“She is not!” cried the old woman.
“Are you coming Meg?” repeated George, in a passion.
Meg began to cry. I suppose she looked at him through her tears. The next thing I heard was a cry from the old woman, and the sound of staggering feet.
“Would ta drag ’er from me!—if tha goos, ma wench, tha enters this ’ouse no more, tha ’eers that! Tha does thysen my lady! Dunna venture anigh me after this, my gel!”—the old woman called louder and louder. George appeared in the doorway, holding Meg by the arm. She was crying in a little distress. Her hat with its large silk roses, was slanting over her eyes. She was dressed in white linen. They mounted the trap. I gave him the reins and scrambled up behind. The old woman heard us through the open window, and we listened to her calling as we drove away:
“Dunna let me clap eyes on thee again, tha ungrateful ’ussy, tha ungrateful ’ussy! Tha’ll rue it, my wench, tha’ll rue it, an’ then dunna come ter me——”
We drove out of hearing. George sat with a shut mouth, scowling. Meg wept awhile to herself woefully. We were swinging at a good pace under the beeches of the churchyard which stood above the level of the road. Meg, having settled her hat, bent her head to the wind, too much occupied with her attire to weep. We swung round the hollow by the bog end, and rattled a short distance up the steep hill to Watnall. Then the mare walked slowly. Meg, at leisure to collect herself, exclaimed plaintively:
“Oh, I’ve only got one glove!”
She looked at the odd silk glove that lay in her lap, then peered about among her skirts.
“I must ’a left it in th’ bedroom,” she said piteously.
He laughed, and his anger suddenly vanished.