All that miserable Christmas night Emma was desperately ill. The little lodging-house was in an uproar, and Mrs. Gabb was unmistakably annoyed at the prospect of having an invalid on her hands. Of course I undertook all the nursing, wrung out hot stupes, dressed blisters, administered draughts, and towards morning the patient fell asleep.
About twelve o’clock, when I chanced to go into our sitting-room, I discovered that it was already in possession of Miss Skuce, who was walking up and down like some caged animal.
“So your mother is ill?” she began abruptly.
“Very ill, I am afraid. It was kind of you to come so soon to ask for her.”
“And you never went to the Abbey, after all! The curate was there—I have just seen him—and he said there were no empty places, nor one word about you. How was that?” she demanded, as she paused and glared at me.
“Please speak in a low voice,” I said, “the walls are so thin, and Emma is not deaf. The truth was, that Lady Hildegarde forgot us altogether.”
“Tell me honestly, Miss Hayes, did she ever ask you? I’d like to see her note.”
“You know, we told you that it was a verbal invitation. We were ready to start at half-past seven. We allowed Mrs. Gabb to leave us alone in the house. There was, of course, no dinner, no food, no fire, no lights; and there we sat famishing! My stepmother, who had been ailing all day, became seriously ill. She has fallen asleep now, after a very bad night, and must on no account be disturbed.”