"And yet I don't know," he said. "She may have known--God knows--no! I

think it is the devil knows--what may happen when a woman is bound to

_such_ a saint. In any case it's not her fault."

"But she will suffer if he's hanged," said Mrs. Sauls; and George looked

up.

"Yes; she will," he said. "That's not my affair. The fool always suffers

with the knave, and the innocent with the guilty. I didn't make that

excellent universal law. But I am not so moonstruck as to let a rogue

off for the sake of a woman who won't touch me with a pair of tongs.

Why, mother, what do you take me for? What do you want? I've never known

you so unreasonable. Why shouldn't I bring a man to justice who has

tried to kill me? Who am I to upset heaven's decrees? Do you want me to

compound a felony? I believe you do! I am ashamed of you, old lady!"

"I am a foolish old woman, my boy," said Mrs. Sauls. "Perhaps it's

because I am getting feeble and old now, that I can't bear to hear you

talk so."

And George suddenly dropped the savagely bantering tone, and sat down on

the sofa beside her, and pulled her closer to him. "Nonsense! 'old and

feeble!'" he said. "There's not much feebleness about you, mother. I

say, you make me feel on a par with my uncle! My foot itches to kick him

when I hear him bullying Aunt Lydia. Have I been bullying you?"

"No, my dear. You are quite the best son in all the world, and not in

the least like your uncle," said Mrs. Sauls. "Besides, you wouldn't find

me so easy to bully as your Aunt Lyddy, though I remember----"

She did not say what she remembered; but George knew well enough.

They both remembered some scenes that had probably helped to make George

the man he was, both for good and evil. Isaac Cohen had been a brutal

husband, and a tyrannical father, till the day when George discovered

that he was big enough to defend himself, and strong enough to prevent

his mother from being ill-treated--at any rate, in his presence.

"Don't remember!" said Isaac's son. "My father is best forgotten. I hope

I don't remind you of him. If I do, I certainly ought to be heartily

ashamed of myself."

It was a bitter thing to say of a father, but then the facts hadn't been

sweet; and his mother, at least, knew how much besides bitterness had

been developed by them. It was seldom that she referred to those days

that were past, but she had touched on them for a purpose now. Her son's

love for her had deepened with the necessity of protecting her; in

alluding to that, she knew that she was pulling at her strongest hold on

him. Certainly she was, as he called her, a clever old woman.

"Perhaps I am unreasonable," she said. "Evidence is against the

preacher, and, as you say, he'll be convicted by the jury, not by you. I

should rejoice to see the man who tried to kill you on the gallows; but,

George, I still believe that _that_ man is innocent. Don't laugh again

and talk to me of heaven."

"Well, I won't," said George; "for, in sober earnest, mother, I must say

that I think heaven has had precious little to do with the affair from

first to last. I am sure the preacher's marriage was concocted in the

other place. I should like to ask him what he thinks of personal

inspiration when he knows what I've found. But I won't quote his jargon

to you if it makes you sick. I allow it was my own luck and promptitude

that put into my hand the rope that will throttle him. After all, I've

always found myself the only safe thing to trust to!"

"Very well, my son," said Mrs. Sauls. "But, if you respect nothing

beyond yourself, you must be careful not to lose that self-respect."

George Sauls looked at her in surprise; his mother seldom spoke so to

him; for, with all their apparent frankness to each other, both had a

good deal of reserve, partly born of a horror of cant. She felt nervous

at having said so much, but he didn't laugh this time.

"My dear mother, you are getting quite miserable; and neither I nor the

preacher, even supposing him to be as good as he looks, is worth that,"

he said kindly. "I believe I've been holding forth like a stage villain;

but, after all, I am not meditating any villainies. Some one comes

behind me in the dark and tries to murder me; I have the man, who, I

believe, did it, arrested, and then a fortunate chance puts clinching

proof of his guilt into my hand. Naturally I shall produce it. As it

happens, I hated Barnabas Thorpe before; but I assure you that I should

act in precisely the same way if there had been no former quarrel

between us, and I should be quite right. I am doing nothing unfair; you

needn't be unhappy; I can't imagine why you are. I wish you would go to

bed, and forget the preacher. I can't think what makes you so soft about

him; you've heard of men being hanged before now. Look here, I've got a

lot of writing to do to-night, and don't want to have to sit up till the

small hours. To do that is very bad for my head, which ought to be of a

great deal more importance to you than Barnabas Thorpe's neck.

Good-night."

He gave her a kiss as he spoke. She had been very foolish and unlike her

ordinary cheerful self to-day; but then he was aware that he too had

been rather excited, and his kiss was all the warmer because he had been

momentarily angry, and because she had called herself old and feeble.

Certainly her tenacity of purpose was not feeble.

When her son stooped to kiss her, she made up her mind to gain her

point, and she appealed instinctively to the most vulnerable part of

George. He might be hard-headed, like his father, but he possessed

something that his father had lacked.

"My boy, you are quite within your rights," she said. "But let me be

'unreasonable and soft' for once, and give me this fancy just because I

am your old mother and ask you for it."

"What do you ask?" said George. "If it is anything on the preacher's

behalf, please don't ask it; for I don't like refusing you, and you

don't at all like being refused."

This was not encouraging, but Mrs. Sauls persisted. There were few

things George wouldn't do for her, as she very well knew.

"You are more to me than a hundred preachers," she said. "George, if

this man is hanged, I believe from my soul that you'll be sorry for it

one day. Oh, I know that you are doing nothing unfair; that you've every

right possible to produce those diamonds in court. I tell you, I own I

am unreasonable, and a silly old woman to-night; and yet, oh, my dear,

the idea haunts me that you will feel his blood on your head, because at

the bottom of your heart you hate the man, not because of that blow in

the dark, but because he has married the woman you want. Throw the

diamonds away. Give them back to Mrs. Thorpe. Let him escape. If he is

guilty, he'll suffer in the end, you may be sure. If he is innocent (and

since I have seen him I feel convinced that he is), you will be glad."

She looked eagerly at him, but there was not a sign of yielding on

George's face.

"I am not afraid of being haunted," he said; "though the preacher is

always so illogical that I quite allow it would be highly characteristic

of his ghost to try that game on me, if a jury justly convict him. No,

mother! Mrs. Thorpe should have kept the diamonds when she had them. She

won't get them back now. I hope to see him hang first. If he is

innocent, he must be able to explain how the stones got into his

possession; if he can explain and won't, he is a fool--to put it

mildly--I shan't frustrate justice to save him from the fruits of his

folly. I'm not his nurse to prevent the poor dear from cutting his

fingers when he plays with edged tools. Why on earth should I?"

"Because I beg it of you as a favour," said Mrs. Sauls. "I don't often

try to interfere with you, do I? I do not like begging, even from my

son."

"You would have had no need to beg in any other case," said George. And

she knew she had failed.

"That you ask it is a very strong reason. Why, mother, it would be

strong enough to make me let off any other rascal in the world if he

were in my power."

"But you won't let this man off--for my asking?" she said.

"No, I won't," said George. "He robbed me of something I liked better

than diamonds--or even than _you_."

"I'll say no more," said the old woman sadly. "But, my dear, I am

sorry."

"Ah, well, if one can't get what one wants, one must want what one can

get," said George; and that soothing and virtuous-sounding maxim meant

(just then) that, having been denied the satisfaction of love, he was

making the most of the satisfaction of hate.

"I generally do make the most of what I can get," he added cheerfully.

"It answers very well. Good-night. Don't be sorry for people, mother;

it's a mistake, and a great waste of power. Go to sleep comfortably, and

don't fret."

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 either

fallen foul of the law, or been seized with the prevailing fashionable

craze that made the old prison a sensational sight for fine ladies and

gentlemen just then. He was playing cards in the infirmary, where the

political prisoners, whom justice treated tenderly and with great

respect of person, were making as merry as circumstances and the easy

politeness of the governor allowed. That official's own servants waited

on them, and the governor himself had taken a hand at whist.

It was Sunday, and George wondered lazily whether Barnabas Thorpe was

preaching on eternal flames to those "unfortunate devils" who had been

sentenced to death during the preceding week. He wondered a good deal

about his enemy, finding it a puzzle, perhaps, to piece together the

preacher's actions, so as to make them form one consistent whole of

hypocrisy. George very naturally preferred to believe the man thoroughly

bad; it "simplified matters," as old Mr. Russelthorpe had remarked to

him years before. But he was not in the habit of letting himself be

hoodwinked by a personal feeling, even in this case; and his reason

gave 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 guilt

on the preacher's face. He was to have a chance of satisfying his

curiosity sooner than he expected.

That particular Sunday was marked by an attempted escape, which caused

some amusement to the governor and the prison officials, and the end of

which George witnessed.

One of the prisoners belonging to the middle yard had mysteriously

disappeared--vanished into thin air, as it seemed; not from the yard,

which would have been comparatively comprehensible, but from the inside

of the ward itself.

The governor threw down his cards and proceeded to the ward, Mr. Sauls

and another guest accompanying him. The turnkey explained eagerly how

utterly impossible it was for any one not gifted with the power of

sliding through keyholes to get out of the room, and yet how equally

impossible it was to find a hiding-place in it.

The governor stood stroking his beard, and looking at ceiling, floor and

walls consecutively, till suddenly an idea struck him, and he gave the

order to pile up wood as high as possible, and light a big fire--with

brilliant 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 in

time to prevent his being badly burnt.

The chimneys had just been grated at the top, but he had nearly filed

through the grating, when the smoke, blinding and suffocating him, had

loosened his hold, and brought him to earth, giddy and bruised and half

unconscious, 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 humour

which was coarser then than it is in these "softer" days; and even the

governor smiled.

Only one man, one of the prisoners, remarked: "Jack is more nor a little

hurt; 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's

injured and that arm's broke."

