"What had the fellow meant?" George puzzled over that point on his way back to N——town. It had been more than a mere ranting denunciation of the "rich man" as a "rich man". The indignation had been evidently personal to himself.

"If I'd been here, I'd not ha' let my wife sit at table wi' ye! It passes me that ye are not ashamed to come to this county again." How did the man know that he had ever been before?

To tell the truth, Mr. Sauls had once or twice felt in Meg's presence a little ashamed of a certain old story, though he did not regard the sins of his youth with the loathing that filled Barnabas Thorpe's soul at the thought of past backsliding.

Very few men's lives could be laid entirely open to the inspection of a good woman, George supposed; and he had never professed to be one of the "unco guid".

He grew angrier still with the preacher, at the thought of his ferreting out and telling Meg that tale, and he pictured the horror with which she would hear it.

George used to notice long ago with some amusement (he had often been privately amused with Miss Deane) that she was apt to be rather sweeping in her condemnations; seeing, in her extremely youthful innocence, only black and white, with no shades of grey between; judging with the crude severity that has not known temptation. It did not "amuse" him now to think of that.

That hypocrite would paint his portrait as a profligate, and a seducer of innocence; and Meg, looking at it all from a woman's point of view, would feel as if her hand had touched pitch in touching his.

"For commend me to a preacher for hunting down a scandal, and to a good woman for a hard sentence," he thought bitterly. Yet, if she could only know, even then, even in his rowdy, unsatisfactory boyhood, he had not been so utterly bad.

"Innocence" had never been the worse for him—never once. It was not "innocence" that he had flirted with in the hotel in the market town of Clayton; he and all the rest of the rather fast set he had affected in those days. There are country girls as far from simplicity as any town maiden; as there are town maidens as freshly innocent as cowslips in a field. Lydia Tremnell, the pretty saucy school-friend of the hotel-keeper's daughter, certainly had not belonged to the latter genus; and, possibly, Mr. Sauls wouldn't have paid her attention if she had.

At one and twenty George had had no liking for bread-and-butter misses. If he had met a girl of Meg's type then, he would have found her dull; but he followed the prevailing fashion and raved about Lydia, who, indeed, was pretty enough to charm most men's senses, and witty, too, in a rather pert fashion.

Now he came to think of it (but it was all so long ago!) he had a faint recollection of a very irate cousin of Lydia's who came to fetch her home, very much against her will; could that have been Barnabas Thorpe?

He had kept up a half-joking correspondence with her afterwards; but no one could have been more astonished than he was when the young woman turned up at his rooms in London one day, and threw herself utterly and completely on his protection!

Looking back now across the years that separated his ambitious and successful manhood from his unpromising youth, Mr. Sauls said to himself, "what a young idiot he had been!" but it had been no case of betrayal.

He had never promised Lydia marriage; he had never lured her up to town; he would have sent her home, if she had chosen—only he was no Joseph. Yes! what a fool he had been; Meg would call him by a harder name!

There had been a very curious end to the vulgar story. Lydia fell ill with a most malignant form of small-pox when she had been with him a week.

She clung desperately to him then, entreating him to hold by her, not to send her away to die in a hospital; she had an absolute unreasoning fear of hospitals. She hardly expected him to accede to her agonised prayers; she would not have stood by him or by any one else in a like case; and, what there was of good in George Sauls, she had never been the woman to find out; but he did accede to them, greatly to her wonder.

George was not in love with her, he had not a shred of respect for her; but, when she turned to him in direst need, the something not ignoble in him responded and he did not desert her. To say that that loathsome disease had no terrors for him would scarcely be true; but he had a constitutional dislike to running away, and he faced the terrors; which, perhaps, on the whole, might be counted very much to his credit.

Lydia died after a week's illness. "I don't want to live with marks on my face," she had said. "What should I do, grown ugly? but you have been better than most men would have been." She had no qualms about her soul, and no longing for her mother. She had no violent affection for any one or anything, except, perhaps, her own beautiful body, which had been spoilt by the marks on it. If George Sauls had been a poor man, he would not have been troubled with her.

George experienced none of the terrible remorse that the preacher would have felt in like circumstances; but, nevertheless, while he stood by Lydia's grave, he made some resolutions which he kept.

Probably, in any case, the stronger qualities of the man, the intense ambition, and keen pleasure in work, the sweetening affection for the mother and sister he pulled up with him, would have asserted themselves, and kept his coarser qualities in subjection as he grew older; but the episode of Lydia and the hours spent beside her bedside ripened him fast. He made an end of the sowing of wild oats. They didn't pay!

