Mrs. Ellmother reluctantly entered the room.
Since Emily had seen her last, her personal appearance doubly justified
the nickname by which her late mistress had distinguished her. The old
servant was worn and wasted; her gown hung loose on her angular body;
the big bones of her face stood out, more prominently than ever. She
took Emily’s offered hand doubtingly. “I hope I see you well, miss,”
she said--with hardly a vestige left of her former firmness of voice
and manner.
“I am afraid you have been suffering from illness,” Emily answered
gently.
“It’s the life I’m leading that wears me down; I want work and change.”
Making that reply, she looked round, and discovered Francine observing
her with undisguised curiosity. “You have got company with you,” she
said to Emily. “I had better go away, and come back another time.”
Francine stopped her before she could open the door. “You mustn’t go
away; I wish to speak to you.”
“About what, miss?”
The eyes of the two women met--one, near the end of her life,
concealing under a rugged surface a nature sensitively affectionate and
incorruptibly true: the other, young in years, without the virtues of
youth, hard in manner and hard at heart. In silence on either side,
they stood face to face; strangers brought together by the force of
circumstances, working inexorably toward their hidden end.
Emily introduced Mrs. Ellmother to Francine. “It may be worth your
while,” she hinted, “to hear what this young lady has to say.”
Mrs. Ellmother listened, with little appearance of interest in anything
that a stranger might have to say: her eyes rested on the card which
contained her written request to Emily. Francine, watching her closely,
understood what was passing in her mind. It might be worth while to
conciliate the old woman by a little act of attention. Turning to Emily,
Francine pointed to the card lying on the table. “You have not attended
yet to Mr. Ellmother’s request,” she said.
Emily at once assured Mrs. Ellmother that the request was granted. “But
is it wise,” she asked, “to go out to service again, at your age?”
“I have been used to service all my life, Miss Emily--that’s one reason.
And service may help me to get rid of my own thoughts--that’s another.
If you can find me a situation somewhere, you will be doing me a good
turn.”
“Is it useless to suggest that you might come back, and live with me?”
Emily ventured to say.
Mrs. Ellmother’s head sank on her breast. “Thank you kindly, miss; it
_is_ useless.”
“Why is it useless?” Francine asked.
Mrs. Ellmother was silent.
“Miss de Sor is speaking to you,” Emily reminded her.
“Am I to answer Miss de Sor?”
Attentively observing what passed, and placing her own construction on
looks and tones, it suddenly struck Francine that Emily herself might be
in Mrs. Ellmother’s confidence, and that she might have reasons of her
own for assuming ignorance when awkward questions were asked. For the
moment at least, Francine decided on keeping her suspicions to herself.
“I may perhaps offer you the employment you want,” she said to Mrs.
Ellmother. “I am staying at Brighton, for the present, with the lady who
was Miss Emily’s schoolmistress, and I am in need of a maid. Would you
be willing to consider it, if I proposed to engage you?”
“Yes, miss.”
“In that case, you can hardly object to the customary inquiry. Why did
you leave your last place?”
Mrs. Ellmother appealed to Emily. “Did you tell this young lady how long
I remained in my last place?”
Melancholy remembrances had been revived in Emily by the turn which the
talk had now taken. Francine’s cat-like patience, stealthily feeling its
way to its end, jarred on her nerves. “Yes,” she said; “in justice to
you, I have mentioned your long term of service.”
Mrs. Ellmother addressed Francine. “You know, miss, that I served
my late mistress for over twenty-five years. Will you please remember
that--and let it be a reason for not asking me why I left my place.”
Francine smiled compassionately. “My good creature, you have mentioned
the very reason why I _should_ ask. You live five-and-twenty years with
your mistress--and then suddenly leave her--and you expect me to pass
over this extraordinary proceeding without inquiry. Take a little time
to think.”
“I want no time to think. What I had in my mind, when I left Miss
Letitia, is something which I refuse to explain, miss, to you, or to
anybody.”
She recovered some of her old firmness, when she made that reply.
Francine saw the necessity of yielding--for the time at least, Emily
remained silent, oppressed by remembrance of the doubts and fears which
had darkened the last miserable days of her aunt’s illness. She began
already to regret having made Francine and Mrs. Ellmother known to each
other.
“I won’t dwell on what appears to be a painful subject,” Francine
graciously resumed. “I meant no offense. You are not angry, I hope?”
“Sorry, miss. I might have been angry, at one time. That time is over.”
It was said sadly and resignedly: Emily heard the answer. Her heart
ached as she looked at the old servant, and thought of the contrast
between past and present. With what a hearty welcome this broken woman
had been used to receive her in the bygone holiday-time! Her eyes
moistened. She felt the merciless persistency of Francine, as if it had
been an insult offered to herself. “Give it up!” she said sharply.
“Leave me, my dear, to manage my own business,” Francine replied. “About
your qualifications?” she continued, turning coolly to Mrs. Ellmother.
“Can you dress hair?”
“Yes.”
“I ought to tell you,” Francine insisted, “that I am very particular
about my hair.”
“My mistress was very particular about her hair,” Mrs. Ellmother
answered.
“Are you a good needlewoman?”
“As good as ever I was--with the help of my spectacles.”
Francine turned to Emily. “See how well we get on together. We are
beginning to understand each other already. I am an odd creature, Mrs.
Ellmother. Sometimes, I take sudden likings to persons--I have taken a
liking to you. Do you begin to think a little better of me than you did?
