"Did I say something?" she asked. "Yes--I am unhappy; but you can't help me, thank you. Don't try to, please. Only G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 ha.s.sock, 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. "G.o.d 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 G.o.d died upon a cross," thought Meg; "if He loves as we love, where else could _our_ G.o.d 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 a.s.sisting at Christmas decorations, an amus.e.m.e.nt 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 p.r.i.c.ked their fingers with holly leaves, and tried hard to flirt with Mr.

Sauls.

"Mr. Sauls doesn't believe much in the generosity of our s.e.x; 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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-a-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.