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I Say No
By
Wilkie Collins
Contents
CHAPTER I. THE SMUGGL=
ED
SUPPER.
CHAPTER II. BIOGRAPHY=
IN THE
BEDROOM.
CHAPTER III. THE LATE=
MR.
BROWN.
CHAPTER IV. MISS LADD=
'S
DRAWING-MASTER.
CHAPTER V. DISCOVERIE=
S IN THE
GARDEN.
CHAPTER VI. ON THE WA=
Y TO THE
VILLAGE.
CHAPTER VII. "CO=
MING
EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.".
CHAPTER VIII. MASTER =
AND
PUPIL.
CHAPTER IX. MRS. ROOK=
AND THE
LOCKET.
CHAPTER X. GUESSES AT=
THE
TRUTH.
CHAPTER XI. THE
DRAWING-MASTER'S CONFESSION.
BOOK THE SECOND--IN L=
ONDON. =
CHAPTER XII. MRS. ELL=
MOTHER. =
CHAPTER XIII. MISS LE=
TITIA. =
CHAPTER XVII. DOCTOR =
ALLDAY. =
CHAPTER XIX. SIR JERV=
IS
REDWOOD.
CHAPTER XX. THE REVER=
END
MILES MIRABEL.
CHAPTER XXI. POLLY AN=
D SALLY. =
CHAPTER XXII. ALBAN M=
ORRIS. =
CHAPTER XXIII. MISS R=
EDWOOD. =
CHAPTER XXVII. MENTOR=
AND
TELEMACHUS.
BOOK THE THIRD--NETHE=
RWOODS. =
CHAPTER XXXII. IN THE=
GRAY
ROOM.
CHAPTER XXXIII. RECOL=
LECTIONS
OF ST. DOMINGO.
CHAPTER XXXIV. IN THE=
DARK. =
CHAPTER XXXV. THE TRE=
ACHERY
OF THE PIPE.
CHAPTER XXXVI. CHANGE=
OF AIR. =
CHAPTER XXXVII. "=
;THE
LADY WANTS YOU, SIR."
BOOK THE FOURTH--THE =
COUNTRY
HOUSE.
CHAPTER XLI. SPEECHIF=
YING. =
CHAPTER XLV.
MISCHIEF--MAKING.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
INVESTIGATING.
BOOK THE FIFTH--THE C=
OTTAGE. =
CHAPTER XLIX. EMILY S=
UFFERS. =
CHAPTER L. MISS LADD =
ADVISES. =
CHAPTER LI. THE DOCTO=
R SEES. =
CHAPTER LII. "IF=
I COULD
FIND A FRIEND!"
CHAPTER LIII. THE FRI=
END IS
FOUND.
CHAPTER LIV. THE END =
OF THE
FAINTING FIT.
BOOK THE SIXTH--HERE =
AND
THERE.
CHAPTER LV. MIRABEL S=
EES HIS
WAY.
CHAPTER LVI. ALBAN SE=
ES HIS
WAY.
CHAPTER LVII. APPROAC=
HING THE
END.
BOOK THE SEVENTH--THE=
CLINK. =
CHAPTER LVIII. A COUN=
CIL OF
TWO.
CHAPTER LIX. THE ACCI=
DENT AT
BELFORD.
CHAPTER LX. OUTSIDE T=
HE ROOM. =
CHAPTER LXI. INSIDE T=
HE ROOM. =
CHAPTER LXIII. THE DE=
FENSE OF
MIRABEL.
CHAPTER LXIV. ON THE =
WAY TO
LONDON.
CHAPTER LXV. CECILIA =
IN A NEW
CHARACTER.
CHAPTER LXVI. ALBAN'S
NARRATIVE.
CHAPTER LXVII. THE TR=
UE
CONSOLATION.
Outside the bedroom the night was black and st=
ill.
The small rain fell too softly to be heard in =
the
garden; not a leaf stirred in the airless calm; the watch-dog was asleep, t=
he
cats were indoors; far or near, under the murky heaven, not a sound was
stirring.
Inside the bedroom the night was black and sti=
ll.
Miss Ladd knew her business as a schoolmistress
too well to allow night-lights; and Miss Ladd's young ladies were supposed =
to
be fast asleep, in accordance with the rules of the house. Only at intervals
the silence was faintly disturbed, when the restless turning of one of the
girls in her bed betrayed itself by a gentle rustling between the sheets. In
the long intervals of stillness, not even the softly audible breathing of y=
oung
creatures asleep was to be heard.
The first sound that told of life and movement
revealed the mechanical movement of the clock. Speaking from the lower regi=
ons,
the tongue of Father Time told the hour before midnight.
A soft voice rose wearily near the door of the
room. It counted the strokes of the clock--and reminded one of the girls of=
the
lapse of time.
"Emily! eleven o'clock."
There was no reply. After an interval the weary
voice tried again, in louder tones:
"Emily!"
A girl, whose bed was at the inner end of the
room, sighed under the heavy heat of the night--and said, in peremptory ton=
es,
"Is that Cecilia?"
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
"I'm getting hungry, Emily. Is the new gi=
rl
asleep?"
The new girl answered promptly and spitefully,
"No, she isn't."
Having a private object of their own in view, =
the
five wise virgins of Miss Ladd's first class had waited an hour, in wakeful
anticipation of the falling asleep of the stranger--and it had ended in this
way! A ripple of laughter ran round the room. The new girl, mortified and o=
ffended,
entered her protest in plain words.
"You are treating me shamefully! You all
distrust me, because I am a stranger."
"Say we don't understand you," Emily
answered, speaking for her schoolfellows; "and you will be nearer the
truth."
"Who expected you to understand me, when I
only came here to-day? I have told you already my name is Francine de Sor. =
If
want to know more, I'm nineteen years old, and I come from the West Indies.=
"
Emily still took the lead. "Why do you co=
me
here?" she asked. "Who ever heard of a girl joining a new school =
just
before the holidays? You are nineteen years old, are you? I'm a year younger
than you--and I have finished my education. The next big girl in the room i=
s a
year younger than me--and she has finished her education. What can you poss=
ibly
have left to learn at your age?"
"Everything!" cried the stranger from
the West Indies, with an outburst of tears. "I'm a poor ignorant creat=
ure.
Your education ought to have taught you to pity me instead of making fun of=
me.
I hate you all. For shame, for shame!"
Some of the girls laughed. One of them--the hu=
ngry
girl who had counted the strokes of the clock--took Francine's part.
"Never mind their laughing, Miss de Sor. =
You
are quite right, you have good reason to complain of us."
Miss de Sor dried her eyes. "Thank
you--whoever you are," she answered briskly.
"My name is Cecilia Wyvil," the other
proceeded. "It was not, perhaps, quite nice of you to say you hated us
all. At the same time we have forgotten our good breeding--and the least we=
can
do is to beg your pardon."
This expression of generous sentiment appeared=
to
have an irritating effect on the peremptory young person who took the lead =
in
the room. Perhaps she disapproved of free trade in generous sentiment.
"I can tell you one thing, Cecilia,"=
she
said; "you shan't beat ME in generosity. Strike a light, one of you, a=
nd
lay the blame on me if Miss Ladd finds us out. I mean to shake hands with t=
he
new girl--and how can I do it in the dark? Miss de Sor, my name's Brown, and
I'm queen of the bedroom. I--not Cecilia--offer our apologies if we have
offended you. Cecilia is my dearest friend, but I don't allow her to take t=
he
lead in the room. Oh, what a lovely nightgown!"
The sudden flow of candle-light had revealed
Francine, sitting up in her bed, and displaying such treasures of real lace
over her bosom that the queen lost all sense of royal dignity in irrepressi=
ble
admiration. "Seven and sixpence," Emily remarked, looking at her =
own
night-gown and despising it. One after another, the girls yielded to the
attraction of the wonderful lace. Slim and plump, fair and dark, they circl=
ed
round the new pupil in their flowing white robes, and arrived by common con=
sent
at one and the same conclusion: "How rich her father must be!"
Favored by fortune in the matter of money, was
this enviable person possessed of beauty as well?
In the disposition of the beds, Miss de Sor was
placed between Cecilia on the right hand, and Emily on the left. If, by some
fantastic turn of events, a man--say in the interests of propriety, a marri=
ed
doctor, with Miss Ladd to look after him--had been permitted to enter the r=
oom,
and had been asked what he thought of the girls when he came out, he would =
not
even have mentioned Francine. Blind to the beauties of the expensive night-=
gown,
he would have noticed her long upper lip, her obstinate chin, her sallow
complexion, her eyes placed too close together--and would have turned his a=
ttention
to her nearest neighbors. On one side his languid interest would have been
instantly roused by Cecilia's glowing auburn hair, her exquisitely pure ski=
n,
and her tender blue eyes. On the other, he would have discovered a bright
little creature, who would have fascinated and perplexed him at one and the
same time. If he had been questioned about her by a stranger, he would have
been at a loss to say positively whether she was dark or light: he would ha=
ve remembered
how her eyes had held him, but he would not have known of what color they w=
ere.
And yet, she would have remained a vivid picture in his memory when other
impressions, derived at the same time, had vanished. "There was one li=
ttle
witch among them, who was worth all the rest put together; and I can't tell=
you
why. They called her Emily. If I wasn't a married man--" There he would
have thought of his wife, and would have sighed and said no more.
While the girls were still admiring Francine, =
the
clock struck the half-hour past eleven.
Cecilia stole on tiptoe to the door--looked ou=
t,
and listened--closed the door again--and addressed the meeting with the
irresistible charm of her sweet voice and her persuasive smile.
"Are none of you hungry yet?" she
inquired. "The teachers are safe in their rooms; we have set ourselves
right with Francine. Why keep the supper waiting under Emily's bed?"
Such reasoning as this, with such personal
attractions to recommend it, admitted of but one reply. The queen waved her
hand graciously, and said, "Pull it out."
Is a lovely girl--whose face possesses the
crowning charm of expression, whose slightest movement reveals the supple
symmetry of her figure--less lovely because she is blessed with a good
appetite, and is not ashamed to acknowledge it? With a grace all her own,
Cecilia dived under the bed, and produced a basket of jam tarts, a basket of
fruit and sweetmeats, a basket of sparkling lemonade, and a superb cake--al=
l paid
for by general subscriptions, and smuggled into the room by kind connivance=
of
the servants. On this occasion, the feast was especially plentiful and
expensive, in commemoration not only of the arrival of the Midsummer holida=
ys,
but of the coming freedom of Miss Ladd's two leading young ladies. With wid=
ely
different destinies before them, Emily and Cecilia had completed their scho=
ol
life, and were now to go out into the world.
The contrast in the characters of the two girls
showed itself, even in such a trifle as the preparations for supper.
Gentle Cecilia, sitting on the floor surrounde=
d by
good things, left it to the ingenuity of others to decide whether the baske=
ts
should be all emptied at once, or handed round from bed to bed, one at a ti=
me.
In the meanwhile, her lovely blue eyes rested tenderly on the tarts.
Emily's commanding spirit seized on the reins =
of
government, and employed each of her schoolfellows in the occupation which =
she
was fittest to undertake. "Miss de Sor, let me look at your hand. Ah! =
I thought
so. You have got the thickest wrist among us; you shall draw the corks. If =
you
let the lemonade pop, not a drop of it goes down your throat. Effie, Annis,
Priscilla, you are three notoriously lazy girls; it's doing you a true kind=
ness
to set you to work. Effie, clear the toilet-table for supper; away with the
combs, the brushes, and the looking-glass. Annis, tear the leaves out of yo=
ur
book of exercises, and set them out for plates. No! I'll unpack; nobody tou=
ches
the baskets but me. Priscilla, you have the prettiest ears in the room. You
shall act as sentinel, my dear, and listen at the door. Cecilia, when you h=
ave
done devouring those tarts with your eyes, take that pair of scissors (Miss=
de
Sor, allow me to apologize for the mean manner in which this school is carr=
ied
on; the knives and forks are counted and locked up every night)--I say take
that pair of scissors, Cecilia, and carve the cake, and don't keep the larg=
est
bit for yourself. Are we all ready? Very well. Now take example by me. Talk=
as
much as you like, so long as you don't talk too loud. There is one other th=
ing
before we begin. The men always propose toasts on these occasions; let's be
like the men. Can any of you make a speech? Ah, it falls on me as usual. I
propose the first toast. Down with all schools and teachers--especially the=
new
teacher, who came this half year. Oh, mercy, how it stings!" The fixed=
gas
in the lemonade took the orator, at that moment, by the throat, and effectu=
ally
checked the flow of her eloquence. It made no difference to the girls. Exce=
pting
the ease of feeble stomachs, who cares for eloquence in the presence of a
supper-table? There were no feeble stomachs in that bedroom. With what
inexhaustible energy Miss Ladd's young ladies ate and drank! How merrily th=
ey
enjoyed the delightful privilege of talking nonsense! And--alas! alas!--how
vainly they tried, in after life, to renew the once unalloyed enjoyment of
tarts and lemonade!
In the unintelligible scheme of creation, there
appears to be no human happiness--not even the happiness of schoolgirls--wh=
ich
is ever complete. Just as it was drawing to a close, the enjoyment of the f=
east
was interrupted by an alarm from the sentinel at the door.
"Put out the candle!" Priscilla
whispered "Somebody on the stairs."
The candle was instantly extinguished. In disc=
reet
silence the girls stole back to their beds, and listened.
As an aid to the vigilance of the sentinel, the
door had been left ajar. Through the narrow opening, a creaking of the broad
wooden stairs of the old house became audible. In another moment there was
silence. An interval passed, and the creaking was heard again. This time, t=
he sound
was distant and diminishing. On a sudden it stopped. The midnight silence w=
as
disturbed no more.
What did this mean?
Had one among the many persons in authority un=
der
Miss Ladd's roof heard the girls talking, and ascended the stairs to surpri=
se
them in the act of violating one of the rules of the house? So far, such a
proceeding was by no means uncommon. But was it within the limits of
probability that a teacher should alter her opinion of her own duty half-wa=
y up
the stairs, and deliberately go back to her own room again? The bare idea of
such a thing was absurd on the face of it. What more rational explanation c=
ould
ingenuity discover on the spur of the moment?
Francine was the first to offer a suggestion. =
She
shook and shivered in her bed, and said, "For heaven's sake, light the
candle again! It's a Ghost."
"Clear away the supper, you fools, before=
the
ghost can report us to Miss Ladd."
With this excellent advice Emily checked the
rising panic. The door was closed, the candle was lit; all traces of the su=
pper
disappeared. For five minutes more they listened again. No sound came from =
the
stairs; no teacher, or ghost of a teacher, appeared at the door.
Having eaten her supper, Cecilia's immediate
anxieties were at an end; she was at leisure to exert her intelligence for =
the
benefit of her schoolfellows. In her gentle ingratiating way, she offered a
composing suggestion. "When we heard the creaking, I don't believe the=
re
was anybody on the stairs. In these old houses there are always strange noi=
ses
at night--and they say the stairs here were made more than two hundred years
since."
The girls looked at each other with a sense of
relief--but they waited to hear the opinion of the queen. Emily, as usual,
justified the confidence placed in her. She discovered an ingenious method =
of
putting Cecilia's suggestion to the test.
"Let's go on talking," she said.
"If Cecilia is right, the teachers are all asleep, and we have nothing=
to
fear from them. If she's wrong, we shall sooner or later see one of them at=
the
door. Don't be alarmed, Miss de Sor. Catching us talking at night, in this
school, only means a reprimand. Catching us with a light, ends in punishmen=
t.
Blow out the candle."
Francine's belief in the ghost was too sincere=
ly
superstitious to be shaken: she started up in bed. "Oh, don't leave me=
in
the dark! I'll take the punishment, if we are found out."
"On your sacred word of honor?" Emily
stipulated.
"Yes--yes."
The queen's sense of humor was tickled.
"There's something funny," she remar=
ked,
addressing her subjects, "in a big girl like this coming to a new scho=
ol
and beginning with a punishment. May I ask if you are a foreigner, Miss de
Sor?"
"My papa is a Spanish gentleman,"
Francine answered, with dignity.
"And your mamma?"
"My mamma is English."
"And you have always lived in the West
Indies?"
"I have always lived in the Island of St.
Domingo."
Emily checked off on her fingers the different
points thus far discovered in the character of Mr. de Sor's daughter.
"She's ignorant, and superstitious, and foreign, and rich. My dear
(forgive the familiarity), you are an interesting girl--and we must really =
know
more of you. Entertain the bedroom. What have you been about all your life?=
And
what in the name of wonder, brings you here? Before you begin I insist on o=
ne
condition, in the name of all the young ladies in the room. No useful
information about the West Indies!"
Francine disappointed her audience.
She was ready enough to make herself an object=
of
interest to her companions; but she was not possessed of the capacity to
arrange events in their proper order, necessary to the recital of the simpl=
est narrative.
Emily was obliged to help her, by means of questions. In one respect, the
result justified the trouble taken to obtain it. A sufficient reason was
discovered for the extraordinary appearance of a new pupil, on the day befo=
re
the school closed for the holidays.
Mr. de Sor's elder brother had left him an est=
ate
in St. Domingo, and a fortune in money as well; on the one easy condition t=
hat
he continued to reside in the island. The question of expense being now ben=
eath
the notice of the family, Francine had been sent to England, especially rec=
ommended
to Miss Ladd as a young lady with grand prospects, sorely in need of a
fashionable education. The voyage had been so timed, by the advice of the
schoolmistress, as to make the holidays a means of obtaining this object
privately. Francine was to be taken to Brighton, where excellent masters co=
uld
be obtained to assist Miss Ladd. With six weeks before her, she might in so=
me
degree make up for lost time; and, when the school opened again, she would
avoid the mortification of being put down in the lowest class, along with t=
he
children.
The examination of Miss de Sor having produced
these results was pursued no further. Her character now appeared in a new, =
and
not very attractive, light. She audaciously took to herself the whole credi=
t of
telling her story:
"I think it's my turn now," she said,
"to be interested and amused. May I ask you to begin, Miss Emily? All I
know of you at present is, t hat your family name is Brown."
Emily held up her hand for silence.
Was the mysterious creaking on the stairs maki=
ng
itself heard once more? No. The sound that had caught Emily's quick ear came
from the beds, on the opposite side of the room, occupied by the three lazy
girls. With no new alarm to disturb them, Effie, Annis, and Priscilla had
yielded to the composing influences of a good supper and a warm night. They
were fast asleep--and the stoutest of the three (softly, as became a young =
lady)
was snoring!
The unblemished reputation of the bedroom was =
dear
to Emily, in her capacity of queen. She felt herself humiliated in the pres=
ence
of the new pupil.
"If that fat girl ever gets a lover,"
she said indignantly, "I shall consider it my duty to warn the poor man
before he marries her. Her ridiculous name is Euphemia. I have christened h=
er
(far more appropriately) Boiled Veal. No color in her hair, no color in her=
eyes,
no color in her complexion. In short, no flavor in Euphemia. You naturally
object to snoring. Pardon me if I turn my back on you--I am going to throw =
my
slipper at her."
The soft voice of Cecilia--suspiciously drowsy=
in
tone--interposed in the interests of mercy.
"She can't help it, poor thing; and she
really isn't loud enough to disturb us."
"She won't disturb you, at any rate! Rouse
yourself, Cecilia. We are wide awake on this side of the room--and Francine
says it's our turn to amuse her."
A low murmur, dying away gently in a sigh, was=
the
only answer. Sweet Cecilia had yielded to the somnolent influences of the
supper and the night. The soft infection of repose seemed to be in some dan=
ger
of communicating itself to Francine. Her large mouth opened luxuriously in a
long-continued yawn.
"Good-night!" said Emily.
Miss de Sor became wide awake in an instant.
"No," she said positively; "you=
are
quite mistaken if you think I am going to sleep. Please exert yourself, Miss
Emily--I am waiting to be interested."
Emily appeared to be unwilling to exert hersel=
f.
She preferred talking of the weather.
"Isn't the wind rising?" she said.
There could be no doubt of it. The leaves in t=
he
garden were beginning to rustle, and the pattering of the rain sounded on t=
he
windows.
Francine (as her straight chin proclaimed to a=
ll
students of physiognomy) was an obstinate girl. Determined to carry her poi=
nt
she tried Emily's own system on Emily herself--she put questions.
"Have you been long at this school?"=
"More than three years."
"Have you got any brothers and sisters?&q=
uot;
"I am the only child."
"Are your father and mother alive?"<= o:p>
Emily suddenly raised herself in bed.
"Wait a minute," she said; "I t=
hink
I hear it again."
"The creaking on the stairs?"
"Yes."
Either she was mistaken, or the change for the
worse in the weather made it not easy to hear slight noises in the house. T=
he
wind was still rising. The passage of it through the great trees in the gar=
den
began to sound like the fall of waves on a distant beach. It drove the rain=
--a heavy
downpour by this time--rattling against the windows.
"Almost a storm, isn't it?" Emily sa=
id
Francine's last question had not been answered
yet. She took the earliest opportunity of repeating it:
"Never mind the weather," she said.
"Tell me about your father and mother. Are they both alive?"
Emily's reply only related to one of her paren=
ts.
"My mother died before I was old enough to
feel my loss."
"And your father?"
Emily referred to another relative--her father=
's
sister. "Since I have grown up," she proceeded, "my good aunt
has been a second mother to me. My story is, in one respect, the reverse of
yours. You are unexpectedly rich; and I am unexpectedly poor. My aunt's for=
tune
was to have been my fortune, if I outlived her. She has been ruined by the
failure of a bank. In her old age, she must live on an income of two hundre=
d a year--and
I must get my own living when I leave school."
"Surely your father can help you?"
Francine persisted.
"His property is landed property." H=
er
voice faltered, as she referred to him, even in that indirect manner. "=
;It
is entailed; his nearest male relative inherits it."
The delicacy which is easily discouraged was n=
ot
one of the weaknesses in the nature of Francine.
"Do I understand that your father is
dead?" she asked.
Our thick-skinned fellow-creatures have the re=
st
of us at their mercy: only give them time, and they carry their point in the
end. In sad subdued tones--telling of deeply-rooted reserves of feeling, se=
ldom
revealed to strangers--Emily yielded at last.
"Yes," she said, "my father is
dead."
"Long ago?"
"Some people might think it long ago. I w=
as
very fond of my father. It's nearly four years since he died, and my heart
still aches when I think of him. I'm not easily depressed by troubles, Miss=
de
Sor. But his death was sudden--he was in his grave when I first heard of
it--and--Oh, he was so good to me; he was so good to me!"
The gay high-spirited little creature who took=
the
lead among them all--who was the life and soul of the school--hid her face =
in
her hands, and burst out crying.
Startled and--to do her justice--ashamed, Fran=
cine
attempted to make excuses. Emily's generous nature passed over the cruel
persistency that had tortured her. "No no; I have nothing to forgive. =
It
isn't your fault. Other girls have not mothers and brothers and sisters--and
get reconciled to such a loss as mine. Don't make excuses."
"Yes, but I want you to know that I feel =
for
you," Francine insisted, without the slightest approach to sympathy in
face, voice, or manner. "When my uncle died, and left us all the money,
papa was much shocked. He trusted to time to help him."
"Time has been long about it with me,
Francine. I am afraid there is something perverse in my nature; the hope of
meeting again in a better world seems so faint and so far away. No more of =
it
now! Let us talk of that good creature who is asleep on the other side of y=
ou.
Did I tell you that I must earn my own bread when I leave school? Well, Cec=
ilia
has written home and found an employment for me. Not a situation as governe=
ss--something
quite out of the common way. You shall hear all about it."
In the brief interval that had passed, the wea=
ther
had begun to change again. The wind was as high as ever; but to judge by the
lessening patter on the windows the rain was passing away.
Emily began.
She was too grateful to her friend and
school-fellow, and too deeply interested in her story, to notice the air of
indifference with which Francine settled herself on her pillow to hear the
praises of Cecilia. The most beautiful girl in the school was not an object=
of
interest to a young lady with an obstinate chin and unfortunately-placed ey=
es. Pouring
warm from the speaker's heart the story ran smoothly on, to the monotonous
accompaniment of the moaning wind. By fine degrees Francine's eyes closed,
opened and closed again. Toward the latter part of the narrative Emily's me=
mory
became, for the moment only, confused between two events. She stopped to
consider--noticed Francine's silence, in an interval when she might have sa=
id a
word of encouragement--and looked closer at her. Miss de Sor was asleep.
"She might have told me she was tired,&qu=
ot;
Emily said to herself quietly. "Well! the best thing I can do is to put
out the light and follow her example."
As she took up the extinguisher, the bedroom d=
oor
was suddenly opened from the outer side. A tall woman, robed in a black
dressing-gown, stood on the threshold, looking at Emily.
The woman's lean, long-fingered hand pointed to
the candle.
"Don't put it out." Saying those wor=
ds,
she looked round the room, and satisfied herself that the other girls were
asleep.
Emily laid down the extinguisher. "You me=
an
to report us, of course," she said. "I am the only one awake, Miss
Jethro; lay the blame on me."
"I have no intention of reporting you. Bu=
t I
have something to say."
She paused, and pushed her thick black hair
(already streaked with gray) back from her temples. Her eyes, large and dark
and dim, rested on Emily with a sorrowful interest. "When your young
friends wake to-morrow morning," she went on, "you can tell them =
that
the new teacher, whom nobody likes, has left the school."
For once, even quick-witted Emily was bewilder=
ed.
"Going away," she said, "when you have only been here since
Easter!"
Miss Jethro advanced, not noticing Emily's expression of surprise. "I am not very strong at the best of times,&qu= ot; she continued, "may I sit down on your bed?" Remarkable on other occasions for her cold composure, her voice trembled as she made that request--a strange request surely, when there were chairs at her disposal.<= o:p>
Emily made room for her with the dazed look of=
a
girl in a dream. "I beg your pardon, Miss Jethro, one of the things I =
can't
endure is being puzzled. If you don't mean to report us, why did you come in
and catch me with the light?"
Miss Jethro's explanation was far from relievi=
ng
the perplexity which her conduct had caused.
"I have been mean enough," she answe=
red,
"to listen at the door, and I heard you talking of your father. I want=
to
hear more about him. That is why I came in."
"You knew my father!" Emily exclaime=
d.
"I believe I knew him. But his name is so
common--there are so many thousands of 'James Browns' in England--that I am=
in
fear of making a mistake. I heard you say that he died nearly four years si=
nce.
Can you mention any particulars which might help to enlighten me? If you th=
ink
I am taking a liberty--"
Emily stopped her. "I would help you if I
could," she said. "But I was in poor health at the time; and I was
staying with friends far away in Scotland, to try change of air. The news o=
f my
father's death brought on a relapse. Weeks passed before I was strong enoug=
h to
travel--weeks and weeks before I saw his grave! I can only tell you what I =
know
from my aunt. He died of heart-complaint."
Miss Jethro started.
Emily looked at her for the first time, with e=
yes
that betrayed a feeling of distrust. "What have I said to startle
you?" she asked.
"Nothing! I am nervous in stormy
weather--don't notice me." She went on abruptly with her inquiries.
"Will you tell me the date of your father's death?"
"The date was the thirtieth of September,
nearly four years since."
She waited, after that reply.
Miss Jethro was silent.
"And this," Emily continued, "is
the thirtieth of June, eighteen hundred and eighty-one. You can now judge f=
or
yourself. Did you know my father?"
Miss Jethro answered mechanically, using the s=
ame
words.
"I did know your father."
Emily's feeling of distrust was not set at res=
t.
"I never heard him speak of you," she said.
In her younger days the teacher must have been=
a
handsome woman. Her grandly-formed features still suggested the idea of
imperial beauty--perhaps Jewish in its origin. When Emily said, "I nev=
er
heard him speak of you," the color flew into her pallid cheeks: her dim
eyes became alive again with a momentary light. She left her seat on the be=
d, and,
turning away, mastered the emotion that shook her.
"How hot the night is!" she said: and
sighed, and resumed the subject with a steady countenance. "I am not
surprised that your father never mentioned me--to you." She spoke quie=
tly,
but her face was paler than ever. She sat down again on the bed. "Is t=
here
anything I can do for you," she asked, "before I go away? Oh, I o=
nly
mean some trifling service that would lay you under no obligation, and would
not oblige you to keep up your acquaintance with me."
Her eyes--the dim black eyes that must once ha=
ve
been irresistibly beautiful--looked at Emily so sadly that the generous girl
reproached herself for having doubted her father's friend. "Are you
thinking of him," she said gently, "when you ask if you can be of
service to me?"
Miss Jethro made no direct reply. "You we=
re
fond of your father?" she added, in a whisper. "You told your
schoolfellow that your heart still aches when you speak of him."
"I only told her the truth," Emily
answered simply.
Miss Jethro shuddered--on that hot
night!--shuddered as if a chill had struck her.
Emily held out her hand; the kind feeling that=
had
been roused in her glittered prettily in her eyes. "I am afraid I have=
not
done you justice," she said. "Will you forgive me and shake
hands?"
Miss Jethro rose, and drew back. "Look at=
the
light!" she exclaimed.
The candle was all burned out. Emily still off=
ered
her hand--and still Miss Jethro refused to see it.
"There is just light enough left," s=
he
said, "to show me my way to the door. Good-night--and good-by."
Emily caught at her dress, and stopped her.
"Why won't you shake hands with me?" she asked.
The wick of the candle fell over in the socket,
and left them in the dark. Emily resolutely held the teacher's dress. With =
or
without light, she was still bent on making Miss Jethro explain herself.
They had throughout spoken in guarded tones,
fearing to disturb the sleeping girls. The sudden darkness had its inevitab=
le
effect. Their voices sank to whispers now. "My father's friend,"
Emily pleaded, "is surely my friend?"
"Drop the subject."
"Why?"
"You can never be my friend."
"Why not?"
"Let me go!"
Emily's sense of self-respect forbade her to
persist any longer. "I beg your pardon for having kept you here against
your will," she said--and dropped her hold on the dress.
Miss Jethro instantly yielded on her side. &qu=
ot;I
am sorry to have been obstinate," she answered. "If you do despise
me, it is after all no more than I have deserved." Her hot breath beat=
on
Emily's face: the unhappy woman must have bent over the bed as she made her
confession. "I am not a fit person for you to associate with."
"I don't believe it!"
Miss Jethro sighed bitterly. "Young and w=
arm
hearted--I was once like you!" She controlled that outburst of despair.
Her next words were spoken in steadier tones. "You will have it--you s=
hall
have it!" she said. "Some one (in this house or out of it; I don't
know which) has betrayed me to the mistress of the school. A wretch in my
situation suspects everybody, and worse still, does it without reason or
excuse. I heard you girls talking when you ought to have been asleep. You a=
ll dislike
me. How did I know it mightn't be one of you? Absurd, to a person with a
well-balanced mind! I went halfway up the stairs, and felt ashamed of mysel=
f,
and went back to my room. If I could only have got some rest! Ah, well, it =
was
not to be done. My own vile suspicions kept me awake; I left my bed again. =
You
know what I heard on the other side of that door, and why I was interested =
in
hearing it. Your father never told me he had a daughter. 'Miss Brown,' at t=
his
school, was any 'Miss Brown,' to me. I had no idea of who you really were u=
ntil
to-night. I'm wandering. What does all this matter to you? Miss Ladd has be=
en merciful;
she lets me go without exposing me. You can guess what has happened. No? Not
even yet? Is it innocence or kindness that makes you so slow to understand?=
My
dear, I have obtained admission to this respectable house by means of false
references, and I have been discovered. Now you know why you must not be the
friend of such a woman as I am! Once more, good-night--and good-by."
Emily shrank from that miserable farewell.
"Bid me good-night," she said, "=
;but
don't bid me good-by. Let me see you again."
"Never!"
The sound of the softly-closed door was just
audible in the darkness. She had spoken--she had gone--never to be seen by
Emily again.
Miserable, interesting, unfathomable creature-=
-the
problem that night of Emily's waking thoughts: the phantom of her dreams.
"Bad? or good?" she asked herself. "False; for she listened =
at
the door. True; for she told me the tale of her own disgrace. A friend of my
father; and she never knew that he had a daughter. Refined, accomplished,
lady-like; and she stoops to use a false reference. Who is to reconcile such
contradictions as these?"
Dawn looked in at the window--dawn of the
memorable day which was, for Emily, the beginning of a new life. The years =
were
before her; and the years in their course reveal baffling mysteries of life=
and
death.
=
Francine was awakened the next morning by one =
of
the housemaids, bringing up her breakfast on a tray. Astonished at this
concession to laziness, in an institution devoted to the practice of all
virtues, she looked round. The bedroom was deserted.
"The other young ladies are as busy as be=
es,
miss," the housemaid explained. "They were up and dressed two hou=
rs
ago: and the breakfast has been cleared away long since. It's Miss Emily's
fault. She wouldn't allow them to wake you; she said you could be of no
possible use downstairs, and you had better be treated like a visitor. Miss
Cecilia was so distressed at your missing your breakfast that she spoke to =
the housekeeper,
and I was sent up to you. Please to excuse it if the tea's cold. This is Gr=
and
Day, and we are all topsy-turvy in consequence."
Inquiring what "Grand Day" meant, and
why it produced this extraordinary result in a ladies' school, Francine
discovered that the first day of the vacation was devoted to the distributi=
on
of prizes, in the presence of parents, guardians and friends. An Entertainm=
ent
was added, comprising those merciless tests of human endurance called
Recitations; light refreshments and musical performances being distributed =
at intervals,
to encourage the exhausted audience. The local newspaper sent a reporter to
describe the proceedings, and some of Miss Ladd's young ladies enjoyed the
intoxicating luxury of seeing their names in print.
"It begins at three o'clock," the
housemaid went on, "and, what with practicing and rehearsing, and
ornamenting the schoolroom, there's a hubbub fit to make a person's head sp=
in.
Besides which," said the girl, lowering her voice, and approaching a
little nearer to Francine, "we have all been taken by surprise. The fi=
rst
thing in the morning Miss Jethro left us, without saying good-by to anybody=
."
"Who is Miss Jethro?"
"The new teacher, miss. We none of us lik=
ed
her, and we all suspect there's something wrong. Miss Ladd and the clergyman
had a long talk together yesterday (in private, you know), and they sent for
Miss Jethro--which looks bad, doesn't it? Is there anything more I can do f=
or you,
miss? It's a beautiful day after the rain. If I was you, I should go and en=
joy
myself in the garden."
Having finished her breakfast, Francine decide=
d on
profiting by this sensible suggestion.
The servant who showed her the way to the gard=
en
was not favorably impressed by the new pupil: Francine's temper asserted it=
self
a little too plainly in her face. To a girl possessing a high opinion of her
own importance it was not very agreeable to feel herself excluded, as an
illiterate stranger, from the one absorbing interest of her schoolfellows.
"Will the time ever come," she wondered bitterly, "when I sh=
all
win a prize, and sing and play before all the company? How I should enjoy
making the girls envy me!"
A broad lawn, overshadowed at one end by fine =
old
trees--flower beds and shrubberies, and winding paths prettily and inviting=
ly
laid out--made the garden a welcome refuge on that fine summer morning. The
novelty of the scene, after her experience in the West Indies, the deliciou=
s breezes
cooled by the rain of the night, exerted their cheering influence even on t=
he
sullen disposition of Francine. She smiled, in spite of herself, as she
followed the pleasant paths, and heard the birds singing their summer songs
over her head.
Wandering among the trees, which occupied a
considerable extent of ground, she passed into an open space beyond, and
discovered an old fish-pond, overgrown by aquatic plants. Driblets of water
trickled from a dilapidated fountain in the middle. On the further side of =
the
pond the ground sloped downward toward the south, and revealed, over a low =
paling,
a pretty view of a village and its church, backed by fir woods mounting the
heathy sides of a range of hills beyond. A fanciful little wooden building,
imitating the form of a Swiss cottage, was placed so as to command the
prospect. Near it, in the shadow of the building, stood a rustic chair and
table--with a color-box on one, and a portfolio on the other. Fluttering ov=
er
the grass, at the mercy of the capricious breeze, was a neglected sheet of
drawing-paper. Francine ran round the pond, and picked up the paper just as=
it
was on the point of being tilted into the water. It contained a sketch in w=
ater
colors of the village and the woods, and Francine had looked at the view it=
self
with indifference--the picture of the view interested her. Ordinary visitor=
s to
Galleries of Art, which admit students, show the same strange perversity. T=
he
work of the copyist commands their whole attention; they take no interest in
the original picture.
Looking up from the sketch, Francine was start=
led.
She discovered a man, at the window of the Swiss summer-house, watching her=
.
"When you have done with that drawing,&qu=
ot;
he said quietly, "please let me have it back again."
He was tall and thin and dark. His finely-shap=
ed
intelligent face--hidden, as to the lower part of it, by a curly black
beard--would have been absolutely handsome, even in the eyes of a schoolgir=
l,
but for the deep furrows that marked it prematurely between the eyebrows, a=
nd
at the sides of the mouth. In the same way, an underlying mockery impaired =
the
attraction of his otherwise refined and gentle manner. Among his
fellow-creatures, children and dogs were the only critics who appreciated h=
is
merits without discovering the defects which lessened the favorable
appreciation of him by men and women. He dressed neatly, but his morning co=
at
was badly made, and his picturesque felt hat was too old. In short, there
seemed to be no good quality about him which was not perversely associated =
with
a drawback of some kind. He was one of those harmless and luckless men,
possessed of excellent qualities, who fail nevertheless to achieve populari=
ty
in their social sphere.
Francine handed his sketch to him, through the
window; doubtful whether the words that he had addressed to her were spoken=
in
jest or in earnest.
"I only presumed to touch your drawing,&q=
uot;
she said, "because it was in danger."
"What danger?" he inquired.
Francine pointed to the pond. "If I had n= ot been in time to pick it up, it would have been blown into the water."<= o:p>
"Do you think it was worth picking up?&qu=
ot;
Putting that question, he looked first at the
sketch--then at the view which it represented--then back again at the sketc=
h.
The corners of his mouth turned upward with a humorous expression of scorn.
"Madam Nature," he said, "I beg your pardon." With those
words, he composedly tore his work of art into small pieces, and scattered =
them
out of the window.
"What a pity!" said Francine.
He joined her on the ground outside the cottag=
e.
"Why is it a pity?" he asked.
"Such a nice drawing."
"It isn't a nice drawing."
"You're not very polite, sir."
He looked at her--and sighed as if he pitied so
young a woman for having a temper so ready to take offense. In his flattest
contradictions he always preserved the character of a politely-positive man=
.
"Put it in plain words, miss," he
replied. "I have offended the predominant sense in your nature--your s=
ense
of self-esteem. You don't like to be told, even indirectly, that you know
nothing of Art. In these days, everybody knows everything--and thinks nothi=
ng
worth knowing after all. But beware how you presume on an appearance of
indifference, which is nothing but conceit in disguise. The ruling passion =
of
civilized humanity is, Conceit. You may try the regard of your dearest frie=
nd in
any other way, and be forgiven. Ruffle the smooth surface of your friend's
self-esteem--and there will be an acknowledged coolness between you which w=
ill
last for life. Excuse me for giving you the benefit of my trumpery experien=
ce.
This sort of smart talk is my form of conceit. Can I be of use to you in so=
me
better way? Are you looking for one of our young ladies?"
Francine began to feel a certain reluctant
interest in him when he spoke of "our young ladies." She asked if=
he
belonged to the school.
The corners of his mouth turned up again.
"I'm one of the masters," he said. "Are you going to belong =
to
the school, too?"
Francine bent her head, with a gravity and
condescension intended to keep him at his proper distance. Far from being
discouraged, he permitted his curiosity to take additional liberties. "=
;Are
you to have the misfortune of being one of my pupils?" he asked.
"I don't know who you are."
"You won't be much wiser when you do know=
. My
name is Alban Morris."
Francine corrected herself. "I mean, I do=
n't
know what you teach."
Alban Morris pointed to the fragments of his
sketch from Nature. "I am a bad artist," he said. "Some bad
artists become Royal Academicians. Some take to drink. Some get a pension. =
And
some--I am one of them--find refuge in schools. Drawing is an 'Extra' at th=
is
school. Will you take my advice? Spare your good father's pocket; say you d=
on't
want to learn to draw."
He was so gravely in earnest that Francine bur=
st
out laughing. "You are a strange man," she said.
"Wrong again, miss. I am only an unhappy
man."
The furrows in his face deepened, the latent h=
umor
died out of his eyes. He turned to the summer-house window, and took up a p=
ipe
and tobacco pouch, left on the ledge.
"I lost my only friend last year," he
said. "Since the death of my dog, my pipe is the one companion I have
left. Naturally I am not allowed to enjoy the honest fellow's society in the
presence of ladies. They have their own taste in perfumes. Their clothes and
their letters reek with the foetid secretion of the musk deer. The clean
vegetable smell of tobacco is unendurable to them. Allow me to retire--and =
let
me thank you for the trouble you took to save my drawing."
The tone of indifference in which he expressed=
his
gratitude piqued Francine. She resented it by drawing her own conclusion fr=
om
what he had said of the ladies and the musk deer. "I was wrong in admi=
ring
your drawing," she remarked; "and wrong again in thinking you a
strange man. Am I wrong, for the third time, in believing that you dislike
women?"
"I am sorry to say you are right," A=
lban
Morris answered gravely.
"Is there not even one exception?"
The instant the words passed her lips, she saw
that there was some secretly sensitive feeling in him which she had hurt. H=
is
black brows gathered into a frown, his piercing eyes looked at her with ang=
ry surprise.
It was over in a moment. He raised his shabby hat, and made her a bow.
"There is a sore place still left in me,&=
quot;
he said; "and you have innocently hit it. Good-morning."
Before she could speak again, he had turned the
corner of the summer-house, and was lost to view in a shrubbery on the west=
ward
side of the grounds.
=
Left by herself, Miss de Sor turned back again=
by
way of the trees.
So far, her interview with the drawing-master =
had
helped to pass the time. Some girls might have found it no easy task to arr=
ive
at a true view of the character of Alban Morris. Francine's essentially sup=
erficial
observation set him down as "a little mad," and left him there,
judged and dismissed to her own entire satisfaction.
Arriving at the lawn, she discovered Emily pac=
ing
backward and forward, with her head down and her hands behind her, deep in
thought. Francine's high opinion of herself would have carried her past any=
of
the other girls, unless they had made special advances to her. She stopped =
and looked
at Emily.
