Into the Highways and Hedges Part 36

"I remembered it too," said George. "Miss Deane once showed it to me.

The diamonds are uncommonly fine. I found it at a p.a.w.nbroker's at N----.

Mrs. Thorpe sold it to him. The old rascal made a good thing out of her, I suspect. He a.s.sured me that he saw her cross the road to the 'Pig and Whistle' with the money in her hand, and order a chaise to take her to Lupcombe parsonage."

"To Lupcombe!" said Mr. Deane; he started painfully.

"You didn't know?" said George. "It was not news to me. The gardener told us how a woman had come to the parsonage--it was while Mr.

Bagshotte and I were looking at ancient monuments--and begged hard to see you, but was sent away; he said she seemed broken-hearted."

George's even voice--he spoke in as matter-of-fact a tone as if he were commenting on the weather--ceased for a moment. He knew that Mrs.

Russelthorpe had turned white even to her lips; but he had no pity for her;--that other woman "broken-hearted" was too present with him.

"How do you know--it was my Meg?" said her father, with a catch of the breath in the middle of his sentence.

"I questioned the gardener again," said George. "When Mrs. Russelthorpe sent her away, the woman said, 'Tell father I know he was right'.

Possibly Mrs. Russelthorpe forgot to give you that message?" He put up his eyegla.s.s and looked at her, but she stood perfectly still and straight. An enemy's presence has a finely bracing effect on a woman's nerves; yet, perhaps, at that moment, Meg's wrongs were avenged, even better than the avenger knew.

Mrs. Russelthorpe's love for her brother might be selfish, but at least it was intense; and to lose his was like losing the very life of her soul, for it was the only love she knew. She could not look at Charles, though she felt him look eagerly and questioningly at her, or speak to him, though her silence was an admission. But she met Mr. Sauls' stare with haughty composure; if he must guess she suffered, at least he shouldn't _see_ it.

Mr. Deane put his hand over his eyes; there was a minute's dead silence,--the longest minute that Mrs. Russelthorpe had ever known.

Then: "Mr. Sauls, you have made a mistake," he said. "It--it was I who forgot; my memory is getting misty. You must not fancy that my sister did not tell me. Of course, I knew--but, no doubt, you meant well." And, for once in his life, George was taken aback. Then he turned on his heel, with a short laugh.

"Thank you; I am glad you credit me with good intentions," he said. "I am no more fond of interfering than you are of--shall I say, of telling lies? But there _are_ circ.u.mstances--Mrs. Thorpe had no one else to speak for her. Family pride is a stronger influence than abstract justice, isn't it?" He walked to the door, then paused. Mr. Deane fancied that Mr. Sauls was going to make one last cutting remark; but he did not. After all, it was not for his own hand that he was fighting; and stinging speeches wouldn't help her much.

"I daresay I have 'interfered impertinently,'" he said; "but don't 'forget' again. I think if you had seen, as I have, how she looks when your name is mentioned, how she longs for any crumb of news of you, you might remember, and even let her in next time. Good-bye; I am sorry we don't part friends--I am very sorry." And he spoke the truth. Mr. Deane had befriended him years ago; and then he was Meg's father.

He was just leaving the room when Mr. Deane called him back.

"Sauls, come here!" he said. "I can't make you hear across the room; my voice isn't strong enough. Tell me, do you know where she is? Yes? Bring me paper and pencil, please." George handed him his own pocket-book, and took the pencil from his watch-chain. Mr. Deane's hand shook while he held it. His sister, who had stood still as a statue all through this interview, stepped forward now in genuine anxiety for him.

"You are not fit to write," she said. "Let me--or Mr. Sauls." But he shook his head. "No one else can do it. Meg will understand and come, when she gets this. Tell her, Sauls, that I will do my best to live till I have seen her, and give her my love."

He wrote one line in shaky characters; then folded the leaf in two, and put it in George's hand. "I can't trust it to the post. Will you take this to her, for the sake of--'abstract justice'? You understand that what happened before was my doing. I trust you with this."

"I understand, and you may trust me," said George. "Thank you." And there was a warm ring in the thanks that brought a smile to Mr. Deane's lips.

"You are very fond of abstract justice!" he murmured.

"Am I? the more fool I!" said George. "It's not a profitable taste, or likely to find much gratification. I will take your message safely. I am glad I reminded you, though you are very tired, I'm afraid." And their hands met for the last time.

