The sturdy widow laughed at her scruples, and whipped off the cloth without ceremony. But soon her laugh stopped mighty short, and she uttered an exclamation.
"What is the matter?" said Mrs. Gaunt, turning her head sharply round.
"A wench's glove, as I'm a living sinner," groaned Betty.
A poor little glove lay on the table; and both women eyed it like basilisks a moment. Then Betty pounced on it and examined it with the fierce keenness of her sex in such conjunctures, searching for a name or a clew.
Owing to this rapidity, Mrs. Gaunt, who stood at some distance, had not time to observe the button on the glove, or she would have recognized her own property.
"He have had a hussy with him unbeknown," said Betty, "and she have left her glove. 'T is easy to get in by the window and out again. Only let me catch her! I'll tear her eyes out, and give him my mind. I'll have no young hussies creeping in an' out where I be."
Thus spoke the simple woman, venting her coarse domestic jealousy.
The gentlewoman said nothing, but a strange feeling traversed her heart for the first time in her life.
It was a little chill, it was a little ache, it was a little sense of sickness; none of these violent, yet all distinct. And all about what? After this curious, novel spasm at the heart, she began to be ashamed of herself for having had such a feeling.
Betty held her out the glove: and she recognized it directly, and turned as red as fire.