Into the Highways and Hedges Part 45

In Commercial Road the shops and warehouses were still alight; he could hear the continual roar of the traffic, but this little off-street was nearly dark, and the battered figure-head of a ship gleamed ghostly and white in the yard. The preacher stretched himself wearily and then smiled.

"That old _Miranda_ must feel precious queer here," said he. He stepped into the yard, and put his hand on it. He had been sickened by what he had been hearing; his patient, in mortal terror of death, had been pouring forth a crazy confession of iniquities that made the preacher's brain reel, though he had heard a good many "confessions" before now.

Was it possible that any human being could really have committed all these unspeakable horrors, or were they the mad imaginings of a diseased brain? And was Timothy possessed by an unclean spirit, like the people in the Bible whom the Christ cured?

Barnabas at that moment felt that it would be easier to pray for fire from Heaven to destroy, than for healing power to save. Surely it was time for that second coming that should purge the world of its sins! How he hated this place!

Then the touch of the figure-head under his hand brought him a vision of nights at sea; the hum of the great vans in Commercial Road changed to the sound of water, and his soul was refreshed. The everlasting power he had felt near in the salt strength of the sea, in the solemn wideness of his native marshes, in the cold stillness of many an early morning among the hills, was alive still. His heart went out to the strong Maker of all things, with a cry for strength.

"What are you thinking of?" said Giles.

"I was thinking," said the preacher, "that if I was never to see the country again, still I'd ha' been luckier than most o' the people here, seein' I've been bred in it. An' that I've been an unprofitable servant, too easy disgusted and weary in His service; that I've been given much an' done little. I've had a near sight o' the Maker as town folk miss; an' yet I ha' been cold an' out o' heart. I've been thinkin' I'll do more if He'll show me how."

Giles put his head on one side, like a wise old bird, and peered up at Barnabas through the gathering gloom.

"I wouldn't say that if I was you," he remarked. "Don't you be righteous overmuch; it ain't safe."

But the preacher went back to his post with fresh zeal.

Timothy was sitting upright, staring and pointing wildly at a corner of the room; he shrieked to Barnabas to come and stand between him and "it".

It was curious how, in his extremity, with the terror of death before him, he clung to Barnabas, whom he had always feared and hated, as the only person capable of exorcising the horrors that surrounded him.

Barnabas lighted a candle and examined the corner.

"There's naught there!" he said.

"It's shifted; it wur afeart o' ye; it's behind me now!" cried Timothy.

"It's makin' signs; it's pointin' to its head, and I didn't go to kill him. I only meant--it's comin' nearer--doan't, doan't! Ah!----"

There was another agonised shriek. Timothy tried to spring out of bed, the drops of sweat standing on his forehead.

Barnabas put his hands on the madman's shoulders and forced him back.

This sort of thing had been going on at intervals for the last three hours, and the preacher began to feel as if he were the unwilling spectator of the tortures of the d.a.m.ned. Indeed, he believed, almost as firmly as the miserable Timothy, that there was a devil in the room.

"It's no good doing that, man," he said at last, when Timothy made another frantic attempt to hide. "If it's a spirit ye are scared of, ye can't escape it so. If ye ha' done it a wrong, confess afore it's too late; and the Lord will, mayhap, ha' mercy on ye an' lay it."

"You'll not call in any one to shut me up, and I'll tell ye," said Timothy. "I'll be glad to get rid of 'em; but you'll not shut me up! The stones wur burning through my cap into my brain; I see 'em all on fire now--there! blazin' away. Ye _must_ see 'em. Look inside the cap there in the corner, where it's standin' again."

The preacher glanced at Timothy's cloth cap, an ordinary enough article, such as nearly all the L----shire men of that part wore, himself included. He picked it up and shook it. Needless to say, no burning stones fell out. Possibly the whole story was a delusion, but he could not look on at this agony of terror any longer.

"Tell me what ye ha' done, an' ease your mind," he said.

"Ye'll not let me hang: ye'll not tell!" said Timothy. "Swear ye'll not."

"There's no need," said the preacher, "for _me_ to swear, who've never betrayed any man, nor never could. I'll not betray ye."

"It wur the back o' his skull," said Timothy, in an eager whisper; "just here," putting his hand up to indicate the place. "He didn't bleed much, but went down straight; an' I turned him over an' tuk 'em out o' his pocket. I'd think it wur a dream, only he's followed me ever since.

