Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER VII.

  And who shall inherit treasure, If the measure with which we measure Is meted to us again?

  Tom had taught Meg to drive a little; she managed to harness Molly withsome difficulty, and started on the long, lonely road across themarshes, without any fears. She was never afraid of bodily danger.

  She was not a good driver, her wrists were too weak; they achedpainfully before she was a quarter of the way to N----town, and Mollybegan to feel them "give," and pulled the harder, recognising that theperson at the other end of the reins had not so tight a hand as Tom.

  Another hour passed; Meg bit her lips hard, and grew rather pale withthe effort she was making to remain mistress of the situation. Mollyseemed bent on pulling her arms out. The reins cut her fingers; but whatdid that matter, when every minute was a minute nearer her father? Theroad was level and unfrequented, which was fortunate, for she could notpossibly have managed the mare downhill.

  This last reflection had just occurred to her, when the pace decreased,giving her a momentary sense of relief, followed, however, by thehorrible discovery that Molly was going very lame.

  A huge, sharp-pointed flint had lodged in the horse's shoe; and what todo now the poor driver really didn't know. The cart was high, and Mollywas bad at standing; but Meg pulled up in desperation at last, tied thereins to the seat, and sprang down from the wheel.

  Molly actually did condescend to stop for a minute, though she eyed Megvery suspiciously, with her ears well back. Meg picked up an old bit ofiron and advanced cautiously.

  "Good horse! so then--quiet there!" she said, with a keen sense of herinadequacy, and of Molly's entire and contemptuous consciousness of it.She knelt on the road, and very softly took hold of Molly's fore-leg.Molly snorted, and stamped impatiently. "Tom lifts her foot right upwith his left hand, and knocks the stone out with his right," Meg saidto herself; "but if Molly won't move that foot, what is one to do?" Shepulled gently, making what were meant to be encouraging and reassuringnoises, when, at the critical moment, a loud guffaw burst from behindthe low mud bank on her left. Molly, started, made a dash forward; andMeg found herself sitting in the very middle of the dusty high road,watching horse and cart disappearing in the distance.

  She rubbed her eyes, which were sore with the dust (it was wonderfulthat she had not been hurt), and mechanically straightened her bonnet;then, becoming aware that one of the farm men, "Long John" by name, wasstanding staring at her, the ludicrous side of the situation struck herforcibly, and she began to laugh, though with a laughter that wasperilously near tears.

  "Eh, ma'am, I be main sorry," said Long John. "I doan't knaw how I cameto be such a darned fool. It was hearin' yo' talkin' to Molly so soft,like as if she wur a Christian, as set me off smilin'; but I didn'tthink as she'd ha' tuk to her heels like that, and Maister Tummas hewull be in a takin'!"

  "Oh, if you will only catch her!" cried Meg. "Do you think that she hasupset the cart? Let us go after her directly."

  She got up, and began to run, Long John following with huge strides andmuttered ejaculations.

  Luckily, Molly had not gone far. They found her about half a mile on.

  "I wonder whether she will let you take the stone out?" said Meg;whereat John smiled again, but grew grave when he had examined the foot.

  "You've been and gone and done it! It's a bad job; she'll not be fit touse for the next month at best. Lord now! to think o' Maister Tummastrustin' ye wi' Molly!"

  "What had better be done?" said Meg. She leaned against the cart, out ofbreath with running, while the sun beat down on them, and Molly munchedcontentedly, and John entered into an endless disquisition, in which heconclusively proved that if they drove Molly the twelve miles back tothe farm now, she would be probably lamed for life, and "Maister Tummas"would never get over it; and he, John, wouldn't be the one to do it! Andif they took her on the three remaining miles to N----town, and put herup there for a night's rest, there would be keep and stabling to payfor, and he would not take the responsibility; and, if they stayed wherethey were, they were just losing time, when the "poor crittur" ought tobe looked to at once, and nothing could be "worserer nor that".

  "Then we are sure to be doing wrong anyhow, and there doesn't seem to bea right way?" said the preacher's wife.

  "I wouldn't say as there wur, but there be two bad ways, an' it's foryo' to choose, ma'am."

