‘I shan’t blame you, Alice. Will you please tell me the message?’ Emma’s lips seemed to speak without her volition. The rest o her face was fixed and cold. ‘He’s married, Emma.’ ‘He asked you to tell me?’ Alice was surprised at the self-restraint proved by so quiet an interrogation. ‘Yes, he did. Emma, I’m so, so sorry! If only you’ll believe I’m sorry, Emma! He _made_ me come and tell you. He said if I didn’t you’d have to find out by chance, because he couldn’t for shame tell you himself. And he couldn’t tell mother neither. I’ve had it all to do. If you knew what I’ve gone through with mother! It’s very hard that other people should suffer so much just on his account. I am really sorry for you, Emma.’ ‘Who is it he’s married?’ Emma asked. Probably all the last speech had been but a vague murmur to her ears. ‘Some one at Wanley.’ ‘A lady?’ ‘Yes, I suppose she’s a lady.’ ‘You didn’t see her, then?’ ‘Yes, I saw her. I don’t like her.’ Poor Alice meant this to be soothing. Emma knew it, and smiled. ‘I don’t think she cares much after all,’ Alice said to herself. ‘But was that the message?’ ‘Only to tell you of it, Emma. There was something else,’ she added immediately; ‘not exactly a message, but he told me, and I dare say he thought I should let you know. He said that of course you were to have the money still as usual.’ Over the listener’s face came a cloud, a deep, turbid red. It was not anger, but shame which rose from the depths of her being. Her head sank; she turned and walked aside. ‘You’re not angry with _me_, Emma?’ ‘Not angry at all, Alice,’ was the reply in a monotone. ‘I must say good-bye now. I hope you won t take on much. And I hope Jane ‘ll soon be better.’ ‘Thank you. I must go up to her; she doesn’t like me to be away long.’ Alice went before up the kitchen stairs, the dark, narrow stairs which now seemed to her so poverty-stricken. Emma did not speak, but pressed her hand at the door. Kate stood above her on the first landing, and, as Emma came up, whispered: ‘Has he come?’ ‘Something has hindered him.’ And Emma added, ‘He couldn’t help it.’ ‘Well, then, I think he ought to have helped it,’ said the other tartly. ‘When does he mean to come, I’d like to know?’ ‘It’s uncertain.’ Emma passed into the sick-room. Her sister followed her with eyes of ill-content, then returned to the kitchen. Jane lay against pillows. Red light from the fire played over her face, which was wasted beyond recognition. She looked a handmaiden of Death. The atmosphere of the room was warm and sickly. A small green-shaded lamp stood by the looking-glass in front of the window; it cast a disk of light below, and on the ceiling concentric rings of light and shade, which flickered ceaselessly, and were at times all but obliterated in a gleam from the fireplace. A kettle sang on the trivet.