CHAPTER VI.
Mr. Sauls returned to town, looking a great deal the worse for hisexpedition into the wilds of L----shire.
Had he followed his natural inclination, he would have held his tongueon the subject of the sensational episode that had led to the preacher'sarrest; but, seeing that the tale must become public property, he tookthe initiative himself, spreading the version he wished to be popular.
Mr. Sauls' deserved success in life had always been largely owing to thefact that he never hesitated to throw a sprat overboard in order tocatch a mackerel. Many people see all the advantages of this proceedingclearly enough, but haven't courage to sacrifice the sprat; he had.
He was determined on two points, apparently a little difficult ofcombination: he was determined to punish his assailant, and, at the sametime, to keep Margaret's name out of the affair. He would rather losehis case than drag her into it--which was saying a great deal.
He would have preferred, for obvious reasons, that the story about LydiaTremnell should remain in merciful obscurity; but, nevertheless, hebrought it to the light of day without flinching; for he knew that, inlaying the stress on that quarrel about the woman who was dead, heprevented the suspicion that the hot words between himself and BarnabasThorpe had had connection with the woman who was alive.
It cost him some vexation of spirit; but, for Meg's sake, he threw thesprat, and threw it boldly.
Mr. Sauls had fallen low in Meg's estimation. She would have been eithermore or less than human if she could have, at the same time, sided withthe preacher, and seen the standpoint of the preacher's enemy. And yet,if "a man's love" is indeed "the measure of his fitness for good companyhere or elsewhere," Mr. Sauls was, perhaps, worthy of a better placethan she guessed.
He had been lunching with the governor of the prison one morning, andhad left that gentleman's house with a bad headache (for he still feltthe effects of the blow), and in no very excellent humour.
For the last month he had been endeavouring to put the image of thepreacher's wife out of his head; and few things are more trying to bothnerves and temper than the constant struggle to prevent a recurringthought. The disembodied presence haunts the more when we abstain fromclothing it with words, and it usually has its revenge. George "forgot"Mrs. Thorpe by a most constant and unrelaxing effort.
He pulled some papers out of his pocket, meaning to read them while hewalked; he could have sworn he was deeply engrossed in them, and that hewas thinking of anything rather than of Margaret; and yet, among thethousand voices of that busy street, curiously enough hers reached hisear.
He had walked only two yards from the door of the governor's house. Hehesitated for a second, turned round, and retraced his steps. Margaretwas on the threshold, talking to the governor's servant.
"Did that brute keep her hanging about the prison? If so, he deserved aworse fate than the gallows," thought George.
"You should have gone round to the back. What business have you here?"said the footman. George could not catch her reply, but her manner hadapparently overawed the man, who was evidently wavering betweeninsolence and respect.
"Oh, if your business is with the governor--I'll take your card in andinquire--ma'am."
The "ma'am" was said rather doubtfully, Meg's clothes being shabby.
"I've no card," said she. "Please tell the governor that I should bemuch obliged if he would kindly see me. I am the wife of one of theprisoners in the middle yard, and----"
"Oh, off with you!" cried the footman, his respect vanishing. "Thegovernor would have enough to do if he saw every blackguard's wife thatcame a-begging!" And he slammed the door in her face.
Margaret put her hand on the bell as if half inclined to make anotherattempt; then apparently came to the conclusion that it would be of noavail, and, with a sigh, turned away.
She saw Mr. Sauls when she descended the steps, and would have passedhim without a sign, had he not been assailed by a dogged unreasonabledetermination to force her to recognise him.
"You know me, Mrs. Thorpe," he said. His voice sounded a little defiant.
Meg's eyes rested coldly on him. "I know you," she answered gravely.
George reddened. It was the first and last time in his life that a snubhad made him blush.
"But you are too angry to acknowledge me? Well! of course, that isnatural," he said. "Naturally you cannot forgive me for being knocked onthe head by the preacher. I hardly supposed that you would. A woman'sjustice is apt to be hard on the sinned against--when the sinner is herhusband. But I--not being a woman--do not quite relish seeing yourefused anything. I'll help you, if I can. The governor is a friend ofmine; I will get you admittance if you like."
"No, thank you," said Margaret. George laughed rather bitterly.
"Are you too proud to accept my help? But you should never refuse a goodoffer, even from an enemy." Then his tone changed, for the sight of hertired face softened him.
"But I am not _your_ enemy, Margaret--Mrs. Thorpe, I mean. You will notbe just to me, that is not to be expected! but you can be generous. Letme do this thing for you--in all good faith!"