It is the sad fate of little women in general =
to
grow too fat and to be born with short legs. Emily's slim finely-strung fig=
ure
spoke for itself as to the first of these misfortunes, and asserted its hap=
py
freedom from the second, if she only walked across a room. Nature had built
her, from head to foot, on a skeleton-scaffolding in perfect proportion. Ta=
ll or
short matters little to the result, in women who possess the first and fore=
most
advantage of beginning well in their bones. When they live to old age, they
often astonish thoughtless men, who walk behind them in the street. "I
give you my honor, she was as easy and upright as a young girl; and when you
got in front of her and looked--white hair, and seventy years of age."=
Francine approached Emily, moved by a rare imp=
ulse
in her nature--the impulse to be sociable. "You look out of spirits,&q=
uot;
she began. "Surely you don't regret leaving school?"
In her present mood, Emily took the opportunity
(in the popular phrase) of snubbing Francine. "You have guessed wrong;=
I
do regret," she answered. "I have found in Cecilia my dearest fri=
end
at school. And school brought with it the change in my life which has helpe=
d me
to bear the loss of my father. If you must know what I was thinking of just
now, I was thinking or my aunt. She has not answered my last letter--and I'=
m beginning
to be afraid she is ill."
"I'm very sorry," said Francine.
"Why? You don't know my aunt; and you have
only known me since yesterday afternoon. Why are you sorry?"
Francine remained silent. Without realizing it,
she was beginning to feel the dominant influence that Emily exercised over =
the
weaker natures that came in contact with her. To find herself irresistibly
attracted by a stranger at a new school--an unfortunate little creature, wh=
ose destiny
was to earn her own living--filled the narrow mind of Miss de Sor with
perplexity. Having waited in vain for a reply, Emily turned away, and resum=
ed
the train of thought which her schoolfellow had interrupted.
By an association of ideas, of which she was n=
ot
herself aware, she now passed from thinking of her aunt to thinking of Miss
Jethro. The interview of the previous night had dwelt on her mind at interv=
als,
in the hours of the new day.
Acting on instinct rather than on reason, she =
had
kept that remarkable incident in her school life a secret from every one. No
discoveries had been made by other persons. In speaking to her staff of
teachers, Miss Ladd had alluded to the affair in the most cautious terms. &=
quot;Circumstances
of a private nature have obliged the lady to retire from my school. When we
meet after the holidays, another teacher will be in her place." There,
Miss Ladd's explanation had begun and ended. Inquiries addressed to the
servants had led to no result. Miss Jethro's luggage was to be forwarded to=
the
London terminus of the railway--and Miss Jethro herself had baffled
investigation by leaving the school on foot. Emily's interest in the lost
teacher was not the transitory interest of curiosity; her father's mysterio=
us
friend was a person whom she honestly desired to see again. Perplexed by the
difficulty of finding a means of tracing Miss Jethro, she reached the shady
limit of the trees, and turned to walk back again. Approaching the place at
which she and Francine had met, an idea occurred to her. It was just possib=
le that
Miss Jethro might not be unknown to her aunt.
Still meditating on the cold reception that she
had encountered, and still feeling the influence which mastered her in spit=
e of
herself, Francine interpreted Emily's return as an implied expression of
regret. She advanced with a constrained smile, and spoke first.
"How are the young ladies getting on in t=
he
schoolroom?" she asked, by way of renewing the conversation.
Emily's face assumed a look of surprise which =
said
plainly, Can't you take a hint and leave me to myself?
Francine was constitutionally impenetrable to
reproof of this sort; her thick skin was not even tickled. "Why are you
not helping them," she went on; "you who have the clearest head a=
mong
us and take the lead in everything?"
It may be a humiliating confession to make, ye=
t it
is surely true that we are all accessible to flattery. Different tastes
appreciate different methods of burning incense--but the perfume is more or
less agreeable to all varieties of noses. Francine's method had its
tranquilizing effect on Emily. She answered indulgently, "Miss de Sor,=
I
have nothing to do with it."
"Nothing to do with it? No prizes to win
before you leave school?"
"I won all the prizes years ago."
"But there are recitations. Surely you
recite?"
Harmless words in themselves, pursuing the same
smooth course of flattery as before--but with what a different result! Emil=
y's
face reddened with anger the moment they were spoken. Having already irrita=
ted
Alban Morris, unlucky Francine, by a second mischievous interposition of
accident, had succeeded in making Emily smart next. "Who has told
you," she burst out; "I insist on knowing!"
"Nobody has told me anything!" Franc=
ine
declared piteously.
"Nobody has told you how I have been
insulted?"
"No, indeed! Oh, Miss Brown, who could in=
sult
you?"
In a man, the sense of injury does sometimes
submit to the discipline of silence. In a woman--never. Suddenly reminded of
her past wrongs (by the pardonable error of a polite schoolfellow), Emily
committed the startling inconsistency of appealing to the sympathies of
Francine!
"Would you believe it? I have been forbid=
den
to recite--I, the head girl of the school. Oh, not to-day! It happened a mo=
nth
ago--when we were all in consultation, making our arrangements. Miss Ladd a=
sked
me if I had decided on a piece to recite. I said, 'I have not only decided,=
I
have learned the piece.' 'And what may it be?' 'The dagger-scene in Macbeth=
.' There
was a howl--I can call it by no other name--a howl of indignation. A man's
soliloquy, and, worse still, a murdering man's soliloquy, recited by one of
Miss Ladd's young ladies, before an audience of parents and guardians! That=
was
the tone they took with me. I was as firm as a rock. The dagger-scene or
nothing. The result is--nothing! An insult to Shakespeare, and an insult to=
Me.
I felt it--I feel it still. I was prepared for any sacrifice in the cause of
the drama. If Miss Ladd had met me in a proper spirit, do you know what I w=
ould
have done? I would have played Macbeth in costume. Just hear me, and judge =
for yourself.
I begin with a dreadful vacancy in my eyes, and a hollow moaning in my voic=
e:
'Is this a dagger that I see before me--?'"
Reciting with her face toward the trees, Emily
started, dropped the character of Macbeth, and instantly became herself aga=
in:
herself, with a rising color and an angry brightening of the eyes. "Ex=
cuse
me, I can't trust my memory: I must get the play." With that abrupt
apology, she walked away rapidly in the direction of the house.
In some surprise, Francine turned, and looked =
at
the trees. She discovered--in full retreat, on his side--the eccentric
drawing-master, Alban Morris.
Did he, too, admire the dagger-scene? And was =
he
modestly desirous of hearing it recited, without showing himself? In that c=
ase,
why should Emily (whose besetting weakness was certainly not want of confid=
ence
in her own resources) leave the garden the moment she caught sight of him? =
Francine
consulted her instincts. She had just arrived at a conclusion which express=
ed
itself outwardly by a malicious smile, when gentle Cecilia appeared on the
lawn--a lovable object in a broad straw hat and a white dress, with a noseg=
ay
in her bosom--smiling, and fanning herself.
"It's so hot in the schoolroom," she
said, "and some of the girls, poor things, are so ill-tempered at
rehearsal--I have made my escape. I hope you got your breakfast, Miss de So=
r.
What have you been doing here, all by yourself?"
"I have been making an interesting
discovery," Francine replied.
"An interesting discovery in our garden? =
What
can it be?"
"The drawing-master, my dear, is in love =
with
Emily. Perhaps she doesn't care about him. Or, perhaps, I have been an inno=
cent
obstacle in the way of an appointment between them."
Cecilia had breakfasted to her heart's content=
on
her favorite dish--buttered eggs. She was in such good spirits that she was
inclined to be coquettish, even when there was no man present to fascinate.
"We are not allowed to talk about love in this school," she said-=
-and
hid her face behind her fan. "Besides, if it came to Miss Ladd's ears,
poor Mr. Morris might lose his situation."
"But isn't it true?" asked Francine.=
"It may be true, my dear; but nobody know=
s.
Emily hasn't breathed a word about it to any of us. And Mr. Morris keeps his
own secret. Now and then we catch him looking at her--and we draw our own
conclusions."
"Did you meet Emily on your way here?&quo=
t;
"Yes, and she passed without speaking to
me."
"Thinking perhaps of Mr. Morris."
Cecilia shook her head. "Thinking, Franci=
ne,
of the new life before her--and regretting, I am afraid, that she ever conf=
ided
her hopes and wishes to me. Did she tell you last night what her prospects =
are
when she leaves school?"
"She told me you had been very kind in
helping her. I daresay I should have heard more, if I had not fallen asleep.
What is she going to do?"
"To live in a dull house, far away in the
north," Cecilia answered; "with only old people in it. She will h=
ave
to write and translate for a great scholar, who is studying mysterious
inscriptions--hieroglyphics, I think they are called--found among the ruins=
of
Central America. It's really no laughing matter, Francine! Emily made a jok=
e of
it, too. 'I'll take anything but a situation as a governess,' she said; 'the
children who have Me to teach them would be to be pitied indeed!' She begged
and prayed me to help her to get an honest living. What could I do? I could=
only
write home to papa. He is a member of Parliament: and everybody who wants a
place seems to think he is bound to find it for them. As it happened, he had
heard from an old friend of his (a certain Sir Jervis Redwood), who was in
search of a secretary. Being in favor of letting the women compete for
employment with the men, Sir Jervis was willing to try, what he calls, 'a
female.' Isn't that a horrid way of speaking of us? and Miss Ladd says it's
ungrammatical, besides. Papa had written back to say he knew of no lady who=
m he
could recommend. When he got my letter speaking of Emily, he kindly wrote
again. In the interval, Sir Jervis had received two applications for the va=
cant
place. They were both from old ladies--and he declined to employ them."=
;
"Because they were old," Francine
suggested maliciously.
"You shall hear him give his own reasons,=
my
dear. Papa sent me an extract from his letter. It made me rather angry; and
(perhaps for that reason) I think I can repeat it word for word:--'We are f=
our
old people in this house, and we don't want a fifth. Let us have a young on=
e to
cheer us. If your daughter's friend likes the terms, and is not encumbered =
with
a sweetheart, I will send for her when the school breaks up at midsummer.'
Coarse and selfish--isn't it? However, Emily didn't agree with me, when I
showed her the extract. She accepted the place, very much to her aunt's
surprise and regret, when that excellent person heard of it. Now that the t=
ime
has come (though Emily won't acknowledge it), I believe she secretly shrink=
s,
poor dear, from the prospect."
"Very likely," Francine agreed--with=
out
even a pretense of sympathy. "But tell me, who are the four old
people?"
"First, Sir Jervis himself--seventy, last
birthday. Next, his unmarried sister--nearly eighty. Next, his man-servant,=
Mr.
Rook--well past sixty. And last, his man-servant's wife, who considers hers=
elf
young, being only a little over forty. That is the household. Mrs. Rook is
coming to-day to attend Emily on the journey to the North; and I am not at =
all sure
that Emily will like her."
"A disagreeable woman, I suppose?"
"No--not exactly that. Rather odd and
flighty. The fact is, Mrs. Rook has had her troubles; and perhaps they have=
a
little unsettled her. She and her husband used to keep the village inn, clo=
se
to our park: we know all about them at home. I am sure I pity these poor
people. What are you looking at, Francine?"
Feeling no sort of interest in Mr. and Mrs. Ro=
ok,
Francine was studying her schoolfellow's lovely face in search of defects. =
She
had already discovered that Cecilia's eyes were placed too widely apart, and
that her chin wanted size and character.
"I was admiring your complexion, dear,&qu=
ot;
she answered coolly. "Well, and why do you pity the Rooks?"
Simple Cecilia smiled, and went on with her st=
ory.
"They are obliged to go out to service in
their old age, through a misfortune for which they are in no way to blame.
Their customers deserted the inn, and Mr. Rook became bankrupt. The inn got
what they call a bad name--in a very dreadful way. There was a murder commi=
tted
in the house."
"A murder?" cried Francine. "Oh,
this is exciting! You provoking girl, why didn't you tell me about it
before?"
"I didn't think of it," said Cecilia
placidly.
"Do go on! Were you at home when it
happened?"
"I w as here, at school."
"You saw the newspapers, I suppose?"=
"Miss Ladd doesn't allow us to read
newspapers. I did hear of it, however, in letters from home. Not that there=
was
much in the letters. They said it was too horrible to be described. The poor
murdered gentleman--"
Francine was unaffectedly shocked. "A
gentleman!" she exclaimed. "How dreadful!"
"The poor man was a stranger in our part =
of
the country," Cecilia resumed; "and the police were puzzled about=
the
motive for a murder. His pocketbook was missing; but his watch and his rings
were found on the body. I remember the initials on his linen because they w=
ere
the same as my mother's initial before she was married--'J. B.' Really,
Francine, that's all I know about it."
"Surely you know whether the murderer was
discovered?"
"Oh, yes--of course I know that! The
government offered a reward; and clever people were sent from London to help
the county police. Nothing came of it. The murderer has never been discover=
ed,
from that time to this."
"When did it happen?"
"It happened in the autumn."
"The autumn of last year?"
"No! no! Nearly four years since."
Alban Morris--discovered by Emily in concealme=
nt
among the trees--was not content with retiring to another part of the groun=
ds.
He pursued his retreat, careless in what direction it might take him, to a
footpath across the fields, which led to the highroad and the railway stati=
on.
Miss Ladd's drawing-master was in that state of
nervous irritability which seeks relief in rapidity of motion. Public opini=
on
in the neighborhood (especially public opinion among the women) had long si=
nce decided
that his manners were offensive, and his temper incurably bad. The men who
happened to pass him on the footpath said "Good-morning" grudging=
ly.
The women took no notice of him--with one exception. She was young and sauc=
y,
and seeing him walking at the top of his speed on the way to the railway
station, she called after him, "Don't be in a hurry, sir! You're in pl=
enty
of time for the London train."
To her astonishment he suddenly stopped. His
reputation for rudeness was so well established that she moved away to a sa=
fe
distance, before she ventured to look at him again. He took no notice of
her--he seemed to be considering with himself. The frolicsome young woman h=
ad
done him a service: she had suggested an idea.
"Suppose I go to London?" he thought.
"Why not?--the school is breaking up for the holidays--and she is going
away like the rest of them." He looked round in the direction of the
schoolhouse. "If I go back to wish her good-by, she will keep out of my
way, and part with me at the last moment like a stranger. After my experien=
ce
of women, to be in love again--in love with a girl who is young enough to b=
e my
daughter--what a fool, what a driveling, degraded fool I must be!"
Hot tears rose in his eyes. He dashed them away
savagely, and went on again faster than ever--resolved to pack up at once at
his lodgings in the village, and to take his departure by the next train.
At the point where the footpath led into the r=
oad,
he came to a standstill for the second time.
The cause was once more a person of the sex
associated in his mind with a bitter sense of injury. On this occasion the
person was only a miserable little child, crying over the fragments of a br=
oken
jug.
Alban Morris looked at her with his grimly
humorous smile. "So you've broken a jug?" he remarked.
"And spilt father's beer," the child
answered. Her frail little body shook with terror. "Mother'll beat me =
when
I go home," she said.
"What does mother do when you bring the j=
ug
back safe and sound?" Alban asked.
"Gives me bren-butter."
"Very well. Now listen to me. Mother shall
give you bread and butter again this time."
The child stared at him with the tears suspend=
ed
in her eyes. He went on talking to her as seriously as ever.
"You understand what I have just said to
you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you got a pocket-handkerchief?"=
;
"No, sir."
"Then dry your eyes with mine."
He tossed his handkerchief to her with one han=
d,
and picked up a fragment of the broken jug with the other. "This will =
do
for a pattern," he said to himself. The child stared at the handkerchi=
ef--stared
at Alban--took courage--and rubbed vigorously at her eyes. The instinct, wh=
ich
is worth all the reason that ever pretended to enlighten mankind--the insti=
nct
that never deceives--told this little ignorant creature that she had found a
friend. She returned the handkerchief in grave silence. Alban took her up in
his arms.
"Your eyes are dry, and your face is fit =
to
be seen," he said. "Will you give me a kiss?" The child gave=
him
a resolute kiss, with a smack in it. "Now come and get another jug,&qu=
ot;
he said, as he put her down. Her red round eyes opened wide in alarm.
"Have you got money enough?" she asked. Alban slapped his pocket.
"Yes, I have," he answered. "That's a good thing," said=
the
child; "come along."
They went together hand in hand to the village,
and bought the new jug, and had it filled at the beer-shop. The thirsty fat=
her
was at the upper end of the fields, where they were making a drain. Alban
carried the jug until they were within sight of the laborer. "You have=
n't
far to go," he said. "Mind you don't drop it again--What's the ma=
tter
now?"
"I'm frightened."
"Why?"
"Oh, give me the jug."
She almost snatched it out of his hand. If she=
let
the precious minutes slip away, there might be another beating in store for=
her
at the drain: her father was not of an indulgent disposition when his child=
ren
were late in bringing his beer. On the point of hurrying away, without a wo=
rd
of farewell, she remembered the laws of politeness as taught at the infant
school--and dropped her little curtsey--and said, "Thank you, sir.&quo=
t;
That bitter sense of injury was still in Alban's mind as he looked after he=
r.
"What a pity she should grow up to be a woman!" he said to himsel=
f.
The adventure of the broken jug had delayed his
return to his lodgings by more than half an hour. When he reached the road =
once
more, the cheap up-train from the North had stopped at the station. He heard
the ringing of the bell as it resumed the journey to London.
One of the passengers (judging by the handbag =
that
she carried) had not stopped at the village.
As she advanced toward him along the road, he
remarked that she was a small wiry active woman--dressed in bright colors,
combined with a deplorable want of taste. Her aquiline nose seemed to be he=
r most
striking feature as she came nearer. It might have been fairly proportioned=
to
the rest of her face, in her younger days, before her cheeks had lost flesh=
and
roundness. Being probably near-sighted, she kept her eyes half-closed; there
were cunning little wrinkles at the corners of them. In spite of appearance=
s,
she was unwilling to present any outward acknowledgment of the march of tim=
e.
Her hair was palpably dyed--her hat was jauntily set on her head, and
ornamented with a gay feather. She walked with a light tripping step, swing=
ing
her bag, and holding her head up smartly. Her manner, like her dress, said =
as
plainly as words could speak, "No matter how long I may have lived, I =
mean
to be young and charming to the end of my days." To Alban's surprise s=
he stopped
and addressed him.
"Oh, I beg your pardon. Could you tell me=
if
I am in the right road to Miss Ladd's school?"
She spoke with nervous rapidity of articulatio=
n,
and with a singularly unpleasant smile. It parted her thin lips just widely
enough to show her suspiciously beautiful teeth; and it opened her keen gray
eyes in the strangest manner. The higher lid rose so as to disclose, for a
moment, the upper part of the eyeball, and to give her the appearance--not =
of a
woman bent on making herself agreeable, but of a woman staring in a panic of
terror. Careless to conceal the unfavorable impression that she had produce=
d on
him, Alban answered roughly, "Straight on," and tried to pass her=
.
She stopped him with a peremptory gesture. &qu=
ot;I
have treated you politely," she said, "and how do you treat me in
return? Well! I am not surprised. Men are all brutes by nature--and you are=
a
man. 'Straight on'?" she repeated contemptuously; "I should like =
to
know how far that helps a person in a strange place. Perhaps you know no mo=
re
where Miss Ladd's school is than I do? or, perhaps, you don't care to take =
the trouble
of addressing me? Just what I should have expected from a person of your se=
x!
Good-morning."
Alban felt the reproof; she had appealed to his
most readily-impressible sense--his sense of humor. He rather enjoyed seeing
his own prejudice against women grotesquely reflected in this flighty
stranger's prejudice against men. As the best excuse for himself that he co=
uld
make, he gave her all the information that she could possibly want--then tr=
ied again
to pass on--and again in vain. He had recovered his place in her estimation:
she had not done with him yet.
"You know all about the way there," =
she
said "I wonder whether you know anything about the school?"
No change in her voice, no change in her manne=
r,
betrayed any special motive for putting this question. Alban was on the poi=
nt
of suggesting that she should go on to the school, and make her inquiries
there--when he happened to notice her eyes. She had hitherto looked him
straight in the face. She now looked down on the road. It was a trifling
change; in all probability it meant nothing--and yet, merely because it was=
a change,
it roused his curiosity. "I ought to know something about the school,&=
quot;
he answered. "I am one of the masters."
"Then you're just the man I want. May I a=
sk
your name?"
"Alban Morris."
"Thank you. I am Mrs. Rook. I presume you
have heard of Sir Jervis Redwood?"
"No."
"Bless my soul! You are a scholar, of
course--and you have never heard of one of your own trade. Very extraordina=
ry.
You see, I am Sir Jervis's housekeeper; and I am sent here to take one of y=
our
young ladies back with me to our place. Don't interrupt me! Don't be a brute
again! Sir Jervis is not of a communicative disposition. At least, not to m=
e. A
man--that explains it--a man! He is always poring over his books and writin=
gs;
and Miss Redwood, at her great age, is in bed half the day. Not a thing do I
know about this new inmate of ours, except that I am to take her back with =
me.
You would feel some curiosity yourself in my place, wouldn't you? Now do te=
ll
me. What sort of girl is Miss Emily Brown?"
The name that he was perpetually thinking of--=
on
this woman's lips! Alban looked at her.
"Well," said Mrs. Rook, "am I to
have no answer? Ah, you want leading. So like a man again! Is she pretty?&q=
uot;
Still examining the housekeeper with mingled
feelings of interest and distrust, Alban answered ungraciously:
"Yes."
"Good-tempered?"
Alban again said "Yes."
"So much about herself," Mrs. Rook
remarked. "About her family now?" She shifted her bag restlessly =
from
one hand to another. "Perhaps you can tell me if Miss Emily's
father--" she suddenly corrected herself--"if Miss Emily's parents
are living?"
"I don't know."
"You mean you won't tell me."
"I mean exactly what I have said."
"Oh, it doesn't matter," Mrs. Rook
rejoined; "I shall find out at the school. The first turning to the le=
ft,
I think you said--across the fields?"
He was too deeply interested in Emily to let t=
he
housekeeper go without putting a question on his side:
"Is Sir Jervis Redwood one of Miss Emily's
old friends?" he asked.
"He? What put that into your head? He has
never even seen Miss Emily. She's going to our house--ah, the women are get=
ting
the upper hand now, and serve the men right, I say!--she's going to our hou=
se
to be Sir Jervis's secretary. You would like to have the place yourself,
wouldn't you? You would like to keep a poor girl from getting her own livin=
g? Oh,
you may look as fierce as you please--the time's gone by when a man could
frighten me. I like her Christian name. I call Emily a nice name enough. But
'Brown'! Good-morning, Mr. Morris; you and I are not cursed with such a
contemptibly common name as that! 'Brown'? Oh, Lord!"
She tossed her head scornfully, and walked awa=
y,
humming a tune.
Alban stood rooted to the spot. The effort of =
his
later life had been to conceal the hopeless passion which had mastered him =
in
spite of himself. Knowing nothing from Emily--who at once pitied and avoided
him--of her family circumstances or of her future plans, he had shrunk from
making inquiries of others, in the fear that they, too, might find out his =
secret,
and that their contempt might be added to the contempt which he felt for
himself. In this position, and with these obstacles in his way, the
announcement of Emily's proposed journey--under the care of a stranger, to =
fill
an employment in the house of a stranger--not only took him by surprise, but
inspired him with a strong feeling of distrust. He looked after Sir Jervis
Redwood's flighty housekeeper, completely forgetting the purpose which had
brought him thus far on the way to his lodgings. Before Mrs. Rook was out of
sight, Alban Morris was following her back to the school.
Miss De Sor and Miss Wyvil were still sitting
together under the trees, talking of the murder at the inn.
"And is that really all you can tell
me?" said Francine.
"That is all," Cecilia answered.
"Is there no love in it?"
"None that I know of."
"It's the most uninteresting murder that =
ever
was committed. What shall we do with ourselves? I'm tired of being here in =
the
garden. When do the performances in the schoolroom begin?"
"Not for two hours yet."
Francine yawned. "And what part do you ta=
ke in
it?" she asked.
"No part, my dear. I tried once--only to =
sing
a simple little song. When I found myself standing before all the company a=
nd
saw rows of ladies and gentlemen waiting for me to begin, I was so frighten=
ed
that Miss Ladd had to make an apology for me. I didn't get over it for the =
rest
of the day. For the first time in my life, I had no appetite for my dinner.=
Horrible!"
said Cecilia, shuddering over the remembrance of it. "I do assure you,=
I
thought I was going to die."
Perfectly unimpressed by this harrowing narrat=
ive,
Francine turned her head lazily toward the house. The door was thrown open =
at
the same moment. A lithe little person rapidly descended the steps that led=
to the
lawn.
"It's Emily come back again," said
Francine.
"And she seems to be rather in a hurry,&q=
uot;
Cecilia remarked.
Francine's satirical smile showed itself for a
moment. Did this appearance of hurry in Emily's movements denote impatience=
to
resume the recital of "the dagger-scene"? She had no book in her
hand; she never even looked toward Francine. Sorrow became plainly visible =
in
her face as she approached the two girls.
Cecilia rose in alarm. She had been the first
person to whom Emily had confided her domestic anxieties. "Bad news fr=
om
your aunt?" she asked.
"No, my dear; no news at all." Emily=
put
her arms tenderly round her friend's neck. "The time has come,
Cecilia," she said. "We must wish each other good-by."
"Is Mrs. Rook here already?"
"It's you, dear, who are going," Emi=
ly
answered sadly. "They have sent the governess to fetch you. Miss Ladd =
is
too busy in the schoolroom to see her--and she has told me all about it. Do=
n't
be alarmed. There is no bad news from home. Your plans are altered; that's
all."
"Altered?" Cecilia repeated. "In
what way?"
"In a very agreeable way--you are going to
travel. Your father wishes you to be in London, in time for the evening mai=
l to
France."
Cecilia guessed what had happened. "My si=
ster
is not getting well," she said, "and the doctors are sending her =
to
the Continent."
"To the baths at St. Moritz," Emily
added. "There is only one difficulty in the way; and you can remove it.
Your sister has the good old governess to take care of her, and the courier=
to
relieve her of all trouble on the journey. They were to have started yester=
day.
You know how fond Julia is of you. At the last moment, she won't hear of go=
ing away,
unless you go too. The rooms are waiting at St. Moritz; and your father is
annoyed (the governess says) by the delay that has taken place already.&quo=
t;
She paused. Cecilia was silent. "Surely y=
ou
don't hesitate?" Emily said.
"I am too happy to go wherever Julia go
es," Cecilia answered warmly; "I was thinking of you, dear."=
Her
tender nature, shrinking from the hard necessities of life, shrank from the
cruelly-close prospect of parting. "I thought we were to have had some
hours together yet," she said. "Why are we hurried in this way? T=
here
is no second train to London, from our station, till late in the
afternoon."
"There is the express," Emily remind=
ed
her; "and there is time to catch it, if you drive at once to the
town." She took Cecilia's hand and pressed it to her bosom. "Thank
you again and again, dear, for all you have done for me. Whether we meet ag=
ain
or not, as long as I live I shall love you. Don't cry!" She made a fai=
nt
attempt to resume her customary gayety, for Cecilia's sake. "Try to be=
as
hard-hearted as I am. Think of your sister--don't think of me. Only kiss
me."
Cecilia's tears fell fast. "Oh, my love, =
I am
so anxious about you! I am so afraid that you will not be happy with that
selfish old man--in that dreary house. Give it up, Emily! I have got plenty=
of
money for both of us; come abroad with me. Why not? You always got on well =
with
Julia, when you came to see us in the holidays. Oh, my darling! my darling!=
What
shall I do without you?"
All that longed for love in Emily's nature had
clung round her school-friend since her father's death. Turning deadly pale
under the struggle to control herself, she made the effort--and bore the pa=
in
of it without letting a cry or a tear escape her. "Our ways in life lie
far apart," she said gently. "There is the hope of meeting again,
dear--if there is nothing more."
The clasp of Cecilia's arm tightened round her.
She tried to release herself; but her resolution had reached its limits. Her
hands dropped, trembling. She could still try to speak cheerfully, and that=
was
all.
"There is not the least reason, Cecilia, =
to
be anxious about my prospects. I mean to be Sir Jervis Redwood's favorite
before I have been a week in his service."
She stopped, and pointed to the house. The
governess was approaching them. "One more kiss, darling. We shall not
forget the happy hours we have spent together; we shall constantly write to
each other." She broke down at last. "Oh, Cecilia! Cecilia! leave=
me
for God's sake--I can't bear it any longer!"
The governess parted them. Emily dropped into =
the
chair that her friend had left. Even her hopeful nature sank under the burd=
en
of life at that moment.
A hard voice, speaking close at her side, star=
tled
her.
"Would you rather be Me," the voice
asked, "without a creature to care for you?"
Emily raised her head. Francine, the unnoticed
witness of the parting interview, was standing by her, idly picking the lea=
ves
from a rose which had dropped out of Cecilia's nosegay.
Had she felt her own isolated position? She had
felt it resentfully.
Emily looked at her, with a heart softened by
sorrow. There was no answering kindness in the eyes of Miss de Sor--there w=
as
only a dogged endurance, sad to see in a creature so young.
"You and Cecilia are going to write to ea=
ch
other," she said. "I suppose there is some comfort in that. When I
left the island they were glad to get rid of me. They said, 'Telegraph when=
you
are safe at Miss Ladd's school.' You see, we are so rich, the expense of
telegraphing to the West Indies is nothing to us. Besides, a telegram has an
advantage over a letter--it doesn't take long to read. I daresay I shall wr=
ite
home. But they are in no hurry; and I am in no hurry. The school's breaking=
up;
you are going your way, and I am going mine--and who cares what becomes of =
me?
Only an ugly old schoolmistress, who is paid for caring. I wonder why I am
saying all this? Because I like you? I don't know that I like you any better
than you like me. When I wanted to be friends with you, you treated me cool=
ly;
I don't want to force myself on you. I don't particularly care about you. M=
ay I
write to you from Brighton?"
Under all this bitterness--the first exhibitio=
n of
Francine's temper, at its worst, which had taken place since she joined the
school--Emily saw, or thought she saw, distress that was too proud, or too =
shy,
to show itself. "How can you ask the question?" she answered
cordially.
Francine was incapable of meeting the sympathy
offered to her, even half way. "Never mind how," she said. "=
Yes
or no is all I want from you."
"Oh, Francine! Francine! what are you made
of! Flesh and blood? or stone and iron? Write to me of course--and I will w=
rite
back again."
"Thank you. Are you going to stay here un=
der
the trees?"
"Yes."
"All by yourself?"
"All by myself."
"With nothing to do?"
"I can think of Cecilia."
Francine eyed her with steady attention for a
moment.
"Didn't you tell me last night that you w=
ere
very poor?" she asked.
"I did."
"So poor that you are obliged to earn your
own living?"
"Yes."
Francine looked at her again.
"I daresay you won't believe me," she
said. "I wish I was you."
She turned away irritably, and walked back to =
the
house.
Were there really longings for kindness and lo=
ve
under the surface of this girl's perverse nature? Or was there nothing to be
hoped from a better knowledge of her?--In place of tender remembrances of
Cecilia, these were the perplexing and unwelcome thoughts which the more po=
tent
personality of Francine forced upon Emily's mind.
She rose impatiently, and looked at her watch.
When would it be her turn to leave the school, and begin the new life?
Still undecided what to do next, her interest =
was
excited by the appearance of one of the servants on the lawn. The woman
approached her, and presented a visiting-card; bearing on it the name of Sir
Jervis Redwood. Beneath the name, there was a line written in pencil:
"Mrs. Rook, to wait on Miss Emily Brown." The way to the new life=
was
open before her at last!
Looking again at the commonplace announcement
contained in the line of writing, she was not quite satisfied. Was it claim=
ing
a deference toward herself, to which she was not entitled, to expect a lett=
er
either from Sir Jervis, or from Miss Redwood; giving her some information a=
s to
the journey which she was about to undertake, and expressing with some litt=
le
politeness the wish to make her comfortable in her future home? At any rate,
her employer had done her one service: he had reminded her that her station=
in
life was not what it had been in the days when her father was living, and w=
hen
her aunt was in affluent circumstances.
She looked up from the card. The servant had g=
one.
Alban Morris was waiting at a little distance--waiting silently until she
noticed him.
=
Emily's impulse was to avoid the drawing-master
for the second time. The moment afterward, a kinder feeling prevailed. The
farewell interview with Cecilia had left influences which pleaded for Alban=
Morris.
It was the day of parting good wishes and general separations: he had only =
perhaps
come to say good-by. She advanced to offer her hand, when he stopped her by
pointing to Sir Jervis Redwood's card.
"May I say a word, Miss Emily, about that
woman?" he asked
"Do you mean Mrs. Rook?"
"Yes. You know, of course, why she comes
here?"
"She comes here by appointment, to take m=
e to
Sir Jervis Redwood's house. Are you acquainted with her?"
"She is a perfect stranger to me. I met h=
er
by accident on her way here. If Mrs. Rook had been content with asking me to
direct her to the school, I should not be troubling you at this moment. But=
she
forced her conversation on me. And she said something which I think you oug=
ht
to know. Have you heard of Sir Jervis Redwood's housekeeper before
to-day?"
"I have only heard what my friend--Miss
Cecilia Wyvil--has told me."
"Did Miss Cecilia tell you that Mrs. Rook=
was
acquainted with your father or with any members of your family?"
"Certainly not!"
Alban reflected. "It was natural
enough," he resumed, "that Mrs. Rook should feel some curiosity a=
bout
You. What reason had she for putting a question to me about your father--and
putting it in a very strange manner?"
Emily's interest was instantly excited. She led
the way back to the seats in the shade. "Tell me, Mr. Morris, exactly =
what
the woman said." As she spoke, she signed to him to be seated.
Alban observed the natural grace of her action
when she set him the example of taking a chair, and the little heightening =
of
her color caused by anxiety to hear what he had still to tell her. Forgetti=
ng
the restraint that he had hitherto imposed on himself, he enjoyed the luxur=
y of
silently admiring her. Her manner betrayed none of the conscious confusion
which would have shown itself, if her heart had been secretly inclined towa=
rd
him. She saw the man looking at her. In simple perplexity she looked at the
man.
"Are you hesitating on my account?" =
she
asked. "Did Mrs. Rook say something of my father which I mustn't
hear?"
"No, no! nothing of the sort!"
"You seem to be confused."
Her innocent indifference tried his patience
sorely. His memory went back to the past time--recalled the ill-placed pass=
ion
of his youth, and the cruel injury inflicted on him--his pride was roused. =
Was
he making himself ridiculous? The vehement throbbing of his heart almost su=
ffocated
him. And there she sat, wondering at his odd behavior. "Even this girl=
is
as cold-blooded as the rest of her sex!" That angry thought gave him b=
ack
his self-control. He made his excuses with the easy politeness of a man of =
the
world.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Emily; I was
considering how to put what I have to say in the fewest and plainest words.=
Let
me try if I can do it. If Mrs. Rook had merely asked me whether your father=
and
mother were living, I should have attributed the question to the commonplac=
e curiosity
of a gossiping woman, and have thought no more of it. What she actually did=
say
was this: 'Perhaps you can tell me if Miss Emily's father--' There she chec=
ked
herself, and suddenly altered the question in this way: 'If Miss Emily's
parents are living?' I may be making mountains out of molehills; but I thou=
ght
at the time (and think still) that she had some special interest in inquiri=
ng
after your father, and, not wishing me to notice it for reasons of her own,
changed the form of the question so as to include your mother. Does this st=
rike
you as a far-fetched conclusion?"
"Whatever it may be," Emily said,
"it is my conclusion, too. How did you answer her?"
"Quite easily. I could give her no
information--and I said so."
"Let me offer you the information, Mr.
Morris, before we say anything more. I have lost both my parents."
Alban's momentary outbreak of irritability was=
at
an end. He was earnest and yet gentle, again; he forgave her for not
understanding how dear and how delightful to him she was. "Will it
distress you," he said, "if I ask how long it is since your father
died?"
"Nearly four years," she replied.
"He was the most generous of men; Mrs. Rook's interest in him may sure=
ly
have been a grateful interest. He may have been kind to her in past years--=
and
she may remember him thankfully. Don't you think so?"
Alban was unable to agree with her. "If M=
rs.
Rook's interest in your father was the harmless interest that you have
suggested," he said, "why should she have checked herself in that
unaccountable manner, when she first asked me if he was living? The more I
think of it now, the less sure I feel that she knows anything at all of your
family history. It may help me to decide, if you will tell me at what time =
the
death of your mother took place."
"So long ago," Emily replied, "=
that
I can't even remember her death. I was an infant at the time."
"And yet Mrs. Rook asked me if your 'pare=
nts'
were living! One of two things," Alban concluded. "Either there is
some mystery in this matter, which we cannot hope to penetrate at present--=
or
Mrs. Rook may have been speaking at random; on the chance of discovering
whether you are related to some 'Mr. Brown' whom she once knew."
"Besides," Emily added, "it's o=
nly
fair to remember what a common family name mine is, and how easily people m=
ay
make mistakes. I should like to know if my dear lost father was really in h=
er
mind when she spoke to you. Do you think I could find it out?"
"If Mrs. Rook has any reasons for
concealment, I believe you would have no chance of finding it out--unless,
indeed, you could take her by surprise."
"In what way, Mr. Morris?"
"Only one way occurs to me just now,"=
; he
said. "Do you happen to have a miniature or a photograph of your
father?"
Emily held out a handsome locket, with a monog=
ram
in diamonds, attached to her watch chain. "I have his photograph
here," she rejoined; "given to me by my dear old aunt, in the day=
s of
her prosperity. Shall I show it to Mrs. Rook?"
"Yes--if she happens, by good luck, to of=
fer
you an opportunity."
Impatient to try the experiment, Emily rose as=
he
spoke. "I mustn't keep Mrs. Rook waiting," she said.
Alban stopped her, on the point of leaving him.
The confusion and hesitation which she had already noticed began to show
themselves in his manner once more.
"Miss Emily, may I ask you a favor before=
you
go? I am only one of the masters employed in the school; but I don't think-=
-let
me say, I hope I am not guilty of presumption--if I offer to be of some sma=
ll
service to one of my pupils--"
There his embarrassment mastered him. He despi=
sed
himself not only for yielding to his own weakness, but for faltering like a
fool in the expression of a simple request. The next words died away on his
lips.
This time, Emily understood him.
The subtle penetration which had long since led
her to the discovery of his secret--overpowered, thus far, by the absorbing
interest of the moment--now recovered its activity. In an instant, she reme=
mbered
that Alban's motive for cautioning her, in her coming intercourse with Mrs.=
Rook,
was not the merely friendly motive which might have actuated him, in the ca=
se
of one of the other girls. At the same time, her quickness of apprehension
warned her not to risk encouraging this persistent lover, by betraying any
embarrassment on her side. He was evidently anxious to be present (in her
interests) at the interview with Mrs. Rook. Why not? Could he reproach her =
with
raising false hope, if she accepted his services, under circumstances of do=
ubt
and difficulty which he had himself been the first to point out? He could do
nothing of the sort. Without waiting until he had recovered himself, she
answered him (to all appearances) as composedly as if he had spoken to her =
in
the plainest terms.
"After all that you have told me," s=
he
said, "I shall indeed feel obliged if you will be present when I see M=
rs.
Rook."
The eager brightening of his eyes, the flush of
happiness that made him look young on a sudden, were signs not to be mistak=
en.
The sooner they were in the presence of a third person (Emily privately
concluded) the better it might be for both of them. She led the way rapidly=
to
the house.
=
As mistress of a prosperous school, bearing a
widely-extended reputation, Miss Ladd prided herself on the liberality of h=
er
household arrangements. At breakfast and dinner, not only the solid comforts
but the elegant luxuries of the table, were set before the young ladies &qu=
ot;Other
schools may, and no doubt do, offer to pupils the affectionate care to which
they have been accustomed under the parents' roof," Miss Ladd used to =
say.
"At my school, that care extends to their meals, and provides them wit=
h a
cuisine which, I flatter myself, equals the most successful efforts of the
cooks at home." Fathers, mothers, and friends, when they paid visits to
this excellent lady, brought away with them the most gratifying recollectio=
ns
of her hospitality. The men, in particular, seldom failed to recognize in t=
heir
hostess the rarest virtue that a single lady can possess--the virtue of put=
ting
wine on the table which may be gratefully remembered by her guests the next
morning.
An agreeable surprise awaited Mrs. Rook when s=
he
entered the house of bountiful Miss Ladd.
Luncheon was ready for Sir Jervis Redwood's
confidential emissary in the waiting-room. Detained at the final rehearsals=
of
music and recitation, Miss Ladd was worthily represented by cold chicken and
ham, a fruit tart, and a pint decanter of generous sherry. "Your mistr=
ess
is a perfect lady!" Mrs. Rook said to the servant, with a burst of ent=
husiasm.
"I can carve for myself, thank you; and I don't care how long Miss Emi=
ly
keeps me waiting."
As they ascended the steps leading into the ho=
use,
Alban asked Emily if he might look again at her locket.
"Shall I open it for you?" she
suggested.
"No: I only want to look at the outside of
it."
He examined the side on which the monogram
appeared, inlaid with diamonds. An inscription was engraved beneath.
"May I read it?" he said.
"Certainly!"
The inscription ran thus: "In loving memo=
ry
of my father. Died 30th September, 1877."
"Can you arrange the locket," Alban
asked, "so that the side on which the diamonds appear hangs outward?&q=
uot;
She understood him. The diamonds might attract
Mrs. Rook's notice; and in that case, she might ask to see the locket of her
own accord. "You are beginning to be of use to me, already," Emily
said, as they turned into the corridor which led to the waiting-room.
They found Sir Jervis's housekeeper luxuriously
recumbent in the easiest chair in the room.
Of the eatable part of the lunch some relics w=
ere
yet left. In the pint decanter of sherry, not a drop remained. The genial
influence of the wine (hastened by the hot weather) was visible in Mrs. Roo=
k's
flushed face, and in a special development of her ugly smile. Her widening =
lips
stretched to new lengths; and the white upper line of her eyeballs were more
freely and horribly visible than ever.