"He is right. The fellow has fainted," said the governor, bending down

to examine him. Every one else was pressing round the sooty figure on

the floor; but George turned at the sound of the voice raised on Jack's

behalf, and his eyes met the preacher's.

He saw, more clearly than on the Saturday in court, how grey and worn

and bowed Barnabas was. A sort of exasperation came over George. It had

always made him angry, that, used as he was to rogues, this man's direct

glance impressed him against his will. He had not come to Newgate to

triumph over the preacher; for all his bitter words, George would hardly

have descended to that; but, as they stood face to face, the honesty, he

read 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 low

that, in the general hubbub, only Barnabas heard him; at the same time

he watched narrowly to see whether the mask would drop, even for a

second. He had meant to startle, and he had succeeded so far; Barnabas

started visibly, and was first intensely surprised, then glad.

That Timothy must have confessed was his first thought; then it occurred

to 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 had

overawed and compelled so many a culprit to confession. _He_ was not

going 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 excellent

reasons 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 passion

that he had seen once before, when he had told him that "no doubt it was

convenient to turn the other cheek".

It died away almost immediately, and Barnabas said sternly, with that

accent of undoubting certainty that was his especial characteristic:--

"When you say I put them there, you lie; but, if you've found them

there, 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 of

Barnabas Thorpe's fanatical earnestness, he had half believed him

honest.

"That, of course, is as you choose," he said. "I've given you fair

warning. 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 wanted

to 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 give

something to know, out of pure curiosity, _what_ you are. It is the

judge'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 a

foolish one enough; but the preacher made no protestations.

"Do you believe I did?" said he. "Ay--I see you do half believe it. Then

I've done ye a wrong; I thought ye didn't. There's been a deal between

us, and, happen, not much to choose from, i' the way o' hating. It's the

judge'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 innocence

to his enemy. If he would condescend to exonerate himself before no

judge but One--so be it.

The conversation had been short. It had lasted a bare three minutes. It

is odd how much of hope and fear and passion can be crowded into three

minutes!

The blazing fire the governor had ordered flung flickering lights over

the faces of the men gathered round Hopping Jack, whose slight, usually

agile form lay still enough now.

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

comfortable.

Some one had thrown water on Jack, which, trickling over his face, left

livid 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 know

that the fellow would fall like that? And no one laughed any more; the

joke 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.

"Ay--I thought as much!" he said. "He's about done for." And the

gentlemen went away rather silently.

"That big grey-haired chap with the very blue eyes is the one you want

to see hang, isn't he?" said the governor, when they got outside. "I saw

you watching him while he was helping the doctor."

"I was admiring the steadiness of his hand," said George. "I own mine

might have shaken a little in the circumstances."

* * * * *

It was very dark. A black fog wrapt the city in gloom, and the cheerless

cold was intense. Barnabas Thorpe sat on the floor in a corner of the

ward, with Jack's head resting against him.

The preacher had seen Death often enough in one guise or another. He

believed 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 was

justified.

He sat facing the situation, with his lips set hard. He had always held

his life lightly, and had risked it oftener than most men; but, all the

same, he had a good healthy love of it, and would have liked to fight

hard for it; and the disgrace touched him. The Thorpes had always held

their heads high. Poor Tom!--and Margaret! A short sharp sound broke

from 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 the

preacher was glad of it! For once, he had no desire to cure. Better that

the poor fellow should die in comparative peace here, than watched by a

mob outside; and on the gallows. After all, a man can die but once! He

held the cup to Jack's lips; lifted him as tenderly as a woman might

have, then laid him down again.

After all, a man can only die once! Yes,--and he can live on earth only

once, to hold the woman he has chosen in his arms, and to win the

sweetness 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 all

their celestial music for what he had never heard,--the sound of his

name on her lips with the accent of earthly love in it! Ah, and he had

never once so much as kissed her!

His life was worth more than that crime-stained idiot's. If he betrayed

him 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. He

would prove his enemy right; he would surely show that it had been for

selfish desire, not for the saving of her fair soul, that he had taken

her. 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 very

bitterness of death was upon him. To let her go! before ever he had won

her! 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 heart

with 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 from

beginning to end. If so, then indeed he _had_ been a fool; he might, at

least, have eaten and drunk, for to-morrow----

"Then you won't leave me," said Jack. "I say, I can't feel anything

below my waist, ain't that queer? The governor did me a good turn; for I

hadn't much chance of getting clear off, anyhow, even if there 'adn't

been them cursed gratings; and now I've cheated them." And he laughed

weakly. "I'd like you to stick close by me at the end; but don't preach

too 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. How

cold it is!"

Barnabas slipped off his jersey to wrap round the man. He knew well

enough 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 looked

grey 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," said

Jack; "and put it between your teeth and lift me a bit; I want to see

you."

"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; the

loneliness that pressed on his soul, as the thick darkness on his

eyeballs, seemed momentarily lightened; then the flame went out.

"Thank 'ee--that will do," said Jack. "It makes a man feel queer to know

he's going out, and lonesome like."

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

Jack.

"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 praying

for; but I wish I hadn't gone in for that work in the yard when we set

on you. When one's always got a kind of grinding pain going on inside

one, it kind of drives one to play the fool badly. Dr. Merrill says it's

something with a queer name that begins with a 'K' was the matter with

me, and it sarved me right. I wish he'd got it! Preaching always riled

me, and that day it was bad, and you looked so strong. It were partly

that that aggravated me."

"I see. I was very strong," said the preacher, a good deal touched by

this 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't

bear malice; but it's made you another man. It hurt you to lift me with

two hands just now; you could have lifted me with one finger before we

did that. If the Lord you're so sure about _is_ there, He oughtn't to

forget; but without that (for it ain't any good thinking of what's

coming), I wish I hadn't had a hand in it."

He paused for breath, looking up wistfully at the preacher, whose face

he could no longer make out, and finding it difficult to express

penitence without showing the white feather. "Mind you, it ain't nothing

to do with heaven or hell," he said confusedly. "I'm only sorry 'cos it

was _you_."

"Ye've made it up to me, Jack," said the preacher. "Ye told me just now

ye wouldn't kill yourself for my sake. I ain't much, God knows; but my

preaching would ha' meant just nothing at all, if I didn't hold that

worth 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 the

devil it's any odds to you whether I did or not; but I know it is! I

say, 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 of

Margaret, that he was trying to fight down in his own soul (it was like

fighting an inflowing tide), and the other strong impulse to help, that

had been a ruling habit of years.

"Why, that I had a try to make up. No one else will speak for me, you

may 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 swore

till they burst; but you'd stick to anything you'd said. I won't funk. I

won't have that fat parson pray for me. If God's alive, He ain't such a

soft one as to be squared by a few snivellin' prayers at the end; but

I'd like you to remember me. Whatever comes, it seems as if you'd be

something to hold to."

And the preacher bowed his grey head on his hands. He had been preached

to, to some purpose.

In the midst of the darkness he saw again the figure of his Master

crucified, 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 a

most cowardly and unprofitable servant. But, oh, my Lord, remember

_us_--when Thou comest into Thy kingdom!" And, with that, the darkness

in his soul cleared.

Jack's mind wandered after that; he kept spouting bits out of some play

that Barnabas had never heard of, and aping feebly all sorts of

characters, chiefly kings and princes (the fellow had evidently been a

reader at one time). Then the feeble voice grew fainter, and presently

he slept. During his sleep he effectually escaped, neither grating nor

gaolers having power to stay him this time.

His _rôle_ was played out, and delivered up to the Author of potentates

and beggars; of the few who succeed, and the many who fail. Barnabas

closed Hopping Jack's eyes gently--having a weak place in his own

composition for failures--then stood upright.

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

is short."

The men were not allowed to go into the yard lest there should be more

attempts to get out under cover of the yellow fog. Barnabas preached in

the ward, therefore; and Dr. Merrill, coming in at five o'clock, found

Jack dead, and the others congregated round the preacher.

The red-haired surgeon watched the scene, with the half admiring

irritation that Barnabas Thorpe's proceedings were apt to produce in

him.

He glanced round at the degraded types of humanity that surrounded

Barnabas, and said to himself (as he had often said before) that one

might as well try to make sweet bread with salt water as to make a man

of an habitual gaol bird. Yet, there was something fine, though

irrational, in a faith that saw possibilities even here!

"I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor

principalities, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other

creature can separate us from the love of God," cried the man, whose

intense conviction held this motley throng of rogues.

And the "life" he had in his mind was the evil life of that hotbed of

crime, and the "death" that most inglorious and miserable death on the

gallows that awaited many of his hearers. While he listened, Dr. Merrill

became convinced that Barnabas believed himself about to die. His keen

eyes watched the preacher narrowly, and he noted the exhaustion that

followed the sermon. Barnabas dropped wearily on to a bench when he had

finished speaking, and rested his head on his hands. The doctor went up

to him, and tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

"Have you made up your mind to be hanged? If so, you should be ashamed

of yourself!" he said. "You've plenty of pluck when it's a case of

risking your life. Why on earth do you throw up the sponge so

confoundedly 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 being

acquitted; 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 hour

ago, sir. I was glad on it."

"He had a piece of luck at the last," said the doctor. "But what has

happened 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 inclination

to confide in his own sex.

"You were never in the same boat with Jack. He was guilty, and the

gallows tree was his natural goal. You come of an honest stock, and, if

you're convicted, it will be through your own stupidity," said the

doctor. "Come, Thorpe, of course you have an inalienable right to be a

fool, if you choose; but, does it never strike you that it will be hard

on your friends if you are sentenced?"

"Do ye suppose I've not thought o' all that?" said Barnabas doggedly. "I

doan't knaw that I want to talk to 'ee about it, sir."

