Into the Highways and Hedges Part 37

"Barnabas is too glad to have you back to care about what you've lost,"

said Mrs. Tremnell. "He's so set on you as never was." She looked at Meg with a rather wistful expression on her face. She had suffered many qualms of conscience about "Barnabas' wife" in the night. "You must be fond of your father, Margaret," she said; "and yet parents aren't of much account generally. My Lyddy never thought much of me--but there!

she was so pretty and clever, it seemed natural she should not."

Margaret didn't look pretty that morning. She couldn't have compared with Lydia! The black rings round her eyes were most unbecoming, and she was tired and sad; yet Mrs. Tremnell felt drawn towards her as she never had felt before.

"Ah!" said Meg sadly, "I daresay she _did_ think of you after all, Cousin Tremnell. One generally thinks too late!"

She went downstairs then, with some dread of all the questions and all the explanations before her, but with her mind made up. She had pa.s.sed a crisis during the night. She and despair had met at close quarters; and such a conflict makes its indelible mark. No one can "go down into h.e.l.l"

and be just the same afterwards. Either he must have found G.o.d "there also,"--a finding which deepens and strengthens;--or have succ.u.mbed utterly, which, I suppose, r.e.t.a.r.ds that discovery to which in the end we humbly believe "all souls come".

The preacher's wife felt anything but victorious that morning; but she would never run away from consequences again.

She met her father-in-law on the stairs. He had been "more than a bit scared," he said, when he had found that they knew nothing about her at the parson's.

"Did you go all that long way?" cried Meg. "I am very sorry!"

"_You_ went all that long way too, eh? Was your father better?" he asked.

"I might not see him," said Meg. And Mr. Thorpe refrained from further questions, but put his big hand on her head, with a fatherly kindness that was grateful to her.

"Well, well; it's a hard world!" said he. "But I am glad to see ye safe; as glad as if ye were my own daughter."

And Meg never guessed how indignant he was with her "own father" at that moment.

Tom was bustling in and out of the kitchen, and Meg sat down on the long bench that was always pushed up to the table for meals, and began playing with the salt, which had been left out.

She wished that Molly had been Mr. Thorpe's property!

Tom cast quick glances at her while he went to and fro. Meg knew that he saw that she was nervous, and this made her worse.

He came up to the table at last, and put his hand on the salt jar. That bit of earthenware, out of which each person helped himself with the end of a fork, was a.s.sociated in Meg's mind with Tom for ever afterwards.

"Well," he said, "it seems to gi'e ye some soart o' consolation! If I put it on th' top o' th' cupboard, which is where Cousin Tremnell says it ought to be kept between meals, p'r'aps ye'll never get out what ye are trying to say, eh?" And Meg drew a breath of relief.

This was the old Tom whom she had got accustomed to,--not the Tom of last week, who had been unnaturally grave, and exceedingly chary of words.

"I have such a fearful thing to confess that I don't know where to begin."

"Begin at the end," said he. "The end o' th' matter was that ye left Molly dead lame at the 'Pig and Whistle's' stable, warn't it? It was the best ye could do under th' carc.u.mstances. I'm glad ye didn't try to drive her home again anyhow."

"Oh, you've heard about it!" cried Meg.

"Long John told tales! Ye doan't do credit to my driving lessons; ye tried to do wi'out me too soon, ma'am!"

"I am dreadfully sorry I lamed Molly."

"Eh? Well, it's done now--an' I'd sooner by a long sight see ye glad than sorry. Besides, I doan't suppose ye'd ha' taken her if ye had known she'd come to grief. _What?_" with a sudden burst of laughter, "ye _would_ have? 'Pon my soul, Barnabas' wife, ye do go in for th' whole sheep while you're about it!"

Tom's laugh was infectious, and brought a smile even to Meg's lips.

"It is very good of you not to be angry. Long John said you'd never get over it, Tom."

"Long John thanked his stars it warn't him, I fancy," said Tom, laughing again; and then he grew graver. "Come now, he's been telling you tales too, hasn't he? A pretty little story about me? Ay--I guessed as much.

