Into the Highways and Hedges

by F. F. Montrésor

  CHAPTER IX.

  Lead me, O Zeus, and thou, Destiny, whithersoever ye have appointed me to go, and may I follow fearlessly. But, if in an evil mind I be unwilling, still must I follow.

  --_Epictetus._

  But honest men's words are Stygian oaths, and promises inviolable.

  --_Sir Thomas Browne._

  George Sauls was enjoying himself in Newgate. Not that he had eitherfallen foul of the law, or been seized with the prevailing fashionablecraze that made the old prison a sensational sight for fine ladies andgentlemen just then. He was playing cards in the infirmary, where thepolitical prisoners, whom justice treated tenderly and with greatrespect of person, were making as merry as circumstances and the easypoliteness of the governor allowed. That official's own servants waitedon them, and the governor himself had taken a hand at whist.

  It was Sunday, and George wondered lazily whether Barnabas Thorpe waspreaching on eternal flames to those "unfortunate devils" who had beensentenced to death during the preceding week. He wondered a good dealabout his enemy, finding it a puzzle, perhaps, to piece together thepreacher's actions, so as to make them form one consistent whole ofhypocrisy. George very naturally preferred to believe the man thoroughlybad; it "simplified matters," as old Mr. Russelthorpe had remarked tohim years before. But he was not in the habit of letting himself behoodwinked by a personal feeling, even in this case; and his reasongave him some trouble.

  He wondered how Barnabas would look when the diamonds were produced;and, in spite of himself, failed when he tried to picture shame or guilton the preacher's face. He was to have a chance of satisfying hiscuriosity sooner than he expected.

  That particular Sunday was marked by an attempted escape, which causedsome amusement to the governor and the prison officials, and the end ofwhich George witnessed.

  One of the prisoners belonging to the middle yard had mysteriouslydisappeared--vanished into thin air, as it seemed; not from the yard,which would have been comparatively comprehensible, but from the insideof the ward itself.

  The governor threw down his cards and proceeded to the ward, Mr. Saulsand another guest accompanying him. The turnkey explained eagerly howutterly impossible it was for any one not gifted with the power ofsliding through keyholes to get out of the room, and yet how equallyimpossible it was to find a hiding-place in it.

  The governor stood stroking his beard, and looking at ceiling, floor andwalls consecutively, till suddenly an idea struck him, and he gave theorder to pile up wood as high as possible, and light a big fire--withbrilliant results.

  The refugee bore being smoked so long that the circle round the fire,which was blazing merrily, began to think their quarry was not there;but down he came at last, falling so heavily that they were only just intime to prevent his being badly burnt.

  The chimneys had just been grated at the top, but he had nearly filedthrough the grating, when the smoke, blinding and suffocating him, hadloosened his hold, and brought him to earth, giddy and bruised and halfunconscious, amid a roar of laughter.

  The joke was of a rather brutal order possibly, and entirely one-sided;but the man's blackened face and cut hands appealed to a sense of humourwhich was coarser then than it is in these "softer" days; and even thegovernor smiled.

  Only one man, one of the prisoners, remarked: "Jack is more nor a littlehurt; there ain't no need for that" (as they brought out handcuffs)."He'll no' be able to try again anyway. Eh, take care! his back'sinjured and that arm's broke."

  "He is right. The fellow has fainted," said the governor, bending downto examine him. Every one else was pressing round the sooty figure onthe floor; but George turned at the sound of the voice raised on Jack'sbehalf, and his eyes met the preacher's.

  He saw, more clearly than on the Saturday in court, how grey and wornand bowed Barnabas was. A sort of exasperation came over George. It hadalways made him angry, that, used as he was to rogues, this man's directglance impressed him against his will. He had not come to Newgate totriumph over the preacher; for all his bitter words, George would hardlyhave descended to that; but, as they stood face to face, the honesty, heread in spite of himself, acted on him like a challenge. This man had no_right_ to look so good!

  "I've found the locket!" George Sauls said suddenly, in a tone so lowthat, in the general hubbub, only Barnabas heard him; at the same timehe watched narrowly to see whether the mask would drop, even for asecond. He had meant to startle, and he had succeeded so far; Barnabasstarted visibly, and was first intensely surprised, then glad.

  That Timothy must have confessed was his first thought; then it occurredto him that Mr. Sauls would hardly have been the bringer of good news;and he looked at him searchingly.