"No; you are mighty impatient of other people's sermons, but you'll

listen to me before I've done with you," said the doctor. "You made a

precious bad defence! Can you swear to me that you know nothing beyond

what you've said in court? Aha! I thought you couldn't!"

"Why should I swear aught to 'ee?" said Barnabas. "I'm not asking

advice, nor needing it. All the same," he added, after a moment, "I

ought to thank ye for believing in me."

"Believe in you! I believe on my soul that you've got some

crack-brained, pernicious notion that will lead you to slip your neck

into a noose that was made for some one else, and that you'll find a bit

too 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 the

preacher. And the anxiety in his voice was so sharp that the doctor with

a shrug of his shoulders complied.

"She had been knocked down by a cart, and she sent her brother-in-law to

fetch me to bind up a scratch on her wrist. At least, that was the

ostensible reason for my visit. As a matter of fact, she wanted to

wheedle me into letting her see the inside of Newgate. No; she wasn't

hurt; but it must be a nice state of things for her when her natural

protector has to ask me whether she's ill or well! If I had a

wife--which, thank Heaven, I have been preserved from--I should not

sacrifice her to any skulking sneak. Poor woman! she nearly went on her

knees 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 to

the 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 "loved

his friend as he loved his virtue or his God". There were plenty of

pretty women in the world; and his indignation on Mrs. Thorpe's behalf

was perhaps not very deep; but he knew what he was about. This fanatic

held his wife ridiculously dear, and her misery might break his

stubbornness.

"Doctor," said Barnabas hoarsely, "can't ye do it? I'd give moast

anything (but I've naught to give) to ha' my lass once more wi' no bars

between us. I've that to tell her which is hard to say wi'out I have her

close to me! If ye'll do that for us----"

He stammered, and broke off his sentence, from very powerlessness to

express the full strength of his desire. Dr. Merrill, looking critically

at him, saw that the man's face was working with the earnestness of his

passion--he was not one who could entreat easily.

"I'll do it somehow," the doctor said slowly, "if--if you'll cease being

such a mad idiot. Who is guilty?"

"Ye must e'en answer your own riddles; an' if _that's_ the 'if' I must

do wi'out her," said Barnabas; and the doctor shrugged his shoulders

again.

"I give up! Your obstinacy beats mine, preacher." He got up from the

bench where he had seated himself beside Barnabas, but still lingered a

moment.

"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 you

come?"

"Of course," said Barnabas.

They walked together through the long passages. Barnabas shivered; it

was cold, and Jack was still wrapped in his jersey.

The doctor eyed him inquiringly. "What on earth shall you find to say to

some one in a condemned cell?" he asked.

"That God's mercy is greater than man's. That we can kill, but He can

make alive," said Barnabas. The doctor slid something into the gaoler's

hand as the key turned. "Now, good luck to the sermon; but it mustn't be

long," said he.

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

A woman! no terrified criminal driven to a so-called "repentance" by the

approach of death--a woman, with love, not fear, in her eyes, turned

quickly 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 the

condemned 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, lifted

her 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."

CHAPTER X.

O lover of my life, O soldier saint,

No work begun shall ever pause for death.

"I thought I'd ha' to die without this," said Barnabas. "Now--I am

content."

He was sitting on the bench under the narrow barred window, which was

high above their heads. The winter sun was setting through a lifting

haze of fog; it threw a faint red gleam on the stone wall, and touched

the heads of the man and woman who were making love in the condemned

cell. Is there any place, short of the grave, where men have never made

love?

"Hush!" said Meg. "_We_ have met life, not death, to-day."

The last occupant of this place had been hanged, the next poor wretch

would be waiting execution. The thought struck coldly on her.

"Oh, Barnabas! I have never feared death before," she cried; "for I did

not understand what life means." And the preacher, looking at her, knew

she spoke truth. This vivifying passion had sent a stronger tide through

her veins. Happiness, new-born, was in her face, and the fresh wonder at

that everlasting miracle which changes our water into wine.

"All the world seems new!" cried Margaret. "But other people have to

die. And some of them never know what this means; and some, knowing,

leave it all behind. Barnabas, to-morrow you will be free, and I shall

be by your side, and all the happiness that is ours shall make us strong

to help. I will help as I never did before!--Oh, I am so sorry for

them."

"Ay, sweetheart; ye may well be that," he said.

The minutes were flying by. He must tell her. Her head was on his

shoulder, her hands were in his,--hands so delicate that one of his held

both. He remembered how their smallness had touched him, long ago.

"I ha' ta'en ye by rough ways, an' ye'll ha' a hard time; though I meant

to shelter ye all I could." The pain in his voice made her cling closer

to him.

"It is my turn to say to you, 'It is worth while,'" she whispered. "What

does it matter now how rough the road is? we will tread it together."

"But, if we are not together? My little lass, if we are not together?

Will ye say that then? It is true! Ay--God help me--I believe it; but

will ye think so too?"

"Whatever comes now, I will think so too!" said Margaret. She smiled as

she spoke, ominous though his words were. She forgot to be afraid, in

her womanly longing to comfort him.

"What do you think is coming? Do you fancy that the verdict will go

against you?" she asked steadily. "But that cannot be! Would _He_ desert

you?"

"No," said Barnabas. "Not though the sky should fall, or I forget ye."

And he put the last as the more impossible marvel of the two.

"But there's no want o' faith in believing that one may ha' to leave

one's body behind a bit afore the natural time. I've som'ut to tell ye,

Margaret. It's best to face it. I'd liefer ye heard it now, than

to-morrow i' th' court."

"Go on," said Meg. And with his arms round her he told her. Meg listened

silently when he described his interview with his enemy. "He must ha'

overhauled my things somehow, though I doan't know how he got hold on

'em," he said. "Ye see that must go against me. I can't explain it." He

spoke steadily, and not despairingly,--he had conquered his despair. The

fight had been fought; the "black minute" was at an end for him. It

might be hard,--harder than the actual wrench of parting soul and body

would be,--to part from her; but he could do it now. To relinquish Meg

unwon had indeed taxed severely the fortitude of the man who had once

told her that he desired no peace in heaven, unless she were happy too;

but this love, awake at last, he believed to be his now to all eternity;

and, indeed, with an "all eternity" in view, they might well afford to

lose a few score years.

"I don't understand," said Meg, in a voice she tried to keep from

trembling. "Mr. Sauls found the diamonds in your cap. Ah, I let that

drop with the other things I was bringing you, and he must have picked

it up. He saved me too. One would rather not be saved by such a--oh

well, it isn't worth while to think of him with you beside me; but how

did the diamonds get there?"

"They were hidden by the man who knocked Mr. Sauls down and robbed him,"

said the preacher. "I _was_ a fool, Margaret! The man told me where they

were, an' I thought it was just a mad fancy. It never came to me to take

my knife and rip up the lining; I just shook it, an' seeing naught,

flung it in a corner where it stayed. Ye see, I didn't wholly credit his

story. It was all so mixed up wi' delusions. One minute he was seein'

Mr. Sauls' double at th' foot o' his bed, beckoning him to hell, an' th'

next he were raving about diamonds bein' on fire an' burning him, an'

the next he were pouring out such sickening confessions as I think the

devil himself must ha' been prompting his tongue to. No man could ha'

committed all the sins he told of. An' the longing to deliver him fro'

Satan was strong on me, an' he kind o' clung to me, as if he was bein'

hunted, an' I promised him I wouldn't betray him. One can't allus be

thinking what 'ull be the consequences to onesel' when a poor soul turns

to one in mortal terror."

"And you will keep your promise at any cost to yourself--and to me?"

said Meg.

"Little lass, ye wouldn't ha' me _not_ keep it!" he cried. He turned his

head away for a moment. Was even Meg against him? Dr. Merrill had told

him that he sacrificed his wife to a skulking sneak; did she think so

too? He looked at her with an involuntary sad entreaty that none but Meg

had ever seen in his eyes.

He was used to being considered rather mad. Truth to tell, being in a

minority troubled him little as a rule; but, for once, the pain of

loneliness touched him very sharply.

"Dear heart, do 'ee think I doan't care for 'ee?" he said. "I'd give my

soul, if it were only that, for yours. But one must follow where one's

Master calls. Would ye ha' me such a cowardly hypocrite, that having in

His name bid ye give up the world for Him, I should mysel' shrink from a

path where there's only room for one? Would ye ha' me break a promise,

gi'en in this service, because keeping it means shame and death? Shame

for ye too, for ye too! Forgi'e me, if ye can't think me right," he

cried sadly. "Oh, my little lass, I wish I could bear it all! It cuts me

like a knife when I think it means shame for you. It's the sore part."

He caught his breath sharply, and Meg felt his arm tremble for a moment.

Then: "But I'd not say that to any one else," he said. "Ye are like my

own soul, an', even to you, I'll not say it again. It's a bit mean o' me

to cry out so. When I took service I didn't promise to follow the Master

only so long as I could on velvet. I've no need to complain; an' ye

mustn't say He deserts us because He treats us like men, an' takes us at

our word. Yet"--and again his face softened--"if ye _could_ think with

me--but, happen, that's ower much to expect."

His voice, ringing with the eager loyalty which was so large a factor in

his religion, then breaking into human tenderness, ceased. He could not

see her face, for she sat with it hidden against him. He touched her

fair head gently, with his hand. "Poor little lass!" He could not put

into words the remorseful tenderness he felt. He hoped she would not try

to dissuade him; it could make no difference, but he found Meg's grief

hard to bear.

"Happen that's ower much to hope for?" he said again softly, but with

more wistfulness than he knew. "But I'd like ye to forgive me, Margaret,

any way. Will ye do that, if ye think me wrong?" His voice sank to a

whisper she barely caught. "The temptation was sore, but if I'd loved ye

less it ha' been stronger; for I'd not ha' felt it so shameful then to

drag that love i' the mud. Margaret, say _something_ to me."

