“The days of devil-possession are gone; I could swear it’s Gwen,” said Mrs. Fellowes one day, smiting her small hands together and dropping a child’s petticoat on which she was sewing a button.
“I’ve been thinking so for some time,” said her husband, “all the same, I hardly see where the ‘swear’ mends matters.”
“Oh, never mind! When a woman’s perturbed, she often relapses into original sin, it’s a full year since I ‘reckoned’—‘swear’ at least is cosmopolitan. I’ll go up this minute and get to the truth of this, Gwen hasn’t been near me for a fortnight, and I’ve been so busy, you see, I couldn’t go near them.”
“I shall go too, I must get a subscription for those miserable Gows from Waring, but, little woman, hadn’t you better lie down? After five nights up with Jim Brown, even you must want rest!”
“Lie down! No, no; with this on my mind, why, I couldn’t rest a minute.”
After a rather ineffectual attempt to bring Mrs. Waring to a decent flesh-and-blood consistency, Mrs. Fellowes retreated to the school-room.
“She grows worse and worse,” she muttered, as she let out some of her feelings in a sharp rap on the door.
Mr. Gedge, the present instructor, was not her husband’s choice, he was launched on the children by a well-meaning uncle of Mrs. Waring’s, who from time to time swooped down on the family in a protective, if rather hawk-like fashion, and invariably set some reform afloat among man or beast.
In this last visit he had let Gedge loose in the school-room. The man was as little fitted to deal with the plan’s ramifications as a babe unborn.
When Mrs. Fellowes went in she got a howl of welcome from Dacre, Gwen gave her only a quiet handshake, but the warm light that flashed into her cold eyes told more than any howl. Mr. Gedge stood up wearily and looked pleased.