The mare walked up the sharp little rise on top of which stood the Ram Inn. In the quiet, as the horse slowed to a standstill, we heard the crooning of a song in the garden. We sat still in the cart, and looked across the flagged yard to where the tall madonna lilies rose in clusters out of the alyssum. Beyond the border of flowers was Meg, bending over the gooseberry bushes. She saw us and came swinging down the path, with a bowl of gooseberries poised on her hip. She was dressed in a plain, fresh holland frock, with a white apron. Her black, heavy hair reflected the sunlight, and her ripe face was luxuriant with laughter.
“Well, I never!” she exclaimed, trying not to show that she guessed his errand. “Fancy you here at this time o’ morning!”
Her eyes, delightful black eyes like polished jet, untroubled and frank, looked at us as a robin might, with bright questioning. Her eyes were so different from the Saxtons’: darker, but never still and full, never hesitating, dreading a wound, never dilating with hurt or with timid ecstasy.
“Are you ready then?” he asked, smiling down on her. “What?” she asked in confusion.
“To come to the registrar with me — I’ve got the licence.”
“But I’m just going to make the pudding,” she cried, in full expostulation.
“Let them make it themselves — put your hat on.”
“But look at me! I’ve just been getting the gooseberries. Look!” She showed us the berries, and the scratches on her arms and hands.
“What a shame!” he said, bending down to stroke her hand and her arm. She drew back smiling, flushing with joy. I could smell the white lilies where I sat.
“But you don’t mean it, do you?” she said, lifting to him her face that was round and glossy like a blackheart cherry. For answer, he unfolded the marriage licence. She read it, and turned aside her face in confusion, saying:
“Well, I’ve got to get ready. Shall you come an’ tell Gran’ma?”
“Is there any need?” he answered reluctantly.
“Yes, you come an’ tell ‘er,” persuaded Meg.
He got down from the trap. I preferred to stay out of doors. Presently Meg ran out with a glass of beer for me.
“We shan’t be many minutes,” she apologised. “I’ve o’ny to slip another frock on.”
I heard George go heavily up the stairs and enter the room over the bar-parlour, where the grandmother lay bedridden.
“What, is it thaïgh, ma lad? What are thaïgh doin’ ’ere this mornin’?” she asked.
“Well A’nt, how does ta feel by now?” he said.
“Eh, sadly, lad, sadly! It’ll not be long afore they carry me downstairs head first —”
“Nay, dunna thee say so! — I’m just off to Nottingham — I want Meg ter come.”
“What for?” cried the old woman sharply.
“I wanted ‘er to get married,” he replied.
“What! What does’t say? An’ what about th’ licence, an’ th’ ring, an’ ivrything?”
“I’ve seen to that all right,” he answered.
“Well, tha ‘rt a nice’st ’un, I must say! What’s want goin’ in this pig-ina-poke fashion for? This is a nice shabby trick to serve a body! What does ta mean by it?”
“You knowed as I wor goin’ ter marry ‘er directly, so I can’t see as it matters o’ th’ day. I non wanted a’ th’ pub talkin’—’’
“Tha ‘rt mighty particklar, an’ all, an’ all! An’ why shouldn’t the pub talk? Tha ‘rt non marryin’ a nigger, as ta should be so frightened — I niver thought it on thee! — An’ what’s thy ‘orry, all of a sudden?”
“No hurry as I know of.”
“No ‘orry —!” replied the old lady, with withering sarcasm. “Tha wor niver in a ‘orry a’ thy life! She’s non commin’ wi’ thee this day, though.”
He laughed, also sarcastic. The old lady was angry. She poured on him her abuse, declaring she would not have Meg in the house again, nor leave her a penny, if she married him that day.
“Tha can please thysen,” answered George, also angry. Meg came hurriedly into the room.
“Ta’e that ‘at off — ta’e it off! Tha non goos wi’ ’im this day, not if I know it! Does ‘e think tha ‘rt a cow, or a pig, to be fetched wheniver ‘e thinks fit. Ta’e that ‘at off, I say!”
The old woman was fierce and peremptory.
“But Gran’ma —!” began Meg.
The bed creaked as the old lady tried to rise.
“Ta’e that ‘at off, afore I pull it off!” she cried.
“Oh, be still, Gran’ma — you’ll be hurtin’ yourself, you know you will —”
“Are you coming, Meg?” said George suddenly.
“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 a while 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.
“What does it matter? You’ll do without all right.”
At the sound of his voice, she recollected, and her tears and her weeping returned.
“Nay,” he said, “don’t fret about the old woman. She’ll come round tomorrow — an’ if she doesn’t, it’s her lookout. She’s got Polly to attend to her.”
“But she’ll be that miserable —!” wept Meg.
“It’s her own fault. At any rate, don’t let it make you miserable”— he glanced to see if anyone were in sight, then he put his arm round her waist and kissed her, saying softly, coaxingly, “She’ll be all right tomorrow. We’ll go an’ see her then, an’ she’ll be glad enough to have us. We’ll give in to