“Do you mean that?” Mrs. Ellmother said, quietly, on her side.
“I do mean it,” was the answer.
The old servant suddenly submitted—with a look which took Emily by surprise. She had expected to see anger; the face that now confronted her was a face subdued by sorrow and fear.
“I wash my hands of it,” Mrs. Ellmother said. “Go in—and take the consequences.”
CHAPTER XIII. MISS LETITIA.
Emily entered the room. The door was immediately closed on her from the outer side. Mrs. Ellmother’s heavy steps were heard retreating along the passage. Then the banging of the door that led into the kitchen shook the flimsily-built cottage. Then, there was silence.
The dim light of a lamp hidden away in a corner and screened by a dingy green shade, just revealed the closely-curtained bed, and the table near it bearing medicine-bottles and glasses. The only objects on the chimney-piece were a clock that had been stopped in mercy to the sufferer’s irritable nerves, and an open case containing a machine for pouring drops into the eyes. The smell of fumigating pastilles hung heavily on the air. To Emily’s excited imagination, the silence was like the silence of death. She approached the bed trembling. “Won’t you speak to me, aunt?”
“Is that you, Emily? Who let you come in?”
“You said I might come in, dear. Are you thirsty? I see some lemonade on the table. Shall I give it to you?”