Toward the close of evening Emily left the railway terminus for the place of residence in which loss of fortune had compelled her aunt to take refuge. As she approached her destination, the cab passed—by merely crossing a road—from a spacious4 and beautiful Park, with its surrounding houses topped by statues and cupolas, to a row of cottages, hard by a stinking5 ditch miscalled a canal. The city of contrasts: north and south, east and west, the city of social contrasts.
Emily stopped the cab before the garden gate of a cottage, at the further end of the row. The bell was answered by the one servant now in her aunt’s employ—Miss Letitia’s maid.
Personally, this good creature was one of the ill-fated women whose appearance suggests that Nature intended to make men of them and altered her mind at the last moment. Miss Letitia’s maid was tall and gaunt and awkward. The first impression produced by her face was an impression of bones. They rose high on her forehead; they projected on her cheeks; and they reached their boldest development in her jaws6. In the cavernous eyes of this unfortunate person rigid7 obstinacy8 and rigid goodness looked out together, with equal severity, on all her fellow-creatures alike. Her mistress (whom she had served for a quarter of a century and more) called her “Bony.” She accepted this cruelly appropriate nick-name as a mark of affectionate familiarity which honored a servant. No other person was allowed to take liberties with her: to every one but her mistress she was known as Mrs. Ellmother.
“How is my aunt?” Emily asked.
“Bad.”
“Why have I not heard of her illness before?”
“Because she’s too fond of you to let you be distressed9 about her. ‘Don’t tell Emily’; those were her orders, as long as she kept her senses.”
“Kept her senses? Good heavens! what do you mean?”
“Fever—that’s what I mean.”
“I must see her directly; I am not afraid of infection.”
“There’s no infection to be afraid of. But you mustn’t see her, for all that.”
“I insist on seeing her.”
“Miss Emily, I am disappointing you for your own good. Don’t you know me well enough to trust me by this time?”
“I do trust you.”
“Then leave my mistress to me—and go and make yourself comfortable in your own room.”
Emily’s answer was a positive refusal. Mrs. Ellmother, driven to her last resources, raised a new obstacle.
“It’s not to be done, I tell you! How can you see Miss Letitia when she can’t bear the light in her room? Do you know what color her eyes are? Red, poor soul—red as a boiled lobster11.”
With every word the woman uttered, Emily’s perplexity and distress10 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 parlor12, 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 hospitable13 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 spoke14 to Emily (without any undue15 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 devoted16 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 stagnant17 water) has been latterly complicated by delirium18.”
“Is that a bad sign, sir?”
“The worst possible sign; it shows that the disease has affected19 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 lotions20 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 interval21.”
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 crabbed22 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 fidelity23. Did you ever hear what a witty24 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 housekeeper25. 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 distressing26—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 consolations27 of religion and the hope of immortality28, 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 inflamed29 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 obstinate30 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-room31.”
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 remonstrance32 was received in silence. Mrs. Ellmother’s great gaunt figure still blocked up the doorway33.
“If you force me to it,” Emily said, quietly, “I must go to the doctor, and ask him to interfere34.”
“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 subdued35 by sorrow and fear.
“I wash my hands of it,” Mrs. Ellmother said. “Go in—and take the consequences.”
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1
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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2
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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3
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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5
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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6
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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7
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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8
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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9
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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11
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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12
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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13
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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14
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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15
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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16
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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17
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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18
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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19
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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20
lotions
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| n.洗液，洗剂，护肤液( lotion的名词复数 ) | |
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21
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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22
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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24
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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25
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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26
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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27
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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28
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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29
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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31
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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32
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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33
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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34
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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35
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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