"And this is the dear young lady?" s=
he
said, lifting her hands in over-acted admiration. At the first greetings, A=
lban
perceived that the impression produced was, in Emily's case as in his case,
instantly unfavorable.
The servant came in to clear the table. Emily
stepped aside for a minute to give some directions about her luggage. In th=
at
interval Mrs. Rook's cunning little eyes turned on Alban with an expression=
of
malicious scrutiny.
"You were walking the other way," she
whispered, "when I met you." She stopped, and glanced over her
shoulder at Emily. "I see what attraction has brought you back to the
school. Steal your way into that poor little fool's heart; and then make her
miserable for the rest of her life!--No need, miss, to hurry," she sai=
d,
shifting the polite side of her toward Emily, who returned at the moment.
"The visits of the trains to your station here are like the visits of =
the
angels described by the poet, 'few and far between.' Please excuse the
quotation. You wouldn't think it to look at me--I'm a great reader."
"Is it a long journey to Sir Jervis Redwo=
od's
house?" Emily asked, at a loss what else to say to a woman who was alr=
eady
becoming unendurable to her.
Mrs. Rook looked at the journey from an
oppressively cheerful point of view.
"Oh, Miss Emily, you shan't feel the time
hang heavy in my company. I can converse on a variety of topics, and if the=
re
is one thing more than another that I like, it's amusing a pretty young lad=
y.
You think me a strange creature, don't you? It's only my high spirits. Noth=
ing strange
about me--unless it's my queer Christian name. You look a little dull, my d=
ear.
Shall I begin amusing you before we are on the railway? Shall I tell you ho=
w I
came by my queer name?"
Thus far, Alban had controlled himself. This l=
ast
specimen of the housekeeper's audacious familiarity reached the limits of h=
is
endurance.
"We don't care to know how you came by yo=
ur
name," he said.
"Rude," Mrs. Rook remarked, composed=
ly.
"But nothing surprises me, coming from a man."
She turned to Emily. "My father and mother
were a wicked married couple," she continued, "before I was born.
They 'got religion,' as the saying is, at a Methodist meeting in a field. W=
hen
I came into the world--I don't know how you feel, miss; I protest against b=
eing
brought into the world without asking my leave first--my mother was determi=
ned to
dedicate me to piety, before I was out of my long clothes. What name do you
suppose she had me christened by? She chose it, or made it, herself--the na=
me
of 'Righteous'! Righteous Rook! Was there ever a poor baby degraded by such=
a
ridiculous name before? It's needless to say, when I write letters, I sign =
R.
Rook--and leave people to think it's Rosamond, or Rosabelle, or something
sweetly pretty of that kind. You should have seen my husband's face when he
first heard that his sweetheart's name was 'Righteous'! He was on the point=
of
kissing me, and he stopped. I daresay he felt sick. Perfectly natural under=
the
circumstances."
Alban tried to stop her again. "What time
does the train go?" he asked.
Emily entreated him to restrain himself, by a
look. Mrs. Rook was still too inveterately amiable to take offense. She ope=
ned
her traveling-bag briskly, and placed a railway guide in Alban's hands.
"I've heard that the women do the men's w=
ork
in foreign parts," she said. "But this is England; and I am an
Englishwoman. Find out when the train goes, my dear sir, for yourself."=
;
Alban at once consulted the guide. If there pr=
oved
to be no immediate need of starting for the station, he was determined that=
Emily
should not be condemned to pass the interval in the housekeeper's company. =
In the
meantime, Mrs. Rook was as eager as ever to show her dear young lady what an
amusing companion she could be.
"Talking of husbands," she resumed,
"don't make the mistake, my dear, that I committed. Beware of letting
anybody persuade you to marry an old man. Mr. Rook is old enough to be my
father. I bear with him. Of course, I bear with him. At the same time, I ha=
ve
not (as the poet says) 'passed through the ordeal unscathed.' My spirit--I =
have
long since ceased to believe in anything of the sort: I only use the word f=
or
want of a better--my spirit, I say, has become embittered. I was once a pio=
us young
woman; I do assure you I was nearly as good as my name. Don't let me shock =
you;
I have lost faith and hope; I have become--what's the last new name for a
free-thinker? Oh, I keep up with the times, thanks to old Miss Redwood! She
takes in the newspapers, and makes me read them to her. What is the new nam=
e?
Something ending in ic. Bombastic? No, Agnostic?--that's it! I have become =
an
Agnostic. The inevitable result of marrying an old man; if there's any blam=
e it
rests on my husband."
"There's more than an hour yet before the
train starts," Alban interposed. "I am sure, Miss Emily, you would
find it pleasanter to wait in the garden."
"Not at all a bad notion," Mrs. Rook
declared. "Here's a man who can make himself useful, for once. Let's go
into the garden."
She rose, and led the way to the door. Alban
seized the opportunity of whispering to Emily.
"Did you notice the empty decanter, when =
we
first came in? That horrid woman is drunk."
Emily pointed significantly to the locket.
"Don't let her go. The garden will distract her attention: keep her ne=
ar
me here."
Mrs. Rook gayly opened the door. "Take me=
to
the flower-beds," she said. "I believe in nothing--but I adore
flowers."
Mrs. Rook waited at the door, with her eye on
Emily. "What do you say, miss?"
"I think we shall be more comfortable if =
we
stay where we are."
"Whatever pleases you, my dear, pleases
me." With this reply, the compliant housekeeper--as amiable as ever on=
the
surface--returned to her chair.
Would she notice the locket as she sat down? E=
mily
turned toward the window, so as to let the light fall on the diamonds.
No: Mrs. Rook was absorbed, at the moment, in =
her
own reflections. Miss Emily, having prevented her from seeing the garden, s=
he
was maliciously bent on disappointing Miss Emily in return. Sir Jervis's
secretary (being young) took a hopeful view no doubt of her future prospect=
s. Mrs.
Rook decided on darkening that view in a mischievously-suggestive manner,
peculiar to herself.
"You will naturally feel some curiosity a=
bout
your new home," she began, "and I haven't said a word about it ye=
t.
How very thoughtless of me! Inside and out, dear Miss Emily, our house is j=
ust
a little dull. I say our house, and why not--when the management of it is a=
ll
thrown on me. We are built of stone; and we are much too long, and are not =
half
high enough. Our situation is on the coldest side of the county, away in the
west. We are close to the Cheviot hills; and if you fancy there is anything=
to
see when you look out of window, except sheep, you will find yourself woefu=
lly
mistaken. As for walks, if you go out on one side of the house you may, or =
may
not, be gored by cattle. On the other side, if the darkness overtakes you, =
you
may, or may not, tumble down a deserted lead mine. But the company, inside =
the
house, makes amends for it all," Mrs. Rook proceeded, enjoying the exp=
ression
of dismay which was beginning to show itself on Emily's face. "Plenty =
of
excitement for you, my dear, in our small family. Sir Jervis will introduce=
you
to plaster casts of hideous Indian idols; he will keep you writing for him,
without mercy, from morning to night; and when he does let you go, old Miss=
Redwood
will find she can't sleep, and will send for the pretty young lady-secretar=
y to
read to her. My husband I am sure you will like. He is a respectable man, a=
nd
bears the highest character. Next to the idols, he's the most hideous objec=
t in
the house. If you are good enough to encourage him, I don't say that he won=
't
amuse you; he will tell you, for instance, he never in his life hated any h=
uman
being as he hates his wife. By the way, I must not forget--in the interests=
of
truth, you know--to mention one drawback that does exist in our domestic
circle. One of these days we shall have our brains blown out or our throats=
cut.
Sir Jervis's mother left him ten thousand pounds' worth of precious stones =
all
contained in a little cabinet with drawers. He won't let the banker take ca=
re
of his jewels; he won't sell them; he won't even wear one of the rings on h=
is
finger, or one of the pins at his breast. He keeps his cabinet on his
dressing-room table; and he says, 'I like to gloat over my jewels, every ni=
ght,
before I go to bed.' Ten thousand pounds' worth of diamonds, rubies, emeral=
ds,
sapphires, and what not--at the mercy of the first robber who happens to he=
ar
of them. Oh, my dear, he would have no choice, I do assure you, but to use =
his
pistols. We shouldn't quietly submit to be robbed. Sir Jervis inherits the
spirit of his ancestors. My husband has the temper of a game cock. I myself=
, in
defense of the property of my employers, am capable of becoming a perfect
fiend. And we none of us understand the use of firearms!"
While she was in full enjoyment of this last
aggravation of the horrors of the prospect, Emily tried another change of
position--and, this time, with success. Greedy admiration suddenly opened M=
rs.
Rook's little eyes to their utmost width. "My heart alive, miss, what =
do I
see at your watch-chain? How they sparkle! Might I ask for a closer view?&q=
uot;
Emily's fingers trembled; but she succeeded in
detaching the locket from the chain. Alban handed it to Mrs. Rook.
She began by admiring the diamonds--with a cer=
tain
reserve. "Nothing like so large as Sir Jervis's diamonds; but choice
specimens no doubt. Might I ask what the value--?"
She stopped. The inscription had attracted her
notice: she began to read it aloud: "In loving memory of my father.
Died--"
Her face instantly became rigid. The next words
were suspended on her lips.
Alban seized the chance of making her betray
herself--under pretense of helping her. "Perhaps you find the figures =
not
easy to read," he said. "The date is 'thirtieth September, eighte=
en
hundred and seventy-seven'--nearly four years since."
Not a word, not a movement, escaped Mrs. Rook.=
She
held the locket before her as she had held it from the first. Alban looked =
at
Emily. Her eyes were riveted on the housekeeper: she was barely capable of =
preserving
the appearance of composure. Seeing the necessity of acting for her, he at =
once
said the words which she was unable to say for herself.
"Perhaps, Mrs. Rook, you would like to lo=
ok
at the portrait?" he suggested. "Shall I open the locket for
you?"
Without speaking, without looking up, she hand=
ed
the locket to Alban.
He opened it, and offered it to her. She neith=
er
accepted nor refused it: her hands remained hanging over the arms of the ch=
air.
He put the locket on her lap.
The portrait produced no marked effect on Mrs.
Rook. Had the date prepared her to see it? She sat looking at it--still wit=
hout
moving: still without saying a word. Alban had no mercy on her. "That =
is
the portrait of Miss Emily's father," he said. "Does it represent=
the
same Mr. Brown whom you had in your mind when you asked me if Miss Emily's =
father
was still living?"
That question roused her. She looked up, on the
instant; she answered loudly and insolently: "No!"
"And yet," Alban persisted, "you
broke down in reading the inscription: and considering what talkative woman=
you
are, the portrait has had a strange effect on you--to say the least of
it."
She eyed him steadily while he was speaking--a=
nd
turned to Emily when he had done. "You mentioned the heat just now, mi=
ss.
The heat has overcome me; I shall soon get right again."
The insolent futility of that excuse irritated
Emily into answering her. "You will get right again perhaps all the
sooner," she said, "if we trouble you with no more questions, and
leave you to recover by yourself."
The first change of expression which relaxed t=
he
iron tensity of the housekeeper's face showed itself when she heard that re=
ply.
At last there was a feeling in Mrs. Rook which openly declared itself--a
feeling of impatience to see Alban and Emily leave the room.
They left her, without a word more.
=
"What are we to do next? Oh, Mr. Morris, =
you
must have seen all sorts of people in your time--you know human nature, and=
I
don't. Help me with a word of advice!"
Emily forgot that he was in love with her--for=
got
everything, but the effect produced by the locket on Mrs. Rook, and the vag=
uely
alarming conclusion to which it pointed. In the fervor of her anxiety she t=
ook Alban's
arm as familiarly as if he had been her brother. He was gentle, he was
considerate; he tried earnestly to compose her. "We can do nothing to =
any
good purpose," he said, "unless we begin by thinking quietly. Par=
don
me for saying so--you are needlessly exciting yourself."
There was a reason for her excitement, of whic=
h he
was necessarily ignorant. Her memory of the night interview with Miss Jethro
had inevitably intensified the suspicion inspired by the conduct of Mrs. Ro=
ok.
In less than twenty-four hours, Emily had seen two women shrinking from sec=
ret
remembrances of her father--which might well be guilty remembrances--innoce=
ntly
excited by herself! How had they injured him? Of what infamy, on their part=
s,
did his beloved and stainless memory remind them? Who could fathom the myst=
ery
of it? "What does it mean?" she cried, looking wildly in Alban's
compassionate face. "You must have formed some idea of your own. What =
does
it mean?"
"Come, and sit down, Miss Emily. We will =
try
if we can find out what it means, together."
They returned to the shady solitude under the
trees. Away, in front of the house, the distant grating of carriage wheels =
told
of the arrival of Miss Ladd's guests, and of the speedy beginning of the
ceremonies of the day.
"We must help each other," Alban
resumed.
"When we first spoke of Mrs. Rook, you
mentioned Miss Cecilia Wyvil as a person who knew something about her. Have=
you
any objection to tell me what you may have heard in that way?"
In complying with his request Emily necessarily
repeated what Cecilia had told Francine, when the two girls had met that
morning in the garden.
Alban now knew how Emily had obtained employme=
nt
as Sir Jervis's secretary; how Mr. and Mrs. Rook had been previously known =
to
Cecilia's father as respectable people keeping an inn in his own neighborho=
od; and,
finally, how they had been obliged to begin life again in domestic service,
because the terrible event of a murder had given the inn a bad name, and had
driven away the customers on whose encouragement their business depended.
Listening in silence, Alban remained silent wh=
en
Emily's narrative had come to an end.
"Have you nothing to say to me?" she
asked.
"I am thinking over what I have just
heard," he answered.
Emily noticed a certain formality in his tone =
and
manner, which disagreeably surprised her. He seemed to have made his reply =
as a
mere concession to politeness, while he was thinking of something else whic=
h really
interested him.
"Have I disappointed you in any way?"
she asked.
"On the contrary, you have interested me.=
I
want to be quite sure that I remember exactly what you have said. You
mentioned, I think, that your friendship with Miss Cecilia Wyvil began here=
, at
the school?"
"Yes."
"And in speaking of the murder at the vil=
lage
inn, you told me that the crime was committed--I have forgotten how long
ago?"
His manner still suggested that he was idly
talking about what she had told him, while some more important subject for
reflection was in possession of his mind.
"I don't know that I said anything about =
the
time that had passed since the crime was committed," she answered,
sharply. "What does the murder matter to us? I think Cecilia told me it
happened about four years since. Excuse me for noticing it, Mr. Morris--you
seem to have some interests of your own to occupy your attention. Why could=
n't
you say so plainly when we came out here? I should not have asked you to he=
lp
me, in that case. Since my poor father's death, I have been used to fight t=
hrough
my troubles by myself."
She rose, and looked at him proudly. The next
moment her eyes filled with tears.
In spite of her resistance, Alban took her han=
d.
"Dear Miss Emily," he said, "you distress me: you have not d=
one
me justice. Your interests only are in my mind."
Answering her in those terms, he had not spoke=
n as
frankly as usual. He had only told her a part of the truth.
Hearing that the woman whom they had just left=
had
been landlady of an inn, and that a murder had been committed under her roo=
f,
he was led to ask himself if any explanation might be found, in these
circumstances, of the otherwise incomprehensible effect produced on Mrs. Ro=
ok
by the inscription on the locket.
In the pursuit of this inquiry there had arise=
n in
his mind a monstrous suspicion, which pointed to Mrs. Rook. It impelled him=
to
ascertain the date at which the murder had been committed, and (if the
discovery encouraged further investigation) to find out next the manner in
which Mr. Brown had died.
Thus far, what progress had he made? He had
discovered that the date of Mr. Brown's death, inscribed on the locket, and=
the
date of the crime committed at the inn, approached each other nearly enough=
to
justify further investigation.
In the meantime, had he succeeded in keeping h=
is
object concealed from Emily? He had perfectly succeeded. Hearing him declare
that her interests only had occupied his mind, the poor girl innocently
entreated him to forgive her little outbreak of temper. "If you have a=
ny
more questions to ask me, Mr. Morris, pray go on. I promise never to think =
unjustly
of you again."
He went on with an uneasy conscience--for it
seemed cruel to deceive her, even in the interests of truth--but still he w=
ent
on.
"Suppose we assume that this woman had
injured your father in some way," he said. "Am I right in believi=
ng
that it was in his character to forgive injuries?"
"Entirely right."
"In that case, his death may have left Mr=
s.
Rook in a position to be called to account, by those who owe a duty to his
memory--I mean the surviving members of his family."
"There are but two of us, Mr. Morris. My =
aunt
and myself."
"There are his executors."
"My aunt is his only executor."
"Your father's sister--I presume?"
"Yes."
"He may have left instructions with her,
which might be of the greatest use to us."
"I will write to-day, and find out,"
Emily replied. "I had already planned to consult my aunt," she ad=
ded,
thinking again of Miss Jethro.
"If your aunt has not received any positi=
ve
instructions," Alban continued, "she may remember some allusion to
Mrs. Rook, on your father's part, at the time of his last illness--"
Emily stopped him. "You don't know how my
dear father died," she said. "He was struck down--apparently in
perfect health--by disease of the heart."
"Struck down in his own house?"
"Yes--in his own house."
Those words closed Alban's lips. The investiga=
tion
so carefully and so delicately conducted had failed to serve any useful
purpose. He had now ascertained the manner of Mr. Brown's death and the pla=
ce
of Mr. Brown's death--and he was as far from confirming his suspicions of M=
rs.
Rook as ever.
=
"Is there nothing else you can suggest?&q=
uot;
Emily asked.
"Nothing--at present."
"If my aunt fails us, have we no other
hope?"
"I have hope in Mrs. Rook," Alban
answered. "I see I surprise you; but I really mean what I say. Sir
Jervis's housekeeper is an excitable woman, and she is fond of wine. There =
is
always a weak side in the character of such a person as that. If we wait for
our chance, and turn it to the right use when it comes, we may yet succeed =
in
making her betray herself."
Emily listened to him in bewilderment.
"You talk as if I was sure of your help in
the future," she said. "Have you forgotten that I leave school
to-day, never to return? In half an hour more, I shall be condemned to a lo=
ng
journey in the company of that horrible creature--with a life to look forwa=
rd
to, in the same house with her, among strangers! A miserable prospect, and a
hard trial of a girl's courage--is it not, Mr. Morris?"
"You will at least have one person, Miss
Emily, who will try with all his heart and soul to encourage you."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Alban, quietly,
"that the Midsummer vacation begins to-day; and that the drawing-maste=
r is
going to spend his holidays in the North."
Emily jumped up from her chair. "You!&quo=
t;
she exclaimed. "You are going to Northumberland? With me?"
"Why not?" Alban asked. "The
railway is open to all travelers alike, if they have money enough to buy a =
ticket."
"Mr. Morris! what can you be thinking of?
Indeed, indeed, I am not ungrateful. I know you mean kindly--you are a good,
generous man. But do remember how completely a girl, in my position, is at =
the
mercy of appearances. You, traveling in the same carriage with me! and that=
woman
putting her own vile interpretation on it, and degrading me in Sir Jervis
Redwood's estimation, on the day when I enter his house! Oh, it's worse than
thoughtless--it's madness, downright madness."
"You are quite right," Alban gravely
agreed, "it is madness. I lost whatever little reason I once possessed,
Miss Emily, on the day when I first met you out walking with the young ladi=
es
of the school."
Emily turned away in significant silence. Alban
followed her.
"You promised just now," he said,
"never to think unjustly of me again. I respect and admire you far too
sincerely to take a base advantage of this occasion--the only occasion on w=
hich
I have been permitted to speak with you alone. Wait a little before you con=
demn
a man whom you don't understand. I will say nothing to annoy you--I only ask
leave to explain myself. Will you take your chair again?"
She returned unwillingly to her seat. "It=
can
only end," she thought, sadly, "in my disappointing him!"
"I have had the worst possible opinion of
women for years past," Alban resumed; "and the only reason I can =
give
for it condemns me out of my own mouth. I have been infamously treated by o=
ne
woman; and my wounded self-esteem has meanly revenged itself by reviling the
whole sex. Wait a little, Miss Emily. My fault has received its fit punishm=
ent.
I have been thoroughly humiliated--and you have done it."
"Mr. Morris!"
"Take no offense, pray, where no offense =
is
meant. Some few years since it was the great misfortune of my life to meet =
with
a Jilt. You know what I mean?"
"Yes."
"She was my equal by birth (I am a younger
son of a country squire), and my superior in rank. I can honestly tell you =
that
I was fool enough to love her with all my heart and soul. She never allowed=
me
to doubt--I may say this without conceit, remembering the miserable end of
it--that my feeling for her was returned. Her father and mother (excellent =
people)
approved of the contemplated marriage. She accepted my presents; she allowed
all the customary preparations for a wedding to proceed to completion; she =
had
not even mercy en ough, or shame enough, to prevent me from publicly degrad=
ing
myself by waiting for her at the altar, in the presence of a large
congregation. The minutes passed--and no bride appeared. The clergyman, wai=
ting
like me, was requested to return to the vestry. I was invited to follow him.
You foresee the end of the story, of course? She had run away with another =
man.
But can you guess who the man was? Her groom!"
Emily's face reddened with indignation. "=
She
suffered for it? Oh, Mr. Morris, surely she suffered for it?"
"Not at all. She had money enough to rewa=
rd
the groom for marrying her; and she let herself down easily to her husband's
level. It was a suitable marriage in every respect. When I last heard of th=
em,
they were regularly in the habit of getting drunk together. I am afraid I h=
ave
disgusted you? We will drop the subject, and resume my precious autobiograp=
hy
at a later date. One showery day in the autumn of last year, you young ladi=
es
went out with Miss Ladd for a walk. When you were all trotting back again,
under your umbrellas, did you (in particular) notice an ill-tempered fellow
standing in the road, and getting a good look at you, on the high footpath
above him?"
Emily smiled, in spite of herself. "I don=
't
remember it," she said.
"You wore a brown jacket which fitted you=
as
if you had been born in it--and you had the smartest little straw hat I ever
saw on a woman's head. It was the first time I ever noticed such things. I =
think
I could paint a portrait of the boots you wore (mud included), from memory =
alone.
That was the impression you produced on me. After believing, honestly
believing, that love was one of the lost illusions of my life--after feelin=
g,
honestly feeling, that I would as soon look at the devil as look at a
woman--there was the state of mind to which retribution had reduced me; usi=
ng
for his instrument Miss Emily Brown. Oh, don't be afraid of what I may say
next! In your presence, and out of your presence, I am man enough to be ash=
amed
of my own folly. I am resisting your influence over me at this moment, with=
the
strongest of all resolutions--the resolution of despair. Let's look at the
humorous side of the story again. What do you think I did when the regiment=
of young
ladies had passed by me?"
Emily declined to guess.
"I followed you back to the school; and, =
on
pretense of having a daughter to educate, I got one of Miss Ladd's prospect=
uses
from the porter at the lodge gate. I was in your neighborhood, you must kno=
w,
on a sketching tour. I went back to my inn, and seriously considered what h=
ad
happened to me. The result of my cogitations was that I went abroad. Only f=
or a
change--not at all because I was trying to weaken the impression you had
produced on me! After a while I returned to England. Only because I was tir=
ed
of traveling--not at all because your influence drew me back! Another inter=
val
passed; and luck turned my way, for a wonder. The drawing-master's place be=
came
vacant here. Miss Ladd advertised; I produced my testimonials; and took the
situation. Only because the salary was a welcome certainty to a poor man--n=
ot
at all because the new position brought me into personal association with M=
iss Emily
Brown! Do you begin to see why I have troubled you with all this talk about
myself? Apply the contemptible system of self-delusion which my confession =
has
revealed, to that holiday arrangement for a tour in the north which has
astonished and annoyed you. I am going to travel this afternoon by your tra=
in.
Only because I feel an intelligent longing to see the northernmost county of
England--not at all because I won't let you trust yourself alone with Mrs.
Rook! Not at all because I won't leave you to enter Sir Jervis Redwood's
service without a friend within reach in case you want him! Mad? Oh,
yes--perfectly mad. But, tell me this: What do all sensible people do when =
they
find themselves in the company of a lunatic? They humor him. Let me take yo=
ur
ticket and see your luggage labeled: I only ask leave to be your traveling
servant. If you are proud--I shall like you all the better, if you are--pay=
me wages,
and keep me in my proper place in that way."
Some girls, addressed with this reckless
intermingling of jest and earnest, would have felt confused, and some would
have felt flattered. With a good-tempered resolution, which never passed the
limits of modesty and refinement, Emily met Alban Morris on his own ground.=
"You have said you respect me," she
began; "I am going to prove that I believe you. The least I can do is =
not
to misinterpret you, on my side. Am I to understand, Mr. Morris--you won't
think the worse of me, I hope, if I speak plainly--am I to understand that =
you
are in love with me?"
"Yes, Miss Emily--if you please."
He had answered with the quaint gravity which =
was
peculiar to him; but he was already conscious of a sense of discouragement.=
Her
composure was a bad sign--from his point of view.
"My time will come, I daresay," she
proceeded. "At present I know nothing of love, by experience; I only k=
now
what some of my schoolfellows talk about in secret. Judging by what they te=
ll
me, a girl blushes when her lover pleads with her to favor his addresses. A=
m I blushing?"
"Must I speak plainly, too?" Alban
asked.
"If you have no objection," she answ=
ered,
as composedly as if she had been addressing her grandfather.
"Then, Miss Emily, I must say--you are not
blushing."
She went on. "Another token of love--as I=
am
informed--is to tremble. Am I trembling?"
"No."
"Am I too confused to look at you?"<= o:p>
"No."
"Do I walk away with dignity--and then st=
op,
and steal a timid glance at my lover, over my shoulder?"
"I wish you did!"
"A plain answer, Mr. Morris! Yes or No.&q=
uot;
"No--of course."
"In one last word, do I give you any sort=
of
encouragement to try again?"
"In one last word, I have made a fool of
myself--and you have taken the kindest possible way of telling me so."=
This time, she made no attempt to reply in his=
own
tone. The good-humored gayety of her manner disappeared. She was in earnest=
--truly,
sadly in earnest--when she said her next words.
"Is it not best, in your own interests, t=
hat
we should bid each other good-by?" she asked. "In the time to
come--when you only remember how kind you once were to me--we may look forw=
ard
to meeting again. After all that you have suffered, so bitterly and so
undeservedly, don't, pray don't, make me feel that another woman has behaved
cruelly to you, and that I--so grieved to distress you--am that heartless
creature!"
Never in her life had she been so irresistibly
charming as she was at that moment. Her sweet nature showed all its innocent
pity for him in her face.
He saw it--he felt it--he was not unworthy of =
it.
In silence, he lifted her hand to his lips. He turned pale as he kissed it.=
"Say that you agree with me?" she
pleaded.
"I obey you."
As he answered, he pointed to the lawn at their
feet. "Look," he said, "at that dead leaf which the air is
wafting over the grass. Is it possible that such sympathy as you feel for M=
e,
such love as I feel for You, can waste, wither, and fall to the ground like
that leaf? I leave you, Emily--with the firm conviction that there is a tim=
e of
fulfillment to come in our two lives. Happen what may in the interval--I tr=
ust
the future."
The words had barely passed his lips when the
voice of one of the servants reached them from the house. "Miss Emily,=
are
you in the garden?"
Emily stepped out into the sunshine. The serva=
nt
hurried to meet her, and placed a telegram in her hand. She looked at it wi=
th a
sudden misgiving. In her small experience, a telegram was associated with t=
he communication
of bad news. She conquered her hesitation--opened it--read it. The color le=
ft
her face: she shuddered. The telegram dropped on the grass.
"Read it," she said, faintly, as Alb=
an
picked it up.
He read these words: "Come to London
directly. Miss Letitia is dangerously ill."
"Your aunt?" he asked.
"Yes--my aunt."
The metropolis of Great Britain is, in certain
respects, like no other metropolis on the face of the earth. In the populat=
ion
that throngs the streets, the extremes of Wealth and the extremes of Poverty
meet, as they meet nowhere else. In the streets themselves, the glory and t=
he shame
of architecture--the mansion and the hovel--are neighbors in situation, as =
they
are neighbors nowhere else. London, in its social aspect, is the city of
contrasts.
Toward the close of evening Emily left the rai=
lway
terminus for the place of residence in which loss of fortune had compelled =
her
aunt to take refuge. As she approached her destination, the cab passed--by =
merely
crossing a road--from a spacious and beautiful Park, with its surrounding
houses topped by statues and cupolas, to a row of cottages, hard by a stink=
ing
ditch miscalled a canal. The city of contrasts: north and south, east and w=
est,
the city of social contrasts.
Emily stopped the cab before the garden gate o=
f a
cottage, at the further end of the row. The bell was answered by the one
servant now in her aunt's employ--Miss Letitia's maid.
Personally, this good creature was one of the
ill-fated women whose appearance suggests that Nature intended to make men =
of
them and altered her mind at the last moment. Miss Letitia's maid was tall =
and
gaunt and awkward. The first impression produced by her face was an impress=
ion
of bones. They rose high on her forehead; they projected on her cheeks; and
they reached their boldest development in her jaws. In the cavernous eyes of
this unfortunate person rigid obstinacy and rigid goodness looked out toget=
her,
with equal severity, on all her fellow-creatures alike. Her mistress (whom =
she
had served for a quarter of a century and more) called her "Bony."
She accepted this cruelly appropriate nick-name as a mark of affectionate
familiarity which honored a servant. No other person was allowed to take
liberties with her: to every one but her mistress she was known as Mrs.
Ellmother.
"How is my aunt?" Emily asked.
"Bad."
"Why have I not heard of her illness
before?"
"Because she's too fond of you to let you=
be
distressed about her. 'Don't tell Emily'; those were her orders, as long as=
she
kept her senses."
"Kept her senses? Good heavens! what do y=
ou
mean?"
"Fever--that's what I mean."
"I must see her directly; I am not afraid=
of
infection."
"There's no infection to be afraid of. But
you mustn't see her, for all that."
"I insist on seeing her."
"Miss Emily, I am disappointing you for y=
our
own good. Don't you know me well enough to trust me by this time?"
"I do trust you."
"Then leave my mistress to me--and go and
make yourself comfortable in your own room."
Emily's answer was a positive refusal. Mrs.
Ellmother, driven to her last resources, raised a new obstacle.
"It's not to be done, I tell you! How can=
you
see Miss Letitia when she can't bear the light in her room? Do you know what
color her eyes are? Red, poor soul--red as a boiled lobster."
With every word the woman uttered, Emily's
perplexity and distress increased.
"You told me my aunt's illness was
fever," she said--"and now you speak of some complaint in her eye=
s.
Stand out of the way, if you please, and let me go to her."
Mrs. Ellmother, still keeping her place, looked
through the open door.
"Here's the doctor," she announced.
"It seems I can't satisfy you; ask him what's the matter. Come in,
doctor." She threw open the door of the parlor, and introduced Emily.
"This is the mistress's niece, sir. Please try if you can keep her qui=
et.
I can't." She placed chairs with the hospitable politeness of the old
school--and returned to her post at Miss Letitia's bedside.
Doctor Allday was an elderly man, with a cool
manner and a ruddy complexion--thoroughly acclimatized to the atmosphere of
pain and grief in which it was his destiny to live. He spoke to Emily (with=
out
any undue familiarity) as if he had been accustomed to see her for the grea=
ter
part of her life.
"That's a curious woman," he said, w=
hen
Mrs. Ellmother closed the door; "the most headstrong person, I think, I
ever met with. But devoted to her mistress, and, making allowance for her
awkwardness, not a bad nurse. I am afraid I can't give you an encouraging
report of your aunt. The rheumatic fever (aggravated by the situation of th=
is
house--built on clay, you know, and close to stagnant water) has been latte=
rly complicated
by delirium."
"Is that a bad sign, sir?"
"The worst possible sign; it shows that t=
he
disease has affected the heart. Yes: she is suffering from inflammation of =
the
eyes, but that is an unimportant symptom. We can keep the pain under by mea=
ns
of cooling lotions and a dark room. I've often heard her speak of
you--especially since the illness assumed a serious character. What did you
say? Will she know you, when you go into her room? This is about the time w=
hen
the delirium usually sets in. I'll see if there's a quiet interval."
He opened the door--and came back again.
"By the way," he resumed, "I ou=
ght
perhaps to explain how it was that I took the liberty of sending you that
telegram. Mrs. Ellmother refused to inform you of her mistress's serious
illness. That circumstance, according to my view of it, laid the responsibi=
lity
on the doctor's shoulders. The form taken by your aunt's delirium--I mean t=
he
apparent tendency of the words that escape her in that state--seems to exci=
te some
incomprehensible feeling in the mind of her crabbed servant. She wouldn't e=
ven
let me go into the bedroom, if she could possibly help it. Did Mrs. Ellmoth=
er
give you a warm welcome when you came here?"
"Far from it. My arrival seemed to annoy
her."
"Ah--just what I expected. These faithful=
old
servants always end by presuming on their fidelity. Did you ever hear what a
witty poet--I forget his name: he lived to be ninety--said of the man who h=
ad
been his valet for more than half a century? 'For thirty years he was the b=
est of
servants; and for thirty years he has been the hardest of masters.' Quite
true--I might say the same of my housekeeper. Rather a good story, isn't
it?"
The story was completely thrown away on Emily;=
but
one subject interested her now. "My poor aunt has always been fond of
me," she said. "Perhaps she might know me, when she recognizes no=
body
else."
"Not very likely," the doctor answer=
ed.
"But there's no laying down any rule in cases of this kind. I have
sometimes observed that circumstances which have produced a strong impressi=
on
on patients, when they are in a state of health, give a certain direction to
the wandering of their minds, when they are in a state of fever. You will s=
ay,
'I am not a circumstance; I don't see how this encourages me to hope'--and =
you
will be quite right. Instead of talking of my medical experience, I shall d=
o better
to look at Miss Letitia, and let you know the result. You have got other
relations, I suppose? No? Very distressing--very distressing."
Who has not suffered as Emily suffered, when s=
he
was left alone? Are there not moments--if we dare to confess the truth--when
poor humanity loses its hold on the consolations of religion and the hope o=
f immortality,
and feels the cruelty of creation that bids us live, on the condition that =
we
die, and leads the first warm beginnings of love, with merciless certainty,=
to
the cold conclusion of the grave?
"She's quiet, for the time being," D=
r.
Allday announced, on his return. "Remember, please, that she can't see=
you
in the inflamed state of her eyes, and don't disturb the bed-curtains. The
sooner you go to her the better, perhaps--if you have anything to say which
depends on her recognizing your voice. I'll call to-morrow morning. Very
distressing," he repeated, taking his hat and making his bow--"Ve=
ry
distressing."
Emily crossed the narrow little passage which
separated the two rooms, and opened the bed-chamber door. Mrs. Ellmother met
her on the threshold. "No," said the obstinate old servant, "=
;you
can't come in."
The faint voice of Miss Letitia made itself he=
ard,
calling Mrs. Ellmother by her familiar nick-name.
"Bony, who is it?"
"Never mind."
"Who is it?"
"Miss Emily, if you must know."
"Oh! poor dear, why does she come here? W=
ho
told her I was ill?"
"The doctor told her."
"Don't come in, Emily. It will only distr=
ess
you--and it will do me no good. God bless you, my love. Don't come in."=
;
"There!" said Mrs. Ellmother. "=
Do
you hear that? Go back to the sitting-room."
Thus far, the hard necessity of controlling
herself had kept Emily silent. She was now able to speak without tears.
"Remember the old times, aunt," she pleaded, gently. "Don't =
keep
me out of your room, when I have come here to nurse you!"
"I'm her nurse. Go back to the
sitting-room," Mrs. Ellmother repeated.
True love lasts while life lasts. The dying wo=
man
relented.
"Bony! Bony! I can't be unkind to Emily. =
Let
her in."
Mrs. Ellmother still insisted on having her wa=
y.
"You're contradicting your own orders,&qu=
ot;
she said to her mistress. "You don't know how soon you may begin wande=
ring
in your mind again. Think, Miss Letitia--think."
This remonstrance was received in silence. Mrs.
Ellmother's great gaunt figure still blocked up the doorway.
"If you force me to it," Emily said,
quietly, "I must go to the doctor, and ask him to interfere."
"Do you mean that?" Mrs. Ellmother s=
aid,
quietly, on her side.
"I do mean it," was the answer.
The old servant suddenly submitted--with a look
which took Emily by surprise. She had expected to see anger; the face that =
now
confronted her was a face subdued by sorrow and fear.
"I wash my hands of it," Mrs. Ellmot=
her
said. "Go in--and take the consequences."
Emily entered the room. The door was immediate=
ly
closed on her from the outer side. Mrs. Ellmother's heavy steps were heard
retreating along the passage. Then the banging of the door that led into the
kitchen shook the flimsily-built cottage. Then, there was silence.
The dim light of a lamp hidden away in a corner
and screened by a dingy green shade, just revealed the closely-curtained be=
d,
and the table near it bearing medicine-bottles and glasses. The only object=
s on
the chimney-piece were a clock that had been stopped in mercy to the suffer=
er's
irritable nerves, and an open case containing a machine for pouring drops i=
nto
the eyes. The smell of fumigating pastilles hung heavily on the air. To Emi=
ly's
excited imagination, the silence was like the silence of death. She approac=
hed
the bed trembling. "Won't you speak to me, aunt?"
"Is that you, Emily? Who let you come
in?"
"You said I might come in, dear. Are you
thirsty? I see some lemonade on the table. Shall I give it to you?"
"No! If you open the bed-curtains, you le=
t in
the light. My poor eyes! Why are you here, my dear? Why are you not at the
school?"
"It's holiday-time, aunt. Besides, I have
left school for good."
"Left school?" Miss Letitia's memory
made an effort, as she repeated those words. "You were going somewhere
when you left school," she said, "and Cecilia Wyvil had something=
to
do with it. Oh, my love, how cruel of you to go away to a stranger, when you
might live here with me!" She paused--her sense of what she had herself
just said began to grow confused. "What stranger?" she asked
abruptly. "Was it a man? What name? Oh, my mind! Has death got hold of=
my
mind before my body?"
"Hush! hush! I'll tell you the name. Sir
Jervis Redwood."
"I don't know him. I don't want to know h=
im.
Do you think he means to send for you. Perhaps he has sent for you. I won't
allow it! You shan't go!"
"Don't excite yourself, dear! I have refu=
sed
to go; I mean to stay here with you."
The fevered brain held to its last idea. "=
;Has
he sent for you?" she said again, louder than before.
Emily replied once more, in terms carefully ch=
osen
with the one purpose of pacifying her. The attempt proved to be useless, and
worse--it seemed to make her suspicious. "I won't be deceived!" s=
he
said; "I mean to know all about it. He did send for you. Whom did he
send?"
"His housekeeper."
"What name?" The tone in which she p=
ut
the question told of excitement that was rising to its climax. "Don't =
you
know that I'm curious about names?" she burst out. "Why do you
provoke me? Who is it?"
"Nobody you know, or need care about, dear
aunt. Mrs. Rook."
Instantly on the utterance of that name, there
followed an unexpected result. Silence ensued.
Emily waited--hesitated--advanced, to part the
curtains, and look in at her aunt. She was stopped by a dreadful sound of
laughter--the cheerless laughter that is heard among the mad. It suddenly e=
nded
in a dreary sigh.
Afraid to look in, she spoke, hardly knowing w=
hat
she said. "Is there anything you wish for? Shall I call--?"
Miss Letitia's voice interrupted her. Dull, lo=
w,
rapidly muttering, it was unlike, shockingly unlike, the familiar voice of =
her
aunt. It said strange words.
"Mrs. Rook? What does Mrs. Rook matter? Or
her husband either? Bony, Bony, you're frightened about nothing. Where's the
danger of those two people turning up? Do you know how many miles away the
village is? Oh, you fool--a hundred miles and more. Never mind the coroner,=
the
coroner must keep in his own district--and the jury too. A risky deception?=
I call
it a pious fraud. And I have a tender conscience, and a cultivated mind. The
newspaper? How is our newspaper to find its way to her, I should like to kn=
ow?
You poor old Bony! Upon my word you do me good--you make me laugh."
The cheerless laughter broke out again--and di=
ed
away again drearily in a sigh.
Accustomed to decide rapidly in the ordinary
emergencies of her life, Emily felt herself painfully embarrassed by the
position in which she was now placed.
After what she had already heard, could she
reconcile it to her sense of duty to her aunt to remain any longer in the r=
oom?
In the hopeless self-betrayal of delirium, Miss
Letitia had revealed some act of concealment, committed in her past life, a=
nd
confided to her faithful old servant. Under these circumstances, had Emily =
made
any discoveries which convicted her of taking a base advantage of her posit=
ion
at the bedside? Most assuredly not! The nature of the act of concealment; t=
he
causes that had led to it; the person (or persons) affected by it--these we=
re
mysteries which left her entirely in the dark. She had found out that her a=
unt
was acquainted with Mrs. Rook, and that was literally all she knew.
Blameless, so far, in the line of conduct that=
she
had pursued, might she still remain in the bed-chamber--on this distinct
understanding with herself: that she would instantly return to the sitting-=
room
if she heard anything which could suggest a doubt of Miss Letitia's claim t=
o her
affection and respect? After some hesitation, she decided on leaving it to =
her
conscience to answer that question. Does conscience ever say, No--when
inclination says, Yes? Emily's conscience sided with her reluctance to leave
her aunt.
Throughout the time occupied by these reflecti=
ons,
the silence had remained unbroken. Emily began to feel uneasy. She timidly =
put
her hand through the curtains, and took Miss Letitia's hand. The contact wi=
th the
burning skin startled her. She turned away to the door, to call the servant=
--when
the sound of her aunt's voice hurried her back to the bed.
"Are you there, Bony?" the voice ask=
ed.
Was her mind getting clear again? Emily tried =
the
experiment of making a plain reply. "Your niece is with you," she
said. "Shall I call the servant?"
Miss Letitia's mind was still far away from Em=
ily,
and from the present time.
"The servant?" she repeated. "A=
ll
the servants but you, Bony, have been sent away. London's the place for us.=
No
gossiping servants and no curious neighbors in London. Bury the horrid trut=
h in
London. Ah, you may well say I look anxious and wretched. I hate deception-=
-and
yet, it must be done. Why do you waste time in talking? Why don't you find =
out where
the vile woman lives? Only let me get at her--and I'll make Sara ashamed of
herself."
