Into the Highways and Hedges

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.

"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.