“Emily! Are you insane?”
“No, I’m not insane, and it’s because I’m not that I’m advising you. I feel sure that your Uncle Benjamin never meant to do you any good when he made that will of his.”
“So far I’m with you. But it’s just possible that the niece may prove a match for the uncle; she means to try. This is my house, at present. I’m mistress here, and I mean to play the mistress; not act as if I were afraid to raise my voice above a whisper. So don’t you forget it, or we shall quarrel; and, even if things are as bad as you seem to think, I don’t see how you’ll be better off for that. Light a match, and keep on lighting one till I tell you to stop.”
She ordered me as if I were a servant: I obeyed because I could not see my way to refuse. In the match-light she marched to the mantelpiece.
“Here’s three boxes of matches for you; I’ll take care of the rest. The matches are in them, luckily. Now the question is what is the handiest little article by whose help I can get soonest on the other side of that door. Ah! here’s the poker. It is not much use against sheet iron, but I fancy it will work wonders with plain wood.”
Brandishing the poker above her head—exactly in the wild way she had done the night before—she strode towards the door. As she did so someone addressed her from without; in a deep rumbling bass, which was more like a growl than a human voice.
“Beware, you fool, beware! Your life’s at stake, more than your life. Obey, before it is too late.”
In my most natural surprise and agitation, the match, dropping from my fingers, was extinguished as it reached the floor. The room was plunged into darkness. Pollie behaved as if the fault were mine.
“You idiot! Did you do that on purpose?”
She caught me by the arm as if she meant to break it. In her unreasoning rage I quite expected her to strike me with the poker. As I waited for it to fall the voice came again.