He had lived a clean life since; but Meg would not know that—and it was fifteen years ago!

George felt it unfair that so old a sin should rise up now to blacken his image in the mind of the woman he had the misfortune to love.

He had been surprised when he had first heard the name of Tremnell again; but Lydia's mother had never so much as seen him, and his name bore no association for her. He had changed it, on coming into money, and was Cohen-Sauls, instead of Cohen, now; and his cool assurance had carried him safely through the unexpected encounter. The difference between thirty-six and twenty-one was so wide that he hardly even felt self-conscious.

It was odd that the preacher should have recognised him. "The pious humbug!" said George between his teeth; "at least, my hands are cleaner than his! I never took advantage of her faith, though certainly I never had the chance. He'll draw a sweet picture of the wicked man for her; I shall point a moral to several sermons. If I might meet him this once, with no woman standing by, perhaps I might deliver a message too. Hallo, what's this?"

He had been walking quickly, not looking much at the flat landscape around him; but his eye was caught by a newly made fence round the "Pixies' Pool" which lay a little off the regular track.

Moved by curiosity, he turned towards it, and leaning his arms on the rail, stared down into the salt depths that had had such fascination for Meg.

Mr. Sauls was not in the least imaginative, but while thus engaged he had rather an odd sensation,—a sensation as if some one behind him were watching him; and he turned round sharply.

No one was by his side; it must have been fancy; but, the next minute, he did descry a man walking along the track he had just left, walking at full speed, with a long swinging step; and, with the man's approach, Mr. Sauls recognised the preacher.

Barnabas came deliberately towards him.

"Have the pixies granted me my wish?" thought George with a sneer. "Now, my holy friend, we'll have it out! I wouldn't have gone out of my way to quarrel with you, for her sake; but if you choose to follow me, why, the meekest of men could not stand that."

He lighted a cigar leisurely, and, with his back against the rail, awaited the preacher's approach; with a satisfaction which, perhaps, the "meekest of men" would hardly have experienced.

"I wanted to catch ye up," said Barnabas; and so the two stood face to face at last, with no one between them.

"At your service," said George. His tone was lazily insolent, though, as a rule, he carefully abstained from patronising his inferiors in rank.

He scanned Barnabas between half-shut eyelids. It was not the least of this fellow's offences that he looked so honest.

"I followed to give ye back this. It's not fitting my wife should tak' aught fro' ye; I'd liefer ye had it again. She's no need o' diamonds, an' if she had, they shouldna be bought wi' your money. She's obliged to 'ee, sir," with an evident after-thought; "an' here they be."

"I am sorry to disoblige," said George, lifting his shoulders. "I will not press a gift on Mrs. Thorpe against her will. When she gives it back to me herself, I'll take it; till then I had 'liefer' she kept it."

The preacher put the locket down on the rail that fenced the pond. "She'll not do that," he said quietly. "Take it or leave it, as you like; it's yours." And he turned to go.

"Stop!" said George, standing upright. "You were loud enough in your denunciations when a lady,"—somehow he hated saying "your wife"—"when a lady was present. Let's hear the whole matter now. When did you meet me before, and where? And why, pray, don't you take this opportunity for a word in season? Do you only preach under shelter of petticoats?"

"There's been matter enough atwixt you and me," said Barnabas. Good God! there had been matter enough, indeed!

He would have answered Mr. Sauls differently in his hot youth; now, after many seasons of constant labour for a Master who claimed his fighting powers, his reply came slowly, with no loss of self-command; but none the less forcibly for that.

"I've seen ye twice afore. If it were twice fifteen years ago I'd know ye again. I saw ye once fooling with a maid, teachin' her the devil's game, that meant play to ye, and death to her. I saw ye a second time standin' by her grave."

The veil of those fifteen years seemed lifted for a moment; both men felt themselves back in that London churchyard thick with fog, with Lydia's grave between.

"She paid the price, and you got off scot free," said the preacher. "It seemed to me then as if it would ha' evened things to ha' laid ye dead too; but they held me back, and now——" He broke off short, and there was silence for a moment.

George broke it with the elaborately nonchalant accent that showed he was a little stirred. "Ah well! I was shockingly out of training in those days," said he. "It was lucky that you didn't yield to your desire to even things; for you'd have swung for it, you know. Let's hear all you have to say; for you won't get another chance of converting this reprobate—and now!" For all the studied coolness of his tone, his fingers clenched; it was not Lydia he was thinking of now.