Emily's heart beat fast when she heard the wom=
an's
name. "Sara" (as she and her school-fellows knew) was the baptism=
al
name of Miss Jethro. Had her aunt alluded to the disgraced teacher, or to s=
ome
other woman?
She waited eagerly to hear more. There was not=
hing
to be heard. At this most interesting moment, the silence remained undistur=
bed.
In the fervor of her anxiety to set her doubts=
at
rest, Emily's faith in her own good resolutions began to waver. The temptat=
ion
to say something which might set her aunt talking again was too strong to b=
e resisted--if
she remained at the bedside. Despairing of herself she rose and turned to t=
he
door. In the moment that passed while she crossed the room the very words
occurred to her that would suit her purpose. Her cheeks were hot with
shame--she hesitated--she looked back at the bed--the words passed her lips=
.
"Sara is only one of the woman's names,&q=
uot;
she said. "Do you like her other name?"
The rapidly-muttering tones broke out again
instantly--but not in answer to Emily. The sound of a voice had encouraged =
Miss
Letitia to pursue her own confused train of thought, and had stimulated the
fast-failing capacity of speech to exert itself once more.
"No! no! He's too cunning for you, and too
cunning for me. He doesn't leave letters about; he destroys them all. Did I=
say
he was too cunning for us? It's false. We are too cunning for him. Who found
the morsels of his letter in the basket? Who stuck them together? Ah, we kn=
ow!
Don't read it, Bony. 'Dear Miss Jethro'--don't read it again. 'Miss Jethro'=
in his
letter; and 'Sara,' when he talks to himself in the garden. Oh, who would h=
ave
believed it of him, if we hadn't seen and heard it ourselves!"
There was no more doubt now.
But who was the man, so bitterly and so
regretfully alluded to?
No: this time Emily held firmly by the resolut=
ion
which bound her to respect the helpless position of her aunt. The speediest=
way
of summoning Mrs. Ellmother would be to ring the bell. As she touched the h=
andle
a faint cry of suffering from the bed called her back.
"Oh, so thirsty!" murmured the faili=
ng
voice--"so thirsty!"
She parted the curtains. The shrouded lamplight
just showed her the green shade over Miss Letitia's eyes--the hollow cheeks
below it--the arms laid helplessly on the bed-clothes. "Oh, aunt, don't
you know my voice? Don't you know Emily? Let me kiss you, dear!" Usele=
ss
to plead with her; useless to kiss her; she only reiterated the words, &quo=
t;So
thirsty! so thirsty!" Emily raised the poor tortured body with a patie=
nt caution
which spared it pain, and put the glass to her aunt's lips. She drank the
lemonade to the last drop. Refreshed for the moment, she spoke again--spoke=
to
the visionary servant of her delirious fancy, while she rested in Emily's a=
rms.
"For God's sake, take care how you answer=
if
she questions you. If she knew what we know! Are men ever ashamed? Ha! the =
vile
woman! the vile woman!"
Her voice, sinking gradually, dropped to a
whisper. The next few words that escaped her were muttered inarticulately.
Little by little, the false energy of fever was wearing itself out. She lay
silent and still. To look at her now was to look at the image of death. Once
more, Emily kissed her--closed the curtains--and rang the bell. Mrs. Ellmot=
her failed
to appear. Emily left the room to call her.
Arrived at the top of the kitchen stairs, she noted a slight change. The door below, which she had heard banged on first entering her aunt's room, now stood open. She called to Mrs. Ellmother. A strange voice answered her. Its accent was soft and courteous; presenting t= he strongest imaginable contrast to the harsh tones of Miss Letitia's crabbed old maid.<= o:p>
"Is there anything I can do for you,
miss?"
The person making this polite inquiry appeared=
at
the foot of the stairs--a plump and comely woman of middle age. She looked =
up
at the young lady with a pleasant smile.
"I beg your pardon," Emily said; &qu=
ot;I
had no intention of disturbing you. I called to Mrs. Ellmother."
The stranger advanced a little way up the stai=
rs,
and answered, "Mrs. Ellmother is not here."
"Do you expect her back soon?"
"Excuse me, miss--I don't expect her back=
at
all."
"Do you mean to say that she has left the
house?"
"Yes, miss. She has left the house."=
Emily's first act--after the discovery of Mrs.
Ellmother's incomprehensible disappearance--was to invite the new servant to
follow her into the sitting-room.
"Can you explain this?" she began.
"No, miss."
"May I ask if you have come here by Mrs.
Ellmother's invitation?"
"By Mrs. Ellmother's request, miss."=
"Can you tell me how she came to make the
request?"
"With pleasure, miss. Perhaps--as you fin=
d me
here, a stranger to yourself, in place of the customary servant--I ought to
begin by giving you a reference."
"And, perhaps (if you will be so kind), by
mentioning your name," Emily added.
"Thank you for reminding me, miss. My nam=
e is
Elizabeth Mosey. I am well known to the gentleman who attends Miss Letitia.=
Dr.
Allday will speak to my character and also to my experience as a nurse. If =
it
would be in any way satisfactory to give you a second reference--"
"Quite needless, Mrs. Mosey."
"Permit me to thank you again, miss. I wa=
s at
home this evening, when Mrs. Ellmother called at my lodgings. Says she, 'I =
have
come here, Elizabeth, to ask a favor of you for old friendship's sake.' Say=
s I,
'My dear, pray command me, whatever it may be.' If this seems rather a hast=
y answer
to make, before I knew what the favor was, might I ask you to bear in mind =
that
Mrs. Ellmother put it to me 'for old friendship's sake'--alluding to my late
husband, and to the business which we carried on at that time? Through no f=
ault
of ours, we got into difficulties. Persons whom we had trusted proved unwor=
thy.
Not to trouble you further, I may say at once, we should have been ruined, =
if
our old friend Mrs. Ellmother had not come forward, and trusted us with the
savings of her lifetime. The money was all paid back again, before my husba=
nd's
death. But I don't consider--and, I think you won't consider--that the obli=
gation
was paid back too. Prudent or not prudent, there is nothing Mrs. Ellmother =
can
ask of me that I am not willing to do. If I have put myself in an awkward
situation (and I don't deny that it looks so) this is the only excuse, miss,
that I can make for my conduct."
Mrs. Mosey was too fluent, and too fond of hea=
ring
the sound of her own eminently persuasive voice. Making allowance for these
little drawbacks, the impression that she produced was decidedly favorable;
and, however rashly she might have acted, her motive was beyond reproach.
Having said some kind words to this effect, Emily led her back to the main
interest of her narrative.
"Did Mrs. Ellmother give no reason for
leaving my aunt, at such a time as this?" she asked.
"The very words I said to her, miss."=
;
"And what did she say, by way of reply?&q=
uot;
"She burst out crying--a thing I have nev=
er
known her to do before, in an experience of twenty years."
"And she really asked you to take her pla=
ce
here, at a moment's notice?"
"That was just what she did," Mrs. M=
osey
answered. "I had no need to tell her I was astonished; my lips spoke f=
or
me, no doubt. She's a hard woman in speech and manner, I admit. But there's
more feeling in her than you would suppose. 'If you are the good friend I t=
ake
you for,' she says, 'don't ask me for reasons; I am doing what is forced on=
me,
and doing it with a heavy heart.' In my place, miss, would you have insiste=
d on
her explaining herself, after that? The one thing I naturally wanted to know
was, if I could speak to some lady, in the position of mistress here, befor=
e I
ventured to intrude. Mrs. Ellmother understood that it was her duty to help=
me
in this particular. Your poor aunt being out of the question she mentioned
you."
"How did she speak of me? In an angry
way?"
"No, indeed--quite the contrary. She says,
'You will find Miss Emily at the cottage. She is Miss Letitia's niece.
Everybody likes her--and everybody is right.'"
"She really said that?"
"Those were her words. And, what is more,=
she
gave me a message for you at parting. 'If Miss Emily is surprised' (that was
how she put it) 'give her my duty and good wishes; and tell her to remember
what I said, when she took my place at her aunt's bedside.' I don't presume=
to
inquire what this means," said Mrs. Mosey respectfully, ready to hear =
what
it meant, if Emily would only be so good as to tell her. "I deliver th=
e message,
miss, as it was delivered to me. After which, Mrs. Ellmother went her way, =
and
I went mine."
"Do you know where she went?"
"No, miss."
"Have you nothing more to tell me?"<= o:p>
"Nothing more; except that she gave me my
directions, of course, about the nursing. I took them down in writing--and =
you
will find them in their proper place, with the prescriptions and the
medicines."
Acting at once on this hint, Emily led the way=
to
her aunt's room.
Miss Letitia was silent, when the new nurse so=
ftly
parted the curtains--looked in--and drew them together again. Consulting he=
r watch,
Mrs. Mosey compared her written directions with the medicine-bottles on the
table, and set one apart to be used at the appointed time. "Nothing, so
far, to alarm us," she whispered. "You look sadly pale and tired,=
miss.
Might I advise you to rest a little?"
"If there is any change, Mrs. Mosey--eith=
er
for the better or the worse--of course you will let me know?"
"Certainly, miss."
Emily returned to the sitting-room: not to rest
(after all that she had heard), but to think.
=
Amid
much that was unintelligible, certain plain conclusions presented themselve=
s to
her mind.
After what the doctor had already said to Emil=
y,
on the subject of delirium generally, Mrs. Ellmother's proceedings became
intelligible: they proved that she knew by experience the perilous course t=
aken
by her mistress's wandering thoughts, when they expressed themselves in wor=
ds. This
explained the concealment of Miss Letitia's illness from her niece, as well=
as
the reiterated efforts of the old servant to prevent Emily from entering the
bedroom.
But the event which had just happened--that is=
to
say, Mrs. Ellmother's sudden departure from the cottage--was not only of
serious importance in itself, but pointed to a startling conclusion.
The faithful maid had left the mistress, whom =
she
had loved and served, sinking under a fatal illness--and had put another wo=
man
in her place, careless of what that woman might discover by listening at th=
e bedside--rather
than confront Emily after she had been within hearing of her aunt while the
brain of the suffering woman was deranged by fever. There was the state of =
the
case, in plain words.
In what frame of mind had Mrs. Ellmother adopt=
ed
this desperate course of action?
To use her own expression, she had deserted Mi=
ss
Letitia "with a heavy heart." To judge by her own language addres=
sed
to Mrs. Mosey, she had left Emily to the mercy of a stranger--animated,
nevertheless, by sincere feelings of attachment and respect. That her fears=
had
taken for granted suspicion which Emily had not felt, and discoveries which
Emily had (as yet) not made, in no way modified the serious nature of the i=
nference
which her conduct justified. The disclosure which this woman dreaded--who c=
ould
doubt it now?--directly threatened Emily's peace of mind. There was no
disguising it: the innocent niece was associated with an act of deception,
which had been, until that day, the undetected secret of the aunt and the
aunt's maid.
In this conclusion, and in this only, was to be found the rational explanation of Mrs. Ellmother's choice--placed between t= he alternatives of submitting to discovery by Emily, or of leaving the house.<= o:p>
=
Poor
Miss Letitia's writing-table stood near the window of the sitting-room.
Shrinking from the further pursuit of thoughts which might end in disposing=
her
mind to distrust of her dying aunt, Emily looked round in search of some
employment sufficiently interesting to absorb her attention. The writing-ta=
ble
reminded her that she owed a letter to Cecilia. That helpful friend had sur=
ely
the first claim to know why she had failed to keep her engagement with Sir
Jervis Redwood.
After mentioning the telegram which had follow=
ed
Mrs. Rook's arrival at the school, Emily's letter proceeded in these terms:=
"As soon as I had in some degree recovered
myself, I informed Mrs. Rook of my aunt's serious illness.
"Although she carefully confined herself =
to
commonplace expressions of sympathy, I could see that it was equally a reli=
ef
to both of us to feel that we were prevented from being traveling companion=
s.
Don't suppose that I have taken a capricious dislike to Mrs. Rook--or that =
you
are in any way to blame for the unfavorable impression which she has produc=
ed on
me. I will make this plain when we meet. In the meanwhile, I need only tell=
you
that I gave her a letter of explanation to present to Sir Jervis Redwood. I
also informed him of my address in London: adding a request that he would
forward your letter, in case you have written to me before you receive these
lines.
"Kind Mr. Alban Morris accompanied me to =
the
railway-station, and arranged with the guard to take special care of me on =
the
journey to London. We used to think him rather a heartless man. We were qui=
te wrong.
I don't know what his plans are for spending the summer holidays. Go where =
he
may, I remember his kindness; my best wishes go with him.
"My dear, I must not sadden your enjoymen=
t of
your pleasant visit to the Engadine, by writing at any length of the sorrow
that I am suffering. You know how I love my aunt, and how gratefully I have
always felt her motherly goodness to me. The doctor does not conceal the tr=
uth.
At her age, there is no hope: my father's last-left relation, my one deares=
t friend,
is dying.
"No! I must not forget that I have another
friend--I must find some comfort in thinking of you.
"I do so long in my solitude for a letter
from my dear Cecilia. Nobody comes to see me, when I most want sympathy; I =
am a
stranger in this vast city. The members of my mother's family are settled in
Australia: they have not even written to me, in all the long years that have
passed since her death. You remember how cheerfully I used to look forward =
to my
new life, on leaving school? Good-by, my darling. While I can see your sweet
face, in my thoughts, I don't despair--dark as it looks now--of the future =
that
is before me."
Emily had closed and addressed her letter, and=
was
just rising from her chair, when she heard the voice of the new nurse at the
door.
=
"May I say a word?" Mrs. Mosey inqui=
red.
She entered the room--pale and trembling. Seeing that ominous change, Emily
dropped back into her chair.
"Dead?" she said faintly.
Mrs. Mosey looked at her in vacant surprise.
"I wish to say, miss, that your aunt has
frightened me."
Even that vague allusion was enough for Emily.=
"You need say no more," she replied.
"I know but too well how my aunt's mind is affected by the fever."=
;
Confused and frightened as she was, Mrs. Mosey
still found relief in her customary flow of words.
"Many and many a person have I nursed in
fever," she announced. "Many and many a person have I heard say
strange things. Never yet, miss, in all my experience--!"
"Don't tell me of it!" Emily interpo=
sed.
"Oh, but I must tell you! In your own
interests, Miss Emily--in your own interests. I won't be inhuman enough to =
leave
you alone in the house to-night; but if this delirium goes on, I must ask y=
ou
to get another nurse. Shocking suspicions are lying in wait for me in that
bedroom, as it were. I can't resist them as I ought, if I go back again, and
hear your aunt saying what she has been saying for the last half hour and m=
ore.
Mrs. Ellmother has expected impossibilities of me; and Mrs. Ellmother must =
take
the consequences. I don't say she didn't warn me--speaking, you will please=
to
understand, in the strictest confidence. 'Elizabeth,' she says, 'you know h=
ow
wildly people talk in Miss Letitia's present condition. Pay no heed to it,'=
she
says. 'Let it go in at one ear and out at the other,' she says. 'If Miss Em=
ily
asks questions--you know nothing about it. If she's frightened--you know no=
thing
about it. If she bursts into fits of crying that are dreadful to see, pity =
her,
poor thing, but take no notice.' All very well, and sounds like speaking ou=
t,
doesn't it? Nothing of the sort! Mrs. Ellmother warns me to expect this, th=
at,
and the other. But there is one horrid thing (which I heard, mind, over and
over again at your aunt's bedside) that she does not prepare me for; and th=
at
horrid thing is--Murder!"
At that last word, Mrs. Mosey dropped her voic=
e to
a whisper--and waited to see what effect she had produced.
Sorely tried already by the cruel perplexities=
of
her position, Emily's courage failed to resist the first sensation of horro=
r,
aroused in her by the climax of the nurse's hysterical narrative. Encourage=
d by
her silence, Mrs. Mosey went on. She lifted one hand with theatrical solemn=
ity--and
luxuriously terrified herself with her own horrors.
"An inn, Miss Emily; a lonely inn, somewh=
ere
in the country; and a comfortless room at the inn, with a makeshift bed at =
one
end of it, and a makeshift bed at the other--I give you my word of honor, t=
hat
was how your aunt put it. She spoke of two men next; two men asleep (you un=
derstand)
in the two beds. I think she called them 'gentlemen'; but I can't be sure, =
and
I wouldn't deceive you--you know I wouldn't deceive you, for the world. Miss
Letitia muttered and mumbled, poor soul. I own I was getting tired of
listening--when she burst out plain again, in that one horrid word--Oh, mis=
s,
don't be impatient! don't interrupt me!"
Emily did interrupt, nevertheless. In some deg=
ree
at least she had recovered herself. "No more of it!" she
said--"I won't hear a word more."
But Mrs. Mosey was too resolutely bent on
asserting her own importance, by making the most of the alarm that she had =
suffered,
to be repressed by any ordinary method of remonstrance. Without paying the
slightest attention to what Emily had said, she went on again more loudly a=
nd
more excitably than ever.
"Listen, miss--listen! The dreadful part =
of
it is to come; you haven't heard about the two gentlemen yet. One of them w=
as
murdered--what do you think of that!--and the other (I heard your aunt say =
it,
in so many words) committed the crime. Did Miss Letitia fancy she was
addressing a lot of people when you were nursing her? She called out, like a
person making public proclamation, when I was in her room. 'Whoever you are=
, good
people' (she says), 'a hundred pounds reward, if you find the runaway murde=
rer.
Search everywhere for a poor weak womanish creature, with rings on his litt=
le
white hands. There's nothing about him like a man, except his voice--a fine
round voice. You'll know him, my friends--the wretch, the monster--you'll k=
now
him by his voice.' That was how she put it; I tell you again, that was how =
she
put it. Did you hear her scream? Ah, my dear young lady, so much the better=
for
you! 'O the horrid murder' (she says)--'hush it up!' I'll take my Bible oat=
h before
the magistrate," cried Mrs. Mosey, starting out of her chair, "yo=
ur
aunt said, 'Hush it up!'"
Emily crossed the room. The energy of her
character was roused at last. She seized the foolish woman by the shoulders,
forced her back in the chair, and looked her straight in the face without
uttering a word.
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 cott=
age 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 anticipations--and how had they been fulfilled? She had been
treated like a mad woman in a state of revolt!
"How dare you assault me?" she asked
piteously. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. God 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
pass 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 aun=
t.
Now that she had regained the power to think, =
she
felt a hateful doubt pressed on her by Mrs. Mosey's disclosures. Having tak=
en
for granted that there was a foundation in truth for what she herself had h=
eard
in her aunt's room, could she reasonably resist the conclusion that there m=
ust
be a foundation in truth for what Mrs. Mosey had heard, under similar
circumstances?
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 Letitia's room.
"Do you mean to keep me waiting much long=
er,
miss?"
"Not a moment longer, now you are composed
again," Emily answered. "I have been thinking of what has happene=
d;
and I fail to see any necessity for putting off your departure until the do=
ctor
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. Mose=
y,
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. M=
osey
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 reduc=
ed
to forcing my company on anybody."
Mrs. Mosey put her handkerchief in her pocket,=
and
asserted 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.
=
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 attrac=
tion
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 si=
mply
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 l=
ady,
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?&qu=
ot;
"I don't say that," the doctor repli=
ed.
"The action of your heart is very feeble. Take the medicine that I sha=
ll
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.&qu=
ot;
"God forbid!" the lady said to herse=
lf.
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, befo=
re
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 mess=
age,
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."<= o:p>
"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 on=
e of
my women servants to stay with her for the present. Did you know her
father?"
Miss Jethro passed over the question, as if she
had not heard it. "Has the young lady dismissed her aunt's servants?&q=
uot;
she asked.
"Her aunt kept but one servant, ma'am. The
woman has spared Miss Emily the trouble of dismissing her." He briefly
alluded to Mrs. Ellmother's desertion of her mistress. "I can't explain
it," he said when he had done. "Can you?"
"What makes you think, sir, that I can he=
lp
you? I have never even heard of the servant--and the mistress was a strange=
r to
me."
At Doctor Allday's age a man is not easily
discouraged by reproof, even when it is administered by a handsome woman.
"I thought you might have known Miss Emily's father," he persiste=
d.
Miss Jethro rose, and wished him good-morning.
"I must not occupy any more of your valuable time," she said.
"Suppose you wait a minute?" the doc=
tor
suggested.
Impenetrable as ever, he rang the bell. "=
Any
patients in the waiting-room?" he inquired. "You see I have time =
to
spare," he resumed, when the man had replied in the negative. "I =
take
an interest in this poor girl; and I thought--"
"If you think that I take an interest in =
her,
too," Miss Jethro interposed, "you are perfectly right--I knew he=
r father,"
she added abruptly; the allusion to Emily having apparently reminded her of=
the
question which she had hitherto declined to notice.
"In that case," Doctor Allday procee=
ded,
"I want a word of advice. Won't you sit down?"
She took a chair in silence. An irregular move=
ment
in the lower part of her veil seemed to indicate that she was breathing with
difficulty. The doctor observed her with close attention. "Let me see =
my
prescription again," he said. Having added an ingredient, he handed it
back with a word of explanation. "Your nerves are more out of order th=
an I
supposed. The hardest disease to cure that I know of is--worry."
The hint could hardly have been plainer; but it
was lost on Miss Jethro. Whatever her troubles might be, her medical advise=
r was
not made acquainted with them. Quietly folding up the prescription, she
reminded him that he had proposed to ask her advice.
"In what way can I be of service to
you?" she inquired.
"I am afraid I must try your patience,&qu=
ot;
the doctor acknowledged, "if I am to answer that question plainly.&quo=
t;
With these prefatory words, he described the
events that had followed Mrs. Mosey's appearance at the cottage. "I am
only doing justice to this foolish woman," he continued, "when I =
tell
you that she came here, after she had left Miss Emily, and did her best to =
set
matters right. I went to the poor girl directly--and I felt it my duty, aft=
er
looking at her aunt, not to leave her alone for that night. When I got home=
the
next morning, whom do you think I found waiting for me? Mrs. Ellmother!&quo=
t;
He stopped--in the expectation that Miss Jethro
would express some surprise. Not a word passed her lips.
"Mrs. Ellmother's object was to ask how h=
er
mistress was going on," the doctor proceeded. "Every day while Mi=
ss
Letitia still lived, she came here to make the same inquiry--without a word=
of
explanation. On the day of the funeral, there she was at the church, dresse=
d in
deep mourning; and, as I can personally testify, crying bitterly. When the
ceremony was over--can you believe it?--she slipped away before Miss Emily =
or I
could speak to her. We have seen nothing more of her, and heard nothing mor=
e, from
that time to this."
He stopped again, the silent lady still listen=
ing
without making any remark.
"Have you no opinion to express?" the
doctor asked bluntly.
"I am waiting," Miss Jethro answered=
.
"Waiting--for what?"
"I haven't heard yet, why you want my
advice."
Doctor Allday's observation of humanity had
hitherto reckoned want of caution among the deficient moral qualities in the
natures of women. He set down Miss Jethro as a remarkable exception to a
general rule.
"I want you to advise me as to the right
course to take with Miss Emily," he said. "She has assured me she
attaches no serious importance to her aunt's wanderings, when the poor old
lady's fever was at its worst. I don't doubt that she speaks the truth--but=
I
have my own reasons for being afraid that she is deceiving herself. Will you
bear this in mind?"
"Yes--if it's necessary."
"In plain words, Miss Jethro, you think I=
am
still wandering from the point. I have got to the point. Yesterday, Miss Em=
ily
told me that she hoped to be soon composed enough to examine the papers lef=
t by
her aunt."
Miss Jethro suddenly turned in her chair, and
looked at Doctor Allday.
"Are you beginning to feel interested?&qu=
ot;
the doctor asked mischievously.
She neither acknowledged nor denied it. "=
Go
on"--was all she said.
"I don't know how you feel," he
proceeded; "I am afraid of the discoveries which she may make; and I am
strongly tempted to advise her to leave the proposed examination to her aun=
t's
lawyer. Is there anything in your knowledge of Miss Emily's late father, wh=
ich
tells you that I am right?"
"Before I reply," said Miss Jethro,
"it may not be amiss to let the young lady speak for herself."
"How is she to do that?" the doctor
asked.
Miss Jethro pointed to the writing table.
"Look there," she said. "You have not yet opened Miss Emily's
letter."
=
Absorbed in the effort to overcome his patient=
's
reserve, the doctor had forgotten Emily's letter. He opened it immediately.=
After reading the first sentence, he looked up
with an expression of annoyance. "She has begun the examination of the
papers already," he said.
"Then I can be of no further use to
you," Miss Jethro rejoined. She made a second attempt to leave the roo=
m.
Doctor Allday turned to the next page of the
letter. "Stop!" he cried. "She has found something--and here=
it
is."
He held up a small printed Handbill, which had
been placed between the first and second pages. "Suppose you look at
it?" he said.
"Whether I am interested in it or not?&qu=
ot;
Miss Jethro asked.
"You may be interested in what Miss Emily
says about it in her letter."
"Do you propose to show me her letter?&qu=
ot;
"I propose to read it to you."
Miss Jethro took the Handbill without further
objection. It was expressed in these words:
"MURDER. 100 POUNDS REWARD.--Whereas a mu=
rder
was committed on the thirtieth September, 1877, at the Hand-in-Hand Inn, in=
the
village of Zeeland, Hampshire, the above reward will be paid to any person =
or persons
whose exertions shall lead to the arrest and conviction of the suspected
murderer. Name not known. Supposed age, between twenty and thirty years. A
well-made man, of small stature. Fair complexion, delicate features, clear =
blue
eye s. Hair light, and cut rather short. Clean shaven, with the exception of
narrow half-whiskers. Small, white, well-shaped hands. Wore valuable rings =
on
the two last fingers of the left hand. Dressed neatly in a dark-gray
tourist-suit. Carried a knapsack, as if on a pedestrian excursion. Remarkab=
ly
good voice, smooth, full, and persuasive. Ingratiating manners. Apply to the
Chief Inspector, Metropolitan Police Office, London."
Miss Jethro laid aside the Handbill without any
visible appearance of agitation. The doctor took up Emily's letter, and rea=
d as
follows:
"You will be as much relieved as I was, my
kind friend, when you look at the paper inclosed. I found it loose in a bla=
nk
book, with cuttings from newspapers, and odd announcements of lost property=
and
other curious things (all huddled together between the leaves), which my au=
nt
no doubt intended to set in order and fix in their proper places. She must =
have
been thinking of her book, poor soul, in her last illness. Here is the orig=
in
of those 'terrible words' which frightened stupid Mrs. Mosey! Is it not
encouraging to have discovered such a confirmation of my opinion as this? I
feel a new interest in looking over the papers that still remain to be
examined--"
Before he could get to the end of the sentence
Miss Jethro's agitation broke through her reserve.
"Do what you proposed to do!" she bu=
rst
out vehemently. "Stop her at once from carrying her examination any
further! If she hesitates, insist on it!"
At last Doctor Allday had triumphed! "It =
has
been a long time coming," he remarked, in his cool way; "and it's=
all
the more welcome on that account. You dread the discoveries she may make, Mi=
ss
Jethro, as I do. And you know what those discoveries may be."
"What I do know, or don't know, is of no
importance." she answered sharply.
"Excuse me, it is of very serious importa=
nce.
I have no authority over this poor girl--I am not even an old friend. You t=
ell
me to insist. Help me to declare honestly that I know of circumstances which
justify me; and I may insist to some purpose."
Miss Jethro lifted her veil for the first time,
and eyed him searchingly.
"I believe I can trust you," she sai=
d.
"Now listen! The one consideration on which I consent to open my lips,=
is
consideration for Miss Emily's tranquillity. Promise me absolute secrecy, on
your word of honor."
He gave the promise.
"I want to know one thing, first," M=
iss
Jethro proceeded. "Did she tell you--as she once told me--that her fat=
her
had died of heart-complaint?"
"Yes."
"Did you put any questions to her?"<= o:p>
"I asked how long ago it was."
"And she told you?"
"She told me."
"You wish to know, Doctor Allday, what
discoveries Miss Emily may yet make, among her aunt's papers. Judge for
yourself, when I tell you that she has been deceived about her father's
death."
"Do you mean that he is still living?&quo=
t;
"I mean that she has been deceived--purpo=
sely
deceived--about the manner of his death."
"Who was the wretch who did it?"
"You are wronging the dead, sir! The truth
can only have been concealed out of the purest motives of love and pity. I
don't desire to disguise the conclusion at which I have arrived after what I
have heard from yourself. The person responsible must be Miss Emily's aunt-=
-and
the old servant must have been in her confidence. Remember! You are bound i=
n honor
not to repeat to any living creature what I have just said."
The doctor followed Miss Jethro to the door.
"You have not yet told me," he said, "how her father died.&q=
uot;
"I have no more to tell you."
With those words she left him.
He rang for his servant. To wait until the hou=
r at
which he was accustomed to go out, might be to leave Emily's peace of mind =
at
the mercy of an accident. "I am going to the cottage," he said.
"If anybody wants me, I shall be back in a quarter of an hour."
On the point of leaving the house, he remember=
ed
that Emily would probably expect him to return the Handbill. As he took it =
up,
the first lines caught his eye: he read the date at which the murder had be=
en committed,
for the second time. On a sudden the ruddy color left his face.
"Good God!" he cried, "her fath=
er
was murdered--and that woman was concerned in it."
Following the impulse that urged him, he secur=
ed
the Handbill in his pocketbook--snatched up the card which his patient had
presented as her introduction--and instantly left the house. He called the
first cab that passed him, and drove to Miss Jethro's lodgings.
"Gone"--was the servant's answer whe=
n he
inquired for her. He insisted on speaking to the landlady. "Hardly ten
minutes have passed," he said, "since she left my house."
"Hardly ten minutes have passed," the
landlady replied, "since that message was brought here by a boy."=
The message had been evidently written in great
haste: "I am unexpectedly obliged to leave London. A bank note is incl=
osed
in payment of my debt to you. I will send for my luggage."
The doctor withdrew.
"Unexpectedly obliged to leave London,&qu=
ot;
he repeated, as he got into the cab again. "Her flight condemns her: n=
ot a
doubt of it now. As fast as you can!" he shouted to the man; directing=
him
to drive to Emily's cottage.
=
Arriving at the cottage, Doctor Allday discove=
red
a gentleman, who was just closing the garden gate behind him.
"Has Miss Emily had a visitor?" he
inquired, when the servant admitted him.
"The gentleman left a letter for Miss Emi=
ly,
sir."
"Did he ask to see her?"
"He asked after Miss Letitia's health. Wh=
en
he heard that she was dead, he seemed to be startled, and went away immedia=
tely."
"Did he give his name?"
"No, sir."
The doctor found Emily absorbed over her lette=
r.
His anxiety to forestall any possible discovery of the deception which had
concealed the terrible story of her father's death, kept Doctor Allday's
vigilance on the watch. He doubted the gentleman who had abstained from giv=
ing his
name; he even distrusted the other unknown person who had written to Emily.=
She looked up. Her face relieved him of his
misgivings, before she could speak.
"At last, I have heard from my dearest
friend," she said. "You remember what I told you about Cecilia? H=
ere
is a letter--a long delightful letter--from the Engadine, left at the door =
by
some gentleman unknown. I was questioning the servant when you rang the
bell."
"You may question me, if you prefer it. I
arrived just as the gentleman was shutting your garden gate."
"Oh, tell me! what was he like?"
"Tall, and thin, and dark. Wore a vile
republican-looking felt hat. Had nasty ill-tempered wrinkles between his
eyebrows. The sort of man I distrust by instinct."
"Why?"
"Because he doesn't shave."
"Do you mean that he wore a beard?"<= o:p>
"Yes; a curly black beard."
Emily clasped her hands in amazement. "Ca=
n it
be Alban Morris?" she exclaimed.
The doctor looked at her with a sardonic smile=
; he
thought it likely that he had discovered her sweetheart.
"Who is Mr. Alban Morris?" he asked.=
"The drawing-master at Miss Ladd's
school."
Doctor Allday dropped the subject: masters at
ladies' schools were not persons who interested him. He returned to the pur=
pose
which had brought him to the cottage--and produced the Handbill that had be=
en
sent to him in Emily's letter.
"I suppose you want to have it back
again?" he said.
She took it from him, and looked at it with
interest.
"Isn't it strange," she suggested,
"that the murderer should have escaped, with such a careful descriptio=
n of
him as this circulated all over England?"
She read the description to the doctor.
"'Name not known. Supposed age, between
twenty-five and thirty years. A well-made man, of small stature. Fair
complexion, delicate features, clear blue eyes. Hair light, and cut rather
short. Clean shaven, with the exception of narrow half-whiskers. Small, whi=
te,
well-shaped hands. Wore valuable rings on the two last fingers of the left =
hand.
Dressed neatly--'"
"That part of the description is
useless," the doctor remarked; "he would change his clothes."=
;
"But could he change his voice?" Emi=
ly
objected. "Listen to this: 'Remarkably good voice, smooth, full, and
persuasive.' And here again! 'Ingratiating manners.' Perhaps you will say he
could put on an appearance of rudeness?"
"I will say this, my dear. He would be ab=
le
to disguise himself so effectually that ninety-nine people out of a hundred
would fail to identify him, either by his voice or his manner."
"How?"
"Look back at the description: 'Hair cut
rather short, clean shaven, with the exception of narrow half-whiskers.' The
wretch was safe from pursuit; he had ample time at his disposal--don't you =
see
how he could completely alter the appearance of his head and face? No more,=
my
dear, of this disagreeable subject! Let us get to something interesting. Ha=
ve you
found anything else among your aunt's papers?"
"I have met with a great
disappointment," Emily replied. "Did I tell you how I discovered =
the
Handbill?"
"No."
"I found it, with the scrap-book and the
newspaper cuttings, under a collection of empty boxes and bottles, in a dra=
wer
of the washhand-stand. And I naturally expected to make far more interestin=
g discoveries
in this room. My search was over in five minutes. Nothing in the cabinet th=
ere,
in the corner, but a few books and some china. Nothing in the writing-desk,=
on
that side-table, but a packet of note-paper and some sealing-wax. Nothing h=
ere,
in the drawers, but tradesmen's receipts, materials for knitting, and old
photographs. She must have destroyed all her papers, poor dear, before her =
last
illness; and the Handbill and the other things can only have escaped, becau=
se they
were left in a place which she never thought of examining. Isn't it provoki=
ng?"
With a mind inexpressibly relieved, good Doctor
Allday asked permission to return to his patients: leaving Emily to devote
herself to her friend's letter.
On his way out, he noticed that the door of the
bed-chamber on the opposite side of the passage stood open. Since Miss
Letitia's death the room had not been used. Well within view stood the
washhand-stand to which Emily had alluded. The doctor advanced to the house=
door--reflected--hesitated--and
looked toward the empty room.
It had struck him that there might be a second
drawer which Emily had overlooked. Would he be justified in setting this do=
ubt
at rest? If he passed over ordinary scruples it would not be without excuse.
Miss Letitia had spoken to him of her affairs, and had asked him to act (in=
Emily's
interest) as co-executor with her lawyer. The rapid progress of the illness=
had
made it impossible for her to execute the necessary codicil. But the doctor=
had
been morally (if not legally) taken into her confidence--and, for that reas=
on,
he decided that he had a right in this serious matter to satisfy his own mi=
nd.
A glance was enough to show him that no second
drawer had been overlooked.
There was no other discovery to detain the doc=
tor.
The wardrobe only contained the poor old lady's clothes; the one cupboard w=
as
open and empty. On the point of leaving the room, he went back to the washh=
and-stand.
While he had the opportunity, it might not be amiss to make sure that Emily=
had
thoroughly examined those old boxes and bottles, which she had alluded to w=
ith
some little contempt.
The drawer was of considerable length. When he
tried to pull it completely out from the grooves in which it ran, it resist=
ed
him. In his present frame of mind, this was a suspicious circumstance in
itself. He cleared away the litter so as to make room for the introduction =
of
his hand and arm into the drawer. In another moment his fingers touched a p=
iece
of paper, jammed between the inner end of the drawer and the bottom of the =
flat
surface of the washhand-stand. With a little care, he succeeded in extricat=
ing
the paper. Only pausing to satisfy himself that there was nothing else to be
found, and to close the drawer after replacing its contents, he left the
cottage.
The cab was waiting for him. On the drive back=
to
his own house, he opened the crumpled paper. It proved to be a letter addre=
ssed
to Miss Letitia; and it was signed by no less a person than Emily's schoolm=
istress.
Looking back from the end to the beginning, Doctor Allday discovered, in the
first sentence, the name of--Miss Jethro.
But for the interview of that morning with his patient he might have doubted the propriety of making himself further acquainted with the letter. As things were, he read it without hesitation.<= o:p>
"DEAR MADAM--I cannot but regard it as
providential circumstance that your niece, in writing to you from my house,
should have mentioned, among other events of her school life, the arrival o=
f my
new teacher, Miss Jethro.
"To say that I was surprised is to express
very inadequately what I felt when I read your letter, informing me
confidentially that I had employed a woman who was unworthy to associate wi=
th
the young persons placed under my care. It is impossible for me to suppose =
that
a lady in your position, and possessed of your high principles, would make =
such
a serious accusation as this, without unanswerable reasons for doing so. At=
the
same time I cannot, consistently with my duty as a Christian, suffer my opi=
nion
of Miss Jethro to be in any way modified, until proofs are laid before me w=
hich
it is impossible to dispute.
"Placing the same confidence in your
discretion, which you have placed in mine, I now inclose the references and
testimonials which Miss Jethro submitted to me, when she presented herself =
to
fill the vacant situation in my school.
"I earnestly request you to lose no time =
in
instituting the confidential inquiries which you have volunteered to make.
Whatever the result may be, pray return to me the inclosures which I have
trusted to your care, and believe me, dear madam, in much suspense and anxi=
ety,
sincerely yours,
"AMELIA LADD."
=
It is
needless to describe, at any length, the impression which these lines produ=
ced
on the doctor.
If he had heard what Emily had heard at the ti=
me
of her aunt's last illness, he would have called to mind Miss Letitia's
betrayal of her interest in some man unknown, whom she believed to have been
beguiled by Miss Jethro--and he would have perceived that the vindictive
hatred, thus produced, must have inspired the letter of denunciation which =
the schoolmistress
had acknowledged. He would also have inferred that Miss Letitia's inquiries=
had
proved her accusation to be well founded--if he had known of the new teache=
r's
sudden dismissal from the school. As things were, he was merely confirmed in
his bad opinion of Miss Jethro; and he was induced, on reflection, to keep =
his
discovery to himself.
"If poor Miss Emily saw the old lady
exhibited in the character of an informer," he thought, "what a b=
low
would be struck at her innocent respect for the memory of her aunt!"
=
In the meantime, Emily, left by herself, had h=
er
own correspondence to occupy her attention. Besides the letter from Cecilia
(directed to the care of Sir Jervis Redwood), she had received some lines
addressed to her by Sir Jervis himself. The two inclosures had been secured=
in
a sealed envelope, directed to the cottage.
If Alban Morris had been indeed the person tru=
sted
as messenger by Sir Jervis, the conclusion that followed filled Emily with
overpowering emotions of curiosity and surprise.
Having no longer the motive of serving and
protecting her, Alban must, nevertheless, have taken the journey to
Northumberland. He must have gained Sir Jervis Redwood's favor and
confidence--and he might even have been a guest at the baronet's country
seat--when Cecilia's letter arrived. What did it mean?
Emily looked back at her experience of her last
day at school, and recalled her consultation with Alban on the subject of M=
rs.
Rook. Was he still bent on clearing up his suspicions of Sir Jervis's
housekeeper? And, with that end in view, had he followed the woman, on her
return to her master's place of abode?
Suddenly, almost irritably, Emily snatched up =
Sir
Jervis's letter. Before the doctor had come in, she had glanced at it, and =
had
thrown it aside in her impatience to read what Cecilia had written. In her
present altered frame of mind, she was inclined to think that Sir Jervis mi=
ght be
the more interesting correspondent of the two.
On returning to his letter, she was disappoint=
ed
at the outset.
In the first place, his handwriting was so
abominably bad that she was obliged to guess at his meaning. In the second
place, he never hinted at the circumstances under which Cecilia's letter ha=
d been
confided to the gentleman who had left it at her door.
She would once more have treated the baronet's
communication with contempt--but for the discovery that it contained an off=
er
of employment in London, addressed to herself.
Sir Jervis had necessarily been obliged to eng=
age
another secretary in Emily's absence. But he was still in want of a person =
to
serve his literary interests in London. He had reason to believe that
discoveries made by modern travelers in Central America had been reported f=
rom
time to time by the English press; and he wished copies to be taken of any =
notices
of this sort which might be found, on referring to the files of newspapers =
kept
in the reading-room of the British Museum. If Emily considered herself capa=
ble
of contributing in this way to the completeness of his great work on "=
the
ruined cities," she had only to apply to his bookseller in London, who
would pay her the customary remuneration and give her every assistance of w=
hich
she might stand in need. The bookseller's name and address followed (with
nothing legible but the two words "Bond Street"), and there was an
end of Sir Jervis's proposal.
Emily laid it aside, deferring her answer until
she had read Cecilia's letter.
=
"I am making a little excursion from the
Engadine, my dearest of all dear friends. Two charming fellow-travelers take
care of me; and we may perhaps get as far as the Lake of Como.
"My sister (already much improved in heal=
th)
remains at St. Moritz with the old governess. The moment I know what exact
course we are going to take, I shall write to Julia to forward any letters
which arrive in my absence. My life, in this earthly paradise, will be only
complete when I hear from my darling Emily.
"In the meantime, we are staying for the
night at some interesting place, the name of which I have unaccountably
forgotten; and here I am in my room, writing to you at last--dying to know =
if
Sir Jervis has yet thrown himself at your feet, and offered to make you Lady
Redwood with magnificent settlements.
"But you are waiting to hear who my new
friends are. My dear, one of them is, next to yourself, the most delightful
creature in existence. Society knows her as Lady Janeaway. I love her alrea=
dy,
by her Christian name; she is my friend Doris. And she reciprocates my
sentiments.
"You will now understand that union of
sympathies made us acquainted with each other.
