Chater's nerves, plunged her
into such vortex of hysteria, that the manner of her reception of Mary
was true reflection of her fears, nothing dissembled.
Withdrawing her agitated face from the dining-room window as Mary and
the children approached, she bounded heavily to the door; flung it
ajar; collapsed to her knees upon the mat; clasped David and Angela to
that heaving bosom.
"Safe!" she wailed. "Safe! Thank God, my little lambs are safe!"
Distraught she swayed and hugged; kissed and moaned again.
David pressed away. "You smell like whisky, mummie," he said.
It was a dash of icy water on a fainting fit; wonderfully it strung
the demented woman's senses. She pushed her little lambs from her;
fixed Mary with awful eye.
"So you've come back--_Miss?_"
Mary quivered.
"I wonder you dared. I wonder you had the boldness to face me after
your wicked behaviour. You've got nothing to say for yourself. I'm not
surprised--"
Mary began: "Mrs. Chater, I--"
"Oh, how can you? How can you dare defend yourself? Never, never in
all my born days have I met with such ingratitude; never have I been
deceived like this. I took you in. I felt sorry for you. I fed you,
clothed you, cared for you, treated you as one of my own family; and
this is my reward. There you stand, unable to say a word--"
"If you think, Mrs.
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