As I closed my uncle's door, I heard Dudley's voice on the stairs. I did
not wish to be seen by him or by his 'lady', as his poor wife called
herself, who was engaged in vehement dialogue with him as I emerged, and
not caring either to re-enter my uncle's room, I remained quietly ensconced
within the heavy door-case, in which position I overheard Dudley say with a
savage snarl--
'You'll jest go back the way ye came. I'm not goin' wi' ye, if that's what
ye be drivin' at--dang your impitins!'
'Oh! Dudley, dear, what have I done--what _have_ I done--ye hate me so?'
'What a' ye done? Ye vicious little beast, ye! You've got us turned out an'
disinherited wi' yer d----d bosh, that's all; don't ye think it's enough?'
I could only hear her sobs and shrill tones in reply, for they were
descending the stairs; and Mary Quince reported to me, in a horrified sort
of way, that she saw him bundle her into the fly at the door, like a truss
of hay into a hay-loft. And he stood with his head in at the window,
scolding her, till it drove away.
'I knew he wor jawing her, poor thing! By the way he kep' waggin' his
head--an' he had his fist inside, a shakin' in her face I'm sure he looked
wicked enough for anything; an' she a crying like a babby, an' lookin'
back, an' wavin' her wet hankicher to him--poor thing!--and she so young!
'Tis a pity.
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