That's becos they've not buried him. Ye'll find him two stones' throw from the Pixies' Pond, lyin' very white an' quiet as if there weren't no more mischief in him; but there be; he b'ain't one to forget, an' he's tryin' to drag me to h.e.l.l. He's makin' signs now. Barnabas, Barnabas, he's----"

"How long ago did ye kill him?" said the preacher.

"Eh? how long? I should think it must ha' been a matter o' ninety-nine years or maybe a hundred. Quite a hundred takin' it all round; what with the time I was hidin' in the marshes, with him allus creepin' round and peepin' behind bushes at me--tho' all the time pretendin' to lie quite stiff, for I kep' goin' back to see--an' the time I was gettin' to town, where they came hollerin' arter me an' said as I was mad. They allus say that, if one speaks the truth."

"So they do," said Barnabas. "So ye knocked a man down in the Caulderwell marsh and robbed him, and ran away and came to London, eh?"

"That's it!" cried Timothy. He leaned forward and caught the preacher's coat, holding him as a drowning man might clutch at an arm stretched out to save.

"An' he won't forget; he's been huntin' me ever since, like a cat a mouse, an' he'll have me this night if ye won't lay him; for I feel him gettin' stronger every minute, an' I'm growin' weaker. He's a bit scared o' ye, but if ye leave me a minute--there, there! he's yammerin' for me from behind that curtain. Oh, doan't let him, for G.o.d's sake, Barnabas!"

The poor wretch was shaking from head to foot. The spirit he feared was the mad creation of his own brain; yet, none the less, it _was_ hunting him to death. Barnabas Thorpe stood upright, and lifted up his hands solemnly.

"If there is any evil spirit here," he said, and his voice rang with undoubting conviction, "I bid it begone, in the name of Jesus Christ the Master." Timothy fell back panting, with a look of utter relief.

"Ay, it's gone; I seed it go!" he said.

CHAPTER II.

A week had gone by, and Margaret was still at Bryanston Square.

She had lost count of time; she could not have told how long ago she had left the preacher on the threshold of the old house in which her childhood and girlhood had been pa.s.sed.

"Ye'll find me when ye want me. Ye'd best stay wi' him till th' end,"

Barnabas had said.

He had caught a glimpse of the grand hall, of the painted walls and ceilings; then the door had shut between them, and he had turned away rather grimly. Those heathen G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses seemed to the preacher fitting ornaments for the "heathenism" of luxury. But Margaret had gone up the shallow stairs, looking neither to right nor left, straight to her father at last! no one hindering. Mr. Deane was propped up on pillows; his breath was coming short and fast, his eyes were very bright, his whole soul seemed in them. When Meg crossed the room, the strained look relaxed; when she knelt by his side, he laughed weakly.

"Ah, I thought you'd do it, Meg!" he said. "Forgive? why, little daughter, between you and me that's not the word! but you're--you're mine again--and home!"

He shut his eyes then, like a tired child who goes to sleep when its treasure is put into its hand; and Meg knelt on motionless, with her head on the pillow by his side. She had neither sight nor hearing for any one else.

He dozed, it might be for half an hour; then woke again, and the nurse, who had been sitting at the foot of the bed, got up and moved softly about, and brought a cup of arrowroot to him, and Meg fed him in spoonfuls.

He was too weak to lift his hand to his lips; but he whispered to her to turn to the light, and to take off her bonnet, that he might see her better. She laid it on the floor by her side, uncovering the short waves of hair, that grew, exactly as her father's grew, low on the forehead.

"Has he cut off your hair, Meg?" said Mr. Deane. The sight seemed to distress, even to make him a little angry. "He had no business to do that!"

"He didn't," said Meg. "I cut it off myself long ago. Barnabas was sorry when he noticed that it was gone."

"Well, I'm glad he had the grace to be sorry. Don't go away." And he fell asleep again, with his hand on hers.

It was like a dream to be sitting in that softly carpeted room, with the scent of roses in the air, and the companions of her girlhood round her.

Laura came softly in presently, and sat down beside her. The sisters looked at each other for a moment, not daring to speak, lest they should wake him. Laura tried to smile a welcome; then her blue eyes filled with unusual tears.

"Meg, Meg! Is it you really? Will you vanish, if I kiss you? Is it safe to try?" she asked under her breath.