Then she lifted her head and answered him--such an answer as no human

soul had given his before.

"You are right!" she said. "Except that you ask me to forgive you.

Forgive what? Shame? I am not ashamed. Do you think I shall not be

prouder of you than if all the world were at your feet? I have never

been ashamed of you. Never once! Even when I didn't love you, I knew

better than that! Ashamed! I will try to be a little sorry for the

blindness of all the people who did not know you innocent, who cannot

tell light from darkness! if you like, dear,--if you like--but there is

no shame for you, or for me, who am yours."

Ah, had ever the condemned cell echoed to such words before? such

passionate vibrating love, and pride of love?

"If you had betrayed a man for me, then you might have said, 'forgive

me,'" she cried. "But you couldn't do that; you would not be you, if you

did! The Barnabas I love could never do it! Yes, then I should have been

ashamed--bitterly ashamed, perhaps. Then our love would be in the mud

indeed. Not now!"

"I allus knew ye a brave woman, my lass," said the preacher. "Happen I

never knew it quite enough!" But Meg clung to him again, choking back a

sudden desire to sob.

"Ah! but we shan't be parted!" she cried. "It can't be! it can't be!

Barnabas, say to me that it can't be."

"Ay, wi' all my heart," he said. "Margaret, I believe, as I believe in

my God, that no pain nor death can part us two for ever. It _can't_ be!

Ye are mine now. By the love God has given me for ye, an' by the love ye

bear for me, my sweetheart, I'll swear to ye that I hold the old enemy

not strong enough to part us. It can't be."

But, for all the hot love in them, his words went through her like a

sword: he was bidding her look to the life everlasting, when she wanted

him here, and now. They both sat silent for a few minutes, precious

minutes! how fast they went!

"I had so much to say," he said. "I'd a deal to tell ye; but, somehow, I

can't remember it now. I want to hear ye say once more, 'I love ye'.

I've wanted for it so long! Nigh on two years I've hungered for it. An'

I've not pressed ye, have I, Margaret?"

And there came across Meg as he spoke the remembrance of those two

years. How many times had he crushed back this deep, fierce love for

fear of "scaring" her, cold-hearted as she had been? And now, perhaps,

there might be only minutes left to give in, though there had been

months in which to deny.

"I love you," she said. "With all my soul and heart and mind and

strength; with all of me there is; with more of me than I ever knew

there was. I didn't know I _could_ love like this. As you love me, I

love you, my dearest. You are more to me than all in heaven and all on

earth besides. I would rather die with you than stay here without you.

Ah, how feeble one's words are, for, _of course_, I would rather! that

would be easy enough. If I have to live without you, I am still yours.

While I am, I--I love you. If this can die, there is no life that lives!

It is the most living part of me. If this grows cold, then I am dead.

Barnabas, I love you, I love you! Do you know it _now_?"

"Time's up!" said the doctor, putting in his head. "Have you brought him

to his senses at last, ma'am? I hope so."

* * * * *

She stood outside again in the snow. The doctor was talking eagerly.

"I am convinced that your husband is keeping something back," he said.

"He knows more than he will say. I hope you have preached a sermon

to-day to good purpose. He won't listen to mine."

"I told him he was right," said Meg; and the doctor swore.

"Then, let me tell you, you've encouraged him in a most immoral course,"

he said, "and in one that leads straight to the gallows! It's no time

for picking one's words--and--well, here's the truth. You had a chance

of saving him, if any one had,--which I doubt, for a more pig-headed

saint I've never come across--you had the only chance. You might at

least have tried; and you've lost it!"

In his heart he was saying angrily, what did she suppose she had been

smuggled in for--to talk sentiment? If Thorpe had married some lusty,

rosy-cheeked barmaid, she'd have been of more good. She would have cried

heartily and scolded; his high-flown nonsense wouldn't have had a

hearing; it might have been swamped in her tears and in his natural

instinct. Mrs. Thorpe's eyes were dry. Pshaw! she was only half a woman!

He hadn't an exalted opinion of the other sex anyhow; but, at least, he

preferred them "womanly". Little fool! if she couldn't cry on occasion,

what _was_ she capable of? He couldn't quite say that aloud, though. Meg

was no barmaid, and not an easy person to be rude to.

"I am very grateful to you for letting me in," she said. "I think my

husband _is_ right, so what else could I say? But, if I had thought him

wrong, I could have made no difference, practically--only," said Meg

softly, "it would have been rather harder for him."

"Rather harder! he'll find being choked out of life with a rope rather

harder; but you know your own affairs best, I suppose," said the doctor.

"Good-night, ma'am;" and he turned away, and Meg walked on alone.

"He'll find being choked out of life rather harder!" Meg felt as if

Doctor Merrill had roughly shaken her awake. When she had been with

Barnabas his unwonted appeal for spiritual sympathy, his faith in the

undying quality of their love, his belief in the impossibility of an

eternal parting had somehow hidden from her the physical horror of such

a death. The doctor had brought it before her, had made her see the rope

and the coffin, and the actual death struggle. She saw it so vividly,

poor woman, with that over-vivid imagination that had always been her

bane, that, as she walked, she held out her hands instinctively.

"Don't, don't!" she cried. "He has been hurt enough. I can't bear him to

be hurt any more!" She did not know that she had spoken aloud, till some

one passing put a hand on her arm.

"Mrs. Thorpe! may I see you home? You are ill, or very unhappy."

It was the parson from Lupcombe, the preacher's friend. Meg, standing

still, recognised him.

"Did I say something?" she asked. "Yes--I am unhappy; but you can't help

me, thank you. Don't try to, please. Only God can help."

The parson, looking at her, bared his white head.

"It is true," he said. "There are times when only He can help." And he

let her go, but went on his own way with a sigh.

"Poor thing, poor thing!" he said to himself. "Saints are all very well,

but they've no business to marry."

The interruption made Meg aware that she must have been looking rather

strange. Tom would see at once that she had had bad news, and she could

not tell him yet. She wanted to collect her thoughts, to repeat to

herself what Barnabas had told her, coolly, without his over-strong

influence, that made her see everything just as he saw it. Coolly! but

the time had passed when Meg could think coolly of suffering to him.

A church door stood open (oddly enough, for the church in those days,

except at stated times of service, was harder to enter than the prison).

The darkness and silence invited Meg. She turned into it, thankful for a

quiet place to hide her troubled face in; and walking up the aisle, took

refuge in the high curtained pew which was used by the Mayor and

Corporation when they honoured St. Matthew's with their presence.

She drew the curtains close, then sat down on a hassock, and buried her

face in the red bombazine cushions.

She went over the whole interview again. It was her doing that the

diamonds had been found. If only she had not been knocked down and not

let Mr. Sauls pick up her bundle! It was like him to take prompt

advantage. While she sat in the dark, Meg clenched her hands with the

wild desire to kill George Sauls. If Barnabas were hanged how could _he_

be allowed to live? Then she crushed that mad anger down again; it was

her fault. She had persuaded her husband to come to London. She had left

him alone while she nursed her father, she--what had the doctor said?

She had lost the last chance of saving him, but _that_ had not been from

want of love. In her soul she knew she had never loved him more than

when she had told him he was right. She knew it; for it was his soul

hers loved,--a disgrace that touched that would be disgrace indeed.

"And yet--ah, it isn't only that," sobbed Meg. "Barnabas may go on

loving me in heaven; but I want him, spirit and body both, on earth."

She clenched her hands, and pressed her face down on the cushion,

struggling with the sobs that rose in her throat. Alas! it did not

comfort her to think of a disembodied spirit, however perfect, when she

was longing for her own living husband. She loved his faults as well as

his virtues; she loved him wholly and completely--as he was: the accent

with which he spoke, the very look of the brown hands toil-roughened. In

the mortal agony of that parting, visions of heaven would _not_ support

her womanhood. "God have mercy on us, have mercy on us!" cried Margaret.

"Have mercy, Thou who hast made us what we are! who hast given us souls

and bodies both."

She must not fail him in any case; _that_ thought braced her again. If

the worst should happen, she must be by him. Could she bear to see it?

Meg asked herself, and found the answer clear enough. Yes, she both

could and would--and she would have no tears then.

"But oh, if it might be that I might bear it all!" she cried in her

heart, with the cry which is old as love itself.

"Lord, let the pain be mine--if only my darling may go free!" Deepest,

most fervent prayer of all humanity!--prayer that seems as if it must

pierce the veil and force an answer, that is born of our holiest

instincts, and has in it the sacrifice that is in motherhood;--prayer

that how many women's lips have prayed since the beginning of the world!

"Mine be the pain! Ay; and the sin and the shame too," we cry, knowing

that the cry is futile; for who shall deliver his brother? Surely love

has been crucified since love first was!

"Ah, it is no wonder, no wonder that God died upon a cross," thought

Meg; "if He loves as we love, where else could _our_ God be?"

* * * * *

"If you ask my opinion, I should say that you had better put up a

triangle," said a decided voice at the far end of the church. The vestry

door slammed, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs--quick

brisk footsteps--treading over the "Hic Jacets".

"Mr. Muller says that a cross is popish; and you think the commandments

Low Church, don't you? or is it old-fashioned? Well, try a triangle. It

won't mean anything. Now, that's an advantage to start with; you can't

quarrel so much over a purely secular symbol."

"Now, Mr. Sauls!" (a giggle), "if you say such things, I declare we'll

set you to work as a punishment. Isn't Mr. Sauls too bad, Ethel? Oh,

there comes Mr. Simkyns at last. Please light the candles, Mr. Simkyns."

The speaker was a plump bright-complexioned girl, who, with her sister,

stood, with arms full of holly, looking over the berries at Mr. Sauls,

who, however, had not the least intention of being beguiled into

assisting at Christmas decorations, an amusement not at all in his line.

