Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER IV.

  Meg sat in the nursery in Laura's home, with Laura's child on her lap.

  The child had been ailing, but had finally fallen asleep with his headon her shoulder. Margaret was fond of children, and little boysespecially generally took to her.

  This year-old baby, who was too young to regard her with wonder or pity,was a comfort to her, and she felt most at ease in his society. Laurawas kind, but brimming over with unspoken questions; and Laura's husbandobviously patronised the "poor thing" who had made such a "shockingmistake," and who must, he thought, be truly glad to find herself incomfortable quarters again!

  She had made mistakes enough, to be sure! She had committed a mostterrible and fatal one in marrying for any reason but that which alonesanctifies marriage; but, at least, she was not ashamed of her preacher.Meg's soft grey eyes would brighten dangerously when this portly andrather self-indulgent gentleman too evidently pitied her. What was hethat he should dare to despise Barnabas Thorpe?

  Nevertheless, her heart warmed to Laura. The tie of blood drew thesisters together: they mourned the same father, at any rate; though, inMeg's case, the mourning was tempered by deep thankfulness in havingbeen allowed to see him once more.

  Laura came into the room presently, and sat down on the lowrocking-chair by the fireplace, letting her busy hands be idle for once,while she watched the sister who had the fascination of an enigma forher.

  The semi-darkness, the cosy quietness of the nursery, thawed theirmutual reserve.

  "I expect that Barnabas will come for me to-morrow. I wonder what canhave kept him so long," said Meg. "I am glad that you persuaded me tostay here with you, Laura. It is good for one to have a breathing spaceto bury remembrances in. I don't think that I missed a word or look offather's while I was with him, now I feel as if I could put that away.One doesn't forget, but one must lay one's grief decently below thesurface; and you have given me time to do that."

  "I hate to think that you may be spirited away--and to I don't know whathardships," cried Laura impetuously.

  But Meg shook her head. "I don't want to stay for ever! It is verypretty and 'soft'; it has been pleasant to sit in easy chairs and treadon velvety carpets, and, above all, to see you again; but I couldn'tbear to live this life now. Even as it is, I feel as if there were asort of disloyalty in the enjoyment of it. You must not fancy that I ambeing dragged away against my will, when Barnabas fetches me. I believeyou imagine all sorts of horrors, Laura; but, indeed, I am telling youthe truth! The preacher is very good to me. I don't think there isanother man in the world who would have been so good."

  "He ought to be," said Laura; "seeing that you threw away everythingelse for love of him."

  "Oh no, it was not for love!" cried Meg. "And he never supposed that itwas."

  "Then you were madder than I thought." Laura sat bolt upright to giveforce to her emphatic whisper. She had grown stout and matronly sincethe days when she had advised her sister to "marry any decently rich manwho would be good to her," and her views had ripened. "If people marryfor love, at least they have their cake, even though they may getthrough it pretty soon, and go hungry when it's eaten. I've sometimesthought that I hardly saw that side of the question enough when I wasyoung. I was terribly afraid of sentiment. But you, Meg--you, who of allwomen I ever met were the most high-flown!--if you didn't love him, whatpossessed you?"

  "It is an old story now," said Meg, colouring. "Let it be. Barnabasunderstands about it. No one else ever will." She was silent for a fewminutes, thinking of that scene at Ravenshill which she had but halfunderstood at the time. "It is only afterwards that we know what we havedone! I wonder whether all things that have happened to us will be seenby us in the right colours and the right proportion, as soon as we arein the next world. Will they all seem to shift into different places,like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope?"

  "My dear," said Laura, with the twinkle that Meg remembered of old, "Iam distinctly of the earth, earthy. I don't know, and I don't much care,about the next world; but I am curious about this one. I should like tohear what happened to the Meg I used to know. Where did he take you?Were you tolerably happy, or--or not?"

  "I was happy when he was preaching," said Meg. "What shall I tell you?"She reflected a moment, and then began drawing word pictures of scenesby the way--of the tramps they had talked to; of the gipsies over whosefires they had sat; of meetings on heathery hills, and on villagecommons. She dwelt rather on the lighter side of her experiences, andher stories illustrated the gentler traits of the preacher'scharacter--his tenderness for very old people and young children, andhis hopefulness. She told how he had given a screw of tobacco to a dirtyold tramp incarcerated in a far-off northern gaol, and how, on thebeadle's rebuking him for his leniency, he had said: "She's ower ninety,man! ower deaf to hear the preachin' o' goodwill; but the 'baccy 'ullcarry a bit o' th' message, an' she'll understan' that".

