The preacher, looking at her, checked the reply that had almost risen to his lips.
"Till I am free then," he said. "But it's no place for you. Will 'ee go home wi' Tom? they'll be glad enough to have ye; or, if ye'd rayther, ye can stay wi' your sister. It's as ye like."
Then, with a sudden burst of longing, that seemed to cut through the heavy atmosphere, making Meg's heart give a bound; "To think that I can't give ye a roof!" he cried. "It warn't i' the bond that ye should follow me to Newgate! Ye must forgi'e me this, Margaret!"
Meg lifted her head and looked straight at him.
"I'm not going back to Laura," she said. "What should I do there? Nor to the farm; what business has your wife in L——shire, when you are here? Father has left me some money; it will be just enough to keep us together. I will take a room close to the prison, and come as often as they will let me. There is a great deal to talk of; there is your defence to be considered; there is a great deal to be done; and you have told me nothing yet. I will live on very little—as little as possible; we shall want every penny, but——"
He shook his head, and her voice changed from would-be cheerful assurance to entreaty.
"But let me stay!" she cried. "You will find it worth while. No one will work so hard for you as I will. If I were in prison should you go comfortably away with Tom to the farm? It is absurd to ask! You don't need to answer; for, of course, you wouldn't. Don't you want to see me? I could come three times a week; on all the visiting days—don't you think that would be something?"
"Something!" said the preacher. He put his hand before his eyes to hide the sight of her, who, he knew, was only too precious to him.
"The look of ye is more nor meat or drink to me," he said. "An' ye know it! An' it's just because o' that that there's no reason in comparing what I'd do wi' what I'd have ye do. Go back wi' Tom, lass. Ay, I knew ye'd be willin' to bide; I knew ye'd offer to; but I couldn't bear to see ye standin' here day after day, nor to think o' ye alone in this hell of a city. I'll do well enough, an' I won't forget ye begged to stop. Just say 'good-bye' to me, my dear, an' go. Go, my lass!"
Her hands dropped from the bars and she turned away. She was in the habit of obeying him, and his stronger will nearly always overpowered hers; but, as she turned she looked back, and, though she did not understand how or why, something in his weary attitude made her return quickly, with a little low cry that brought him close to the bars again.