"If there is anything in me to be proud o=
f, I
think it must be my admirable appetite. And, if I have a passion, the name =
of
it is Pastry. Here again, Lady Doris reciprocates my sentiments. We sit nex=
t to
each other at the table d'hote.
"Good heavens, I have forgotten her husba=
nd!
They have been married rather more than a month. Did I tell you that she is
just two years older than I am?
"I declare I am forgetting him again! He =
is
Lord Janeaway. Such a quiet modest man, and so easily amused. He carries wi=
th
him everywhere a dirty little tin case, with air holes in the cover. He goes
softly poking about among bushes and brambles, and under rocks, and behind =
old
wooden houses. When he has caught some hideous insect that makes one shudde=
r, he
blushes with pleasure, and looks at his wife and me, and says, with the
prettiest lisp: 'This is what I call enjoying the day.' To see the manner in
which he obeys Her is, between ourselves, to feel proud of being a woman.
"Where was I? Oh, at the table d'hote.
"Never, Emily--I say it with a solemn sen=
se
of the claims of truth--never have I eaten such an infamous, abominable,
maddeningly bad dinner, as the dinner they gave us on our first day at the
hotel. I ask you if I am not patient; I appeal to your own recollection of
occasions when I have exhibited extraordinary self-control. My dear, I held=
out
until they brought the pastry round. I took one bite, and committed the most
shocking offense against good manners at table that you can imagine. My
handkerchief, my poor innocent handkerchief, received the horrid--please
suppose the rest. My hair stands on end, when I think of it. Our neighbors =
at
the table saw me. The coarse men laughed. The sweet young bride, sincerely
feeling for me, said, 'Will you allow me to shake hands? I did exactly what=
you
have done the day before yesterday.' Such was the beginning of my friendship
with Lady Doris Janeaway.
"We are two resolute women--I mean that s=
he
is resolute, and that I follow her--and we have asserted our right of dinin=
g to
our own satisfaction, by means of an interview with the chief cook.
"This interesting person is an ex-Zouave =
in
the French army. Instead of making excuses, he confessed that the barbarous
tastes of the English and American visitors had so discouraged him, that he=
had
lost all pride and pleasure in the exercise of his art. As an example of wh=
at
he meant, he mentioned his experience of two young Englishmen who could spe=
ak no
foreign language. The waiters reported that they objected to their breakfas=
ts,
and especially to the eggs. Thereupon (to translate the Frenchman's own way=
of
putting it) he exhausted himself in exquisite preparations of eggs. Eggs a =
la
tripe, au gratin, a l'Aurore, a la Dauphine, a la Poulette, a la Tartare, a=
la
Venitienne, a la Bordelaise, and so on, and so on. Still the two young
gentlemen were not satisfied. The ex-Zouave, infuriated; wounded in his hon=
or, disgraced
as a professor, insisted on an explanation. What, in heaven's name, did they
want for breakfast? They wanted boiled eggs; and a fish which they called a
Bloaterre. It was impossible, he said, to express his contempt for the Engl=
ish
idea of a breakfast, in the presence of ladies. You know how a cat expresses
herself in the presence of a dog--and you will understand the allusion. Oh,
Emily, what dinners we have had, in our own room, since we spoke to that no=
ble
cook!
"Have I any more news to send you? Are you
interested, my dear, in eloquent young clergymen?
"On our first appearance at the public ta=
ble
we noticed a remarkable air of depression among the ladies. Had some
adventurous gentleman tried to climb a mountain, and failed? Had disastrous=
political
news arrived from England; a defeat of the Conservatives, for instance? Had=
a
revolution in the fashions broken out in Paris, and had all our best dresses
become of no earthly value to us? I applied for information to the only lad=
y present
who shone on the company with a cheerful face--my friend Doris, of course.
"'What day was yesterday?' she asked.
"'Sunday,' I answered.
"'Of all melancholy Sundays,' she continu=
ed,
the most melancholy in the calendar. Mr. Miles Mirabel preached his farewel=
l sermon,
in our temporary chapel upstairs.'
"'And you have not recovered it yet?'
"'We are all heart-broken, Miss Wyvil.'
"This naturally interested me. I asked wh=
at
sort of sermons Mr. Mirabel preached. Lady Janeaway said: 'Come up to our r=
oom
after dinner. The subject is too distressing to be discussed in public.'
"She began by making me personally acquai=
nted
with the reverend gentleman--that is to say, she showed me the photographic
portraits of him. They were two in number. One only presented his face. The
other exhibited him at full length, adorned in his surplice. Every lady in =
the congregation
had received the two photographs as a farewell present. 'My portraits,' Lady
Doris remarked, 'are the only complete specimens. The others have been
irretrievably ruined by tears.'
"You will now expect a personal descripti=
on
of this fascinating man. What the photographs failed to tell me, my friend =
was
so kind as to complete from the resources of her own experience. Here is the
result presented to the best of my ability.
"He is young--not yet thirty years of age.
His complexion is fair; his features are delicate, his eyes are clear blue.=
He
has pretty hands, and rings prettier still. And such a voice, and such mann=
ers!
You will say there are plenty of pet parsons who answer to this description.
Wait a little--I have kept his chief distinction till the last. His beautif=
ul light
hair flows in profusion over his shoulders; and his glossy beard waves, at
apostolic length, down to the lower buttons of his waistcoat.
"What do you think of the Reverend Miles
Mirabel now?
"The life and adventures of our charming
young clergyman, bear eloquent testimony to the saintly patience of his
disposition, under trials which would have overwhelmed an ordinary man. (La=
dy
Doris, please notice, quotes in this place the language of his admirers; an=
d I
report Lady Doris.)
"He has been clerk in a lawyer's
office--unjustly dismissed. He has given readings from Shakespeare--infamou=
sly
neglected. He has been secretary to a promenade concert company--deceived b=
y a
penniless manager. He has been employed in negotiations for making foreign =
railways--repudiated
by an unprincipled Government. He has been translator to a publishing
house--declared incapable by envious newspapers and reviews. He has taken
refuge in dramatic criticism--dismissed by a corrupt editor. Through all th=
ese
means of purification for the priestly career, he passed at last into the o=
ne
sphere that was worthy of him: he entered the Church, under the protection =
of
influential friends. Oh, happy change! From that moment his labors have been
blessed. Twice already he has been presented with silver tea-pots filled wi=
th
sovereigns. Go where he may, precious sympathies environ him; and domestic
affection places his knife and fork at innumerable family tables. After a
continental career, which will leave undying recollections, he is now recal=
led
to England--at the suggestion of a person of distinction in the Church, who
prefers a mild climate. It will now be his valued privilege to represent an
absent rector in a country living; remote from cities, secluded in pastoral=
solitude,
among simple breeders of sheep. May the shepherd prove worthy of the flock!=
"Here again, my dear, I must give the mer=
it
where the merit is due. This memoir of Mr. Mirabel is not of my writing. It
formed part of his farewell sermon, preserved in the memory of Lady Doris--=
and
it shows (once more in the language of his admirers) that the truest humili=
ty
may be found in the character of the most gifted man.
"Let me only add, that you will have
opportunities of seeing and hearing this popular preacher, when circumstanc=
es
permit him to address congregations in the large towns. I am at the end of =
my
news; and I begin to feel--after this long, long letter--that it is time to=
go
to bed. Need I say that I have often spoken of you to Doris, and that she e=
ntreats
you to be her friend as well as mine, when we meet again in England?
"Good-by, darling, for the present. With
fondest love,
"Your CECILIA."
"P.S.--I have formed a new habit. In case=
of
feeling hungry in the night, I keep a box of chocolate under the pillow. You
have no idea what a comfort it is. If I ever meet with the man who fulfills=
my
ideal, I shall make it a condition of the marriage settlement, that I am to
have chocolate under the pillow."
=
Without a care to trouble her; abroad or at ho=
me,
finding inexhaustible varieties of amusement; seeing new places, making new=
acquaintances--what
a disheartening contrast did Cecilia's happy life present to the life of her
friend! Who, in Emily's position, could have read that joyously-written let=
ter
from Switzerland, and not have lost heart and faith, for the moment at leas=
t,
as the inevitable result?
A buoyant temperament is of all moral qualities
the most precious, in this respect; it is the one force in us--when virtuous
resolution proves insufficient--which resists by instinct the stealthy
approaches of despair. "I shall only cry," Emily thought, "i=
f I
stay at home; better go out."
Observant persons, accustomed to frequent the London parks, can hardly have failed to notice the number of solitary stran= gers sadly endeavoring to vary their lives by taking a walk. They linger about t= he flower-beds; they sit for hours on the benches; they look with patient curiosity at other people who have companions; they notice ladies on horseb= ack and children at play, with submissive interest; some of the men find compan= y in a pipe, without appearing to enjoy it; some of the women find a substitute = for dinner, in little dry biscuits wrapped in crumpled scraps of paper; they are not sociable; they are hardly ever seen to make acquaintance with each other; perhaps they are shame-faced, or proud, or sullen; perhaps they despair of others, being accustomed to despair of themselves; perhaps they have their reasons for never venturing to encounter curiosity, or their vices which dr= ead detection, or their virtues which suffer hardship with the resignation that= is sufficient for itself. The one thing certain is, that these unfortunate peo= ple resist discovery. We know that they are strangers in London--and we know no more.<= o:p>
And Emily was one of them.
Among the other forlorn wanderers in the Parks,
there appeared latterly a trim little figure in black (with the face protec=
ted
from notice behind a crape veil), which was beginning to be familiar, day a=
fter
day, to nursemaids and children, and to rouse curiosity among harmless soli=
taries
meditating on benches, and idle vagabonds strolling over the grass. The
woman-servant, whom the considerate doctor had provided, was the one person=
in
Emily's absence left to take care of the house. There was no other creature=
who
could be a companion to the friendless girl. Mrs. Ellmother had never shown
herself again since the funeral. Mrs. Mosey could not forget that she had b=
een
(no matter how politely) requested to withdraw. To whom could Emily say,
"Let us go out for a walk?" She had communicated the news of her
aunt's death to Miss Ladd, at Brighton; and had heard from Francine. The wo=
rthy
schoolmistress had written to her with the truest kindness. "Choose yo=
ur
own time, my poor child, and come and stay with me at Brighton; the sooner =
the
better." Emily shrank--not from accepting the invitation--but from
encountering Francine. The hard West Indian heiress looked harder than ever
with a pen in her hand. Her letter announced that she was "getting on =
wretchedly
with her studies (which she hated); she found the masters appointed to inst=
ruct
her ugly and disagreeable (and loathed the sight of them); she had taken a
dislike to Miss Ladd (and time only confirmed that unfavorable impression);
Brighton was always the same; the sea was always the same; the drives were
always the same. Francine felt a presentiment that she should do something =
desperate,
unless Emily joined her, and made Brighton endurable behind the horrid
schoolmistress's back." Solitude in London was a privilege and a pleas=
ure,
viewed as the alternative to such companionship as this.
Emily wrote gratefully to Miss Ladd, and asked=
to
be excused.
Other days had passed drearily since that time;
but the one day that had brought with it Cecilia's letter set past happiness
and present sorrow together so vividly and so cruelly that Emily's courage
sank. She had forced back the tears, in her lonely home; she had gone out to
seek consolation and encouragement under the sunny sky--to find comfort for=
her
sore heart in the radiant summer beauty of flowers and grass, in the sweet
breathing of the air, in the happy heavenward soaring of the birds. No! Mot=
her
Nature is stepmother to the sick at heart. Soon, too soon, she could hardly=
see
where she went. Again and again she resolutely cleared her eyes, under the
shelter of her veil, when passing strangers noticed her; and again and again
the tears found their way back. Oh, if the girls at the school were to see =
her
now--the girls who used to say in their moments of sadness, "Let us go=
to
Emily and be cheered"--would they know her again? She sat down to rest=
and
recover herself on the nearest bench. It was unoccupied. No passing footste=
ps were
audible on the remote path to which she had strayed. Solitude at home! Soli=
tude
in the Park! Where was Cecilia at that moment? In Italy, among the lake s a=
nd
mountains, happy in the company of her light-hearted friend.
The lonely interval passed, and persons came n=
ear.
Two sisters, girls like herself, stopped to rest on the bench.
They were full of their own interests; they ha=
rdly
looked at the stranger in mourning garments. The younger sister was to be m=
arried,
and the elder was to be bridesmaid. They talked of their dresses and their =
presents;
they compared the dashing bridegroom of one with the timid lover of the oth=
er;
they laughed over their own small sallies of wit, over their joyous dreams =
of
the future, over their opinions of the guests invited to the wedding. Too
joyfully restless to remain inactive any longer, they jumped up again from =
the
seat. One of them said, "Polly, I'm too happy!" and danced as she
walked away. The other cried, "Sally, for shame!" and laughed, as=
if
she had hit on the most irresistible joke that ever was made.
Emily rose and went home.
By some mysterious influence which she was una=
ble
to trace, the boisterous merriment of the two girls had roused in her a sen=
se
of revolt against the life that she was leading. Change, speedy change, to =
some
occupation that would force her to exert herself, presented the one promise=
of
brighter days that she could see. To feel this was to be inevitably reminde=
d of
Sir Jervis Redwood. Here was a man, who had never seen her, transformed by =
the
incomprehensible operation of Chance into the friend of whom she stood in
need--the friend who pointed the way to a new world of action, the busy wor=
ld
of readers in the library of the Museum.
Early in the new week, Emily had accepted Sir
Jervis's proposal, and had so interested the bookseller to whom she had been
directed to apply, that he took it on himself to modify the arbitrary
instructions of his employer.
"The old gentleman has no mercy on himsel=
f, and
no mercy on others," he explained, "where his literary labors are
concerned. You must spare yourself, Miss Emily. It is not only absurd, it's
cruel, to expect you to ransack old newspapers for discoveries in Yucatan, =
from
the time when Stephens published his 'Travels in Central America'--nearly f=
orty
years since! Begin with back numbers published within a few years--say five=
years
from the present date--and let us see what your search over that interval w=
ill
bring forth."
Accepting this friendly advice, Emily began wi=
th
the newspaper-volume dating from New Year's Day, 1876.
The first hour of her search strengthened the
sincere sense of gratitude with which she remembered the bookseller's kindn=
ess.
To keep her attention steadily fixed on the one subject that interested her=
employer,
and to resist the temptation to read those miscellaneous items of news which
especially interest women, put her patience and resolution to a merciless t=
est.
Happily for herself, her neighbors on either side were no idlers. To see th=
em
so absorbed over their work that they never once looked at her, after the f=
irst
moment when she took her place between them, was to find exactly the exampl=
e of
which she stood most in need. As the hours wore on, she pursued her weary w=
ay,
down one column and up another, resigned at least (if not quite reconciled =
yet)
to her task. Her labors ended, for the day, with such encouragement as she =
might
derive from the conviction of having, thus far, honestly pursued a useless
search.
News was waiting for her when she reached home,
which raised her sinking spirits.
On leaving the cottage that morning she had gi=
ven
certain instructions, relating to the modest stranger who had taken charge =
of
her correspondence--in case of his paying a second visit, during her absenc=
e at
the Museum. The first words spoken by the servant, on opening the door,
informed her that the unknown gentleman had called again. This time he had
boldly left his card. There was the welcome name that she had expected to
see--Alban Morris.
Having looked at the card, Emily put her first
question to the servant.
"Did you tell Mr. Morris what your orders
were?" she asked.
"Yes, miss; I said I was to have shown him
in, if you had been at home. Perhaps I did wrong; I told him what you told =
me
when you went out this morning--I said you had gone to read at the
Museum."
"What makes you think you did wrong?"=
;
"Well, miss, he didn't say anything, but =
he
looked upset."
"Do you mean that he looked angry?"<= o:p>
The servant shook her head. "Not exactly
angry--puzzled and put out."
"Did he leave any message?"
"He said he would call later, if you woul=
d be
so good as to receive him."
In half an hour more, Alban and Emily were
together again. The light fell full on her face as she rose to receive him.=
"Oh, how you have suffered!"
The words escaped him before he could restrain
himself. He looked at her with the tender sympathy, so precious to women, w=
hich
she had not seen in the face of any human creature since the loss of her au=
nt.
Even the good doctor's efforts to console her had been efforts of professio=
nal routine--the
inevitable result of his life-long familiarity with sorrow and death. While
Alban's eyes rested on her, Emily felt her tears rising. In the fear that he
might misinterpret her reception of him, she made an effort to speak with s=
ome
appearance of composure.
"I lead a lonely life," she said;
"and I can well understand that my face shows it. You are one of my ve=
ry
few friends, Mr. Morris"--the tears rose again; it discouraged her to =
see
him standing irresolute, with his hat in his hand, fearful of intruding on =
her.
"Indeed, indeed, you are welcome," she said, very earnestly.
In those sad days her heart was easily touched.
She gave him her hand for the second time. He held it gently for a moment.
Every day since they had parted she had been in his thoughts; she had become
dearer to him than ever. He was too deeply affected to trust himself to ans=
wer.
That silence pleaded for him as nothing had pleaded for him yet. In her sec=
ret
self she remembered with wonder how she had received his confession in the
school garden. It was a little hard on him, surely, to have forbidden him e=
ven
to hope.
Conscious of her own weakness--even while givi=
ng
way to it--she felt the necessity of turning his attention from herself. In
some confusion, she pointed to a chair at her side, and spoke of his first
visit, when he had left her letters at the door. Having confided to him all
that she had discovered, and all that she had guessed, on that occasion, it=
was
by an easy transition that she alluded next to the motive for his journey to
the North.
"I thought it might be suspicion of Mrs.
Rook," she said. "Was I mistaken?"
"No; you were right."
"They were serious suspicions, I
suppose?"
"Certainly! I should not otherwise have
devoted my holiday-time to clearing them up."
"May I know what they were?"
"I am sorry to disappoint you," he
began.
"But you would rather not answer my
question," she interposed.
"I would rather hear you tell me if you h=
ave
made any other guess."
"One more, Mr. Morris. I guessed that you=
had
become acquainted with Sir Jervis Redwood."
"For the second time, Miss Emily, you have
arrived at a sound conclusion. My one hope of finding opportunities for
observing Sir Jervis's housekeeper depended on my chance of gaining admissi=
on
to Sir Jervis's house."
"How did you succeed? Perhaps you provided
yourself with a letter of introduction?"
"I knew nobody who could introduce me,&qu=
ot;
Alban replied. "As the event proved, a letter would have been needless.
Sir Jervis introduced himself--and, more wonderful still, he invited me to =
his
house at our first interview."
"Sir Jervis introduced himself?" Emi=
ly
repeated, in amazement. "From Cecilia's description of him, I should h=
ave
thought he was the last person in the world to do that!"
Alban smiled. "And you would like to know=
how
it happened?" he suggested.
"The very favor I was going to ask of
you," she replied.
Instead of at once complying with her wishes, = he paused--hesitated--and made a strange request. "Will you forgive my rudeness, if I ask leave to walk up and down the room while I talk? I am a restless man. Walking up and down helps me to express myself freely."<= o:p>
Her f ace brightened for the first time. "=
;How
like You that is!" she exclaimed.
Alban looked at her with surprise and delight.=
She
had betrayed an interest in studying his character, which he appreciated at=
its
full value. "I should never have dared to hope," he said, "t=
hat
you knew me so well already."
"You are forgetting your story," she
reminded him.
He moved to the opposite side of the room, whe=
re
there were fewer impediments in the shape of furniture. With his head down,=
and
his hands crossed behind him, he paced to and fro. Habit made him express
himself in his usual quaint way--but he became embarrassed as he went on. W=
as
he disturbed by his recollections? or by the fear of taking Emily into his =
confidence
too freely?
"Different people have different ways of
telling a story," he said. "Mine is the methodical way--I begin at
the beginning. We will start, if you please, in the railway--we will procee=
d in
a one-horse chaise--and we will stop at a village, situated in a hole. It w=
as
the nearest place to Sir Jervis's house, and it was therefore my destinatio=
n. I
picked out the biggest of the cottages--I mean the huts--and asked the woma=
n at
the door if she had a bed to let. She evidently thought me either mad or dr=
unk.
I wasted no time in persuasion; the right person to plead my cause was asle=
ep
in her arms. I began by admiring the baby; and I ended by taking the baby's
portrait. From that moment I became a member of the family--the member who =
had
his own way. Besides the room occupied by the husband and wife, there was a
sort of kennel in which the husband's brother slept. He was dismissed (with
five shillings of mine to comfort him) to find shelter somewhere else; and I
was promoted to the vacant place. It is my misfortune to be tall. When I we=
nt
to bed, I slept with my head on the pillow, and my feet out of the window. =
Very
cool and pleasant in summer weather. The next morning, I set my trap for Si=
r Jervis."
"Your trap?" Emily repeated, wonderi=
ng
what he meant.
"I went out to sketch from Nature,"
Alban continued. "Can anybody (with or without a title, I don't care),
living in a lonely country house, see a stranger hard at work with a color-=
box
and brushes, and not stop to look at what he is doing? Three days passed, a=
nd
nothing happened. I was quite patient; the grand open country all round me
offered lessons of inestimable value in what we call aerial perspective. On=
the
fourth day, I was absorbed over the hardest of all hard tasks in landscape =
art,
studying the clouds straight from Nature. The magnificent moorland silence =
was
suddenly profaned by a man's voice, speaking (or rather croaking) behind me.
'The worst curse of human life,' the voice said, 'is the detestable necessi=
ty
of taking exercise. I hate losing my time; I hate fine scenery; I hate fresh
air; I hate a pony. Go on, you brute!' Being too deeply engaged with the cl=
ouds
to look round, I had supposed this pretty speech to be addressed to some se=
cond
person. Nothing of the sort; the croaking voice had a habit of speaking to
itself. In a minute more, there came within my range of view a solitary old=
man,
mounted on a rough pony."
"Was it Sir Jervis?"
Alban hesitated.
"It looked more like the popular notion of
the devil," he said.
"Oh, Mr. Morris!"
"I give you my first impression, Miss Emi=
ly,
for what it is worth. He had his high-peaked hat in his hand, to keep his h=
ead
cool. His wiry iron-gray hair looked like hair standing on end; his bushy
eyebrows curled upward toward his narrow temples; his horrid old globular e=
yes stared
with a wicked brightness; his pointed beard hid his chin; he was covered fr=
om
his throat to his ankles in a loose black garment, something between a coat=
and
a cloak; and, to complete him, he had a club foot. I don't doubt that Sir
Jervis Redwood is the earthly alias which he finds convenient--but I stick =
to
that first impression which appeared to surprise you. 'Ha! an artist; you s=
eem
to be the sort of man I want!' In those terms he introduced himself. Observ=
e,
if you please, that my trap caught him the moment he came my way. Who would=
n't
be an artist?"
"Did he take a liking to you?" Emily
inquired.
"Not he! I don't believe he ever took a
liking to anybody in his life."
"Then how did you get your invitation to =
his
house?"
"That's the amusing part of it, Miss Emil=
y.
Give me a little breathing time, and you shall hear."
=
"I got invited to Sir Jervis's house,&quo=
t;
Alban resumed, "by treating the old savage as unceremoniously as he had
treated me. 'That's an idle trade of yours,' he said, looking at my sketch.
'Other ignorant people have made the same remark,' I answered. He rode away=
, as
if he was not used to be spoken to in that manner, and then thought better =
of
it, and came back. 'Do you understand wood engraving?' he asked. 'Yes.' 'And
etching?' 'I have practiced etching myself.' 'Are you a Royal Academician?'
'I'm a drawing-master at a ladies' school.' 'Whose school?' 'Miss Ladd's.'
'Damn it, you know the girl who ought to have been my secretary.' I am not
quite sure whether you will take it as a compliment--Sir Jervis appeared to
view you in the light of a reference to my respectability. At any rate, he =
went
on with his questions. 'How long do you stop in these parts?' 'I haven't ma=
de
up my mind.' 'Look here; I want to consult you--are you listening?' 'No; I'm
sketching.' He burst into a horrid scream. I asked if he felt himself taken
ill. 'Ill?' he said--'I'm laughing.' It was a diabolical laugh, in one
syllable--not 'ha! ha! ha!' only 'ha!'--and it made him look wonderfully li=
ke
that eminent person, whom I persist in thinking he resembles. 'You're an im=
pudent
dog,' he said; 'where are you living?' He was so delighted when he heard of=
my
uncomfortable position in the kennel-bedroom, that he offered his hospitali=
ty
on the spot. 'I can't go to you in such a pigstye as that,' he said; 'you m=
ust
come to me. What's your name?' 'Alban Morris; what's yours?' 'Jervis Redwoo=
d.
Pack up your traps when you've done your job, and come and try my kennel. T=
here
it is, in a corner of your drawing, and devilish like, too.' I packed up my
traps, and I tried his kennel. And now you have had enough of Sir Jervis Re=
dwood."
"Not half enough!" Emily answered.
"Your story leaves off just at the interesting moment. I want you to t=
ake
me to Sir Jervis's house."
"And I want you, Miss Emily, to take me to
the British Museum. Don't let me startle you! When I called here earlier in=
the
day, I was told that you had gone to the reading-room. Is your reading a
secret?"
His manner, when he made that reply, suggested=
to
Emily that there was some foregone conclusion in his mind, which he was put=
ting
to the test. She answered without alluding to the impression which he had
produced on her.
"My reading is no secret. I am only
consulting old newspapers."
He repeated the last words to himself. "O=
ld
newspapers?" he said--as if he was not quite sure of having rightly
understood her.
She tried to help him by a more definite reply=
.
"I am looking through old newspapers,&quo=
t;
she resumed, "beginning with the year eighteen hundred and
seventy-six."
"And going back from that time," he
asked eagerly; "to earlier dates still?"
"No--just the contrary--advancing from
'seventy-six' to the present time."
He suddenly turned pale--and tried to hide his
face from her by looking out of the window. For a moment, his agitation
deprived him of his presence of mind. In that moment, she saw that she had
alarmed him.
"What have I said to frighten you?" =
she
asked.
He tried to assume a tone of commonplace
gallantry. "There are limits even to your power over me," he repl=
ied.
"Whatever else you may do, you can never frighten me. Are you searching
those old newspapers with any particular object in view?"
"Yes."
"May I know what it is?"
"May I know why I frightened you?"
He began to walk up and down the room again--t=
hen
checked himself abruptly, and appealed to her mercy.
"Don't be hard on me," he pleaded.
"I am so fond of you--oh, forgive me! I only mean that it distresses m=
e to
have any concealments from you. If I could open my whole heart at this mome=
nt,
I should be a happier man."
She understood him and believed him. "My
curiosity shall never embarrass you again," she answered warmly. "=
;I
won't even remember that I wanted to hear how you got on in Sir Jervis's
house."
His gratitude seized the opportunity of taking=
her
harmlessly into his confidence. "As Sir Jervis's guest," he said,
"my experience is at your service. Only tell me how I can interest
you."
She replied, with some hesitation, "I sho=
uld
like to know what happened when you first saw Mrs. Rook." To her surpr=
ise
and relief, he at once complied with her wishes.
"We met," he said, "on the even=
ing
when I first entered the house. Sir Jervis took me into the dining-room--and
there sat Miss Redwood, with a large black cat on her lap. Older than her
brother, taller than her brother, leaner than her brother--with strange sto=
ny
eyes, and a skin like parchment--she looked (if I may speak in contradictio=
ns)
like a living corpse. I was presented, and the corpse revived. The last lin=
gering
relics of former good breeding showed themselves faintly in her brow and in=
her
smile. You will hear more of Miss Redwood presently. In the meanwhile, Sir
Jervis made me reward his hospitality by professional advice. He wished me =
to
decide whether the artists whom he had employed to illustrate his wonderful
book had cheated him by overcharges and bad work--and Mrs. Rook was sent to
fetch the engravings from his study upstairs. You remember her petrified
appearance, when she first read the inscription on your locket? The same re=
sult
followed when she found herself face to face with me. I saluted her
civilly--she was deaf and blind to my politeness. Her master snatched the
illustrations out of her hand, and told her to leave the room. She stood
stockstill, staring helplessly. Sir Jervis looked round at his sister; and =
I followed
his example. Miss Redwood was observing the housekeeper too attentively to
notice anything else; her brother was obliged to speak to her. 'Try Rook wi=
th
the bell,' he said. Miss Redwood took a fine old bronze hand-bell from the
table at her side, and rang it. At the shrill silvery sound of the bell, Mr=
s.
Rook put her hand to her head as if the ringing had hurt her--turned instan=
tly,
and left us. 'Nobody can manage Rook but my sister,' Sir Jervis explained;
'Rook is crazy.' Miss Redwood differed with him. 'No!' she said. Only one w=
ord,
but there were volumes of contradiction in it. Sir Jervis looked at me slyl=
y;
meaning, perhaps, that he thought his sister crazy too. The dinner was brou=
ght
in at the same moment, and my attention was diverted to Mrs. Rook's
husband."
"What was he like?" Emily asked.
"I really can't tell you; he was one of t=
hose
essentially commonplace persons, whom one never looks at a second time. His
dress was shabby, his head was bald, and his hands shook when he waited on =
us
at table--and that is all I remember. Sir Jervis and I feasted on salt fish,
mutton, and beer. Miss Redwood had cold broth, with a wine-glass full of rum
poured into it by Mr. Rook. 'She's got no stomach,' her brother informed me;
'hot things come up again ten minutes after they have gone down her throat;=
she
lives on that beastly mixture, and calls it broth-grog!' Miss Redwood sipped
her elixir of life, and occasionally looked at me with an appearance of
interest which I was at a loss to understand. Dinner being over, she rang h=
er
antique bell. The shabby old man-servant answered her call. 'Where's your
wife?' she inquired. 'Ill, miss.' She took Mr. Rook's arm to go out, and
stopped as she passed me. 'Come to my room, if you please, sir, to-morrow at
two o'clock,' she said. Sir Jervis explained again: 'She's all to pieces in=
the
morning' (he invariably called his sister 'She'); 'and gets patched up towa=
rd
the middle of the day. Death has forgotten her, that's about the truth of i=
t.'
He lighted his pipe and pondered over the hieroglyphics found among the rui=
ned
cities of Yucatan; I lighted my pipe, and read the only book I could find in
the dining-room--a dreadful record of shipwrecks and disasters at sea. When=
the
room was full of tobacco-smoke we fell asleep in our chairs--and when we aw=
oke
again we got up and went to bed. There is the true story of my first evenin=
g at
Redwood Hall."
Emily begged him to go on. "You have
interested me in Miss Redwood," she said. "You kept your appointm=
ent,
of course?"
"I kept my appointment in no very pleasant
humor. Encouraged by my favorable report of the illustrations which he had
submitted to my judgment, Sir Jervis proposed to make me useful to him in a=
new
capacity. 'You have nothing particular to do,' he said, 'suppose you clean =
my
pictures?' I gave him one of my black looks, and made no other reply. My
interview with his sister tried my powers of self-command in another way. M=
iss
Redwood declared her purpose in sending for me the moment I entered the roo=
m.
Without any preliminary remarks--speaking slowly and emphatically, in a
wonderfully strong voice for a woman of her age--she said, 'I have a favor =
to
ask of you, sir. I want you to tell me what Mrs. Rook has done.' I was so
staggered that I stared at her like a fool. She went on: 'I suspected Mrs.
Rook, sir, of having guilty remembrances on her conscience before she had b=
een
a week in our service.' Can you imagine my astonishment when I heard that M=
iss Redwood's
view of Mrs. Rook was my view? Finding that I still said nothing, the old l=
ady
entered into details: 'We arranged, sir,' (she persisted in calling me 'sir=
,'
with the formal politeness of the old school)--'we arranged, sir, that Mrs.
Rook and her husband should occupy the bedroom next to mine, so that I might
have her near me in case of my being taken ill in the night. She looked at =
the
door between the two rooms--suspicious! She asked if there was any objectio=
n to
her changing to another room--suspicious! suspicious! Pray take a seat, sir,
and tell me which Mrs. Rook is guilty of--theft or murder?'"
"What a dreadful old woman!" Emily
exclaimed. "How did you answer her?"
"I told her, with perfect truth, that I k=
new
nothing of Mrs. Rook's secrets. Miss Redwood's humor took a satirical turn.
'Allow me to ask, sir, whether your eyes were shut, when our housekeeper fo=
und
herself unexpectedly in your presence?' I referred the old lady to her
brother's opinion. 'Sir Jervis believes Mrs. Rook to be crazy,' I reminded =
her.
'Do you refuse to trust me, sir?' 'I have no information to give you, madam=
.'
She waved her skinny old hand in the direction of the door. I made my bow, =
and
retired. She called me back. 'Old women used to be prophets, sir, in the by=
gone
time,' she said. 'I will venture on a prediction. You will be the means of
depriving us of the services of Mr. and Mrs. Rook. If you will be so good a=
s to
stay here a day or two longer you will hear that those two people have give=
n us
notice to quit. It will be her doing, mind--he is a mere cypher. I wish you=
good-morning.'
Will you believe me, when I tell you that the prophecy was fulfilled?"=
"Do you mean that they actually left the
house?"
"They would certainly have left the
house," Alban answered, "if Sir Jervis had not insisted on receiv=
ing
the customary month's warning. He asserted his resolution by locking up the=
old
husband in the pantry. His sister's suspicions never entered his head; the
housekeeper's conduct (he said) simply proved that she was, what he had alw=
ays
considered her to be, crazy. 'A capital servant, in spite of that drawback,=
' he
remarked; 'and you will see, I shall bring her to her senses.' The impressi=
on
produced on me was naturally of a very different kind. While I was still
uncertain how to entrap Mrs. Rook into confirming my suspicions, she herself
had saved me the trouble. She had placed her own guilty interpretation on my
appearance in the house--I had driven her away!"
Emily remained true to her resolution not to l=
et
her curiosity embarrass Alban again. But the unexpressed question was in her
thoughts--"Of what guilt does he suspect Mrs. Rook? And, when he first
felt his suspicions, was my father in his mind?"
Alban proceeded.
"I had only to consider next, whether I c=
ould
hope to make any further discoveries, if I continued to be Sir Jervis's gue=
st.
The object of my journey had been gained; and I had no desire to be employe=
d as
picture-cleaner. Miss Redwood assisted me in arriving at a decision. I was =
sent
for to speak to her again. The success of her prophecy had raised her spiri=
ts.
She asked, with ironical humility, if I proposed to honor them by still
remaining their guest, after the disturbance that I had provoked. I answered
that I proposed to leave by the first train the next morning. 'Will it be
convenient for you to travel to some place at a good distance from this par=
t of
the world?' she asked. I had my own reasons for going to London, and said s=
o.
'Will you mention that to my brother this evening, just before we sit down =
to
dinner?' she continued. 'And will you tell him plainly that you have no
intention of returning to the North? I shall make use of Mrs. Rook's arm, as
usual, to help me downstairs--and I will take care that she hears what you =
say.
Without venturing on another prophecy, I will only hint to you that I have =
my own
idea of what will happen; and I should like you to see for yourself, sir,
whether my anticipations are realized.' Need I tell you that this strange o=
ld
woman proved to be right once more? Mr. Rook was released; Mrs. Rook made
humble apologies, and laid the whole blame on her husband's temper: and Sir
Jervis bade me remark that his method had succeeded in bringing the houseke=
eper
to her senses. Such were the results produced by the announcement of my
departure for London--purposely made in Mrs. Rook's hearing. Do you agree w=
ith
me, that my journey to Northumberland has not been taken in vain?"
Once more, Emily felt the necessity of control=
ling
herself.
Alban had said that he had "reasons of his
own for going to London." Could she venture to ask him what those reas=
ons
were? She could only persist in restraining her curiosity, and conclude tha=
t he
would have mentioned his motive, if it had been (as she had at one time
supposed) connected with herself. It was a wise decision. No earthly
consideration would have induced Alban to answer her, if she had put the
question to him.
All doubt of the correctness of his own first
impression was now at an end; he was convinced that Mrs. Rook had been an
accomplice in the crime committed, in 1877, at the village inn. His object =
in
traveling to London was to consult the newspaper narrative of the murder. H=
e,
too, had been one of the readers at the Museum--had examined the back numbe=
rs of
the newspaper--and had arrived at the conclusion that Emily's father had be=
en
the victim of the crime. Unless he found means to prevent it, her course of
reading would take her from the year 1876 to the year 1877, and under that
date, she would see the fatal report, heading the top of a column, and prin=
ted
in conspicuous type.
In the meanwhile Emily had broken the silence,
before it could lead to embarrassing results, by asking if Alban had seen M=
rs.
Rook again, on the morning when he left Sir Jervis's house.
"There was nothing to be gained by seeing
her," Alban replied. "Now that she and her husband had decided to=
remain
at Redwood Hall, I knew where to find her in case of necessity. As it happe=
ned
I saw nobody, on the morning of my departure, but Sir Jervis himself. He st=
ill
held to his idea of having his pictures cleaned for nothing. 'If you can't =
do
it yourself,' he said, 'couldn't you teach my secretary?' He described the =
lady
whom he had engaged in your place as a 'nasty middle-aged woman with a
perpetual cold in her head.' At the same time (he remarked) he was a friend=
to
the women, 'because he got them cheap.' I declined to teach the unfortunate
secretary the art of picture-cleaning. Finding me determined, Sir Jervis was
quite ready to say good-by. But he made use of me to the last. He employed =
me
as postman and saved a stamp. The letter addressed to you arrived at
breakfast-time. Sir Jervis said, 'You are going to London; suppose you take=
it
with you?'"
"Did he tell you that there was a letter =
of
his own inclosed in the envelope?"
"No. When he gave me the envelope it was
already sealed."
Emily at once handed to him Sir Jervis's lette=
r.
"That will tell you who employs me at the Museum, and what my work
is," she said.
He looked through the letter, and at once
offered--eagerly offered--to help her.
"I have been a student in the reading-roo=
m at
intervals, for years past," he said. "Let me assist you, and I sh=
all
have something to do in my holiday time." He was so anxious to be of u=
se
that he interrupted her before she could thank him. "Let us take alter=
nate
years," he suggested. "Did you not tell me you were searching the
newspapers published in eighteen hundred and seventy-six?"
"Yes."
"Very well. I will take the next year. You
will take the year after. And so on."
"You are very kind," she
answered--"but I should like to propose an improvement on your plan.&q=
uot;
"What improvement?" he asked, rather
sharply.
"If you will leave the five years, from
'seventy-six to 'eighty-one, entirely to me," she resumed, "and t=
ake
the next five years, reckoning backward from 'seventy-six, you will help me=
to
better purpose. Sir Jervis expects me to look for reports of Central Americ=
an
Explorations, through the newspapers of the last forty years; and I have ta=
ken
the liberty of limiting the heavy task imposed on me. When I report my prog=
ress
to my employer, I should like to say that I have got through ten years of t=
he
examination, instead of five. Do you see any objection to the arrangement I
propose?"
He proved to be obstinate--incomprehensibly
obstinate.
"Let us try my plan to begin with," =
he
insisted. "While you are looking through 'seventy-six, let me be at wo=
rk
on 'seventy-seven. If you still prefer your own arrangement, after that, I =
will
follow your suggestion with pleasure. Is it agreed?"
Her acute perception--enlightened by his tone =
as
wall as by his words--detected something under the surface already.
"It isn't agreed until I understand you a
little better," she quietly replied. "I fancy you have some objec=
t of
your own in view."
She spoke with her usual directness of look and
manner. He was evidently disconcerted. "What makes you think so?"=
he
asked.
"My own experience of myself makes me thi=
nk
so," she answered. "If I had some object to gain, I should persis=
t in
carrying it out--like you."
"Does that mean, Miss Emily, that you ref=
use
to give way?"
"No, Mr. Morris. I have made myself
disagreeable, but I know when to stop. I trust you--and submit."
If he had been less deeply interested in the
accomplishment of his merciful design, he might have viewed Emily's sudden
submission with some distrust. As it was, his eagerness to prevent her from
discovering the narrative of the murder hurried him into an act of
indiscretion. He made an excuse to leave her immediately, in the fear that =
she
might change her mind.
"I have inexcusably prolonged my visit,&q=
uot;
he said. "If I presume on your kindness in this way, how can I hope th=
at
you will receive me again? We meet to-morrow in the reading-room."
He hastened away, as if he was afraid to let h=
er
say a word in reply.
Emily reflected.
"Is there something he doesn't want me to
see, in the news of the year 'seventy-seven?" The one explanation which
suggested itself to her mind assumed that form of expression--and the one
method of satisfying her curiosity that seemed likely to succeed, was to se=
arch
the volume which Alban had reserved for his own reading.
For two days they pursued their task together,
seated at opposite desks. On the third day Emily was absent.
Was she ill?
She was at the library in the City, consulting=
the
file of The Times for the year 1877.
=
Emily's first day in the City library proved t=
o be
a day wasted.
She began reading the back numbers of the
newspaper at haphazard, without any definite idea of what she was looking f=
or.
Conscious of the error into which her own impatience had led her, she was a=
t a
loss how to retrace the false step that she had taken. But two alternatives=
presented
themselves: either to abandon the hope of making any discovery--or to attem=
pt
to penetrate Alban 's motives by means of pure guesswork, pursued in the da=
rk.
How was the problem to be solved? This serious
question troubled her all through the evening, and kept her awake when she =
went
to bed. In despair of her capacity to remove the obstacle that stood in her
way, she decided on resuming her regular work at the Museum--turned her pil=
low
to get at the cool side of it--and made up her mind to go asleep.
In the case of the wiser animals, the Person
submits to Sleep. It is only the superior human being who tries the hopeless
experiment of making Sleep submit to the Person. Wakeful on the warm side of
the pillow, Emily remained wakeful on the cool side--thinking again and aga=
in
of the interview with Alban which had ended so strangely.
Little by little, her mind passed the limits w=
hich
had restrained it thus far. Alban's conduct in keeping his secret, in the
matter of the newspapers, now began to associate itself with Alban's conduc=
t in
keeping that other secret, which concealed from her his suspicions of Mrs.
Rook.
She started up in bed as the next possibility =
occurred
to her.
In speaking of the disaster which had compelled
Mr. and Mrs. Rook to close the inn, Cecilia had alluded to an inquest held =
on
the body of the murdered man. Had the inquest been mentioned in the newspap=
ers,
at the time? And had Alban seen something in the report, which concerned Mr=
s. Rook?
