CHAPTER VII.
"See Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, "It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: 'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."
--_Browning._
Barnabas Thorpe had been blessed all his life with a physique that wasstrong enough to bear the exactions of his spirit. In this respect hehad been remarkably fortunate. But, after all, his body was made offlesh and blood; and flesh and blood give way at last.
It was a great source of grief to him that he could no longer heal as hehad once healed; that strange power seemed to have, in a large measure,left him.
"May be it's because I am not fit to ha' it," he said sadly. "One whohates his brother whom he has seen deserves no power to bring downhealing from the God he has not seen."
The surgeon, who was watching Barnabas dress a wound that had beeninflicted by Bill's poker, laughed impatiently.
"That's nonsense, you know," he remarked; but he no longer said, "That'scant".
The preacher's surgery was gentler than the doctor's, which wascertainly rough. The man's eye was badly damaged, and the lightesttouch caused agony; he turned over on his face with a groan whenBarnabas had finished.
"I used to be able to lighten pain more," said Barnabas. "I've oftenknown that, when I've put my hand on one suffering like that, thetorment has been stilled for a bit and he's fallen asleep. But I can'tdo it now!"
"Of course you can't," said the doctor. "You had a sort of mesmericfaculty that you believed miraculous; but your own nervous energy hasbeen pretty well kicked out of you now, and you are ill and weak; and,naturally, you can't play those tricks which, let me tell you, are bestleft alone at any time. The failure has nothing whatever to do with yourmorals, it has to do with your body. If you had been the greatest rogueunhung, so long as your iniquities hadn't touched your health, you'dstill have possessed that faculty. There was no need to pray about it;or, if you'd prayed to the devil, it would have come to the same thing;except, of course, that people prefer the other arrangement--it's thepleasanter myth of the two."
Barnabas frowned, looking straight in front of him from under his faireyebrows.
Scepticism was utterly impossible to him; the doctor's remarks could nottouch the simplicity of his faith; he had rejoiced in his healing power,but if it had been clearly demonstrated to him a thousand times that hisbelief in it was a fallacy, the demonstrator would have left himpractically much where he had been before.
"The same God as makes souls makes the bodies to 'em, I suppose," hesaid. "I can't see as it makes the least bit o' difference which thepower comes through, sir. It's only 'through' arter all. I fancied itwent straight fro' my soul to the sick man's; but you are more larned,and, happen, you know better; happen, as you say, it went fro' mybody--it's no matter, is it, so long as it went? It wasn't fro' thedevil, I know, because it was good and healed; I never heard as he didthat; he destroys both soul and body. I've never prayed to _him_," saidthe preacher, giving the doctor's words a literal interpretation thathalf amused, half irritated his companion; "but you're wrong when yousay it 'ud ha' come to the same thing."
"Oh, you think that the supernatural supply would have dried up, eh?"said Dr. Merrill. The preacher's reply took him by surprise.
"No; I'd not say that for sartain," he said, after a moment'sreflection. "If ye mean the power--God doan't stop our breath when weuse it to deny and blaspheme Him. If He did, I'd ha' been dead in myboyhood, and ye'd not ha' it now. Happen the power would ha' come justth' same (though I ain't sure about it), like the breath; but it 'ud ha'made a difference. Ha' ye never seen a man using God's gifts for th'devil's service? I have. Ay, an' so have ye, an' ye know too, that he'd_better_ be dead than do it! As for supernatural, I doan't everunderstan' what people mean by that. If it means fro' above--why,everything is that; I can't see the thing as isn't--unless it's fro'below," said the preacher, still frowning. "Happen ye can explain it tome."
The doctor shook his head.
