being grateful," she said; "as grateful as if I actuallypossessed the fortune, which, of course, I never shall. AuntRusselthorpe need have no fears."

  Her smile and the little gesture with which she put aside the notion ofbenefiting by the legacy, filled him momentarily with the oldhalf-tender amusement with which he used to listen to Margaret Deane'swildly unpractical utterances. Then the amusement was swamped inbitterness against the man who had taken advantage of her.

  If Margaret had been his wife, she might have been as loftilyunpractical as she chose, and she would have been no whit the worse forit.

  George saw how the pretty hands, whose delicacy he had admired, weretanned and roughened; how the silver wedding ring on her finger, thathad taken the place of the pearls she had worn once, was much too loosefor her; how the dimples were gone that he had liked to watch for.

  He had often said something to make his rather serious little lady smilefor the pleasure of seeing them. Now, inwardly, he cursed the preacherwith a vigour that would have startled his companion considerably if shecould have read his heart.

  "The conditions are absurd on the face of them," she was saying."Barnabas could not agree to them; nor could I. To fulfil them wouldmean going back to----"

  "To your natural position," said George. "Perhaps Mr. Thorpe's scruplesmight be overcome. Most men see the iniquity of wealth from a differentpoint of view if they have a chance of handling it--I mean no disrespectto the preacher, naturally," he added hastily.

  "I should hope not," said Meg; and her gravely surprised eyes made himwonder whether Barnabas Thorpe still took the trouble to deceive her.

  "I daresay you know best about most men, but _I_ know that Barnabascould never see things differently for his own advantage. I will writeto him to-night, and you shall see his answer. I am quite sure of him."

  "Ah! and you are not at all disappointed, and you are quite happy here,and his relatives are all very kind to you? You look as if you had had aremarkably easy time of it, don't you?" cried George. "I am glad you areso fortunate----" he checked himself suddenly. "I ought to be going," hesaid, with rather an abrupt pull up. He took out his watch and studiedit, not her, when he took his leave. "I don't know whether you care tosee me again? I had several things to tell you about--about your ownpeople--your father and----"

  "About father! Come again and tell me all you can think of," she said."Come and talk to me about him; come soon."

  "I'll come to-morrow," said George; and so he did, and for manyfollowing morrows. So long as he talked on that subject her interestnever flagged; though it must be owned that he, on his part,occasionally felt the situation strained.

  "What a fool I am!" he said to himself more fiercely every time he sawher. And afterwards, when he had left her and was back in London, thosehot days spent at the "other end of nowhere," at the side of the womanwho unconsciously played so large a part in his life, seemed to belongto a part of himself that he hardly recognised. He was so eminently saneas a rule, so little given to unprofitable expenditure, either of timeor feeling; and yet, if he had never met Meg, he would have been asmaller man.

  He wondered sardonically sometimes, between his pretty constant visitsto Meg, how all this would end. It couldn't go on for ever! Would theclimax come in his having the quarrel he was pining for with Margaret'shusband when that saint should see fit to return to his wife? Would Megherself wake up, and take fright, and bid him go? He knew perfectly wellthat, at a word of love, she would fly horrified from him; and hisreverence for her kept his tongue within bounds. Had she been any oneelse, he felt there would have been a third possibility; but Meg's icewould never melt for him. It was,
perhaps, some small consolation todiscover also that it hadn't melted for the preacher; and Mr. Sauls wasshrewd enough to arrive at that fact, even though Margaret Thorpe wasnot quite so transparent as Margaret Deane had been.

  They were walking together along the cart road to N----town when shegave Mr. Sauls her husband's reply to her letter about the legacy.

  The road was perfectly straight, flanked by a ditch on each side, andbeyond the ditch a low mud bank. The croaking of the marsh frogs filledthe pauses in their speech like a chorus. George took the letterunwillingly. How he loathed the sight of that laboured handwriting! Alonging assailed him to toss it to the frogs; but, unfortunately, hemight not gratify the impulse.

  "I should like you to read it," said Meg, with a touch of dignity;"because you have imagined that the preacher would want me to take themoney. You have not understood the sort of man he is."

  "No! You see, I am not a saint myself," said Mr. Sauls. He adjusted hisglass carefully. Ah, how he hated that man! "There's always a sort ofmist here. I should fancy these marshes were not healthy," he saidaloud.

  ("Don't stay a moment longer; come with me, away from these brutalfarmers and their pestilent country," said the voice in his heart.)

  "My dear lass," he read ("the impudence of the fellow!"), "I was glad toget a letter. I am glad you are well." ("Oh! curse his gladness!") "Itdoesn't seem to me as there can be two minds about the money. It isn'tfor us to be having a fine house and servants" ("for us! did he puthimself on a level with her?"); "besides, I wouldn't have you beholdento any; and I would be 'shamed to have you live on another man's money,even though he be dead, while I've strength to work. If Mrs.Russelthorpe is oneasy, you can set her mind at rest. You are in myheart by day and by night. God bless you, my girl!"

  That last sentence had a pencil mark through it. He ought not to haveread it; he wished he had not; it was worse than all the rest; he wishedhe could cram the preacher's "blessing" down the preacher's throat; itmade him feel sick.

  "Have you read it?" said his companion. "I don't think that he 'seeswealth from a different point of view' now that he has a chance ofpossessing it after all, do you?"

  "Apparently not. You have the best of that argument, Mrs. Thorpe," saidGeorge. "And the preacher's reply is a model of disinterestedness, asone might expect. Allow me to return it to you with manycongratulations."

  "You are angry," said Meg; for the bitterness in his tone was hardlyconcealed this time. "I wish you wouldn't be, for I was going to ask youto do something for me. I remember" (with the pretty smile that was rarenow), "I remember that formerly you were often my friend when I wasalways in trouble with my aunt."

