Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1234 page)

“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 recognises 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 recognising 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.”

CHAPTER XIII. MISS LETITIA.

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 neighbours 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?