Now that Mrs. Horton had taken to her bed, or at least to her tawdry kimonos, driven by fear and indigestible patent medicines as well as by the progress of the disease, the flat she called home had become an even more unattractive place. Ellen found unwashed dishes in every corner of the cupboard, under the gas stove, in the icebox; dirty linen; everything neglected, everything uncomfortable and in the midst of it the whining, terrified women and the unquestioning, drearily patient man. She tried to cheer them up and managed at least to make them comfortable. But it was far from easy or satisfying.
Coming in the day after Ellen had taken charge, Fliss praised her extravagantly.
“I don’t see what we could have done if you hadn’t come; she wouldn’t have a nurse though I begged and begged.”
“Well, that’s natural,” said Ellen. “Nurses frighten people who aren’t used to them. I don’t know as I blame her, but she ought to do as the doctor says.”
“The doctor says that things are already pretty far advanced. He can’t be sure that even an operation——” Fliss shuddered miserably. “Oh, Ellen, why don’t they find a way to cure it?”
Ellen patted her on the shoulder. “Trust in the Lord, my dear,” was all she said.
Fliss went in from the kitchen to see her mother who looked at her with the apathetic misery that had characterized her of late.
“Feeling better, mother?”
“I’ll never be better. They as much as tell me that. I’m going to die, especially if they get their knives on me.”
“Don’t be silly, mother. You know they just want to help. Matthew got the best doctors. If you’d just let them operate.”