"Would ye forgive him?" said Tom, looking hard at her. He repeated the question again presently and more insistingly. "Would ye forgive him—if he won?"
"No!" she said. "One may forgive one's own enemies, but I could never forgive those that injure the people I love. It's not in me to be so good as that—I meant what I said. I should have no pity left for him—for it would all be given," said Meg. She pressed her hands tight against her breast as she walked, and her steps quickened so that Tom could hardly keep pace with her. "But, all the same, I would not cry 'well done', and I would do my best to prevent you—for Barnabas' sake."
"Would ye? Ye wouldn't find your preventin' answer twice, my good lass!" said Tom. "Well, I'm glad ye doan't forgive him. It's more natural like. Ye aren't so much like snow and moonshine as ye were. It made me sick when I thought ye were sorry for that man. A woman who can be sorry for her husband's enemy can't care much. I'm glad ye've some flesh and blood in the way you're made!"
"Do you think that I care less than you?" said Meg.
"Than me! ay, it stands to reason——" began Tom, then stopped short. "I wish I'd left that gentleman in the ditch!" he ended with some irrelevance. "I'll never pick up any one again; there's a deal to answer for."
"Barnabas wouldn't wish that," said Meg.
"Barnabas!" he cried. "He doesn't know what's good for him! Oh, ay, I know what ye are going to say. He'll ha' his reward i' the next world; but what do ye think he'll do wi' it? Why, he'll be miserable in a happy place. When Barnabas gets to heaven he'll ha' no peace till he's sent to hell, my dear, nor give the angels peace either. Ay, ye may cry out, Barnabas' wife, but it's true, an' ye'll see it, if ever ye get to heaven too."