I Say No

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.