Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER X.

  It takes two to speak truth--one to speak and another to hear.

  --_Thoreau._

  It was mid-day when Margaret woke; the day after her fruitlessexpedition to her father, after the terrible night which had left itstraces on both her soul and body.

  She had slept for twelve hours and woke refreshed, but still aching fromthe effects of cold and exposure. She felt as if she had been beatenviolently, and she dressed herself with some difficulty.

  Mrs. Tremnell had brought a cup of tea to her room, and tried topersuade her to stay there. Meg accepted the attention with gratifiedbut rather surprised thanks.

  "I must get up," she said, "for I did all sorts of dreadful thingsyesterday. I have lamed Tom's mare, and I have lost Barnabas' savings,and I ought to tell them at once; I can do a thing if I must, but Ican't _wait_ with anything hanging over my head, I never could" (whichwas remarkably true).

  "Barnabas is too glad to have you back to care about what you've lost,"said Mrs. Tremnell. "He's so set on you as never was." She looked at Megwith a rather wistful expression on her face. She had suffered manyqualms of conscience about "Barnabas' wife" in the night. "You must befond of your father, Margaret," she said; "and yet parents aren't ofmuch account generally. My Lyddy never thought much of me--but there!she was so pretty and clever, it seemed natural she should not."

  Margaret didn't look pretty that morning. She couldn't have comparedwith Lydia! The black rings round her eyes were most unbecoming, and shewas tired and sad; yet Mrs. Tremnell felt drawn towards her as she neverhad felt before.

  "Ah!" said Meg sadly, "I daresay she _did_ think of you after all,Cousin Tremnell. One generally thinks too late!"

  She went downstairs then, with some dread of all the questions and allthe explanations before her, but with her mind made up. She had passed acrisis during the night. She and despair had met at close quarters; andsuch a conflict makes its indelible mark. No one can "go down into hell"and be just the same afterwards. Either he must have found God "therealso,"--a finding which deepens and strengthens;--or have succumbedutterly, which, I suppose, retards that discovery to which in the end wehumbly believe "all souls come".

  The preacher's wife felt anything but victorious that morning; but shewould never run away from consequences again.

  She met her father-in-law on the stairs. He had been "more than a bitscared," he said, when he had found that they knew nothing about her atthe parson's.

  "Did you go all that long way?" cried Meg. "I am very sorry!"

  "_You_ went all that long way too, eh? Was your father better?" heasked.

  "I might not see him," said Meg. And Mr. Thorpe refrained from furtherquestions, but put his big hand on her head, with a fatherly kindnessthat was grateful to her.

  "Well, well; it's a hard world!" said he. "But I am glad to see ye safe;as glad as if ye were my own daughter."

  And Meg never guessed how indignant he was with her "own father" at thatmoment.

  Tom was bustling in and out of the kitchen, and Meg sat down on the longbench that was always pushed up to the table for meals, and beganplaying with the salt, which had been left out.

  She wished that Molly had been Mr. Thorpe's property!

  Tom cast quick glances at her while he went to and fro. Meg knew that hesaw that she was nervous, and this made her worse.

  He came up to the table at last, and put his hand on the salt jar. Thatbit of earthenware, out of which each person helped himself with the endof a fork, was associated in Meg's mind with Tom for ever afterwards.

  "Well," he said, "it seems to gi'e ye some soart o' consolation! If Iput it on th' top o' th' cupboard, which is where Cousin Tremnell saysit ought to be kept between meals, p'r'aps ye'll never get out what yeare trying to say, eh?" And Meg drew a breath of relief.

  This was the old Tom whom she had got accustomed to,--not the Tom oflast week, who had been unnaturally grave, and exceedingly chary ofwords.

  "I have such a fearful thing to confess that I don't know where tobegin."

  "Begin at the end," said he. "The end o' th' matter was that ye leftMolly dead lame at the 'Pig and Whistle's' stable, warn't it? It was thebest ye could do under th' carcumstances. I'm glad ye didn't try todrive her home again anyhow."

