"And I say that you lie," answered Mrs. Huxam firmly. "As to reason, I don't know and don't want to know. I hate the word. I know where reason will bring most humans, despite their Saviour's blood poured in a river for them. And I will speak for religion and our child's eternity and only that; and I tell you that any such horror as her going back to her old life would shut the door of Heaven against her for evermore. And that you know as well as I do; and I hope you'll call on God to forgive you for pretending to doubt it. And I hope God will forgive you, else you'll soon be in pretty sad trouble yourself."
Mr. Huxam did not immediately reply, but the adamant conviction with which Judith spoke impressed him. He did indeed suspect that from the standpoint of religion she might be right; but he excused himself.
"A father is a father," he said, "and if natural longing, to see my only daughter strong and happy again, led me to offend—well, you must make allowance for human weakness, Judy."
"A father is a father as you say, Barlow; and a Heavenly Father is a Heavenly Father; and if you're not prepared to say 'Thy will be done' at your time of life, then I can assure you that it's a very hopeless attitude. We want to make Margery's soul sure for God. We want to know that when we're safe through the Vale, our children—the souls we have been allowed to bring on earth—will follow us to our eternal home, or go in front, as in the case of our Thomas. The order of going is God's business, but the road is ours, and having the Light, what shall be said of the human parent that would let a child stray on the wrong road if he could prevent it? You're playing with everlasting fire for your only daughter—that's what you're doing to-night."
"Then we'll go to sleep," said Mr. Huxam. "I quite understand she's in Higher Hands, and I also grant the duty to the soul is higher than the duty to the body. We'll see her together to-morrow, and tackle the subject, and try to find the right road for Margery—where body and soul both will be looked after."
But his wife would not let him go to sleep. She was roused into a very vivid wakefulness and she poured a long and steady flood of dogma into Barlow's weary ears. His answers became fewer and she talked him into unconsciousness at last; but she did not sleep herself; and thus it came about that while Margery was dressing and putting on all the warm clothes that she could wear, her mother, fifteen yards away in the rambling, old house, remained very wide awake, her senses strung to dismay and her soul in arms. She had forgotten Margery and was now in deep trouble concerning Barlow's salvation.
Mrs. Huxam left her bed presently and knelt down to pray. But she found it exceedingly cold and rose and wrapped a dressing-gown about her, before she knelt again. It was then, in the stillness of a moonlit and frosty night, the time being a little after half past two o'clock, that Judith heard the shutting of the outer side door below her. There could be no doubt. The private entrance was closed gently, and it must first have been opened. Barlow slept and the room was dark save for the square of light where a white blind hid the window. She drew on her shoes, put the nearest garment, a flannel petticoat, over her head and left the room. She wasted no time in seeking for Margery, but descended at once, reached the door, found it unlocked, opened it and went into the street. The cold struck her like a blow and she gasped unconsciously. Thirty yards away, a woman moved in the moonlight and Judith knew that it was her daughter. She followed instantly and ran to overtake her. Hearing footsteps, Margery turned and, in a moment, her mother was beside her.
"Thank God!" was all Mrs. Huxam said, while the younger nearly felt, then strove to hurry on.
"Go back, go back, mother!" she implored. "You're wise,—you understand. It must be so. God has brought me to see it. Nought happens but by the will of God."
"Turn—turn and don't take the Name, Margery. Quick—quick! You shall come back. Quick then, for your soul's sake, before the frost strikes you dead in the act of sin. The will of God—yes—His will—to send me to save you—to head you off from death. The will of the devil you'd set out to do—and I've come between by the mercy of our sleepless Father. Come back to me—come back to righteousness, Margery; come back and praise your Maker Who sent a faithful mother to save you."