He held out his hand, but Meg drew back angrily. How durst he repeatthis lie about Barnabas in one breath, and in the next offer to helpher? he help her!
"Ah, you hate me too much? But you are very foolish. You are making amistake," he began; then stopped short, struck dumb by the flash ofindignant scorn in her eyes.
"I do not hate you, who swear falsehoods about my husband," she said."One must have a little respect before one hates! I could not accept anyfavour from you. It would be easier," said Meg, determined that heshould press her no more, and clothing her feeling in the most forciblewords she could utter, "it would be easier to take hot burning coals inmy bare hands than to take any help from you now."
George Sauls bit his lip and drew back a step. He wondered why thiswoman's words had such power to hurt him. Then he pulled himselftogether, and lifted his hat to her.
"Thanks--that was quite plain enough," he said. "I must really have beenvery dense to have required that, mustn't I? The Psalmist's hot coalswere reserved for his enemies' heads, not for their hands, Mrs.Thorpe--but that's a trifle, and I won't press the commodity on you. Imost humbly regret having offered my assistance, and can only give youmy word that nothing on earth shall ever induce me to attempt such athing again. Apparently you don't think that my oaths are to be trusted,as a rule; but you may believe in that one."
And Mrs. Thorpe certainly did believe in it.
She was surprised at her own anger; she hardly knew herself in thesedays. Her indignation was still hot when she reached the tiny room inwhich she lived, but by that time it had become tinged with anxiety. Shefeared she had made matters worse for Barnabas by still furtherembittering his enemy. Yet she could not have let Mr. Sauls help her!
Fortunately, her hands were full of work; she had little time formeditation. She had been seized with a sudden inspiration to take upagain one of the few accomplishments of her girlhood, and her effortshad been crowned with unexpected success. She had been clever atmodelling and colouring wax fruit; and the sight of her old tools, whichhad somehow come into Laura's possession, had suggested a possible meansof making money.
The sum that her father had left her would have paid for her board andlodging, but she saved every penny she could for the preacher's defence.
She worked hard, allowing herself little rest, and going out only to theprison grating, or for actual necessities. Her room was at the very topof a tall narrow house close to the gaol. Tom had left her there withmany misgivings on his part, but with no apparent sinking of courage onhers. She wrote occasionally to him and to her father-in-law, and herletters were always cheerful. "I am taking care of myself beautifully. Iam learning all sorts of things," she wrote.
The last sentence was very true. Meg learnt many things during thoselong months of waiting for the assizes.
She became a familiar figure in the "prison crowd." Most of the_habitues
_ of the outer yard knew her by sight, and many of them knewher story as well (though she could not imagine how it had got about),and they would stare at the "lydy," with amused and generally verykindly curiosity.
At first, the rough crowd rather alarmed her. In the midst of thismighty city, on which she looked from her skylight window, she felt thesense of isolation more deeply than on any mountain top.
For some weeks she did not speak to any one when on her way to or fromthe gaol; but, by degrees, her sympathy went out to the women who, likeherself, were waiting anxiously.
On the first occasion when Barnabas failed to come to the grating, shehad, as we have seen, made a fruitless attempt to get into the ward byan appeal to headquarters; but a second failure increased heruneasiness. She was turning from the bars disheartened, when a scrap ofpaper was thrust into her hand by the girl next her, who remarked by theway: "You weren't 'alf spry, lydy. You'd never 'ave got it if it 'adn'tbeen for my Bill and me."
The scrap had been wrapped round a bone, and dexterously thrown throughthe bars. The writing was the preacher's, but so shaky that Meg found itbarely legible.
"Ye've no call to be scared, my lass. I've had a bit of a fight, but am all right. Only my face is a sight, and I'd not have you startled by it, so I've kept away--and don't you come for a week or two.
"BARNABAS."
The note brought relief to Meg, who had feared he must be very ill. Itwas like him to be so afraid of "scaring" her by the sight of bruises:since the day she had come back to him, her husband's fear offrightening her had always been on the alert.
She thanked the girl warmly, who, thereupon, confided to the "lydy" thatshe was "down on her luck".
She was the same very young so-called "wife" who had attracted Meg'sattention on the first visit to Newgate.
She was crying because she had no offering for "Bill". She had neverbefore failed to bring something with her on visiting day. Bill, indeed,lived a great deal better than his poor faithful little pal did, and onthe fat of the land. "Sally" kept him supplied in beer, tobacco, andeven meat (though she habitually went hungry herself), and he took hisdetention very comfortably.
