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?”
“No! If you open the bed-curtains, you let in the light. My poor eyes!
Why are you here, my dear? Why are you not at the school?”
“It’s holiday-time, aunt. Besides, I have left school for good.”
“Left school?” Miss Letitia’s memory made an effort, as she repeated
those words. “You were going somewhere when you left school,” she said,
“and Cecilia Wyvil had something to do with it. Oh, my love, how cruel
of you to go away to a stranger, when you might live here with me!”
She paused--her sense of what she had herself just said began to grow
confused. “What stranger?” she asked abruptly. “Was it a man? What name?
Oh, my mind! Has death got hold of my mind before my body?”
“Hush! hush! I’ll tell you the name. Sir Jervis Redwood.”
“I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him. Do you think he means
to send for you. Perhaps he _has_ sent for you. I won’t allow it! You
shan’t go!”
“Don’t excite yourself, dear! I have refused to go; I mean to stay here
with you.”
The fevered brain held to its last idea. “_Has_ he sent for you?” she
said again, louder than before.
Emily replied once more, in terms carefully chosen with the one purpose
of pacifying her. The attempt proved to be useless, and worse--it seemed
to make her suspicious. “I won’t be deceived!” she said; “I mean to know
all about it. He did send for you. Whom did he send?”
“His housekeeper.”
“What name?” The tone in which she put the question told of excitement
that was rising to its climax. “Don’t you know that I’m curious about
names?” she burst out. “Why do you provoke me? Who is it?”
“Nobody you know, or need care about, dear aunt. Mrs. Rook.”
Instantly on the utterance of that name, there followed an unexpected
result. Silence ensued.
Emily waited--hesitated--advanced, to part the curtains, and look in at
her aunt. She was stopped by a dreadful sound of laughter--the cheerless
laughter that is heard among the mad. It suddenly ended in a dreary
sigh.
Afraid to look in, she spoke, hardly knowing what she said. “Is there
anything you wish for? Shall I call--?”
Miss Letitia’s voice interrupted her. Dull, low, rapidly muttering, it
was unlike, shockingly unlike, the familiar voice of her aunt. It said
strange words.
“Mrs. Rook? What does Mrs. Rook matter? Or her husband either? Bony,
Bony, you’re frightened about nothing. Where’s the danger of those two
people turning up? Do you know how many miles away the village is? Oh,
you fool--a hundred miles and more. Never mind the coroner, the coroner
must keep in his own district--and the jury too. A risky deception? I
call it a pious fraud. And I have a tender conscience, and a cultivated
mind. The newspaper? How is _our_ newspaper to find its way to her, I
should like to know? You poor old Bony! Upon my word you do me good--you
make me laugh.”
The cheerless laughter broke out again--and died away again drearily in
a sigh.
Accustomed to decide rapidly in the ordinary emergencies of her life,
Emily felt herself painfully embarrassed by the position in which she
was now placed.
After what she had already heard, could she reconcile it to her sense of
duty to her aunt to remain any longer in the room?
In the hopeless self-betrayal of delirium, Miss Letitia had revealed
some act of concealment, committed in her past life, and confided to
her faithful old servant. Under these circumstances, had Emily made
any discoveries which convicted her of taking a base advantage of her
position at the bedside? Most assuredly not! The nature of the act of
concealment; the causes that had led to it; the person (or persons)
affected by it--these were mysteries which left her entirely in the
dark. She had found out that her aunt was acquainted with Mrs. Rook, and
that was literally all she knew.
Blameless, so far, in the line of conduct that she had pursued, might
she still remain in the bed-chamber--on this distinct understanding
with herself: that she would instantly return to the sitting-room if she
heard anything which could suggest a doubt of Miss Letitia’s claim to
her affection and respect? After some hesitation, she decided on leaving
it to her conscience to answer that question. Does conscience ever
say, No--when inclination says, Yes? Emily’s conscience sided with her
reluctance to leave her aunt.
Throughout the time occupied by these reflections, the silence had
remained unbroken. Emily began to feel uneasy. She timidly put her hand
through the curtains, and took Miss Letitia’s hand. The contact with
the burning skin startled her. She turned away to the door, to call the
servant--when the sound of her aunt’s voice hurried her back to the bed.
“Are you there, Bony?” the voice asked.
Was her mind getting clear again? Emily tried the experiment of making
a plain reply. “Your niece is with you,” she said. “Shall I call the
servant?”
Miss Letitia’s mind was still far away from Emily, and from the present
time.