An' you weren't quite sartain that I wouldn't throw the poker at your head or swear at 'ee just now! Ye doan't allus understan' our ways, no more nor we do yours, la.s.s; but, if ye'd believe it, ye ha'n't much need to be scar' to' us. Lord bless us, if ye only knew the times I've _not_ said summat as has been on th' tip o' my tongue cos ye've been by, an' I doan't much enjoy seein' ye miserable an' shocked. Come now--ha'we made it up?"

He leaned across the table, and held out his hand to Barnabas' wife.

Meg, who was at least as easily touched by kindness as by unkindness, looked up eagerly.

"Oh, Tom--I missed you when you weren't friends with me; I should _like_ to make it up," she said, a little colour coming into her cheeks.

Tom shook his head with an odd, half-rueful smile.

"Ye are a white witch, la.s.s! I didn't mean to believe 'ee against my own eyes, but I suppose I do. I'll never think aught bad of 'ee again. Will 'ee forgi'e me now?"

And Meg melted at once, accepting his apology with warmth.

"But you had better not say you'll never think anything bad of me again, for you don't know," said she.

A vision of that salt pool rose before her, and she shuddered.

Tom whistled. "I say--it's not on Molly's account ye are so down as this, la.s.s?"

He walked to the window, and stood with his back to Barnabas' wife.

"Any fool can make a mull," he said; "but I've fancied ye might get atop o' _your_ mistakes; some go down under 'em, but not the best soart. I doan't know, as ye say--an' it's Barnabas ye'd better tell, not me--an'

it's oncommon easy to preach. I've not allus found it easy to practise, seein' I was 'started wi' a mistake in the making o' me; but I'm sure o'

one thing--Barnabas ain't wantin' in understanding; gi'e him a bit o' a chance, an', happen, he'll help ye better nor ye suppose. An' doan't 'ee think too small beer o' yoursel' either," added Tom. "Ye've got a pretty good share o' pluck, my dear, if ye'd only believe it!"

But when Barnabas' wife had taken his advice and gone in search of the preacher, Tom watched her across the yard, with his queer face screwed into a rather doubtful expression.

"Lord! I hope he'll say the right thing now; I'd like to gi'e him a hint," he said.

The preacher was in the hayloft, hammering at something, with his back to the entrance. He turned round sharply, hammer in hand, when he heard Margaret's step on the ladder.

"I told Cousin Tremnell to keep ye abed, ye were so terribly done last night," he said. "Why didn't ye stay there?"

"I wanted to speak to you; at least, there is something I ought to say----" Meg had got thus far when he interrupted.

"Doan't 'ee for any sake stand afore me looking scared, la.s.s! as if I was a judge and ye were at th' bar; for I can't bear it."

He pulled down a heap of hay while he was speaking, and Meg sat down, burying her face in it. Her heart was beating fast, and her head throbbing; but, after all, it was, perhaps, the man who was most to be pitied. There were few things he would have owned to "not being able to bear".

"I've some'ut to say to ye too. Will ye listen to me first, Margaret?"

He spoke low, with an effort to be quiet and cool for her sake; and then went on, without waiting for an answer: "After ye were gone yesterday, I came to look for ye; I wanted to say as I took shame to mysel' for holding ye back when your father was ill, an' I would have taken ye to Lupcombe; but I was too late. I _do_ take shame for that; I hadn't ought to ha' tried to stop ye. I am the most bound of all men to be fair to 'ee, an' I wasn't."

"Oh, Barnabas!" said Meg, looking up with tears in her eyes; this was not what she had expected. "Would you have let me go to him if I had asked you again? I wish I had, then; I thought it would be no good; that you never changed your mind."

"I've heard foalk say that we're all a bit obstinate," said the preacher; "an', where a man's had a clear leading fro' th' Lord, he can't, to my mind, heed other men's talk too little; but I wasna followin' the Lord yesterday, but the devil; an' I was sorry for it when I came to my senses."