Led by the new light that had fallen on her, E=
mily
returned to the library the next morning with a definite idea of what she h=
ad
to look for. Incapable of giving exact dates, Cecilia had informed her that=
the
crime was committed "in the autumn." The month to choose, in
beginning her examination, was therefore the month of August.
No discovery rewarded her. She tried September,
next--with the same unsatisfactory results. On Monday the first of October =
she
met with some encouragement at last. At the top of a column appeared a
telegraphic summary of all that was then known of the crime. In the number =
for
the Wednesday following, she found a full report of the proceedings at the =
inquest.
Passing over the preliminary remarks, Emily re=
ad
the evidence with the closest attention.
=
-------------
The jury having viewed the body, and having
visited an outhouse in which the murder had been committed, the first witne=
ss
called was Mr. Benjamin Rook, landlord of the Hand-in-Hand inn.
On the evening of Sunday, September 30th, 1877,
two gentlemen presented themselves at Mr. Rook's house, under circumstances
which especially excited his attention.
The youngest of the two was short, and of fair
complexion. He carried a knapsack, like a gentleman on a pedestrian excursi=
on;
his manners were pleasant; and he was decidedly good-looking. His companion,
older, taller, and darker--and a finer man altogether--leaned on his arm an=
d seemed
to be exhausted. In every respect they were singularly unlike each other. T=
he
younger stranger (excepting little half-whiskers) was clean shaved. The eld=
er
wore his whole beard. Not knowing their names, the landlord distinguished t=
hem,
at the coroner's suggestion, as the fair gentleman, and the dark gentleman.=
It was raining when the two arrived at the inn.
There were signs in the heavens of a stormy night.
On accosting the landlord, the fair gentleman
volunteered the following statement:
Approaching the village, he had been startled =
by
seeing the dark gentleman (a total stranger to him) stretched prostrate on =
the
grass at the roadside--so far as he could judge, in a swoon. Having a flask
with brandy in it, he revived the fainting man, and led him to the inn.
This statement was confirmed by a laborer, who=
was
on his way to the village at the time.
The dark gentleman endeavored to explain what =
had
happened to him. He had, as he supposed, allowed too long a time to pass (a=
fter
an early breakfast that morning), without taking food: he could only attrib=
ute the
fainting fit to that cause. He was not liable to fainting fits. What purpose
(if any) had brought him into the neighborhood of Zeeland, he did not state=
. He
had no intention of remaining at the inn, except for refreshment; and he as=
ked
for a carriage to take him to the railway station.
The fair gentleman, seeing the signs of bad
weather, desired to remain in Mr. Rook's house for the night, and proposed =
to
resume his walking tour the next day.
Excepting the case of supper, which could be
easily provided, the landlord had no choice but to disappoint both his gues=
ts.
In his small way of business, none of his customers wanted to hire a
carriage--even if he could have afforded to keep one. As for beds, the few
rooms which the inn contained were all engaged; including even the room
occupied by himself and his wife. An exhibition of agricultural implements =
had been
opened in the neighborhood, only two days since; and a public competition
between rival machines was to be decided on the coming Monday. Not only was=
the
Hand-in-Hand inn crowded, but even the accommodation offered by the nearest
town had proved barely sufficient to meet the public demand.
The gentlemen looked at each other and agreed =
that
there was no help for it but to hurry the supper, and walk to the railway
station--a distance of between five and six miles--in time to catch the last
train.
While the meal was being prepared, the rain he=
ld
off for a while. The dark man asked his way to the post-office and went out=
by
himself.
He came back in about ten minutes, and sat down
afterward to supper with his companion. Neither the landlord, nor any other
person in the public room, noticed any change in him on his return. He was a
grave, quiet sort of person, and (unlike the other one) not much of a talke=
r.
As the darkness came on, the rain fell again
heavily; and the heavens were black.
A flash of lightning startled the gentlemen wh=
en
they went to the window to look out: the thunderstorm began. It was simply
impossible that two strangers to the neighborhood could find their way to t=
he
station, through storm and darkness, in time to catch the train. With or
without bedrooms, they must remain at the inn for the night. Having already=
given
up their own room to their lodgers, the landlord and landlady had no other
place to sleep in than the kitchen. Next to the kitchen, and communicating =
with
it by a door, was an outhouse; used, partly as a scullery, partly as a
lumber-room. There was an old truckle-bed among the lumber, on which one of=
the
gentlemen might rest. A mattress on the floor could be provided for the oth=
er.
After adding a table and a basin, for the purposes of the toilet, the
accommodation which Mr. Rook was able to offer came to an end.
The travelers agreed to occupy this makeshift
bed-chamber.
The thunderstorm passed away; but the rain
continued to fall heavily. Soon after eleven the guests at the inn retired =
for
the night. There was some little discussion between the two travelers, as to
which of them should take possession of the truckle-bed. It was put an end =
to
by the fair gentleman, in his own pleasant way. He proposed to "toss u=
p for
it"--and he lost. The dark gentleman went to bed first; the fair gentl=
eman
followed, after waiting a while. Mr. Rook took his knapsack into the outhou=
se;
and arranged on the table his appliances for the toilet--contained in a lea=
ther
roll, and including a razor--ready for use in the morning.
Having previously barred the second door of the
outhouse, which led into the yard, Mr. Rook fastened the other door, the lo=
ck
and bolts of which were on the side of the kitchen. He then secured the hou=
se
door, and the shutters over the lower windows. Returning to the kitchen, he
noticed that the time was ten minutes short of midnight. Soon afterward, he=
and
his wife went to bed.
Nothing happened to disturb Mr. and Mrs. Rook
during the night.
At a quarter to seven the next morning, he got=
up;
his wife being still asleep. He had been instructed to wake the gentlemen
early; and he knocked at their door. Receiving no answer, after repeatedly
knocking, he opened the door and stepped into the outhouse.
At this point in his evidence, the witness's
recollections appeared to overpower him. "Give me a moment,
gentlemen," he said to the jury. "I have had a dreadful fright; a=
nd I
don't believe I shall get over it for the rest of my life."
The coroner helped him by a question: "Wh=
at
did you see when you opened the door?"
Mr. Rook answered: "I saw the dark man
stretched out on his bed--dead, with a frightful wound in his throat. I saw=
an
open razor, stained with smears of blood, at his side."
"Did you notice the door, leading into the
yard?"
"It was wide open, sir. When I was able to
look round me, the other traveler--I mean the man with the fair complexion,=
who
carried the knapsack--was nowhere to be seen."
"What did you do, after making these
discoveries?"
"I closed the yard door. Then I locked the
other door, and put the key in my pocket. After that I roused the servant, =
and
sent him to the constable--who lived near to us--while I ran for the doctor,
whose house was at the other end of our village. The doctor sent his groom,=
on horseback,
to the police-office in the town. When I returned to the inn, the constable=
was
there--and he and the police took the matter into their own hands."
"You have nothing more to tell us?"<= o:p>
"Nothing more."
=
Mr. Rook having completed his evidence, the po=
lice
authorities were the next witnesses examined.
They had not found the slightest trace of any
attempt to break into the house in the night. The murdered man's gold watch=
and
chain were discovered under his pillow. On examining his clothes the money =
was found
in his purse, and the gold studs and sleeve buttons were left in his shirt.=
But
his pocketbook (seen by witnesses who had not yet been examined) was missin=
g.
The search for visiting cards and letters had proved to be fruitless. Only =
the
initials, "J. B.," were marked on his linen. He had brought no
luggage with him to the inn. Nothing could be found which led to the discov=
ery
of his name or of the purpose which had taken him into that part of the
country.
The police examined the outhouse next, in sear=
ch
of circumstantial evidence against the missing man.
He must have carried away his knapsack, when he
took to flight, but he had been (probably) in too great a hurry to look for=
his
razor--or perhaps too terrified to touch it, if it had attracted his notice.
The leather roll, and the other articles used for his toilet, had been taken
away. Mr. Rook identified the blood-stained razor. He had noticed overnight=
the
name of the Belgian city, "Liege," engraved on it.
The yard was the next place inspected. Foot-st=
eps
were found on the muddy earth up to the wall. But the road on the other side
had been recently mended with stones, and the trace of the fugitive was los=
t. Casts
had been taken of the footsteps; and no other means of discovery had been l=
eft
untried. The authorities in London had also been communicated with by
telegraph.
The doctor being called, described a personal
peculiarity, which he had noticed at the post-mortem examination, and which
might lead to the identification of the murdered man.
As to the cause of death, the witness said it
could be stated in two words. The internal jugular vein had been cut throug=
h,
with such violence, judging by the appearances, that the wound could not ha=
ve
been inflicted, in the act of suicide, by the hand of the deceased person. =
No other
injuries, and no sign of disease, was found on the body. The one cause of d=
eath
had been Hemorrhage; and the one peculiarity which called for notice had be=
en
discovered in the mouth. Two of the front teeth, in the upper jaw, were fal=
se.
They had been so admirably made to resemble the natural teeth on either sid=
e of
them, in form and color, that the witness had only hit on the discovery by
accidentally touching the inner side of the gum with one of his fingers.
The landlady was examined, when the doctor had
retired. Mrs. Rook was able, in answering questions put to her, to give imp=
ortant
information, in reference to the missing pocketbook.
Before retiring to rest, the two gentlemen had
paid the bill--intending to leave the inn the first thing in the morning. T=
he
traveler with the knapsack paid his share in money. The other unfortunate
gentleman looked into his purse, and found only a shilling and a sixpence in
it. He asked Mrs. Rook if she could change a bank-note. She told him it cou=
ld
be done, provided the note was for no considerable sum of money. Upon that =
he
opened his pocketbook (which the witness described minutely) and turned out=
the
contents on the table. After searching among many Bank of England notes, so=
me
in one pocket of the book and some in another, he found a note of the value=
of
five pounds. He thereupon settled his bill, and received the change from Mr=
s.
Rook--her husband being in another part of the room, attending to the guest=
s.
She noticed a letter in an envelope, and a few cards which looked (to her
judgment) like visiting cards, among the bank-notes which he had turned out=
on
the table. When she returned to him with the change, he had just put them b=
ack,
and was closing the pocketbook. She saw him place it in one of the breast p=
ockets
of his coat.
The fellow-traveler who had accompanied him to=
the
inn was present all the time, sitting on the opposite side of the table. He
made a remark when he saw the notes produced. He said, "Put all that m=
oney
back--don't tempt a poor man like me!" It was said laughing, as if by =
way
of a joke.
Mrs. Rook had observed nothing more that night;
had slept as soundly as usual; and had been awakened when her husband knock=
ed
at the outhouse door, according to instructions received from the gentlemen,
overnight.
Three of the guests in the public room
corroborated Mrs. Rook's evidence. They were respectable persons, well and
widely known in that part of Hampshire. Besides these, there were two stran=
gers
staying in the house. They referred the coroner to their employers--eminent=
manufacturers
at Sheffield and Wolverhampton--whose testimony spoke for itself.
The last witness called was a grocer in the
village, who kept the post-office.
On the evening of the 30th, a dark gentleman,
wearing his beard, knocked at the door, and asked for a letter addressed to
"J. B., Post-office, Zeeland." The letter had arrived by that
morning's post; but, being Sunday evening, the grocer requested that
application might be made for it the next morning. The stranger said the le=
tter
contained news, which it was of importance to him to receive without delay.
Upon this, the grocer made an exception to customary rules and gave him the
letter. He read it by the light of the lamp in the passage. It must have be=
en short,
for the reading was done in a moment. He seemed to think over it for a whil=
e;
and then he turned round to go out. There was nothing to notice in his look=
or
in his manner. The witness offered a remark on the weather; and the gentlem=
an
said, "Yes, it looks like a bad night"--and so went away.
The postmaster's evidence was of importance in=
one
respect: it suggested the motive which had brought the deceased to Zeeland.=
The
letter addressed to "J. B." was, in all probability, the letter s=
een
by Mrs. Rook among the contents of the pocketbook, spread out on the table.=
The inquiry being, so far, at an end, the inqu=
est
was adjourned--on the chance of obtaining additional evidence, when the
reported proceedings were read by the public.
=
........
Consulting a later number of the newspaper Emi=
ly
discovered that the deceased person had been identified by a witness from
London.
Henry Forth, gentleman's valet, being examined,
made the following statement:
He had read the medical evidence contained in =
the
report of the inquest; and, believing that he could identify the deceased, =
had
been sent by his present master to assist the object of the inquiry. Ten da=
ys
since, being then out of place, he had answered an advertisement. The next =
day,
he was instructed to call at Tracey's Hotel, London, at six o'clock in the
evening, and to ask for Mr. James Brown. Arriving at the hotel he saw the
gentleman for a few minutes only. Mr. Brown had a friend with him. After
glancing over the valet's references, he said, "I haven't time enough =
to
speak to you this evening. Call here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock.&quo=
t;
The gentleman who was present laughed, and said, "You won't be up!&quo=
t;
Mr. Brown answered, "That won't matter; the man can come to my bedroom,
and let me see how he understands his duties, on trial." At nine the n=
ext
morning, Mr. Brown was reported to be still in bed; and the witness was
informed of the number of the room. He knocked at the door. A drowsy voice
inside said something, which he interpreted as meaning "Come in."=
He
went in. The toilet-table was on his left hand, and the bed (with the lower
curtain drawn) was on his right. He saw on the table a tumbler with a little
water in it, and with two false teeth in the water. Mr. Brown started up in
bed--looked at him furiously--abused him for daring to enter the room--and
shouted to him to "get out." The witness, not accustomed to be
treated in that way, felt naturally indignant, and at once withdrew--but not
before he had plainly seen the vacant place which the false teeth had been =
made
to fill. Perhaps Mr. Brown had forgotten that he had left his teeth on the =
table.
Or perhaps he (the valet) had misunderstood what had been said to him when =
he
knocked at the door. Either way, it seemed to be plain enough that the
gentleman resented the discovery of his false teeth by a stranger.
Having concluded his statement the witness
proceeded to identify the remains of the deceased.
He at once recognized the gentleman named James
Brown, whom he had twice seen--once in the evening, and again the next
morning--at Tracey's Hotel. In answer to further inquiries, he declared tha=
t he
knew nothing of the family, or of the place of residence, of the deceased. =
He complained
to the proprietor of the hotel of the rude treatment that he had received, =
and
asked if Mr. Tracey knew anything of Mr. James Brown. Mr. Tracey knew nothi=
ng
of him. On consulting the hotel book it was found that he had given notice =
to
leave, that afternoon.
Before returning to London, the witness produc=
ed
references which gave him an excellent character. He also left the address =
of
the master who had engaged him three days since.
The last precaution adopted was to have the fa=
ce
of the corpse photographed, before the coffin was closed. On the same day t=
he
jury agreed on their verdict: "Willful murder against some person
unknown."
=
&nb=
sp;
........
=
Two
days later, Emily found a last allusion to the crime--extracted from the
columns of the South Hampshire Gazette.
A relative of the deceased, seeing the report =
of
the adjourned inquest, had appeared (accompanied by a medical gentleman); h=
ad
seen the photograph; and had declared the identification by Henry Forth to =
be correct.
Among other particulars, now communicated for =
the
first time, it was stated that the late Mr. James Brown had been unreasonab=
ly
sensitive on the subject of his false teeth, and that the one member of his
family who knew of his wearing them was the relative who now claimed his re=
mains.
The claim having been established to the
satisfaction of the authorities, the corpse was removed by railroad the same
day. No further light had been thrown on the murder. The Handbill offering =
the
reward, and describing the suspected man, had failed to prove of any assist=
ance
to the investigations of the police.
From that date, no further notice of the crime
committed at the Hand-in-Hand inn appeared in the public journals.
=
&nb=
sp;
........
=
Emily
closed the volume which she had been consulting, and thankfully acknowledged
the services of the librarian.
The new reader had excited this gentleman's
interest. Noticing how carefully she examined the numbers of the old newspa=
per,
he looked at her, from time to time, wondering whether it was good news or =
bad
of which she was in search. She read steadily and continuously; but she nev=
er
rewarded his curiosity by any outward sign of the impression that had been
produced on her. When she left the room there was nothing to remark in her
manner; she looked quietly thoughtful--and that was all.
The librarian smiled--amused by his own folly.
Because a stranger's appearance had attracted him, he had taken it for gran=
ted
that circumstances of romantic interest must be connected with her visit to=
the
library. Far from misleading him, as he supposed, his fancy might have been
employed to better purpose, if it had taken a higher flight still--and had
associated Emily with the fateful gloom of tragedy, in place of the brighter
interest of romance.
There, among the ordinary readers of the day, =
was
a dutiful and affectionate daughter following the dreadful story of the dea=
th
of her father by murder, and believing it to be the story of a stranger--be=
cause
she loved and trusted the person whose short-sighted mercy had deceived her.
That very discovery, the dread of which had shaken the good doctor's firm
nerves, had forced Alban to exclude from his confidence the woman whom he
loved, and had driven the faithful old servant from the bedside of her dying
mistress--that very discovery Emily had now made, with a face which never
changed color, and a heart which beat at ease. Was the deception that had w=
on
this cruel victory over truth destined still to triumph in the days which w=
ere
to come? Yes--if the life of earth is a foretaste of the life of hell. No--=
if a
lie is a lie, be the merciful motive for the falsehood what it may. No--if =
all
deceit contains in it the seed of retribution, to be ripened inexorably in =
the
lapse of time.
The servant received Emily, on her return from=
the
library, with a sly smile. "Here he is again, miss, waiting to see
you."
She opened the parlor door, and revealed Alban
Morris, as restless as ever, walking up and down the room.
"When I missed you at the Museum, I was
afraid you might be ill," he said. "Ought I to have gone away, wh=
en
my anxiety was relieved? Shall I go away now?"
"You must take a chair, Mr. Morris, and h=
ear
what I have to say for myself. When you left me after your last visit, I
suppose I felt the force of example. At any rate I, like you, had my
suspicions. I have been trying to confirm them--and I have failed."
He paused, with the chair in his hand.
"Suspicions of Me?" he asked.
"Certainly! Can you guess how I have been
employed for the last two days? No--not even your ingenuity can do that. I =
have
been hard at work, in another reading-room, consulting the same back number=
s of
the same newspaper, which you have been examining at the British Museum. Th=
ere
is my confession--and now we will have some tea."
She moved to the fireplace, to ring the bell, =
and
failed to see the effect produced on Alban by those lightly-uttered words. =
The
common phrase is the only phrase that can describe it. He was thunderstruck=
.
"Yes," she resumed, "I have read
the report of the inquest. If I know nothing else, I know that the murder at
Zeeland can't be the discovery which you are bent on keeping from me. Don't=
be
alarmed for the preservation of your secret! I am too much discouraged to t=
ry
again."
The servant interrupted them by answering the
bell; Alban once more escaped detection. Emily gave her orders with an appr=
oach
to the old gayety of her school days. "Tea, as soon as possible--and l=
et
us have the new cake. Are you too much of a man, Mr. Morris, to like
cake?"
In this state of agitation, he was unreasonably
irritated by that playful question. "There is one thing I like better =
than
cake," he said; "and that one thing is a plain explanation."=
His tone puzzled her. "Have I said anythi=
ng
to offend you?" she asked. "Surely you can make allowance for a
girl's curiosity? Oh, you shall have your explanation--and, what is more, y=
ou
shall have it without reserve!"
She was as good as her word. What she had thou=
ght,
and what she had planned, when he left her after his last visit, was frankly
and fully told. "If you wonder how I discovered the library," she
went on, "I must refer you to my aunt's lawyer. He lives in the City--=
and
I wrote to him to help me. I don't consider that my time has been wasted. M=
r. M
orris, we owe an apology to Mrs. Rook."
Alban's astonishment, when he heard this, forc=
ed
its way to expression in words. "What can you possibly mean?" he
asked.
The tea was brought in before Emily could repl=
y.
She filled the cups, and sighed as she looked at the cake. "If Cecilia=
was
here, how she would enjoy it!" With that complimentary tribute to her
friend, she handed a slice to Alban. He never even noticed it.
"We have both of us behaved most unkindly=
to
Mrs. Rook," she resumed. "I can excuse your not seeing it; for I
should not have seen it either, but for the newspaper. While I was reading,=
I
had an opportunity of thinking over what we said and did, when the poor wom=
an's
behavior so needlessly offended us. I was too excited to think, at the
time--and, besides, I had been upset, only the night before, by what Miss
Jethro said to me."
Alban started. "What has Miss Jethro to do
with it?" he asked.
"Nothing at all," Emily answered.
"She spoke to me of her own private affairs. A long story--and you
wouldn't be interested in it. Let me finish what I had to say. Mrs. Rook was
naturally reminded of the murder, when she heard that my name was Brown; an=
d she
must certainly have been struck--as I was--by the coincidence of my father's
death taking place at the same time when his unfortunate namesake was kille=
d. Doesn't
this sufficiently account for her agitation when she looked at the locket? =
We
first took her by surprise: and then we suspected her of Heaven knows what,
because the poor creature didn't happen to have her wits about her, and to
remember at the right moment what a very common name 'James Brown' is. Don't
you see it as I do?"
"I see that you have arrived at a remarka=
ble
change of opinion, since we spoke of the subject in the garden at school.&q=
uot;
"In my place, you would have changed your
opinion too. I shall write to Mrs. Rook by tomorrow's post."
Alban heard her with dismay. "Pray be gui=
ded
by my advice!" he said earnestly. "Pray don't write that
letter!"
"Why not?"
It was too late to recall the words which he h=
ad
rashly allowed to escape him. How could he reply?
To own that he had not only read what Emily had
read, but had carefully copied the whole narrative and considered it at his
leisure, appeared to be simply impossible after what he had now heard. Her
peace of mind depended absolutely on his discretion. In this serious emerge=
ncy,
silence was a mercy, and silence was a lie. If he remained silent, might the
mercy be trusted to atone for the lie? He was too fond of Emily to decide t=
hat
question fairly, on its own merits. In other words, he shrank from the terr=
ible
responsibility of telling her the truth.
"Isn't the imprudence of writing to such a
person as Mrs. Rook plain enough to speak for itself?" he suggested
cautiously.
"Not to me."
She made that reply rather obstinately. Alban
seemed (in her view) to be trying to prevent her from atoning for an act of
injustice. Besides, he despised her cake. "I want to know why you
object," she said; taking back the neglected slice, and eating it hers=
elf.
"I object," Alban answered,
"because Mrs. Rook is a coarse presuming woman. She may pervert your
letter to some use of her own, which you may have reason to regret."
"Is that all?"
"Isn't it enough?"
"It may be enough for you. When I have do=
ne a
person an injury, and wish to make an apology, I don't think it necessary to
inquire whether the person's manners happen to be vulgar or not."
Alban's patience was still equal to any demands
that she could make on it. "I can only offer you advice which is hones=
tly
intended for your own good," he gently replied.
"You would have more influence over me, M=
r.
Morris, if you were a little readier to take me into your confidence. I dar=
esay
I am wrong--but I don't like following advice which is given to me in the
dark."
It was impossible to offend him. "Very
naturally," he said; "I don't blame you."
Her color deepened, and her voice rose. Alban's
patient adherence to his own view--so courteously and considerately urged--=
was
beginning to try her temper. "In plain words," she rejoined, &quo=
t;I
am to believe that you can't be mistaken in your judgment of another
person."
There was a ring at the door of the cottage wh=
ile
she was speaking. But she was too warmly interested in confuting Alban to
notice it.
He was quite willing to be confuted. Even when=
she
lost her temper, she was still interesting to him. "I don't expect you=
to
think me infallible," he said. "Perhaps you will remember that I =
have
had some experience. I am unfortunately older than you are."
"Oh if wisdom comes with age," she
smartly reminded him, "your friend Miss Redwood is old enough to be yo=
ur
mother--and she suspected Mrs. Rook of murder, because the poor woman looke=
d at
a door, and disliked being in the next room to a fidgety old maid."
Alban's manner changed: he shrank from that ch=
ance
allusion to doubts and fears which he dare not acknowledge. "Let us ta=
lk
of something else," he said.
She looked at him with a saucy smile. "Ha=
ve I
driven you into a corner at last? And is that your way of getting out of
it?"
Even his endurance failed. "Are you tryin=
g to
provoke me?" he asked. "Are you no better than other women? I
wouldn't have believed it of you, Emily."
"Emily?" She repeated the name in a =
tone
of surprise, which reminded him that he had addressed her with familiarity =
at a
most inappropriate time--the time when they were on the point of a quarrel.=
He
felt the implied reproach too keenly to be able to answer her with composur=
e.
"I think of Emily--I love Emily--my one h=
ope
is that Emily may love me. Oh, my dear, is there no excuse if I forget to c=
all
you 'Miss' when you distress me?"
All that was tender and true in her nature
secretly took his part. She would have followed that better impulse, if he =
had
only been calm enough to understand her momentary silence, and to give her
time. But the temper of a gentle and generous man, once roused, is slow to
subside. Alban abruptly left his chair. "I had better go!" he sai=
d.
"As you please," she answered.
"Whether you go, Mr. Morris, or whether you stay, I shall write to Mrs.
Rook."
The ring at the bell was followed by the
appearance of a visitor. Doctor Allday opened the door, just in time to hear
Emily's last words. Her vehemence seemed to amuse him.
"Who is Mrs. Rook?" he asked.
"A most respectable person," Emily
answered indignantly; "housekeeper to Sir Jervis Redwood. You needn't
sneer at her, Doctor Allday! She has not always been in service--she was la=
ndlady
of the inn at Zeeland."
The doctor, about to put his hat on a chair,
paused. The inn at Zeeland reminded him of the Handbill, and of the visit of
Miss Jethro.
"Why are you so hot over it?" he
inquired
"Because I detest prejudice!" With t=
his
assertion of liberal feeling she pointed to Alban, standing quietly apart at
the further end of the room. "There is the most prejudiced man living-=
-he
hates Mrs. Rook. Would you like to be introduced to him? You're a philosoph=
er;
you may do him some good. Doctor Allday--Mr. Alban Morris."
The doctor recognized the man, with the felt h=
at
and the objectionable beard, whose personal appearance had not impressed him
favorably.
Although they may hesitate to acknowledge it,
there are respectable Englishmen still left, who regard a felt hat and a be=
ard
as symbols of republican disaffection to the altar and the throne. Doctor
Allday's manner might have expressed this curious form of patriotic feeling,
but for the associations which Emily had revived. In his present frame of m=
ind,
he was outwardly courteous, because he was inwardly suspicious. Mrs. Rook h=
ad
been described to him as formerly landlady of the inn at Zeeland. Were there
reasons for Mr. Morris's hostile feeling toward this woman which might be
referable to the crime committed in her house that might threaten Emily's
tranquillity if they were made known? It would not be amiss to see a little
more of Mr. Morris, on the first convenient occasion.
"I am glad to make your acquaintance,
sir."
"You are very kind, Doctor Allday."<= o:p>
The exchange of polite conventionalities having
been accomplished, Alban approached Emily to take his leave, with mingled
feelings of regret and anxiety--regret for having allowed himself to speak
harshly; anxiety to part with her in kindness.
"Will you forgive me for differing from
you?" It was all he could venture to say, in the presence of a strange=
r.
"Oh, yes!" she said quietly.
"Will you think again, before you
decide?"
"Certainly, Mr. Morris. But it won't alte=
r my
opinion, if I do."
The doctor, hearing what passed between them,
frowned. On what subject had they been differing? And what opinion did Emily
decline to alter?
Alban gave it up. He took her hand gently.
"Shall I see you at the Museum, to-morrow?" he asked.
She was politely indifferent to the last.
"Yes--unless something happens to keep me at home."
The doctor's eyebrows still expressed disappro=
val.
For what object was the meeting proposed? And why at a museum?
"Good-afternoon, Doctor Allday."
"Good-afternoon, sir."
For a moment after Alban's departure, the doct=
or
stood irresolute. Arriving suddenly at a decision, he snatched up his hat, =
and
turned to Emily in a hurry.
"I bring you news, my dear, which will
surprise you. Who do you think has just left my house? Mrs. Ellmother! Don't
interrupt me. She has made up her mind to go out to service again. Tired of
leading an idle life--that's her own account of it--and asks me to act as h=
er reference."
"Did you consent?"
"Consent! If I act as her reference, I sh=
all
be asked how she came to leave her last place. A nice dilemma! Either I must
own that she deserted her mistress on her deathbed--or tell a lie. When I p=
ut
it to her in that way, she walked out of the house in dead silence. If she =
applies
to you next, receive her as I did--or decline to see her, which would be be=
tter
still."
"Why am I to decline to see her?"
"In consequence of her behavior to your a=
unt,
to be sure! No: I have said all I wanted to say--and I have no time to spare
for answering idle questions. Good-by."
Socially-speaking, doctors try the patience of
their nearest and dearest friends, in this respect--they are almost always =
in a
hurry. Doctor Allday's precipitate departure did not tend to soothe Emily's
irritated nerves. She began to find excuses for Mrs. Ellmother in a spirit =
of
pure contradiction. The old servant's behavior might admit of justification=
: a
friendly welcome might persuade her to explain herself. "If she applie=
s to
me," Emily determined, "I shall certainly receive her."
Having arrived at this resolution, her mind
reverted to Alban.
Some of the sharp things she had said to him,
subjected to after-reflection in solitude, failed to justify themselves. Her
better sense began to reproach her. She tried to silence that unwelcome mon=
itor
by laying the blame on Alban. Why had he been so patient and so good? What =
harm
was there in his calling her "Emily"? If he had told her to call =
him
by his Christian name, she might have done it. How noble he looked, when he=
got
up to go away; he was actually handsome! Women may say what they please and
write what they please: their natural instinct is to find their master in a
man--especially when they like him. Sinking lower and lower in her own
estimation, Emily tried to turn the current of her thoughts in another
direction. She took up a book--opened it, looked into it, threw it across t=
he
room.
If Alban had returned at that moment, resolved=
on
a reconciliation--if he had said, "My dear, I want to see you like
yourself again; will you give me a kiss, and make it up"--would he have
left her crying, when he went away? She was crying now.
If Emily's eyes could have followed Alban as h=
er
thoughts were following him, she would have seen him stop before he reached=
the
end of the road in which the cottage stood. His heart was full of tenderness
and sorrow: the longing to return to her was more than he could resist. It
would be easy to wait, within view of the gate, until the doctor's visit ca=
me to
an end. He had just decided to go back and keep watch--when he heard rapid
footsteps approaching. There (devil take him!) was the doctor himself.
"I have something to say to you, Mr. Morr=
is.
Which way are you walking?"
"Any way," Alban answered--not very
graciously.
"Then let us take the turning that leads =
to
my house. It's not customary for strangers, especially when they happen to =
be
Englishmen, to place confidence in each other. Let me set the example of
violating that rule. I want to speak to you about Miss Emily. May I take yo=
ur
arm? Thank you. At my age, girls in general--unless they are my patients--a=
re
not objects of interest to me. But that girl at the cottage--I daresay I am=
in
my dotage--I tell you, sir, she has bewitched me! Upon my soul, I could har=
dly
be more anxious about her, if I was her father. And, mind, I am not an
affectionate man by nature. Are you anxious about her too?"
"Yes."
"In what way?"
"In what way are you anxious, Doctor
Allday?"
The doctor smiled grimly.
"You don't trust me? Well, I have promise=
d to
set the example. Keep your mask on, sir--mine is off, come what may of it. =
But,
observe: if you repeat what I am going to say--"
Alban would hear no more. "Whatever you m=
ay
say, Doctor Allday, is trusted to my honor. If you doubt my honor, be so go=
od
as to let go my arm--I am not walking your way."
The doctor's hand tightened its grasp. "T=
hat
little flourish of temper, my dear sir, is all I want to set me at my ease.=
I
feel I have got hold of the right man. Now answer me this. Have you ever he=
ard
of a person named Miss Jethro?"
Alban suddenly came to a standstill.
"All right!" said the doctor. "I
couldn't have wished for a more satisfactory reply."
"Wait a minute," Alban interposed.
"I know Miss Jethro as a teacher at Miss Ladd's school, who left her
situation suddenly--and I know no more."
The doctor's peculiar smile made its appearance
again.
"Speaking in the vulgar tone," he sa=
id,
"you seem to be in a hurry to wash your hands of Miss Jethro."
"I have no reason to feel any interest in
her," Alban replied.
"Don't be too sure of that, my friend. I =
have
something to tell you which may alter your opinion. That ex-teacher at the
school, sir, knows how the late Mr. Brown met his death, and how his daught=
er
has been deceived about it."
Alban listened with surprise--and with some li=
ttle
doubt, which he thought it wise not to acknowledge.
"The report of the inquest alludes to a
'relative' who claimed the body," he said. "Was that 'relative' t=
he
person who deceived Miss Emily? And was the person her aunt?"
"I must leave you to take your own
view," Doctor Allday replied. "A promise binds me not to repeat t=
he
information that I have received. Setting that aside, we have the same obje=
ct
in view--and we must take care not to get in each other's way. Here is my
house. Let us go in, and make a clean breast of it on both sides."
Established in the safe seclusion of his study,
the doctor set the example of confession in these plain terms:
"We only differ in opinion on one
point," he said. "We both think it likely (from our experience of=
the
women) that the suspected murderer had an accomplice. I say the guilty pers=
on
is Miss Jethro. You say--Mrs. Rook."
"When you have read my copy of the
report," Alban answered, "I think you will arrive at my conclusio=
n.
Mrs. Rook might have entered the outhouse in which the two men slept, at any
time during the night, while her husband was asleep. The jury believed her =
when
she declared that she never woke till the morning. I don't."
"I am open to conviction, Mr. Morris. Now=
about
the future. Do you mean to go on with your inquiries?"
"Even if I had no other motive than mere
curiosity," Alban answered, "I think I should go on. But I have a
more urgent purpose in view. All that I have done thus far, has been done in
Emily's interests. My object, from the first, has been to preserve her from=
any
association--in the past or in the future--with the woman whom I believe to
have been concerned in her father's death. As I have already told you, she =
is innocently
doing all she can, poor thing, to put obstacles in my way."
"Yes, yes," said the doctor; "s=
he
means to write to Mrs. Rook--and you have nearly quarreled about it. Trust =
me
to take that matter in hand. I don't regard it as serious. But I am mortally
afraid of what you are doing in Emily's interests. I wish you would give it
up."
"Why?"
"Because I see a danger. I don't deny that
Emily is as innocent of suspicion as ever. But the chances, next time, may =
be
against us. How do you know to what lengths your curiosity may lead you? Or=
on
what shocking discoveries you may not blunder with the best intentions? Some
unforeseen accident may open her eyes to the truth, before you can prevent =
it.
I seem to surprise you?"
"You do, indeed, surprise me."
"In the old story, my dear sir, Mentor
sometimes surprised Telemachus. I am Mentor--without being, I hope, quite so
long-winded as that respectable philosopher. Let me put it in two words.
Emily's happiness is precious to you. Take care you are not made the means =
of
wrecking it! Will you consent to a sacrifice, for her sake?"
"I will do anything for her sake."
"Will you give up your inquiries?"
"From this moment I have done with
them!"
"Mr. Morris, you are the best friend she
has."
"The next best friend to you, doctor.&quo=
t;
In that fond persuasion they now parted--too
eagerly devoted to Emily to look at the prospect before them in its least
hopeful aspect. Both clever men, neither one nor the other asked himself if=
any
human resistance has ever yet obstructed the progress of truth--when truth =
has once
begun to force its way to the light.
For the second time Alban stopped, on his way
home. The longing to be reconciled with Emily was not to be resisted. He
returned to the cottage, only to find disappointment waiting for him. The
servant reported that her young mistress had gone to bed with a bad headach=
e.
Alban waited a day, in the hope that Emily mig=
ht
write to him. No letter arrived. He repeated his visit the next morning.
Fortune was still against him. On this occasion, Emily was engaged.
"Engaged with a visitor?" he asked.<= o:p>
"Yes, sir. A young lady named Miss de
Sor."
Where had he heard that name before? He rememb=
ered
immediately that he had heard it at the school. Miss de Sor was the
unattractive new pupil, whom the girls called Francine. Alban looked at the
parlor window as he left the cottage. It was of serious importance that he
should set himself right with Emily. "And mere gossip," he thought
contemptuously, "stands in my way!"
If he had been less absorbed in his own intere=
sts,
he might have remembered that mere gossip is not always to be despised. It =
has
worked fatal mischief in its time.
=
"You're surprised to see me, of course?&q=
uot;
Saluting Emily in those terms, Francine looked round the parlor with an air=
of
satirical curiosity. "Dear me, what a little place to live in!"
"What brings you to London?" Emily
inquired.
"You ought to know, my dear, without aski=
ng.
Why did I try to make friends with you at school? And why have I been trying
ever since? Because I hate you--I mean because I can't resist you--no! I me=
an because
I hate myself for liking you. Oh, never mind my reasons. I insisted on goin=
g to
London with Miss Ladd--when that horrid woman announced that she had an
appointment with her lawyer. I said, 'I want to see Emily.' 'Emily doesn't =
like
you.' 'I don't care whether she likes me or not; I want to see her.' That's=
the
way we snap at each other, and that's how I always carry my point. Here I a=
m,
till my duenna finishes her business and fetches me. What a prospect for Yo=
u!
Have you got any cold meat in the house? I'm not a glutton, like Cecilia--b=
ut
I'm afraid I shall want some lunch."
"Don't talk in that way, Francine!"<= o:p>
"Do you mean to say you're glad to see
me?"
"If you were only a little less hard and
bitter, I should always be glad to see you."
"You darling! (excuse my impetuosity). Wh=
at
are you looking at? My new dress? Do you envy me?"
"No; I admire the color--that's all."=
;
Francine rose, and shook out her dress, and sh=
owed
it from every point of view. "See how it's made: Paris, of course! Mon=
ey,
my dear; money will do anything--except making one learn one's lessons.&quo=
t;
"Are you not getting on any better,
Francine?"
"Worse, my sweet friend--worse. One of the
masters, I am happy to say, has flatly refused to teach me any longer. 'Pup=
ils
without brains I am accustomed to,' he said in his broken English; 'but a p=
upil
with no heart is beyond my endurance.' Ha! ha! the mouldy old refugee has an
eye for character, though. No heart--there I am, described in two words.&qu=
ot;
"And proud of it," Emily remarked.
"Yes--proud of it. Stop! let me do myself
justice. You consider tears a sign that one has some heart, don't you? I was
very near crying last Sunday. A popular preacher did it; no less a person t=
hat
Mr. Mirabel--you look as if you had heard of him."
"I have heard of him from Cecilia."<= o:p>
"Is she at Brighton? Then there's one fool
more in a fashionable watering place. Oh, she's in Switzerland, is she? I d=
on't
care where she is; I only care about Mr. Mirabel. We all heard he was at
Brighton for his health, and was going to preach. Didn't we cram the church=
! As
to describing him, I give it up. He is the only little man I ever admired--=
hair
as long as mine, and the sort of beard you see in pictures. I wish I had his
fair complexion and his white hands. We were all in love with him--or with =
his
voice, which was it?--when he began to read the commandments. I wish I could
imitate him when he came to the fifth commandment. He began in his deepest =
bass
voice: 'Honor thy father--' He stopped and looked up to heaven as if he saw=
the
rest of it there. He went on with a tremendous emphasis on the next word. '=
And thy
mother,' he said (as if that was quite a different thing) in a tearful, flu=
ty,
quivering voice which was a compliment to mothers in itself. We all felt it,
mothers or not. But the great sensation was when he got into the pulpit. The
manner in which he dropped on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, and
showed his beautiful rings was, as a young lady said behind me, simply
seraphic. We understood his celebrity, from that moment--I wonder whether I=
can
remember the sermon."
"You needn't attempt it on my account,&qu=
ot;
Emily said.
"My dear, don't be obstinate. Wait till y=
ou
hear him."
"I am quite content to wait."
"Ah, you're just in the right state of mi=
nd
to be converted; you're in a fair way to become one of his greatest admirer=
s.
They say he is so agreeable in private life; I am dying to know him.--Do I =
hear
a ring at the bell? Is somebody else coming to see you?"
The servant brought in a card and a message.
"The person will call again, miss."<= o:p>
Emily looked at the name written on the card.<= o:p>
"Mrs. Ellmother!" she exclaimed.
"What an extraordinary name!" cried
Francine. "Who is she?"
"My aunt's old servant."
"Does she want a situation?"
Emily looked at some lines of writing at the b=
ack
of the card. Doctor Allday had rightly foreseen events. Rejected by the doc=
tor,
Mrs. Ellmother had no alternative but to ask Emily to help her.
"If she is out of place," Francine w=
ent
on, "she may be just the sort of person I am looking for."
"You?" Emily asked, in astonishment.=
Francine refused to explain until she got an
answer to her question. "Tell me first," she said, "is Mrs.
Ellmother engaged?"
"No; she wants an engagement, and she ask=
s me
to be her reference."
"Is she sober, honest, middle-aged, clean,
steady, good-tempered, industrious?" Francine rattled on. "Has she
all the virtues, and none of the vices? Is she not too good-looking, and has
she no male followers? In one terrible word--will she satisfy Miss Ladd?&qu=
ot;
"What has Miss Ladd to do with it?"<= o:p>
"How stupid you are, Emily! Do put the
woman's card down on the table, and listen to me. Haven't I told you that o=
ne
of my masters has declined to have anything more to do with me? Doesn't that
help you to understand how I get on with the rest of them? I am no longer M=
iss
Ladd's pupil, my dear. Thanks to my laziness and my temper, I am to be rais=
ed
to the dignity of 'a parlor boarder.' In other words, I am to be a young la=
dy who
patronizes the school; with a room of my own, and a servant of my own. All
provided for by a private arrangement between my father and Miss Ladd, befo=
re I
left the West Indies. My mother was at the bottom of it, I have not the lea=
st
doubt. You don't appear to understand me."
"I don't, indeed!"
Francine considered a little. "Perhaps th=
ey
were fond of you at home," she suggested.
"Say they loved me, Francine--and I loved
them."
"Ah, my position is just the reverse of
yours. Now they have got rid of me, they don't want me back again at home. I
know as well what my mother said to my father, as if I had heard her. 'Fran=
cine
will never get on at school, at her age. Try her, by all means; but make so=
me
other arrangement with Miss Ladd in case of a failure--or she will be retur=
ned on
our hands like a bad shilling.' There is my mother, my anxious, affectionate
mother, hit off to a T."