  George resented the keen, grave question in those blue eyes, that hadoverawed and compelled so many a culprit to confession. _He_ was notgoing to be overawed. "They were found where, I conclude, you put them,"he said drily, answering the inquiry that had not been put into words."In the lining of your grey cloth cap. No doubt you had excellentreasons for hiding them there, which you will explain to-morrow." And,for a second, he saw in the preacher's face that sudden blaze of passionthat he had seen once before, when he had told him that "no doubt it wasconvenient to turn the other cheek".

  It died away almost immediately, and Barnabas said sternly, with thataccent of undoubting certainty that was his especial characteristic:--

  "When you say I put them there, you lie; but, if you've found themthere, that's evidence against me that I'll never be able to disprove.I'll not explain."

  It was the same tone as that which had said, "I'll not fight with ye";and George felt, as he had felt before, when, under the spell ofBarnabas Thorpe's fanatical earnestness, he had half believed himhonest.

  "That, of course, is as you choose," he said. "I've given you fairwarning. Not that I told you in order to do that."

  "No," said Barnabas, with the sharp instinctive intuition of motive,that combined curiously with the direct simplicity of his own character,and was sometimes somewhat disconcerting. "Ye told me because ye wantedto see how I'd take it, sir. I take it that it means I'll be convicted,"he added quietly. And George felt momentarily ashamed.

  "You've 'taken it' very well," he said. "You're no coward. I'd givesomething to know, out of pure curiosity, _what_ you are. It is thejudge's business, not mine; but--as man to man--did you do it?"

  He laughed at himself, even while he asked the question; it was afoolish one enough; but the preacher made no protestations.

  "Do you believe I did?" said he. "Ay--I see you do half believe it. ThenI've done ye a wrong; I thought ye didn't. There's been a deal betweenus, and, happen, not much to choose from, i' the way o' hating. It's thejudge's business, as ye say. To his own master a man stands or falls.It's to Him I'll answer."

  And George turned away. Barnabas was too proud to protest his innocenceto his enemy. If he would condescend to exonerate himself before nojudge but One--so be it.

  The conversation had been short. It had lasted a bare three minutes. Itis odd how much of hope and fear and passion can be crowded into threeminutes!

  The blazing fire the governor had ordered flung flickering lights overthe faces of the men gathered round Hopping Jack, whose slight, usuallyagile form lay still enough now.

  It is an ill wind that blows no good; and, this bitter day, the fire wascomfortable.

  Some one had thrown water on Jack, which, trickling over his face, leftlivid streaks and channels through the soot.

  Dr. Merrill's red head was bent over him. "He's very seriously hurt;his back's broken," he said, as he knelt in the middle of the circle.Jack opened his one eye, and said, "Am I dying?"

  The governor muttered that it was deucedly awkward. How was he to knowthat the fellow would fall like that? And no one laughed any more; thejoke had ceased to be funny.

  "Come here, Thorpe," said the doctor. "You can help." And the preacher,who had also heard a death warrant, came and knelt by the man's side.<
br />
  "Ay--I thought as much!" he said. "He's about done for." And thegentlemen went away rather silently.

  "That big grey-haired chap with the very blue eyes is the one you wantto see hang, isn't he?" said the governor, when they got outside. "I sawyou watching him while he was helping the doctor."

  "I was admiring the steadiness of his hand," said George. "I own minemight have shaken a little in the circumstances."

  * * * * *

  It was very dark. A black fog wrapt the city in gloom, and the cheerlesscold was intense. Barnabas Thorpe sat on the floor in a corner of theward, with Jack's head resting against him.

  The preacher had seen Death often enough in one guise or another. Hebelieved him to be coming close,--not only to the poor soul he,Barnabas, was doing his best to support, but to himself.

  Now he knew what his presentiment had meant; his horror of London wasjustified.

  He sat facing the situation, with his lips set hard. He had always heldhis life lightly, and had risked it oftener than most men; but, all thesame, he had a good healthy love of it, and would have liked to fighthard for it; and the disgrace touched him. The Thorpes had always heldtheir heads high. Poor Tom!--and Margaret! A short sharp sound brokefrom his lips at that last thought. Could he let Margaret go?

  "I say, do you think I'll cheat the hangman?" said Jack.

  "I do," said Barnabas. "Do you want some water? How dark it is!"

  He could hardly see Jack's face. The man was sinking fast, and thepreacher was glad of it! For once, he had no desire to cure. Better thatthe poor fellow should die in comparative peace here, than watched by amob outside; and on the gallows. After all, a man can die but once! Heheld the cup to Jack's lips; lifted him as tenderly as a woman mighthave, then laid him down again.