"I came to find an entry in the register for 1802 that bears on a case I

am interested in," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt your good work;

and, since you won't be grateful for my advice, I'll take myself off."

"Oh, we are only going to sort the ivy and holly, ready to begin

to-morrow. It was all in a heap in the vestry. We hadn't an idea you

were there, had we, Ethel? But we'll forgive you this time; you may

stay, if you like."

"Ah, thanks; but I won't put your generosity to too severe a test," he

rejoined drily.

The candles were lighted now; the quiet solemnity of the place was gone.

On one side of the red curtains a woman in bitterest agony had prayed

for her husband's life; on the other, the girls laughingly pricked

their fingers with holly leaves, and tried hard to flirt with Mr.

Sauls.

"Mr. Sauls doesn't believe much in the generosity of our sex; do you,

Mr. Sauls?" said the second girl, with another giggle and an upward

glance.

"Pardon me," said George, "I've the most exalted reverence for it;

that's why I refrained from putting it to vulgar proof. It is always

unwise to test one's pet ideals; the results are apt to be disastrous,

particularly to men of a naturally quixotic and sentimental turn, like

myself; I never do it, on principle. That's why I've arrived at mature

age with all my little high-flown illusions so intact. You wouldn't like

to upset any one's principles, would you, Miss Miller? No, I thought

not. Good-evening then."

Miss Miller, during this speech, had looked as if she were not quite

sure whether she was expected to laugh or not. At the last words her

face fell; she threw the holly down pettishly as Mr. Sauls left the

church.

"What's the use of going on? I hate Christmas decorations! And I've

pricked myself," she cried. "Oh, what's that?"

She gave a little shriek, as the red curtain was pushed aside.

"I beg your pardon. I am afraid I have startled you," said Meg gently.

"I did not know that any one else was in the church when I came in. I

came to--to rest. I am going now."

"_We_ will go; we have disturbed you; I wish we hadn't come in and

chattered and laughed," cried the girl impulsively. She was very

soft-hearted; and this pale fair woman somehow impressed her, she hardly

knew why, with a sense of tragedy. "I am so sorry, but we'll go. Come,

Ethel, let's go."

But Meg had already walked quickly down the aisle, and opened the church

door. In the act she looked back at the two bright-faced girls clinging

together, still a little startled, under the candles, with the scarlet

berries at their feet.

"No, don't be sorry," she said. "I am very glad you came in, for now I

know what to do. You needn't be sorry; but I should put up a cross if I

were you, even though it means a good deal."

The church clock was striking the half-hour, the lamps were lighted; it

was too cold to snow hard, but a few fine, powdery flakes were falling

from the unbroken yellow-grey sky. Meg was just in time to see Mr. Sauls

turn the corner of the street. She followed him, running at first; then,

when she was within a few yards of him, walking again, keeping the same

distance always between them. She would not speak to him in the street;

she remembered too vividly how she had repulsed his offer of help. She

knew he would remember it too; he was not the person to forget it. She

meant to follow him home, where he must listen to her. She did not

consider what argument she could use; she did not even think how

terrible a thing it was to ask a favour of this man of all men. She only

knew that he could prevent Barnabas from being hanged, and that when she

was pleading for her husband's life she should know what to say.

Mr. Sauls went straight back to his rooms, Meg following him. Sometimes

people came between them, and she momentarily lost sight of his

high-shouldered, thick-set figure. At those moments a nervous agony of

fear would take possession of her, as if she had indeed lost the "last

chance," and seen him disappear with that same precious life in his

pocket. Her pride was not so much consciously renounced as absolutely

burnt up in the flame of her love. As Tom had remarked long ago,

"Barnabas' wife couldn't do anything by halves". She was one of the

unfortunate people who must give "full measure running over," if they

gave at all.

They went through miles of streets. George wondered afterwards that he

had not felt her behind him. When he reached his rooms, she waited a

minute to let him get in first; then rang. The servant who opened the

door looked doubtfully at her. His master had the strongest objection to

begging ladies; he had got into trouble only last week because he had

let in a sister of mercy with a pitiful tale.

"I don't know that my master is at home," he said, "but I'll go and

inquire. What name shall I say, miss?"

Meg hesitated a moment; it was possible that Mr. Sauls might refuse to

see her. "Mr. Sauls is at home," she said, "and he will know who I am."

And the man, after another prolonged stare, let her in.

They crossed the hall, and he opened a door on the right. No one was in

the room; but a huge fire was blazing, and a swinging lamp that hung

from the ceiling by silver chains was alight. A great tiger skin was

stretched in front of the hearth, an armchair was drawn up on one side

of it.

Meg stood leaning against the mantelpiece and waited.

It was a luxurious room--the room of a rich man, with a good idea of

comfort. All the chairs were delightfully easy, the carpet was thick and

soft, the light arranged with a view to reading and writing comfortably.

Artistic it was not, and there was no bric-à-brac, and there were few

books about.

Over the mantelpiece was the picture of an undraped nymph, lying on soft

cushions in a bower of roses. A rounded-limbed, sensuous beauty, with

velvety eyes half closed. The petals of the roses rested on her warm

skin.

George's sister made a great many jokes about that picture, and called

it George's ideal woman.

Meg, in her shabby black dress, looked whiter than ever as she stood

beneath it tensely waiting.

There were groups of wax fruit (not remarkably well done) about the room

too. Meg, had she seen them, would have guessed why she had got such

remarkably good prices for her work; but she saw neither the fruit nor

the picture--she saw only Barnabas and Newgate.

"What an ass you are, Lucas!" said Mr. Sauls, his voice sounding in the

hall. "Go and tell the young woman that you know I am out on the best

authority, for that I have just told you so myself."

A pause, and a deprecatory murmur from Lucas; then: "Would come in? The

devil she would! These begging ladies deserve a snub. It's another

Quakeress. Oh, very well, I'll tell her myself that I am out; and I

don't think she'll do it again." And Meg heard his footsteps crossing

the hall.

She pictured the imaginary Quakeress come to beg of George Sauls, and

pitied her, imagination working in a curiously independent and rapid

way, as it does in moments of suspense. Poor Quakeress! How could any

woman stoop to beg from this man? Unless, indeed, it were a woman whose

husband might have the life "choked out of him," and who was past caring

for aught else!

What would he have said to the Quakeress? Would she have worn a bonnet

like Mrs. Fry? Would Mr. Sauls have made her feel very hot and shy and

ashamed?

The door opened. Meg stood quite still, keeping her eyes on the fire.

She would let him get over his astonishment, for she knew he hated being

surprised. He held the handle in his hand for a second; he didn't

exclaim, but there was a moment's breathless pause. This woman, standing

sad and pale under his Nymph of the Roses, was quite the last he had

expected to see. Then he shut the door firmly behind him and came

forward.

CHAPTER XI.

"Mrs. Thorpe!" he said. "The world must certainly be coming to an end

when you come to me!"

He did not even pretend not to be astonished; he was too clever a man to

waste time in futile conventionalities. He had always his wits about

him; and he spoke in a tone that expressed neither enmity nor

friendliness; a surprise put George instinctively on guard.

"It is in danger of it--for me," said Meg. And then he guessed why she

had come; and his face hardened.

"Nothing but the fear of losing what is more than all the world would

have brought me. You are right."

"Ah! I won't insult you by sympathy this time," he said. "I remember

that mine offends you; but--and I mean no offence, Mrs. Thorpe--I think

that you had better not have come. A woman should always keep the

refusing on her side; it answers best on the whole."

She had refused his aid with scorn when he had offered it, and now it

wasn't to be had for the asking; but he preferred to spare her a

fruitless entreaty. Where Margaret was concerned, revenge was not sweet

to George. His words were meant for a fair warning (if she would only be

wise enough to take it), and Meg understood them so.

"Much the best, when there is any choice," she said. "But there is

none."

George looked at her for a moment in silence. The people who lead

forlorn hopes never see "any choice".

"Then please sit down," he said; and came round to her corner of the

fireplace, and pushed up a chair. She shook her head, and he shrugged

his shoulders slightly, and stood facing her again.

"I have come to ask you for something," said Meg. "You gave my locket to

me once, and I returned it to you."

"Your husband returned it to me," interpolated George, who stood playing

with the china on the mantelpiece.

"With my entire consent," said Meg. "It only meant a dear memory to me

then, but I thought it too valuable a gift to take from you. It means my

husband's liberty, and probably his life, now; but----"

"Don't go on," said George. "It is of no use; it is not for me, of all

men, to hinder natural consequences. You were right before when you told

me that nothing should induce you to accept a favour from me. You were

perfectly right."

Again it was with an honest desire to save her from a refusal that he

spoke; but he felt as if he had struck her when he saw her white face

flush.

"Yes, I remember," she said. "I knew that you would remember too. I told

you it would be easier to take hot coals in my hands than help from you

who injured him--so it would." She stretched out her hands to the fire

with an unconsciously dramatic gesture. "So it would! If pain to my body

could save his pain, I would do _that_ first. Shall I prove it?"

"No, thanks," said George drily. "I quite believe you. I always have

believed you, even when your remarks have not been conducive to my

natural vanity. We both meant what we said, I fancy."

"Yes," said Meg bravely. "I did mean it. I meant every word. And you

swore that nothing should ever tempt you to try to help me again, and

_you_ meant it. And yet I ask you. Give me the diamonds now, for they

are the price of his life. Nothing that I could say if I begged on my

knees, though I will do that if you like, could be stronger than this. I

do remember, and yet I ask you."

He turned his head away, not caring to look at her. Was this Margaret?

Ah, yes! No other woman could so have moved him--"I remember--and yet I

ask you--_even_ you," was what she meant; she was proud even in her

self-abasement.

"You will?" she said.

