"Yes, all right. Now stop crying, Martha. Try to go to sleep. I'll make arrangements. I'll fix it all up for you."
The girl dozed at length, moaning. The clock struck, and the hours passed, and Emily lay there, open-eyed, fleeing in vain terror from one corner of her consciousness to the other, whacked and battered through the soul by fact after brutal fact. She was in no condition to think clearly. It was her habit of mind to blame herself for a great deal that was never her fault, perhaps because all her tender years she had had the sense of her aunt's disapproving eyes upon her. And now she shouldered all the blame of this tragedy. This child was what she had made her; she had spoiled her indeed. She had only wanted her to be happy, and where was happiness now? Her child, the work of her hands, the fruit of her body and soul, had lowered herself to deliberate lying. Yes, and even that Emily Kenworthy could have pardoned if the child had lied for a worthy man. She had been found lacking the essential womanly instincts of self-preservation—of child preservation. She hadn't known how to make herself cherished. She had failed fundamentally. "What was it I neglected?" Emily moaned. "What didn't I teach her? Bob always said I spoiled her. Bob knew. I have failed. I have failed more than she has. I thought only about her being happy. What am I going to do for her now?"
After a long while—it was towards morning, though Emily had no thought of time—Martha rose with a start. She began scrambling hastily out of bed.
"I'm sick!" she murmured.
"Lie down! Wait! I'll get you something!"
"A towel! Hand me a towel!"
Emily jumped up and felt for the light. The room was bitterly cold. She looked about for something to serve Martha's need. She searched hastily for her dressing gown.
"Get back into bed," she commanded. "Cover up!" She sat down on the bed beside her, shivering violently, trying to help her. For Martha was leaning out over the side of the bed, retching, choking, trying to stifle the sound of her misery by covering her face with the towel. Paroxysm after paroxysm of nausea followed. Between them Martha lay back in bed, shivering, blue-lipped, sweat on her forehead, tears in her eyes, harrowing to behold.
"Try to lie still, Martha! Lie flat on your back!"
"Can't. Oh——" And on went the sickening sounds.