CHAPTER VI.
Mrs. Tremnell sat in her room staring at a bit of a letter that laybefore her, an expression of half horror, half doubt on her face.
She had never said in her heart that she disliked Margaret; she was notthe kind of person to look at her feelings boldly, or to own toexperiencing either love or hate in undue degree. She had neverconsciously gone further than "not thinking much of the preacher'swife," or "hoping that Barnabas would not have cause to repent"; butMeg's reserve had chafed her, and so, perhaps, had Mr. Thorpe'sdeference to the "little lady," and Tom's kindly partiality. She was aconscientious woman according to her lights. She believed she wasdismayed at what she had discovered; not exactly surprised, perhaps; ofcourse, not pleased,--but, "pride cometh before a fall". She had alwaysknown that Margaret was proud, and here was the fall that proved it.
"My letter sounds cold; but, after all that has happened, it isdifficult to write to you as I feel. Only I want you to know that myhome is always open to you, Margaret."
That was all. It was the hurriedly scribbled postscript to a letter, therest of which was in Meg's pocket still.
Mrs. Tremnell, looking out of her window, had seen Mr. Sauls give it tothe preacher's wife, on taking leave of her the day before; had seen Megcolour on receiving it, and read it through more than once after he hadgone. Afterwards Mrs. Tremnell had picked up this stray sheet in thefield where the two had stood. No one but Margaret, surely, would havebeen so careless as to let such a document blow away. "'His home open toher,' and she the wife of a professed preacher! To think that it hadcome to that!"
Should she show it to Barnabas? No; somehow she shrank from such acourse. The consequence might be too serious altogether. He took thingshardly. She didn't want to raise a tragedy.
Should she speak to Margaret? She had only "done her duty by her"; butMrs. Tremnell grew rather red at the thought of how Meg would "look". Ofcourse, she _ought_ to look guilty; but that, somehow, was impossible topicture.
Should she tell Tom? He really made too much of Margaret; it would be agood thing that he should see she was just like other girls. His temperwas colder than his brother's, and his common-sense more habituallyawake.
Supper was on the table when she went downstairs. Margaret was stillout.
"She's walking wi' that gentleman fro' London. Lord bless us! he mustha' plenty o' time to spare. When's he going home?" said Tom. But whenMrs. Tremnell, agreeing with him with unusual warmth, also asseveratedthat it was "time Mr. Sauls should go," and furthermore suggested thatthe way Margaret received visits from him was most "unsuitable," shemight almost say "improper," he twisted round to Meg's defence withstartling rapidity.
"Oh, she's right enough, an' honest as day; any baby might see that!" hecried. "I'd be fair ashamed to hint aught else to her. I doan't likethat gentleman, an' I doan't fancy he comes for th' pleasure o' talkingabout horses to me; but I doan't believe he's a downright bad un, an' noman 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, poorlass, tho' she won't own to it, an' that's why she likes to hear thatswell talk. Small blame to her!"
Mrs. Tremnell shook her head mysteriously. It was all very well to laughat her, but she wasn't one to speak without reason. The acidity of hertone increased in proportion as Tom's grew impatient and indignant.
"She's a very good lass, an' if she was a little fool to throw up herown kin for Barnabas, it's not for his folk to make her feel that worsenor she must. You're a rare hand at making a fuss!" said he; and hislast words brought Mrs. Tremnell to a decision. She held Meg's letterout to him.
"Eh, what is it?" said Tom. "'_My letter sounds cold after all that hashappened--my home open to you_'--but your name ain't Margaret! Who gavethis 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 tospeak 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 addressher."
Tom's fingers closed hard on the paper, crushing it into a tight ball.He turned his back on Mrs. Tremnell and pitched the letter into thefire, stood a moment watching it blaze, and then turned round with alook that scared her.
"An' now where did 'ee steal it?" he said.
