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All that she said was somehow irrelevant; and, to Marcella's annoyance, plaintive as usual. Wharton, with the boy inside his arm, turned his head an instant to listen. Marcella, having thought of repeating, without names, some of Mrs. Jellison's gossip, then shrank from it.
Jellison, nodding mysteriously, triumphant however in the unimpeachable delicacy of her language, and looking round the circle for approval. "What do you say?" asked Marcella, innocently. "What did Mercy Moss do?" Mrs. Jellison's eyes danced with malice and mischief, but her mouth shut like a vice.
Her name, of course, was short for Araminta. Marcella laughed as she caught Mrs. Jellison's remarks, and made her way in, delighted. For the present, these village people affected her like figures in poetry or drama. She saw them with the eye of the imagination through a medium provided by Socialist discussion, or by certain phases of modern art; and the little scene of Mrs.
As for the others, most of them had known little else for weeks than alternations of toil and sickness; they were as much amused and excited to-night by Mrs. Jellison's audacities as a Londoner is by his favourite low comedian at his favourite music-hall. They played chorus to her, laughed, baited her; even old Patton was drawn against his will into a caustic sociability.
Jellison's very trim and pleasant cottage, which lay farther along the common, to the left of the road to the Court. There was an early pear-tree in blossom over the porch, and a swelling greenery of buds in the little garden. "Will you come in?" said Mary. "I should like to see Isabella Westall." Marcella started at the name. "How is she?" she asked. "Just the same.
Jellison's mouth twitched, and she threw a sly provocative glance at old Patton, as though she would have liked to poke him in the ribs. But she was not going to help him out; and at last the one male in the company found himself obliged to clear his throat for reply. "We're old folks, most on us, miss, 'cept Mrs. Hurd. We don't hear talk o' things now like as we did when we were younger.
They went first to Mrs. Jellison's, to whom Marcella wished to unfold her workshop scheme. "Don't let me keep you," she said to Wharton coldly, as they neared the cottage; "I know you have to catch your train." Wharton consulted his watch. He had to be at a local station some two miles off within an hour. "Oh! I have time," he said. "Do take me in, Miss Boyce.
She introduced Wharton, who, as before, stood for some time, hat in hand, studying the cottage. Marcella was perfectly conscious of it, and a blush rose to her cheek while she talked to Mrs. Hurd. For both this and Mrs. Jellison's hovel were her father's property and somewhat highly rented.
Hurd ran to open it. "Mother, I'm going your way," said a strident voice. "I'll help you home if you've a mind." On the threshold stood Mrs. Jellison's daughter, Mrs. Westall, with her little boy beside her, the woman's broad shoulders and harsh striking head standing out against the pale sky behind. Marcella noticed that she greeted none of the old people, nor they her. And as for Mrs.
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