by Jane Eagland
“What’s the matter with your arm?”
“Nothing.”
Charlotte reaches forward and tweaks the towel off. Her mouth drops open. “My God, Emily! What have you done?”
“I haven’t done anything.” Emily yanks down her sleeve to hide the evidence, but Charlotte is already on her way out of the room, calling, “Papa! Aunt! Come quickly.”
Throughout the commotion and interrogations that follow, Emily manages to keep hold of the one important thing — they mustn’t find out about the dog.
To every question she gives the same answers. No, she “doesn’t know how it happened,” her arm “just went like this.” To her utter dismay Papa declares that in the morning they must send for Dr. Andrew.
She gives Charlotte a baleful look. This is all her fault.
At long last they stop talking about it, Aunt binds Emily’s arm with a fresh dressing, and she is put to bed in Charlotte’s bed.
Emily doesn’t object — it’s the only place where she can be free from all their anxious, puzzled eyes. And by now she’s actually feeling very ill — sweating and shivering by turns. Her joints seem to be on fire and every now and then she’s overtaken by nausea and has to vomit into the bucket that Tabby has put by the bed. All she can do is lie there, expecting the hallucinations to start any minute and dreading that Dr. Andrew will be able to tell what’s wrong with her.
After dinner Tabby comes to sit with her. Her presence is comforting and luckily she doesn’t ask any questions, but in any case Emily feels too wretched to talk — she doesn’t want to eat anything and even sipping water brings on the nausea again. She dozes on and off, aware at some point of Tabby creeping out and, later, of Charlotte coming to get her nightgown and hairbrush.
Vaguely Emily wonders where her sister is going to sleep, but she doesn’t want to risk any conversation so she keeps her eyes closed and very soon she’s asleep herself.
The following morning, after Dr. Andrew has examined her, he takes Papa and Aunt out onto the landing. In a hushed voice he pronounces his diagnosis: ery … something. Emily doesn’t hear the word properly. At least he’s not saying hydrophobia, so her secret is still safe.
“How serious is it?” Papa wants to know.
“It can be very serious. We should know one way or another within the week.”
Which means, Emily supposes drowsily, that you can die from this disease too, whatever it is. Everyone will still be fearful … Dimly she’s aware that she should be bothered about this, but really, she feels too strange, too ill to care.
“Now then, young lady …” Dr. Andrew’s abrupt return to the room with Aunt startles Emily awake. Adopting the falsely jovial tone he always uses with them, the doctor commences his treatment. And Emily sees, with a lurch of her stomach, that it’s her turn for the leeches.
Anne has endured this more than once. If her little sister can bear it, surely she can.
She’s surprised when the doctor asks her to clench her right fist — it’s her left arm that’s injured. Having raised the vein, Dr. Andrew pierces it with his lancet — Emily flinches, but makes herself watch — and when the blood wells out, he places a glistening leech on the cut. He then turns his attention to her injured arm, putting three of the black creatures in the most sensitive part of the wound, where they fasten on greedily. Emily braces herself, but after an initial stinging sensation, she can’t feel them at all.
She lies still, staring at the ceiling, not thinking of anything at all, just letting herself float. Odd how she’s never noticed those fine cracks before, as if a spider were clinging to the plaster right above her head.
After a while she becomes quite light-headed. Black spots appear before her eyes and her tongue feels too big in her mouth. She tries to say, “I think I’m going to faint,” but the words won’t come out. She’s just starting to panic when Dr. Andrew pronounces himself satisfied and pulls off the bloated leeches.
Dimly Emily hears him telling Aunt to ply her with cooling drinks. “Lemonade is best, and you can mix in half a teaspoon of Dover’s powder — that should increase the sweating, which will help her to throw off the infection. Keep the wound uncovered, but bathe it with laudanum three times a day. And when our patient feels like eating again, a light diet of sago and the like is best.” His voice fades away as he leaves the room with Aunt and Emily is left in peace at last.