  "Was I? I don't think so," said George; and his sallow face flushed. "Idon't much believe in platonic friendships, you know--at least, not onthe man's side. I was never hypocrite enough for that; but (well, nevermind that) what do you want me to do?"

  "It isn't a great thing," said Meg, "but I have no one else to ask." Shehesitated a moment. Mr. Sauls might have been more gracious, shethought; but then she never quite understood him.

  "It is a very small thing," she repeated deprecatingly. "It is only thatI want you to persuade my father that my husband is a good man and anhonest one. That was why I showed you the preacher's letter; that waswhy I tried to prove to you that he is, as you say, disinterested. Itdoes not in the least matter what the world in general thinks. I don'tcare! it's not worth minding," said Meg proudly; "but I do care--I can'thelp it--I do care about my father. I shall never see him again, Isuppose, and I cannot even send him my love, because perhaps he may notwant it," she cried, trying to swallow the inconvenient lump in herthroat. "I shall never be able to explain everything to him; but tellhim, you who have seen me, that Barnabas is good to me; don't let him beunhappy for me; don't let him fancy anything else. You think this isn'tnecessary, perhaps, but I know father. He is so tender-hearted even whenpeople don't deserve it. He will try not to think about me oftener thancan be helped, and he has plenty of other interests. That was always thedifference between us: he had plenty of interests, but I had only him.But, sometimes, he will suddenly remember, and then he will be sad;though my aunt will tell him I am not worth it. When father is sad, heis very sad," said the daughter who was most like him.

  "Tell him, then, what I have told you. Do you understand?"

  "Oh yes," said George slowly.

  "And you will do it?" she entreated. She smiled again, but with eyesthat were full of tears; and the April expression reminded him of thelittle girl who was always so easily moved to pleasure or pain.

  "I'll make a bargain with you," said he. "I'll swear anything on earthto your father, if you will tell _me_ the truth. My curiosity is--isexcessive, I admit; but I was always curious, and you must allow thatyou gave your old acquaintance scope for conjecture. Tell me--are youhappy, or not?" He twirled his eyeglass rapidly, and looked hard at her."Has the venture been a success?"

  Meg drew her breath quickly, and turned her head away.

  "It is not fair," she said. "If any one had asked _me_ to do for him sosmall and natural a service, I should not have bargained."

  It was odd how this man always jarred on her when she felt most friendlytowards him. She had been pleased that he had taken the trouble to seekher out, and to give her the details about her old uncle; but hisover-eagerness offended her.

  "No," he said; "you wouldn't have condescended so far; but then, youknow, you wouldn't have cared. That's always such an advantage!" Heended the sentence with a laugh. "Well, I think I have the answer inyour refusal to give it. I'll do my best for you when I see yourfather."

  "Don't make a mistake," said Meg. She turned, and faced him with a touchof dignity, her confusion lost in something else. Meg had faults enough,heaven knew; but she carried with them all a crystal-clear sinceritythat sometimes impressed him with a sense of awe. "Don't make a mistake.I have asked you to say nothing but the truth. It is I only who havefailed. I thought I was better than I am. I fancied, for a little while,that I could live as Barnabas does, always praying and preaching andrescuing and healing. I was wrong--I am not good enough, or strongenough. I have found that out, and--yes--it makes me unhappy. It is asif one had fallen from a height; and I hardly know what to do, or whereto turn." She hesitated for a second; then she went on more firmly, andan utterance that was on George Sauls' very lips was forced back. "Butthis is my fault, not his," she resumed. "And the preacher has beenkinder to me than any one in the world, except--no, without exception.My failures are my own. You have made me confess them, though I amashamed----"

  "It is I who should be ashamed," said George thickly. "Well, I'll doanything possible for you, Mrs. Thorpe, even to taking myself off, sincethat's all I can do. I wanted to meet Barnabas Thorpe once, but--I'llendeavour to renounce that pleasure, and bid you good-bye here and now.So this is the end, eh?"

  He held out his hand in a sudden revulsion of feeling, and Meg took itrather puzzled.

  "Did you want to meet Barnabas? I wish you could!" she said. "For thenyou could not help being fairer to him. Good-bye, and good luck to you!"she added as an after-thought, moved thereto by the suspicion that Mr.Sauls was rather depressed; and he, lifting his hat, stood still andwatched her out of sight.

  "So that's over!" he remarked. "And I've given up my chance of speakingmy mind to her precious husband. He'll get off scot free in this world,I suppose. Really I hope there is another, if only for the pleasure ofseeing that astute humbug get his deserts. I think I could stand thelower regions myself, if only I might find the preacher there. 'Goodluck! I am glad she wished it me. I am glad she is still the best womanI have known. Pshaw! she'd have lifted me into I don't know what heightsof sentiment, if she had married me; and all one can say now is thateven her husband hasn't dragged _her_ down."

  From which it may be opined that fairness to Margaret's husband was oneof the things not possible to George Sauls.

  After all, however, he had not seen the last of that country.

&nbs
p; The next day, while waiting in no very good humour for the London coachat the market-place of N----, the landlord of the "Pig and Whistle" camepanting up to him with a letter. To his great surprise it was from Mr.Deane, and written in a very shaky hand.

  "I am tied to Lupcombe by an attack of haemorrhage. I can't write longexplanations, but think I am rather bad. I hear you are at N----; if so,can you come to me? There is business----"

  The letter broke off there, and there was a postscript which Georgegathered was from Mr. Bagshotte, the rector at Lupcombe, explaining thatMr. Deane had been taken suddenly ill at the parsonage.

  Well, if he could do Meg one good turn now, he would, if only for thesake of having done something besides wasting time in that abominablecountry; and afterwards he would go back, and be "sane".