Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER XI.

  Two friends will in a needle's eye repose, But the whole world is narrow for two foes.

  --_Jacula Prudentum._

  After the storm there was a calm.

  Margaret lay on the settle in the farm kitchen recovering slowly from asharp attack of marsh fever, and declaring in apparent jest, that hadmore than a substratum of truth, that she was in no hurry to get well.

  "Some people hate being waited on and made a fuss over," she said; "butI really like it; I like it when Tom brings me books, and Mr. Thorpeflowers, and Cousin Tremnell tats lace caps for me. You are all so nicewhen I am ill, that I don't see why I should give up being an invalid.Why should I sit on a bench and spread my own bread and dripping, whensome one else will make toast for me and bring it over here? I am not atall sure that I'll even condescend to put it into my own mouth! You mustcut it into three-cornered pieces, or I won't look at it!"

  And in the general laugh over her pretended airs, only one of herhearers guessed how often the joke, that had become a family joke, aboutliking to be waited on, hid real weariness and exhaustion.

  She could hardly have found a shorter cut to the favour of these strangekinsfolk. They all united in petting her now that she was really ill.

  Mrs. Tremnell certainly liked her better for her delicacy. Meg alwaysprivately believed that the good woman thought ill-health ladylike andmore befitting her birth. Tom and her father-in-law could never doenough for her.

  She was, like her father, a charming patient, ready with prettiestthanks for any service, and never complaining. Not one of them but wouldhave been sorry to miss the very feminine element she had brought intothat rather rough household.

  "A young woman do make it more interestin', if only 'cause you can nevercount for sartain on what she'll say next," Tom remarked; and the wholehousehold had a habit of bringing any piece of news, from the birth of acalf to the last town gossip, to Meg's settle.

  The 'little lady' saw all life, both her own and other people's, morevividly and picturesquely than they did; and her sympathy was genuineand quick.

  "If ye live here always, I believe ye'll become a sort o' little wisewoman to all the foalk hereabouts," her father-in-law said to her oneday. But Meg shook her head. She was doing her best to lie on the bedshe had made for herself; but she did not care to look forward.

  She was recovering morally as well as physically; but she couldn't gotoo fast.

  "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof" is a piece of wisdom thatwe recognise at last, when we are tired out with the treble burden ofto-day, yesterday, and to-morrow.

  Barnabas worked on the farm through that August and the first half ofSeptember, and Tom was glad enough to have him.

  The preacher had a wonderful faculty for turning his hands to anything;and this was, perhaps, a counter-balance to his incapacity for anddislike of "book-larning".

  He was in request as veterinary surgeon and bone-setter; and Meg used towonder that his strong clever fingers should have so delicate a touch.

  She learned to depend on him herself, insensibly, in a way that shewould once hardly have thought possible.

  Barnabas was a born nurse, and could lift her into an easier positionand slip her pillows into the right angle as no one else could.

  Mrs. Tremnell had an aimless manner of fluttering about on tip-toe in asick-room,--a habit which set Meg's nerves on edge, and which it taxedall her self-command to endure without signs of impatience; but thepreacher's heavy tread never jarred on her. He always knew exactly whathe meant to do in small as well as in big things; and both his decisionand his strength were restful.

  Possibly, if she had owed him less, she would have drawn near to lovinghim.

  She had fancied when first taken ill that she was going to die.

  The shivering and burning, which left her daily weaker, which weariedand exhausted her, would, she suspected, very effectually solve all thedifficulties that surrounded Barnabas and herself. But, after all, heryouth asserted itself. A spell of sharp, fresh weather seemed to giveher new life; the attacks of fever became shorter; and, very much to herown surprise, she recognised that she was--albeit painfully and withmany relapses--getting better!

  She had been kept to the house for weeks; but there was no doubt as toher convalescence, when, on one fine afternoon in September, Barnabascarried her into the fields, where she lay under a rick watching the menat work, the soft pink of returning health in her cheeks, her eyes softwith pleasure at the wonder of summer growth and sweetness.