"No," he said, "you're right. There's nothing especially supernatural inyour creed, Thorpe; because, as you say, it's _all_ that; nor in mine,because it's none of it; so we'll leave the term to the great majority,who are neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring. Anyhow, you've got amarvellous knack with your fingers, whether it comes from heaven orhell, and I suppose you'll swear it must be one or t'other! It's prettyto see how quickly you bandage. It's not every doctor who would let youtry your hand like this," said the surgeon, who was rather proud of hisliberality. "But I like to see uncommon talent, even in a quack. It's apity it's mixed with superstition. Now look here; Hopping Jack's sightis gone, and no amount of praying can possibly bring it back to thiseye, as I can prove to you in a moment."
The unfortunate Jack swore under his breath, when the surgeon turned hisface to the light again.
"Let him alone, sir," said the preacher quickly. "There's no need totouch him again. Oh, ay, I've no sort o' doubt ye know a deal more nor Ido; if ye put your power down to th' same source, happen ye'd be a bittenderer in your way o' using it; ye say it 'ud come to the same, butsome o' your patients 'ud feel a difference."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders; if any one but Barnabas Thorpe hadcommented on his want of feeling, and infliction of pain not alwaysnecessary, he would have snubbed him ruthlessly; but, with the evidencebefore him of a disregard to personal injury, that had wrung genuineadmiration from him, he couldn't accuse the preacher of undue andeffeminate softness.
He was not naturally cruel; but a man must be upheld by an uncommonlyhigh aim if he can work constantly among brutal and debased natureswithout either giving way to despair or hardening his heart.
There was a story current in the prison about his having got a man offhanging on condition of his being allowed to try a new operation on him.He was no philanthropist, but he was fond of his profession and a greatexperimenter; there was not a rogue in Newgate but had a wholesome aweof the little red-haired surgeon.
Hopping Jack was actually grateful to Barnabas.
"It's a case of 'when the devil was ill,'" Dr. Merrill said. "He won'tlisten to you when he can do without your bandaging, Thorpe! He'll beable to mimic you to the life by the time he's up again--drawl and all."
"But that won't drive me to hold my tongue," said Barnabas smiling.
And, as it happened, the doctor was wrong. Hopping Jack refrained fromcaricaturing the preacher, even when he got better.
"It ain't that I couldn't!" he said regretfully to Barnabas. "I _could_do you now as you wouldn't know which was yourself! you're easy to takeoff; and I could twist 'em all round to listen to me--every man Jack of'em; but I won't."
"Ye'd be playing a scurvy trick," said Barnabas; "an' in Satan'sservice. He's a bad paymaster."
Jack winked with the one eye left.
"Gammon! It ain't for that that I don't do it," he said. "Your Masterlets you go to gaol too, don't He? you ain't a bit better off for Him.No, it ain't for that, nor for the sake of the stuff you talk. I'veheard all that before. But you had a fine chance to pay me out for thegame I started in the yard; and you didn't take it--quite contrariwise;and _that_ sticks in my throat, for I tell you I felt pretty sick whenthe doctor, d----n him, called _you_ in."
"Why, man, what did you suppose I'd do?" said Barnabas. "Ye needn't begrateful to me for not behaving like a devil."
In his most unregenerate days he could never have revenged himself incold blood on a defenceless and suffering creature. The idea was soutterly abhorrent to him that he felt disgusted at the suggestion, andeven at the gratitude that took for granted that he might have beentempted in such wise.
Hopping Jack laughed hoarsely, and said he knew what he'd have done ifhe'd got a cove who'd broken his ribs under his thumb. But, apparently,from that hour he looked upon the preacher as belonging to a differentspecies, and placed in him an implicit trust that was not withoutpathos.
When the time of the sessi
ons drew near he became alternately wildlyflighty and deeply despondent,--the former being his ordinary condition,the latter only occasional.
He was superstitious, and had a deep-seated belief in luck, which hadfailed him of late; when the despondent phase was on, he became ratherdangerous both to himself and to others.
