She was silent a moment; she saw what was in his thoughts and took advantage of it.
“You do not deserve my clemency,” she said, “but I will extend it to you, provided you go from the house this minute. If you do not I shall take measures to punish you.”
He was trembling, and could not speak.
She opened the door. “Jane,” she called, “get Mr. Wimple’s portmanteau; have you put everything into it?”
“Everything but the slippers. It’s raining, ma’am,” Jane added, not in the least understanding what was going on. But Aunt Anne had shut the door, and turned to Alfred Wimple again.
“Now you will go,” she said.
“I cannot go in the rain,” he answered, and made a sound in his throat; “you know how bad my cough is. You cannot turn me out in this weather. I was angry just now; but I did not mean it. I was only trying to frighten you.”
“You will go immediately,” she said; “you shall not remain another hour under my roof.”
“It will kill me to go in this rain,” he said doggedly.
“You would have killed me when you thought you would get William Rammage’s money by it; and just now you threatened me, Alfred. You are not fit to remain another hour in the same house with the woman you have wronged, and you shall not. Your coat is in the hall, ready for you”—and she went towards the door. “You will go this very moment, and you will never venture to come near me again.”