  Meg had not much wished to live; but, after all, the world wasbeautiful!

  As she sat leaning against the rick, watching the in-gathering of thescanty crop, listening to the rough voices a little mellowed bydistance, the preacher's wife knew that both place and people had now awarm corner in her heart.

  Her gaze wandered past the low boundary fence, far away over the flats.How often she had run out of the house and down to the field to look atthat view!

  She had thought that she should not see it again; and, even now, whilesitting there, a dreamy presentiment, that she could not shake off, cameover her.

  She felt as if she had got to the bottom of a page,--a page on whichsuch strange things had been written, both good and bad. Efforts,desperate at times, to adapt herself to circumstances, failures suddenand overwhelming, courage lost--and found again.

  "They have been very good to the stranger within their gates," she saidto herself. "I wish I could show them how grateful I am now! I wish Iwere a saint to call down blessings on their harvest!"

  And she wished it with that fervour which one cannot help hoping is notentirely wasted, even in the entire absence of saintship.

  She was so full of her own thoughts that she did not hear steps comingover the stubble behind her.

  George Sauls had been up to the house and found the door set wide open,and every one out; then, with a shrug of his shoulders at the primitiveconfidence that still reigned in these parts, had gone on to thehay-field, where he descried Mrs. Thorpe sitting under the rick.

  He stood behind her now without speaking. He was shocked to see how illshe looked. He had always felt that Meg's beauty was of too spiritual akind; now, her complexion was more transparent than usual, and theintent expression in her eyes made her look more spirit-like than ever.

  George felt his hatred of her husband leap up like a flame; it wasdangerously hot. She turned round and saw him.

  "Ah, I beg your pardon!" he cried. "I have frightened you! I ought notto have appeared on the scene with such startling effect. I am a fool,Mrs. Thorpe" ("and a greater fool than you guess," he added inwardly),"and you? You have been ill?"

  "I am sure that you bring me news. Tell me quickly," said Meg.

  "I come from Mr. Deane; he has sent for you," answered George concisely.

  He put her father's note into her hand, and turned his back on her,staring stolidly in front of him.

  "Has he told her he is dying, or has he left that pleasing piece ofintelligence for me to break to her?" he questioned.

  What a remarkably ugly view it was! He wondered whether the preacher wasamong the men down there, or confined himself to preaching and leftworking to the sinners. What should he do if Mrs. Thorpe cried?

  "Mr. Sauls!" said Meg; and he turned round and met her glance. She wasquivering with happiness. Her eyes were misty with tears, but her joyshone through them. He had never seen any face that expressed joy sovividly as hers.

  "No; he has not told her,--I can't," George decided hastily. He did notoften fail in moral courage, and over-sensitiveness was not among hisfaults; but this woman always brought out a side of his character thatwas exceedingly unfamiliar to himself.

  "I am so very, very glad that he will see me!" she cried. "You can'tguess what it is to have a word from him again. I don't know how tothank you enough for bringing it." She looked again at the precious slipof paper in her hand, and a fresh thought struck her.

  "My fa
ther says, 'I would have seen you before if I had known'. Was ityou who found out that I tried to see him? and did you tell himso?--Yes? Oh, you have been a very good"--"_friend_" was on the tip ofher tongue, but she suddenly remembered his odd disclaimer offriendship--"have been very kind to me; though I wonder" (thoughtfully)"that Mrs. Russelthorpe let you tell him."

  "She was a little disinclined to allow an interview at first," saidGeorge smiling; "but--but she felt the force of my arguments."

  "You must be very clever at persuading people."

  "I _was_ very persuasive," he said drily.

  The remembrance of his "persuasion" amused him somewhat; but he did notcare about giving Meg the details of that scene.

  "Look here, Mrs. Thorpe; I've brought you something else which you won'tlike quite so much as that scrap of paper; but which I fancied you mightbe pleased to have, for I remembered that you once told me that youvalued it." And he held out her locket.