Physical pain added largely to his depression, for he still sufferedfrom the injury to his eye. Barnabas felt the responsibility, thatalways drove him to do his utmost, doubly great, because this waggishscamp, who was the approved "funny man" of Newgate, evinced at times astrong, almost dog-like affection for him. But Jack was not the only oneamong all that miserable crew who appealed strongly to Barnabas Thorpe'sruling passion to "save".
After all, the reckless licence, the apparently brutal callousness, andshameful blasphemy that reigned in the wards were heightened andpartially excused by the fact that half these men felt the shadow of thegallows on them; with such a spectre in the corner they drank deep andlaughed loudly, lest it should grow too plain. "Oh, it ain't come tothat _yet_," one of them said, shuddering, in answer to an entreaty ofthe preacher to pause and think. "I ain't got to the thinkin' time."
Yet, on the whole, Barnabas influenced them. The prison chaplain hadgiven up the press yard as a bad job; but then the chaplain had a goodmany interests which were quite as important to him as the "converting"of sinners. Barnabas was a man of one idea: even where the woman heloved was concerned, he would have deliberately advised her to lay downher bodily life, as she had laid down her position and worldly wealth,if that could, by any possibility, have seemed necessary for thefurtherance of Christ's kingdom; and his extreme singleness of aim told,as it always must, whether the aim is high or low. It is possible indeedthat his very limitations made him the more effective. The men who seemany sides of a question are chary of spilling their blood. Theliberal-minded philosophers have their place in the world, but theycan't rescue those who are sinking; they can only explain why theysink--which, no doubt, is equally useful.
Those Newgate sermons were preached with the intense fervour of one whobelieved that the "night was soon coming" for many of his hearers. Butthe constant strain on mind and body was growing more evident: thepreacher was no longer the man he had been when he had first enteredNewgate, and protested so vigorously against the iniquities of the pressyard; he had grown quite grey in these three months, and his broadshoulders were bowed.
Dr. Merrill was moved to violent indignation on the subject. It wassheer waste of the most magnificent constitution he had ever comeacross, he said; and Barnabas Thorpe was innocent. Barnabas himself wasnot indignant; his was not the sort of nature that turns sour inadversity. He generally took things simply, with few questionings as tothe why and wherefore; but the hopefulness that had characterised him asto his own prospects rather failed about this time.
"It's allus afore seemed to me most like that I'd get what I wanted, forI used to feel somehow that there was such a deal o' pushin' power inwanting," he said once. "Two months back I hadn't a doubt but what I'dbe proved clear; but I doan't know now. Arter all, when I come to think,I've never had what I've most set my heart on for my own sake, thoughI've been helped in my work. Some people want sunshine, and some arecoarser natured, maybe, and best managed t'other way. Happen I won't beproved innocent; happen I'm the sort as is best without muchsatisfaction. But it seems as if that 'ud be hard on my wife, for she'squite a different make to me, and a much finer; and I can't somehowthink as _she_ needs sorrow. My poor little lass! she's had enough."
The very tone of the remark showed how the natural buoyant spirit hadbeen knocked out of him; though his passion for working in season andout of season was even stronger than before.
He was gentler than he had been; and the most miserable turned to himwith an instinctive hope that the mercy of heaven might possibly, afterall, be as deep as the mercy of this man, even if equallyuncompromising. He saw Margaret seldom now. He often was not fit tostand at the grating; and, moreover, he feared that these unsatisfactorymeetings were almost more pain than pleasure to his darling.
Early in November, Hopping Jack, together with three accomplices, wastried, and condemned to death; but while the sentence of hanging wasrecorded oftener then than it is at present, there was also a greaterprobability of getting off. In nine cases out of ten the sentence wassuccessfully appealed against; and the tenth man probably suffered theextreme penalty as an "example," at times when there was a scare aboutthe especial sin he was condemned for.
Unfortunately for Jack, the crime in which he had been taken red-handedwas rife just then; and the public hot against that class of evil-doers.