"She is your mother, Francine; don't forg=
et
that."
"Oh, no; I won't forget it. My cat is my
kitten's mother--there! there! I won't shock your sensibilities. Let us get
back to matter of fact. When I begin my new life, Miss Ladd makes one
condition. My maid is to be a model of discretion--an elderly woman, not a
skittish young person who will only encourage me. I must submit to the elde=
rly
woman, or I shall be sent back to the West Indies after all. How long did M=
rs. Ellmother
live with your aunt?"
"Twenty-five years, and more.'
"Good heavens, it's a lifetime! Why isn't
this amazing creature living with you, now your aunt is dead? Did you send =
her
away?"
"Certainly not."
"Then why did she go?"
"I don't know."
"Do you mean that she went away without a
word of explanation?"
"Yes; that is exactly what I mean."<= o:p>
"When did she go? As soon as your aunt was
dead?"
"That doesn't matter, Francine."
"In plain English, you won't tell me? I am
all on fire with curiosity--and that's how you put me out! My dear, if you =
have
the slightest regard for me, let us have the woman in here when she comes b=
ack
for her answer. Somebody must satisfy me. I mean to make Mrs. Ellmother exp=
lain
herself."
"I don't think you will succeed,
Francine."
"Wait a little, and you will see. By-the-=
by,
it is understood that my new position at the school gives me the privilege =
of
accepting invitations. Do you know any nice people to whom you can introduce
me?"
"I am the last person in the world who ha=
s a
chance of helping you," Emily answered. "Excepting good Doctor
Allday--" On the point of adding the name of Alban Morris, she checked
herself without knowing why, and substituted the name of her school-friend.
"And not forgetting Cecilia," she resumed, "I know nobody.&q=
uot;
"Cecilia's a fool," Francine remarked
gravely; "but now I think of it, she may be worth cultivating. Her fat=
her
is a member of Parliament--and didn't I hear that he has a fine place in the
country? You see, Emily, I may expect to be married (with my money), if I c=
an
only get into good society. (Don't suppose I am dependent on my father; my
marriage portion is provided for in my uncle's will.) Cecilia may really be=
of
some use to me. Why shouldn't I make a friend of her, and get introduced to=
her
father--in the autumn, you know, when the house is full of company? Have you
any idea when she is coming back?"
"No."
"Do you think of writing to her?"
"Of course!"
"Give her my kind love; and say I hope she
enjoys Switzerland."
"Francine, you are positively shameless!
After calling my dearest friend a fool and a glutton, you send her your love
for your own selfish ends; and you expect me to help you in deceiving her! I
won't do it."
"Keep your temper, my child. We are all
selfish, you little goose. The only difference is--some of us own it, and s=
ome
of us don't. I shall find my own way to Cecilia's good graces quite easily:=
the
way is through her mouth. You mentioned a certain Doctor Allday. Does he gi=
ve parties?
And do the right sort of men go to them? Hush! I think I hear the bell agai=
n.
Go to the door, and see who it is."
Emily waited, without taking any notice of this
suggestion. The servant announced that "the person had called again, to
know if there was any answer."
"Show her in here," Emily said.
The servant withdrew, and came back again.
"The person doesn't wish to intrude, miss=
; it
will be quite sufficient if you will send a message by me."
Emily crossed the room to the door.
"Come in, Mrs. Ellmother," she said.
"You have been too long away already. Pray come in."
=
Mrs. Ellmother reluctantly entered the room.
Since Emily had seen her last, her personal ap=
pearance
doubly justified the nickname by which her late mistress had distinguished =
her.
The old servant was worn and wasted; her gown hung loose on her angular bod=
y; the
big bones of her face stood out, more prominently than ever. She took Emily=
's
offered hand doubtingly. "I hope I see you well, miss," she
said--with hardly a vestige left of her former firmness of voice and manner=
.
"I am afraid you have been suffering from
illness," Emily answered gently.
"It's the life I'm leading that wears me
down; I want work and change."
Making that reply, she looked round, and
discovered Francine observing her with undisguised curiosity. "You have
got company with you," she said to Emily. "I had better go away, =
and
come back another time."
Francine stopped her before she could open the
door. "You mustn't go away; I wish to speak to you."
"About what, miss?"
The eyes of the two women met--one, near the e=
nd
of her life, concealing under a rugged surface a nature sensitively
affectionate and incorruptibly true: the other, young in years, with out the
virtues of youth, hard in manner and hard at heart. In silence on either si=
de, they
stood face to face; strangers brought together by the force of circumstance=
s,
working inexorably toward their hidden end.
Emily introduced Mrs. Ellmother to Francine.
"It may be worth your while," she hinted, "to hear what this
young lady has to say."
Mrs. Ellmother listened, with little appearanc=
e of
interest in anything that a stranger might have to say: her eyes rested on =
the
card which contained her written request to Emily. Francine, watching her
closely, understood what was passing in her mind. It might be worth while t=
o conciliate
the old woman by a little act of attention. Turning to Emily, Francine poin=
ted
to the card lying on the table. "You have not attended yet to Mr.
Ellmother's request," she said.
Emily at once assured Mrs. Ellmother that the
request was granted. "But is it wise," she asked, "to go out=
to
service again, at your age?"
"I have been used to service all my life,
Miss Emily--that's one reason. And service may help me to get rid of my own
thoughts--that's another. If you can find me a situation somewhere, you wil=
l be
doing me a good turn."
"Is it useless to suggest that you might =
come
back, and live with me?" Emily ventured to say.
Mrs. Ellmother's head sank on her breast.
"Thank you kindly, miss; it is useless."
"Why is it useless?" Francine asked.=
Mrs. Ellmother was silent.
"Miss de Sor is speaking to you," Em=
ily
reminded her.
"Am I to answer Miss de Sor?"
Attentively observing what passed, and placing=
her
own construction on looks and tones, it suddenly struck Francine that Emily
herself might be in Mrs. Ellmother's confidence, and that she might have
reasons of her own for assuming ignorance when awkward questions were asked.
For the moment at least, Francine decided on keeping her suspicions to hers=
elf.
"I may perhaps offer you the employment y=
ou
want," she said to Mrs. Ellmother. "I am staying at Brighton, for=
the
present, with the lady who was Miss Emily's schoolmistress, and I am in nee=
d of
a maid. Would you be willing to consider it, if I proposed to engage you?&q=
uot;
"Yes, miss."
"In that case, you can hardly object to t=
he
customary inquiry. Why did you leave your last place?"
Mrs. Ellmother appealed to Emily. "Did you
tell this young lady how long I remained in my last place?"
Melancholy remembrances had been revived in Em=
ily
by the turn which the talk had now taken. Francine's cat-like patience,
stealthily feeling its way to its end, jarred on her nerves. "Yes,&quo=
t;
she said; "in justice to you, I have mentioned your long term of
service."
Mrs. Ellmother addressed Francine. "You k=
now,
miss, that I served my late mistress for over twenty-five years. Will you
please remember that--and let it be a reason for not asking me why I left my
place."
Francine smiled compassionately. "My good
creature, you have mentioned the very reason why I should ask. You live
five-and-twenty years with your mistress--and then suddenly leave her--and =
you
expect me to pass over this extraordinary proceeding without inquiry. Take a
little time to think."
"I want no time to think. What I had in my
mind, when I left Miss Letitia, is something which I refuse to explain, mis=
s,
to you, or to anybody."
She recovered some of her old firmness, when s=
he
made that reply. Francine saw the necessity of yielding--for the time at le=
ast,
Emily remained silent, oppressed by remembrance of the doubts and fears whi=
ch had
darkened the last miserable days of her aunt's illness. She began already t=
o regret
having made Francine and Mrs. Ellmother known to each other.
"I won't dwell on what appears to be a
painful subject," Francine graciously resumed. "I meant no offens=
e.
You are not angry, I hope?"
"Sorry, miss. I might have been angry, at=
one
time. That time is over."
It was said sadly and resignedly: Emily heard =
the
answer. Her heart ached as she looked at the old servant, and thought of the
contrast between past and present. With what a hearty welcome this broken w=
oman
had been used to receive her in the bygone holiday-time! Her eyes moistened.
She felt the merciless persistency of Francine, as if it had been an insult
offered to herself. "Give it up!" she said sharply.
"Leave me, my dear, to manage my own
business," Francine replied. "About your qualifications?" she
continued, turning coolly to Mrs. Ellmother. "Can you dress hair?"=
;
"Yes."
"I ought to tell you," Francine
insisted, "that I am very particular about my hair."
"My mistress was very particular about her
hair," Mrs. Ellmother answered.
"Are you a good needlewoman?"
"As good as ever I was--with the help of =
my
spectacles."
Francine turned to Emily. "See how well we
get on together. We are beginning to understand each other already. I am an=
odd
creature, Mrs. Ellmother. Sometimes, I take sudden likings to persons--I ha=
ve
taken a liking to you. Do you begin to think a little better of me than you
did? I hope you will produce the right impression on Miss Ladd; you shall h=
ave
every assistance that I can give. I will beg Miss Ladd, as a favor to me, n=
ot
to ask you that one forbidden question."
Poor Mrs. Ellmother, puzzled by the sudden
appearance of Francine in the character of an eccentric young lady, the
creature of genial impulse, thought it right to express her gratitude for t=
he
promised interference in her favor. "That's kind of you, miss," s=
he
said.
"No, no, only just. I ought to tell you
there's one thing Miss Ladd is strict about--sweethearts. Are you quite
sure," Francine inquired jocosely, "that you can answer for yours=
elf,
in that particular?"
This effort of humor produced its intended eff=
ect.
Mrs. Ellmother, thrown off her guard, actually smiled. "Lord, miss, wh=
at
will you say next!"
"My good soul, I will say something next =
that
is more to the purpose. If Miss Ladd asks me why you have so unaccountably
refused to be a servant again in this house, I shall take care to say that =
it
is certainly not out of dislike to Miss Emily."
"You need say nothing of the sort,"
Emily quietly remarked.
"And still less," Francine proceeded,
without noticing the interruption--"still less through any disagreeable
remembrances of Miss Emily's aunt."
Mrs. Ellmother saw the trap that had been set =
for
her. "It won't do, miss," she said.
"What won't do?"
"Trying to pump me."
Francine burst out laughing. Emily noticed an
artificial ring in her gayety which suggested that she was exasperated, rat=
her
than amused, by the repulse which had baffled her curiosity once more.
Mrs. Ellmother reminded the merry young lady t=
hat
the proposed arrangement between them had not been concluded yet. "Am =
I to
understand, miss, that you will keep a place open for me in your service?&q=
uot;
"You are to understand," Francine
replied sharply, "that I must have Miss Ladd's approval before I can
engage you. Suppose you come to Brighton? I will pay your fare, of
course."
"Never mind my fare, miss. Will you give =
up
pumping?"
"Make your mind easy. It's quite useless =
to
attempt pumping you. When will you come?"
Mrs. Ellmother pleaded for a little delay. "I'm altering my gowns," she said. "I get thinner and thinner--don't I, Miss Emily? My work won't be done before Thursday."<= o:p>
"Let us say Friday, then," Francine
proposed.
"Friday!" Mrs. Ellmother exclaimed.
"You forget that Friday is an unlucky day."
"I forgot that, certainly! How can you be=
so
absurdly superstitious."
"You may call it what you like, miss. I h=
ave
good reason to think as I do. I was married on a Friday--and a bitter bad
marriage it turned out to be. Superstitious, indeed! You don't know what my
experience has been. My only sister was one of a party of thirteen at dinne=
r;
and she died within the year. If we are to get on together nicely, I'll tak=
e that
journey on Saturday, if you please."
"Anything to satisfy you," Francine
agreed; "there is the address. Come in the middle of the day, and we w=
ill
give you your dinner. No fear of our being thirteen in number. What will you
do, if you have the misfortune to spill the salt?"
"Take a pinch between my finger and thumb,
and throw it over my left shoulder," Mrs. Ellmother answered gravely.
"Good-day, miss."
"Good-day."
Emily followed the departing visitor out to the
hall. She had seen and heard enough to decide her on trying to break off the
proposed negotiation--with the one kind purpose of protecting Mrs. Ellmothe=
r against
the pitiless curiosity of Francine.
"Do you think you and that young lady are
likely to get on well together?" she asked.
"I have told you already, Miss Emily, I w=
ant
to get away from my own home and my own thoughts; I don't care where I go, =
so
long as I do that." Having answered in those words, Mrs. Ellmother ope=
ned
the door, and waited a while, thinking. "I wonder whether the dead know
what is going on in the world they have left?" she said, looking at Em=
ily.
"If they do, there's one among them knows my thoughts, and feels for m=
e. Good-by,
miss--and don't think worse of me than I deserve."
Emily went back to the parlor. The only resour=
ce
left was to plead with Francine for mercy to Mrs. Ellmother.
"Do you really mean to give it up?" =
she
asked.
"To give up--what? 'Pumping,' as that
obstinate old creature calls it?"
Emily persisted. "Don't worry the poor old
soul! However strangely she may have left my aunt and me her motives are ki=
nd
and good--I am sure of that. Will you let her keep her harmless little
secret?"
"Oh, of course!"
"I don't believe you, Francine!"
"Don't you? I am like Cecilia--I am getti=
ng
hungry. Shall we have some lunch?"
"You hard-hearted creature!"
"Does that mean--no luncheon until I have
owned the truth? Suppose you own the truth? I won't tell Mrs. Ellmother that
you have betrayed her."
"For the last time, Francine--I know no m=
ore
of it than you do. If you persist in taking your own view, you as good as t=
ell
me I lie; and you will oblige me to leave the room."
Even Francine's obstinacy was compelled to give
way, so far as appearances went. Still possessed by the delusion that Emily=
was
deceiving her, she was now animated by a stronger motive than mere curiosit=
y.
Her sense of her own importance imperatively urged her to prove that she was
not a person who could be deceived with impunity.
"I beg your pardon," she said with
humility. "But I must positively have it out with Mrs. Ellmother. She =
has
been more than a match for me--my turn next. I mean to get the better of he=
r;
and I shall succeed."
"I have already told you, Francine--you w=
ill
fail."
"My dear, I am a dunce, and I don't deny =
it.
But let me tell you one thing. I haven't lived all my life in the West Indi=
es,
among black servants, without learning something."
"What do you mean?"
"More, my clever friend, than you are lik=
ely
to guess. In the meantime, don't forget the duties of hospitality. Ring the
bell for luncheon."
=
The arrival of Miss Ladd, some time before she=
had
been expected, interrupted the two girls at a critical moment. She had hurr=
ied
over her business in London, eager to pass the rest of the day with her
favorite pupil. Emily's affectionate welcome was, in some degree at least, =
inspired
by a sensation of relief. To feel herself in the embrace of the warm-hearted
schoolmistress was like finding a refuge from Francine.
When the hour of departure arrived, Miss Ladd
invited Emily to Brighton for the second time. "On the last occasion, =
my
dear, you wrote me an excuse; I won't be treated in that way again. If you
can't return with us now, come to-morrow." She added in a whisper,
"Otherwise, I shall think you include me in your dislike of
Francine."
There was no resisting this. It was arranged t=
hat
Emily should go to Brighton on the next day.
Left by herself, her thoughts might have rever=
ted
to Mrs. Ellmother's doubtful prospects, and to Francine's strange allusion =
to
her life in the West Indies, but for the arrival of two letters by the
afternoon post. The handwriting on one of them was unknown to her. She open=
ed that
one first. It was an answer to the letter of apology which she had persiste=
d in
writing to Mrs. Rook. Happily for herself, Alban's influence had not been
without its effect, after his departure. She had written kindly--but she had
written briefly at the same time.
Mrs. Rook's reply presented a nicely compounded
mixture of gratitude and grief. The gratitude was addressed to Emily as a
matter of course. The grief related to her "excellent master." Sir
Jervis's strength had suddenly failed. His medical attendant, being summone=
d,
had expressed no surprise. "My patient is over seventy years of age,&q=
uot;
the doctor remarked. "He will sit up late at night, writing his book; =
and
he refuses to take exercise, till headache and giddiness force him to try t=
he
fresh air. As the necessary result, he has broken down at last. It may end =
in
paralysis, or it may end in death." Reporting this expression of medic=
al
opinion, Mrs. Rook's letter glided imperceptibly from respectful sympathy to
modest regard for her own interests in the future. It might be the sad fate=
of
her husband and herself to be thrown on the world again. If necessity broug=
ht
them to London, would "kind Miss Emily grant her the honor of an
interview, and favor a poor unlucky woman with a word of advice?"
"She may pervert your letter to some use =
of
her own, which you may have reason to regret." Did Emily remember Alba=
n's
warning words? No: she accepted Mrs. Rook's reply as a gratifying tribute to
the justice of her own opinions.
Having proposed to write to Alban, feeling
penitently that she had been in the wrong, she was now readier than ever to
send him a letter, feeling compassionately that she had been in the right.
Besides, it was due to the faithful friend, who was still working for her in
the reading room, that he should be informed of Sir Jervis's illness. Wheth=
er
the old man lived or whether he died, his literary labors were fatally inte=
rrupted
in either case; and one of the consequences would be the termination of her
employment at the Museum. Although the second of the two letters which she =
had
received was addressed to her in Cecilia's handwriting, Emily waited to rea=
d it
until she had first written to Alban. "He will come to-morrow," s=
he
thought; "and we shall both make apologies. I shall regret that I was
angry with him and he will regret that he was mistaken in his judgment of M=
rs.
Rook. We shall be as good friends again as ever."
In this happy frame of mind she opened Cecilia=
's
letter. It was full of good news from first to last.
The invalid sister had made such rapid progress
toward recovery that the travelers had arranged to set forth on their journ=
ey
back to England in a fortnight. "My one regret," Cecilia added,
"is the parting with Lady Doris. She and her husband are going to Geno=
a,
where they will embark in Lord Janeaway's yacht for a cruise in the
Mediterranean. When we have said that miserable word good-by--oh, Emily, wh=
at a
hurry I shall be in to get back to you! Those allusions to your lonely life=
are
so dreadful, my dear, that I have destroyed your letter; it is enough to br=
eak
one's heart only to look at it. When once I get to London, there shall be n=
o more
solitude for my poor afflicted friend. Papa will be free from his parliamen=
tary
duties in August--and he has promised to have the house full of delightful
people to meet you. Who do you think will be one of our guests? He is
illustrious; he is fascinating; he deserves a line all to himself, thus:
"The Reverend Miles Mirabel!
"Lady Doris has discovered that the count=
ry
parsonage, in which this brilliant clergyman submits to exile, is only twel=
ve
miles away from our house. She has written to Mr. Mirabel to introduce me, =
and
to mention the date of my return. We will have some fun with the popular pr=
eacher--we
will both fall in love with him together.
"Is there anybody to whom you would like =
me
to send an invitation? Shall we have Mr. Alban Morris? Now I know how kindl=
y he
took care of you at the railway station, your good opinion of him is my
opinion. Your letter also mentions a doctor. Is he nice? and do you think he
will let me eat pastry, if we have him too? I am so overflowing with
hospitality (all for your sake) that I am ready to invite anybody, and
everybody, to cheer you and make you happy. Would you like to meet Miss Ladd
and the whole school?
"As to our amusements, make your mind eas=
y.
"I have come to a distinct understanding =
with
Papa that we are to have dances every evening--except when we try a little
concert as a change. Private theatricals are to follow, when we want another
change after the dancing and the music. No early rising; no fixed hour for
breakfast; everything that is most exquisitely delicious at dinner--and, to
crown all, your room next to mine, for delightful midnight gossipings, when=
we ought
to be in bed. What do you say, darling, to the programme?
"A last piece of news--and I have done.
"I have actually had a proposal of marria=
ge,
from a young gentleman who sits opposite me at the table d'hote! When I tell
you that he has white eyelashes, and red hands, and such enormous front tee=
th
that he can't shut his mouth, you will not need to be told that I refused h=
im.
This vindictive person has abused me ever since, in the most shameful manne=
r. I
heard him last night, under my window, trying to set one of his friends aga=
inst
me. 'Keep clear of her, my dear fellow; she's the most heartless creature
living.' The friend took my part; he said, 'I don't agree with you; the you=
ng
lady is a person of great sensibility.' 'Nonsense!' says my amiable lover; =
'she
eats too much--her sensibility is all stomach.' There's a wretch for you. W=
hat
a shameful advantage to take of sitting opposite to me at dinner! Good-by, =
my
love, till we meet soon, and are as happy together as the day is long."=
;
Emily kissed the signature. At that moment of =
all
others, Cecilia was such a refreshing contrast to Francine!
Before putting the letter away, she looked aga=
in
at that part of it which mentioned Lady Doris's introduction of Cecilia to =
Mr.
Mirabel. "I don't feel the slightest interest in Mr. Mirabel," she
thought, smiling as the idea occurred to her; "and I need never have k=
nown
him, but for Lady Doris--who is a perfect stranger to me."
She had just placed the letter in her desk, wh=
en a
visitor was announced. Doctor Allday presented himself (in a hurry as usual=
).
"Another patient waiting?" Emily ask=
ed
mischievously. "No time to spare, again?"
"Not a moment," the old gentleman
answered. "Have you heard from Mrs. Ellmother?"
"Yes."
"You don't mean to say you have answered
her?"
"I have done better than that, doctor--I =
have
seen her this morning."
"And consented to be her reference, of
course?"
"How well you know me!"
Doctor Allday was a philosopher: he kept his
temper. "Just what I might have expected," he said. "Eve and=
the
apple! Only forbid a woman to do anything, and she does it directly--be cau=
se
you have forbidden her. I'll try the other way with you now, Miss Emily. Th=
ere
was something else that I meant to have forbidden."
"What was it?"
"May I make a special request?"
"Certainly."
"Oh, my dear, write to Mrs. Rook! I beg a=
nd
entreat of you, write to Mrs. Rook!"
Emily's playful manner suddenly disappeared.
Ignoring the doctor's little outbreak of humor,
she waited in grave surprise, until it was his pleasure to explain himself.=
Doctor Allday, on his side, ignored the ominous
change in Emily; he went on as pleasantly as ever. "Mr. Morris and I h=
ave
had a long talk about you, my dear. Mr. Morris is a capital fellow; I recom=
mend
him as a sweetheart. I also back him in the matter of Mrs. Rook.--What's th=
e matter
now? You're as red as a rose. Temper again, eh?"
"Hatred of meanness!" Emily answered
indignantly. "I despise a man who plots, behind my back, to get another
man to help him. Oh, how I have been mistaken in Alban Morris!"
"Oh, how little you know of the best frie=
nd
you have!" cried the doctor, imitating her. "Girls are all alike;=
the
only man they can understand, is the man who flatters them. Will you oblige=
me
by writing to Mrs. Rook?"
Emily made an attempt to match the doctor, with
his own weapons. "Your little joke comes too late," she said
satirically. "There is Mrs. Rook's answer. Read it, and--" she
checked herself, even in her anger she was incapable of speaking ungenerous=
ly
to the old man who had so warmly befriended her. "I won't say to
you," she resumed, "what I might have said to another person.&quo=
t;
"Shall I say it for you?" asked the
incorrigible doctor. "'Read it, and be ashamed of yourself'--That was =
what
you had in your mind, isn't it? Anything to please you, my dear." He p=
ut
on his spectacles, read the letter, and handed it back to Emily with an
impenetrable countenance. "What do you think of my new spectacles?&quo=
t;
he asked, as he took the glasses off his nose. "In the experience of
thirty years, I have had three grateful patients." He put the spectacl=
es
back in the case. "This comes from the third. Very gratifying--very
gratifying."
Emily's sense of humor was not the uppermost s=
ense
in her at that moment. She pointed with a peremptory forefinger to Mrs. Roo=
k's
letter. "Have you nothing to say about this?"
The doctor had so little to say about it that =
he
was able to express himself in one word:
"Humbug!"
He took his hat--nodded kindly to Emily--and
hurried away to feverish pulses waiting to be felt, and to furred tongues t=
hat
were ashamed to show themselves.
=
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>CHAPTER XXXI. MOIRA.<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
When Alban presented himself the next morning,=
the
hours of the night had exercised their tranquilizing influence over Emily. =
She
remembered sorrowfully how Doctor Allday had disturbed her belief in the man
who loved her; no feeling of irritation remained. Alban noticed that her ma=
nner
was unusually subdued; she received him with her customary grace, but not w=
ith
her customary smile.
"Are you not well?" he asked.
"I am a little out of spirits," she
replied. "A disappointment--that is all."
He waited a moment, apparently in the expectat=
ion
that she might tell him what the disappointment was. She remained silent, a=
nd
she looked away from him. Was he in any way answerable for the depression o=
f spirits
to which she alluded? The doubt occurred to him--but he said nothing.
"I suppose you have received my letter?&q=
uot;
she resumed.
"I have come here to thank you for your
letter."
"It was my duty to tell you of Sir Jervis=
's
illness; I deserve no thanks."
"You have written to me so kindly,"
Alban reminded her; "you have referred to our difference of opinion, t=
he
last time I was here, so gently and so forgivingly--"
"If I had written a little later," s=
he
interposed, "the tone of my letter might have been less agreeable to y=
ou.
I happened to send it to the post, before I received a visit from a friend =
of
yours--a friend who had something to say to me after consulting with you.&q=
uot;
"Do you mean Doctor Allday?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"What you wished him to say. He did his b= est; he was as obstinate and unfeeling as you could possibly wish him to be; but= he was too late. I have written to Mrs. Rook, and I have received a reply.&quo= t; She spoke sadly, not angrily--and pointed to the letter lying on her desk.<= o:p>
Alban understood: he looked at her in despair.
"Is that wretched woman doomed to set us at variance every time we
meet!" he exclaimed.
Emily silently held out the letter.
He refused to take it. "The wrong you have
done me is not to be set right in that way," he said. "You believe
the doctor's visit was arranged between us. I never knew that he intended to
call on you; I had no interest in sending him here--and I must not interfere
again between you and Mrs. Rook."
"I don't understand you."
"You will understand me when I tell you h=
ow
my conversation with Doctor Allday ended. I have done with interference; I =
have
done with advice. Whatever my doubts may be, all further effort on my part =
to
justify them--all further inquiries, no matter in what direction--are at an
end: I made the sacrifice, for your sake. No! I must repeat what you said t=
o me
just now; I deserve no thanks. What I have done, has been done in deference=
to
Doctor Allday--against my own convictions; in spite of my own fears. Ridicu=
lous
convictions! ridiculous fears! Men with morbid minds are their own tormento=
rs.
It doesn't matter how I suffer, so long as you are at ease. I shall never
thwart you or vex you again. Have you a better opinion of me now?"
She made the best of all answers--she gave him=
her
hand.
"May I kiss it?" he asked, as timidl=
y as
if he had been a boy addressing his first sweetheart.
She was half inclined to laugh, and half incli=
ned
to cry. "Yes, if you like," she said softly.
"Will you let me come and see you
again?"
"Gladly--when I return to London."
"You are going away?"
"I am going to Brighton this afternoon, to
stay with Miss Ladd."
It was hard to lose her, on the happy day when
they understood each other at last. An expression of disappointment passed =
over
his face. He rose, and walked restlessly to the window. "Miss Ladd?&qu=
ot;
he repeated, turning to Emily as if an idea had struck him. "Did I hea=
r,
at the school, that Miss de Sor was to spend the holidays under the care of=
Miss
Ladd?"
"Yes."
"The same young lady," he went on,
"who paid you a visit yesterday morning?"
"The same."
That haunting distrust of the future, which he=
had
first betrayed and then affected to ridicule, exercised its depressing
influence over his better sense. He was unreasonable enough to feel doubtfu=
l of
Francine, simply because she was a stranger.
"Miss de Sor is a new friend of yours,&qu=
ot;
he said. "Do you like her?"
It was not an easy question to answer--without
entering into particulars which Emily's delicacy of feeling warned her to
avoid. "I must know a little more of Miss de Sor," she said,
"before I can decide."
Alban's misgivings were naturally encouraged by
this evasive reply. He began to regret having left the cottage, on the prev=
ious
day, when he had heard that Emily was engaged. He might have sent in his ca=
rd, and
might have been admitted. It was an opportunity lost of observing Francine.=
On
the morning of her first day at school, when they had accidentally met at t=
he
summer house, she had left a disagreeable impression on his mind. Ought he =
to
allow his opinion to be influenced by this circumstance? or ought he to fol=
low
Emily's prudent example, and suspend judgment until he knew a little more of
Francine?
"Is any day fixed for your return to
London?" he asked.
"Not yet," she said; "I hardly =
know
how long my visit will be."
"In little more than a fortnight," he
continued, "I shall return to my classes--they will be dreary classes,
without you. Miss de Sor goes back to the school with Miss Ladd, I
suppose?"
Emily was at a loss to account for the depress=
ion
in his looks and tones, while he was making these unimportant inquiries. She
tried to rouse him by speaking lightly in reply.
"Miss de Sor returns in quite a new
character; she is to be a guest instead of a pupil. Do you wish to be better
acquainted with her?"
"Yes," he said grave ly, "now I
know that she is a friend of yours." He returned to his place near her.
"A pleasant visit makes the days pass quickly," he resumed. "=
;You
may remain at Brighton longer than you anticipate; and we may not meet again
for some time to come. If anything happens--"
"Do you mean anything serious?" she
asked.
"No, no! I only mean--if I can be of any
service. In that case, will you write to me?"
"You know I will!"
She looked at him anxiously. He had completely
failed to hide from her the uneasy state of his mind: a man less capable of
concealment of feeling never lived. "You are anxious, and out of
spirits," she said gently. "Is it my fault?"
"Your fault? oh, don't think that! I have=
my
dull days and my bright days--and just now my barometer is down at dull.&qu=
ot;
His voice faltered, in spite of his efforts to control it; he gave up the
struggle, and took his hat to go. "Do you remember, Emily, what I once
said to you in the garden at the school? I still believe there is a time of
fulfillment to come in our lives." He suddenly checked himself, as if
there had been something more in his mind to which he hesitated to give
expression--and held out his hand to bid her good-by.
"My memory of what you said in the garden= is better than yours," she reminded him. "You said 'Happen what may = in the interval, I trust the future.' Do you feel the same trust still?"<= o:p>
He sighed--drew her to him gently--and kissed =
her
on the forehead. Was that his own reply? She was not calm enough to ask him=
the
question: it remained in her thoughts for some time after he had gone.
=
&nb=
sp;
........
On the same day Emily was at Brighton.
Francine happened to be alone in the drawing-r=
oom.
Her first proceeding, when Emily was shown in, was to stop the servant.
"Have you taken my letter to the post?&qu=
ot;
"Yes, miss."
"It doesn't matter." She dismissed t=
he
servant by a gesture, and burst into such effusive hospitality that she
actually insisted on kissing Emily. "Do you know what I have been
doing?" she said. "I have been writing to Cecilia--directing to t=
he
care of her father, at the House of Commons. I stupidly forgot that you wou=
ld
be able to give me the right address in Switzerland. You don't object, I ho=
pe,
to my making myself agreeable to our dear, beautiful, greedy girl? It is of
such importance to me to surround myself with influential friends--and, of
course, I have given her your love. Don't look disgusted! Come, and see you=
r room.--Oh,
never mind Miss Ladd. You will see her when she wakes. Ill? Is that sort of=
old
woman ever ill? She's only taking her nap after bathing. Bathing in the sea=
, at
her age! How she must frighten the fishes!"
Having seen her own bed-chamber, Emily was next
introduced to the room occupied by Francine.
One object that she noticed in it caused her s=
ome
little surprise--not unmingled with disgust. She discovered on the toilet-t=
able
a coarsely caricatured portrait of Mrs. Ellmother. It was a sketch in penci=
l--wretchedly
drawn; but spitefully successful as a likeness. "I didn't know you wer=
e an
artist," Emily remarked, with an ironical emphasis on the last word.
Francine laughed scornfully--crumpled the drawing up in her hand--and threw=
it
into the waste-paper basket.
"You satirical creature!" she burst =
out
gayly. "If you had lived a dull life at St. Domingo, you would have ta=
ken
to spoiling paper too. I might really have turned out an artist, if I had b=
een
clever and industrious like you. As it was, I learned a little drawing--and=
got
tired of it. I tried modeling in wax--and got tired of it. Who do you think=
was
my teacher? One of our slaves."
"A slave!" Emily exclaimed.
"Yes--a mulatto, if you wish me to be
particular; the daughter of an English father and a negro mother. In her yo=
ung
time (at least she said so herself) she was quite a beauty, in her particul=
ar
style. Her master's favorite; he educated her himself. Besides drawing and
painting, and modeling in wax, she could sing and play--all the accomplishm=
ents
thrown away on a slave! When her owner died, my uncle bought her at the sal=
e of
the property."
A word of natural compassion escaped Emily--to
Francine's surprise.
"Oh, my dear, you needn't pity her! Sappho
(that was her name) fetched a high price, even when she was no longer young.
She came to us, by inheritance, with the estates and the rest of it; and to=
ok a
fancy to me, when she found out I didn't get on well with my father and mot=
her.
'I owe it to my father and mother,' she used to say, 'that I am a slave. Wh=
en I
see affectionate daughters, it wrings my heart.' Sappho was a strange compo=
und.
A woman with a white side to her character, and a black side. For weeks
together, she would be a civilized being. Then she used to relapse, and bec=
ome
as complete a negress as her mother. At the risk of her life she stole away=
, on
those occasions, into the interior of the island, and looked on, in hiding,=
at
the horrid witchcrafts and idolatries of the blacks; they would have murder=
ed a
half-blood, prying into their ceremonies, if they had discovered her. I
followed her once, so far as I dared. The frightful yellings and drummings =
in
the darkness of the forests frightened me. The blacks suspected her, and it
came to my ears. I gave her the warning that saved her life (I don't know w=
hat
I should have done without Sappho to amuse me!); and, from that time, I do
believe the curious creature loved me. You see I can speak generously even =
of a
slave!"
"I wonder you didn't bring her with you to
England," Emily said.
"In the first place," Francine answe=
red,
"she was my father's property, not mine. In the second place, she's de=
ad.
Poisoned, as the other half-bloods supposed, by some enemy among the blacks.
She said herself, she was under a spell!"
"What did she mean?"
Francine was not interested enough in the subj=
ect
to explain. "Stupid superstition, my dear. The negro side of Sappho was
uppermost when she was dying--there is the explanation. Be off with you! I =
hear
the old woman on the stairs. Meet her before she can come in here. My bedro=
om
is my only refuge from Miss Ladd."
On the morning of the last day in the week, Em=
ily
had a little talk in private with her old schoolmistress. Miss Ladd listene=
d to
what she had to say of Mrs. Ellmother, and did her best to relieve Emily's =
anxieties.
"I think you are mistaken, my child, in supposing that Francine is in =
earnest.
It is her great fault that she is hardly ever in earnest. You can trust to =
my
discretion; leave the rest to your aunt's old servant and to me."
Mrs. Ellmother arrived, punctual to the appoin=
ted
time. She was shown into Miss Ladd's own room. Francine--ostentatiously
resolved to take no personal part in the affair--went for a walk. Emily wai=
ted
to hear the result.
After a long interval, Miss Ladd returned to t=
he
drawing-room, and announced that she had sanctioned the engagement of Mrs.
Ellmother.
"I have considered your wishes, in this
respect," she said. "It is arranged that a week's notice, on eith=
er
side, shall end the term of service, after the first month. I cannot feel
justified in doing more than that. Mrs. Ellmother is such a respectable wom=
an;
she is so well known to you, and she was so long in your aunt's service, th=
at I
am bound to consider the importance of securing a person who is exactly fit=
ted
to attend on such a girl as Francine. In one word, I can trust Mrs.
Ellmother."
"When does she enter on her service?"
Emily inquired.
"On the day after we return to the
school," Miss Ladd replied. "You will be glad to see her, I am su=
re.
I will send her here."
"One word more before you go," Emily
said.
"Did you ask her why she left my aunt?&qu=
ot;
"My dear child, a woman who has been
five-and-twenty years in one place is entitled to keep her own secrets. I
understand that she had her reasons, and that she doesn't think it necessar=
y to
mention them to anybody. Never trust people by halves--especially when they=
are
people like Mrs. Ellmother."
It was too late now to raise any objections. E=
mily
felt relieved, rather than disappointed, on discovering that Mrs. Ellmother=
was
in a hurry to get back to London by the next train. Sh e had found an
opportunity of letting her lodgings; and she was eager to conclude the barg=
ain.
"You see I couldn't say Yes," she explained, "till I knew
whether I was to get this new place or not--and the person wants to go in
tonight."
Emily stopped her at the door. "Promise to
write and tell me how you get on with Miss de Sor."
"You say that, miss, as if you didn't feel
hopeful about me."
"I say it, because I feel interested about
you. Promise to write."
Mrs. Ellmother promised, and hastened away. Em=
ily
looked after her from the window, as long as she was in view. "I wish I
could feel sure of Francine!" she said to herself.
"In what way?" asked the hard voice =
of
Francine, speaking at the door.
It was not in Emily's nature to shrink from a
plain reply. She completed her half-formed thought without a moment's
hesitation.
"I wish I could feel sure," she
answered, "that you will be kind to Mrs. Ellmother."
"Are you afraid I shall make her life one
scene of torment?" Francine inquired. "How can I answer for mysel=
f? I
can't look into the future."
"For once in your life, can you be in
earnest?" Emily said.
"For once in your life, can you take a
joke?" Francine replied.
Emily said no more. She privately resolved to
shorten her visit to Brighton.
=
The house inhabited by Miss Ladd and her pupils
had been built, in the early part of the present century, by a wealthy
merchant--proud of his money, and eager to distinguish himself as the owner=
of
the largest country seat in the neighborhood.
After his death, Miss Ladd had taken Netherwoo=
ds
(as the place was called), finding her own house insufficient for the
accommodation of the increasing number of her pupils. A lease was granted to
her on moderate terms. Netherwoods failed to attract persons of distinction=
in
search of a country residence. The grounds were beautiful; but no landed pr=
operty--not
even a park--was attached to the house. Excepting the few acres on which the
building stood, the surrounding land belonged to a retired naval officer of=
old
family, who resented the attempt of a merchant of low birth to assume the
position of a gentleman. No matter what proposals might be made to the admi=
ral,
he refused them all. The privilege of shooting was not one of the attractio=
ns
offered to tenants; the country presented no facilities for hunting; and the
only stream in the neighborhood was not preserved. In consequence of these
drawbacks, the merchant's representatives had to choose between a proposal =
to
use Netherwoods as a lunatic asylum, or to accept as tenant the respectable=
mistress
of a fashionable and prosperous school. They decided in favor of Miss Ladd.=
The contemplated change in Francine's position=
was
accomplished, in that vast house, without inconvenience. There were rooms
unoccupied, even when the limit assigned to the number of pupils had been
reached. On the re-opening of the school, Francine was offered her choice
between two rooms on one of the upper stories, and two rooms on the ground
floor. She chose these last.
Her sitting-room and bedroom, situated at the =
back
of the house, communicated with each other. The sitting-room, ornamented wi=
th a
pretty paper of delicate gray, and furnished with curtains of the same colo=
r, had
been accordingly named, "The Gray Room." It had a French window, =
which
opened on the terrace overlooking the garden and the grounds. Some fine old
engravings from the grand landscapes of Claude (part of a collection of pri=
nts
possessed by Miss Ladd's father) hung on the walls. The carpet was in harmo=
ny
with the curtains; and the furniture was of light-colored wood, which helped
the general effect of subdued brightness that made the charm of the room.
"If you are not happy here," Miss Ladd said, "I despair of
you." And Francine answered, "Yes, it's very pretty, but I wish it
was not so small."
On the twelfth of August the regular routine of
the school was resumed. Alban Morris found two strangers in his class, to f=
ill
the vacancies left by Emily and Cecilia. Mrs. Ellmother was duly establishe=
d in
her new place. She produced an unfavorable impression in the servants' hall=
--not
(as the handsome chief housemaid explained) because she was ugly and old, b=
ut
because she was "a person who didn't talk." The prejudice against
habitual silence, among the lower order of the people, is almost as inveter=
ate
as the prejudice against red hair.
In the evening, on that first day of renewed
studies--while the girls were in the grounds, after tea--Francine had at la=
st
completed the arrangement of her rooms, and had dismissed Mrs. Ellmother (k=
ept
hard at work since the morning) to take a little rest. Standing alone at he=
r window,
the West Indian heiress wondered what she had better do next. She glanced at
the girls on the lawn, and decided that they were unworthy of serious notic=
e,
on the part of a person so specially favored as herself. She turned sidewis=
e,
and looked along the length of the terrace. At the far end a tall man was s=
lowly
pacing to and fro, with his head down and his hands in his pockets. Francine
recognized the rude drawing-master, who had torn up his view of the village,
after she had saved it from being blown into the pond.
She stepped out on the terrace, and called to =
him.
He stopped, and looked up.
"Do you want me?" he called back.
"Of course I do!"
She advanced a little to meet him, and offered
encouragement under the form of a hard smile. Although his manners might be
unpleasant, he had claims on the indulgence of a young lady, who was at a l=
oss
how to employ her idle time. In the first place, he was a man. In the secon=
d place,
he was not as old as the music-master, or as ugly as the dancing-master. In=
the
third place, he was an admirer of Emily; and the opportunity of trying to s=
hake
his allegiance by means of a flirtation, in Emily's absence, was too good an
opportunity to be lost.
"Do you remember how rude you were to me,=
on
the day when you were sketching in the summer-house?" Francine asked w=
ith
snappish playfulness. "I expect you to make yourself agreeable this
time--I am going to pay you a compliment."
He waited, with exasperating composure, to hear
what the proposed compliment might be. The furrow between his eyebrows look=
ed
deeper than ever. There were signs of secret trouble in that dark face, so
grimly and so resolutely composed. The school, without Emily, presented the=
severest
trial of endurance that he had encountered, since the day when he had been
deserted and disgraced by his affianced wife.
"You are an artist," Francine procee=
ded,
"and therefore a person of taste. I want to have your opinion of my
sitting-room. Criticism is invited; pray come in."
He seemed to be unwilling to accept the
invitation--then altered his mind, and followed Francine. She had visited
Emily; she was perhaps in a fair way to become Emily's friend. He remembered
that he had already lost an opportunity of studying her character, and--if =
he
saw the necessity--of warning Emily not to encourage the advances of Miss d=
e Sor.
