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Updated: May 28, 2025
Prichard's son had given her as his own had come upon her with a sudden shock, having strangely enough been dormant throughout this interview. She was confronted with a host of perplexities, which mark you! had no possible solution except the one her mind could not receive, and which therefore never presented itself at all. "Indeed, doctor, I think I be bewitched outright," said she.
Sapps Court had resumed its tranquil routine of everyday life, and the accident had nearly become a thing of the past. Not entirely, for Mrs. Prichard's portion of No. 7 still remained unoccupied, even Susan Burr remaining absent at her married niece's at Clapham. Aunt M'riar had charge, and kept a bit of fire going in the front-room, so the plaster should get a chance to dry out.
They murmured tales of crackers with mottoes; also of too much rich cake and trifle and lemonade, and consequences. So much space was needed to preserve them unsoiled and uncrushed until consigned to their purchasers, that Mrs. Burr and Aunt M'riar felt grateful for the unrestricted run of Mrs. Prichard's apartment, although both also felt anxious to see her at home again. Mrs.
Gwen felt that the evil of the hour was sufficient for the day, or indeed the next three weeks for that matter, and evaded the question with an answer to that effect. Then, as no more was to be gained by talking, seeing that she could not give all her proofs in detail, she suggested that she should go up to Mrs. Prichard's room to say good-bye to Dave and Dolly.
And then Gwen looked from one to the other. "Oh-h!" said she. "Then probably the man was her son.... Look here! I must read you the postscript I left out." She reopened Mrs. Thrale's letter, and read that the writer's mother had been much upset by a man who laid claim to being Mrs. Prichard's son.
"Besides," he added, "he had to get away over them bottles." That is to say, the wall-top, bristling with broken glass. Humanity had paved the way for the enemy's retreat. Uncle Mo added inquiry as to how the freckly one's behaviour to his family had come to the knowledge of Sapps Court. "You can see acrost from Mrs. Prichard's. He do lead 'em all a life, that boy! Mrs.
Prichard's old table, with a new leg so nobody could ever have told, and a touch of fresh polish as good as new, was restored to its old place, to join in the general anticipation of its owner's return. But however M'riar come to be so short of cash Uncle Mo, smoking an afternoon pipe as of old with Mr. Jerry, could not say, not if the Emperor of Roosher was to ask him.
"That dog is a treasure," said the Earl, re-enveloping the letter. "What are those other letters? Irene's?... And what?" "I was trying to think of Mrs. Thrale's Christian name. I don't think I know it.... Yes Irene's, and some papers I want you to lock up, for me." Gwen went on to tell of the inroad on Mrs. Prichard's secrétaire, and explained that she was absolutely certain of forgiveness.
The following paragraph from Prichard's Researches embodies some of the more general conclusions of ethnographers, especially of Zeuss, on whom Prichard, in common with Orelli and many other scholars, places great reliance.
Gwen was conscious that the solicitor sat as still as his prototype Thothmes at the British Museum, and with as immovable a countenance. She took the letter, glancing at the cover. "Who is Mrs. Thornton Daverill?" said she, quite in the dark. "Go on and read," said the Earl. Gwen read half to herself: "'My dear daughter Maisie," and then said aloud: "But that is Mrs. Prichard's name!"
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