"He wur allus there when I wur took bad; an' now he's angered wi' me, and, if ye don't spake a word, my pig 'ull die, and Timothy won't never be found, an' I'll die wi' no one to say a prayer for me, an' the devil 'ull ha' my soul!"
Tom laughed hard-heartedly at the climax. "And serve ye right," he said. "Look 'ee, granny: Mrs. Thorpe's a deal too soft-hearted, but I ain't, and ye'd best be off now. Hullo! here is the preacher. Come, lad; granny's wantin' your wife to coax ye to cheat Satan, as she says ye've made her ower to."
Barnabas Thorpe's face wore the rather strained look that Meg had learned to know meant a night's "wrestling with the spirit," probably on the marshes.
He found it hard to pray under a roof; and these nightly communings seemed a sort of necessity to him, giving him fresh power for the work that had a physical as well as a spiritual side.
"What are ye doin' here?" he said sternly; and the old woman edged away from him in such evident fear that Meg's chivalry was aroused; she could never bear to see any one frightened.
"What have you said to make her fancy such terrible things?" she cried.
"Naught but the truth," said Barnabas. "Have me an' mine done anything but good to 'ee, Granny Dale? For what did ye set to work to hurt my wife wi' your foul tongue? For love o' wickedness? I never sent ye to th' devil. Ye are fond o' his service wi'out my sending."
"Which was what I said," laughed Tom. "No, it ain't no use your lookin' shocked at us, Barnabas' wife. Granny should ha' minded which side her bread's buttered, and kep' a civil tongue. She'll get no more fro' me."
And granny wailed again, as well she might; for no more from Tom meant short commons in the winter. It was hard to say which oppressed her most, the spiritual or the temporal look-out.
Meg looked from one brother to the other. There was something grotesque in the scene; but the old woman's genuine misery moved her.