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 lass, 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, crushing 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 apron. 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.