“What were you saying about me, John?” The voice was that of a woman, shrill and strident.
“My wife,” murmured the estate owner. He turned toward her. “Matilda,” he said gently, “these girls are strangers to the Valley—”
“You were complaining about me to them!” the woman accused. “Oh, you needn’t deny it! I distinctly heard you! You’re always saying things to hurt my feelings. You don’t care how I suffer. Isn’t it enough that I have to live in this horrible community, among such cruel hateful people without you turning against me too?”
“Please, Matilda—”
“Don’t ‘Matilda’ me! Apologize at once.”
“Why, certainly I apologize,” Mr. Burmaster said soothingly. “I was only telling the girls how nervous it makes you when anyone rides at a fast pace over the bridge.”
“And why shouldn’t I be nervous?” the woman demanded. “Since we’ve come to this community, I’ve been subjected to every possible insult! I suppose you let that rider get away again?”
“He was only a mischievous boy.”
“I don’t care who he was!” the woman cried. “I want him caught and turned over to the authorities. I want everyone who rides over this bridge arrested!”
“This is a public highway, Matilda. When we built this footbridge over the brook we had to grant permission for pedestrians and horseback riders to pass.”