There was a world of sorrow, of significance, in the exclamation. After a pause, she said, not angrily, but despondently—
“Then maybe you know all about it? Maybe you can tell me more than I know myself? Have you seen anything of Meg—she’s my daughter—this evening?”
Bram hesitated. The woman went on—
“Oh, don’t be afraid to speak out, sir, if it’s bad news. We’ve been used to that of late; ever since our girl took up with t’ gentleman that has treated her so bad. It’s no use for to try to hide it; t’ poor lass herself has spread t’ news about. She’s gone right out of her mind, I do believe, sir. She wanders about, so I often have to sit up half t’ night for her, and she never gives me a hand now with t’ farm work. And as neat a hand in t’ dairy as she used to be! Well, sir, what is it? Has she made away with herself?”
“She came to Duke’s Farm to-night, and attacked Miss Biron,” said Bram.
“Well, she was jealous,” said Meg’s mother, who seemed to be less afflicted with sentiment concerning her daughter than with vexation at the loss of her services. “The lass found it hard she should lose her character, and then t’ young gentleman care more for his cousin all t’ time. Not but what Meg was to blame. She used to meet him when she knew he was going to Duke’s Farm, up in t’ ruined cottages on top of t’ hill at Hessel. So I’ve learnt since. Folks tell you these things when it’s too late to stop them!”
Bram remembered the night on which he had heard the voices in the dismantled cottages, and he remembered also with shame that he had conceived the idea that Christian’s companion might be his cousin.
“Did she tell you where she was going when she went out to-night?” asked Bram.
“She hasn’t been home since this afternoon,” replied Meg’s mother. “She went out before tea, muttering in her usual way threats against him and her,—always him and her. She never says any different. I’ve got used to her ravings; I don’t think she’d do any real harm unless to herself, poor lass!”