Into the Highways and Hedges Part 30

She had something else in her purse as well, and that she would part with, though the parting cost her a pang.

The diamond-circled miniature that had been stolen from her when a child; that the preacher had brought back; that was on her neck, when he and she walked out of Ravenshill together, long, long ago--ah, how long ago it seemed now!--she could sell that.

Meg had worn it under her dress every day, and always since she had married. She had never told Barnabas that she still had it; she had not forgotten his violent denunciation of the stones bought "with too high a price"; but she had kept it for her father's sake, and for her father's sake she would let it go now.

The diamonds were valuable. The miniature itself was worth a good deal.

Meg did not know how much she ought to get for it, but had a vague idea that it would more than pay for a carriage and horse to Lupcombe, and for the return journey, and Molly's stabling. As a matter of fact, she received rather less than a sixth part of its real value; but it was a red-letter day for the p.a.w.n-broker. She was on the direct road to Lupcombe at last. She would see her father--beyond _that_?--well, beyond that might be the deluge.

Mrs. Russelthorpe sat by the window of her brother's room. It was a pretty room; for the guest-room of the parsonage was emphatically "the best bedroom" of the house.

She had come down at once on hearing of his illness, but now the patient was surprisingly better. That most sadly hopeful of diseases had loosened its hold, and Mr. Deane was as cheerful as possible; indeed, his sister found him almost irritatingly contented. She was anxious to get him away from this dangerous neighbourhood. She knew that the Thorpes lived somewhere in the county; but he, alas! had not the faintest desire to move.

She sat and embroidered, her long fingers moving the faster when she thought; her lips compressed closely. When she glanced at Charles her face softened. She loathed a sick room; but she was fond of him, even when he was ill.

His features, refined by illness, were more painfully like Meg's than ever; and that made her impatient.

Certainly she had enough to bother her! Mrs. Russelthorpe could not bear accepting favours from any one, and here she was compelled to stay under the stranger's roof indefinitely!

Charles took it very lightly. He was grateful to his old friend; but the obligation did not hara.s.s him. He was generous and very hospitable himself, and would have done as much for his host if the circ.u.mstances had been reversed. Besides, he was one of the people who are born favourites; and even strangers always gave him willing service. As the old housekeeper remarked, "Mr. Deane was such a gentleman as it was an honour and pleasure to do for".

There had been some coldness between him and his sister of late, for he had strongly disapproved her threatened action concerning her husband's will.

"It is not like any of _us_ to take to airing family grievances in public," he had said proudly; and his reproof had impressed her.

Charles seldom played the part of mentor; but on the rare occasions when he did, his words always stung, though they seldom made her alter her course.

Presently he woke up and called her. "Sis, I wish you would put down that work and come nearer; that is"--with the quick thoughtfulness for other people which never deserted him--"if you won't go out and get some fresh air; you hate a sick room, I know. Really, it was very good of you to come."

"I can't sit with my hands before me," said Mrs. Russelthorpe; but she brought her chair up to the bedside. "You mustn't talk too much, Charles."

"On the whole," said Mr. Deane smiling, "I should prefer dying of talking, to dying of dulness."

"There is no question of dying!"

"No," he answered. "I feel like Mother Hubbard's dog; 'she went to the joiner's to buy him a coffin; and, when she came back, the dog was a-laughin''. I'm getting well with indecent haste! I shall go downstairs soon; but, all the same, there was a question of it three days ago,--as we both know well enough!"

"The danger is past now, and there is no need to dwell on it," said his sister, with a sharp closing of the subject, and with that accent of finality in her voice which Charles was generally either too sweet-tempered or too lazy to resist.

To-day, however, he persisted, though he stretched out his hand towards her, with the half-playful tenderness that endeared him especially to the women of his own family.

"Poor sis! You hate to be reminded that I am mortal; and, what is more, a mortal with an even less certain tenure of life than most; but I don't want to shirk facts myself; indeed, they've presented themselves so very forcibly lately that it would hardly be possible. Of course, I've known for the last five years that I am--well, we'll say the cracked pitcher, that may last the longest; I will put it that way to please you; but may go with a touch. But it's one thing to know that one may die any day, and another to know that the day is not possibly, but most probably within hailing distance. I think I have never been much afraid of Death; but the sight of him quite close does purge one's vision. It makes realities clearer, and the things that don't matter dwindle away. It is good for any man to see in right proportion for once in a way. Don't you think so?"

"My dear Charles, if you are talking about your soul, and your sins, and all that kind of thing, no doubt a serious illness may make you feel their importance; though I can't say I think you needed it. But if you are talking about practical affairs, never trust to decisions made when you are out of health: illness does _not_ make the vision clearer; it renders one liable to foolish weakness and error of judgment!"

"Spoken like a Solomon!" said Mr. Deane, laughing. He looked at her with a gleam of fun from the bed where he lay stretching out a hand to play with the silks on her lap. "I am sure, by the great vigour with which you delivered yourself of that maxim, that you are horribly afraid I have some 'foolish weakness' in view. Well--I've been thinking about my Meg."

Mrs. Russelthorpe sat more upright; her needle flew quicker still.

"She is not yours any more," she said, with a hard ring in her voice.

"And it is an unprofitable subject for meditation. She concerns us no longer."

"So I have said," he answered; "but, after all, nothing in this world, or, I hope, in the next, can do away with the fact of fatherhood. It goes deeper than one's hurt pride. You see," in a low voice, "it is the eternal fact that one turns to oneself at the last. It is the root of all things."