Mrs. Tremnell burst into tears, and covered her face with her apron. Shefelt 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 mostrespected before, even in the best families! If I _have_ beenunfortunate it's not been my doing, nor was there any one who treated mein such a manner as you do, who are my own relation, and who I expectedto behave as such."
"Where did you steal it?" said Tom.
"I--I picked it up," she cried. She was frightened now, but angry aswell. "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, andread it over and over after he had gone, and----"
"Oh, d----n you!" said Tom. "_I_ don't want to hear all that; and," withan unconscious change of tone, "here is Barnabas' wife to answer forherself."
Meg stood in the doorway, looking weary and rather dismayed. She had nogreat love for Mrs. Tremnell; but Tom ought not to swear at her,especially when she was crying. It always made Meg wildly indignant tohear another woman roughly spoken to; so indignant that she lost her ownnervousness, and became quite bold on such occasions. Indeed, thoughMargaret minded rough words a great deal too much, and consideredherself a coward, she was seldom wanting in courage on behalf ofanother.
"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 whatBarnabas' wife has to say, since ye've been doing your duty by her allthis blessed afternoon!" he shouted after her. "Well----" turning toMargaret, "have ye missed your letter?"
Meg looked so very far from guilty that he added hastily:--
"I doan't believe ye could hinder it, lass, nor that ye'd ha' ta'en itif ye'd guessed what it was. Cousin Tremnell brought it to me, but I'dnot ha' read it if I'd known it was yours."
The preacher's wife raised her eyebrows with a touch of haughtinesswhich she seldom showed, but which Tom, at that moment, liked her thebetter for.
"Mrs. Tremnell had _certainly_ no business whatever to bring you myletter; I can't imagine what she was dreaming of," said she. "Where isit, please?"
"In the fire," said Tom bluntly; "an', let me tell 'ee, that's th' bestplace 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 myletters in the fire, Tom. I have only had two since I married, one fromBarnabas about some money, and the other from my sister. His is in myhand at this moment, so you must have burnt hers; and I am sorry, for itwas good of Laura!"
Tom flung the book he was holding up to the ceiling with a triumphantshout, and caught it again with a clap.
"What a sell for Cousin Tremnell! I allus knew ye were all right; butI'll tell ye one thing, Barnabas' wife. I doan't fancy she'll be in ahurry to bring me tales of ye again," he cried.
Meg wondered a little over this episode in the quietness of her ownroom. What had Tom meant? and should she call Mrs. Tremnell to accountfor her odd behaviour? But no, she hated a quarrel too much for that tobe worth while. When Meg was excited, she could say what she thoughtpretty strongly; but, in cold blood, she had a morbidly strong aversionto anything approaching a scene.
It was rather dreadful that any one should be capable of reading privateletters, and passing them on, she thought, rather scornfully. Then shedismissed the subject altogether. It never even occurred to
her thatMrs. Tremnell's inexplicable suspicions had any connection with Mr.Sauls; he, indeed, had but small place in her mind, which was over fulljust 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 shewas not strong enough to live that life of voluntary poverty and intenseeffort that has attracted the nobler souls among us in all ages, whatshould she do?
Smaller perplexities seemed hardly worth sifting compared to that. Sucha nature as Margaret's was bound to grow morbid if it were unsatisfied.Her very virtues tended that way. Indeed, the dividing line, betweenvirtues run wild and so-called vice, is apt to be elastic; and the veryqualities which might be our salvation become our perdition when theytake the wrong turn--a depressing fact until one remembers that it cutstwo ways.
Certainly, if the idealists among us are terribly given to missing whatis under their noses in their attempts to strain after the stars, themajority can be trusted to remind them of earth, with a salutary sharpshock 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 besuppressed. Tom was in a teasing mood, his curious greenish hazel eyesalight with rather revengeful fun, and he kept harassing Mrs. Tremnellwith 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 payfor it. But his triumph, alas! was short-lived. Meg had coaxed herfather-in-law into coming down, and sat next him, singing song aftersong for him, trying to pierce that periodical black cloud which wouldwrap him in cold lonely misery. Mrs. Tremnell tatted with a very injuredair, and was on the verge of tears.
