Into the Highways and Hedges Part 43

"I'll come," said Meg, though rather unwillingly; and she ran down into the paved yard, guided by the sound of Granny Dale's shouts.

Granny stopped "rampaging" at the sight of her; and burst at once into a whining torrent of apology for past bad behaviour to the sweet lady who, she was sure, would "forgive a poor owd body, who hadn't touched bite or sup since, for thinkin' on it".

The old woman looked dirtier and more disreputable than ever; and her eyes had a malicious and rather scornful gleam in them that belied her words, the while Meg confusedly accepted her repentance.

"It was all my silliness, granny," cried the preacher's wife.

"An' it's like the dear to say so! Didn't I knaw as yo'd not be down on a poor soul as has wark eno' to keep hersel', let alone her son and her deead darter's son, out o' the house? Yo' as be th' apple o' thy husband's eye too; for sartain I wur 'mazed to say----"

"Ask what she's wanting, and cut it short," said Tom, to Meg's relief appearing behind her. "What a little fool ye were to come down, Barnabas' wife! I'd ha' made short work of her. Well, granny, what's the output? What do 'ee want Mrs. Thorpe to do for 'ee that you're so sweet on her to-day?"

"If she'd just spake a word for me to the preacher." And this time there was a genuine anxiety in granny's tone. "He's that angered wi' me that he's gi'en me ower to the devil."

"Oh Lord!" said Tom, "but there wasn't much required on the part of Barnabas. The devil must ha' cried small thanks for givin' him his own."

"Don't, Tom; she is so unhappy," said Meg. "I am sure the preacher did not mean that," turning to granny. "No man could give any one to the devil--even if he wanted to."

"Couldn't he now?" cried the old woman sharply. "Thee's but out o' th'

egg-sh.e.l.l, my dear; an', happen, ye doan't knaw that as well as I! I doan't want 'ee to tell me what can an' can't. I want 'ee to spake a word for me, an' get him to take off his curse an' come an' look to my pig, as is ta'en wi' sickness, an' to see to my donkey, as has broke his knees, an' to find Timothy--Timothy, as has never come whoam all this blessed night."

Her voice broke into a wail with the recapitulation of her woes. Granny could not cry; she was too old for tears to be near the surface; but she covered her face with her ragged skirt, and moaned like a banshee.

"He allus stood atween me an' them," rocking herself to and fro; and whether "them" meant heavenly or diabolical powers, or both, Meg could not tell.

"He wur allus there when I wur took bad; an' now he's angered wi' me, and, if ye don't spake a word, my pig 'ull die, and Timothy won't never be found, an' I'll die wi' no one to say a prayer for me, an' the devil 'ull ha' my soul!"

Tom laughed hard-heartedly at the climax. "And serve ye right," he said.

"Look 'ee, granny: Mrs. Thorpe's a deal too soft-hearted, but I ain't, and ye'd best be off now. Hullo! here is the preacher. Come, lad; granny's wantin' your wife to coax ye to cheat Satan, as she says ye've made her ower to."

Barnabas Thorpe's face wore the rather strained look that Meg had learned to know meant a night's "wrestling with the spirit," probably on the marshes.

He found it hard to pray under a roof; and these nightly communings seemed a sort of necessity to him, giving him fresh power for the work that had a physical as well as a spiritual side.

"What are ye doin' here?" he said sternly; and the old woman edged away from him in such evident fear that Meg's chivalry was aroused; she could never bear to see any one frightened.

"What have you said to make her fancy such terrible things?" she cried.

"Naught but the truth," said Barnabas. "Have me an' mine done anything but good to 'ee, Granny Dale? For what did ye set to work to hurt my wife wi' your foul tongue? For love o' wickedness? _I_ never sent ye to th' devil. Ye are fond o' his service wi'out my sending."

"Which was what I said," laughed Tom. "No, it ain't no use your lookin'

shocked at us, Barnabas' wife. Granny should ha' minded which side her bread's b.u.t.tered, and kep' a civil tongue. She'll get no more fro' me."

And granny wailed again, as well she might; for no more from Tom meant short commons in the winter. It was hard to say which oppressed her most, the spiritual or the temporal look-out.

