"Salvation," asked my Grandmother sternly, "who told you?"
"Aw my dear, 'tis the talk uv th' town. Brother Obadiah Tizzard came to see Glory this mornin' as 'e sometimes does uv a mornin' to discourse on 'oly things, an' 'e told us jis what 'is servant, ole Jenny Fippe, 'ad to'd 'im. 'Er 'ad it from 'er young niece who's friendly like with a young man who sings in the choir, or whatever 'tis they caals' it, at the parish church, 'im havin' been to'd by the passon 'imself, who lives next door to you, who say 'e were called in 'ere by most 'orrible shrieks, so Brother Obadiah says Jenny says, and 'e see'd pore dear Jael in a turrible way, wavin' a bottle o' brandy in one 'and an' poundin' 'is face till 'twere all a pulp of blood with the other. 'You've got a wrong story this time, Brother Obadiah Tizzard,' I says, 'Jael Vickary is my oldest friend and the soberest woman in North Devon. 'Tis all a passel O' lies, Brother Obadiah, you mark my words,' says I, didn't I, Glory, says I? Aw my pore dear Jael, she's in bed maybe. Take me to 'er, 'Annah."
"No," said my Grandmother very firmly. "What you heard is very much more than the truth, and you'll please me to keep a quiet tongue in your head about it a bit better than the parson did. But she's not well, and you're not to see her."
It was a constrained gathering that afternoon; our godly discussion halted lamely at times. We were all relieved when Grandmother went into the kitchen rather earlier than usual to prepare tea. While she was out of the room, I heard Aunt Jael's door open: Grandmother had left the dining-room door open. I did not know for a moment what to do, whether to rush upstairs to prevent Aunt Jael descending, or fly into the kitchen to warn Grandmother, when it might be too late. I did nothing. The three of us sat in breathless silence as she stumped downstairs, and watched with open mouths and breathless excitement till a horrible bird-like apparition in night-cap and gown came in. Her eyes were still bloodshot, but she was different from yesterday; merry-maudlin, not vicious drunk. Fortunately, as I had judged, there had been very little more brandy, and she had had recourse to wine. She pranced up to her visitors, chuckling idiotically.
"Good day to 'ee Salvation, Good day to 'ee Glory!" She chucked them under the chin, dug them slyly in the ribs, tweaked their solemn ears. She had a look of beatific idiocy on her red beaky old face, and a tipsy laugh broken by stalwart hiccoughs.
"You'm thinkin'—hic—I'm tipsy. Nothin'—hic—of the kin'—'Tis a very goo'—hic—imitashun, a very goo'—hic—imitashun."
She seized a couple of forks from the table, which I had just finished laying for tea, took one in each fist and began to perform a series of dumb-bell exercises, alternating one movement up with both arms, one forward, and one to the sides, giggling and chuckling inanely the while. She looked like a performing parrot dressed in white. For a few moments Glory, Salvation and I had been undecided whether to take the performance as tragedy or farce. Suddenly we all began laughing together, and were soon giggling as uncontrollably as Aunt Jael herself.
She tired of the dumb-bell exercises, threw down the forks and cried out "Come on now, letsh have a game." Before we knew where we were the four of us were whirling round and round in the space between the table and the fireplace, singing "Ring a ring of roses," like the four lunatics and godly Plymouth Sisters that we were. Three of us were eighty years old and the fourth not yet eighteen. At the high tide of the bacchanal we became suddenly and stupidly aware that Grandmother was at the door; sane, inexorable, watching us. We parted hands lamely. Aunt Jael, dizzy and without support, tottered back against the firegrate and would have fallen headlong had I not rushed forward just in time to save her.
"She's a good li'l girl, Hannah, after all; she's a good li'l girl. Give her something, give her—"