It was in the hope of interesting Mr. Thorpe that Meg began talkingabout the fever at Lupcombe.
"Barnabas does not say much about it. I have his letter here," she said:and, putting her hand in her pocket, drew out the wrong one.
"No; that is my sister's. This is his," cried Meg; then stopped short,aware of something in the air--of two pairs of eyes fixed eagerly onher.
"Hallo! How's this?" said Tom. "Why did ye tell me that it was yoursister's letter I burnt, eh? an' that ye'd had no others?"
"I thought it was hers, but it could not have been, since I still haveit," said Meg. "Why! what _could_ you have burnt then? It wasn't mine atall. I suppose it must have belonged to some one else."
She got up quickly, and left the old man, who sat with his head on hishands quite unmoved by this stir and excitement.
"Why do you look at me so?" she cried, crossing over to where Tom sat,still but half understanding.
Tom put his hand before his eyes. Barnabas' wife had bewitched him intobelieving her once, in spite of evidence. He wouldn't be bewitchedagain. There was no other "Margaret" at the farm; she could not have"forgotten". It could not have belonged to some one else! Why did shesay that? Why did she tell him lies? He had been so sure that she wastrue, even though that London gentleman might have been trying to "makehay" in her husband's absence. He had been too sure.
"It must have been the letter of some one else--not mine at all," sherepeated. "It----"
"Doan't!" said Tom in an odd husky voice. "'Tain't worth while."
He looked so unhappy that Meg, still more perplexed, went on hastily:"After all, it doesn't much matter, does it? Perhaps when Barnabas comeshome, he will be able to find----"
"Barnabas!" said Tom.
The indignation in his voice startled her this time, woke her up to afaint realisation of what he meant.
"He's over good for 'ee; and he swears by ye; but, an' ye tak' advice,ye'll not tell lies to him. He thought ye ower heavenly mind to warm toany man!" cried Tom, with a laugh that ended in something very like agroan. "Ye may break his heart times, an' he'll not hear aught againstye, or have ye fashed, cos he holds ye o' finer make than himself, orall of us. O' finer make! an' ye'll take a love-letter when he's away,fro' a black-faced Jew."
"_Tom!_" she cried, shuddering with disgust, "how can you, how dare you,say such things to me?" And at the warmth in her tone his cooled.
"Ye see I believed in 'ee too!" he said. "I thought ye weren't the soartto tell lies to save--I was going to say your skin; but it warn't eventhat, for ye couldn't ha' thought I'd harm ye."
"I told no lies. I never do!" said Meg.
"No! Happen ye call 'em some'ut else where ye come from; but it ain't myaffair! Ye needn't be feared I want to interfere with 'ee. I never willagain," said Tom. And Meg, too much offended at the time to attemptfurther vindication, yet recognised, with a sense of increasedloneliness later, that he kept his word. She might be as late as shechose, she might eat or fast; Tom's kindly teasing had ceased. Shemissed it even while she resented his suspicions with an almost scornfulwonder and disgust.
Meg had absolutely no instinct for flirtations, her love and hate wereboth deep; but when china vessels and iron pots journey together, weknow which gets the worst of a collision; and her moral rectitude wasn'tall the support it should have been.
"I think," she said one day to Tom, "that, if you think bad things ofme, I ought not to stay here and eat your bread."
"You eat your husband's," said Tom. "He pays for it--an' where would 'eego to, eh?" Then his own words shamed him. Where could she go, poorlass, if they were hard on her?