  Long John resented the "we," and was determined not to be implicated.

  "I wouldn't ha' ye take my word, nor I'd not ha' Maister Tummas supposeas I had aught to do wi' it. It's for yo' to say."

  "I am going on, whatever happens," said she; and on they went.

  John took Molly at a foot's pace, and Meg walked at his side.

  He had begun a long story, to which her ears gave a sort of mechanicalattention, while her heart kept urging her to walk faster towards thegoal.

  "It wur your a-layin' hold of her leg as set the mare off," John wassaying. "You wouldn't go fur to say as it wur anyways my fault, would'ee, ma'am? for Maister Tummas he be fond o' her, and, if I wur to loseth' place now, wi' my missus lookin' to be i' th' straw come Michaelmas,it 'ud go hard wi' us surely."

  "It was no one's fault but mine," said Meg. "Oh, when shall we getthere?--You seem very much afraid of Mr. Thomas, John; I thought he wassupposed to be such a good master."

  "Oh, so he be, so he be," said John. "The Thorpes be good maisters, goodfriends, an' good enemies. They stick to a mon, they do; not onebelongin' to 'em has been let die i' th' union without it wur his ownfault; but Maister Tummas he doan't use many words when he's angry, andhe ain't often; but I'd not care to face him if I'd lamed Molly, forlast time I broke th' pony's knees he says to me, 'Next time ye'll go,John!' And he means what he says. And he did near drown me then! So hedid! and I did think o' havin' the law o' him, but he advised me not,and Maister Tummas' advice is allus good; he's precious sharp.

  "It wur through bein' a bit overtook at Mary's funeral. I come whoamlate, and I doan't mind rightly just how it wur, but I lost the pony onthe road, and all of a suddent I found mysel' under th' pump i' th'yard; and Maister Tummas wur turnin' the water on, and another mon wurholdin' me under. Eh, I thought he _had_ murdered me! afore he let mego, I can tell thee, I hollered out loud, wheniver my mouth was clear o'th' watter, and he says, 'Naw, naw, doan't let him off too soon; whenhe's swallowed as much water as he did rum, happen he'll remember it'. Itell 'ee, I walked back whoam straight; he scared me sober, but it wur acowd winter's mornin', and I wur wet through and through, as if I'd beenin th' river an hour, an' I think he near drownt me. I'd ha' sworn hewur within an inch o' it. And th' next mornin' I thinks it ower, and Igoes to him and says I, 'Maister, I wur a bit overtook last neet, butye'd no right to do that, if I wur; for I bain't no slave, I be a freeBriton as much as thaesel''. And Maister Tummas looks at me so as I hadto keep tellin' mysel' I wur bigger nor he, fur th' way he looks do mak'a mon feel growin' small; an' says he, 'So ye be, John! Free to be asdrunk as a lord all th' day long, if 'ee likes!' An' says I, 'I'mthinkin' I'll ha' th' law on ye, Maister Tummas;' and says he, 'Thenye'll be a bigger fool nor ye look'.

  "'Yo're cruel hard on a mon as has been buryin' his child,' says I; andMaister Tummas laughs. 'I suppose ye think she's so well off, ye'll besendin' the other to join her?' says he. 'What do 'ee mean?' I asks. 'Inever heard as childer con live on grass,' says he, turnin' roundserious like; 'nor as bread cud be got for naught; it doan't grow i' th'fields hereabouts, ready baked! If I'd gi'en ye the sack i'ste'd o' thepump, where 'ud they be, eh? Look 'ee here, if ye be a wise mon, ye'llgo to work wi'out more words; an' if ye be a fool, ye con go an' spoutabout free Britons i' the public; but, if 'ee do that, doan't talk to meabout your childer, for I shan't tak' 'ee back, an' your big words won'tfill their empty stomachs.' So I went back, an' Maister Tummas an' I warquits; for he doan't niver cast a thing up when he's done wi' it.Clemmin' ain't pleasant, an' I hadn't much hankerin' for it arter all.Howsumever, I doan't drink when I've
got his horses now. Naw, naw; Isaves up for Sunday; an' I bain't sure as it ain't th' best way allround, to tak' one's fill on th' right day. One gets a more thoroughsatisfaction out o' one big drink, than i' sips all th' week; doan't 'eethink so, ma'am?"

