Had he not heard her? She had just said that she could not leave, and now he bid her do it anyway. But at this moment Emilia had enough sense to recognize the despairing timbre in his voice, although the words were cold and callous… Or perhaps she simply imagined that she heard despair when there was none; a fancy wrought by her fixedness to him. She was not sure, but she was certain that she would not leave.
"I will not," she said softly, her voice little more than a breath, and she wondered afterward if he had even been able to hear her. Absently, she pulled her humble kerchief from her bodice, for she had kept it close to her heart during the day, and ran the fabric down the side of her face. It had been warmed by her skin, and now warmed her cheek against the heedless cold.
"I will not leave you," she said staunchly, louder this time. "And there is no manner of protest you can put forth that will move me from my place. You are a man very dear to me," she said, her voice softening.
She slowly brought her fingertips to the wood of the door, as if she was bringing them instead to her husband's face. She had worried for him all day, and all she wanted now was to be near to him, even if he would not welcome her past the threshold where she sat. He looked and sounded fearfully forlorn… Perhaps Othello had dealt his punishment already, she thought with sudden realization. Certainly that would merit such dispiritedness… But so soon? And had not the general promised to be lenient? The Moor had seem so open, so welcoming to Emilia (the exact opposite of her husband at this moment, actually)... She could not believe that the man would praise her for her steadfastness and promise to grant her supplications, only to forget them within a matter of hours. But Othello was a man of high prestige, and certainly he could do as he wished without need to consider the lowly ancient's wife.
Was that the cause? If it was not, well… Emilia allowed herself to imagine, briefly, that Iago's distress was caused by remorse for what he had done the night before. This morning, she would have believed it. And truly, she did not disbelieve it, but the experience of years overrode a simple fleeting spark. She had become used to the idea that her own emotions were not Iago's concern.
Or perhaps it was still none of these things; perhaps there was some inner war that she knew nothing about. She thought of the haggard, nebulous explanation he had given her that morning, his visage returning to the forefront of her mind. His sharp eyes, marked with both frenzy and guilt, had been filled with opposing ice and fire. Emilia had a feeling that she had only caught a glimpse of his heart's struggle. Indeed, it was likely that he suffered more than she could ever know…
Or not. Perhaps it was all a lie, her more cynical side reasoned; the side of her that had grown calloused by her husband's repeated rebuke and incessant spurning.
No! her heart cried, the voice of a girl protesting against that of a woman who had grown much older than she really was. Are you blind, Emilia? Can you not see his torment? Call you that a fabrication? A man could not make himself look so disconsolate if he were the veriest deceiver in all the world! In faith, you misgive him too much!
She summoned another bout of courage and peeked through the crack betwixt door and doorframe once more, to catch sight of her poor, afflicted husband. She gave the air before her lips a quiet kiss as she looked upon him.