"I allow it," he said. "You certainly ought to know. We'll grant the preacher honest, if you like;—that is honest according to the gospel of Barnabas Thorpe, which quite passes my humble understanding. Apparently you comprehend it. I'll take it on trust that he never steals diamonds, though he stole a wife; and that he could possibly explain everything, if his very remarkable code of morality did not include the sheltering of criminals. I'll grant you all that,—but it makes no difference. Let him carry out his own principles; far be it from me to prevent him this time. I would have prevented him once, but I was too late."
His voice lost self-restraint, and sounded momentarily hoarse and fierce; then he regained his coolness.
"You are a little illogical," he said. "All that you advance may be absolutely true, Mrs. Thorpe; but it is no reason at all why I should suppress evidence, and give you the diamonds. His innocence is his own affair—not mine."
"Do you expect a woman to be logical when her husband is in danger of being hanged?" said Meg. She was trying to speak quietly, but the terrible strain was telling on her.
"Well, no—I seldom expect it in any circumstances," he answered; and then was ashamed of his words; they sounded like a taunt. "It is more than flesh and blood can stand!" he said suddenly. "You should not have come, Margaret! Don't you know that no one can bear to hear the woman he loves beg for the man who has——"
"Whom she loves!" cried Meg. "Give me his life! If you know what love means, give it to me! I know that you hate him! I know now that you hate him because he married me,—but I love him so. For him? No, I am not begging for him. Do you think that Barnabas would have let me come here to ask favours of you? I think he would rather have been hanged. He shall never know this. I am begging nothing for him. Death must mean gain for him—but for me! Ah, think of it, think of it! for I hardly dare to. Will you leave me desolate, whom you say you love? I could face death; but life without him is so terrible. If I must bear it, I must," said Meg drawing herself up. "Other women have seen their husbands die, and have lived, and so can I—but——" and her voice broke. "Ah, save me from it!" she cried; "you who say you love me. This is more than my own life to me (that I would never beg for). For my sake, for my sake give me this thing, because I ask it of you."
"Because you ask it of me!" said George.
He stared at her, repeating her words almost stupidly. The agony of her entreaty, the sight of her love, fully awake at last, moved him, he hardly knew himself whether most strongly to jealousy or love.
So she was transformed! Well, he had always known it possible, always felt that there was fire behind her ice! Indeed, it was that possibility of passion under her cold pure ideality that had attracted George always. But it was not he, it was Barnabas Thorpe who had awakened it.
"Do you believe that the preacher hasn't injured me?" he cried, with a hot bitterness in his heart. "Oh, yes; he has won, all the way round."