  "I daresay," said Meg absently. A passing wonder as to what Barnabaswould have said to this definition of Sunday as pre-eminently "th' rightday for drink" floated through her mind--with also a faint disgust atthe flavour of brutality in the story about Tom; but they were nearingN----town by this time. In two more hours she might be at Lupcombe!

  It was market day, and the streets were crowded. Meg accompanied LongJohn to the stables of the "Pig and Whistle," and saw Molly comfortablyhoused. Having lamed her, it was the least she could do. Then sheproceeded to a pawnbroker's. She had the preacher's savings in herpocket, but she could not touch them. It might be a straining of gnats;but she wouldn't use his money in an enterprise he objected to.

  She had something else in her purse as well, and that she would partwith, though the parting cost her a pang.

  The diamond-circled miniature that had been stolen from her when achild; that the preacher had brought back; that was on her neck, when heand she walked out of Ravenshill together, long, long ago--ah, how longago it seemed now!--she could sell that.

  Meg had worn it under her dress every day, and always since she hadmarried. She had never told Barnabas that she still had it; she had notforgotten his violent denunciation of the stones bought "with too high aprice"; but she had kept it for her father's sake, and for her father'ssake she would let it go now.

  The diamonds were valuable. The miniature itself was worth a good deal.Meg did not know how much she ought to get for it, but had a vague ideathat it would more than pay for a carriage and horse to Lupcombe, andfor the return journey, and Molly's stabling. As a matter of fact, shereceived rather less than a sixth part of its real value; but it was ared-letter day for the pawn-broker. She was on the direct road toLupcombe at last. She would see her father--beyond _that_?--well, beyondthat might be the deluge.

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Russelthorpe sat by the window of her brother's room. It was apretty room; for the guest-room of the parsonage was emphatically "thebest bedroom" of the house.

  She had come down at once on hearing of his illness, but now the patientwas surprisingly better. That most sadly hopeful of diseases hadloosened its hold, and Mr. Deane was as cheerful as possible; indeed,his sister found him almost irritatingly contented. She was anxious toget him away from this dangerous neighbourhood. She knew that theThorpes lived somewhere in the county; but he, alas! had not thefaintest desire to move.

  She sat and embroidered, her long fingers moving the faster when shethought; her lips compressed closely. When she glanced at Charles herface softened. She loathed a sick room; but she was fond of him, evenwhen he was ill.

  His features, refined by illness, were more painfully like Meg's thanever; and that made her impatient.

  Certainly she had enough to bother her! Mrs. Russelthorpe could not bearaccepting favours from any one, and here she was compelled to stay underthe stranger's roof indefinitely!

  Charles took it very lightly. He was grateful to his old friend; but theobligation did not harass him. He was generous and very hospitablehimself, and would have done as much for his host if the circumstanceshad been reversed. Besides, he was one of the people who are bornfavourites; and even strangers always gave him willing service. As theold housekeeper remarked, "Mr. Deane was such a gentleman as it was anhonour and pleasure to do for".

  There had been some coldness between him and his sister of late, for hehad strongly disapproved her threatened action concerning her husband'swill.

  "It is not like any of _us_ to take to airing family grievances inpublic," he had said proudly; and his reproof had impressed her.

  Charles seldom played the part of mentor; but on the rare occasions whenhe did, his words always stung, though they seldom made her alter hercourse.

  Presently he woke up and called her. "Sis, I wish you would put downthat work and come nearer; that is"--with the quick thoughtfulness forother people which never deserted him--"if you won't go out and get somefresh air; you hate a sick room, I know. Really, it was very good of youto come."

  "I can't sit with my hands before me," said Mrs. Russelthorpe; but shebrought her chair up to the bedside. "You mustn't talk too much,Charles."

  "On the whole," said Mr. Deane smiling, "I should prefer dying oftalking, to dying of dulness."

  "There is no question of dying!"