  After all, a man can only die once! Yes,--and he can live on earth onlyonce, to hold the woman he has chosen in his arms, and to win thesweetness of her love.

  In heaven he might, maybe, hear the songs of the just made perfect; but,sinful man that he was, surely his heart would still ache through alltheir celestial music for what he had never heard,--the sound of hisname on her lips with the accent of earthly love in it! Ah, and he hadnever once so much as kissed her!

  His life was worth more than that crime-stained idiot's. If he betrayedhim for Margaret's sake! For Margaret's sake! the words shamed him.

  If he sinned for her, then he would give the lie to all his life. Hewould prove his enemy right; he would surely show that it had been forselfish desire, not for the saving of her fair soul, that he had takenher. For Margaret's sake! how durst the devil tempt him with her name?

  "Good Lord, deliver me!" he cried. But it seemed to him that the verybitterness of death was upon him. To let her go! before ever he had wonher! never more to have part or lot in anything that might befall her!

  He had trusted in his God, and his God had mocked him; filling his heartwith this unsatisfied love. Other men got their desires and----

  "Preacher, shall you preach to-day in the yard?" said Jack.

  "No; I've no call to preach to-day. I can't," said Barnabas.

  Perhaps he had never had a call; perhaps everything was a mistake frombeginning to end. If so, then indeed he _had_ been a fool; he might, atleast, have eaten and drunk, for to-morrow----

  "Then you won't leave me," said Jack. "I say, I can't feel anythingbelow my waist, ain't that queer? The governor did me a good turn; for Ihadn't much chance of getting clear off, anyhow, even if there 'adn'tbeen them cursed gratings; and now I've cheated them." And he laughedweakly. "I'd like you to stick close by me at the end; but don't preachtoo much, 'cos I mean to die game. I meant to do _that_ anyhow. If it'adn't been for you, I'd have finished myself; but I owed you one. Howcold it is!"

  Barnabas slipped off his jersey to wrap round the man. He knew wellenough that no amount of warm clothing would affect that creeping cold;but, at least, it was a way of expressing human sympathy.

  Then the fight in his own soul went on again. The preacher's face lookedgrey in the darkness--the darkness was dark enough.

  Was it all a mistake? The waters were going over him.

  "I wish you'd light a match. There's one hidden under the rug," saidJack; "and put it between your teeth and lift me a bit; I want to seeyou."

  "That 'ull do ye no good," said Barnabas; but he did as he was asked.The match flickered up between the dying man's face and his own; theloneliness that pressed on his soul, as the thick darkness on hiseyeballs, seemed momentarily lightened; then the flame went out.

  "Thank 'ee--that will do," said Jack. "It makes a man feel queer to knowhe's going out, and lonesome like."

  "Are you in much pain?" asked Barnabas; he had grown fond of HoppingJack.

  "No; it's the first time it's held off me for weeks," he said. "I say,preacher--I ain't going to whine about my sins, they're past prayingfor; but I wish I hadn't gone in for that work in the yard when we seton you. When one's always got a kind of grinding pain going on insideone, it kind of drives one to play the fool badly. Dr. Merrill says it'ssomething with a queer name that begins with a 'K' was the matter withme, and it sarved me right. I wish he'd got it! Preaching always riledme, and that day it was bad, and you looked so strong. It were partlythat that aggravated me."

  "I see. I was very strong," said the preacher, a good deal touched bythis odd confession. "Happen it made ye envious. Never mind, Jack,that's past."

  "No, it ain't," said Jack. "You're a different sort to me, and don'tbear malice; but it's made you another man. It hurt you to lift me withtwo hands just now; you could have lifted me with one finger before wedid that. If the Lord you're so sure about _is_ there, He oughtn't toforget; but without that (for it ain't any good thinking of what'scoming), I wish I hadn't had a hand in it."

  He paused for breath, looking up wistfully at the preacher, whose facehe could no longer make out, and finding it difficult to expresspenitence without showing the white feather. "Mind you, it ain't nothingto do with heaven or hell," he said confusedly. "I'm only sorry 'cos itwas _you_."

  "Ye've made it up to me, Jack," said the preacher. "Ye told me just nowye wouldn't kill yourself for my sake. I ain't much, God knows; but mypreaching would ha' meant just nothing at all, if I didn't hold thatworth some bruises."