The agony of suspense was consequently sharp enough; and Barnabas in hisheart hoped that a juster judge than any earthly one would not hold thepoor wretch guilty for the mad outbreaks that characterised this awfultime of waiting for the result of the appeal. Surely no one had theright to inflict a six weeks' torture of uncertainty! He succeeded withmuch difficulty in getting Jack off an imprisonment in the dark cell. Hefelt convinced that the dark would drive the man out of his remainingsenses. After that, he held himself accountable for Jack's vagaries, andvery frequently managed to restrain them. The doctor, at the preacher'searnest entreaty, declared the culprit an "unfit subject" for solitaryconfinement in utter darkness.
"Though, mind you, he's an equally 'unfit subject' for association withhis fellows in the light," he remarked to Barnabas. "They'd much betterput him out of the world as soon and as quickly as possible. He's one ofnature's mistakes, and you had better not have mercy on mistakes,Thorpe, as you ought to know." A piece of advice that had been givenbefore, with equal want of effect!
The wardsman liked Barnabas none the better for this secondinterference; but it did not at first occur to the preacher that he wasbeing purposely ill-treated when his food was scantier than it ought tohave been, when his gruel was handed to him in a pail, instead of abasin, and when he was carefully excluded from a share of the fire.
When he did discover that these paltry revenges were constant andunremitting, and likely to continue, unless he paid the ward dues, hetook no notice of them. There was, certainly, a strong vein of thefamily obstinacy in Barnabas, and he wasn't going to "give in" to anillegal extortion simply because he was rather colder, hungrier, andmore uncomfortable than need be.
The worst days of Newgate, when a gaoler could actually torture or floga rebellious prisoner, were happily past, and he had too much sturdypride to complain to the authorities of such mean and petty indignitiesas he endured, but they probably affected his broken health; and thatNovember was bitterly cold.
He had never in his life before suffered from weather; but he sufferedterribly now, both by day and night. The rugs that covered the men werenever washed, and he had resolved to prefer comparative cleanliness andcold to unmitigated dirt, and was very angry with his own softness forfeeling the frost, "like a woman". Indeed, in his ordinary health itwould have done him no harm; but, unfortunately, his bones had notrecovered from the violent handling they had received, and he lay awakepretty constantly with racking rheumatic pains in them, and began tostoop like a man of sixty.
At last, towards the end of the month, his turn came.
The case had roused wide interest, both actors in it having already, inwidely different ways, made a certain amount of sensation in London. Thecourt was full, and the crowd outside dense.
More than one glance was directed curiously at the preacher's wife, whostood among the spectators, and was quite unconscious of criticism orinterest, whether kindly or adverse. Margaret stood between Tom Thorpeand Dr. Merrill; but her whole attention was concentrated on Barnabas.This sea of upturned faces was nothing to her.
George Sauls, looking over the heads of the crowd, caught a glimpse ofher, and bit his lip with a sensation of sharp pain, and of somethingvery like envy. He would almost have exchanged places with the prisoner,if by so doing he could make that one woman look at him thus with allher soul in her eyes. Tha
t which he could not have, that which wouldnever be his, seemed to him at that moment to loom large and clear, tobe the only reality in a world of shadows. He told himself that he wasmad, quite mad, and that it was lucky for him that his madness couldtake no effect. He told himself that this woman was only like otherwomen; that even if her heart could be turned to him by some magic, ifhe could give all his ambitions and all his wealth in exchange for her,he would wake, when his dream should be over, and regret the bargain. Hetold himself that he knew what this was made of; that he had been "inlove" before now. But the odd part of it was that he did _not_ know.
If the wickedness of our own hearts sometimes takes us by surprise, so,I think, does their goodness. Mr. Sauls had a constitutional dislike tomysteries, and preferred thinking about what he could understand; butthere were elements in his love for Meg which would astonish him yet.