  "No," he answered. "I feel like Mother Hubbard's dog; 'she went to thejoiner's to buy him a coffin; and, when she came back, the dog wasa-laughin''. I'm getting well with indecent haste! I shall go downstairssoon; but, all the same, there was a question of it three days ago,--aswe both know well enough!"

  "The danger is past now, and there is no need to dwell on it," said hissister, with a sharp closing of the subject, and with that accent offinality in her voice which Charles was generally either toosweet-tempered or too lazy to resist.

  To-day, however, he persisted, though he stretched out his hand towardsher, with the half-playful tenderness that endeared him especially tothe women of his own family.

  "Poor sis! You hate to be reminded that I am mortal; and, what is more,a mortal with an even less certain tenure of life than most; but I don'twant to shirk facts myself; indeed, they've presented themselves so veryforcibly lately that it would hardly be possible. Of course, I've knownfor the last five years that I am--well, we'll say the cracked pitcher,that may last the longest; I will put it that way to please you; but maygo with a touch. But it's one thing to know that one may die any day,and another to know that the day is not possibly, but most probablywithin hailing distance. I think I have never been much afraid of Death;but the sight of him quite close does purge one's vision. It makesrealities clearer, and the things that don't matter dwindle away. It isgood for any man to see in right proportion for once in a way. Don't youthink so?"

  "My dear Charles, if you are talking about your soul, and your sins, andall that kind of thing, no doubt a serious illness may make you feeltheir importance; though I can't say I think you needed it. But if youare talking about practical affairs, never trust to decisions made whenyou are out of health: illness does _not_ make the vision clearer; itrenders one liable to foolish weakness and error of judgment!"

  "Spoken like a Solomon!" said Mr. Deane, laughing. He looked at her witha gleam of fun from the bed where he lay stretching out a hand to playwith the silks on her lap. "I am sure, by the great vigour with whichyou delivered yourself of that maxim, that you are horribly afraid Ihave some 'foolish weakness' in view. Well--I've been thinking about myMeg."

  Mrs. Russelthorpe sat more upright; her needle flew quicker still.

  "She is not yours any more," she said, with a hard ring in her voice."And it is an unprofitable subject for meditation. She concerns us nolonger."

  "So I have said," he answered; "but, after all, nothing in this world,or, I hope, in the next, can do away with the fact of fatherhood. Itgoes deeper than one's hurt pride. You see," in a low voice, "it is theeternal fact that one turns to oneself at the last. It is the root ofall things."

  His face flushed while he spoke, for he was not a man who talked oftenof his religious beliefs; his sister had never known him touch on thembefore.

  "I wish you wouldn't excite yourself," she answered coldly, after aminute's silence. "To say nothing can do away with the parent's duty tohis child is nonsense! God Himself doesn't claim to be the Father of theimpenitent and disobedient--though I think it presumption to bring Himinto a discussion. Are you weak enough to want to give the preacher'swife your blessing and forgiveness unasked? Probably that is what herhusband reckoned on, that you would be very angry for a time, and thencome round, and take it easily."

  She was startled by the sudden passion in her brother's voice.

  "Do you think I take it _
easily_?" he said. "Don't you know that I wouldrather--yes, ten times rather have seen my child in her coffin, thanhave lost her so? No, no, I don't want to send for her; where would bethe use? If she is happy, what have I to say? If she is unhappy--why, aswe sow, so we must reap--both she and I, both father and child. Sheknows that too, I expect. My poor Meg! Ah well" (with a sudden change oftone), "Meg has made a mess of her life; but even you must allow, sis,that if it hadn't been for me, she wouldn't have had a life to make amess of, eh? You can't get over that!"

  "What are all these truisms leading up to?" inquired Mrs. Russelthorpedrily. She was immensely relieved to hear that he did not meditatesending for Meg; she felt she could breathe again. Mr. Deane leaned backon his pillows; his earnestness had tired him, and he was silent for afew minutes. Then:--

  "No doubt I have been talking platitudes!" he said. "You mustn't expectan invalid to be strikingly original! I can't be brilliant in bed; andold truths impress one with new force when one lies face to facewith--Oh yes, I said that before, didn't I? Well, when one is up andabout, one is impressed by such a variety of things, and I have alwaysdetested business! Do you know that I've never made my will till now,though I've thought of it often enough! I sent for Mr. Sauls to witnessit for me, and he is coming this evening. He has been staying atN----town. Our host has asked him to dine by-the-bye; I will finish thejob this time!"

