"Oh, so he be, so he be," said John. "The Thorpes be good maisters, good friends, an' good enemies. They stick to a mon, they do; not one belongin' to 'em has been let die i' th' union without it wur his own fault; but Maister Tummas he doan't use many words when he's angry, and he ain't often; but I'd not care to face him if I'd lamed Molly, for last time I broke th' pony's knees he says to me, 'Next time ye'll go, John!' And he means what he says. And he did near drown me then! So he did! and I did think o' havin' the law o' him, but he advised me not, and Maister Tummas' advice is allus good; he's precious sharp.
"It wur through bein' a bit overtook at Mary's funeral. I come whoam late, and I doan't mind rightly just how it wur, but I lost the pony on the road, and all of a suddent I found mysel' under th' pump i' th' yard; and Maister Tummas wur turnin' the water on, and another mon wur holdin' me under. Eh, I thought he had murdered me! afore he let me go, I can tell thee, I hollered out loud, wheniver my mouth was clear o' th' watter, and he says, 'Naw, naw, doan't let him off too soon; when he's swallowed as much water as he did rum, happen he'll remember it'. I tell 'ee, I walked back whoam straight; he scared me sober, but it wur a cowd winter's mornin', and I wur wet through and through, as if I'd been in th' river an hour, an' I think he near drownt me. I'd ha' sworn he wur within an inch o' it. And th' next mornin' I thinks it ower, and I goes to him and says I, 'Maister, I wur a bit overtook last neet, but ye'd no right to do that, if I wur; for I bain't no slave, I be a free Briton as much as thaesel''. And Maister Tummas looks at me so as I had to keep tellin' mysel' I wur bigger nor he, fur th' way he looks do mak' a mon feel growin' small; an' says he, 'So ye be, John! Free to be as drunk as a lord all th' day long, if 'ee likes!' An' says I, 'I'm thinkin' I'll ha' th' law on ye, Maister Tummas;' and says he, 'Then ye'll be a bigger fool nor ye look'.
"'Yo're cruel hard on a mon as has been buryin' his child,' says I; and Maister Tummas laughs. 'I suppose ye think she's so well off, ye'll be sendin' the other to join her?' says he. 'What do 'ee mean?' I asks. 'I never heard as childer con live on grass,' says he, turnin' round serious like; 'nor as bread cud be got for naught; it doan't grow i' th' fields hereabouts, ready baked! If I'd gi'en ye the sack i'ste'd o' the pump, where 'ud they be, eh? Look 'ee here, if ye be a wise mon, ye'll go to work wi'out more words; an' if ye be a fool, ye con go an' spout about free Britons i' the public; but, if 'ee do that, doan't talk to me about your childer, for I shan't tak' 'ee back, an' your big words won't fill their empty stomachs.' So I went back, an' Maister Tummas an' I war quits; for he doan't niver cast a thing up when he's done wi' it. Clemmin' ain't pleasant, an' I hadn't much hankerin' for it arter all. Howsumever, I doan't drink when I've got his horses now. Naw, naw; I saves up for Sunday; an' I bain't sure as it ain't th' best way all round, to tak' one's fill on th' right day. One gets a more thorough satisfaction out o' one big drink, than i' sips all th' week; doan't 'ee think so, ma'am?"
"I daresay," said Meg absently. A passing wonder as to what Barnabas would have said to this definition of Sunday as pre-eminently "th' right day for drink" floated through her mind—with also a faint disgust at the flavour of brutality in the story about Tom; but they were nearing N——town by this time. In two more hours she might be at Lupcombe!
It was market day, and the streets were crowded. Meg accompanied Long John to the stables of the "Pig and Whistle," and saw Molly comfortably housed. Having lamed her, it was the least she could do. Then she proceeded to a pawnbroker's. She had the preacher's savings in her pocket, but she could not touch them. It might be a straining of gnats; but she wouldn't use his money in an enterprise he objected to.
She had something else in her purse as well, and that she would part with, though the parting cost her a pang.
The diamond-circled miniature that had been stolen from her when a child; that the preacher had brought back; that was on her neck, when he and she walked out of Ravenshill together, long, long ago—ah, how long ago it seemed now!—she could sell that.
Meg had worn it under her dress every day, and always since she had married. She had never told Barnabas that she still had it; she had not forgotten his violent denunciation of the stones bought "with too high a price"; but she had kept it for her father's sake, and for her father's sake she would let it go now.
The diamonds were valuable. The miniature itself was worth a good deal. Meg did not know how much she ought to get for it, but had a vague idea that it would more than pay for a carriage and horse to Lupcombe, and for the return journey, and Molly's stabling. As a matter of fact, she received rather less than a sixth part of its real value; but it was a red-letter day for the pawn-broker. She was on the direct road to Lupcombe at last. She would see her father—beyond that?—well, beyond that might be the deluge.