"There will be time to rest when I have seen her," said Mr. Deane; "but tell her that she must make haste."

George went out, shutting the door behind him softly, not even caring to look again at his enemy. After all, he did not feel triumphant at that moment, though he was glad that he had won that victory for Meg.

When he was fairly gone, Mr. Deane turned and looked at his sister.

"You could not contradict him," he said, in a low voice. "A man can't see a woman put to shame before another man, but I wonder what injury I have ever done you that you _could_ do this thing to me. You must hate us very much!"

"Not you! Not you!" she cried. And she threw herself at his side, hiding her face in the bedclothes. "Oh, Charles, I meant no harm to you. But what right had _she_ to come? She has always been between us, always.

She tried to take my place; she was her mother over again,--her mother, who robbed me once; whom I had thought buried! Even when she was a child it was so; and now, having done all the harm she can, having proved her worthlessness, she will still dare to come and----"

"G.o.d grant she will still come!" he said.

His thin face worked nervously. The generous, easy life, unstained by any gross sin, pure as a girl's, seemed to him, at that moment, more culpable than words could say.

"Even when she was a child!" he repeated to himself. "My _poor_ little Meg, even when she was a child! I don't understand how you had the heart to send my daughter away, but it seems I have never understood. Go, please, and leave me to wait for her," he said aloud.

"Charles!" she cried again. And even in her own ears both words and voice sounded strange and unlike herself. "Oh, Charles, it was because I cared so much about you! I know that you can't understand; but forgive me, if you can."

"Because you cared!" he said. "I would rather you _had_ hated me, then!

It would have been better for us both." Then, seeing her wince as if he had struck her: "There! I should not have said that; but, for mercy's sake, do go, Augusta! I don't want to say anything more that I shall repent. I can't talk about it. Forgive you? If my child comes in time, I will. That is all I want,--if Meg only comes in time."

And Mrs. Russelthorpe rose from her knees, and went downstairs, with a face that seemed to have grown older and greyer.

"If Mrs. Thorpe comes in time to see Mr. Deane, let her in," she said to the butler, who nodded gravely.

"Things must be at a pretty pa.s.s when she gives that order," he declared downstairs; and the cook sat down and cried, for all the servants loved Mr. Deane.

That night he was worse, but in the morning there was again a slight rally. A kind of expectancy pervaded the whole house. The maids would steal constantly to the area gate, and look down the silent square; even the nurse, infected by her patient's anxiety, went often to the window, and peeped out to see whether the daughter was coming.

Mr. Deane himself did nothing but listen day and night.

Mrs. Russelthorpe, sitting alone in the big drawing-room, listened too.

Her brother would not see her--he might die, still without seeing her.

She made no sign of distress; but her head ached, and her brain reeled with listening. All through the weary day she heard every footfall that sounded on the flagstones, pa.s.sed the house and died in the distance; and all through the weary night she wondered whether it would be worse that Meg should hold him in her arms at the last; or that he should die, leaving his sister unforgiven. It would be a careless forgiveness--given because, having his child again, he had "all he wanted". Mrs.

Russelthorpe wondered at herself because she longed for that.

Well, if her love was selfish, she did not on that account suffer any the less--but rather more.

Even George Sauls, who thought she had got off easily, though it was just like Mr. Deane to interpose and screen her--even he might have been satisfied, if he had known how much.

And, indeed, the most vindictive, could they know everything, would probably have small desire left for the shooting of private arrows at any enemy.

CHAPTER X.

It takes two to speak truth--one to speak and another to hear.

--_Th.o.r.eau._

It was mid-day when Margaret woke; the day after her fruitless expedition to her father, after the terrible night which had left its traces on both her soul and body.

She had slept for twelve hours and woke refreshed, but still aching from the effects of cold and exposure. She felt as if she had been beaten violently, and she dressed herself with some difficulty.

Mrs. Tremnell had brought a cup of tea to her room, and tried to persuade her to stay there. Meg accepted the attention with gratified but rather surprised thanks.

"I must get up," she said, "for I did all sorts of dreadful things yesterday. I have lamed Tom's mare, and I have lost Barnabas' savings, and I ought to tell them at once; I can do a thing if I must, but I can't _wait_ with anything hanging over my head, I never could" (which was remarkably true).