  "Why, it has come back to me _again_!" cried Meg. "The first time it wasstolen; and Barnabas moved to repentance the poor girl who took it; butthis time, I sold it of my own free will, and----"

  "And I moved no one to repentance," said George. "I can't compete withthe preacher; I paid over the counter. His was the more excellent way!"

  Meg drew back a step. Whenever she felt most kindly to Mr. Saulssomething in his tone jarred on her. It had been so in her girlhood; itwas so now.

  "There is no question of competition," she said. "Shall we try to findBarnabas? Oh! there he is."

  He was coming towards them across the field; but he did not at first seeMr. Sauls, who was in the shadow.

  George would have preferred to meet Meg's husband when Meg was not by;but he stood his ground. He was not going to be driven away by thefellow, much as he disliked him.

  He had often said to himself that it was more than possible that thecanting humbug ill-treated the woman he had stolen. Such a belief wouldjustify any amount of hatred; but he knew it to be untenable when he sawthe expression of the preacher's eyes as they turned to Meg.

  He ought, logically, to have hated the preacher less in consequence;but, on the contrary, a tingling sensation assailed his foot; he wantedto kick the man with a longing the fierceness of which surprisedhimself. Mr. Sauls was a highly sophisticated product of a ratherartificial age; but certain primitive instincts have an astonishing wayof asserting themselves at times.

  "Barnabas, this is Mr. Sauls, who has brought me a letter from myfather," said Meg. She felt a slight uneasiness while making theintroduction; the two men were so thoroughly antipathetical. But she hadgreat trust in the preacher's instinct of hospitality, and in Mr. Sauls'_savoir faire_. She was not in the least prepared for what followed. Thepreacher's countenance changed when he looked at her visitor.

  "I've seen ye afore, sir," he said in a low voice. "It passes me how yeare not 'shamed to be i' this county again. If I'd been here, I'd notha' let my wife sit at th' same table with ye."

  His fingers clenched unconsciously, his face grew stern, his blue eyesvery bright. Meg had seen him look like that only once before--when hehad caught the idiot frightening her.

  Mr. Sauls put up his eyeglass and stared deliberately, and a littleinsolently. He always grew outwardly cool when an adversary waxed hot.

  "You have the advantage of me," he said. "I don't know to whatparticular cause for shame you are alluding. Mrs. Thorpe has never, Ibelieve, been the worse for _my_ acquaintance, either from a spiritualor worldly point of view."

  The innuendo made Meg hot, but the preacher did not notice it.

  "Ye need not tell me that," he said; "but ye are no' fit company forher, unless ye ha' repented."

  Meg put her hand on his arm. "I don't know what all this is about," shesaid; "but Mr. Sauls has come a long way to bring me news of my father.I am very grateful to him for that."

  A month ago she would not have tried to remonstrate.

  "You need not be afraid, Mrs. Thorpe," said George. "I don't quarrelbefore ladies; but, if your husband likes to attempt 'bringing me torepentance' when you are not by, I shall be delighted, and will promiseto give him every attention."

  He paused; but the preacher kept a tense silence. The appeal in hiswife's voice, and, perhaps, the touch of her fingers, restrained him.

  "Good-afternoon!" said George, and turned on his heel.

  "Good-bye!" said Meg, and then held out her hand. She had been angry atthe sneer at the preacher; but she could not bear, even seemingly, todesert any one who had done her a service.

  "Please shake hands with me," she said. "And don't go away angry, afterhaving brought me such good news."

  She felt a little as if she were standing between fire and gunpowder,but that did not appear in her manner. She would have thought it"beneath" both herself and Barnabas to allow it to.

  George took the hand, and held it a moment in his. He would have likedto kiss it, and all the more because that "canting brute" was lookingon; but he did not: he reverenced Meg too much.

  "Give my most humble respects to Mrs. Russelthorpe," he said; and then,with real kindliness: "I am glad you are going to your father. You willgo soon? That's right! He is waiting for you. He told me to tell you tomake haste. He will do his best to wait till you come."