  He was feeling his feet again; after all, that was worth something.

  "It's a precious odd making up," said Jack. "And I can't see why thedevil it's any odds to you whether I did or not; but I know it is! Isay, when _you_ get to heaven, you might say that, eh?"

  "Say what?" said Barnabas.

  His brain was confused between the strong love of life, or rather ofMargaret, that he was trying to fight down in his own soul (it was likefighting an inflowing tide), and the other strong impulse to help, thathad been a ruling habit of years.

  "Why, that I had a try to make up. No one else will speak for me, youmay bet on that! And even you won't be able to make it amount to much,but--come--say you'll remember me, if there is anything the other side.Swear you'll not forget. I shouldn't believe any one else, if they sworetill they burst; but you'd stick to anything you'd said. I won't funk. Iwon't have that fat parson pray for me. If God's alive, He ain't such asoft one as to be squared by a few snivellin' prayers at the end; butI'd like you to remember me. Whatever comes, it seems as if you'd besomething to hold to."

  And the preacher bowed his grey head on his hands. He had been preachedto, to some purpose.

  In the midst of the darkness he saw again the figure of his Mastercrucified, with a thief on the right hand and on the left.

  "It's not to _me_ you must say that!" he cried. "Not to me, who am amost cowardly and unprofitable servant. But, oh, my Lord, remember_us_--when Thou comest into Thy kingdom!" And, with that, the darknessin his soul cleared.

  Jack's mind wandered after that; he kept spouting bits out of some playthat Barnabas had never heard of, and aping feebly all sorts ofcharacters, chiefly kings and princes (
the fellow had evidently been areader at one time). Then the feeble voice grew fainter, and presentlyhe slept. During his sleep he effectually escaped, neither grating norgaolers having power to stay him this time.

  His _role_ was played out, and delivered up to the Author of potentatesand beggars; of the few who succeed, and the many who fail. Barnabasclosed Hopping Jack's eyes gently--having a weak place in his owncomposition for failures--then stood upright.

  "I must preach this evening," he said. "I ha' much to say, an' th' timeis short."

  The men were not allowed to go into the yard lest there should be moreattempts to get out under cover of the yellow fog. Barnabas preached inthe ward, therefore; and Dr. Merrill, coming in at five o'clock, foundJack dead, and the others congregated round the preacher.

  The red-haired surgeon watched the scene, with the half admiringirritation that Barnabas Thorpe's proceedings were apt to produce inhim.

  He glanced round at the degraded types of humanity that surroundedBarnabas, and said to himself (as he had often said before) that onemight as well try to make sweet bread with salt water as to make a manof an habitual gaol bird. Yet, there was something fine, thoughirrational, in a faith that saw possibilities even here!

  "I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels, norprincipalities, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any othercreature can separate us from the love of God," cried the man, whoseintense conviction held this motley throng of rogues.

  And the "life" he had in his mind was the evil life of that hotbed ofcrime, and the "death" that most inglorious and miserable death on thegallows that awaited many of his hearers. While he listened, Dr. Merrillbecame convinced that Barnabas believed himself about to die. His keeneyes watched the preacher narrowly, and he noted the exhaustion thatfollowed the sermon. Barnabas dropped wearily on to a bench when he hadfinished speaking, and rested his head on his hands. The doctor went upto him, and tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

  "Have you made up your mind to be hanged? If so, you should be ashamedof yourself!" he said. "You've plenty of pluck when it's a case ofrisking your life. Why on earth do you throw up the sponge soconfoundedly easily, when it is a case of saving it?"

  "I've nought to say about it, an' what comes next is out o' my hands,"said Barnabas. "Yesterday the chances seemed on th' side of my beingacquitted; but som'ut's happened since then, an' I know the verdict'ull be th' other way now. Ay, I've made up my mind. Jack died an hourago, sir. I was glad on it."

  "He had a piece of luck at the last," said the doctor. "But what hashappened since yesterday that you should despair?"

  "I doan't despair, nor for Jack, nor for myself," answered the preacher.

  And Dr. Merrill grunted impatiently. Barnabas never had much inclinationto confide in his own sex.

  "You were never in the same boat with Jack. He was guilty, and thegallows tree was his natural goal. You come of an honest stock, and, ifyou're convicted, it will be through your own stupidity," said thedoctor. "Come, Thorpe, of course you have an inalienable right to be afool, if you choose; but, does it never strike you that it will be hardon your friends if you are sentenced?"