His face flushed while he spoke, for he was not a man who talked often of his religious beliefs; his sister had never known him touch on them before.

"I wish you wouldn't excite yourself," she answered coldly, after a minute's silence. "To say nothing can do away with the parent's duty to his child is nonsense! G.o.d Himself doesn't claim to be the Father of the impenitent and disobedient--though I think it presumption to bring Him into a discussion. Are you weak enough to want to give the preacher's wife your blessing and forgiveness unasked? Probably that is what her husband reckoned on, that you would be very angry for a time, and then come round, and take it easily."

She was startled by the sudden pa.s.sion in her brother's voice.

"Do you think I take it _easily_?" he said. "Don't you know that I would rather--yes, ten times rather have seen my child in her coffin, than have lost her so? No, no, I don't want to send for her; where would be the use? If she is happy, what have I to say? If she is unhappy--why, as we sow, so we must reap--both she and I, both father and child. She knows that too, I expect. My poor Meg! Ah well" (with a sudden change of tone), "Meg has made a mess of her life; but even you must allow, sis, that if it hadn't been for me, she wouldn't have had a life to make a mess of, eh? You can't get over that!"

"What are all these truisms leading up to?" inquired Mrs. Russelthorpe drily. She was immensely relieved to hear that he did not meditate sending for Meg; she felt she could breathe again. Mr. Deane leaned back on his pillows; his earnestness had tired him, and he was silent for a few minutes. Then:--

"No doubt I have been talking plat.i.tudes!" he said. "You mustn't expect an invalid to be strikingly original! I can't be brilliant in bed; and old truths impress one with new force when one lies face to face with--Oh yes, I said that before, didn't I? Well, when one is up and about, one is impressed by such a variety of things, and I have always detested business! Do you know that I've never made my will till now, though I've thought of it often enough! I sent for Mr. Sauls to witness it for me, and he is coming this evening. He has been staying at N----town. Our host has asked him to dine by-the-bye; I will finish the job this time!"

"Mr. Sauls! You might have spared me that!"

"Oh, you needn't see him. Say that I like your company, which is quite true, and have dinner up here with me. I wrote a line to him before you came, when--well, when I thought there wasn't much time to lose. If one doesn't strike when the iron is hot, the chances are that one doesn't strike at all!"

"I don't see that, Charles."

"No? It doesn't apply to you," with a smile. "I meant only myself and Meg. Well, sis, I don't want _my_ will to be a shock to you, for you and I have always been friends, haven't we?"

Mrs. Russelthorpe's work fell on her knees; she turned to him with an expression which no one but her brother ever saw.

"I've liked you better than any one else _always_," she said deliberately.

"Poor old Joseph!" thought Mr. Deane; but aloud he said: "Yes, I know that; that's why I am telling you about my affairs. Sauls wants me to leave to _her_ the same amount I shall leave to her sisters. You needn't exclaim! Sauls isn't a bad fellow, but I don't know why he should interfere. I've thought it all over. I have left Meg something--very little--and unconditionally."

"You are very kind to Barnabas Thorpe. He will benefit."

"Yes," said her brother gravely. "I have not tried to prevent it; he must benefit. I think Joseph made a mistake, though he meant kindly to my daughter, and I think Meg was right to refuse the money under such conditions. The preacher is her husband, her duty is to him now, and--well, both she and I have done rash things in plenty; but I hope that neither of us is mean enough to try to shirk the consequences. What I have left her will be something to fall back on if she is ill or in sudden need; not enough to lift her out of his sphere, out of the position she has chosen. I longed to make it more, but I have not done so. Laura and Kate will be all the richer; but I will not have Meg think that I have left off caring for her."

A wave of anger, hot and strong as ever, made his sister's hand shake for a moment; even now, she felt that Meg--unworthy, wicked as Meg had proved--stood between herself and her brother. Meg had always stood "between" from the time her baby hands had clung to him, and pushed Aunt Russelthorpe away, seventeen long years before.

"I have also left to her the things that were her mother's," he continued. "They are of no worth in themselves, and neither of the others would value them much. Laura and Kate are not sentimental, and you were not fond of their mother, sis. Meg will understand why I have left them to her. Poor little Meg! when I am dead she will understand."

Mrs. Russelthorpe rose abruptly. "I am glad you have not been so wickedly weak as to give her an equal share with her sisters, anyhow!"

she remarked. "Mr. Sauls should be taught to mind his own business! As for caring for her still, that's culpable folly, I consider, and injustice too. What is the use of being good, if good and bad are to be loved alike? She ought to be punished, she ought to suffer."

"Ah!" said Mr. Deane. "No fear that she won't suffer enough! We fools who make mistakes always pay heavily, even when we make them from pure motives. Mistakes cost as dearly as crimes, I think; in this world anyhow! As for badness, who dares say what is sin, and what error? or divide the blame? I ought to come in for the largest share, I suppose, seeing that Meg inherited her failings from me! I shall stick to the 'culpable folly' of still loving my poor little daughter. It's a pity you don't like it. You never liked me to be fond of Meg."

"It's not that at all," said his sister angrily; "but, thank G.o.d, no amount of affection could ever blind me to the difference between right and wrong."

"I think, perhaps," said Mr. Deane, "that one day even you--and I own you are much more consistent and better than I am--may feel inclined rather to thank Him that He is more merciful than men--or women. Are you going?"