A fortnight after the disappearance of Mrs. Ellmother, and the dismissal
of Mrs. Mosey, Doctor Allday entered his consulting-room, punctual to
the hour at which he was accustomed to receive patients.
An occasional wrinkling of his eyebrows, accompanied by an intermittent
restlessness in his movements, appeared to indicate some disturbance
of this worthy man’s professional composure. His mind was indeed not at
ease. Even the inexcitable old doctor had felt the attraction which had
already conquered three such dissimilar people as Alban Morris, Cecilia
Wyvil, and Francine de Sor. He was thinking of Emily.
A ring at the door-bell announced the arrival of the first patient.
The servant introduced a tall lady, dressed simply and elegantly in dark
apparel. Noticeable features, of a Jewish cast--worn and haggard, but
still preserving their grandeur of form--were visible through her
veil. She moved with grace and dignity; and she stated her object in
consulting Doctor Allday with the ease of a well-bred woman.
“I come to ask your opinion, sir, on the state of my heart,” she said;
“and I am recommended by a patient, who has consulted you with advantage
to herself.” She placed a card on the doctor’s writing-desk, and added:
“I have become acquainted with the lady, by being one of the lodgers in
her house.”
The doctor recognized the name--and the usual proceedings ensued. After
careful examination, he arrived at a favorable conclusion. “I may tell
you at once,” he said--“there is no reason to be alarmed about the state
of your heart.”
“I have never felt any alarm about myself,” she answered quietly. “A
sudden death is an easy death. If one’s affairs are settled, it seems,
on that account, to be the death to prefer. My object was to settle
_my_ affairs--such as they are--if you had considered my life to be in
danger. Is there nothing the matter with me?”
“I don’t say that,” the doctor replied. “The action of your heart is
very feeble. Take the medicine that I shall prescribe; pay a little
more attention to eating and drinking than ladies usually do; don’t run
upstairs, and don’t fatigue yourself by violent exercise--and I see no
reason why you shouldn’t live to be an old woman.”
“God forbid!” the lady said to herself. She turned away, and looked out
of the window with a bitter smile.
Doctor Allday wrote his prescription. “Are you likely to make a long
stay in London?” he asked.
“I am here for a little while only. Do you wish to see me again?”
“I should like to see you once more, before you go away--if you can make
it convenient. What name shall I put on the prescription?”
“Miss Jethro.”
“A remarkable name,” the doctor said, in his matter-of-fact way.
Miss Jethro’s bitter smile showed itself again.
Without otherwise noticing what Doctor Allday had said, she laid the
consultation fee on the table. At the same moment, the footman appeared
with a letter. “From Miss Emily Brown,” he said. “No answer required.”
He held the door open as he delivered the message, seeing that Miss
Jethro was about to leave the room. She dismissed him by a gesture; and,
returning to the table, pointed to the letter.
“Was your correspondent lately a pupil at Miss Ladd’s school?” she
inquired.
“My correspondent has just left Miss Ladd,” the doctor answered. “Are
you a friend of hers?”
“I am acquainted with her.”
“You would be doing the poor child a kindness, if you would go and see
her. She has no friends in London.”
“Pardon me--she has an aunt.”
“Her aunt died a week since.”
“Are there no other relations?”
“None. A melancholy state of things, isn’t it? She would have been
absolutely alone in the house, if I had not sent one of my women
servants to stay with her for the present. Did you know her father?”
Miss Jethro passed over the question, as if she had not heard it. “Has
the young lady dismissed her aunt’s servants?” she asked.
“Her aunt kept but one servant, ma’am. The woman has spared Miss Emily
the trouble of dismissing her.” He briefly alluded to Mrs. Ellmother’s
desertion of her mistress. “I can’t explain it,” he said when he had
done. “Can _you_?”
“What makes you think, sir, that I can help you? I have never even heard
of the servant--and the mistress was a stranger to me.”
At Doctor Allday’s age a man is not easily discouraged by reproof, even
when it is administered by a handsome woman. “I thought you might have
known Miss Emily’s father,” he persisted.