  "Oh, you've heard about it!" cried Meg.

  "Long John told tales! Ye doan't do credit to my driving lessons; yetried to do wi'out me too soon, ma'am!"

  "I am dreadfully sorry I lamed Molly."

  "Eh? Well, it's done now--an' I'd sooner by a long sight see ye gladthan sorry. Besides, I doan't suppose ye'd ha' taken her if ye had knownshe'd come to grief. _What?_" with a sudden burst of laughter, "ye_would_ have? 'Pon my soul, Barnabas' wife, ye do go in for th' wholesheep while you're about it!"

  Tom's laugh was infectious, and brought a smile even to Meg's lips.

  "It is very good of you not to be angry. Long John said you'd never getover it, Tom."

  "Long John thanked his stars it warn't him, I fancy," said Tom, laughingagain; and then he grew graver. "Come now, he's been telling you talestoo, hasn't he? A pretty little story about me? Ay--I guessed as much.An' you weren't quite sartain that I wouldn't throw the poker at yourhead or swear at 'ee just now! Ye doan't allus understan' our ways, nomore nor we do yours, lass; but, if ye'd believe it, ye ha'n't much needto be scar' to' us. Lord bless us, if ye only knew the times I've _not_said summat as has been on th' tip o' my tongue cos ye've been by, an' Idoan't much enjoy seein' ye miserable an' shocked. Come now--ha'we madeit up?"

  He leaned across the table, and held out his hand to Barnabas' wife.Meg, who was at least as easily touched by kindness as by unkindness,looked up eagerly.

  "Oh, Tom--I missed you when you weren't friends with me; I should _like_to make it up," she said, a little colour coming into her cheeks.

  Tom shook his head with an odd, half-rueful smile.

  "Ye are a white witch, lass! I didn't mean to believe 'ee against my owneyes, but I suppose I do. I'll never think aught bad of 'ee again. Will'ee forgi'e me now?"

  And Meg melted at once, accepting his apology with warmth.

  "But you had better not say you'll never think anything bad of me again,for you don't know," said she.

  A vision of that salt pool rose before her, and she shuddered.

  Tom whistled. "I say--it's not on Molly's account ye are so down asthis, lass?"

  He walked to the window, and stood with his back to Barnabas' wife.

  "Any fool can make a mull," he said; "but I've fancied ye might get atopo' _your_ mistakes; some go down under 'em, but not the best soart. Idoan't know, as ye say--an' it's Barnabas ye'd better tell, not me--an'it's oncommon easy to preach. I've not allus found it easy to practise,seein' I was 'started wi' a mistake in the making o' me; but I'm sure o'one thing--Barnabas ain't wantin' in understanding; gi'e him a bit o' achance, an', happen, he'll help ye better nor ye suppose. An' doan't 'eethink too small beer o' yoursel' either," added Tom. "Ye've got a prettygood share o' pluck, my dear, if ye'd only believe it!"

  But when Barnabas' wife had taken his advice and gone in search of thepreacher, Tom watched her across the yard, with his queer face screwedinto a rather doubtful expression.

  "Lord! I hope he'll say the right thing now; I'd like to gi'e him ahint," he said.

  The preacher was in the hayloft, hammering at something, with his backto the entrance. He turned round sharply, hammer in hand, when he heardMargaret's step on the ladder.

  "I told Cousin Tremnell to keep ye abed, ye were so terribly done lastnight," he said. "Why didn't ye stay there?"

  "I wanted to speak to you; at least, there is something I ought tosay----" Meg had got thus far when he interrupted.

  "Doan't 'ee for any sake stand afore me looking scared, lass! as if Iwas a judge and ye were at th' bar; for I can't bear it."

  He pulled down a heap of hay while he was speaking, and Meg sat down,burying her face in it. Her heart was beating fast, and her headthrobb
ing; but, after all, it was, perhaps, the man who was most to bepitied. There were few things he would have owned to "not being able tobear".

