So I drew her in and would have laid her on her bed; but again she fell down and clasped my knees.
“Dear!” she cried; “dear, you loved me so, and this is what I have done. Oh, Emilia, forgive me!—Emilia, forgive me, oh, forgive me!”
I told her that she was forgiven. I cooled her forehead with water, and at length laid her upon the bed. She clung to me piteously as I was leaving.
“Kiss me good night,” she murmured.
I had not felt that I could kiss her, but I stooped and touched her slightly on the brow, at the root of the curls. Then I left her, feeling all the way the clutch of her little fingers on my arm.
As I slipped up to my room, I had to pass the drawing-room door; it was ajar, and I caught a glimpse of them all as they sat at the card-table under the green-shaded lamp.
“Honours divided, Miss Seymour, honours divided,” said the vicar; and as I slowly made my way upstairs I heard the clatter of teacups and Mrs. Rayner’s thin laugh.
I went past the room I had shared with Gabriel, and made my way to the topmost floor, to the room that was formerly mine. It was in disorder, and nearly bare. I lighted a candle, but the sight of the dreariness oppressed me; I therefore blew it out again, and leant out of the open window.
It was a cool night, and dark, for clouds had hidden the moon; the chimes rang the quarters; they seemed to follow close upon each other, and still I stood at the window. I heard Mrs. Rayner go, and her escort, Uncle George, return. “B-rrr,” he went, as he stamped up the steps. “How his keys jingle,” thought I; “and is it so cold?”
I cannot remember that I thought much of what had happened; my senses were very keen, but emotion was torpid. I took note of every barking dog, every distant wheel; sometimes I sang a little to myself, and, all the while, I worked my foot to and fro along the skirting.