Into the Highways and Hedges Part 49

She followed him upstairs and stood outside the door. Tom wondered, half amused, what she imagined he was likely to do to her precious son. Did she fancy that he would quarrel with a sick man? why should he? He supposed she distrusted him because he looked so queer.

"Well, sir; are ye feelin' a bit better?" he asked as he entered. Mr.

Sauls was in an elaborate fur-trimmed dressing-gown (he had a strong taste for personal luxury), and was sitting in an armchair that his mother had sent to N----town for, and a screen was arranged to keep out the draught.

His face was thin, and so were the brown hands that lay on his knee; he did not look fit to be out of bed.

"Oh yes, I'm better," he said. "I've cheated the undertaker and mine enemy this time!"

"I'm glad o' that," said Tom heartily. "Do you know who your enemy is, sir?"

Mr. Sauls looked at him rather oddly. "I believe so."

"Come!" said Tom cheerfully; "that's a good thing. Ye'll not gi'e him the chance o' playin' that game twice, I should think. There's a policeman downstairs wantin' to speak wi' ye, sir. I was goin' to let him in, when Mrs. Sauls axed me to go up mysel' first. Do ye want for aught? We'd liefer ye stayed wi' us till ye can be moved safely. Why, th' country side 'ull cry shame on us if we let ye be jolted along that road afore your wound's rightfully healed."

"Ah," said George, "the country side will understand why I couldn't stay under your roof, and why you won't want to keep me."

The real kindliness of Tom Thorpe's hospitality made him flinch a little from what he meant to say.

"It's difficult to come to the point," he went on; "because I must own that I am under a heavy obligation to you. Probably--no, certainly--I should have died if you had not picked me up; and my mother and I have been living in your father's house, and have received kindness at his hands----"

"Well?" said Tom.

George Sauls sat upright, his thin face flushing slightly.

"Well!" he said; "I can't prosecute your brother while I am eating your father's bread and salt, and I won't insult you by thanking you for your hospitality in the circ.u.mstances. As soon as I am outside your door, of course I shall give my evidence. No doubt you will agree with me that the sooner I go the better."

He watched Tom narrowly while he spoke. He was prepared for a burst of anger; "these hunchbacks generally have queer tempers," he thought; and it is a ticklish business to tell a man who has taken you into his house that you intend to bring an action against his brother for attempted murder.

"Do ye mean," said Tom slowly, "that ye are goin' to swear as Barnabas tried to kill ye?"

"I am going to swear that, to the best of my belief, he did," said George. "I didn't, of course, see my a.s.sailant; I tried to force a quarrel on your brother, and he refused to fight with me on religious grounds." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. For a few seconds the preacher had imposed even on him; he remembered he had half believed the man honest; but, in his right mind, George felt that a fellow who refused to fight "on religious grounds" was capable of any meanness; and, possibly, as a rule he was right; only his pocket measure couldn't gauge exceptions.

"It would have been pleasanter," he continued, "to have left your house without mentioning my intention of proceeding against your brother; but I confess I have a prejudice in favour of fair play, and I owe you an apology for having accepted your hospitality. I don't carry sentiment so far as to refrain from prosecuting the preacher because you carried me home; but I will certainly refuse to answer any questions while I am under this roof. Probably the delay will give the culprit time to escape; but----"

"Look 'ee here," said Tom; and he spoke so quietly that Mrs. Sauls, listening outside, afraid lest George in his weak state should be injured, could not distinguish the words. "Look 'ee here. Ye are ill; so I can't answer ye as I would like. Ye say Barnabas meant to murder ye, an' left ye for dead. Keep your opinion; you're welcome; no one 'ull be wishful to share it wi' ye, I'm thinking; but, when you come to 'probably,' _I_ know what he'd probably do, if he was here--an', by your leave, I'll do it for him."

He opened the door wide, and shouted down the stairs:--

"Ask the man from N----town to step up at once, Cousin Tremnell. Mr.

Sauls has important evidence to give, an' it won't keep!"

Then he turned to that gentleman with a short laugh:

"If ye mean to throw mud at Barnabas, do it an' welcome," said he. "It doan't seem to me greatly to your credit, sir; an' I doan't fancy ye'll find it stick. Ye needn't wait to be clear o' this roof; we're much obliged, but (I'm speaking for Barnabas) we'd rayther ye _didn't_ delay."

"H'm," said George; "he is more fortunate than most prophets--his own brother swears by him!"

CHAPTER IV.

Meg sat in the nursery in Laura's home, with Laura's child on her lap.

The child had been ailing, but had finally fallen asleep with his head on her shoulder. Margaret was fond of children, and little boys especially generally took to her.

This year-old baby, who was too young to regard her with wonder or pity, was a comfort to her, and she felt most at ease in his society. Laura was kind, but br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with unspoken questions; and Laura's husband obviously patronised the "poor thing" who had made such a "shocking mistake," and who must, he thought, be truly glad to find herself in comfortable quarters again!

She had made mistakes enough, to be sure! She had committed a most terrible and fatal one in marrying for any reason but that which alone sanctifies marriage; but, at least, she was not ashamed of her preacher.

Meg's soft grey eyes would brighten dangerously when this portly and rather self-indulgent gentleman too evidently pitied her. What was he that he should dare to despise Barnabas Thorpe?

Nevertheless, her heart warmed to Laura. The tie of blood drew the sisters together: they mourned the same father, at any rate; though, in Meg's case, the mourning was tempered by deep thankfulness in having been allowed to see him once more.