  "I've some'ut to say to ye too. Will ye listen to me first, Margaret?"He spoke low, with an effort to be quiet and cool for her sake; and thenwent on, without waiting for an answer: "After ye were gone yesterday, Icame to look for ye; I wanted to say as I took shame to mysel' forholding ye back when your father was ill, an' I would have taken ye toLupcombe; but I was too late. I _do_ take shame for that; I hadn't oughtto ha' tried to stop ye. I am the most bound of all men to be fair to'ee, an' I wasn't."

  "Oh, Barnabas!" said Meg, looking up with tears in her eyes; this wasnot what she had expected. "Would you have let me go to him if I hadasked you again? I wish I had, then; I thought it would be no good; thatyou never changed your mind."

  "I've heard foalk say that we're all a bit obstinate," said thepreacher; "an', where a man's had a clear leading fro' th' Lord, hecan't, to my mind, heed other men's talk too little; but I wasnafollowin' the Lord yesterday, but the devil; an' I was sorry for itwhen I came to my senses."

  "You had a right to object, if you chose."

  "Do you suppose I think I've a right to ill-treat ye? I'm sorry for usboth, if ye do," he answered gravely, and then his voice softened. "Oh,Margaret! I was sore afeart all th' night. When I was lookin' for 'ee inthe 'marshes,' it came over me that there was some evil comin' nigh to'ee; I've had the feelin' all the week, but last night it were terribleclose: I stayed an' shouted to 'ee; I felt as if I must save 'ee fro'summat; an', my little lass, I didn't know how to thank God enough whenI saw ye, though ye were half scared o' me."

  Meg buried her face lower in the hay. "You are thankful for smallmercies," she said, in rather a choked voice. "It's not worth your whileto care like that, Barnabas."

  "The things a man 'ull die for take a grip on him fro' th' outside; an'he doesna reckon, is it worth 'so much' or 'so much'?" said thepreacher. "Ye are more nor all th' world to me now, whatever happens;an' it wasna I that set out to love ye, my maid; but the love for yethat just took a hold o' me."

  "Whatever happens?" said Meg. She looked at him with a curious wonder."If I had done something very bad, or if----"

  "Ye need make no 'ifs,'" he cried. "It's not hell--no, nor yet heaven,that 'ull take ye out o' my heart now!" And Meg's eyes fell before his;she had her answer!

  She could not hinder this strong love. Barnabas would never count costseither in the things that pertained to God, or in the things thatpertained to man.

  "Well, lass," he began again, after a minute's silence, "I found thisthis morning" (holding out her note).

  "So ye thought we'd take a satisfaction in makin' th' rest o' your lifemiserable? Did ye get to your father?"

  "He wouldn't see me," said Meg; and there was a ring of pain in hervoice, that went to the man's heart. "Father could not forgive me,though I asked him. He said, 'Tell her that as we sow, we must reap;'and it is very true--truer than anything else in this world, only I didso want to see him--oh, I _do_ so want to!"

  The preacher walked up and down the loft with quick strides. "I hope,"he began; and then swallowed the rest of that sentence. He hoped in hisrighteous indignation--possibly also in his jealousy--that Mr. Deanemight receive a like answer when in need of forgiveness for himself; buthe did refrain from saying that to Meg.

  "There was a king's daughter who forgot her own people an' her father'shouse; but there's only one thing as makes a woman do that, I fancy," hesaid at last; "an' ye've not got it. See now, lass, I'm asking ye fornaught but th' right to help ye if I can. Let's get to th' bottom o'things together; doan't 'ee think ye might gi'e me that much?"

  He spoke gently; but there was always an intensity about the preacherthat made Meg, whose more complex nature was swayed by many differentemotions, feel rather as if she were being coerced into self-revelationsagainst her will.

  "What is the use? There are some things better not talked of. It issometimes a sin even--even to regret," she whispered. Her great greyeyes had a beseeching wistfulness in them. "It's all been unfair toyou," she cried, the conviction that had been growing on her findingvoice. "But I meant, when I came back, to put all that belonged to theold life quite aside--never to speak of father any more. If you give metime, I'll do it. Only don't make me tell you too many truths,Barnabas; they may be better let alone."

