For the moment, Mrs. Mosey was petrified. She had fully expected--having reached the end of her terrible story--to find Emily at her feet, entreating her not to carry out her intention of leaving the cottage the next morning; and she had determined, after her sense of her own importance had been sufficiently flattered, to grant the prayer of the helpless young lady. Those were her antic.i.p.ations--and how had they been fulfilled? She had been treated like a mad woman in a state of revolt!
"How dare you a.s.sault me?" she asked piteously. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. G.o.d knows I meant well."
"You are not the first person," Emily answered, quietly releasing her, "who has done wrong with the best intentions."
"I did my duty, miss, when I told you what your aunt said."
"You forgot your duty when you listened to what my aunt said."
"Allow me to explain myself."
"No: not a word more on _that_ subject shall pa.s.s between us. Remain here, if you please; I have something to suggest in your own interests.
Wait, and compose yourself."
The purpose which had taken a foremost place in Emily"s mind rested on the firm foundation of her love and pity for her aunt.
Now that she had regained the power to think, she felt a hateful doubt pressed on her by Mrs. Mosey"s disclosures. Having taken for granted that there was a foundation in truth for what she herself had heard in her aunt"s room, could she reasonably resist the conclusion that there must be a foundation in truth for what Mrs. Mosey had heard, under similar circ.u.mstances?
There was but one way of escaping from this dilemma--and Emily deliberately took it. She turned her back on her own convictions; and persuaded herself that she had been in the wrong, when she had attached importance to anything that her aunt had said, under the influence of delirium. Having adopted this conclusion, she resolved to face the prospect of a night"s solitude by the death-bed--rather than permit Mrs.
Mosey to have a second opportunity of drawing her own inferences from what she might hear in Miss Let.i.tia"s room.
"Do you mean to keep me waiting much longer, miss?"
"Not a moment longer, now you are composed again," Emily answered. "I have been thinking of what has happened; and I fail to see any necessity for putting off your departure until the doctor comes to-morrow morning.
There is really no objection to your leaving me to-night."
"I beg your pardon, miss; there _is_ an objection. I have already told you I can"t reconcile it to my conscience to leave you here by yourself.
I am not an inhuman woman," said Mrs. Mosey, putting her handkerchief to her eyes--smitten with pity for herself.
Emily tried the effect of a conciliatory reply. "I am grateful for your kindness in offering to stay with me," she said.
"Very good of you, I"m sure," Mrs. Mosey answered ironically. "But for all that, you persist in sending me away."
"I persist in thinking that there is no necessity for my keeping you here until to-morrow."
"Oh, have it your own way! I am not reduced to forcing my company on anybody."
Mrs. Mosey put her handkerchief in her pocket, and a.s.serted her dignity.
With head erect and slowly-marching steps she walked out of the room.
Emily was left in the cottage, alone with her dying aunt.
CHAPTER XVI. MISS JETHRO.
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."
"G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed over the question, as if she had not heard it. "Has the young lady dismissed her aunt"s servants?" she asked.