"And a good thing that she do remain there," returned Hatch. "Perry, the gaby, says, 'Send for Miss Annabel: why don't you write for Miss Annabel?' But that his brains is no bigger than one o' them she-gooses' on Newland Common, he'd have found out why afore now. Sir," continued Hatch, changing her tone, "I want to know what I be to do. I'm not a person of edication or book-learning, but my wits is alive, and they serves me instead. For this two or three days past, sir, I've been thinking that I ought to tell out to somebody responsible what it is that's the matter with my missis, and I know of nobody nearer the family than you, sir. There's her brother, in course, at the Hall, Captain Chantrey, but my missis has held herself aloof from him and Lady Grace, and I know she'd be in a fine way if I spoke to him. Three or four days ago I said to myself, 'The first time I see Mr. Strange, I'll tell him the truth.' Last night she was worse than she has been at all, quite raving. I got frightened, which is a complaint I'm not given to, and resolved not to let another day pass, and then, whether she lived or died, the responsibility would not lie upon my back."
Straightening myself, I stood gazing at Hatch. She had spoken rapidly. If I had caught all the words, I did not catch their meaning.
"Yes?" I said mechanically.
"And so, with morning light, sir, I wrote you that epistle."
"Yes, yes; never mind all that. What about Mrs. Brightman?"
Hatch dropped her voice to a lower and more mysterious whisper. "Sir, my missis gives way, she do."
"Gives way," I repeated, gazing at Hatch, and still unable to see any meaning in the words. "What do you say she does?"
Hatch took a step forward, which brought her on the hearthrug, close to me. "Yes, sir; missis gives way."
"Gives way to what?" I reiterated. "To her superstitious fancies?"
"No, sir, to stimilinks."