  "Mr. Sauls! You might have spared me that!"

  "Oh, you needn't see him. Say that I like your company, which is quitetrue, and have dinner up here with me. I wrote a line to him before youcame, when--well, when I thought there wasn't much time to lose. If onedoesn't strike when the iron is hot, the chances are that one doesn'tstrike at all!"

  "I don't see that, Charles."

  "No? It doesn't apply to you," with a smile. "I meant only myself andMeg. Well, sis, I don't want _my_ will to be a shock to you, for you andI have always been friends, haven't we?"

  Mrs. Russelthorpe's work fell on her knees; she turned to him with anexpression which no one but her brother ever saw.

  "I've liked you better than any one else _always_," she saiddeliberately.

  "Poor old Joseph!" thought Mr. Deane; but aloud he said: "Yes, I knowthat; that's why I am telling you about my affairs. Sauls wants me toleave to _her_ the same amount I shall leave to her sisters. You needn'texclaim! Sauls isn't a bad fellow, but I don't know why he shouldinterfere. I've thought it all over. I have left Meg something--verylittle--and unconditionally."

  "You are very kind to Barnabas Thorpe. He will benefit."

  "Yes," said her brother gravely. "I have not tried to prevent it; hemust benefit. I think Joseph made a mistake, though he meant kindly tomy daughter, and I think Meg was right to refuse the money under suchconditions. The preacher is her husband, her duty is to him now,and--well, both she and I have done rash things in plenty; but I hopethat neither of us is mean enough to try to shirk the consequences. WhatI have left her will be something to fall back on if she is ill or insudden need; not enough to lift her out of his sphere, out of theposition she has chosen. I longed to make it more, but I have not doneso. Laura and Kate will be all the richer; but I will not have Meg thinkthat I have left off caring for her."

  A wave of anger, hot and strong as ever, made his sister's hand shakefor a moment; even now, she felt that Meg--unworthy, wicked as Meg hadproved--stood between herself and her brother. Meg had always stood"between" from the time her baby hands had clung to him, and pushed AuntRusselthorpe away, seventeen long years before.

  "I have also left to her the things that were her mother's," hecontinued. "They are of no worth in themselves, and neither of theothers would value them much. Laura and Kate are not sentimental, andyou were not fond of their mother, sis. Meg will understand why I haveleft them to her. Poor little Meg! when I am dead she will understand."

  Mrs. Russelthorpe rose abruptly. "I am glad you have not been sowickedly weak as to give her an equal share with her sisters, anyhow!"she remarked. "Mr. Sauls should be taught to mind his own business! Asfor caring for her still, that's culpable folly, I consider, andinjustice too. What is the use of being good, if good and bad are to beloved alike? She ought to be punished, she ought to suffer."

  "Ah!" said Mr. Deane. "No fear that she won't suffer enough! We foolswho make mistakes always pay heavily, even when we make them from puremotives. Mistakes cost as dearly as crimes, I think; in this worldanyhow! As for badness, who dares say what is sin, and what error? ordivide the blame? I ought to come in for the largest share, I suppose,seeing that Meg inherited her failings from me! I shall stick to the'culpable folly' of still loving my poor little daughter. It's a pityyou don't like it. You never liked me to be fond of Meg."

  "It's not that at all," said his sister angrily; "but, thank God, noamount of affection could ever blind me to the difference between rightand wrong."

  "I think, perhaps," said Mr. Deane, "that one day even you--and I ownyou are much more consistent and better than I am--may feel inclinedrather to thank Him that He is more merciful than men--or women. Are yougoing?"

  "You've talked more than enough, Charles."

  "I've taken a most mean advantage of my position. What a shame! Andyou've had to put up with me because I am in bed. I won't do it anymore. Shall you have your dinner up here?"