Miss Jethro rose, and wished him good-morning. “I must not occupy any
more of your valuable time,” she said.
“Suppose you wait a minute?” the doctor suggested.
Impenetrable as ever, he rang the bell. “Any patients in the
waiting-room?” he inquired. “You see I have time to spare,” he resumed,
when the man had replied in the negative. “I take an interest in this
poor girl; and I thought--”
“If you think that I take an interest in her, too,” Miss Jethro
interposed, “you are perfectly right--I knew her father,” she added
abruptly; the allusion to Emily having apparently reminded her of the
question which she had hitherto declined to notice.
“In that case,” Doctor Allday proceeded, “I want a word of advice. Won’t
you sit down?”
She took a chair in silence. An irregular movement in the lower part of
her veil seemed to indicate that she was breathing with difficulty. The
doctor observed her with close attention. “Let me see my prescription
again,” he said. Having added an ingredient, he handed it back with a
word of explanation. “Your nerves are more out of order than I supposed.
The hardest disease to cure that I know of is--worry.”
The hint could hardly have been plainer; but it was lost on Miss
Jethro. Whatever her troubles might be, her medical adviser was not made
acquainted with them. Quietly folding up the prescription, she reminded
him that he had proposed to ask her advice.
“In what way can I be of service to you?” she inquired.
“I am afraid I must try your patience,” the doctor acknowledged, “if I
am to answer that question plainly.”
With these prefatory words, he described the events that had followed
Mrs. Mosey’s appearance at the cottage. “I am only doing justice to this
foolish woman,” he continued, “when I tell you that she came here, after
she had left Miss Emily, and did her best to set matters right. I went
to the poor girl directly--and I felt it my duty, after looking at her
aunt, not to leave her alone for that night. When I got home the next
morning, whom do you think I found waiting for me? Mrs. Ellmother!”
He stopped--in the expectation that Miss Jethro would express some
surprise. Not a word passed her lips.
“Mrs. Ellmother’s object was to ask how her mistress was going on,” the
doctor proceeded. “Every day while Miss Letitia still lived, she came
here to make the same inquiry--without a word of explanation. On the day
of the funeral, there she was at the church, dressed in deep mourning;
and, as I can personally testify, crying bitterly. When the ceremony was
over--can you believe it?--she slipped away before Miss Emily or I could
speak to her. We have seen nothing more of her, and heard nothing more,
from that time to this.”
He stopped again, the silent lady still listening without making any
remark.
“Have you no opinion to express?” the doctor asked bluntly.
“I am waiting,” Miss Jethro answered.
“Waiting--for what?”
“I haven’t heard yet, why you want my advice.”
Doctor Allday’s observation of humanity had hitherto reckoned want of
caution among the deficient moral qualities in the natures of women. He
set down Miss Jethro as a remarkable exception to a general rule.
“I want you to advise me as to the right course to take with Miss
Emily,” he said. “She has assured me she attaches no serious importance
to her aunt’s wanderings, when the poor old lady’s fever was at its
worst. I don’t doubt that she speaks the truth--but I have my own
reasons for being afraid that she is deceiving herself. Will you bear
this in mind?”
“Yes--if it’s necessary.”
“In plain words, Miss Jethro, you think I am still wandering from the
point. I have got to the point. Yesterday, Miss Emily told me that
she hoped to be soon composed enough to examine the papers left by her
aunt.”
Miss Jethro suddenly turned in her chair, and looked at Doctor Allday.
“Are you beginning to feel interested?” the doctor asked mischievously.
She neither acknowledged nor denied it. “Go on”--was all she said.
“I don’t know how _you_ feel,” he proceeded; “_I_ am afraid of the
discoveries which she may make; and I am strongly tempted to advise
her to leave the proposed examination to her aunt’s lawyer. Is there
anything in your knowledge of Miss Emily’s late father, which tells you
that I am right?”
“Before I reply,” said Miss Jethro, “it may not be amiss to let the
young lady speak for herself.”
“How is she to do that?” the doctor asked.
Miss Jethro pointed to the writing table. “Look there,” she said. “You
have not yet opened Miss Emily’s letter.”