"There would have been no use in telling you when I couldn't prove that I was speaking the truth. You see, I could not explain about the letter; I can't understand, even now, what it was that Cousin Tremnell picked up, but I have thought since that, perhaps——"
"I doan't want explaining to. Ye needn't fash yoursel'!" cried Barnabas. There was something more like reproach in his tone than anything she had heard before. Her explanation died.
"Maybe I'm jealous! happen I've made ye miserable in ways I doan't know, though I'd gi'e my blood for ye; but, if I had your word on one hand, an' all the proofs the devil could bring on th' other, I'd believe ye, Margaret; ay, an' without a doubt. So ye thought I'd need proofs afore I'd be sartain ye weren't lying? I thank God I doan't! It takes less than the eighteen months sin' we were married to find out whether a person speaks truth or no. Why, I'd swear blindfold to yours; Ye may mind that!"
"I thought it was only women who believed like that," said Meg. "But you would be right—and quite safe—and I will mind it."
His confidence did her good; he was never likely to repent it.
"Ye might ha' known wi'out telling," said Barnabas with a sigh; and the sigh brought back her self-reproach.
"Indeed," she cried wistfully, "I do trust and like you, Barnabas. I would try to show it more, only——"
"No!" said the man; "Doan't try." Then, seeing her surprised face: "Ye just doan't understan'; but on th' day ye love me, my lass, there'll be no need o' trying, nor yet o' my askin'. I ha' not pressed ye, Margaret, an' I'll never do that; but I'll know it, whether I'm i' this world or the next."