  "No," said Mrs. Russelthorpe. "Why should I? That Mr. Sauls is underbredand self-assertive at times is no reason for my being driven out of thedining-room, or allowing myself to fail in courtesy to our host. Don'tlaugh like that, Charles! You are making yourself cough."

  "I beg your pardon, sis," said he; "but I wish--oh, I wish!--I could bethere to see the encounter! Sauls is a pretty stiff antagonist too! Iwonder which would get the best of a tussle? I think you would; but I amnot sure--really, I am not sure."

  "There will be no 'tussle'. Mr. Sauls is too much a man of the world toshow any awkwardness at meeting me," said she. And she did him justice,for George betrayed no embarrassment whatever; though the last ratherunpleasant interview she had had with him about Mr. Russelthorpe's willwas forgotten by neither of them. They dined at three at Lupcombe. InLondon, six o'clock dinners were the fashion; but fashions took longerin creeping into the country when they had to travel at eight miles anhour.

  Mr. Bagshotte's guests were both good talkers. The pleasant tournamentof wit, which was a trifle sharp-edged occasionally, went on briskly alldinner time, and the old gentleman believed them charmed to see eachother. He got out his favourite Latin quotations,--it was George whogave him the opportunity; and he promised with great satisfaction toshow Mr. Sauls the ancient brasses in the middle aisle.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe secretly wondered what this very clever lawyer hopedto gain by playing up to the parson. But, to tell the truth, he expectedto get nothing; he never grudged trouble where either his friends or hisenemies were concerned.

  The two men went into the quiet old church after the meal was over,where George examined all that was to be seen with great patience andminuteness. If he had only guessed! If he had had the faintest inklingof what was happening in the garden not much more than a stone's throwaway, neither brasses nor parson would have held him long.

  There seems an especially unkind irony about the fate that makes us losea chance by only a stone's throw.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe took no interest in brasses; she had a horror of"relics" of any kind. She left Mr. Bagshotte and Mr. Sauls to their owndevices; and, her brother being asleep, planted her chair on the lawnwith its back to the churchyard, so that she faced the front gate, whichstood hospitably open to the village street.

  She had had a hard time of it lately; and hard times often, perhaps inthe majority of cases, have a hardening rather than a softening effect.Mrs. Russelthorpe always felt that Providence made an unjustifiablemistake when she was visited with affliction.

  Her morning's talk with her brother had left an unpleasant impression onher mind, and she reflected impatiently on the way in which, when onewishes to get rid of a haunting tho
ught, everything combines to recallit. The reflection was called forth by a pale thin woman in a blackdress who came along the village street, who held her head like a Deane,like Meg in fact, and walked like her too. Somehow, at the first moment,it did not strike Mrs. Russelthorpe that it _was_ Meg.

  The woman turned in at the gate; stood still when she saw Mrs.Russelthorpe, lifted her head, looking straight at her, and: "I havecome to see my father," she said. "Is he better or worse?"

  Mrs. Russelthorpe rose to her feet, her face a little pale; theantagonism that had never died, and scarcely slept, alert as ever, and apassionate determination bracing her soul. This woman should _not_ seeCharles! What! after dragging his name in the dust, and after linking itwith that of a preaching vagabond, after setting at defiance all decencyand obedience, she would "go to her father"! And he, he would be weakenough to forgive her. Illness had unmanned him; though men were alwaysweaker than women, especially where Meg was concerned.

  "My brother is better," she said slowly. "You have lost the right tocall him father. You cannot go to him. He will not see you."

  Meg shook her head with a faint smile, and walked on up the path to thefront door. Her old fear of 'Aunt Russelthorpe' was dead. She recognisedwith a momentary surprise that she had lived past all that.

  Mrs. Russelthorpe made a quick step forward and caught her by the arm.She too knew instinctively that she could not coerce or overawe thissad-eyed woman, as she had often coerced the girl long ago; but shecould still win the day, and she would.

  "Margaret," she cried; "do you--do even you want to kill him?" AndMargaret paused.

  The two women looked in each other's eyes; both were unflinching and ofset purpose, but Mrs. Russelthorpe had still the advantage, for shecould "hit below the belt".