  "He will!" said Meg. "I think we shall see each other this once more,because we both want it so."

  "A most illogical 'because,'" said George to himself. "But yet, Godbless her, and give her her heart's desire!"

  He looked back once, and saw the two still standing under the rick.

  "And d----n the preacher!" he added. "By-the-bye, what had that fellowmeant?" George grew angry in thinking of him.

  But in Margaret's heart there was a great peace.

  Her father had not cast her off; it was only she who had beenfaithless.

  Oh! it was so much easier to cry, _Mea culpa_! than to allow that he hadforgotten.

  She had tried to offer God resignation, but He had given her joy. Thelevel rays of the setting sun lit up her happy face, and made her shorthair shine like a halo round her head. She put her hand before her eyes,and laughed a low, soft laugh like a contented child.

  Mr. Sauls was not a very angelic messenger; but he had brought her peaceand goodwill. With a radiant smile she watched him make his way over theshining, sun-tinged stubble. That smile, however, was not for him.

  The preacher woke her from her golden reverie.

  "What does he call himself?" he asked.

  "My father?--oh, you mean Mr. Sauls?"

  "Then he lies!" said Barnabas succinctly. "For his name's Cohen, andhe's the man who ruined Lydia. His hand is not clean enough to touchyou, Margaret. It were all I could do not to pull ye back; only," criedthe preacher with sudden bitterness, "I minded he's a gentleman, whoye'd naturally trust, an' _I_ might ha' scared ye."

  "I am not scared by you," said Meg. "I never am now."

  She brought her thoughts back from London and her father with somethingof a jerk. How could this be? Surely it was a mistake. It was impossibleto connect Mr. Sauls' familiar, and, to her, commonplace figure, withthe villain of the preacher's tragedy. Mr. Sauls wasn't a villain, andhe was never tragic.

  Then she looked at Barnabas; and, at the sight of the strong indignationin his face, her sympathy suddenly turned to him. She had loved neitherof these men; but the preacher's was the type she understood best. Theman who sneered could never appeal to Meg, who was religious to herfinger tips, as did the man who fought and agonised and prayed. Herloyalty and faith were on the preacher's side; and her loyalty and faithwere strong allies. If the story was true, how durst Mr. Sauls have comeand have met Barnabas unashamed?

  "I don't understand," she said. "I don't want to think him wicked. Hehas been very good to me. Have you read my father's message? That wasMr. Sauls' doing; he told father how I had tried and failed. Oh, yes,and he brought back my locket too--though that is nothing in comparisonto the message."

  Barnabas turned the locket over
in his hand. It was a curious possessionto lie on his brown palm. It reminded him of a good many things.

  "Ye canna keep it!" he said at last. "But ye shall go to your father.We'll start by to-morrow's coach, an' ye like. I'll be taking you to asink of iniquity, but I knew I'd go to London some day. No! doan't thankme, lass. Do ye suppose I doan't see wi'out tellin' that that's whatye've wanted more nor ought else, an' that it's new life to 'ee? Hepulls hardest. Ye'll go back to your own people!" He sighed heavily. Apresentiment of parting was on him, and his dread of London amounted toan absolute and quite unreasoning horror.

  "But for th' locket--I'll not hav' ye touch what that rascal's fingersha' dirtied. I'll follow and tell him that."

  "Not that, Barnabas! Promise me you won't quarrel with him! Take thelocket, if you like--but promise."

  "Are ye feared for him?"

  "No. Though, if I were, I shouldn't be ashamed of it! I'm not afraid forhim, but _you'll_ never forgive yourself, if you hurt him. Oh,Barnabas!" cried Meg, half laughing. "You repent more bitterly overyour sins than he does. I don't want you to go in sackcloth and ashesall your days for Mr. Sauls, who has never in his life, I suppose, feltfor any one what you have."

  "God forgi'e me! I ha' hated him sorely," said Barnabas; "but, an' it'sfor _me_, Margaret--I'll promise."