  "Do ye suppose I've not thought o' all that?" said Barnabas doggedly. "Idoan't knaw that I want to talk to 'ee about it, sir."

  "No; you are mighty impatient of other people's sermons, but you'lllisten to me before I've done with you," said the doctor. "You made aprecious bad defence! Can you swear to me that you know nothing beyondwhat you've said in court? Aha! I thought you couldn't!"

  "Why should I swear aught to 'ee?" said Barnabas. "I'm not askingadvice, nor needing it. All the same," he added, after a moment, "Iought to thank ye for believing in me."

  "Believe in you! I believe on my soul that you've got somecrack-brained, pernicious notion that will lead you to slip your neckinto a noose that was made for some one else, and that you'll find a bittoo tight; now, for the sake of that unfortunate wife of yours----Hallo,you are attending to me now!"

  "What ha' ye had to do wi' her? Is she ill? For God's sake, go on an'tell me about her, an' I'll listen to th' rest after," said thepreacher. And the anxiety in his voice was so sharp that the doctor witha shrug of his shoulders complied.

  "She had been knocked down by a cart, and she sent her brother-in-law tofetch me to bind up a scratch on her wrist. At least, that was theostensible reason for my visit. As a matter of fact, she wanted towheedle me into letting her see the inside of Newgate. No; she wasn'thurt; but it must be a nice state of things for her when her naturalprotector has to ask me whether she's ill or well! If I had awife--which, thank Heaven, I have been preserved from--I should notsacrifice her to any skulking sneak. Poor woman! she nearly went on herknees to me, to persuade me to smuggle her in."

  Barnabas winced. He hated to think that Margaret had pleaded to any man.Margaret, who, for all her gentleness, was so proud! It touched him tothe quick too; did she want to see him so much?

  As for the doctor, he was somewhat of the opinion of Meg's old friend,Sir Thomas Browne, who "cast no true affection on a woman," but "lovedhis friend as he loved his virtue or his God". There were plenty ofpretty women in the world; and his indignation on Mrs. Thorpe's behalfwas perhaps not very deep; but he knew what he was about. This fanaticheld his wife ridiculously dear, and her misery might break hisstubbornness.

  "Doctor," said Barnabas hoarsely, "can't ye do it? I'd give moastanything (but I've naught to give) to ha' my lass once more wi' no barsbetween us. I've that to tell her which is hard to say wi'out I have herclose to me! If ye'll do that for us----"

  He stammered, and broke off his sentence, from very powerlessness toexpress the full strength of his desire. Dr. Merrill, looking criticallyat him, saw that the man's face was working with the earnestness of hispassion--he was not one who could entreat easily.

  "I'll do it somehow," the doctor said slowly, "if--if you'll cease beingsuch a mad idiot. Who is guilty?"

  "Ye must e'en answer your own riddles; an' if _that's_ the 'if' I mustdo wi'out her," said Barnabas; and the doctor shrugged his shouldersagain.

  "I give up! Your obstinacy beats mine, preacher." He got up from thebench where he had seated himself beside Barnabas, but still lingered amoment.

  "There's a poor creature in the condemned cell who wants to see you.It's against rules, but I have got leave to take you there. Will youcome?"

  "Of course," said Barnabas.

  They walked together through the long passages. Barnabas shivered; itwas cold, and Jack was still wrapped in his jersey.

  The doctor eyed him inquiringly. "What on earth shall you find to say tosome one in a condemned cell?" he asked.

  "That God's mercy is greater than man's. That we can kill, but He canmake alive," said Barnabas. The doctor slid something into the gaoler'shand as the key turned. "Now, good luck to the sermon; but it mustn't belong," said he.

  But the preacher, with a cry, held out his arms.

  A woman! no terrified criminal driven to a so-called "repentance" by theapproach of death--a woman, with love, not fear, in her eyes, turnedquickly to him!

  "Margaret! Margaret!" he cried. Then he put his hand under her chin,and lifted her face that had been hidden against his arm. "Margaret!"

  He had told her once that he, who had never taken her liking for love,would know when he saw the difference. He knew now. Here, in thecondemned cell, in the ante-chamber of death, he saw _that_, at last,which he believed deathless; that for which his soul had hungered.

  "Have I found ye?" he said. And she, putting her arms around him, liftedher lips to his, and kissed him,--a kiss solemn as a sacrament.

  "Yes! You have found me!" she said.

  The doctor shut the door gently from the outside.

  "If it's to be done, _she'll_ do it."