"I doan't want to be unfriendly," he said; "seeing that, happen, yedidn't mean much harm, an', arter all----"
"Thank you; but, if you can't believe me, I don't want _that_ kind offriendship--I must do without," said the preacher's wife. Her gestureforbade his completing his sentence, and actually made Tom feel rathersmall, though her voice was gentle enough. Yet, in spite of thosebrave-sounding words, she was _not_ the woman to "do without". She wasby no means cast in a self-sufficing mould; whatever heroism she mightbe capable of would always have its roots in the strength of heraffections, and his "where would 'ee go?" made her feel very helpless.
The preacher came back a few days later. Meg, coming down early onemorning, found him asleep on the wooden settle, with his head on thetable.
Meg shut the door softly, and stood considering him--this man who hadbeen her prophet, and was, alas, her husband!
He had tramped a long way, and he slept heavily.
Should she tell him the whole inexplicable story when he woke, or not?
There was a force of character, an uncompromising arbitrariness aboutall the Thorpes that she rather shrank from; but Barnabas was alwaysgood to her.
She had declared to George Sauls that she trusted the preacherabsolutely; and so she did--so she _must_--for what would happen if shedidn't? As the question rose in her mind, Meg's heart answered it withstartling clearness. She could not afford to lose one tittle of hercarefully nourished respect for Barnabas. She was afraid, not of him,but of herself. She couldn't risk this thing; if he, like Tom, were totell her she lied, she knew she should hate him; for she was too much inhis power.
The sun was beginning to pour into the room. With the tenderness for aman's physical comfort that is ingrained in most women, Meg drew downthe blind to prevent the light waking him, and left him to have hissleep out.
"Are ye surprised to see me?" he asked her later; and longed to add "Areye glad?" but forbore.
He knew, before he had been many minutes with her, that his lass wasmore constrained than she had been. He had a horror of pressing her withquestions, lest she should feel bound to answer them; but the unspokeninquiry that was always in his mind, and that she met in his eyeswhenever she looked at him, oppressed her. Meg longed to escape from thewhole family of Thorpes!
Barnabas waited all that day and the next in the hope that she wouldtell him what was amiss. On the third day something happened. A lettercame for Margaret. She gave a cry of dismay, her colour fading, and hereyes dilating while she read it.
"What is it? Who has made ye look so?" said Barnabas. But his wife didnot hear him: the hot kitchen, and the three men all staring at her, andthe hum
of bees through the open door, all which she had been consciousof the moment before, grew dim and very far off. The letter dropped fromher fingers.
"She's going to faint," said Tom.
She pulled herself together. "No--I'm not," she said, in rather anunsteady voice. "I have had bad news. My father is ill; I must go tohim. He is at Lupcombe parsonage. Oh, Barnabas, did you know that? Younever told me! Mr. Sauls writes from Lupcombe. How soon can I getthere?"
"Ay, I knew!" said the preacher slowly. "Ye can't go, Margaret. Ye mightget the fever. Besides,--are ye sure he wants ye? Has he asked for ye?"
"No; but I want _him_!" she cried. "It is so long, so long since I haveseen my father, and I have so longed for him! Let me go, Barnabas, letme go. What does it matter about the fever, if I see him first? I mustgo to my father. Let me go!"
The insistent, reiterated cry rang through the room.
It roused Mr. Thorpe, who had paid little attention to any one oranything of late; it filled Tom with illogical compunction. The womanwho cared so for her father couldn't be "light" after all, he said tohimself. But Barnabas drew his fair eyebrows together, frowning as if inpain.
"_She's pining after her own people, an' she'll go back to 'em, an'leave you to whistle for her._" It had come.
"No, no; ye are mine, not theirs!" he cried. "I'll not let ye go." Andthere was in his voice the defiance of a man who strives against aclosing fate.
"Shame on ye, Barnabas!" said Mr. Thorpe; and with that he put his armround Margaret. "She's in th' right. If her father's ill, it's a sin tokeep her back. Ye'll have to let her go."
"I'll not have any man," said Barnabas, "interfere atwixt me an' her.Not you or any man. Do 'ee think my maid needs you to stand up for her?Margaret!"
