"They were hidden by the man who knocked Mr. Sauls down and robbed him," said the preacher. "I was a fool, Margaret! The man told me where they were, an' I thought it was just a mad fancy. It never came to me to take my knife and rip up the lining; I just shook it, an' seeing naught, flung it in a corner where it stayed. Ye see, I didn't wholly credit his story. It was all so mixed up wi' delusions. One minute he was seein' Mr. Sauls' double at th' foot o' his bed, beckoning him to hell, an' th' next he were raving about diamonds bein' on fire an' burning him, an' the next he were pouring out such sickening confessions as I think the devil himself must ha' been prompting his tongue to. No man could ha' committed all the sins he told of. An' the longing to deliver him fro' Satan was strong on me, an' he kind o' clung to me, as if he was bein' hunted, an' I promised him I wouldn't betray him. One can't allus be thinking what 'ull be the consequences to onesel' when a poor soul turns to one in mortal terror."
"And you will keep your promise at any cost to yourself—and to me?" said Meg.
"Little lass, ye wouldn't ha' me not keep it!" he cried. He turned his head away for a moment. Was even Meg against him? Dr. Merrill had told him that he sacrificed his wife to a skulking sneak; did she think so too? He looked at her with an involuntary sad entreaty that none but Meg had ever seen in his eyes.
He was used to being considered rather mad. Truth to tell, being in a minority troubled him little as a rule; but, for once, the pain of loneliness touched him very sharply.
"Dear heart, do 'ee think I doan't care for 'ee?" he said. "I'd give my soul, if it were only that, for yours. But one must follow where one's Master calls. Would ye ha' me such a cowardly hypocrite, that having in His name bid ye give up the world for Him, I should mysel' shrink from a path where there's only room for one? Would ye ha' me break a promise, gi'en in this service, because keeping it means shame and death? Shame for ye too, for ye too! Forgi'e me, if ye can't think me right," he cried sadly. "Oh, my little lass, I wish I could bear it all! It cuts me like a knife when I think it means shame for you. It's the sore part." He caught his breath sharply, and Meg felt his arm tremble for a moment. Then: "But I'd not say that to any one else," he said. "Ye are like my own soul, an', even to you, I'll not say it again. It's a bit mean o' me to cry out so. When I took service I didn't promise to follow the Master only so long as I could on velvet. I've no need to complain; an' ye mustn't say He deserts us because He treats us like men, an' takes us at our word. Yet"—and again his face softened—"if ye could think with me—but, happen, that's ower much to expect."
His voice, ringing with the eager loyalty which was so large a factor in his religion, then breaking into human tenderness, ceased. He could not see her face, for she sat with it hidden against him. He touched her fair head gently, with his hand. "Poor little lass!" He could not put into words the remorseful tenderness he felt. He hoped she would not try to dissuade him; it could make no difference, but he found Meg's grief hard to bear.
"Happen that's ower much to hope for?" he said again softly, but with more wistfulness than he knew. "But I'd like ye to forgive me, Margaret, any way. Will ye do that, if ye think me wrong?" His voice sank to a whisper she barely caught. "The temptation was sore, but if I'd loved ye less it ha' been stronger; for I'd not ha' felt it so shameful then to drag that love i' the mud. Margaret, say something to me."
Then she lifted her head and answered him—such an answer as no human soul had given his before.
"You are right!" she said. "Except that you ask me to forgive you. Forgive what? Shame? I am not ashamed. Do you think I shall not be prouder of you than if all the world were at your feet? I have never been ashamed of you. Never once! Even when I didn't love you, I knew better than that! Ashamed! I will try to be a little sorry for the blindness of all the people who did not know you innocent, who cannot tell light from darkness! if you like, dear,—if you like—but there is no shame for you, or for me, who am yours."
Ah, had ever the condemned cell echoed to such words before? such passionate vibrating love, and pride of love?