  "It may actually and literally be his death warrant, if he should beawakened suddenly. He is sleeping now," she said. "I do not want tocarry any message from you, Margaret. There need be no pretence of lovebetween you and me. Yet I will go in and prepare him, if you choose.When he wakes, I will say to him whatever you wish me, and I will bringyou his answer. Go now, if you like, and force your way in and startlehim. The choice is between your own wilfulness and his safety. It restswith you."

  She let go her hold on Meg's arm, on completing her sentence. She hadgained her point.

  "I will wait for you," said Meg. "I will sit here on the doorstep tillhe sends for me. Only promise that you will take my words as I givethem; that you will add nothing, nor take away anything; that you willnot try to persuade him not to see me. You swear it?"

  She did not move her eyes from her aunt's face; and long after, Mrs.Russelthorpe could not close her own without seeing them. Ah, how Meghad altered!

  "I will add nothing to your message, nor take away from it," sherepeated.

  "Then I promise too," said Meg. "If he says he will not see me I will goaway--but he will." Her voice shook. "I know that my father will."

  "Well," said Mrs. Russelthorpe; "I am waiting."

  Meg covered her face with her hands. "Ah, it will sound differently whenyou say it," she cried. "Tell him I only beg to see him once more; thatI do so long to! That I have thought of him. That I have wanted himoften. That I _know_ that he has not forgotten me. That, when I heard hewas ill, I could not stay away--I could not! but it is only for amoment. I must ask him to forgive me. Then I will go back, because Ihave promised," said Meg with a sudden choke, "and because I am _his_daughter."

  Mrs. Russelthorpe turned silently away; and Meg sat down on the doorstepand waited, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the grey church, where theparson and George Sauls were dawdling over inscriptions.

  How long she waited she did not know; it might have been half an hour,it might have been five minutes; but she had no doubt as to the resultof the message: she could never quite outlive her faith in her father.

  She sprang to her feet on hearing a step behind her. "He is awake!" shecried. Her aunt looked away from her; past her into the garden.

  "Yes," she said in a dry voice. "He is awake--but he will not see you."

  Meg drew her breath quickly, as if she had been physically hurt. "He--hedid not mean it," she said. "You have not understood--he did not meanthat--he will not. Tell me the words he said."

  "He said," said Mrs. Russelthorpe, "'Where would be the use? If she ishappy, what have I to say? If she is unhappy--why, as we sow, we reap;both she and I, both father and child.' Those were his very words--andhe was right."

  Meg looked at her with a strange mournful smile. "Oh, yes, he was right.Tell father he was quite right." And she turned and went.

  * * * * *

  The parson and Mr. Sauls came back to the parsonage five minutes later.Mrs. Russelthorpe was still standing in the garden; and Mr. Sauls, whoseshort-sighted eyes saw rather more than most people's, noticed at oncethat she looked worn and tired.

  "Is Mr. Deane worse?" he asked.

  "Oh no; I believe he is still sleeping," she said; "I will go and see."And this time she really went.

  Her brother was sitting upright, flushed and rather excited.

  "Sis, has any one been here?" he asked, the moment that she entered theroom. "No? Ah well, it was fancy then--but--but I thought I heard mylittle daughter call me." The flush faded away; he lay back againdisappointed. The wish was father to the thought!

  "Charles," she cried, with an eagerness that surprised him, "do let usgo away from this place! You will never be yourself till you have leftit behind. If we travel by very easy stages I really think we mightleave to-morrow. It seems a sudden idea on my part," she went onhurriedly; "but, indeed, the house is not healthy; I am convinced ofit. I have had violent headaches ever since I have been here, and youare aware that I am not in the least liable to such ailments. I do notremember ever having felt like this before, and I cannot sleep or eatproperly. Then, too, we are putting our kind host to immenseinconvenience. The position is intensely awkward for me, though I haverefrained from saying so. As for the stories about the fever, they aresimply shocking--half the village died of it. I am not nervous; but itis really horrible to find every person one meets in mourning for somenear relative."

  Mr. Deane looked at her in undisguised astonishment.

