Into the Highways and Hedges Part 27

CHAPTER VI.

Mrs. Tremnell sat in her room staring at a bit of a letter that lay before her, an expression of half horror, half doubt on her face.

She had never said in her heart that she disliked Margaret; she was not the kind of person to look at her feelings boldly, or to own to experiencing either love or hate in undue degree. She had never consciously gone further than "not thinking much of the preacher's wife," or "hoping that Barnabas would not have cause to repent"; but Meg's reserve had chafed her, and so, perhaps, had Mr. Thorpe's deference to the "little lady," and Tom's kindly partiality. She was a conscientious woman according to her lights. She believed she was dismayed at what she had discovered; not exactly surprised, perhaps; of course, not pleased,--but, "pride cometh before a fall". She had always known that Margaret was proud, and here was the fall that proved it.

"My letter sounds cold; but, after all that has happened, it is difficult to write to you as I feel. Only I want you to know that my home is always open to you, Margaret."

That was all. It was the hurriedly scribbled postscript to a letter, the rest of which was in Meg's pocket still.

Mrs. Tremnell, looking out of her window, had seen Mr. Sauls give it to the preacher's wife, on taking leave of her the day before; had seen Meg colour on receiving it, and read it through more than once after he had gone. Afterwards Mrs. Tremnell had picked up this stray sheet in the field where the two had stood. No one but Margaret, surely, would have been so careless as to let such a doc.u.ment blow away. "'His home open to her,' and she the wife of a professed preacher! To think that it had come to that!"

Should she show it to Barnabas? No; somehow she shrank from such a course. The consequence might be too serious altogether. He took things hardly. She didn't want to raise a tragedy.

Should she speak to Margaret? She had only "done her duty by her"; but Mrs. Tremnell grew rather red at the thought of how Meg would "look". Of course, she _ought_ to look guilty; but that, somehow, was impossible to picture.

Should she tell Tom? He really made too much of Margaret; it would be a good thing that he should see she was just like other girls. His temper was colder than his brother's, and his common-sense more habitually awake.

Supper was on the table when she went downstairs. Margaret was still out.

"She's walking wi' that gentleman fro' London. Lord bless us! he must ha' plenty o' time to spare. When's he going home?" said Tom. But when Mrs. Tremnell, agreeing with him with unusual warmth, also a.s.severated that it was "time Mr. Sauls should go," and furthermore suggested that the way Margaret received visits from him was most "unsuitable," she might almost say "improper," he twisted round to Meg's defence with startling rapidity.

"Oh, she's right enough, an' honest as day; any baby might see that!" he cried. "I'd be fair ashamed to hint aught else to her. I doan't like that gentleman, an' I doan't fancy he comes for th' pleasure o' talking about horses to me; but I doan't believe he's a downright bad un, an' no man who wasn't a brute 'ud dare say a word he hadn't ought to Barnabas'

wife, no more than to a child. She's homesick for her own kind, poor la.s.s, tho' she won't own to it, an' that's why she likes to hear that swell talk. Small blame to her!"

Mrs. Tremnell shook her head mysteriously. It was all very well to laugh at her, but she wasn't one to speak without reason. The acidity of her tone increased in proportion as Tom's grew impatient and indignant.

"She's a very good la.s.s, an' if she was a little fool to throw up her own kin for Barnabas, it's not for his folk to make her feel that worse nor she must. You're a rare hand at making a fuss!" said he; and his last words brought Mrs. Tremnell to a decision. She held Meg's letter out to him.

"Eh, what is it?" said Tom. "'_My letter sounds cold after all that has happened--my home open to you_'--but your name ain't Margaret! Who gave this to you?"

"Who gave it to your brother's wife? you should inquire," said Mrs.

Tremnell. Something in Tom's voice made her nervous, but she tried to speak with dignity.

"It is my duty to say as Mr. Sauls gave it to her; and to ask you, Thomas, whether you consider that the proper way for him to address her."

Tom's fingers closed hard on the paper, crus.h.i.+ng it into a tight ball.

He turned his back on Mrs. Tremnell and pitched the letter into the fire, stood a moment watching it blaze, and then turned round with a look that scared her.

"An' now where did 'ee steal it?" he said.

Mrs. Tremnell burst into tears, and covered her face with her ap.r.o.n. She felt as if Tom's scornful eyes were burning holes through the linen.

"To be so spoken to! and me a defenceless woman in your father's house,"

she sobbed. "Me to be miscalled a thief, who have always been most respected before, even in the best families! If I _have_ been unfortunate it's not been my doing, nor was there any one who treated me in such a manner as you do, who are my own relation, and who I expected to behave as such."

"Where did you steal it?" said Tom.

