"I'll make a bargain with you," said he. "I'll swear anything on earth to your father, if you will tell me the truth. My curiosity is—is excessive, I admit; but I was always curious, and you must allow that you gave your old acquaintance scope for conjecture. Tell me—are you happy, or not?" He twirled his eyeglass rapidly, and looked hard at her. "Has the venture been a success?"
Meg drew her breath quickly, and turned her head away.
"It is not fair," she said. "If any one had asked me to do for him so small and natural a service, I should not have bargained."
It was odd how this man always jarred on her when she felt most friendly towards him. She had been pleased that he had taken the trouble to seek her out, and to give her the details about her old uncle; but his over-eagerness offended her.
"No," he said; "you wouldn't have condescended so far; but then, you know, you wouldn't have cared. That's always such an advantage!" He ended the sentence with a laugh. "Well, I think I have the answer in your refusal to give it. I'll do my best for you when I see your father."
"Don't make a mistake," said Meg. She turned, and faced him with a touch of dignity, her confusion lost in something else. Meg had faults enough, heaven knew; but she carried with them all a crystal-clear sincerity that sometimes impressed him with a sense of awe. "Don't make a mistake. I have asked you to say nothing but the truth. It is I only who have failed. I thought I was better than I am. I fancied, for a little while, that I could live as Barnabas does, always praying and preaching and rescuing and healing. I was wrong—I am not good enough, or strong enough. I have found that out, and—yes—it makes me unhappy. It is as if one had fallen from a height; and I hardly know what to do, or where to turn." She hesitated for a second; then she went on more firmly, and an utterance that was on George Sauls' very lips was forced back. "But this is my fault, not his," she resumed. "And the preacher has been kinder to me than any one in the world, except—no, without exception. My failures are my own. You have made me confess them, though I am ashamed——"
"It is I who should be ashamed," said George thickly. "Well, I'll do anything possible for you, Mrs. Thorpe, even to taking myself off, since that's all I can do. I wanted to meet Barnabas Thorpe once, but—I'll endeavour to renounce that pleasure, and bid you good-bye here and now. So this is the end, eh?"
He held out his hand in a sudden revulsion of feeling, and Meg took it rather puzzled.
"Did you want to meet Barnabas? I wish you could!" she said. "For then you could not help being fairer to him. Good-bye, and good luck to you!" she added as an after-thought, moved thereto by the suspicion that Mr. Sauls was rather depressed; and he, lifting his hat, stood still and watched her out of sight.
"So that's over!" he remarked. "And I've given up my chance of speaking my mind to her precious husband. He'll get off scot free in this world, I suppose. Really I hope there is another, if only for the pleasure of seeing that astute humbug get his deserts. I think I could stand the lower regions myself, if only I might find the preacher there. 'Good luck! I am glad she wished it me. I am glad she is still the best woman I have known. Pshaw! she'd have lifted me into I don't know what heights of sentiment, if she had married me; and all one can say now is that even her husband hasn't dragged her down."