The metropolis of Great Britain is, in certain respects, like no other
metropolis on the face of the earth. In the population that throngs the
streets, the extremes of Wealth and the extremes of Poverty meet, as
they meet nowhere else. In the streets themselves, the glory and the
shame of architecture--the mansion and the hovel--are neighbors in
situation, as they are neighbors nowhere else. London, in its social
aspect, is the city of contrasts.
Toward the close of evening Emily left the railway terminus for the
place of residence in which loss of fortune had compelled her aunt
to take refuge. As she approached her destination, the cab passed--by
merely crossing a road--from a spacious and beautiful Park, with its
surrounding houses topped by statues and cupolas, to a row of cottages,
hard by a stinking ditch miscalled a canal. The city of contrasts: north
and south, east and west, the city of social contrasts.
Emily stopped the cab before the garden gate of a cottage, at the
further end of the row. The bell was answered by the one servant now in
her aunt’s employ--Miss Letitia’s maid.
Personally, this good creature was one of the ill-fated women whose
appearance suggests that Nature intended to make men of them and altered
her mind at the last moment. Miss Letitia’s maid was tall and gaunt and
awkward. The first impression produced by her face was an impression of
bones. They rose high on her forehead; they projected on her cheeks;
and they reached their boldest development in her jaws. In the cavernous
eyes of this unfortunate person rigid obstinacy and rigid goodness
looked out together, with equal severity, on all her fellow-creatures
alike. Her mistress (whom she had served for a quarter of a century and
more) called her “Bony.” She accepted this cruelly appropriate nick-name
as a mark of affectionate familiarity which honored a servant. No other
person was allowed to take liberties with her: to every one but her
mistress she was known as Mrs. Ellmother.
“How is my aunt?” Emily asked.
“Bad.”
“Why have I not heard of her illness before?”
“Because she’s too fond of you to let you be distressed about her.
‘Don’t tell Emily’; those were her orders, as long as she kept her
senses.”
“Kept her senses? Good heavens! what do you mean?”
“Fever--that’s what I mean.”
“I must see her directly; I am not afraid of infection.”
“There’s no infection to be afraid of. But you mustn’t see her, for all
that.”
“I insist on seeing her.”
“Miss Emily, I am disappointing you for your own good. Don’t you know me
well enough to trust me by this time?”
“I do trust you.”
“Then leave my mistress to me--and go and make yourself comfortable in
your own room.”
Emily’s answer was a positive refusal. Mrs. Ellmother, driven to her
last resources, raised a new obstacle.
“It’s not to be done, I tell you! How can you see Miss Letitia when she
can’t bear the light in her room? Do you know what color her eyes are?
Red, poor soul--red as a boiled lobster.”
With every word the woman uttered, Emily’s perplexity and distress
increased.
“You told me my aunt’s illness was fever,” she said--“and now you speak
of some complaint in her eyes. Stand out of the way, if you please, and
let me go to her.”
Mrs. Ellmother, still keeping her place, looked through the open door.
“Here’s the doctor,” she announced. “It seems I can’t satisfy you; ask
him what’s the matter. Come in, doctor.” She threw open the door of the
parlor, and introduced Emily. “This is the mistress’s niece, sir. Please
try if _you_ can keep her quiet. I can’t.” She placed chairs with the
hospitable politeness of the old school--and returned to her post at
Miss Letitia’s bedside.
Doctor Allday was an elderly man, with a cool manner and a ruddy
complexion--thoroughly acclimatized to the atmosphere of pain and grief
in which it was his destiny to live. He spoke to Emily (without any
undue familiarity) as if he had been accustomed to see her for the
greater part of her life.
“That’s a curious woman,” he said, when Mrs. Ellmother closed the door;
“the most headstrong person, I think, I ever met with. But devoted
to her mistress, and, making allowance for her awkwardness, not a bad
nurse. I am afraid I can’t give you an encouraging report of your aunt.
The rheumatic fever (aggravated by the situation of this house--built
on clay, you know, and close to stagnant water) has been latterly
complicated by delirium.”
“Is that a bad sign, sir?”
