At the first syllable he started; the voice was so familiar to him. The words were spoken with an entire absence of womanish consternation; the voice trembled a little, but for all that there was calm courage in its sound. When she had made the door secure and turned again towards him, he looked into her face as closely as he could.
‘Is it Emma?’
‘Yes.’
Both were silent. Mutimer forgot all about his danger; that at this moment he should meet Emma Vine, that it should be she who saved him, impressed him with awe which was stronger than all the multitude of sensations just now battling within him. For it was her name that had roused the rabble finally against him. For his wrong to her he knew that he would have suffered justly; yet her hand it was that barred the door against his brutal pursuers. A sudden weakness shook his limbs; he had again to lean upon the wall for support, and, scarcely conscious of what he did, he sobbed three or four times.
‘Are you hurt?’ Emma asked.
‘No, I’m not hurt, no.’
Two children had come down the stairs, and were clinging to Emma, crying with fright. For the noise at the door was growing terrific.
‘Who is there in the house?’ Mutimer asked.
‘No one, I think. The landlady and two other women who live here are outside. My sister is away somewhere.’
‘Can I get off by the back?’