"And now," said the preacher steadily, "I will let vengeance alone. No, I've naught to say. I didn't come to preach to ye; I've hated ye too much for that. Ye asked me where we'd met, and why I said ye are no fit company for her. Now ye know."

"Thanks!" said George. "Yes—now I know." That stress on the "her," that reverence and something more than reverence in the preacher's voice, stung his desire to quarrel. It became uncontrollable; he must.

"I don't pretend to piety," he said, playing with the chain of the locket he had picked up, after all; for his common-sense could not allow him to leave it hanging on a fence. "I am no saint, as you are very much aware. Perhaps that's why I've an unholy horror of men who make sermons a vehicle for love-making, and catch good women by trading on an instinct for self-sacrifice; women who would never dream of looking at them, if they were approached in any other way. I may have done things to be ashamed of; most men have. But there are forms of hypocrisy that make one sick to contemplate. I don't know that I was ever a hypocrite." He put up his eyeglass, and stared at the preacher slowly from head to foot. "Nevertheless, I own that your plan has paid best. I congratulate you on the success of your preaching."

It was as deliberate an insult as could have been elaborated. Mr. Sauls felt better when he had said that. The pleasure of telling Meg's husband what he thought of him was worth a good deal; and his words hit. Barnabas flushed hotly, and stood crushing his fingers together.

"I'm sworn not to fight on my own quarrel," he said in a choked voice; and the reply cost him a hard struggle with the "old Adam". Meekness was not the preacher's natural characteristic.

"That was a most convenient oath!" said George. Was the man a coward? he wondered. "Do you go so far as turning the other cheek?"

"I'm not meaning to fight with ye; I told her I'd not do it; but," said the preacher, drawing his breath hard, "it 'ud take more nor a man to do that."

"Ah! I am glad you draw the line at that," said George. Again it was the pronoun that was more than he could stand. He raised his cane with a sudden swift movement.

"Come! you draw it at the 'other cheek,' eh?"

Barnabas sprang forward and caught the descending blow on the palm of his hand; his fingers closed on the cane. He jerked it out of his enemy's grasp, broke it across his knee, and flung it into the pool. God knew how fierce was the longing in him to send Mr. Sauls after it. He had forced his assailant backwards in the half-minute's struggle, and George himself had wondered for a second whether a plunge into the black water would be the end of it all.

"Ye can think me a coward if ye choose," said Barnabas. "Happen I'd be one if I broke an oath for your thinking. I'll not fight with ye, man."

George, who had felt the preacher's strength, eyed him thoughtfully. Even he recognised that it was not fear that had flashed into those blue eyes a few moments ago.

"Well, you see," he remarked coolly, "men who won't fight usually are cowards in this wicked world; and poor men who walk off with confiding young ladies, blest with rich papas, usually have an eye to the main chance; but I own I—I half believe you honest after all."

"I'd just as lief ye' didn't," said Barnabas shortly; "I'm not wishful for your good opinion."

And Mr. Sauls turned and went his way, a little breathless; for, if Barnabas hadn't fought, he'd done something rather like it; but George liked him a shade the better for that last unsaintly speech.

"I am afraid the preacher would have got the best of it, though I am not a weakling," he reflected. "He would have liked to put me on my back too. He didn't enjoy having to refuse that fight and play the peaceful rÔle, in spite of 'not being wishful for my good opinion'. Is he, after all, more fanatic than hypocrite? Can he be——Hallo! where am I getting to?"

His reflections were cut short by his foot sinking ankle-deep in a bog. Mr. Sauls turned to the right and walked a few paces further; then, becoming aware that some one was following him, was about to turn round, laughing at the foolish fancy that had attacked him for the second time, when a sudden shock brought bright flashes of light before his eyes; the earth seemed to spin round with him, the ground gave way. He was struck down by a blow from behind, and fell without a cry, lying still and white amongst the rank grass.

The next morning Barnabas and Margaret started for London.

Meg had packed her few possessions before day-break, and was standing by her window with her bundle beside her, when Mrs. Tremnell called her downstairs.

"There's Granny Dale wanting to see you, Margaret. Tom won't let her in the house; he's that angry with her for something Barnabas told him she'd said to you. But she won't go away. She just rampages outside in a way that is most annoying for a decent person to listen to."

"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-shell, 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 buttered, 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 butter 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 cocksure o' everything, an' it's cocksureness 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 harassed; 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 hell than any other place i' God'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."

But the man's face brightened.

"Glad, are ye?" he said. "There's naught that's impossible, my lass!"

And so life at the farm came to an end; and they went out together again.