“You did not want to take me,” she said. “You made me draw lots and you took me because the lot fell to you. You knew some of you had to take me because you were the proud Murrays and couldn’t let a relation go to an orphan asylum. Aunt Laura loves me now but you don’t. So why should I love you?”
“Ungrateful, thankless child!”
“I’m not thankless. I’ve tried to be good—I’ve tried to obey you and please you—I do all the chores I can to help pay for my keep. And you had no business to read my letters to Father.”
“They are disgraceful letters—and must be destroyed,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
“No,” Emily clasped them tighter. “I’d sooner burn myself. You shall not have them, Aunt Elizabeth.”
She felt her brows drawing together—she felt the Murray look on her face—she knew she was conquering.
Elizabeth Murray turned paler, if that were possible. There were times when she could give the Murray look herself; it was not that which dismayed her—it was the uncanny something which seemed to peer out behind the Murray look that always broke her will. She trembled—faltered—yielded.
“Keep your letters,” she said bitterly, “and scorn the old woman who opened her home to you.”
She went out of the parlour. Emily was left mistress of the field. And all at once her victory turned to dust and ashes in her mouth.
She went up to her own room, hid her letters in the cupboard over the mantel, and then crept up on her bed, huddling down in a little heap with her face buried in her pillow. She was still sore with a sense of outrage—but underneath another pain was beginning to ache terribly.