Meg buried her face again feeling a little frightened. They were silent for some minutes, while they listened to the peals of thunder that followed the flashes so quickly that they knew the centre of the storm must be just above them. The rain was pouring down and Meg's companion divested himself of his rough coat, threw it over the girl, and then crept a little further away to a spot where he could get more shelter. He lay and gazed at the head buried amidst the bracken, and in his heart a tempest was raging, in harmony, with nature's wild mood.
Jem knew that he had come to a crisis in his life. Two ways opened before him, one meant a life of misery and sordidness for his companion, the other a possible escape from her present misery. But this possible way was worse than death for him.
He was a tall young man, with an honest, rough looking face, surmounted by a head of curly brown hair. His eyes were of the brightest blue, almost fierce in their brightness. A red handkerchief was knotted round his throat, and the hat which lay on the ground beside him was battered and torn. But had you met him you would have looked at his blue eyes rather than at his shabby clothes. These eyes were bent now on his companion, and in their expression there lay almost a look of worship.
Neither of them spoke till the storm had worn itself nearly out and the thunder had rumbled away in the distance. They were both hard at work, thinking. Meg was shedding tears at the thought that her short lived freedom had come to an end; while her companion was fighting for her freedom in his heart. Should he tell her what would set her free? Should he throw away from his own life the only thing that gave it happiness? At one moment he made up his mind that he would keep the girl in ignorance of the truth, at the next the sight of that little head buried in the bracken made him feel that any sacrifice on his part was worth making to secure her happiness.
At last he sat up.
"Meg," he said.
The girl did not answer or look at him. She was feeling too miserable to make the effort, and too tired. Now that the prospect of freedom had been taken from her, all her strength seemed to have ebbed away, and she knew she was hungry and deadly weary.
"If I hadn't come just when I did," said the man, "you'd have been in the place of that tree I take it. You were sitting right in the line. I saw the flash go over your head. Ain't you glad I saved you, Meg?"
"I don't know," said the girl slowly: "no, I think I'm sorry. I'd as lief be dead than go back to 'em all. The earth is kind: I don't see why I should mind lying here for ever: I think I'd like it." She gave a great sob as she spoke, and buried her head deeper in the bracken.
Her companion was silent for some time, still struggling within himself; then he said, looking away from the prostrate figure of the girl.