I hope you will produce the right impression on Miss Ladd; you shall
have every assistance that I can give. I will beg Miss Ladd, as a favor
to me, not to ask you that one forbidden question.”
Poor Mrs. Ellmother, puzzled by the sudden appearance of Francine in the
character of an eccentric young lady, the creature of genial impulse,
thought it right to express her gratitude for the promised interference
in her favor. “That’s kind of you, miss,” she said.
“No, no, only just. I ought to tell you there’s one thing Miss Ladd
is strict about--sweethearts. Are you quite sure,” Francine inquired
jocosely, “that you can answer for yourself, in that particular?”
This effort of humor produced its intended effect. Mrs. Ellmother,
thrown off her guard, actually smiled. “Lord, miss, what will you say
next!”
“My good soul, I will say something next that is more to the purpose. If
Miss Ladd asks me why you have so unaccountably refused to be a servant
again in this house, I shall take care to say that it is certainly not
out of dislike to Miss Emily.”
“You need say nothing of the sort,” Emily quietly remarked.
“And still less,” Francine proceeded, without noticing the
interruption--“still less through any disagreeable remembrances of Miss
Emily’s aunt.”
Mrs. Ellmother saw the trap that had been set for her. “It won’t do,
miss,” she said.
“What won’t do?”
“Trying to pump me.”
Francine burst out laughing. Emily noticed an artificial ring in her
gayety which suggested that she was exasperated, rather than amused, by
the repulse which had baffled her curiosity once more.
Mrs. Ellmother reminded the merry young lady that the proposed
arrangement between them had not been concluded yet. “Am I to
understand, miss, that you will keep a place open for me in your
service?”
“You are to understand,” Francine replied sharply, “that I must have
Miss Ladd’s approval before I can engage you. Suppose you come to
Brighton? I will pay your fare, of course.”
“Never mind my fare, miss. Will you give up pumping?”
“Make your mind easy. It’s quite useless to attempt pumping _you_. When
will you come?”
Mrs. Ellmother pleaded for a little delay. “I’m altering my gowns,” she
said. “I get thinner and thinner--don’t I, Miss Emily? My work won’t be
done before Thursday.”
“Let us say Friday, then,” Francine proposed.
“Friday!” Mrs. Ellmother exclaimed. “You forget that Friday is an
unlucky day.”
“I forgot that, certainly! How can you be so absurdly superstitious.”
“You may call it what you like, miss. I have good reason to think as I
do. I was married on a Friday--and a bitter bad marriage it turned out
to be. Superstitious, indeed! You don’t know what my experience has
been. My only sister was one of a party of thirteen at dinner; and she
died within the year. If we are to get on together nicely, I’ll take
that journey on Saturday, if you please.”
“Anything to satisfy you,” Francine agreed; “there is the address. Come
in the middle of the day, and we will give you your dinner. No fear
of our being thirteen in number. What will you do, if you have the
misfortune to spill the salt?”
“Take a pinch between my finger and thumb, and throw it over my left
shoulder,” Mrs. Ellmother answered gravely. “Good-day, miss.”
“Good-day.”
Emily followed the departing visitor out to the hall. She had seen
and heard enough to decide her on trying to break off the proposed
negotiation--with the one kind purpose of protecting Mrs. Ellmother
against the pitiless curiosity of Francine.
“Do you think you and that young lady are likely to get on well
together?” she asked.
“I have told you already, Miss Emily, I want to get away from my own
home and my own thoughts; I don’t care where I go, so long as I do
that.” Having answered in those words, Mrs. Ellmother opened the door,
and waited a while, thinking. “I wonder whether the dead know what is
going on in the world they have left?” she said, looking at Emily. “If
they do, there’s one among them knows my thoughts, and feels for me.
Good-by, miss--and don’t think worse of me than I deserve.”
Emily went back to the parlor. The only resource left was to plead with
Francine for mercy to Mrs. Ellmother.
“Do you really mean to give it up?” she asked.
“To give up--what? ‘Pumping,’ as that obstinate old creature calls it?”
Emily persisted. “Don’t worry the poor old soul! However strangely she
may have left my aunt and me her motives are kind and good--I am sure of
that. Will you let her keep her harmless little secret?”
“Oh, of course!”
“I don’t believe you, Francine!”
“Don’t you? I am like Cecilia--I am getting hungry. Shall we have some
lunch?”
“You hard-hearted creature!”
“Does that mean--no luncheon until I have owned the truth? Suppose _you_
own the truth? I won’t tell Mrs. Ellmother that you have betrayed her.”
“For the last time, Francine--I know no more of it than you do. If you
persist in taking your own view, you as good as tell me I lie; and you
will oblige me to leave the room.”
Even Francine’s obstinacy was compelled to give way, so far as
appearances went. Still possessed by the delusion that Emily was
deceiving her, she was now animated by a stronger motive than mere
curiosity. Her sense of her own importance imperatively urged her to
prove that she was not a person who could be deceived with impunity.
“I beg your pardon,” she said with humility. “But I must positively have
it out with Mrs. Ellmother. She has been more than a match for me--my
turn next. I mean to get the better of her; and I shall succeed.”
“I have already told you, Francine--you will fail.”
“My dear, I am a dunce, and I don’t deny it. But let me tell you one
thing. I haven’t lived all my life in the West Indies, among black
servants, without learning something.”
“What do you mean?”
“More, my clever friend, than you are likely to guess. In the meantime,
don’t forget the duties of hospitality. Ring the bell for luncheon.”