Meg offered half the contents of her slender purse for the furtherdelectation of Bill, thereby making to herself friends of the mammon ofunrighteousness. She gained an immense amount of information, and gother note "passed in"; but she also heard details of the row in theprison that made her sick at heart.
"But Bill says not one of 'em 'ull touch 'im now," the girl declared."He says he wouldn't 'imself, not if he was paid for it, and thepreacher bound 'and and foot; he says it give 'im a turn to see thepreacher stand up to 'em agin, when they'd handled him so afore that hewas still as weak as a cat. It seemed as if there must be some onebehind backing 'im, it were so unnatural like; and it turned Bill all ofa tremble, like as if it was something else than a man. His voice wasn'tabove a whisper 'cos he were so feeble, but they just 'eld their breathto listen to 'im--it's queer, ain't it?"
Meg was trembling too.
"Whose voice? the preacher's? but he is so strong," she said. "What didthey do to him?"
"They got 'im down and kicked 'im," said the girl. "You see he'd riled'em, and there's a good many of 'em in the yard, and it's just the waymen's made," added Sally leniently. "If they feel they've got some oneunder, they just _must_ jump on 'em. I b'lieve they can't 'elp it--and'is ribs got broke. Lor', don't look so! he's up again anyway, and 'asgot the upper 'and of 'em all too! and I'll teach you to make 'im a dealmore comfortable than I 'spect _you've_ known how."
But, alas! Meg's preacher would have no "extra" comforts, and sternlyforbade the "passing in" of food to himself. The gaol allowance wasenough to live on, he said, and his lass must keep her money.
Perhaps his abstention added to the awe of him in which he held Newgate,voluntary poverty having always been a mighty power in the world, andespecially respected by free livers.
Then came a day when Meg found "Bill's girl" shrieking and stamping witha wild abandonment of grief that had something terribly inhuman in itsutter absence of control.
Bill had been put in irons for a playful assault on a fellow-prisonerwith a hot poker, and Sally had bitten the gatekeeper because hewouldn't let her in.
"She doesn't know what she's doing; she's quite mad with passion andtrouble," said Meg pitifully. And she put her arms round "Bill's girl,"and pulled her away, and took her home with her and gave her some teaand buns, and consoled her with startling success; for the access ofgrief being past, Sally's spirits swung to the other extreme, with thewonderful rapidity of her highly emotional class.
Meg had not been the preacher's companion for months without imbibingsome knowledge of what she had to deal with. Her heart sank rather; butfor his sake who never in his life turned from any possibility ofhelping any one, she did her best for the girl.
It happened after that--she could hardly have told how--that, week byweek, she learned more of the women who haunted Newgate.
There was nothing in her room worth stealing, and she had little togive; but "Bill's girl" liked to come late in the evening and sit bywatching Meg model, and listening while she sang, for Meg preferredsinging to talking.
"Let me stay up here, for I don't want to keep company with any otherwhile Bill's laid by," she said once. "I ain't as bad as some."
So she stayed--and she was not the only one.
The small room would be full sometimes. "But at least there are fewer ofthem in the streets," Meg said to herself.
She was often struck by her visitors' generosity. They were always readyto give away their last sixpence for the "boys in quod". She pitied themwith a pity that made her heart ache.
She seldom preached; and yet, to some of them, the thought of her was arestraining power, a something holy, and not one of them would fight oreven swear in her presence.
She took pains to keep her room tidy, but generally bought her foodready cooked, which, if extravagant in one way, saved her time andstrength. If Barnabas would have allowed it, she would have lived onbuns and tea, and supplied him with meat; but, on that point he remainedfirm.
So the weeks went by, and the days grew shorter and colder. Meg wasdetermined to be very cheerful, since he had let her stay in London, andwould not allow that she felt either cold or depression. She would siton her bed with her feet tucked under her to keep them tolerably warm,and would thaw her fingers at her candle; but she was anxious thatBarnabas should _know_ how happily she was getting on.
There is so little profit in being cheerful for one's own benefit; andshe begged hard to see him on the next visiting day; when, alas, inspite of his warnings, she was shocked.
"My dear! I didn't mean ye to ha' come this week,--only, when ye said yewanted to, I couldn't say no to 'ee," he said. "But ye know, though itain't at all becoming to ha' one's face divided wi' sticking plaster,it's not dangerous! Come, little lass, Dr. Merrill told me as I wasenough to scare a child into a fit, but I said as my wife wasn't ababy."