“The servant?” she repeated. “All the servants but you, Bony, have
been sent away. London’s the place for us. No gossiping servants and no
curious neighbors in London. Bury the horrid truth in London. Ah, you
may well say I look anxious and wretched. I hate deception--and yet, it
must be done. Why do you waste time in talking? Why don’t you find out
where the vile woman lives? Only let me get at her--and I’ll make Sara
ashamed of herself.”
Emily’s heart beat fast when she heard the woman’s name. “Sara” (as she
and her school-fellows knew) was the baptismal name of Miss Jethro. Had
her aunt alluded to the disgraced teacher, or to some other woman?
She waited eagerly to hear more. There was nothing to be heard. At this
most interesting moment, the silence remained undisturbed.
In the fervor of her anxiety to set her doubts at rest, Emily’s faith in
her own good resolutions began to waver. The temptation to say
something which might set her aunt talking again was too strong to be
resisted--if she remained at the bedside. Despairing of herself she rose
and turned to the door. In the moment that passed while she crossed the
room the very words occurred to her that would suit her purpose. Her
cheeks were hot with shame--she hesitated--she looked back at the
bed--the words passed her lips.
“Sara is only one of the woman’s names,” she said. “Do you like her
other name?”
The rapidly-muttering tones broke out again instantly--but not in answer
to Emily. The sound of a voice had encouraged Miss Letitia to pursue
her own confused train of thought, and had stimulated the fast-failing
capacity of speech to exert itself once more.
“No! no! He’s too cunning for you, and too cunning for me. He doesn’t
leave letters about; he destroys them all. Did I say he was too cunning
for us? It’s false. We are too cunning for him. Who found the morsels of
his letter in the basket? Who stuck them together? Ah, _we_ know! Don’t
read it, Bony. ‘Dear Miss Jethro’--don’t read it again. ‘Miss Jethro’ in
his letter; and ‘Sara,’ when he talks to himself in the garden. Oh,
who would have believed it of him, if we hadn’t seen and heard it
ourselves!”
There was no more doubt now.
But who was the man, so bitterly and so regretfully alluded to?
No: this time Emily held firmly by the resolution which bound her
to respect the helpless position of her aunt. The speediest way of
summoning Mrs. Ellmother would be to ring the bell. As she touched the
handle a faint cry of suffering from the bed called her back.
“Oh, so thirsty!” murmured the failing voice--“so thirsty!”
She parted the curtains. The shrouded lamplight just showed her the
green shade over Miss Letitia’s eyes--the hollow cheeks below it--the
arms laid helplessly on the bed-clothes. “Oh, aunt, don’t you know my
voice? Don’t you know Emily? Let me kiss you, dear!” Useless to plead
with her; useless to kiss her; she only reiterated the words, “So
thirsty! so thirsty!” Emily raised the poor tortured body with a patient
caution which spared it pain, and put the glass to her aunt’s lips. She
drank the lemonade to the last drop. Refreshed for the moment, she spoke
again--spoke to the visionary servant of her delirious fancy, while she
rested in Emily’s arms.
“For God’s sake, take care how you answer if she questions you. If _she_
knew what _we_ know! Are men ever ashamed? Ha! the vile woman! the vile
woman!”
Her voice, sinking gradually, dropped to a whisper. The next few words
that escaped her were muttered inarticulately. Little by little, the
false energy of fever was wearing itself out. She lay silent and still.
To look at her now was to look at the image of death. Once more, Emily
kissed her--closed the curtains--and rang the bell. Mrs. Ellmother
failed to appear. Emily left the room to call her.
Arrived at the top of the kitchen stairs, she noted a slight change.
The door below, which she had heard banged on first entering her aunt’s
room, now stood open. She called to Mrs. Ellmother. A strange voice
answered her. Its accent was soft and courteous; presenting the
strongest imaginable contrast to the harsh tones of Miss Letitia’s
crabbed old maid.
“Is there anything I can do for you, miss?”
The person making this polite inquiry appeared at the foot of the
stairs--a plump and comely woman of middle age. She looked up at the
young lady with a pleasant smile.
“I beg your pardon,” Emily said; “I had no intention of disturbing you.
I called to Mrs. Ellmother.”
The stranger advanced a little way up the stairs, and answered, “Mrs.
Ellmother is not here.”
“Do you expect her back soon?”
“Excuse me, miss--I don’t expect her back at all.”
“Do you mean to say that she has left the house?”
“Yes, miss. She has left the house.”