She drifts in and out of sleep, a troubled sleep in which figures loom at her threateningly from the shadows and voices whisper words that she strains to hear. Often she comes to with a start, bathed in sweat, with her teeth chattering and her heart thumping with terror. At times she’s aware of a dim figure being in the room, of someone persuading her to sip cool drinks or wiping her face with a damp flannel, but when she tries to open her eyes, her eyelids feel like heavy weights and she gives up and sinks back into sleep again.
Emily opens her eyes. Blinking, she sees that she’s in her bedroom. How strange — Tabby is here, sitting over by the window. And stranger still — Tabby’s hands are resting in her lap. Tabby never just sits — her hands are always busy with some work or other.
But then Emily realizes that the room is quite dim and she sees that the shutters are closed. How odd. Because it’s definitely daytime — she can see cracks of light at the edges of the wooden panels.
She tries to speak, but all that comes out is a croak. She clears her throat and tries again, murmuring, “Why don’t you open the shutters, Tabby? Then we’d both be able to see.”
Tabby is across the room in an instant. “Bless thee, my lamb. Tha’s properly awake at last.” Emily feels Tabby’s rough hand on her forehead and a beaming smile spreads across Tabby’s face. “Cool as a moorland spring. Tha’ll be all reet now, for sure.”
All right? Then Emily remembers. The doctor was here — she has been ill. Her eye falls on her left arm and she sees a wound — healing now, but still an ugly red weal …
With a start of alarm she remembers everything. She tries to sit up, but she can’t — she has to sink back onto her pillow.
“Bless thee,” says Tabby. “Tha’s as weak as a fledgling fallen from the nest. Don’t tha be trying to sit up yet awhile, not till tha’s got thi strength back.”
“How long have I been in bed?”
“A week.”
“A week?” Emily can’t believe it. But what was it Dr. Andrew said? If she’s got whatever it was he said and she’s all right after a week, then it means she’s going to recover.
“And tha’s to stay there a mite longer, my lass, at least until doctor’s been to see you. If tha fancies a bite to eat, I’ll go and get thee summat light to try — tha needs to build thiself up.”
Tabby bustles from the room.
Emily almost wishes that she could go on being asleep for a while longer. Because now she can’t stop thinking. She feels better, but does it mean anything? Was Dr. Andrew right about her illness? Is she safe now?
After another two days in bed Emily still feels weak, but she’s impatient to get up now — she’s had enough of being confined to the bedroom and is desperate for some fresh air. Dr. Andrew comes and declares that all danger is past and the patient can now resume her normal life, though she mustn’t overdo things to begin with.
Everyone, apart from Emily, cheers up. That, at least, is one relief — she no longer has to worry about the effect of her illness on Papa. She is glad to be back among them all again and especially glad to see Grasper, who licks her face furiously, wagging his tail as if he’ll never stop.
But the shadow of her fear still hangs over her.
As soon as she gets the chance she consults Modern Domestic Medicine again. By now she’s found what she’s supposed to have had: erysipelas. Reading about it, she can see how similar it is to rabies, at least at first. Perhaps Dr. Andrew was right after all. A small glimmer of hope flares up inside her.
But then she turns to the page about hydrophobia and, reading it properly, sees what she m
issed the first time she read it — the incubation period can be months, sometimes as long as a year.
Emily closes the book. She still can’t be sure. Perhaps she did have erysipelas, but that doesn’t mean she won’t get rabies. She will have to go on with her silence about the dog bite and wait to see if any other symptoms develop. It will be ages until she knows that she’s truly safe.
Gradually Emily resumes the pattern of her normal life. Now that her arm is healed and she feels better, it becomes harder to remember that she still needs to be watchful. When she’s absorbed in playing the piano or reading a book, she can forget her fears entirely.
Since it’s easier now to pretend that everything is all right, when she feels strong enough, with some embarrassment, she asks Anne to walk with her again. She’s eager to go to Ponden Hall again for some new books — while she’s been convalescing, she’s read and reread the last ones she borrowed. More than anything, though, she’s longing to plunge back into Gondal again. But how will Anne feel about it, after Emily went off by herself?