Meg drew herself up and put her hands to her eyes, as if their visionwere still a little misty.
"I am sorry I made such a fuss," she said. "I--I was taken bysurprise--I didn't know that father was ill. I should like to think overthe news by myself. No, don't come, please!" And she went out of theroom, shutting the door softly after her.
"Well! we all seem to ha' got very put about!" Tom said ruefully; butMr. Thorpe looked at his younger son with a fiery indignation that,somehow, brought out an odd likeness between the two men who wereusually so dissimilar.
"Ye are just mad wi' jealousy o' the poor little lady's own father," hesaid. "Ye did her a cruel wrong by marrying her, an' now ye add to it!Ye were wrong-headed an' obstinate from a lad, Barnabas! I pity thelass wi' all my heart. She's like a caged bird here, wi' never a chanceo' being set free."
"There's only one thing 'ud do that," said Barnabas. "The fever mightha' led to it--but it didn't; it wasn't my fault it didn't. A man hasn'tleave to open that door himsel', but I ha' never ta'en over much care o'my life." He turned away heavily; his anger, which, after all, was madeup of pain and love, had died as suddenly as it had risen; but he wentout with a sore heart.
As for Meg, she never hesitated at all. For the last month she had beenbeset by doubts and uncertainties; had been wearying herself in tryingto discover an end by which she might unwind the very tangled skein ofher life, growing a little morbid the while in her endeavours, and moreperplexed day by day. Now her doubts were at an end; her heart spoke adecided, undeniable _must_. If her father was ill, she would go to him.All the preachers in the world should not prevent her.
Meg dipped her face in cold water, and poured out a tumblerful anddrank. Her throat ached with the dull ache that means anxiety and unshedtears. She could not cry, and there was no time to, but her eyes felthot.
"Your father seems to be seriously ill. If I were in your place I shouldcome." The words, in Mr. Sauls' thick upright handwriting, kept swimmingbefore her.
Should she ask Tom to help her? He was angry with her just now; but,somehow, that silly, vulgar misunderstanding seemed to fade intonothing, and she knew instinctively that Tom was to be depended on in anemergency.
Barnabas might listen to reason from him. He was fonder of his brotherthan of any one in the world, except--(and a sudden hot blush rose toMeg's cheek)--except herself. No! she wouldn't ask Tom. If she chose todisobey Barnabas, that was between him and her, and _she_ would tellhim. She owed him that, at least.
The preacher's letter was in her pocket. She tore the envelope open andwrote inside it in pencil: "I am going to Lupcombe to see my father. Ishall put Molly in the cart and drive myself to N----town. I know thatyou told me not to, and that you will all be very angry with me. I willcome back to-night, I promise." Meg's pencil stood still for a moment;then she underlined the promise. She had room only to think of herfather now, but she knew that she should dread returning. She would bindthe coward in her to come back.
"And then you can say anything you like, and be angry all the rest of mylife," she wrote. It sounded a little desperate, but there was not timeto consider overmuch; besides, she never made excuses.
She folded the scrap of paper, and ran up to the attic her husband sleptin, and put her note on a chair.
His knapsack lay on the floor; mechanically she picked it up and hung iton the nail; it brought back to her mind their strange honeymoon--theextraordinary experiences of her first months with him.
Barnabas had been very good to her then, and, indeed, always tillto-day; and Meg, at the bottom of her heart, understood a little whatto-day's sudden gust of passion meant.
"He feels as if he were pulling one way, and father, backed by the worldand the devil, I suppose, the other," she said to herself. Well, afterthis she would merge her interests in his entirely; there should be nomore serving two masters. Perhaps, if she saw her father once, onlythis once more, he would forgive her, and she would be more at peace.
This one day she would be her own self, her father's Meg; and MargaretThorpe for ever afterwards. "But I hope the 'ever afterwards' won't bevery long," she thought.
Into the Highways and Hedges Page 13