  "Why, my dear, I've never in my life before seen you possessed of awhim," he cried. "If it were not you, sis, I should say that it was afeminine attack of 'nerves'." And, to his farther surprise, she actuallyaccepted the suggestion.

  "I suppose it is," she said. "There, I own it; your illness has shakenme. I feel as if I could not possibly bear this dismal house any longer.All the family who used to live here are gone, and are buried justoutside the gates. It is too melancholy; I dream of funerals! Do go, dogo! You will be well as soon as we get away. You shall have no trouble;I will arrange everything. I will explain to our host, only let us go!Dear Charles, do let us go to-morrow."

  Her voice trembled with unwonted earnestness, and Charles was muchamazed and rather touched; it was so utterly unlike her to show anyweakness of this kind, to stoop to entreaties. She must, indeed, havebeen anxious about him, since anxiety had so unnerved her. He had alwaysbeen sure, he said to himself, that, in spite of what some people said,his sister was very warm-hearted in reality.

  "Well, I daresay it won't hurt me. We'll go, if you want it so much,sis," he replied gently. "That is the least I can do for you, after allyou've done for me."

  And go they did, in spite of the parson's protestations, and in spite ofa soft rain that fell continuously as if to damp Mrs. Russelthorpe'sardour, by literally pouring cold water on it.

  Mr. Sauls, when he looked in to inquire after Mr. Deane on the followingmorning, was amused at the sudden exodus.

  "Odd that such a hard woman should be such a coward about illness!" heremarked. "She is horribly afraid of infection,--I've noticed that; andshe is selfish to the core!"

  "Mrs. Russelthorpe's decision is rather overpowering," said the parsondrily. It was the nearest approach h
e allowed himself to an unfavourablecomment on his late guest. "I am sorry Deane has gone. It is seldom Iget any visitors here; though, by-the-bye, I had an odd one lastnight--or, rather, early this morning. Mr. Thorpe, the preacher'sfather, walked in about two o'clock and begged to see me. He came toinquire whether his daughter-in-law was here. The old man must have gotsome mad fancy in his head. I have heard he is queer at times. Well, Ipersuaded him that she had never been near us, and he drew himself upand said quite quietly: 'Oh, it's all right, sir; she's sleeping wi'some friends at N----. She told us, that, maybe, she'd do that; quiteright o' her. I'm glad of it!' And off he went, with an apology forhaving troubled me. A gentlemanly old fellow too!"

  "Why!" cried George, with a flash of conviction; "are you certain thatshe has not been here? Don't you know that Barnabas Thorpe's wife is Mr.Deane's daughter?"

  The parson started. They were standing in the garden on the very spotwhere Meg had pleaded in vain.

  "Yes, yes, I know; though it seems impossible!"

  "It ought to have been. There I quite agree with you; but, to the elect,'all things are possible,' you know," said George Sauls bitterly.

  The parson was too intent on his own thoughts to notice the sneer. "Noone was here yesterday; I should have heard of it if she had come. I washardly out of the rectory grounds all day. Eh? What? What is it, Brown?"

  The gardener had come up behind them and touched his hat, with the airof having something to say.

  "I beg your pardon, sir; there was some one as come here yesterday,while you and the gentleman was in the church," he said. "I come backinto the garden after fetching the key for you, and there was a youngwoman a-standing here, just where the gentleman is now. I noticed herparticular, for she wasn't one from the village; and she seemed in greattrouble, and she sort of stretched out her hands, broken-hearted like;and Mrs. Russelthorpe was sending her away, which seemed queer, seeingit ain't her house, and----"

  "That will do," said the parson. "Mrs. Russelthorpe's affairs are noconcern of yours, Brown; or mine," he added to George, as soon as theman had retired somewhat crestfallen.

  "Perhaps Mr. Deane did not wish to see his daughter. God bless me! Tothink of _his_ daughter! Deane doesn't look a hard man either. I wonderwhether,--but it's not my business."

  Mr. Sauls smiled, not very pleasantly. "You wonder whether Mr. Deaneknew she had been sent away?" he said. "I don't wonder about it, sir;but I'll tell you one thing,--if he didn't, he _shall_ know!"