Of course, then, the longer Aunt Pen staid in her own room the worse she
really did get, and her nerves, with confinement and worry and
relaxation, would by-and-by be in a condition for any sort of an
outburst if we attempted the least reasoning with her. She would
become, for one thing, as sleepless as an owl; then she was thoroughly
sure she was going to be insane, and down would go the hydrate of
chloral till the doctor forbade it on pain of death. After the chloral,
too, such horrid eyes as she had! the eyes, you know, that chloral
always leaves--inflamed, purple, swollen, heavy, crying, and good for
any thing but seeing. Immediately then Aunt Pen went into a new tantrum;
she was going to be stone-blind, and dependent on three heartless
hussies for all her mercies in this life; but no, thank goodness! she
had friends that would see she did not go absolutely to the wall, and
would never suffer her to be imposed on by a parcel of girls who didn't
care whether she lived or died--who perhaps would rather she did
die--who stood open-handed for her bequests; she would leave her money
to the almshouse, and if we wanted it we could go and get it there! And
after that, to be sure, Aunt Pen would have a fit of remorse for her
words, and confess her sin chokingly, and have us all come separately
and forgive her, and would say she was the wretchedest woman on the face
of the earth, that she should live undesired until her friends were all
tired, and then die unlamented; and would burst into tears and cry
herself into a tearing headache, and have ice on her head and a blister
on the back of her neck, and be quite confident that now she was really
going off with congestion of the brain.
After that, for a day or two, she would be in a heavenly frame of mind
with the blister and cabbage leaves and simple cerate, and a couple of
mirrors by which to examine the rise and fall of the blister; and,
having had a hint of real illness, she would consent quite smilingly to
the act of convalescence, and a descent to the healthy region of the
parlors once more.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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