Anne, bless her, gladly agrees to resume their outings again, which gives Emily pause for thought. Why can’t she be more like Anne and forgive Charlotte? But it’s no good — she hasn’t Anne’s sweet nature. Anyway, what Charlotte did was different — she didn’t need to confide in Ellen, whereas Emily simply had to be alone.
Anyway, recent events have only confirmed Emily’s feelings about her sisters — Anne has been so sensitive and kind to her, whereas Charlotte has been unhelpful, persisting in questioning her and then letting the cat out of the bag.
It’s a relief to be back with Anne again and soon they are immersed in developing more adventures for the people of Gondal.
Emily creates a new character, a young man who, warned by a specter that he is destined to die early, keeps the knowledge to himself. He will die, she decides, but writing about him is strangely cathartic — when she’s finished she really does feel a sense of relief, as if something has been resolved. When she reads this to Anne, her sister is enthusiastic, declaring that the episode is very moving.
No one mentions the erysipelas now, though one night when Charlotte catches her examining her scar — Emily’s back in the pallet bed now — she says, “Why didn’t you tell us?”
It’s a question everyone’s been asking and Emily replies as she always does. “I’ve told you before — I didn’t want to worry you.”
Charlotte looks anguished. “But to have suffered that alone! You could have told me.”
Emily shrugs. “I wanted to keep it to myself. I can keep secrets.”
Charlotte flushes, showing that the bolt has hit home. And then she says, “Have you any idea how you caught erysipelas? Papa said you can get it from pigs. But you hadn’t been near any pigs, had you?”
Emily puts on a deliberately vague expression. “Do you know, I really can’t remember.”
Not long after Emily’s up and about, the news comes that Charlotte’s drawings have been accepted for the summer exhibition, which is due to take place in three weeks’ time. Everyone except Emily professes to be delighted about it, though Emily’s not sure that Branwell is as pleased as he pretends.
The day of the trip to the exhibition turns out to be one of those fine August days when the sky is an unbelievable blue. Instead of spending the day shut in a stuffy building, among crowds of strangers, Emily would much rather stay behind with Aunt and Tabby and take the opportunity for a long walk, but she reluctantly agrees to go. Despite her estrangement from Charlotte, she can’t quite bring herself to spoil her sister’s pleasure. Once she would have had no hesitation in taking revenge, but now it seems mean and petty.
Anne is keen to go, though she expresses her enthusiasm more quietly than Papa and Branwell. As for Charlotte — she’s almost too elated to speak, especially when she finds that her drawings are hanging in the same room as a painting by Turner.
Emily is pleased to see another example of Turner’s work — this one is of Venice and she has never seen such light in a painting, such a piercing blue — but she can’t understand her sister’s excitement. Charlotte’s drawings have been hung in a dim corner, too high up to be properly seen. And they are the only people taking any notice of them.
“Well done, my dear.” Papa squeezes Charlotte’s shoulder. “A fine achievement.”
Charlotte glows pink with pleasure.
Papa suggests that they move on to look at some of the other exhibits. He’s particularly interested in seeing William Robinson’s portraits. Emily’s not very impressed by these — the people look so wooden and lifeless — and she’s soon bored, especially as Branwell insists on lecturing them about the various techniques the painter has employed.
As they stroll on, Emily’s head starts to ache — the heat, surely, she hastens to tell herself, rather than a symptom to be dreaded — but then Anne tugs at her arm. “Look!”
Emily looks. And the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
She’s never seen anything like it: a huge sculptured head, over six feet tall. She can’t stop gazing at that face. There’s such proud scorn in the eyes, in those lips curled in a sneer, and yet the expression is one of deepest despair.
It’s beautiful … and chilling.
“Who is it?” she whispers to Branwell, who is standing beside her, equally transfixed.
“It’s Satan. By Joseph Leyland.” Branwell turns to Papa. “Do you know anything about him, Papa?”