Meanwhile, this story that the counsel for the prosecution was tellingwas not a particularly pleasant one for Mrs. Thorpe to hear; though itwas absolutely necessary that it should be told. George Sauls'expression grew stolid and impenetrable as he listened. He was alreadylow in her estimation. Very well: she should have the satisfaction ofknowing that her estimate was right, and _he_ would have thesatisfaction of seeing Barnabas Thorpe hang.
The counsel dwelt on the enmity that had existed between the prosecutorand the prisoner,--an enmity that he described as being, on theprisoner's side, passionate and unrestrained, and almost bordering onmonomania. He should call two witnesses to the fact of Barnabas Thorpe'shaving already attempted Mr. Sauls' life fifteen years before this lastoutrage. He spoke of that scene in the churchyard where not even thepresence of death had availed to quell the prisoner's mad passion.
Neither the futility of such a wild act of vengeance, nor the indecencyof brawling over a newly made grave, had had power to restrain him then:the same violent impulse had evidently possessed him again in laterlife, when no friendly hands were present to hold him back. He went onto describe how the two men had met again in the hay-field, where thepreacher had denounced Mr. Sauls as "unfit to sit at table with Mrs.Thorpe," and when Mr. Sauls had suggested that the preacher had bettertry to "bring him to repentance" when Mrs. Thorpe was not by. A farmlabourer, who would be called to give evidence, had overheard thatinterview.
Then he told how Mr. Sauls had started on his walk to N----town,following a track that lay across the marshes. This track led only toCaulderwell Farm, and was little frequented. He was followed by hisenemy. Mr. Sauls openly acknowledged that he had done his best, on thisoccasion, to provoke a quarrel. He had demanded an explanation of thewords that the preacher had used in the hay-field, and had askedtauntingly whether Barnabas Thorpe only preached "when sheltered bypetticoats". Close on this scene followed the tragic and nearly fatalcrime for which Barnabas Thorpe stood arraigned. The preacher and Mr.Sauls had parted in anger; Mr. Sauls had gone but a short distance whenhe was struck to the ground by a blow on the back of his head. Mr. Saulsdid not see his assailant, but the facts of the case spoke forthemselves. Crimes of violence were rare in that part of the country.Mr. Sauls was a stranger in N----town. He was not aware that any man,with the exception of the preacher, bore him, or had reason to bear him,a grudge. Whoever had struck the blow had meant to kill, and had all butaccomplished the fulfilment of his desire. Tom Thorpe, who had found theprosecutor unconscious and hurt nigh to death, and the doctor who was inattendance on him, would be called as witnesses.
The prisoner listened to the speech for the prosecution with a curiouslycomposed air. Once only, when the counsel described the meeting on themarsh, his brows contracted with momentary anxiety. A minute later heraised his head and looked hard at George Sauls. He was glad that thatgentleman had had the grace to keep Margaret's name out of the affair.His eyes met his accuser's, and, oddly enough, for a single moment, inthe midst of this trial, which was for the life of one of them, thesetwo were of the same mind.
When the witnesses for the prosecution were called, the prisoner'sinterest seemed to lapse. He nodded reassuringly to poor old Giles, whowas heartbroken at having to give evidence against him, but otherwise hepaid little heed to what was going on. He was physically exhausted,which partly accounted for his apathy, and he had made up his mind tolet things take their course. He had absolutely refused to allowMargaret to employ counsel on his behalf, but he had very little fear asto the result of the trial. His defence was in "the hands of the Lord";he would "bide quiet," and leave it there. Meg had found it vain toattempt to shake this resolution. Barnabas had a prejudice againstlawyers, and his prejudices were not easily removed, but he had also amore reasonable ground for refusing their aid. He hated half measures,and felt that there was little use in telling half a story, while he wasbound in honour not to tell the whole. In the absence of counsel, hemade one short and trenchant remark on his own behalf.
"If I had meant to kill Mr. Sauls, there'd ha' been no need for me tocome behind an' hit i' th' dark," he said. "I should ha' done it face toface, for I was a bit th' stronger o' th' two then; an', if ye ask him,he'll bear me out there. I'm not generally scared o' fair fighting."
