To detect Mr. Merrywhistle in an act of kindness did not surprise me; and yet I wondered how it was that he was here, in a certain sense clandestinely, with this poor girl, who had the look of the London streets upon her. Not wishing, however, to disturb the group, I walked slowly in the opposite direction; the conformation of the hill favoured me, so that I was very soon hidden from their sight, although really I was but a very few yards from them. I threw myself upon the ground, my thoughts dwelling upon the scene of which I had been an unseen witness. It struck me as strange that Mr. Merrywhistle and this poor girl were evidently well acquainted with one another; their familiar bearing convinced me of that. Then by what singular chance was it, or was it by chance at all, that they had met here in this sweet spot, so far away from her natural haunts? For there was no mistaking the type to which this poor girl belonged; it can be seen, multiplied and multiplying, in all our crowded cities, but not in country places such as this in which we held our holiday. Could this be the same girl and child, I asked myself, whom Mr. Merrywhistle followed when he left me so abruptly on the night we walked together from Mrs. Silver's house? But presently my thoughts wandered to more refreshing themes. The many beautiful pictures of sweet charity and unselfishness I had witnessed this day came before me again, and I thanked God that my country held such noble specimens of true womanhood as Mrs. Silver, Mary, Ruth, and Rachel. And then, knowing full well the history of these girls, I contrasted their present lives with that of the poor girl in Mr. Merrywhistle's company. In the midst of my musings, and while I was contemplating the picture (to which my thoughts had wandered) of Rachel standing before us, as she had stood three days ago, with a child on each side of her, and the weeping mother behind--as I was contemplating this picture, and weaving idealisms about it, the sound of a harsh voice reached me, and dissolved my fancies. I recognised the voice immediately--it belonged to Jimmy Virtue, and it came from the direction where Mr. Merrywhistle and the poor girl were. Not quite trusting Jimmy Virtue, as I did not at that time, I rose to my feet, and walked towards the group, the disposition of which was now completely changed. The girl was standing in a half-frightened, half-defiant attitude, pressing her child to her breast; in the eager haste with which she had snatched the child from the ground, she had clutched some wild-flowers, and these were trailing to her feet; Jimmy Virtue, with head inclined, was holding up an angry finger; and Mr. Merrywhistle, with an expression of pain and distress on his features, seemed by his attitude to be mediating between them. The girl was the first to see me, and she turned to fly, as if every human face she saw were a new terror to her, or as if in me she recognised a man to be avoided. I hastened to her side, and laid my hand on her arm. With a convulsive shiver, but without a word and without resistance, she bowed her head to her baby's neck, and cowered to the ground, like a frightened animal. And there she crouched, a poor forlorn thing, ragged, defiant, panting, fearing, with the world sitting in judgment upon her.
* * * * *
Bear with me a little while. The memories connected with this poor girl fill my heart to overflowing. They belong not only to her and her mournful history; she is but one of many who are allowed to drift as the careless days glide by. If you do not enter into my feelings, bear with me, I pray.
And I must not flinch. To be true unto others, you must be true to yourself. My conscience, no less than my heart, approves of the course I pursued with reference to certain passages in this girl's career. Many who hold a high place in the world's esteem will differ from me, I know; some, who look with self-righteous eyes upon certain bad features in the lower social life of the people, and whose belief inclines them to touch not lest they be defiled, will condemn me because I did not, from the very first, attempt to turn this girl's heart with prayer, believing themselves in its full efficacy for all forms of trouble. But let them consider that this girl-woman was already grown to strength; veined in her veins were hurtful fibres which once might have been easily removed, but which, by force of surrounding circumstance, were now so deeply rooted in her nature that they could only be weakened by patience, forbearance, tender handling, and some exercise of wise benevolence. Here was a mind to be dealt with utterly ignorant of those teachings, the following out of which renders life healthful and pleasant to contemplate; but here at the same time was a hungry stomach to be dealt with--a hungry stomach continually crying out, continually craving, which no words of prayer could satisfy. And I, a clergyman, who preach God's word in full belief and believe fully in His mercy and goodness, say to those who condemn for this reason, that words of prayer--otherwise lip-worship, and outward observances according to set forms--are, alone and in themselves, valueless and unacceptable in the eyes of God. Self-accusation, self-abasement, pleadings for mercy, unaccompanied by good deeds, go for naught. A merciful action, a kindly impulse practically acted upon--these are the prayers which are acceptable in His eyes.
* * * * *
I looked around for an explanation.
'Ah,' exclaimed Jimmy Virtue, threateningly, ''ere's the parson! He'll tell you whether you're right or wrong.'
A proof that I, the parson, had been set up by Jimmy Virtue as a man to be feared. It was natural that the poor girl should shrink from my touch. Mr. Merrywhistle drew me aside.
'It is all my fault,' he said, in a tone of great emotion. 'I smuggled her here.'
'How did she come?' I asked. 'She was not in any of the vans.'