"No!" he answered gravely. "I am sorry. I warned you not to ask me. One

can't say such a 'no' so that it does not give pain, or I would. I don't

want to be more of a brute to you than I need. I would say it gently if

I could--but I cannot--I mean I will not--give you that."

He twisted his eyeglass cord rapidly round his finger, as she remembered

his doing of old, when he was a trifle excited in an argument. Then he

made a mistake. He should have left his refusal there; but he did not;

he began to justify himself; he could not bear that she should think him

worse than he was.

"I should like to say that it is not because of what passed between us

outside the governor's house that I refuse your request now," he said.

"I am _not_ quite mean enough to revenge myself on you for that--I

should not have given the diamonds up in any case."

"Why not?" said Meg.

He shrugged his shoulders again.

"Because _I_ am not quixotic," he said. "You mustn't expect a man to

belie his nature. Look here, Mrs. Thorpe. You always knew me to be a

fellow with what you and your father called 'low aims,' didn't you?

That was what you didn't like about me years ago. Oh, you never said so;

and you were too good to despise any one; but you thought me on a

different level; and I lost you; and Barnabas Thorpe married you. Very

well! I had no right to complain; but, then, you mustn't expect _me_ to

be high-minded now."

"If I offended you then----" began Meg in a low voice; but he stopped

her.

"No, no. I don't mean that. I wasn't offended. Don't think I am saying

this out of spite. I am _not_. I am only explaining. You were perfectly

right, you judged me truly enough. I don't go in for being generous. I

never give something for less than nothing. Naturally we both know that

if I give you your locket I give you the case;--that is what you mean,

isn't it?" He paused a moment, and Meg bowed her head.

"And some men, your father among them, would have let a man who had

injured them go for the sake of the woman they--who asked them. I

acknowledge that; but I am not of that kind. I have never even pretended

to be. You have always understood that before so well," said George a

little bitterly, "that you ought in fairness to understand it now."

"But Barnabas never injured you," said Meg, with a feminine begging of

the point that brought an unmirthful smile to George's lips.

It was a hard fate that would not allow him to strike his enemy without

wounding her. He hated this scene, and he hated his own weakness in

hating it.

"You told me that you believed me; and indeed you must know that I am

speaking the truth," she cried earnestly, with that instinctive feeling,

that we most of us have, of the overpowering force of any fact that we

thoroughly believe. "Barnabas could never strike a blow from behind. If

you don't know that yourself, believe me for I do know him. Do you think

I should be here now if I thought him guilty?"

"I have implicit faith in your word, which is more than I'd say of most

men or of any other woman of my acquaintance," said George. "Since you

say so, I am certain that you believe him innocent. I don't think that

you could lie in any circumstances, certainly not well enough to carry

conviction; but--I might say, consequently--you must pardon me if I

can't pretend to equal faith in your judgment."

"My judgment is often wrong," she cried. "And yet, for that very reason,

you may believe when I say I know him. Who do you think has ever had

such cause to know him as I have had? I, who was his wife in name before

I understood what love and marriage meant; who threw up everything at

his bidding, and lived to recognise that he was not infallible?"

And George was silent. The boldness of this avowal surprised him. Meg,

from their first acquaintance, had surprised him at times.

"We made a mistake," she said. "If Barnabas had been one shade less than

utterly honest, it would have been an irretrievable mistake." She was

thinking of a past despair, of which this man knew nothing, of black

depths of water and a wind-swept marsh, and the thought gave her

strength now. "You think that I believe in the preacher because I love

him? It is not so, for I did _not_ love him. I know that he is honest.

What do you suppose would have become of me if he had not been good?"

she cried with a shudder. "Should not _I_ have had cause enough to know

that?"

And Mr. Sauls felt the force of that shudder.

"I allow it," he said. "You certainly ought to know. We'll grant the

preacher honest, if you like;--that is honest according to the gospel of

Barnabas Thorpe, which quite passes my humble understanding. Apparently

you comprehend it. I'll take it on trust that he never steals diamonds,

though he stole a wife; and that he could possibly explain everything,

if his very remarkable code of morality did not include the sheltering

of criminals. I'll grant you all that,--but it makes no difference. Let

him carry out his own principles; far be it from me to prevent him this

time. I would have prevented him once, but I was too late."

His voice lost self-restraint, and sounded momentarily hoarse and

fierce; then he regained his coolness.

"You are a little illogical," he said. "All that you advance may be

absolutely true, Mrs. Thorpe; but it is no reason at all why I should

suppress evidence, and give you the diamonds. His innocence is his own

affair--not mine."

"Do you expect a woman to be logical when her husband is in danger of

being hanged?" said Meg. She was trying to speak quietly, but the

terrible strain was telling on her.

"Well, no--I seldom expect it in any circumstances," he answered; and

then was ashamed of his words; they sounded like a taunt. "It is more

than flesh and blood can stand!" he said suddenly. "You should not have

come, Margaret! Don't you know that no one can bear to hear the woman he

loves beg for the man who has----"

"Whom she loves!" cried Meg. "Give me his life! If you know what love

means, give it to me! I know that you hate him! I know now that you hate

him because he married me,--but _I_ love him so. For him? No, I am not

begging for him. Do you think that Barnabas would have let me come here

to ask favours of you? I think he would rather have been hanged. He

shall never know this. I am begging nothing for him. Death must mean

gain for him--but for me! Ah, think of it, think of it! for I hardly

dare to. Will you leave me desolate, whom you say you love? I could face

death; but life without him is so terrible. If I must bear it, I must,"

said Meg drawing herself up. "Other women have seen their husbands die,

and have lived, and so can I--but----" and her voice broke. "Ah, save me

from it!" she cried; "you who say you love me. This is more than my own

life to me (_that_ I would never beg for). For my sake, for my sake give

me this thing, because _I_ ask it of you."

"Because you ask it of me!" said George.

He stared at her, repeating her words almost stupidly. The agony of her

entreaty, the sight of her love, fully awake at last, moved him, he

hardly knew himself whether most strongly to jealousy or love.

So she was transformed! Well, he had always known it possible, always

felt that there was fire behind her ice! Indeed, it was that possibility

of passion under her cold pure ideality that had attracted George

always. But it was not he, it was Barnabas Thorpe who had awakened it.

"Do _you_ believe that the preacher hasn't injured me?" he cried, with a

hot bitterness in his heart. "Oh, yes; he has won, all the way round."

He walked to his desk, unlocked it, and held out the diamonds. "You

shall have what you ask," he said; "because _you_ ask it; but never tell

any one, Mrs. Thorpe, for I am ashamed of being such a fool."

Then, as she gave a little cry of joy, his fingers closed again on the

locket.

"Margaret, Margaret! is his life worth a kiss?" he said. "You shall give

me that for it. Ah, God! What a brute I am!" as she shrank back

terrified. "There, take it--and go--go quickly." He threw the locket on

the table, and turned his back on her. "It may as well still be

something for nothing; for, where you are concerned, it always has

been," he said. "No; don't stop to thank me. You'd better not. The

blessedness of giving isn't at all in my line, you know, and if you stay

I shall repent."

And Meg went quickly, with the diamonds in her hand.

* * * * *

The trial ended on the Monday; but the last act of the drama was not so

dramatic as had been expected. A rumour had, somehow, got about as to

the finding of the jewels. It had been whispered that George Sauls was

going to enter the witness box again, and startle every one with a grand

_coup de théâtre_. But nothing of the sort happened. No additional

evidence was forthcoming. The judge, in summing up, pointed to the fact

of the prosecutor's pockets having been rifled, as indicating that

greed, rather than vengeance, had prompted the crime. The prisoner's

character for probity was unimpeachable. The doctor's evidence showed

that the blow had been given by a sharp-edged instrument. The prisoner

had had nothing in his hand when he encountered Mr. Sauls on the marsh

by the pool. It had been said that the accused was of a naturally

passionate disposition, and that a "violent impulse" might have assailed

him, such as had possessed him sixteen years before in the churchyard;

but, apparently, he had shown considerable self-control in the interview

that had been described. If he was guilty, he was guilty of a

deliberate and premeditated assault, and the weapon with which the

assault was committed must have been concealed about his person when he

came up to the prosecutor. It was a crime apparently at variance with

the whole tenor of his life. It was _not_ the sudden yielding to

temptation of a passionate and sorely provoked man, but a cowardly and

cunningly planned attempt at murder. If Barnabas Thorpe was not guilty

the case remained shrouded in mystery. There was absolutely no clue to

guide to the discovery of the offender.

The jury were absent half an hour, and returned a verdict for the

prisoner. The diamonds that George Sauls had been robbed of were resting

safely on Margaret Thorpe's neck, and she kept pressing her hand over

them during the judge's summing up. She had not dared to leave them

behind her. George Sauls guessed where they were, and laughed rather

sardonically to himself as he reflected that "the clue" was not far off.

Well! he gave the "case" as well as the diamonds. He had given Meg a

good deal from first to last; and, though he wasn't aware of the fact,

he was no loser, seeing that no man can give of his best and yet receive

nothing.

Barnabas Thorpe looked immensely surprised when he found himself free.

"Do ye mean to say that that's all?" he said. "That I may go where I

like? Hasn't Mr. Sauls any more to say? But I know he has."

He did not seem to realise his liberty, even when Tom seized him by the

shoulders.

"I believe he's disappointed! I never saw a fellow so determined to be

hanged! Never mind, you may come to it yet, Thorpe," said the doctor,

who had fairly shouted over the verdict.

"I am more heartily glad than I can say," said Mr. Bagshotte, wringing

his hand; "but I should like to see an action for damages brought

against Mr. Sauls."

"We'll gi'e him what for, if ever he shows his black face in our part

again," said Long John. "The man as tried afore didn't do the job

properly."

"What did he mean? Was he lying?" said Barnabas.