There was a little hastily suppressed murmur in the court at the lastwords.
The story of the middle yard had somehow got about. No one doubted thetruth of that last statement. The man's voice was low and his speech asshort as could well be, but his bowed shoulders and whitened hair spokefor him. Margaret turned to the red-haired doctor with a proud smile onher white lips.
"They'll _have_ to believe him," she said; and the doctor laughedgrimly. "He had better have all Newgate into the witness box!"
But indeed there was no need for the denizens of Newgate to testify tothe preacher's character. Honest men there were in plenty who were morethan ready with their evidence. Barnabas called three only; but one ofthe most distinctive features of the trial was the crowd of would-bewitnesses who clamoured outside the police court, begging, andsometimes threatening in their eagerness, "to say a word" for theaccused. "I know that the preacher never murdered any one or triedto--why? 'Cos he cured my baby when it was chokin' with croup; and I'vetrudged seven miles to say so," said one draggled, tired-out woman, whocould not be persuaded to see that her baby's life had no possibleconnection with the case.
"Ye've tuk oop th' wrong soart, an' I've summat to say to th' judgeabeawt th' preacher. Thae knows he tented me through the black feveran'----What? ye won't let me in? The judge is a fule man!" cried asturdy and irate countryman, who was convinced that his not beingallowed to storm the witness box was a proof of the gross miscarriage ofjustice. Men actually fought to get into the already over-crowded court.The testimony as to the preacher's character from east and west andnorth and south was simply overpowering.
Margaret lingered to shake hands with more than one friend of thepreacher's when she left the heated court at the end of the first day ofthe trial.
"When my husband is free again, he will thank you himself," she said.And the men drew back to let her pass, with little murmurs of sympathy.Tom Thorpe was still on one side of her, and the prison doctor on theother.
"Ye'd better get out o' this as quick as ye can," Tom cried; but Meg,who usually shrank from contact with strangers, was in no hurry now. Theshouts for Barnabas and the groans for Mr. Sauls made her blood tingle.The sharp anxiety at her heart hurt less when she was in the midst ofthose excited partisans. She had smiled bravely whenever Barnabas hadlooked at her, but the sight of him had awakened a passion ofindignation that she dreaded being alone with. She wished she couldhave stayed in the midst of a crowd till the second day's trial shouldbegin. Tom was excited too; his deep-set eyes were glowing, and hehurried her on almost roughly.
"Look 'ee," he said, "I'm thinking some o' those lads as came wi' me'ull mayhap gi'e Mr. Sauls a warm welcome when he comes out; an' I'dlike to see it! Just get clear o' th' scrimmage, an' then I'll go back.Lord bless ye! I've been too kind to that gentleman; but now I've seenour lad's face----" His voice choked.
> Meg looked first at him, and then at the knot of L----shire men whostood by the door, and whose "warm welcome" was waiting for GeorgeSauls. She felt instinctively that it would be of no avail to plead withTom. She turned round and caught hold of the doctor; who had, she knew,been kind to her husband.
"They mean to catch Mr. Sauls when he comes out of court," she saidrapidly. "He'd better get away by another door, if he can."
The doctor nodded. "Mr. Sauls can generally be trusted to take care ofnumber one," he remarked; "but I'll tell him."
Tom, who heard the words, laughed angrily. For a moment, Dr. Merrillfancied that the preacher's brother was going forcibly to prevent hiscarrying the message. But, indignant as Tom was, he felt responsible toBarnabas for Margaret, and wouldn't plunge into a row with her handsclinging to his arm.
"That woman will catch it for having prevented him!" thought the doctor."There's no doubt about it, there is a queer temper in that family."
When they were clear of the crowd, Meg broke the silence.
"You are very angry with me," she said.