  And she laughed a little over the minor perplexities that had beset herown path when she had struggled along by his side.

  "It is different now, for I am older, and have grown accustomed to somuch; but oh, Laura, I did not laugh then! So many funny things happenedto me, small troubles that I had never reckoned on. For example, myboots wore out. I remember that we were walking along the bed of astream, and every stone I trod on hurt me. You don't know how they hurt,when one's feet are blistered, and one's boots are in holes. It was onlysix weeks since I had left Aunt Russelthorpe's house, and it seemed toostrange and unnatural to go to the preacher about that sort of thing. Icouldn't ask him for money. I thought it would be easier to walkbarefoot than to do that; and, after all, one can get through almostanything if one determines that one will. So I limped on, and shouldhave reached the next village all right, if I hadn't trodden on a bit ofbroken glass. I was unlucky that day; it went through the hole rightinto my heel. I sat down on a stone and clenched my hands together; Iwas so afraid of fainting, and the sharp pain made me feel sick. I cansee that valley now, with the purple heather and bracken glowing on eachside, and the big boulders, and the brown stream brawling in the middleof it, and the preacher tramping steadily along, with his back to me.Of course, he discovered, after a time, that I was not by him, andturned back to look for me; and, just when he reached me, a round softsheep with curly horns and a broad face jumped up close behind my stoneand scuttled away up the hill. It startled me so that it shook thetears, which I had been trying to keep back, down my cheeks, and I foundmyself sobbing like a baby. Barnabas stood and stared at me; I had neverdone that sort of thing before, and he was immensely surprised. Then hesaid: 'You poor little soul, ye just doan't knaw what to do forweariness'. And he sat down and consoled me as if I had been ten insteadof twenty-one; and cut my boot off with his pocket-knife, and took thesplinter of glass out; and finally picked me up and carried me into thenext village. From that day, he took only too much care of me; but he isalways tender to any one who is unhappy."

  Her thoughts had flown to another time when the difficulties of the lifeshe had chosen had pressed on her more heavily than during those firstexperiences of physical discomfort.

  "He thinks," she said in a low voice, "that no mistake and no sin can beso strong as God is. It is that belief which gives him power over thosewho have fallen very low. Of course most people agree with him intheory, but he is quite sure of it practically, which is different."

  "He has need of his hopefulness," said Laura drily. She had just made upher mind to tell Meg of the arrest; but the nurse came in at thatmoment, and she put off breaking the news a little longer.

  Meg gave up the baby reluctantly, and they went down into the lamp-litdining-room; Laura very full of thought. This fanatical preacher, withhis mania for "converting," with his pernicious views about theintrinsic evil of wealth, had done plenty of harm, she considered; andyet she allowed to herself that his influence was for good too. Margaretwas morally a stronger woman now than she had been in her variable andemotional girlhood. Laura remarked also that, t
hough no one could callher sister "pretty" in these days, yet the distinction which she hadalways possessed was hers still and in larger measure. Meg looked like aqueen in disguise in her shabby dress. Alas! alas! and it was all wastedon a street "tuborator," who, at the best, was a mad enthusiast, and, atthe worst, a shameful rogue!

  Laura's meditations made her unusually silent. Mr. Ashford talked onsomewhat pompously, and pressed Meg to eat with rather patronisingwarmth, for "it was not every day that Mrs. Thorpe got such a meal"; andMeg herself did her best to rise to the occasion and converse pleasantlywith her host.

  The silver, and the cut glass, and the flowers pleased her eye; forpretty things were to Margaret, as they had been to her father, verysweet. She had spoken the truth when she had said she could not haveborne to live in luxury now; yet for a breathing space she enjoyed it.

  In nine cases out of ten it is the people with the keenest senses whotake to asceticism. He who has never been intoxicated by the scent offlowers has never known the necessity of retiring into a wilderness.

  Dinner was half over when Laura saw Meg's colour change. "It is only theman from the bonnet shop. It cannot be any one for you, Meg," she saidquickly. Indeed, she fancied that she had good reason to know that itcould not possibly be Barnabas Thorpe. Was he not in Newgate?

  "It is not Barnabas. It is--_Tom_!" cried Margaret.

  She rose hastily from her chair; and Laura, following the direction ofher eyes, saw Tom's queer deformed figure through the open door. He hadbeen standing in the hall; but when Margaret's exclamation reached him,he walked into the dining-room, thinking she had meant to call him.