"Was he?" said Tom scornfully. "Why, man, ye know he was!" He looked

rather anxiously at his brother, half fearing that the captivity and

hard usage had touched his brain.

"Where's Margaret?" said Barnabas.

"Waiting for 'ee by the door."

"No, I couldn't wait; I'm here," said Meg behind him. "Barnabas, let us

go home."

"Ye'd no business to come into the court again. She turned faint at th'

end, when there wasn't any more need to," said Tom. "Well, ye'd ha'

gi'en us a pretty time of it, lad! Come along, Margaret, ye are as white

as a sheet still."

But Barnabas turned quickly to her. "I'll take care of my lass, if I am

really free," he said.

"Let them go together," said the doctor. "Then he'll take it in."

"The blackguards! I'd like to throw 'em all into Newgate for three

months wi'out trial," said Tom between his teeth. But whether he meant

judge, jury or Mr. Sauls remained uncertain.

When the preacher and Meg left the court together, there was a mingled

sound of hissing and cheering. The cheering predominated then, for his

own friends were in force; of the hissing he heard more later.

The snowy east wind cut like a knife, blowing in their faces as they

came out of the crowded court. Barnabas felt the flakes on his lips, and

smiled and drew a deep breath. "How good the snow tastes!" he said.

"But draw your hood well over your head, lass. Ay, now I know I am

free."

They supped together in Tom's room later; Tom inveighing against the

dirtiness, darkness, wickedness and manifold horrors of London, and

swearing that he owed his brother "som'ut for dragging him up; he'd

never ha' come without he'd been obliged;" but breaking off occasionally

into bursts of hilarity, tempered again by the sight of the change in

Barnabas;--Barnabas very silent, finding it still somewhat startling to

be met by liberty and love, when he had made up his mind to accept

imprisonment, and probably death--Meg sitting between them, too thankful

for many words.

"I wonder now how Mr. Sauls is feelin'--pretty small I hope," said Tom.

"I doan't understand it," said Barnabas. "He told me i' the prison that

he had evidence as would ha' proved me guilty."

It was a sign of how thoroughly the brothers knew each other that he had

never considered it necessary to assert his innocence to Tom.

"The deuce he did!" said Tom. "He's found it not so easy as he thought,

then. If ever that gentleman gets his deserts, may I be there! Your wife

'ud look t'other way out o' her sense o' duty,--but she'd _want_ to clap

her hands; she allowed as much as that."

"Not now," said Meg quickly. "You don't know, Tom. No one ever knows

exactly what another man's deserts are." She coloured, fearing to betray

what she had promised to keep secret; and Tom laughed.

"Ye may well blush when ye turn devil's advocate," he remarked. "I

wonder ye dare stand up for him; only ye've allus got Barnabas to back

ye now. Ye weren't so charitably disposed on Saturday," pursued Tom,

looking rather hard at her.

"Eh, my lass!" said Barnabas. "Did Tom bully ye so that ye didn't dare

say what ye liked when I wasn't by?"

He smiled, and Meg laughed, relieved at the change of subject. "Yes,"

she said; "Tom beat me with a poker and threw boots at me--whenever he

had the chance!"

"That's why she's glad to see ye," said Tom coolly. "She's larnt as a

husband may be useful--she missed ye on occasions."

"No, I didn't," said Meg. "When one wants any one much, one doesn't want

him 'on occasions'; one wants him every time one draws one's breath."

"Well, he ain't much to boast on, now ye've got him," said Tom. "I say,

lad, come back wi' me to-morrow, and shake the dust o' this ant-hill off

your feet and pick up your flesh again. Ye'd do to scare the crows at

present!"

"I'll get all right again. I'm tougher than ye think," said the

preacher. "But I wouldn't be able to do farm work for a bit, and I ain't

goin' to live on dad--no, not for a day. It's natural like that he

shouldn't ha' been sure o' me, for he never did think much o' me.

Happen, if I'd been hanged, he'd ha' thought I desarved it; but I'll not

take help from him."

"Did not your father believe in you?" cried Meg. "Oh, Barnabas, I can

never understand it--he is so good to me always."

"So he is," said the preacher. "I'm beholden to dad for that anyway."

After supper, when the two men sat together, Tom recurred to that

subject.

"It's a shame, lad!" he said gravely. "Dad's been down on you all your

life; but it's just the queer twist in his mind; I doan't know as he can

rightly help it. Times when ye were a lad, I've thought if I could stand

up for ye more; but ye were allus strong enough to stand by yoursel',

and he ain't. It's odd how he turns the best side to your wife; she's

never even seen him at his worst."

"Poor old dad!" said Barnabas. The firelight played on the brothers'

faces, both strongly marked, both bearing the impress of hard lives. The

queer strain in the father's character had not turned to weakness in the

sons; but, probably, there were traces of it in them too.

"Poor old dad! he sartainly couldn't abide me as a boy, but o' late

years I fancied he'd come round quite wonderful. Ye've been right to

stick by him; but I fancy there'll be a good many his way o' thinkin'.

I'm _not_ fairly cleared, Tom."

"There's more nor I can feel the bottom to," said Tom; "but ye'll live

it down."

"Ay, I'll do that, an' I'll live it down here," said the preacher.

"Giles 'ull be glad to ha' me back; an' I can keep a roof over

Margaret's head an' to spare at that trade; and do my special work as

well."

"Do 'ee think your preaching 'ull go down after this?" asked Tom

bluntly. "Happen they'll refuse to listen to ye."

"Very like," said Barnabas; "but if one won't be silent, one 'ull be

heard--i' th' end. I larnt _that_ in Newgate."

Tom nodded with rather a grim smile. How far he sympathised with his

brother's religious views he never said; but he had long ago given up

opposing them.

"An' your wife 'ull bide with ye?"

"She'll do as she likes," said the preacher; "but I've small doubt which

that 'ull be." And Tom shot a quick glance at his brother, as he

knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

"Oh, ay, ye've won her at last," he said. "It's ta'en a near sight o'

the gallows to make her like ye, lad; but I fancy it 'ud take a deal

more nor that to kill the liking. She's not the soart as 'ull be any

trouble to keep. She'll hold to 'ee now through thick and thin; but,--ye

might mind, times, that the ways ye walk _are_ rough to a woman's feet;

in especial one as was born i' cambric sheets. She'll never remind ye o'

that; doan't 'ee quite forget it."

"I doan't," said the preacher. "But the ways must be stiff that lead

uphill;" and Tom, looking at his brother's whitened hair and bowed

shoulders, was silent.

Barnabas' wife was not likely to have an easy time of it; but, after

all, there are a good many things that are more worth living for than

easy times. He went back to the farm the next day, carrying with him a

small packet, which Meg had charged him to throw unopened into the

bottomless depths of the Pixies' Pond. It was not safe for her to keep

it, for more reasons than one; and she felt no pang at parting with it.

She had flung away more than diamonds for Barnabas! Tom asked no

questions, and accepted and carried out the commission with no comments.

If he guessed anything, he kept a still tongue on the subject. Barnabas'

wife trusted him utterly, and neither he nor the pixies betrayed the

trust. This time the diamonds did _not_ return.

Timothy never confessed. After a time, he reappeared, limping ragged and

foot-sore over the marshes to his mother's hut, looking over his

shoulder as he shambled along. He was nearly starved and very thin, and

weak and dirty. His mother received him with unbounded joy. He did not

tell her where he had been; only vouchsafed the information that "the

preacher had 'lain' the fellow, else he could never have come back".

No one connected him with the attempted murder of Mr. Sauls, but he was

less mischievous and less restless than of old. He never understood that

Barnabas Thorpe had nearly been hanged in his stead; but he had

certainly lost his hatred of the preacher, and even, oddly enough,

showed some rudimentary signs of a conscience. Barnabas would possibly

have counted that in itself worth going to prison for; and, that being

so, Barnabas was hardly, perhaps, to be pitied, though the cloud on his

name was never cleared, and though there were always some, generally

those who had not fallen under his personal influence, who considered

him more knave than fool.

He never betrayed that confession, and the consequences that followed

his hearing it did not make him one whit more cautious; but, to the end

of his days, he felt "'shamed" when he reflected on his own

"cowardliness" in the prison. He believed he might have done more for

his Master, if he had not been weighed down during the whole of one

afternoon by a most despicable and self-seeking weakness. His devotion

to the miserable, his deep sympathy with the fallen, were the greater

for that recollection.

It must be owned that from the moment he was certain that he possessed

Meg's heart, his hatred of George Sauls ceased to trouble him; that

knowledge exorcised _that_ devil more effectually than all his prayers

and fastings,--a fact which he put down to his want of faith, but which

would rather have amused the doctor; though it is doubtful whether

either Dr. Merrill or Barnabas Thorpe had arrived at an entirely just

conclusion about the universe in general, and themselves in particular.

Both being honest men in their way, perhaps both had got hold of a

splinter of the truth. Perhaps there will be a general piecing one day,

when each generation and even individual will bring the precious

fragment he has practically believed in, to the "saving of his

soul"--materialist and mystic alike!

The last chapter of the story necessarily inclines one to end one's

sentences with a query, seeing that an ending must always mean a fresh

beginning somehow and somewhere.

The preacher and Margaret moved into the rooms over Giles' shop. He

recovered his health to a certain extent; for his constitution, like his

will, took a great deal of breaking. His horror of living in a city was

lost in his growing desire to fight against the evil of it.

Nevertheless, he meant to take a holiday and see the country he loved,

when he should be no longer needed. I do not know when that day

dawned;--possibly when his body was in its coffin; but one would not

like to be sure even of that, for the rest of Heaven must surely mean to

such strenuous souls as his, but "increased service".