“Leyland? Ah, he’s a local fellow, like Robinson.” Papa studies the sculpture. “A fine piece of work, to be sure. It puts me in mind of Paradise Lost. Do you remember? When Satan addresses the sun. We must look it up when we get home.”
When the others move on, Emily can’t tear herself away — she stands there, absorbing every detail of the face. She keeps coming back to the eyes, drawn by their inhuman power; it’s as if Satan is gazing deep into her soul and knows everything there is to know about her.
On the way home, Branwell and Charlotte are debating the merits of the various paintings they have seen when Papa, who has been sunk in thought, suddenly says, “Branwell, I have it in mind to ask William Robinson if he will tutor you. What do you say to that?”
Branwell stops dead in the road. All the color drains from his face and then his cheeks flush pink. “Papa!” is all he can manage to say, but his eyes are bright with excitement.
Emily looks sideways at Charlotte. Her sister is biting her lip, but otherwise she’s giving no sign of what she must be feeling.
“I’ll need to speak to your aunt first, of course,” says Papa.
Emily knows what that means. It will presumably cost a great deal to engage the services of such a famous man as Mr. Robinson. It can’t be done unless Aunt will help.
In the event, Aunt is in full support of the idea, especially after Papa tells her more about Mr. Robinson. When she hears that he’s been a celebrated artist in London, she urges Papa to approach him.
In no time at all Papa has arranged an appointment and taken Branwell to meet the painter at his studio in Leeds. When they return with the news that Mr. Robinson has agreed to take Branwell on as a pupil, Aunt’s normally dour face lights up.
“Oh, Branwell! Very likely, Mr. Robinson will introduce you to the highest echelons of society and, with your talent, you will be such a success.” She regards her nephew fondly.
Charlotte, Emily can see, is doing her best to look pleased for him, but obviously she minds very much. Despite everything, Emily feels aggrieved on her sister’s behalf — it’s not right that Branwell has all the attention and the opportunities while Charlotte’s overlooked. As soon as they’re alone, she says to Charlotte, “You should be having lessons with Mr. Robinson too. It’s not fair. Tell Papa about your idea.”
Charlotte shakes her head. “I might speak to Papa, but not until the exhibition ends.”
“Why wait?”
“Because I want to know if anyone has bought my drawings. It’ll be a
sign, you know …” She trails off.
Emily does know. It will be horrible for her sister if her drawings don’t sell.
In the weeks that follow, Emily finds Branwell insufferable. She can’t begin to imagine what Charlotte must be feeling. Their brother is now certain that he’s destined for success. He won’t stop talking about his projected future: the life he’s going to lead in London’s artistic circles and the money he’s going to make.
Emily is dubious. She can’t believe that it’s all going to be as easy as Branwell expects. She also wishes, for Charlotte’s sake, that Aunt and Papa weren’t so caught up in his dreams of glory. Apart from anything else, they seem prepared to spend any amount of money on him. His lessons cost two guineas a session, and then when Branwell complains that his bedroom is too small for him to paint in, they decide that the upper storeroom is to be converted into a room especially for him.
This involves a lot of dust and disruption as Fred Harper blocks up the outside door and knocks through a new doorway to the landing. After consultations with Mr. Robinson, Papa orders an easel and all the paraphernalia the budding artist might need and Branwell takes possession of his new “studio.”
For a few days all is peaceful. But then Branwell emerges complaining that copying isn’t satisfactory and he needs to practice “properly” — in other words, he wants his sisters to sit for him.
Emily instantly refuses.
“Come on, Em,” says Branwell, putting on his most winning expression. “This is important for my career.”
“I don’t want to have my likeness taken,” says Emily truthfully. She adds mischievously, “Though I doubt I’d be recognized if you painted me.”
Branwell frowns.
“I’ll do it,” Anne offers quickly.
“Bless you, little one,” says Branwell, recovering his sunniness. “What about you, Charlotte?”
Charlotte hesitates.
Emily’s not surprised. How could Charlotte possibly put up with Branwell’s posturing and preening as he plays at being the “Great Artist”?