Tom's anger would have repelled and frightened her once; but just nowshe experienced an odd sort of consolation in the intensity of the wrathand grief he felt for his brother's sake. Tom "cared" as no one elsedid.
"I'm not such a good Christian as ye are," he said. His voice soundedgruff, and he spoke in sharp undertones, turning his head away. He wasso angry that he could not trust himself to look at the fair face hisbrother loved, though he held his anger with a tight rein.
"So ye wouldn't ha' the man as has made our lad look like _that_--ay,and 'ull hang him, if he can,--so much as scratched, eh? Ye sent to warnhim! Good Lord! it's Barnabas' wife as kindly warns Barnabas' murderer!Ye'll forgi'e the man as 'ud like to kill your husband wi' his lyin'tongue, till seventy times seven! I've known ye a bit hard on Barnabastimes, but----" He checked himself, and swallowed the rest of thatsentence; but the sharp pull up brought the colour to Meg's pale face.
"Oh, ye are right!" he said, after a silence. "An' uncommonly forgivingan' a remarkable good Christian lass, as I said afore; ye areright--only d----n me, if I wouldn't rayther have a sinner for a wife!"
"Ah," said Meg; "but you are giving me credit for more Christianity thanI possess." He did look at her then, struck by something strange in hertone. Barnabas' wife was altered too. With that too vivid consciousnessof what Barnabas had gone through, burning like fire somewhere at thebottom of her heart, it struck her as almost ludicrous that Tom shouldsuppose she had pity on the preacher's enemy.
"I heard Long John swearing that he'd served with you man and boy fornigh thirty years, and had never in his life seen one of you put out;that, in fact, your mildness as a family was proverbial!" saidMargaret. She did not speak like herself, she was like another womanto-day,--older and sterner and less gentle.
"Of course he did," said Tom. "It 'ud ha' been uncommon queer if one o'the L----shire lads as I've licked into shape wi' my own hands didn'tswear by us."
"It would," said Meg gravely. "But if you and those same lads had caughtand half murdered Mr. Sauls as he left the court, it would be an oddsort of comment on what we've been hearing, wouldn't it? Perhaps, afterthat, they'd hardly believe in the great gentleness of the Thorpedisposition, or see how unlikely it is that one of you should hit a manwith a bill-hook."
Tom stood still in the middle of the road, and caught her arm with agrasp which hurt her, though neither of them was the least aware of thatat the moment.
"Ye doan't tell me ye believe he did that?" he said; and she wonderedfor a moment what he would have done, if she _had_ believed it.
"No--I know the truth," she said. "And, even if he had not told me, Ishould still have known that it would have been impossible for him tohit unfairly. But it's not in the natural mildness of your temper that Itrust, Tom. Barnabas has something more than that."
Tom gave a despairing grunt. "An' the summat more's just his ruin!" hesaid, letting her go again. "There! I hadn't no kind o' business to ha'spoken rough to 'ee, lass; and Barnabas 'ud not ha' forgi'en me in ahurry, if he'd heard. I meant to ha' been a help to 'ee; but, I think,I'm mazed wi' to-day's work. It were seeing him."
"Yes, yes; I know, Tom," said Meg. "Do you think I don't know how itbreaks one's heart to see him like that? But, when we get him safe homeagain, we will take such care of him! All the care he ever gave me heshall have back with interest. He will be obliged to get strong, for wewill nurse him so well." And again the wistful tenderness in her voicestruck Tom as something fresh.
"I wish it were Monday!" she said. "There is no doubt that he will beacquitted. Oh, no doubt at all! Didn't you hear that red-haired doctorsay so? He said that there was no direct evidence against Barnabas, andthat even Mr. Sauls' cleverness could not make an innocent man guilty.Barnabas looked as if he weren't attending; I think he feels that whatbecomes of him personally is not his business; or else he was too wornout to listen. On Monday it will be over. I wish it were Monday!"