  "I'd be loth to _make_ any one do aught," said the preacher. "It's whatI'd never do."

  "What he would never do!" And how many times had she not seen his strongpersonal influence making people go his way?--making the drunkard throwaway gin untasted, making crowds fall on their knees as if moved by onespirit; yet he spoke in all good faith: such compulsion was not hisdoing, but "the Lord's," in the preacher's eyes.

  She leaned back against the hay, and watched him pacing up and down theloft. Her thoughts flew back to a day that had almost been forgotten inthe events that followed it,--the day he had testified in thedrawing-room at Ravenshill.

  It had been very like Barnabas to do that--very characteristic both ofhis strength and his limitations. Well! she, at least, had learned muchsince then; among other things, perhaps, that the most earnest ofpreachers is a man first,--and last.

  "Ye shall never feel forced to aught, an' I can help it; we'll go on aswe did before, if you choose. Only it's not true that any truth isbetter not 'faced,'" he said finally; and there was a steadyself-restraint and patience in his tone that woke Meg's confidence.

  The preacher's judgment was not infallible; and she knew that now: hisopinions were mixed with strong class and personal prejudices, his verygoodness was dashed with fanaticism;--and yet, for all that, he was trueto the very core. She had meant to play her part better; but to thisman, of all men, she could not offer pretences. Since this was all heasked, he should have it. They would face their mistake together; eventhat mistake which she had thought it sin against both God and him toown as one.

  "Ask what you like then," she said. She could no more give half aconfidence than he could give half a heart. "But, as to helping--everyone must do his own reaping, unless he is mean enough to try to escapeit. I used to fancy that, being father's daughter, I could never do amean thing, though I've done plenty of rash ones; but one learns." Andthe reflection of the night's learning deepened the tragedy in her eyes."One learns that one might be tempted to anything."

  What had she been tempted to? The preacher's breath came more quicklywith the quickness of the thoughts that flashed through his brain.

  She was young and had love to give, and a heart that some one else mighthave touched, though _he_ could not. If that was the temptation, thenethermost hell was too good for the man who had tempted her. But _she_was blameless, anyhow; he knew that,--knew it with an absolute certaintyhe longed to declare.

  He would have defended her against herself, reading self-accusation inher tone. God helping him, no hot jealousy should scare or scorch herthis time.

  "Margaret," he said slowly, "what was the temptation?"

  "I told you," she cried. "It was to _escape_. Oh, Barnabas, we made agreat mistake. We have both seen it, I suppose, and repented; but whatdifference does that make? One may water one's sowing with tears--theydon't prevent the harvest! As we sow, we must reap. Even father said so.Granny Dale said worse things than that----" She stopped abruptly.

  "Well?"

  "I couldn't tell you all," said Meg, her face flushing. "She said thatmen got tired of their fancies, and that, though you were better thanmost, you wouldn't stand my ways any more some day. Don't look _so_,Barnabas; I didn't believe it! I knew you were too good; but some of itwas true. She said you fed and clothed me and got nothing for it; andthat was true. She said I was a fine lady. I have tried not to be, butit is so difficult to alter the way one has been made. And she told mehorrible stories of--of what her husband did to her when she was young.I couldn't repeat those--they were too terrible." And Meg shuddered."But, when one hears of such things, it makes the whole wo
rld dark, andGod seems too far away to care."

  "Do 'ee think so?" said Barnabas. "But it's just the knowledge o' suchcruelties and horrors and black wickedness that drives a man to be apreacher, lass. They burn at th' bottom o' one's thoughts, an' one hasno rest till one has given one's life to th' fighting o' them."

