“Gwen, Gwen! Are you asleep?”
“No.”
“Is it possible that she has forgotten us?”
“I’m afraid so,” I whispered.
“Oh no, she couldn’t. Christmas Day, too, and our places at table! That would remind her—two places short. Or, could it be possible?—she was always rather heedless—yes”—now coming over to me, and looking at me with a haggard, white face—“you are right, she must have forgotten all about us. And she spent Christmas with me in my palmy days, and said—oh, what is the good of recalling it all now? Here are we two, on Christmas night, desolate and alone, without dinner or fire, and soon we shall be in outer darkness”—pointing to the candle. “Oh, it is too, too cruel”—and she burst into tears. “I had built on it so,” she sobbed—“this little visit, not for myself, but for you; I thought she would ask you to stay, and befriend you perhaps—when—when——”
“Never mind about me, darling,” I said kneeling down beside her, “she is a hard, selfish, worldly woman. I saw through her long ago. We bored her fearfully. She did not want us here. She was afraid we might become an incubus, because we are poor. She asked us in a spasm of shame at her own conduct, and on the impulse of the moment. Don’t cry—don’t, dearest! We must make the best of it. Oh, how cold the room is! I’ll take off my gown, and hunt up some chips and light a good fire, and go and see if I can’t find something to eat. I wonder where the matches are?”
In a very short time I had changed my dress and made a trip to the lower regions. Here I found some bits of coal and chips, the heel of a loaf, and, about a pint of skim-milk.
“Oh, Gwen dear,” gasped Emma, as I re-entered, “I must go to bed, I feel so ill. I’ve been fighting against it all day; but now there is a pain in my chest, just like a sword being run into it.”
And Emma stood up, and clutched hold of the chimney-piece, and turned on me a face gray and drawn with mortal suffering.
I was naturally greatly alarmed. I hurried her into her room, undressed her, and put her to bed.