He was determined on two points, apparently a little difficult of combination: he was determined to punish his assailant, and, at the same time, to keep Margaret's name out of the affair. He would rather lose his case than drag her into it—which was saying a great deal.
He would have preferred, for obvious reasons, that the story about Lydia Tremnell should remain in merciful obscurity; but, nevertheless, he brought it to the light of day without flinching; for he knew that, in laying the stress on that quarrel about the woman who was dead, he prevented the suspicion that the hot words between himself and Barnabas Thorpe had had connection with the woman who was alive.
It cost him some vexation of spirit; but, for Meg's sake, he threw the sprat, and threw it boldly.
Mr. Sauls had fallen low in Meg's estimation. She would have been either more or less than human if she could have, at the same time, sided with the preacher, and seen the standpoint of the preacher's enemy. And yet, if "a man's love" is indeed "the measure of his fitness for good company here or elsewhere," Mr. Sauls was, perhaps, worthy of a better place than she guessed.
He had been lunching with the governor of the prison one morning, and had left that gentleman's house with a bad headache (for he still felt the effects of the blow), and in no very excellent humour.
For the last month he had been endeavouring to put the image of the preacher's wife out of his head; and few things are more trying to both nerves and temper than the constant struggle to prevent a recurring thought. The disembodied presence haunts the more when we abstain from clothing it with words, and it usually has its revenge. George "forgot" Mrs. Thorpe by a most constant and unrelaxing effort.
He pulled some papers out of his pocket, meaning to read them while he walked; he could have sworn he was deeply engrossed in them, and that he was thinking of anything rather than of Margaret; and yet, among the thousand voices of that busy street, curiously enough hers reached his ear.
He had walked only two yards from the door of the governor's house. He hesitated for a second, turned round, and retraced his steps. Margaret was on the threshold, talking to the governor's servant.
"Did that brute keep her hanging about the prison? If so, he deserved a worse fate than the gallows," thought George.
"You should have gone round to the back. What business have you here?" said the footman. George could not catch her reply, but her manner had apparently overawed the man, who was evidently wavering between insolence and respect.