"Well, lass," he began again, after a minute's silence, "I found this this morning" (holding out her note).
"So ye thought we'd take a satisfaction in makin' th' rest o' your life miserable? Did ye get to your father?"
"He wouldn't see me," said Meg; and there was a ring of pain in her voice, that went to the man's heart. "Father could not forgive me, though I asked him. He said, 'Tell her that as we sow, we must reap;' and it is very true—truer than anything else in this world, only I did so want to see him—oh, I do so want to!"
The preacher walked up and down the loft with quick strides. "I hope," he began; and then swallowed the rest of that sentence. He hoped in his righteous indignation—possibly also in his jealousy—that Mr. Deane might receive a like answer when in need of forgiveness for himself; but he did refrain from saying that to Meg.
"There was a king's daughter who forgot her own people an' her father's house; but there's only one thing as makes a woman do that, I fancy," he said at last; "an' ye've not got it. See now, lass, I'm asking ye for naught but th' right to help ye if I can. Let's get to th' bottom o' things together; doan't 'ee think ye might gi'e me that much?"
He spoke gently; but there was always an intensity about the preacher that made Meg, whose more complex nature was swayed by many different emotions, feel rather as if she were being coerced into self-revelations against her will.
"What is the use? There are some things better not talked of. It is sometimes a sin even—even to regret," she whispered. Her great grey eyes had a beseeching wistfulness in them. "It's all been unfair to you," she cried, the conviction that had been growing on her finding voice. "But I meant, when I came back, to put all that belonged to the old life quite aside—never to speak of father any more. If you give me time, I'll do it. Only don't make me tell you too many truths, Barnabas; they may be better let alone."
"I'd be loth to make any one do aught," said the preacher. "It's what I'd never do."
"What he would never do!" And how many times had she not seen his strong personal influence making people go his way?—making the drunkard throw away gin untasted, making crowds fall on their knees as if moved by one spirit; yet he spoke in all good faith: such compulsion was not his doing, but "the Lord's," in the preacher's eyes.
She leaned back against the hay, and watched him pacing up and down the loft. Her thoughts flew back to a day that had almost been forgotten in the events that followed it,—the day he had testified in the drawing-room at Ravenshill.