  "I know, I know," said Meg. "Oh yes, you have taught me that; one has norest for thinking of them! But, if one fights and fails? Barnabas, youwill not understand this, because you never despair, and you don't knowwhat it is to be beaten, and you are never afraid; but I was. Ah, lookthe other way, I know it was cowardly, but it tempted me so; and Iwanted to get free of--of everything; of trying and failing, of lovingpeople who can't bear to see one, of being a weight on strangers; of thehopeless tangle. The longing came over me quite suddenly, I had notthought I was so wicked. I knew, all at once, that I was horribly afraidof living, and death pulled me so hard, as if there were somethingstronger than me in the water; and then you called' Margaret,Margaret!' and I pulled myself back. I was ashamed of being such acoward. It was as bad as a soldier who deserts, except that I didn'tquite--though even that I did not was more your doing than mine."

  "Neither yours nor mine," said the preacher; "but the Lord's!"

  He leaned his arms on the half-door of the loft, and looked away overthe flat country, glistening with water, sweet and fresh after thebaptism of rain. Had he, in leading the woman he loved from the evil ofthe world, brought her to this?--this horror of despair and loneliness,that temptation which she had only just escaped, whose shadow he hadsurely felt!

  He thanked God she was safe, but with an intensity of realisation of herperil that went through him like the sharpness of steel.

  "I'm sore to think that the devil had power to tempt ye. I'm sore tothink ye met him, wi' me not by, Margaret. How shall I comfort ye? Whatshall I say?" cried the man.

  If she had loved him he could have comforted so easily; if he had notloved her, he would have had no doubt what to say. He made an effort toput that human love aside, and turned to her at last, his blue eyes verybright. "Doan't believe him who was a liar fro' th' beginning," he said."The good must allus be th' strongest, lass, i' th' end. It's againstlies an' black shadows that we fight. With us is the power an' th'glory. You an' I, Margaret, will win through our failures and our sins,and count them dead at our feet one day!"

  Meg shook her head. "I know you think so," she said; "I am not sosure--I don't think I am sure of anything,--if even father----" thesentence did not bear finishing. Alas! though human love first teachesthe divine, the failure of "the brother whom we have seen" shakes ourbelief in a Divinity we have not seen, as nothing else can. Then a smiletouched her lips.

  "But I daresay _you_ will see all your sins and failures dead at yourfeet," she said. "I think you would win through anything; it is the verysure people who do; and you will be quite triumphant and happy one day!"

  "But I'd have no content," said Barnabas, "nor wish to have, without yehad it too. No, not in heaven--it 'ud be hell an' I lost ye, Margaret!"

  "Hush!" cried Meg, amazed. "Do you think it is right to say that?"

  "Ay, I do; most right," he said, with the strong conviction in his voicethat Meg always felt overpowered argument. "Shall I think better than myMaster? Was He content in heaven? An' He had been, He'd not ha' drawn_us_ after Him, lass. I'm not feared o' loving ye too much," he went onrather sadly. "Happen, if I love ye enough, I'll learn in time not toscare ye; an' then th' next old wife ye meet won't leave ye fit to drownyourself wi' her tales o' men's wickedness! So ye think we made a greatmistake, eh? an' ha' both repented? For me, I ha' _not_ repented. It wura clear teaching, an' naught's a mistake that's right. An' it seems soafterwards, that's part o' th' witcheries o' th' devil. Still, ye thinkso?" drawing his light-coloured eyebrows together in perplexity, butwith a patient attempt to follow her thought that touched Meg.

  "You were doing what you believed right," she said. "I was verymiserable and Aunt Russelthorpe hated me, and I her, and father wasaway, and it was easier to go--anywhere--than to stay. I did reallybelieve it was 'a call' too; it wasn't only discontent. I must have beenwrong, though, or it would have turned out right," Meg said, with asimplicity that was always part of her character. "But, when I lookback, I can't disentangle my motives nor even remember exactly what Ifelt then; I was so different, and knew so little----"

  "I'd let it be," said Barnabas. "There doesna seem much doubt to me."

  He paused a moment. There was never "much doubt" to him about anything.It was hardly possible to this man, who was essentially a man of action,of unhesitating zeal, to comprehend self-torturing uncertainty.

  Then his love for her gave him the sympathy which he could never havereached intellectually.

