Of course I said, “Oh dear no,” and it was a pleasure to wait on her. And so it was, for she was so patient, and I could see that she was a great sufferer, and it seemed to me that she was very unhappy.
Her mother was generally sitting by her when she didn’t get up, and used to read to her; but whenever I heard her reading, it was a religious book, and full of things about death—solemn and sad things, not at all fit to be continually dinned into the ears of an invalid.
Perhaps it was the lady herself being so stern, and having such a hard, rasping voice, that made the things I heard her read seem so unsympathetic. Of course, I don’t want to say that people who are very ill oughtn’t to have religious books read to them—we ought all to be prepared, and to think of our future; but I never could see that sick people, who, of course, are low and cast down, ought to be continually preached at and reminded of their sins. When I told Harry the things I’d heard Mrs. Elmore reading to her daughter, he said it wasn’t right. He said it was like giving an invalid “a religious whacking,” when what was wanted for a person in such delicate health was religious coddling. I think the way he put it was quite right. It seemed to me that if a person’s body is too weak for anything but beef-tea their mind couldn’t be able to digest a beef-steak. Not that I think a sick person wants feeding on religious slops, but certainly they want whatever they take in that way to be nourishing and comforting. There was too much Cayenne pepper for an invalid in Mrs. Elmore’s religious beef-tea. I couldn’t help hearing a lot of it when I was tidying up the room, which I always did myself, and some of the passages out of the books might be part of a bad-tempered gaol chaplain’s sermon to convicted murderers. I couldn’t believe that a sweet, quiet girl, like Miss Elmore, could have done anything bad enough to be read at in such a scarifying fashion.
But the poor girl used to lie and listen—only sometimes I thought her face would flush a little, as though she felt she didn’t deserve such a lecture. Her mother had a way of reading passages at her, if you know what I mean, as much as to say, “There, you wicked girl, that’s what you deserve!”
I never heard them talk about anything. When the mother wasn’t reading to the young lady, she would sit and knit, looking as hard and cold as a stone statue.
After they had been with us a fortnight, and the day came round for the young lady to go to London to see the doctor, she wasn’t well enough; but had to keep her bed all day.
After that she grew rapidly worse, and our nearest doctor was called in. He looked very grave, and asked a lot of questions, and said he should like a consultation with the London specialist.
The mother said it would be very expensive to have him down, so our doctor said he was going to town, and he would go up and see him, as he wanted particulars of her case from him, and to know what the treatment had been.
After he came back from London he appeared graver still, and I could see that he was getting nervous about the case.
The young lady didn’t get any better; and I could see myself she was getting weaker and weaker. So one day I said to the doctor, “Doctor, I should be obliged if you will tell me what you think. Is there any danger?”