Was it possible, she thought to herself, that she had been wrong about Emma—that they had all been wrong, Stephen and Tibbie included? Nobody really knew what went on behind closed doors, and whether they spoke truth who brought stories to those without. Nobody really knew to whose account sorrows and sins would be placed at the last day. The charwoman, with the iron sunk in her soul, said to herself that she had been mistaken in God’s goodness; might it not also be possible that she had been mistaken in Emma’s badness? Repentance, at least, was possible, even for the worst, and in Emma’s passionate outburst she had seemed to discern the ring of truth. Perhaps she really did think that she could make atonement through the children, and was full of a hunger and ache to pay her debt. Deep as was Mrs. Clapham’s yearning towards them because they were Tibbie’s, she knew that the loss of them would not break her heart. Undoubtedly, it was Emma who had the right to them, if she was speaking the truth; but who was prepared to say that Emma was speaking the truth!
It was at this point that she extended her bitter resentment to old Mr. T.—old Mr. T., who, only a few hours before, had seemed like an angel out of the past. While she was in his house she had been so grateful to him that she had cried, admiring and loving him for his kindly thought. Now she suddenly felt that he was only a stupid old man, after all. He had seemed at the time to be making her a splendid gift, while all that he was really doing for her was to tie her hands. He had been silly enough to imagine that, by making that rule, he was ensuring his old folks’ comfort and peace, whereas all that he had ensured for this one at least was her total exclusion from Heaven. Old Mr. T. went the way of all her other ideals which had been intact only that very morning. God had failed her at one blow, and the glamour for which He stood; and along with God and the beauty of life went foolish old Mr. T....
They sat there—the two bereaved mothers, the two grandmothers—with, as it were, the bodies of the children waiting decision between them. Stiffly erect, with arms folded at her waist, Emma’s attitude in sitting was much the same as when she was on her feet. She kept her beady black eyes upon the battle-ground of Mrs. Clapham’s face, reading the struggle that was going on in the big woman’s tired soul. Over their heads Mrs. Tanner’s light step drew an occasional creak from an old board, and behind their backs the light that was like a sword brightened and faded but always brightened again....
They sat almost knee to knee, with the silence stretching between them that the one could not and the other dared not break, until at last it was snapped from without by the sound of a step on the stairs. The brightness of the sword dazzled Mrs. Tanner as she came to the bend, so that for the moment she could see nothing of the little kitchen. “I’ve put yon few things together, Ann Clapham,” she began briskly, lifting her hand to her eyes; and then, as she hopped to the last step, her amazed glance fell upon Emma.
CHAPTER III
Mrs. Tanner had to turn her back on the sword before she could finally believe her eyes. It was true, of course, that voices had reached her while she was upstairs, warning her that some other consoler had dropped in. Like enough it would be Mrs. Airey, she had said to herself, and had fully expected to see her when she came down. The sight, therefore, that actually met her gaze was simply paralysing in its effect. To find Emma Catterall inside anybody’s kitchen was sufficiently staggering in itself, but to find her seated was almost beyond belief. The strangeness of it not only startled but almost terrified Mrs. Tanner, suggesting that something inherently sinister was at work. She felt, too, the ready jealousy of those who, engaged in helping others in trouble, instinctively regard them as their property for the time being. She reminded herself, however, of Emma’s relationship to the dead Tibbie, and managed to stifle her feelings with an effort. Coming forward, she gave her a cool nod, which Emma acknowledged with a turn of her black eyes.
“I didn’t know as you’d looked in, Mrs. Catterall....” In spite of herself Mrs. Tanner could hardly keep the suspicion out of her voice. “I hope you’ve said summat to comfort the poor thing.”
For the first time since her unexpected entry into the cottage, a hint of her famous smile played about Emma’s lips.
“Ay, I think I’ve been able to say a word,” she returned gently. “Not much, I doubt, but still—summat.”
Mrs. Tanner felt her suspicions intensify further to the point of fear. Removing her gaze from Emma with almost obvious distaste, she turned it upon the still figure sitting opposite. It could not be said that Mrs. Clapham looked any more cheerful, she thought to herself, but it was certainly true that she looked different. Before, she had looked broken and stunned, sadly bewildered, deeply pathetic; but now, after some mysterious fashion, the pathos was all gone. There was something stronger about her, indeed, but it was not a pleasant strength; not the glad, gallant strength which had ennobled her in the morning. The dignity of her grief had vanished, leaving her sullen and bitter. Never once since Mrs. Tanner re-entered the room had she as much as lifted her eyes. Mrs. Tanner said to herself that she did not like the look of things at all.