  To Laura this extraordinary person seemed a threatening embodiment fromthat outside world which claimed her sister. To Mr. Ashford he was amost impertinent intruder; but Meg made a quick step towards him. "Oh,Tom, is anything wrong at the farm?" she asked. And then turning toLaura: "This is my brother-in-law."

  "I should ask your pardon for disturbing you, ma'am," said Tom, lookingat Laura; "but I ha' need of a word with Barnabas' wife."

  The accent, and still more the decided way in which he stated what hewanted, reminded Laura of the preacher.

  He spoke quite civilly, but the peremptoriness jarred on her. Tom Thorpewas possessed by a sort of defiant repulsion, and glowered indignantlyon Margaret and her fine relatives. So she was here in this grand roomfeasting and amusing herself? but she was "Barnabas' wife" all the same,and he was in prison!

  "You shall have as many words as you like with me at once," saidMargaret. "May I take him into the library, Laura? Oh, I hope that_your_ father is not ill?"

  Tom glanced at the bit of crape on her sleeve and answered, softened:"No, no, lass. Naught o' that kind's happened. Dad's right enough.There's naught but what ye must know already."

  "But she does not know!" Laura murmured faintly.

  Ten minutes later they heard Meg's visitor go.

  "Dear me! Your poor sister will hardly like to appear again to-night,"Mr. Ashford said compassionately. "She must be terribly ashamed of herscamp of a husband, though that kind of thing is what she must expectafter having----Oh, here she is!"

  Margaret's head was very erect, and there was a bright spot of colour oneach cheek.

  "My brother-in-law has been telling me that my husband has been arrestedon Mr. Sauls' charge, and taken to gaol," she said. And there was aprouder ring than usual in her generally low voice. "Mr. Sauls' brainmust have suffered! I am sorry for him."

  "You are angry with him, you mean!" remarked Laura.

  "No," said Mrs. Thorpe. "Any one who is so mad as to think it possiblethat Barnabas could have done such a thing is not worth being angrywith. He knows no better, I suppose, poor thing!"

  Laura looked at her husband with a momentary gleam of fun.

  "I must get a room close to Newgate, so that I can go in and out asoften as I am allowed," continued Meg. "Tom is going to take me to theprison to-morrow. Will you excuse me if I go and put my things togethernow?"

  Laura laughed, albeit a little sadly, when the door closed behind her.

  "It has been a queer story from first to last," she said. "But do youthink, after that, that she is ashamed of him?"

  "She doesn't care much for him," said Mr. Ashford. "If she did, shewould be more anxious."

  An hour later Margaret had finished packing her clothes into a smallbundle, and stood considering a leathern box she held in her hands:should she take it with her or not?

  She opened it with the reverent touch a woman gives to relics. There wasthe pearl ring that her mother, another Margaret, had worn; Laura'sfirst baby socks tenderly treasured; and an unfinished silk purse thathad been in process of making when death took that, as well as all othertasks, from the pretty hands that had been so prone to give.

  There also was a faded bundle of letters tied with ribbon. The last thatMeg unfolded had been penned two days before the writer's death. No onehad imagined that she was in any danger; but there was an undercurrentof foreboding, sounding through the overflowing tender happiness whichthe letter expressed, a foreboding which, as Meg remembered to haveheard, had wakened Mr. Deane's anxiety and brought him home just intime.

  "Indeed, sweetheart, an' I were to die to-morrow, I should want you onlyto remember that no woman was ever happier than I have been, and I thinknone other was ever so happy, seeing that none other was your wife. Ilong to make up to those not so fortunate as I; but I cannot. I wouldpray for a long life, only not beyond yours; but if it is not given me"(again that iteration of warning, mingling with her passionatesatisfaction in her married life), "I shall yet have been more blessedthan any other woman. It will have been worth while to have lived onlyto have loved you--and----"

  Meg put the letter down--surely this was too sacred for any eyes but histo whom it was written; a shame came over her that she had read so much.

  Some one else had once said to her: "It is worth while". This deadvoice, that was yet so instinct with life, now, after all these years,reiterated it.

  She gave Laura the box the next morning, before she left.

  "It wouldn't be safe to carry jewels with me to the part of London I amgoing to," she explained. "Will you take care of them for me? They arebest left behind."

  She turned the key in the lock, and put the box in Laura's hands.

  "There are letters there too," she said. "They are so alive, that, Isuppose, father could not bear to burn them. I began to read one; but Idid not finish it--I felt as if I oughtn't to."

  "Ought not? Why, he left them to you especially!" said Laura. "Who has abetter right?"

  "I felt as if _I_ had no right to them," said Meg.