“The worst possible sign; it shows that the disease has affected the
heart. Yes: she is suffering from inflammation of the eyes, but that is
an unimportant symptom. We can keep the pain under by means of cooling
lotions and a dark room. I’ve often heard her speak of you--especially
since the illness assumed a serious character. What did you say? Will
she know you, when you go into her room? This is about the time when the
delirium usually sets in. I’ll see if there’s a quiet interval.”
He opened the door--and came back again.
“By the way,” he resumed, “I ought perhaps to explain how it was that I
took the liberty of sending you that telegram. Mrs. Ellmother refused
to inform you of her mistress’s serious illness. That circumstance,
according to my view of it, laid the responsibility on the doctor’s
shoulders. The form taken by your aunt’s delirium--I mean the apparent
tendency of the words that escape her in that state--seems to excite
some incomprehensible feeling in the mind of her crabbed servant. She
wouldn’t even let _me_ go into the bedroom, if she could possibly help
it. Did Mrs. Ellmother give you a warm welcome when you came here?”
“Far from it. My arrival seemed to annoy her.”
“Ah--just what I expected. These faithful old servants always end by
presuming on their fidelity. Did you ever hear what a witty poet--I
forget his name: he lived to be ninety--said of the man who had been his
valet for more than half a century? ‘For thirty years he was the best
of servants; and for thirty years he has been the hardest of masters.’
Quite true--I might say the same of my housekeeper. Rather a good story,
isn’t it?”
The story was completely thrown away on Emily; but one subject
interested her now. “My poor aunt has always been fond of me,” she said.
“Perhaps she might know me, when she recognizes nobody else.”
“Not very likely,” the doctor answered. “But there’s no laying down any
rule in cases of this kind. I have sometimes observed that circumstances
which have produced a strong impression on patients, when they are in
a state of health, give a certain direction to the wandering of their
minds, when they are in a state of fever. You will say, ‘I am not a
circumstance; I don’t see how this encourages me to hope’--and you will
be quite right. Instead of talking of my medical experience, I shall do
better to look at Miss Letitia, and let you know the result. You have
got other relations, I suppose? No? Very distressing--very distressing.”
Who has not suffered as Emily suffered, when she was left alone? Are
there not moments--if we dare to confess the truth--when poor humanity
loses its hold on the consolations of religion and the hope of
immortality, and feels the cruelty of creation that bids us live, on the
condition that we die, and leads the first warm beginnings of love, with
merciless certainty, to the cold conclusion of the grave?
“She’s quiet, for the time being,” Dr. Allday announced, on his return.
“Remember, please, that she can’t see you in the inflamed state of her
eyes, and don’t disturb the bed-curtains. The sooner you go to her
the better, perhaps--if you have anything to say which depends on her
recognizing your voice. I’ll call to-morrow morning. Very distressing,”
he repeated, taking his hat and making his bow--“Very distressing.”
Emily crossed the narrow little passage which separated the two
rooms, and opened the bed-chamber door. Mrs. Ellmother met her on the
threshold. “No,” said the obstinate old servant, “you can’t come in.”
The faint voice of Miss Letitia made itself heard, calling Mrs.
Ellmother by her familiar nick-name.
“Bony, who is it?”
“Never mind.”
“Who is it?”
“Miss Emily, if you must know.”
“Oh! poor dear, why does she come here? Who told her I was ill?”
“The doctor told her.”
“Don’t come in, Emily. It will only distress you--and it will do me no
good. God bless you, my love. Don’t come in.”
“There!” said Mrs. Ellmother. “Do you hear that? Go back to the
sitting-room.”
Thus far, the hard necessity of controlling herself had kept Emily
silent. She was now able to speak without tears. “Remember the old
times, aunt,” she pleaded, gently. “Don’t keep me out of your room, when
I have come here to nurse you!”
“I’m her nurse. Go back to the sitting-room,” Mrs. Ellmother repeated.
True love lasts while life lasts. The dying woman relented.
“Bony! Bony! I can’t be unkind to Emily. Let her in.”
Mrs. Ellmother still insisted on having her way.
“You’re contradicting your own orders,” she said to her mistress. “You
don’t know how soon you may begin wandering in your mind again. Think,
Miss Letitia--think.”
This remonstrance was received in silence. Mrs. Ellmother’s great gaunt
figure still blocked up the doorway.
“If you force me to it,” Emily said, quietly, “I must go to the doctor,
and ask him to interfere.”
“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.”