  "But, happen, I doan't rightly understand," he said gently. "Well, Heunderstan's, whose strength is stronger nor our sins, an' His wisdom norour mistakes. Say it wur a sin an' a mistake, lass!--tho', mind, it'snot I who'll ever think so--even then, He can bring ye past it. Failureisn't for us who are on His side. Things hide themsel's an' take queershapes i' th' smoke o' th' battle; but in th' end the shadows 'ull rollaway, an' the day be His an' ours!" cried Barnabas.

  Meg, looking at him, knew how he _saw_ that battlefield, where the Manof Sorrows stood alone triumphant.

  Well, the preacher's arguments might not always convince now; but yet,so long as she lived, his unswerving devotion would wake an answeringchord in her. It is, after all, what a man is that impresses us; and thereflection of the Eternal goodness in our neighbour's soul refreshesours, be the neighbour broad or narrow, of our creed or of his own!

  "I am glad I have told you," she said.

  Barnabas put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her, in hisface an anxiety he could not repress.

  "Ye ha' told me all?"

  "No. There is something else; I have lost the money you gave me,and----"

  He interrupted impatiently. "Eh? that's no matter, and it was yours todo as you would with; I'd not ha' saved it for mysel'. There's naughtelse? I've thought times--happen, when someone came along wi' just allthe ways I'm wanting in--book-larned, perhaps, and clever--so I'veheard--and a gentleman. Doan't fancy that I'm not sartain ye would neverlisten to a word ye shouldn't fro' any--I am sure o' that--but meaningno blame to 'ee, Margaret--only seein' ye are still young, an'--an'----"He stammered in his eagerness, and Meg felt that his hands were shaking.It was extraordinary and amazing to her that Barnabas should care likethat.

  "I am not breaking my heart for anybody," she said rather indignantly;"for Mr. Sauls least of all. Every one is rather silly about him, Ithink--even Tom."

  "An' what about Tom?" asked the preacher; and Meg, in some dismay, foundherself let in for even greater revelations than she had intended.

  Barnabas was more indignant on her behalf than she expected or wished.

  He listened to the rather confused story in silence, except that heinterrupted once to ask: "Why didn't ye tell me? Didn't ye know I'd ha'come fro' anywhere to take your part?"

  "It's all past now, and Tom and I have made it up; and it does notmatter any more," Meg wound up. She was anxious to forget that soresubject, which had been such a perplexity to her.

  "There would have been no use in telling you when I couldn't prove thatI was speaking the truth. You see, I could not explain about theletter; I can't understand, even now, what it was that Cousin Tremnellpicked up, but I have thought since that, perhaps----"

  "_I_ doan't want explaining to. Ye needn't fash yoursel'!" criedBarnabas. There was something more like reproach in his tone thananything she had heard before. Her explanation died.

  "Maybe I'm jealous! happen I've made ye miserable in ways I doan't know,though I'd gi'e my blood for ye; but, if I had your word on one hand,an' all the proofs the devil could bring on th' other, I'd believe ye,Margaret; ay, an' without a doubt. So ye thought I'd need proofs aforeI'd be sartain ye weren't lying? I thank God I doan't! It takes lessthan the eighteen months
sin' we were married to find out whether aperson speaks truth or no. Why, I'd swear blindfold to yours; Ye maymind that!"

  "I thought it was only women who believed like that," said Meg. "But youwould be right--and quite safe--and I will mind it."

  His confidence did her good; he was never likely to repent it.

  "Ye might ha' known wi'out telling," said Barnabas with a sigh; and thesigh brought back her self-reproach.

  "Indeed," she cried wistfully, "I do trust and like you, Barnabas. Iwould try to show it more, only----"

  "No!" said the man; "Doan't _try_." Then, seeing her surprised face: "Yejust doan't understan'; but on th' day ye love me, my lass, there'll beno need o' trying, nor yet o' my askin'. I ha' not pressed ye, Margaret,an' I'll never do that; but I'll _know_ it, whether I'm i' this world orthe next."