"I--I picked it up," she cried. She was frightened now, but angry as well. "I saw him take it out of his pocket, and slip it into her hand, Tom. And, if you had been there to notice how she changed colour, and read it over and over after he had gone, and----"

"Oh, d----n you!" said Tom. "_I_ don't want to hear all that; and," with an unconscious change of tone, "here is Barnabas' wife to answer for herself."

Meg stood in the doorway, looking weary and rather dismayed. She had no great love for Mrs. Tremnell; but Tom ought not to swear at her, especially when she was crying. It always made Meg wildly indignant to hear another woman roughly spoken to; so indignant that she lost her own nervousness, and became quite bold on such occasions. Indeed, though Margaret minded rough words a great deal too much, and considered herself a coward, she was seldom wanting in courage on behalf of another.

"What is the matter, Cousin Tremnell? What a shame to speak to her so, Tom!" cried the preacher's wife in a breath.

Mrs. Tremnell made hastily for the door, and Tom laughed.

"Why do 'ee go now ye've got a defender? Ye ought to stop an' hear what Barnabas' wife has to say, since ye've been doing your duty by her all this blessed afternoon!" he shouted after her. "Well----" turning to Margaret, "have ye missed your letter?"

Meg looked so very far from guilty that he added hastily:--

"I doan't believe ye could hinder it, la.s.s, nor that ye'd ha' ta'en it if ye'd guessed what it was. Cousin Tremnell brought it to me, but I'd not ha' read it if I'd known it was yours."

The preacher's wife raised her eyebrows with a touch of haughtiness which she seldom showed, but which Tom, at that moment, liked her the better for.

"Mrs. Tremnell had _certainly_ no business whatever to bring you my letter; I can't imagine what she was dreaming of," said she. "Where is it, please?"

"In the fire," said Tom bluntly; "an', let me tell 'ee, that's th' best place for such things."

Meg stared at him in unfeigned astonishment.

"Why?" she said. "I do really think you've no shadow of right to put my letters in the fire, Tom. I have only had two since I married, one from Barnabas about some money, and the other from my sister. His is in my hand at this moment, so you must have burnt hers; and I am sorry, for it was good of Laura!"

Tom flung the book he was holding up to the ceiling with a triumphant shout, and caught it again with a clap.

"What a sell for Cousin Tremnell! I allus knew ye were all right; but I'll tell ye one thing, Barnabas' wife. I doan't fancy she'll be in a hurry to bring me tales of ye again," he cried.

Meg wondered a little over this episode in the quietness of her own room. What had Tom meant? and should she call Mrs. Tremnell to account for her odd behaviour? But no, she hated a quarrel too much for that to be worth while. When Meg was excited, she could say what she thought pretty strongly; but, in cold blood, she had a morbidly strong aversion to anything approaching a scene.

It was rather dreadful that any one should be capable of reading private letters, and pa.s.sing them on, she thought, rather scornfully. Then she dismissed the subject altogether. It never even occurred to her that Mrs. Tremnell's inexplicable suspicions had any connection with Mr.

Sauls; he, indeed, had but small place in her mind, which was over full just then of that spiritual failure that so weighed on her.

If she was not good enough to be an Apostle, what was she to be? If she was not strong enough to live that life of voluntary poverty and intense effort that has attracted the n.o.bler souls among us in all ages, what should she do?

Smaller perplexities seemed hardly worth sifting compared to that. Such a nature as Margaret's was bound to grow morbid if it were unsatisfied.

Her very virtues tended that way. Indeed, the dividing line, between virtues run wild and so-called vice, is apt to be elastic; and the very qualities which might be our salvation become our perdition when they take the wrong turn--a depressing fact until one remembers that it cuts two ways.

Certainly, if the idealists among us are terribly given to missing what is under their noses in their attempts to strain after the stars, the majority can be trusted to remind them of earth, with a salutary sharp shock on occasion, or even without it.

Some imp of mischief must have haunted the farm on the evening of Mr.

Sauls' departure. He had been baulked once, but was not to be suppressed. Tom was in a teasing mood, his curious greenish hazel eyes alight with rather revengeful fun, and he kept hara.s.sing Mrs. Tremnell with a fire of jokes which she could not understand; she had given _him_ an uncomfortable quarter of an hour after supper, and now she should pay for it. But his triumph, alas! was short-lived. Meg had coaxed her father-in-law into coming down, and sat next him, singing song after song for him, trying to pierce that periodical black cloud which would wrap him in cold lonely misery. Mrs. Tremnell tatted with a very injured air, and was on the verge of tears.

It was in the hope of interesting Mr. Thorpe that Meg began talking about the fever at Lupcombe.