His mistakes, at any rate, we may hope are over now; his battles fought,

his besetting sins burnt away in that fire of the Lord in whom he

believed. He followed the light, when he saw it, to the best of his

ability, and he fell into bogs and ditches! Was the light therefore a

delusion? Was his zeal wasted? I trow not. Our martyrs are troublesome

people, troublesome both to themselves and to their generation. They see

through curiously coloured glasses, they have a huge capability for

tilting at windmills, and tumbling into pitfalls. They spill their own

blood freely, and occasionally their brothers' as well; and yet,

clinging to their ideal at all costs and to the uttermost, they are

still saving salt in the world, witnesses of something that is worth

suffering, worth dying--worth even living for. That noble army is drawn

from every nation, and its members are of every creed. They are

sometimes, alas! persecutors as well as persecuted; but in one point

they are alike: their lives and actions preach the gospel of endurance

and courage. They lift anew symbols of sacrifice, and so draw men's

hearts after them.

George Sauls never met Meg again after the interview which lost him the

case. She considered herself under an everlasting debt of gratitude to

him; but it was a debt which, unfortunately, could never be cancelled.

Gratitude, like friendship, was "not what he wanted". She never did full

justice to the nature that was so unlike her own; but then "justice" is

a rather rare commodity.

"I didn't know that I had it in me to be such a soft idiot," he said to

his mother curtly, when he had told her that the preacher had been

acquitted and that she must forget that dream they had had about the

finding of diamonds.

Mrs. Sauls looked at him, with the rare tears standing in her eyes. "My

dear, the world would have been a worse place for me anyhow, if you had

not had any soft spot in your heart," she said.

"Oh d----n my heart! One should be made without one," said George.

And the old lady laughed and shook her head. "It's too good to be

damned, my son." And, to herself she added: "And two women can swear to

that who've good cause to know".

Of her own blood relations Meg saw little in the years that followed.

Her life and theirs were too wide apart for it to be practicable for her

to hold both to them and to her husband. Some women might, perhaps, have

managed to cling to both; but Meg was not capable of a divided

allegiance. She lived and worked for and with Barnabas, giving her

strength and heart and soul as entirely and ungrudgingly as ever woman

gave, and finding her happiness in the giving. No doubt she found sorrow

too, seeing that increased capabilities of joy mean also increased

capabilities of grief; but, after all, roses are worth their thorns even

in this world.

On the evening of the day following the trial she stood beside the

preacher at the window of their room in Stepney. The sun was going down

like a red ball, sinking slowly behind the many twisted chimney-pots.

Meg looked out on the murky yellow haze, and the crowded street, and in

her heart was a great thankfulness.

"I've been thinkin' ower som'ut that Tom said last night. Would ye as

lief bide wi' my father a bit till I ha' got things straighter for ye?"

said Barnabas.

Meg shook her head. "No, I wouldn't. What has Tom been saying?"

"That my ways are rough for your feet; for that, when all's said and

done, ye come of a different kind. _Are_ ye quite content now, Margaret?

Ye told me once that we had made a mistake."

Margaret turned to him with a smile that was answer enough. "Contentment

is hardly the right state of mind for your wife, is it?" she said. The

wistful tenderness in her face deepened. "_You_ will never rest

contented while there is a single 'unawakened' person left. I am more

than contented now; though I am not so hopeful as you are. Only keep me

very close to you, please, if your way is rough."

"What a sight o' houses, an' full--full to the cellars!" said the

preacher. Meg knew what he was thinking when she saw his nostrils dilate

and his eyes brighten like those of an old war horse when he hears the

sound of a drum.

"To-morrow," cried Barnabas, "to-morrow I'll begin again. These last

months have gi'en me a lesson. Ay, they've taught me I am too ready by

times to serve two masters; that I've thought a deal too much o' my

bodily life."

And his wife sighed under cover of her smile. That moral was perhaps

hardly the one that most people would have drawn from late events. But a

man sees what he has eyes to see, and that only!

"Barnabas," she said, "do you think from the bottom of your heart that

your mistakes in life have generally arisen from a time-serving

backwardness, from over-prudence and cowardliness?"

After a moment's silence, he answered, with reddening cheek:--

"Ay, lass; those ha' been my sins; I'd not call 'em mistakes. Mistakes

one's bound to make, but they doan't matter. So long as a man follows

the light as he sees it, he's bound to near it in time, and naught else

is worth th' counting; but an' he holds back for fear o' mishaps, and is

neither hot nor cold, phew!--the devil himsel' might be 'shamed o' that

soart. Happen it takes all hell to warm some into life! For the rest, of

course one must pay for blunders; it's a child's part to cry over that.

We are apt to make a deal too much fuss about suffering, though we call

ourselves the servants o' Him who chose it."

He frowned, looking over the housetops with eyes that saw the inside of

Newgate and Jack dying.

"As a man sows, he reaps," he said. "An' there ain't no such thing as

escaping payment. One sees that payment in the hospitals and the streets

and the prisons. But it's a just law; and a remission of it 'ud mean

death, not life. There is none, I fancy, lass, unless the Lord ceases to

be merciful."

"Ah," said Meg, "I never know whether I think your creed most stern or

most merciful, Barnabas; but, if there is no such thing as escaping

payment, then what does the Cross mean?"

"It saves us from our sins!" said the preacher. "The devil tempts us to

be cowards through our lusts, through our love o' ease; His Cross is the

overcoming o' the fear o' suffering, the banner o' Him who chose and

conquered pain."

And she laid her head on his shoulder as they stood together, hoping in

her heart that her womanly fears for him might be forgiven, seeing that

they could never hold him back. "Ah, you may be right," she said. "At

any rate yours is a brave creed, and one fit for a man who loves

fighting. But I shall never rise to thinking that 'nothing else matters'

so long as one is following the light. Barnabas, that is beyond me! I

could pretend I did not mind being hurt," said Meg; "but at the bottom

of my soul I should know it was a pretence. I can't understand that!"

"_You_ can't understan' that?" said the man; and he drew her closer to

him. "Sweetheart, who was it that said that if she stood with me on the

scaffold there would be no such thing as shame for her? That she would

find it easy if she might die with me? Was that a pretence?"

"No, no. It was truer than anything else," cried Meg. "But that was for

you, and any woman would have felt that if she cared for you. Why, there

is not a poor creature who haunts Newgate but would understand _that_.

It is so simple! A sacrifice is no pain when it is for the person one

loves. It ceases to be a sacrifice. One doesn't 'count' it."

"I see," said the preacher. "So any woman finds that simple, eh?" He

looked at the woman by his side, _his_ truly now, and there crept over

his face that tender reverence which a good man gives so freely, and

which always half shamed, half touched Margaret.

"Help me, lass," he said; "that _I_ may find it simple too. I am cold at

times. I doan't allus practise what I believe. I am a terrible coward,

Margaret. Help me, that the fire o' th' Lord may be kindled afresh in

me, to the savin' o' many!"

"I think it will be," said Meg, her own eyes kindling. "Oh, Barnabas, it

is a difficult world; but, at least, you never tell one to be satisfied

with makeshifts, because there is nothing else to be had."

A recollection of her girlhood was in her mind when she spoke.

"God forbid!" said Barnabas Thorpe. "Shall we satisfy our souls with

swine's food? Better go hungry than that! That creed is fit for neither

man nor woman. It's born o' despair an' ower-softness, an' it means a

givin' up o' th' fight, which is a shamefu' thing. Isn't it queer to

think o' th' hundreds i' those houses? I'll preach by the river

to-morrow. It's good to be free again! One got kind o' sick with feeling

eyes always on one by night and day, and no place to breathe alone in."

"Forget Newgate now, dear," said Meg.

"No, I'll not do that," he answered. "One has no business to 'forget'

till the day when the coming of the Lord shall set the prisoners free.

But we'll begin afresh to-morrow, an' we'll ha' fewer doubts, an' we'll

do more."

THE END.

* * * * *

A FEW PRESS OPINIONS

ON

INTO THE HIGHWAYS and HEDGES

Academy.

"This book is so admirably conceived and written that Mr. Montrésor's

next venture must excite unusual interest."

Speaker.

"This book will undoubtedly rank high amongst the notable novels of

1895."

Athenæum.

"Whoever wrote 'Into the Highways and Hedges' wrote no common novel. A

touch of idealism, of nobility of thought and purpose, mingled with an

air of reality and well-chosen expression, are the most notable features

of a book that has not the ordinary defects of such qualities. With all

its elevation of utterance and spirituality of outlook and insight it is

wonderfully free from overstrained or exaggerated matter, and it has

glimpses of humour. Most of the characters are vivid, yet there is

restraint and sobriety in their treatment."

Daily Telegraph.

"This exceptionally noble and stirring book. Recounted with unflagging

verve and vigour, we unhesitatingly say that it has hardly a dull or

superfluous page."

New Age.

"A remarkably strong novel. I often thought of George Eliot when reading

this book, which I advise every one to read." (_Katherine Tynan._)

Manchester Courier.

"Mr. Montrésor's next book will be eagerly awaited by all those who make

the acquaintance of his first, for a more strikingly original or a

stronger novel has not appeared for some time."

World.

"'Into the Highways and Hedges' would have been a remarkable work of

fiction at any time; it is phenomenal at this, for it is neither

trivial, eccentric, coarse, nor pretentious, but the opposite of all

these, and a very fine and lofty conception. The man is wonderfully

drawn, realised with a masterly completeness, and the woman is worthy of

him. The whole of the story is admirably conceived and sustained. A

wonderful book."

Glasgow Herald.

"This is a remarkable and powerful book, which is likely to leave a

strong impression of itself upon every intelligent reader. One of the

most interesting novels that one has seen for some time."

Manchester Guardian.

"The characters are conceived strongly. Since the days of Dinah Morris

there has not, perhaps, been quite so successful a portrait of a man or

woman consumed by the passion of humanity. The dialogue throughout the

book is excellent."