"It's not that," said Meg, trying to smile. "I shouldn't care in theleast what your face looked like; but----Oh, Barnabas, how they musthave hurt you!"
It was his evident weakness, the want of strength even in the sound ofhis voice, and the sight of his hand trembling, that shook her.
"I hope they'll get all they deserve!" cried Meg.
"Hush! Ye doan't know," said the preacher. "Ye doan't know what's beenagainst them, Margaret. If only I can make the moast o' this chance.Why, my lass, ye needn't be so sorry ower a few bruises. I never wasmuch averse to a fight, an', happen, I gave some too! an' I didn't feelaught so long as I was fighting neither; it was only 'comin to' was abit painful. Now we've had enough o' that, it ain't worth it. Talk to meabout yoursel'!"
And Meg, with an effort, did as he bid her. It was a short interview,for he really wasn't fit to stand, and she found it hard work to talk ofherself when she was longing to hear about him. But Barnabas had nodesire to tell his wife too much about
the inside of Newgate. Why shouldhe give her bad dreams?
Meg told him of her encounter with George Sauls, and about the wonderfulprices she had got for her wax fruit, of which she was rather proud, andabout "Bill's girl".
"But if you were there, you'd know better what to say to them," shecried. "I want to ask you constantly."
"Poor little lass! Ye've not got Tom either, now," said Barnabas. "Nordad, who, I believe, allus suited ye best of us all; but I think ye dofinely, Margaret."
And Meg went back to finish some flowers and take them to the shop thatalways received them, and came home with the money in her hand, and sangwith her very odd "class" in the evening, and sat up to write to herhusband's relatives, all the time with the lump in her throat, that thesight of those "few bruises" had brought.
She began to tell Tom how ill the preacher looked, then tore the letterup, and rewrote it.
"He can do nothing, and it's a shame to make him anxious too," shereflected. "Why should I? I wish Barnabas were here!"
She had missed his constant care and protection before; but to-nightshe jumped up restlessly, unable to sit still, and walked up and downthe room, filled with horrible visions of the scene in the yard when themen the preacher had "riled" had pulled him down among them.
Barnabas had made her promise that she wouldn't think "overmuch" ofthat; and she tried to put the thought away again.
"Ye must forget it! I'm sorry ye were told," he had said. "I'd not haveyour thoughts o' me hurt you, my lass. Will 'ee be a bit glad to have meto do for ye again, eh?"
Would she? All at once Meg fell on her knees with the rush of a newlonging for him sweeping over her with unbearable strength.
"Barnabas, it's you I want--at last--I do want you!" she cried aloud."Not what you do, but you yourself! Oh, it does hurt one to want likethis! I want your arms round me, and your voice quite close to me. Iwant you so!"
She rose, frightened at the strength of the feeling that had, as itwere, laid hands on her, and went to bed quickly in the dark.
It had come at last, the love that had been so long in coming! But itwas no sweet boy Cupid wreathed in spring flowers, but rather an armedwarrior who took at last what most maids give blithely in the naturaltime for courting. Was Nature, who never forgives nor forgets an insult,indemnifying herself for the very unnatural way in which Meg and thepreacher had put their "earthly affections" out of the reckoning whenthey married? Ah, well, she had her revenge, as she always has. "How ithurts one!" Meg cried again. But Barnabas had known what _that_ achemeant for nigh two years.
Was it too late now? No; God could not be so cruel. Barnabas would callthat blasphemy. He never said, "God is cruel," whatever happened.Whatever happened? but why was she so terrified to-night? He would beset free, and nothing would happen. She would go to sleep and forget.
She did sleep, after a time, and dreamed of a stake with Barnabas tiedto it, like an early "Christian martyr" in Foxe's Book, which she hadstudied when a child in Uncle Russelthorpe's library.
George Sauls was in the guise of an executioner, and kept heaping livecoals on the preacher's head with one hand, while he held her back withthe other, saying: "Apparently you don't think my swearing amounts tomuch, Mrs. Thorpe; but I hope you believe in _that_".
The horror she felt woke her (one has no sense of humour in a dream).She had slept only five minutes, though it had seemed hours. She couldnot bear to shut her eyes, and encounter that nightmare again. Shelighted her candle, and, sitting up in bed, went on with her modelling,till daylight, which happily costs nothing, began to lighten the room.
Then she opened her window and looked out. Traffic was already stirringin the street below, she could see dimly the outline of the gaol throughthe London mist. The air was raw, but the horror that had possessed herfled with the darkness. With the breaking of the day Meg knew that shehad entered into a new kingdom.
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