Laura came into the room presently, and sat down on the low rocking-chair by the fireplace, letting her busy hands be idle for once, while she watched the sister who had the fascination of an enigma for her.

The semi-darkness, the cosy quietness of the nursery, thawed their mutual reserve.

"I expect that Barnabas will come for me to-morrow. I wonder what can have kept him so long," said Meg. "I am glad that you persuaded me to stay here with you, Laura. It is good for one to have a breathing s.p.a.ce to bury remembrances in. I don't think that I missed a word or look of father's while I was with him, now I feel as if I could put that away.

One doesn't forget, but one must lay one's grief decently below the surface; and you have given me time to do that."

"I hate to think that you may be spirited away--and to I don't know what hardships," cried Laura impetuously.

But Meg shook her head. "I don't want to stay for ever! It is very pretty and 'soft'; it has been pleasant to sit in easy chairs and tread on velvety carpets, and, above all, to see you again; but I couldn't bear to live this life now. Even as it is, I feel as if there were a sort of disloyalty in the enjoyment of it. You must not fancy that I am being dragged away against my will, when Barnabas fetches me. I believe you imagine all sorts of horrors, Laura; but, indeed, I am telling you the truth! The preacher is very good to me. I don't think there is another man in the world who would have been so good."

"He ought to be," said Laura; "seeing that you threw away everything else for love of him."

"Oh no, it was not for love!" cried Meg. "And he never supposed that it was."

"Then you were madder than I thought." Laura sat bolt upright to give force to her emphatic whisper. She had grown stout and matronly since the days when she had advised her sister to "marry any decently rich man who would be good to her," and her views had ripened. "If people marry for love, at least they have their cake, even though they may get through it pretty soon, and go hungry when it's eaten. I've sometimes thought that I hardly saw that side of the question enough when I was young. I was terribly afraid of sentiment. But you, Meg--you, who of all women I ever met were the most high-flown!--if you didn't love him, what possessed you?"

"It is an old story now," said Meg, colouring. "Let it be. Barnabas understands about it. No one else ever will." She was silent for a few minutes, thinking of that scene at Ravenshill which she had but half understood at the time. "It is only afterwards that we know what we have done! I wonder whether all things that have happened to us will be seen by us in the right colours and the right proportion, as soon as we are in the next world. Will they all seem to shift into different places, like the bits of gla.s.s in a kaleidoscope?"

"My dear," said Laura, with the twinkle that Meg remembered of old, "I am distinctly of the earth, earthy. I don't know, and I don't much care, about the next world; but I am curious about this one. I should like to hear what happened to the Meg I used to know. Where did he take you?

Were you tolerably happy, or--or not?"

"I was happy when he was preaching," said Meg. "What shall I tell you?"

She reflected a moment, and then began drawing word pictures of scenes by the way--of the tramps they had talked to; of the gipsies over whose fires they had sat; of meetings on heathery hills, and on village commons. She dwelt rather on the lighter side of her experiences, and her stories ill.u.s.trated the gentler traits of the preacher's character--his tenderness for very old people and young children, and his hopefulness. She told how he had given a screw of tobacco to a dirty old tramp incarcerated in a far-off northern gaol, and how, on the beadle's rebuking him for his leniency, he had said: "She's ower ninety, man! ower deaf to hear the preachin' o' goodwill; but the 'baccy 'ull carry a bit o' th' message, an' she'll understan' that".

And she laughed a little over the minor perplexities that had beset her own path when she had struggled along by his side.

"It is different now, for I am older, and have grown accustomed to so much; but oh, Laura, I did not laugh then! So many funny things happened to me, small troubles that I had never reckoned on. For example, my boots wore out. I remember that we were walking along the bed of a stream, and every stone I trod on hurt me. You don't know how they hurt, when one's feet are blistered, and one's boots are in holes. It was only six weeks since I had left Aunt Russelthorpe's house, and it seemed too strange and unnatural to go to the preacher about that sort of thing. I couldn't ask him for money. I thought it would be easier to walk barefoot than to do that; and, after all, one can get through almost anything if one determines that one will. So I limped on, and should have reached the next village all right, if I hadn't trodden on a bit of broken gla.s.s. I was unlucky that day; it went through the hole right into my heel. I sat down on a stone and clenched my hands together; I was so afraid of fainting, and the sharp pain made me feel sick. I can see that valley now, with the purple heather and bracken glowing on each side, and the big boulders, and the brown stream brawling in the middle of it, and the preacher tramping steadily along, with his back to me.

Of course, he discovered, after a time, that I was not by him, and turned back to look for me; and, just when he reached me, a round soft sheep with curly horns and a broad face jumped up close behind my stone and scuttled away up the hill. It startled me so that it shook the tears, which I had been trying to keep back, down my cheeks, and I found myself sobbing like a baby. Barnabas stood and stared at me; I had never done that sort of thing before, and he was immensely surprised. Then he said: 'You poor little soul, ye just doan't knaw what to do for weariness'. And he sat down and consoled me as if I had been ten instead of twenty-one; and cut my boot off with his pocket-knife, and took the splinter of gla.s.s out; and finally picked me up and carried me into the next village. From that day, he took only too much care of me; but he is always tender to any one who is unhappy."

Her thoughts had flown to another time when the difficulties of the life she had chosen had pressed on her more heavily than during those first experiences of physical discomfort.

"He thinks," she said in a low voice, "that no mistake and no sin can be so strong as G.o.d is. It is that belief which gives him power over those who have fallen very low. Of course most people agree with him in theory, but he is quite sure of it practically, which is different."