"Ay! it 'ull be over," said Tom; "but what if it's over the wrong way?The devil does win sometimes, lass, whatever Barnabas may say."
"It isn't possible," said Meg. Then the soft curves of her lipsstraightened. "If the devil wins," she said, "why, then--you may do whatyou like. You may tear Mr. Sauls to pieces, Tom, and I will stand by,and clap my hands and cry 'well done!'"
"Amen!" said Tom, holding out his hand. He knew now what had changedBarnabas' wife.
They walked on in silence through the darkening street after that,engrossed by their own thoughts. Tom had got a room in the same house ashis sister-in-law; he nodded "good-night" absently to her when theyreached home. Five minutes later she knocked at his door, and enteredhis room with a plate in her hands.
"I've brought you something to eat. Do take it, Tom. You've had nothingall day," she said gently.
"I haven't the heart to feast," said Tom. "An' I hate to see ye waitingon me!" But he swallowed the food hastily, seeing that she would take nodenial. Meg's sisterly attentions half touched, half irritated him justthen. Anxiety always made Tom cross.
"Are ye gadding about again?" he asked, glancing at her bonnet.
"Yes, I am going to Commercial Road," said Meg. "Mr. Potter tells methat he has got some clothes belonging to Barnabas,--a jersey, and ashirt and a cloth cap. I am going to fetch them and take them to theprison to-night. They say the ward is terribly cold."
"I'll go for 'ee," said Tom, getting up and stretching himself. "Whatway is it, eh?"
"We will both go," said Meg. "I can't sit still." And Tom checked theremonstrance that was on his lips.
"Come along, lass," he said. "Though it's a wonder ye want my companyany more! Eh, the wind's blowing wi' ice in it. Come along, if ye will."
"I think I was glad you were angry," said Meg, laughing a littleunsteadily, as they went out again.
"It is good to have one of his own people with me. I couldn't have borneto be with any one but you just now. It is you who belong to him."
"Eh? Times are changed, lass," said Tom. "Barnabas would ha' gi'en hisears once to ha' heard ye say that."
"He wouldn't have let me say that I'd cry 'well done' if you revengedyourself on his enemy, though. Tom, I was mad. Forget it, please!"
"Would ye forgive him?" said Tom, looking hard at her. He repeated thequestion again presently and more insistingly. "Would ye forgive him--ifhe won?"
"No!" she said. "One may forgive one's own enemies, but I could neverforgive those that injure the people I love. It's not in me to be sogood as that--I meant what I said. I should have no pity left for_him_--for it would all be given," said Meg. She pressed her hands tightagainst her breast as she walked, and her steps quickened so that Tomcould hardly keep pace with her. "But, all the same, I would not cry'well done', and I would do my best to prevent you--for Barnabas' sake."
"Would ye? Ye wouldn't find your preventin' answer twice, my good lass!"said Tom. "Well, I'm glad ye doan't forgive him. It's more natural like.Ye a
ren't so much like snow and moonshine as ye were. It made me sickwhen I thought ye were sorry for that man. A woman who can be sorry forher husband's enemy can't care much. I'm glad ye've some flesh and bloodin the way you're made!"
"Do you think that I care less than you?" said Meg.
"Than me! ay, it stands to reason----" began Tom, then stopped short. "Iwish I'd left that gentleman in the ditch!" he ended with someirrelevance. "I'll never pick up any one again; there's a deal to answerfor."
"Barnabas wouldn't wish that," said Meg.
"Barnabas!" he cried. "He doesn't know what's good for him! Oh, ay, Iknow what ye are going to say. He'll ha' his reward i' the next world;but what do ye think he'll do wi' it? Why, he'll be miserable in a happyplace. When Barnabas gets to heaven he'll ha' no peace till he's sent tohell, my dear, nor give the angels peace either. Ay, ye may cry out,Barnabas' wife, but it's true, an' ye'll see it, if ever ye get toheaven too."
Into the Highways and Hedges Page 26