In the middle of pandemonium the front door knocker sounded. Grandmother was on the other side of Aunt Jael, and went to see who it might be. It was the curate from the Parish Church, who had recently come to live next door, No. 6 The Lawn. We had never spoken to him and hardly knew his name.
"Er—umph—Madam, I trust you will excuse me; but we—er—fancied there was some trouble in your house. We heard something, Mrs. White and I, and I wondered if I could—er—perhaps help in any way."
"Yes, sir, you could," said my Grandmother. "Come in. My sister has had a seizure. She's not herself at all. My grandchild and I haven't the strength between us to lift her upstairs to bed. You'll kindly help us? Come along the hall to the foot of the stairs. This way, will you?"
I prayed inwardly that he would not discover the truth, but as he bent down to take Aunt Jael's shoulder I noticed the slightest twitch of his nostrils followed immediately by an involuntary I-thought-as-much expression which he instantly concealed.
It was a memorable journey upstairs. How she writhed and punched and struck and spat and shrieked. Somehow we got her there and somehow we laid her on the bed.
We went downstairs to show the Reverend Mr. White out. "I shall be discretion itself," he volunteered meaningly. I saw a shade of annoyance on Grandmother's face; she had not noticed that he had noticed.
When we returned upstairs after the Reverend Mr. White had gone we found her bedroom door locked. For no entreaty would she let us in. Later on my Grandmother pleaded earnestly to let her take her in some food. There was no reply. All through the night her door remained locked; I tried it half a dozen times. Next morning we could do no better. With the infinite resources of her cupboard she had of course enough to eat; but—this was our anxiety—she had far too much to drink also. There was a bottle of sherry, but as far as I remembered not more than an inch or two of brandy in the current bottle. Still our fears were of the darkest.
By Tuesday dinner-time our anxiety had reached a climax. In a few minutes the Clinkers would arrive. Grandmother had half a mind to send me round to tell them not to come; decided that this would be likelier to excite suspicion than letting them come in the ordinary way, and telling them that Jael was not well enough to appear.
At half-past one sounded the immemorial rat-tat-tat. Salvation was first. She rushed in and flung her arms round my Grandmother's neck.
"Oh, my pore 'Annah, what a trial! Pore dear Jael. Who'd 'a' thought it?" Her teeth shone. She wheezed unwelcome sympathy.