Meg looked from one brother to the other. There was something grotesque in the scene; but the old woman's genuine misery moved her.

"Oh, _do_ go and help her!" she exclaimed. "Barnabas, do go--for my sake!"

She hardly expected her appeal to be successful; but it was, and on the instant.

Granny, who had been watching furtively behind her uplifted skirt, stopped moaning at once.

"Come along; though ye doan't deserve it," said the preacher. "Ye can tell me what's wrong as we go. Catch hold of my arm, for we'll ha' to hurry. I'll be back in time, Margaret; I can run comin' home."

And granny, clutching his arm hard, poured forth the tale of her misfortunes while she trotted by his side, with evident relief at being reconciled to the "powers that be".

"It is very extraordinary," said Meg.

Tom laughed gruffly.

"Ay, it is. I doan't know how ye do it, but ye _do_ twist him round that little finger o' yours, times; though ye look as if b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt i' your mouth."

"It is extraordinary that that old woman should feel safe if the preacher forgives her, and given over to the devil if he is angry. If he were a Roman Catholic priest, one could understand it; but Barnabas, who thinks the pope 'Antichrist,' and a priest a 'messenger of Satan'!"

"H'm! Natures come out th' same, whether they're Methodies, or Catholics, or Heathen Chinees. There'll allus be some as like to put a shelter 'twixt them an' th' Almighty. Happen moast women do; an' whether it's pope, or kirk, or priest, 'tain't much real odds, I expects. It saves them trouble. Barnabas is c.o.c.ksure o' everything, an' it's c.o.c.ksureness as takes; an' so long as he's strong, weak foalk 'ull cling to him. That ain't odd as t'other. Well, it's moast a pity ye are goin', now ye ha'e got sure we ain't ogres. My word! how scared ye were of us at first! Do 'ee mind running away i' th' middle o' dinner? An' how ye looked when I axed your name? I shook i' my shoes then!"

"You have all been very good to me," cried Meg gratefully. "Oh, let me say it for once, Tom."

He grunted impatiently.

"And I shouldn't 'look' if you called me 'Margaret' now--I should like it."

"No," said Tom, puckering up his face into rather an odd expression. "Ye shall be 'Barnabas' wife' to me till th' end o' th' chapter."

He went off whistling, and Meg presently went down to the field to wait for Barnabas.

Granny Dale's cottage was some way off; but she had no doubt that the preacher would be back in time; she had implicit faith in his promises, and there were still a few minutes to spare when she saw him return.

She noticed again, when he drew near, that he looked worn and hara.s.sed; but his expression softened, as it always did, at sight of her.

"Ye'll be glad enough to leave th' place," he said. His voice sounded so dispirited that Meg, with an unusual impulse, put her arm through his as they stood together, and moved closer to him.

It had been dawning on her of late that this man's love for her gave her a power to help or hinder him, such as no one else, not even Tom, possessed; and that, occasionally, for all his strength, he needed help.

It was an idea slow to take root, an idea she was half afraid of, which, once accepted, might work strange wonders.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"It's a fearful thing to hate a man!" said the preacher. "One fasts and prays all night, but in the morning it's still there, and stronger. One thinks that one has been on the Lord's side, and wakes up to see that in one's heart one has been on the devil's--and after years. For 'Whoso hateth his brother'--and after years!"

The horror in his face was so intense, bringing out a curious likeness to the father, to whom, in the main, he was so unlike, that Meg's desire to comfort waxed strong.

"You _are_ on the Lord's side, Barnabas!" she cried. "He knows that you are, whatever your heart may say. Your whole will and life are His.

Well," after a pause, "did you find granny's son for her?"

"Happen we'll find him in London," said Barnabas. "It's nearer h.e.l.l than any other place i' G.o.d's earth, an' Timothy has a natural hankerin'

after what's foul."

"You hate going there," said Meg softly; "but I am glad you are coming with me, Barnabas. Even though I am going to my father--I am glad! As for Timothy, I don't see how it's possible to find him in London. I almost think" (with a shudder) "that he is better lost. Even you can't convert him, for there's nothing in him to convert."