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 document 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 asseverated 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 lass, tho' she won't own to it, an' that's why she likes to hear that swell talk. Small blame to her!"