"Very pretty," he remarked, looking
round the room--without appearing to care for anything in it, except the
prints.
Francine was bent on fascinating him. She rais=
ed
her eyebrows and lifted her hands, in playful remonstrance. "Do rememb=
er
it's my room," she said, "and take some little interest in it, fo=
r my
sake!"
"What do you want me to say?" he ask=
ed.
"Come and sit down by me." She made =
room
for him on the sofa. Her one favorite aspiration--the longing to excite env=
y in
others--expressed itself in her next words. "Say something pretty,&quo=
t;
she answered; "say you would like to have such a room as this."
"I should like to have your prints,"=
he
remarked. "Will that do?"
"It wouldn't do--from anybody else. Ah, M=
r.
Morris, I know why you are not as nice as you might be! You are not happy. =
The
school has lost its one attraction, in losing our dear Emily. You feel it--I
know you feel it." She assisted this expression of sympathy to produce=
the
right effect by a sigh. "What would I not give to inspire such devotio=
n as
yours! I don't envy Emily; I only wish--" She paused in confusion, and
opened her fan. "Isn't it pretty?" she said, with an ostentatious=
appearance
of changing the subject. Alban behaved like a monster; he began to talk of =
the
weather.
"I think this is the hottest day we have
had," he said; "no wonder you want your fan. Netherwoods is an
airless place at this season of the year."
She controlled her temper. "I do indeed f=
eel
the heat," she admitted, with a resignation which gently reproved him;
"it is so heavy and oppressive here after Brighton. Perhaps my sad lif=
e,
far away from home and friends, makes me sensitive to trifles. Do you think=
so,
Mr. Morris?"
The merciless man said he thought it was the
situation of the house.
"Miss Ladd took the place in the
spring," he continued; "and only discovered the one objection to =
it
some months afterward. We are in the highest part of the valley here--but, =
you
see, it's a valley surrounded by hills; and on three sides the hills are ne=
ar
us. All very well in winter; but in summer I have heard of girls in this sc=
hool
so out of health in the relaxing atmosphere that they have been sent home
again."
Francine suddenly showed an interest in what he
was saying. If he had cared to observe her closely, he might have noticed i=
t.
"Do you mean that the girls were really
ill?" she asked.
"No. They slept badly--lost appetite--sta=
rted
at trifling noises. In short, their nerves were out of order."
"Did they get well again at home, in anot=
her
air?"
"Not a doubt of it," he answered,
beginning to get weary of the subject. "May I look at your books?"=
;
Francine's interest in the influence of differ=
ent
atmospheres on health was not exhausted yet. "Do you know where the gi=
rls
lived when they were at home?" she inquired.
"I know where one of them lived. She was =
the
best pupil I ever had--and I remember she lived in Yorkshire." He was =
so
weary of the idle curiosity--as it appeared to him--which persisted in aski=
ng
trifling questions, that he left his seat, and crossed the room. "May I
look at your books?" he repeated.
"Oh, yes!"
The conversation was suspended for a while. The
lady thought, "I should like to box his ears!" The gentleman thou=
ght,
"She's only an inquisitive fool after all!" His examination of her
books confirmed him in the delusion that there was really nothing in Franci=
ne's
character which rendered it necessary to caution Emily against the advances=
of
her new friend. Turning away from the book-case, he made the first excuse t=
hat occurred
to him for putting an end to the interview.
"I must beg you to let me return to my
duties, Miss de Sor. I have to correct the young ladies' drawings, before t=
hey
begin again to-morrow."
Francine's wounded vanity made a last expiring
attempt to steal the heart of Emily's lover.
"You remind me that I have a favor to
ask," she said. "I don't attend the other classes--but I should so
like to join your class! May I?" She looked up at him with a languishi=
ng
appearance of entreaty which sorely tried Alban's capacity to keep his face=
in
serious order. He acknowledged the compliment paid to him in studiously
commonplace terms, and got a little nearer to the open window. Francine's
obstinacy was not conquered yet.
"My education has been sadly neglected,&q=
uot;
she continued; "but I have had some little instruction in drawing. You
will not find me so ignorant as some of the other girls." She waited a
little, anticipating a few complimentary words. Alban waited also--in silen=
ce.
"I shall look forward with pleasure to my lessons under such an artist=
as
yourself," she went on, and waited again, and was disappointed again.
"Perhaps," she resumed, "I may become your favorite pupil--W=
ho
knows?"
"Who indeed!"
It was not much to say, when he spoke at last-=
-but
it was enough to encourage Francine. She called him "dear Mr.
Morris"; she pleaded for permission to take her first lesson immediate=
ly;
she clasped her hands--"Please say Yes!"
"I can't say Yes, till you have complied =
with
the rules."
"Are they your rules?"
Her eyes expressed the readiest submission--in
that case. He entirely failed to see it: he said they were Miss Ladd's
rules--and wished her good-evening.
She watched him, walking away down the terrace.
How was he paid? Did he receive a yearly salary, or did he get a little ext=
ra
money for each new pupil who took drawing lessons? In this last case, Franc=
ine
saw her opportunity of being even with him "You brute! Catch me attend=
ing
your class!"
The night was oppressively hot. Finding it
impossible to sleep, Francine lay quietly in her bed, thinking. The subject=
of
her reflections was a person who occupied the humble position of her new
servant.
Mrs. Ellmother looked wretchedly ill. Mrs.
Ellmother had told Emily that her object, in returning to domestic service,=
was
to try if change would relieve her from the oppression of her own thoughts.
Mrs. Ellmother believed in vulgar superstitions which declared Friday to be=
an
unlucky day; and which recommended throwing a pinch over your left shoulder=
, if
you happened to spill the salt.
In themselves, these were trifling recollectio=
ns.
But they assumed a certain importance, derived from the associations which =
they
called forth.
They reminded Francine, by some mental process
which she was at a loss to trace, of Sappho the slave, and of her life at S=
t.
Domingo.
She struck a light, and unlocked her writing d=
esk.
From one of the drawers she took out an old household account-book.
The first page contained some entries, relatin=
g to
domestic expenses, in her own handwriting. They recalled one of her efforts=
to
occupy her idle time, by relieving her mother of the cares of housekeeping.=
For
a day or two, she had persevered--and then she had ceased to feel any inter=
est
in her new employment. The remainder of the book was completely filled up, =
in a
beautifully clear handwriting, beginning on the second page. A title had be=
en
found for the manuscript by Francine. She had written at the top of the pag=
e:
Sappho's Nonsense.
After reading the first few sentences she rapi=
dly
turned over the leaves, and stopped at a blank space near the end of the bo=
ok.
Here again she had added a title. This time it implied a compliment to the =
writer:
the page was headed: Sappho's Sense.
She read this latter part of the manuscript wi=
th
the closest attention.
"I entreat my kind and dear young mistress
not to suppose that I believe in witchcraft--after such an education as I h=
ave
received. When I wrote down, at your biding, all that I had told you by wor=
d of
mouth, I cannot imagine what delusion possessed me. You say I have a negro =
side
to my character, which I inherit from my mother. Did you mean this, dear mi=
stress,
as a joke? I am almost afraid it is sometimes not far off from the truth.
"Let me be careful, however, to avoid lea=
ding
you into a mistake. It is really true that the man-slave I spoke of did pine
and die, after the spell had been cast on him by my witch-mother's image of
wax. But I ought also to have told you that circumstances favored the worki=
ng
of the spell: the fatal end was not brought about by supernatural means.
"The poor wretch was not in good health at
the time; and our owner had occasion to employ him in the valley of the isl=
and
far inland. I have been told, and can well believe, that the climate there =
is
different from the climate on the coast--in which the unfortunate slave had
been accustomed to live. The overseer wouldn't believe him when he said the=
valley
air would be his death--and the negroes, who might otherwise have helped hi=
m,
all avoided a man whom they knew to be under a spell.
"This, you see, accounts for what might
appear incredible to civilized persons. If you will do me a favor, you will
burn this little book, as soon as you have read what I have written here. I=
f my
request is not granted, I can only implore you to let no eyes but your own =
see
these pages. My life might be in danger if the blacks knew what I have now =
told
you, in the interests of truth."
Francine closed the book, and locked it up aga=
in
in her desk. "Now I know," she said to herself, "what remind=
ed
me of St. Domingo."
When Francine rang her bell the next morning, =
so
long a time elapsed without producing an answer that she began to think of
sending one of the house-servants to make inquiries. Before she could decid=
e,
Mrs. Ellmother presented herself, and offered her apologies.
"It's the first time I have overslept mys=
elf,
miss, since I was a girl. Please to excuse me, it shan't happen again."=
;
"Do you find that the air here makes you
drowsy?" Francine asked.
Mrs. Ellmother shook her head. "I didn't =
get
to sleep," she said, "till morning, and so I was too heavy to be =
up
in time. But air has got nothing to do with it. Gentlefolks may have their
whims and fancies. All air is the same to people like me."
"You enjoy good health, Mrs. Ellmother?&q=
uot;
"Why not, miss? I have never had a
doctor."
"Oh! That's your opinion of doctors, is
it?"
"I won't have anything to do with them--if
that's what you mean by my opinion," Mrs. Ellmother answered doggedly.
"How will you have your hair done?"
"The same as yesterday. Have you seen
anything of Miss Emily? She went back to London the day after you left
us."
"I haven't been in London. I'm thankful to
say my lodgings are let to a good tenant."
"Then where have you lived, while you were
waiting to come here?"
"I had only one place to go to, miss; I w=
ent
to the village where I was born. A friend found a corner for me. Ah, dear
heart, it's a pleasant place, there!"
"A place like this?"
"Lord help you! As little like this as ch=
alk
is to cheese. A fine big moor, miss, in Cumberland, without a tree in
sight--look where you may. Something like a wind, I can tell you, when it t=
akes
to blowing there."
"Have you never been in this part of the
country?"
"Not I! When I left the North, my new
mistress took me to Canada. Talk about air! If there was anything in it, the
people in that air ought to live to be a hundred. I liked Canada."
"And who was your next mistress?"
Thus far, Mrs. Ellmother had been ready enough=
to
talk. Had she failed to hear what Francine had just said to her? or had she
some reason for feeling reluctant to answer? In any case, a spirit of
taciturnity took sudden possession of her--she was silent.
Francine (as usual) persisted. "Was your =
next
place in service with Miss Emily's aunt?"
"Yes."
"Did the old lady always live in
London?"
"No."
"What part of the country did she live
in?"
"Kent."
"Among the hop gardens?"
"No."
"In what other part, then?"
"Isle of Thanet."
"Near the sea coast?"
"Yes."
Even Francine could insist no longer: Mrs. Ell= mother's reserve had beaten her--for that day at least. "Go into the hall," she said, "and see if there are any letters for me in the rack."<= o:p>
There was a letter bearing the Swiss postmark.
Simple Cecilia was flattered and delighted by the charming manner in which
Francine had written to her. She looked forward with impatience to the time
when their present acquaintance might ripen into friendship. Would "De=
ar Miss
de Sor" waive all ceremony, and consent to be a guest (later in the au=
tumn)
at her father's house? Circumstances connected with her sister's health wou=
ld
delay their return to England for a little while. By the end of the month s=
he
hoped to be at home again, and to hear if Francine was disengaged. Her addr=
ess,
in England, was Monksmoor Park, Hants.
Having read the letter, Francine drew a moral =
from
it: "There is great use in a fool, when one knows how to manage her.&q=
uot;
Having little appetite for her breakfast, she
tried the experiment of a walk on the terrace. Alban Morris was right; the =
air
at Netherwoods, in the summer time, was relaxing. The morning mist still hu=
ng
over the lowest part of the valley, between the village and the hills beyon=
d. A
little exercise produced a feeling of fatigue. Francine returned to her roo=
m,
and trifled with her tea and toast.
Her next proceeding was to open her writing-de= sk, and look into the old account-book once more. While it lay open on her lap,= she recalled what had passed that morning, between Mrs. Ellmother and herself.<= o:p>
The old woman had been born and bred in the No=
rth,
on an open moor. She had been removed to the keen air of Canada when she le=
ft
her birthplace. She had been in service after that, on the breezy eastward
coast of Kent. Would the change to the climate of Netherwoods produce any
effect on Mrs. Ellmother? At her age, and with her seasoned constitution, w=
ould
she feel it as those school-girls had felt it--especially that one among th=
em,
who lived in the bracing air of the North, the air of Yorkshire?
Weary of solitary thinking on one subject,
Francine returned to the terrace with a vague idea of finding something to
amuse her--that is to say, something she could turn into ridicule--if she
joined the girls.
The next morning, Mrs. Ellmother answered her
mistress's bell without delay. "You have slept better, this time?"
Francine said.
"No, miss. When I did get to sleep I was
troubled by dreams. Another bad night--and no mistake!"
"I suspect your mind is not quite at
ease," Francine suggested.
"Why do you suspect that, if you
please?"
"You talked, when I met you at Miss Emily=
's,
of wanting to get away from your own thoughts. Has the change to this place
helped you?"
"It hasn't helped me as I expected. Some
people's thoughts stick fast."
"Remorseful thoughts?" Francine
inquired.
Mrs. Ellmother held up her forefinger, and sho=
ok
it with a gesture of reproof. "I thought we agreed, miss, that there w=
as
to be no pumping."
The business of the toilet proceeded in silenc=
e.
A week passed. During an interval in the labor=
s of
the school, Miss Ladd knocked at the door of Francine's room.
"I want to speak to you, my dear, about M=
rs.
Ellmother. Have you noticed that she doesn't seem to be in good health?&quo=
t;
"She looks rather pale, Miss Ladd."<= o:p>
"It's more serious than that, Francine. T=
he
servants tell me that she has hardly any appetite. She herself acknowledges
that she sleeps badly. I noticed her yesterday evening in the garden, under=
the
schoolroom window. One of the girls dropped a dictionary. She started at th=
at slight
noise, as if it terrified her. Her nerves are seriously out of order. Can y=
ou
prevail upon her to see the doctor?"
Francine hesitated--and made an excuse. "I
think she would be much more likely, Miss Ladd, to listen to you. Do you mi=
nd
speaking to her?"
"Certainly not!"
Mrs. Ellmother was immediately sent for.
"What is your pleasure, miss?" she said to Francine.
Miss Ladd interposed. "It is I who wish to
speak to you, Mrs. Ellmother. For some days past, I have been sorry to see =
you
looking ill."
"I never was ill in my life, ma'am."=
Miss Ladd gently persisted. "I hear that =
you
have lost your appetite."
"I never was a great eater, ma'am."<= o:p>
It was evidently useless to risk any further
allusion to Mrs. Ellmother's symptoms. Miss Ladd tried another method of
persuasion. "I daresay I may be mistaken," she said; "but I =
do
really feel anxious about you. To set my mind at rest, will you see the
doctor?"
"The doctor! Do you think I'm going to be=
gin
taking physic, at my time of life? Lord, ma'am! you amuse me--you do
indeed!" She burst into a sudden fit of laughter; the hysterical laugh=
ter
which is on the verge of tears. With a desperate effort, she controlled
herself. "Please, don't make a fool of me again," she said--and l=
eft
the room.
"What do you think now?" Miss Ladd
asked.
Francine appeared to be still on her guard.
"I don't know what to think," she sa=
id
evasively.
Miss Ladd looked at her in silent surprise, and
withdrew.
Left by herself, Francine sat with her elbows =
on
the table and her face in her hands, absorbed in thought. After a long inte=
rval,
she opened her desk--and hesitated. She took a sheet of note-paper--and pau=
sed,
as if still in doubt. She snatched up her pen, with a sudden recovery of re=
solution--and
addressed these lines to the wife of her father's agent in London:
"When I was placed under your care, on the
night of my arrival from the West Indies, you kindly said I might ask you f=
or
any little service which might be within your power. I shall be greatly obl=
iged
if you can obtain for me, and send to this place, a supply of artists' mode=
ling
wax--sufficient for the product ion of a small image."
=
A week later, Alban Morris happened to be in M=
iss
Ladd's study, with a report to make on the subject of his drawing-class. Mr=
s.
Ellmother interrupted them for a moment. She entered the room to return a b=
ook which
Francine had borrowed that morning.
"Has Miss de Sor done with it already?&qu=
ot;
Miss Ladd asked.
"She won't read it, ma'am. She says the
leaves smell of tobacco-smoke."
Miss Ladd turned to Alban, and shook her head =
with
an air of good-humored reproof. "I know who has been reading that book
last!" she said.
Alban pleaded guilty, by a look. He was the on=
ly
master in the school who smoked. As Mrs. Ellmother passed him, on her way o=
ut,
he noticed the signs of suffering in her wasted face.
"That woman is surely in a bad state of
health," he said. "Has she seen the doctor?"
"She flatly refuses to consult the
doctor," Miss Ladd replied. "If she was a stranger, I should meet=
the
difficulty by telling Miss de Sor (whose servant she is) that Mrs. Ellmother
must be sent home. But I cannot act in that peremptory manner toward a pers=
on
in whom Emily is interested."
From that moment Mrs. Ellmother became a perso=
n in
whom Alban was interested. Later in the day, he met her in one of the lower
corridors of the house, and spoke to her. "I am afraid the air of this
place doesn't agree with you," he said.
Mrs. Ellmother's irritable objection to being =
told
(even indirectly) that she looked ill, expressed itself roughly in reply.
"I daresay you mean well, sir--but I don't see how it matters to you
whether the place agrees with me or not."
"Wait a minute," Alban answered
good-humoredly. "I am not quite a stranger to you."
"How do you make that out, if you
please?"
"I know a young lady who has a sincere re=
gard
for you."
"You don't mean Miss Emily?"
"Yes, I do. I respect and admire Miss Emi=
ly;
and I have tried, in my poor way, to be of some little service to her."=
;
Mrs. Ellmother's haggard face instantly soften=
ed.
"Please to forgive me, sir, for forgetting my manners," she said
simply. "I have had my health since the day I was born--and I don't li=
ke
to be told, in my old age, that a new place doesn't agree with me."
Alban accepted this apology in a manner which =
at
once won the heart of the North-countrywoman. He shook hands with her.
"You're one of the right sort," she said; "there are not man=
y of
them in this house."
Was she alluding to Francine? Alban tried to m=
ake
the discovery. Polite circumlocution would be evidently thrown away on Mrs.
Ellmother. "Is your new mistress one of the right sort?" he asked
bluntly.
The old servant's answer was expressed by a
frowning look, followed by a plain question.
"Do you say that, sir, because you like my
new mistress?"
"No."
"Please to shake hands again!" She s=
aid
it--took his hand with a sudden grip that spoke for itself--and walked away=
.
Here was an exhibition of character which Alban
was just the man to appreciate. "If I had been an old woman," he
thought in his dryly humorous way, "I believe I should have been like =
Mrs.
Ellmother. We might have talked of Emily, if she had not left me in such a
hurry. When shall I see her again?"
He was destined to see her again, that
night--under circumstances which he remembered to the end of his life.
The rules of Netherwoods, in summer time, reca=
lled
the young ladies from their evening's recreation in the grounds at nine
o'clock. After that hour, Alban was free to smoke his pipe, and to linger a=
mong
trees and flower-beds before he returned to his hot little rooms in the
village. As a relief to the drudgery of teaching the young ladies, he had b=
een
using his pencil, when the day's lessons were over, for his own amusement. =
It
was past ten o'clock before he lighted his pipe, and began walking slowly to
and fro on the path which led to the summer-house, at the southern limit of=
the
grounds.
In the perfect stillness of the night, the clo=
ck
of the village church was distinctly audible, striking the hours and the
quarters. The moon had not risen; but the mysterious glimmer of starlight
trembled on the large open space between the trees and the house.
Alban paused, admiring with an artist's eye the
effect of light, so faintly and delicately beautiful, on the broad expanse =
of
the lawn. "Does the man live who could paint that?" he asked hims=
elf.
His memory recalled the works of the greatest of all landscape painters--th=
e English
artists of fifty years since. While recollections of many a noble picture w=
ere
still passing through his mind, he was startled by the sudden appearance of=
a
bareheaded woman on the terrace steps.
She hurried down to the lawn, staggering as she
ran--stopped, and looked back at the house--hastened onward toward the
trees--stopped again, looking backward and forward, uncertain which way to =
turn
next--and then advanced once more. He could now hear her heavily gasping for
breath. As she came nearer, the starlight showed a panic-stricken face--the
face of Mrs. Ellmother.
Alban ran to meet her. She dropped on the grass
before he could cross the short distance which separated them. As he raised=
her
in his arms she looked at him wildly, and murmured and muttered in the vain
attempt to speak. "Look at me again," he said. "Don't you
remember the man who had some talk with you to-day?" She still stared =
at
him vacantly: he tried again. "Don't you remember Miss Emily's
friend?"
As the name passed his lips, her mind in some
degree recovered its balance. "Yes," she said; "Emily's frie=
nd;
I'm glad I have met with Emily's friend." She caught at Alban's
arm--starting as if her own words had alarmed her. "What am I talking
about? Did I say 'Emily'? A servant ought to say 'Miss Emily.' My head swim=
s.
Am I going mad?"
Alban led her to one of the garden chairs.
"You're only a little frightened," he said. "Rest, and compo=
se
yourself."
She looked over her shoulder toward the house.
"Not here! I've run away from a she-devil; I want to be out of sight.
Further away, Mister--I don't know your name. Tell me your name; I won't tr=
ust
you, unless you tell me your name!"
"Hush! hush! Call me Alban."
"I never heard of such a name; I won't tr=
ust
you."
"You won't trust your friend, and Emily's
friend? You don't mean that, I'm sure. Call me by my other name--call me
'Morris.'"
"Morris?" she repeated. "Ah, I'=
ve heard
of people called 'Morris.' Look back! Your eyes are young--do you see her on
the terrace?"
"There isn't a living soul to be seen
anywhere."
With one hand he raised her as he spoke--and w=
ith
the other he took up the chair. In a minute more, they were out of sight of=
the
house. He seated her so that she could rest her head against the trunk of a
tree.
"What a good fellow!" the poor old
creature said, admiring him; "he knows how my head pains me. Don't sta=
nd
up! You're a tall man. She might see you."
"She can see nothing. Look at the trees
behind us. Even the starlight doesn't get through them."
Mrs. Ellmother was not satisfied yet. "You
take it coolly," she said. "Do you know who saw us together in the
passage to-day? You good Morris, she saw us--she did. Wretch! Cruel, cunnin=
g,
shameless wretch."
In the shadows that were round them, Alban cou=
ld
just see that she was shaking her clinched fists in the air. He made another
attempt to control her. "Don't excite yourself! If she comes into the
garden, she might hear you."
The appeal to her fears had its effect.
"That's true," she said, in lowered
tones. A sudden distrust of him seized her the next moment. "Who told =
me I
was excited?" she burst out. "It's you who are excited. Deny it if
you dare; I begin to suspect you, Mr. Morris; I don't like your conduct. Wh=
at
has become of your pipe? I saw you put your pipe in your coat pocket. You d=
id
it when you set me down among the trees where she could see me! You are in
league with her--she is coming to meet you here--you know she does not like=
tobacco-smoke.
Are you two going to put me in the madhouse?"
She started to her feet. It occurred to Alban =
that
the speediest way of pacifying her might be by means of the pipe. Mere words
would exercise no persuasive influence over that bewildered mind. Instant
action, of some kind, would be far more likely to have the right effect. He=
put
his pipe and his tobacco pouch into her hands, and so mastered her attentio=
n before
he spoke.
"Do you know how to fill a man's pipe for
him?" he asked.
"Haven't I filled my husband's pipe hundr=
eds
of times?" she answered sharply.
"Very well. Now do it for me."
She took her chair again instantly, and filled=
the
pipe. He lighted it, and seated himself on the grass, quietly smoking. &quo=
t;Do
you think I'm in league with her now?" he asked, purposely adopting the
rough tone of a man in her own rank of life.
She answered him as she might have answered her
husband, in the days of her unhappy marriage.
"Oh, don't gird at me, there's a good man=
! If
I've been off my head for a minute or two, please not to notice me. It's co=
ol
and quiet here," the poor woman said gratefully. "Bless God for t=
he
darkness; there's something comforting in the darkness--along with a good m=
an
like you. Give me a word of advice. You are my friend in need. What am I to=
do?
I daren't go back to the house!"
She was quiet enough now, to suggest the hope =
that
she might be able to give Alban some information "Were you with Miss de
Sor," he asked, "before you came out here? What did she do to
frighten you?"
There was no answer; Mrs. Ellmother had abrupt=
ly
risen once more. "Hush!" she whispered. "Don't I hear somebo=
dy
near us?"
Alban at once went back, along the winding path
which they had followed. No creature was visible in the gardens or on the
terrace. On returning, he found it impossible to use his eyes to any good
purpose in the obscurity among the trees. He waited a while, listening
intently. No sound was audible: there was not even air enough to stir the
leaves.
As he returned to the place that he had left, =
the
silence was broken by the chimes of the distant church clock, striking the
three-quarters past ten.
Even that familiar sound jarred on Mrs.
Ellmother's shattered nerves. In her state of mind and body, she was eviden=
tly
at the mercy of any false alarm which might be raised by her own fears.
Relieved of the feeling of distrust which had thus far troubled him, Alban =
sat
down by her again--opened his match-box to relight his pipe--and changed his
mind. Mrs. Ellmother had unconsciously warned him to be cautious.
For the first time, he thought it likely that =
the
heat in the house might induce some of the inmates to try the cooler atmosp=
here
in the grounds. If this happened, and if he continued to smoke, curiosity m=
ight
tempt them to follow the scent of tobacco hanging on the stagnant air.
"Is there nobody near us?" Mrs.
Ellmother asked. "Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. Now tell me, did you really =
mean
it, when you said just now that you wanted my advice?"
"Need you ask that, sir? Who else have I =
got
to help me?"
"I am ready and willing to help you--but I
can't do it unless I know first what has passed between you and Miss de Sor.
Will you trust me?"
"I will!"
"May I depend on you?"
"Try me!"
=
Alban took Mrs. Ellmother at her word. "I=
am
going to venture on a guess," he said. "You have been with Miss de
Sor to-night."
"Quite true, Mr. Morris."
"I am going to guess again. Did Miss de S=
or
ask you to stay with her, when you went into her room?"
"That's it! She rang for me, to see how I=
was
getting on with my needlework--and she was what I call hearty, for the first
time since I have been in her service. I didn't think badly of her when she
first talked of engaging me; and I've had reason to repent of my opinion ev=
er since.
Oh, she showed the cloven foot to-night! 'Sit down,' she says; 'I've nothin=
g to
read, and I hate work; let's have a little chat.' She's got a glib tongue of
her own. All I could do was to say a word now and then to keep her going. S=
he
talked and talked till it was time to light the lamp. She was particular in
telling me to put the shade over it. We were half in the dark, and half in =
the
light. She trapped me (Lord knows how!) into talking about foreign parts; I=
mean
the place she lived in before they sent her to England. Have you heard that=
she
comes from the West Indies?"
"Yes; I have heard that. Go on."
"Wait a bit, sir. There's something, by y=
our
leave, that I want to know. Do you believe in Witchcraft?"
"I know nothing about it. Did Miss de Sor=
put
that question to you?"
"She did."
"And how did you answer?"
"Neither in one way nor the other. I'm in=
two
minds about that matter of Witchcraft. When I was a girl, there was an old
woman in our village, who was a sort of show. People came to see her from a=
ll
the country round--gentlefolks among them. It was her great age that made h=
er famous.
More than a hundred years old, sir! One of our neighbors didn't believe in =
her
age, and she heard of it. She cast a spell on his flock. I tell you, she se=
nt a
plague on his sheep, the plague of the Bots. The whole flock died; I rememb=
er
it well. Some said the sheep would have had the Bots anyhow. Some said it w=
as
the spell. Which of them was right? How am I to settle it?"
"Did you mention this to Miss de Sor?&quo=
t;
"I was obliged to mention it. Didn't I te=
ll
you, just now, that I can't make up my mind about Witchcraft? 'You don't se=
em
to know whether you believe or disbelieve,' she says. It made me look like a
fool. I told her I had my reasons, and then I was obliged to give them.&quo=
t;
"And what did she do then?"
"She said, 'I've got a better story of
Witchcraft than yours.' And she opened a little book, with a lot of writing=
in
it, and began to read. Her story made my flesh creep. It turns me cold, sir,
when I think of it now."
He heard her moaning and shuddering. Strongly =
as
his interest was excited, there was a compassionate reluctance in him to ask
her to go on. His merciful scruples proved to be needless. The fascination =
of beauty
it is possible to resist. The fascination of horror fastens its fearful hol=
d on
us, struggle against it as we may. Mrs. Ellmother repeated what she had hea=
rd,
in spite of herself.
"It happened in the West Indies," she
said; "and the writing of a woman slave was the writing in the little
book. The slave wrote about her mother. Her mother was a black--a Witch in =
her
own country. There was a forest in her own country. The devil taught her
Witchcraft in the forest. The serpents and the wild beasts were afraid to t=
ouch
her. She lived without eating. She was sold for a slave, and sent to the is=
land--an
island in the West Indies. An old man lived there; the wickedest man of them
all. He filled the black Witch with devilish knowledge. She learned to make=
the
image of wax. The image of wax casts spells. You put pins in the image of w=
ax.
At every pin you put, the person under the spell gets nearer and nearer to
death. There was a poor black in the island. He offended the Witch. She made
his image in wax; she cast spells on him. He couldn't sleep; he couldn't ea=
t;
he was such a coward that common noises frightened him. Like Me! Oh, God, l=
ike
me!"
"Wait a little," Alban interposed.
"You are exciting yourself again--wait."
"You're wrong, sir! You think it ended wh=
en
she finished her story, and shut up her book; there's worse to come than
anything you've heard yet. I don't know what I did to offend her. She looke=
d at
me and spoke to me, as if I was the dirt under her feet. 'If you're too stu=
pid
to understand what I have been reading,' she says, 'get up and go to the gl=
ass.
Look at yourself, and remember what happened to the slave who was under the=
spell.
You're getting paler and paler, and thinner and thinner; you're pining away
just as he did. Shall I tell you why?' She snatched off the shade from the
lamp, and put her hand under the table, and brought out an image of wax. My
image! She pointed to three pins in it. 'One,' she says, 'for no sleep. One=
for
no appetite. One for broken nerves.' I asked her what I had done to make su=
ch a
bitter enemy of her. She says, 'Remember what I asked of you when we talked=
of
your being my servant. Choose which you will do? Die by inches' (I swear she
said it as I hope to be saved); 'die by inches, or tell me--'"
There--in the full frenzy of the agitation that
possessed her--there, Mrs. Ellmother suddenly stopped.
Alban's first impression was that she might ha=
ve
fainted. He looked closer, and could just see her shadowy figure still seat=
ed
in the chair. He asked if she was ill. No.
"Then why don't you go on?"
"I have done," she answered.
"Do you think you can put me off," he
rejoined sternly, "with such an excuse as that? What did Miss de Sor a=
sk
you to tell her? You promised to trust me. Be as good as your word."
In the days of her health and strength, she wo= uld have set him at defiance. All she could do now was to appeal to his mercy.<= o:p>
"Make some allowance for me," she sa=
id.
"I have been terribly upset. What has become of my courage? What has
broken me down in this way? Spare me, sir."
He refused to listen. "This vile attempt =
to
practice on your fears may be repeated," he reminded her. "More c=
ruel
advantage may be taken of the nervous derangement from which you are suffer=
ing
in the climate of this place. You little know me, if you think I will allow
that to go on."
She made a last effort to plead with him. &quo=
t;Oh
sir, is this behaving like the good kind man I thought you were? You say you
are Miss Emily's friend? Don't press me--for Miss Emily's sake!"
"Emily!" Alban exclaimed. "Is s=
he
concerned in this?"
There was a change to tenderness in his voice,
which persuaded Mrs. Ellmother that she had found her way to the weak side =
of
him. Her one effort now was to strengthen the impression which she believed
herself to have produced. "Miss Emily is concerned in it," she
confessed.
"In what way?"
"Never mind in what way."
"But I do mind."
"I tell you, sir, Miss Emily must never k=
now
it to her dying day!"
The first suspicion of the truth crossed Alban=
's
mind.
"I understand you at last," he said.
"What Miss Emily must never know--is what Miss de Sor wanted you to te=
ll
her. Oh, it's useless to contradict me! Her motive in trying to frighten yo=
u is
as plain to me now as if she had confessed it. Are you sure you didn't betr=
ay
yourself, when she showed the image of wax?"
"I should have died first!" The reply
had hardly escaped her before she regretted it. "What makes you want t=
o be
so sure about it?" she said. "It looks as if you knew--"
"I do know."
"What!"
The kindest thing that he could do now was to
speak out. "Your secret is no secret to me," he said.
Rage and fear shook her together. For the mome=
nt
she was like the Mrs. Ellmother of former days. "You lie!" she cr=
ied.
"I speak the truth."
"I won't believe you! I daren't believe y=
ou!"
"Listen to me. In Emily's interests, list=
en
to me. I have read of the murder at Zeeland--"
"That's nothing! The man was a namesake of
her father."
"The man was her father himself. Keep your
seat! There is nothing to be alarmed about. I know that Emily is ignorant of
the horrid death that her father died. I know that you and your late mistre=
ss
have kept the discovery from her to this day. I know the love and pity which
plead your excuse for deceiving her, and the circumstances that favored the=
deception.
My good creature, Emily's peace of mind is as sacred to me as it is to you!=
I
love her as I love my own life--and better. Are you calmer, now?"
He heard her crying: it was the best relief th=
at
could come to her. After waiting a while to let the tears have their way, he
helped her to rise. There was no more to be said now. The one thing to do w=
as
to take her back to the house.
"I can give you a word of advice," he
said, "before we part for the night. You must leave Miss de Sor's serv=
ice
at once. Your health will be a sufficient excuse. Give her warning
immediately."
Mrs. Ellmother hung back, when he offered her =
his
arm. The bare prospect of seeing Francine again was revolting to her. On
Alban's assurance that the notice to leave could be given in writing, she m=
ade
no further resistance. The village clock struck eleven as they ascended the
terrace steps.
A minute later, another person left the ground=
s by
the path which led to the house. Alban's precaution had been taken too late.
The smell of tobacco-smoke had guided Francine, when she was at a loss which
way to turn next in search of Mrs. Ellmother. For the last quarter of an ho=
ur she
had been listening, hidden among the trees.
The inmates of Netherwoods rose early, and wen=
t to
bed early. When Alban and Mrs. Ellmother arrived at the back door of the ho=
use,
they found it locked.
The only light visible, along the whole length=
of
the building, glimmered through the Venetian blind of the window-entrance t=
o Francine's
sitting-room. Alban proposed to get admission to the house by that way. In =
her
horror of again encountering Francine, Mrs. Ellmother positively refused to
follow him when he turned away from the door. "They can't be all asleep
yet," she said--and rang the bell.
One person was still out of bed--and that pers=
on
was the mistress of the house. They recognized her voice in the customary
question: "Who's there?" The door having been opened, good Miss L=
add
looked backward and forward between Alban and Mrs. Ellmother, with the
bewildered air of a lady who doubted the evidence of her own eyes. The next
moment, her sense of humor overpowered her. She burst out laughing.
"Close the door, Mr. Morris," she sa=
id,
"and be so good as to tell me what this means. Have you been giving a
lesson in drawing by starlight?"
Mrs. Ellmother moved, so that the light of the
lamp in Miss Ladd's hand fell on her face. "I am faint and giddy,"
she said; "let me go to my bed."
Miss Ladd instantly followed her. "Pray
forgive me! I didn't see you were ill, when I spoke," she gently
explained. "What can I do for you?"
"Thank you kindly, ma'am. I want nothing =
but
peace and quiet. I wish you good-night."
Alban followed Miss Ladd to her study, on the
front side of the house. He had just mentioned the circumstances under whic=
h he
and Mrs. Ellmother had met, when they were interrupted by a tap at the door=
. Francine
had got back to her room unperceived, by way of the French window. She now
presented herself, with an elaborate apology, and with the nearest approach=
to
a penitent expression of which her face was capable.
"I am ashamed, Miss Ladd, to intrude on y=
ou
at this time of night. My only excuse is, that I am anxious about Mrs.
Ellmother. I heard you just now in the hall. If she is really ill, I am the
unfortunate cause of it."
"In what way, Miss de Sor?"
"I am sorry to say I frightened her--whil=
e we
were talking in my room--quite unintentionally. She rushed to the door and =
ran
out. I supposed she had gone to her bedroom; I had no idea she was in the g=
rounds."
In this false statement there was mingled a gr=
ain
of truth. It was true that Francine believed Mrs. Ellmother to have taken
refuge in her room--for she had examined the room. Finding it empty, and
failing to discover the fugitive in other parts of the house, she had becom=
e alarmed,
and had tried the grounds next--with the formidable result which has been
already related. Concealing this circumstance, she had lied in such a
skillfully artless manner that Alban (having no suspicion of what had really
happened to sharpen his wits) was as completely deceived as Miss Ladd.
Proceeding to further explanation--and remembering that she was in Alban's
presence--Francine was careful to keep herself within the strict limit of
truth. Confessing that she had frightened her servant by a description of
sorcery, as it was practiced among the slaves on her father's estate, she o=
nly
lied again, in declaring that Mrs. Ellmother had supposed she was in earnes=
t,
when she was guilty of no more serious offense than playing a practical jok=
e.
In this case, Alban was necessarily in a posit= ion to detect the falsehood. But it was so evidently in Francine's interests to present her conduct in the most favorable light, that the discovery failed = to excite his suspicion. He waited in silence, while Miss Ladd administered a severe reproof. Francine having left the room, as penitently as she had entered it (with her handkerchief over her tearless eyes), he was at liberty, with cer= tain reserves, to return to what had passed between Mrs. Ellmother and himself.<= o:p>
"The fright which the poor old woman has
suffered," he said, "has led to one good result. I have found her
ready at last to acknowledge that she is ill, and inclined to believe that =
the
change to Netherwoods has had something to do with it. I have advised her to
take the course which you suggested, by leaving this house. Is it possible =
to
dispense with the usual delay, when she gives notice to leave Miss de Sor's
service?"
"She need feel no anxiety, poor soul, on =
that
account," Miss Ladd replied. "In any case, I had arranged that a
week's notice on either side should be enough. As it is, I will speak to
Francine myself. The least she can do, to express her regret, is to place no
difficulties in Mrs. Ellmother's way."
The next day was Sunday.
Miss Ladd broke through her rule of attending =
to
secular affairs on week days only; and, after consulting with Mrs. Ellmothe=
r,
arranged with Francine that her servant should be at liberty to leave
Netherwoods (health permitting) on the next day. But one difficulty remaine=
d.
Mrs. Ellmother was in no condition to take the long journey to her birthpla=
ce in
Cumberland; and her own lodgings in London had been let.
Under these circumstances, what was the best
arrangement that could be made for her? Miss Ladd wisely and kindly wrote to
Emily on the subject, and asked for a speedy reply.
Later in the day, Alban was sent for to see Mr=
s.
Ellmother. He found her anxiously waiting to hear what had passed, on the
previous night, between Miss Ladd and himself. "Were you careful, sir,=
to
say nothing about Miss Emily?"
"I was especially careful; I never allude=
d to
her in any way."
"Has Miss de Sor spoken to you?"
"I have not given her the opportunity.&qu=
ot;
"She's an obstinate one--she might try.&q=
uot;
"If she does, she shall hear my opinion of
her in plain words." The talk between them turned next on Alban's
discovery of the secret, of which Mrs. Ellmother had believed herself to be=
the
sole depositary since Miss Letitia's death. Without alarming her by any nee=
dless
allusion to Doctor Allday or to Miss Jethro, he answered her inquiries (so =
far
as he was himself concerned) without reserve. Her curiosity once satisfied,=
she
showed no disposition to pursue the topic. She pointed to Miss Ladd's cat, =
fast
asleep by the side of an empty saucer.
"Is it a sin, Mr. Morris, to wish I was T=
om?
He doesn't trouble himself about his life that is past or his life that is =
to
come. If I could only empty my saucer and go to sleep, I shouldn't be think=
ing
of the number of people in this world, like myself, who would be better out=
of
it than in it. Miss Ladd has got me my liberty tomorrow; and I don't even k=
now
where to go, when I leave this place."
"Suppose you follow Tom's example?"
Alban suggested. "Enjoy to-day (in that comfortable chair) and let
to-morrow take care of itself."
To-morrow arrived, and justified Alban's syste=
m of
philosophy. Emily answered Miss Ladd's letter, to excellent purpose, by
telegraph.
"I leave London to-day with Cecilia"
(the message announced) "for Monksmoor Park, Hants. Will Mrs. Ellmother
take care of the cottage in my absence? I shall be away for a month, at lea=
st.
All is prepared for her if she consents."
Mrs. Ellmother gladly accepted this proposal. =
In
the interval of Emily's absence, she could easily arrange to return to her =
own
lodgings. With words of sincere gratitude she took leave of Miss Ladd; but =
no persuasion
would induce her to say good-by to Francine. "Do me one more kindness,
ma'am; don't tell Miss de Sor when I go away." Ignorant of the provoca=
tion
which had produced this unforgiving temper of mind, Miss Ladd gently
remonstrated. "Miss de Sor received my reproof in a penitent spirit; s=
he
expresses sincere sorrow for having thoughtlessly frightened you. Both
yesterday and to-day she has made kind inquiries after your health. Come! c=
ome!
don't bear malice--wish her good-by." Mrs. Ellmother's answer was
characteristic. "I'll say good-by by telegraph, when I get to
London."
Her last words were addressed to Alban. "=
If
you can find a way of doing it, sir, keep those two apart."
"Do you mean Emily and Miss de Sor?
"Yes."
"What are you afraid of?"
"I don't know."
"Is that quite reasonable, Mrs.
Ellmother?"
"I daresay not. I only know that I am
afraid."
The pony chaise took her away. Alban's class w=
as
not yet ready for him. He waited on the terrace.
Innocent alike of all knowledge of the serious
reason for fear which did really exist, Mrs. Ellmother and Alban felt,
nevertheless, the same vague distrust of an intimacy between the two girls.=
Idle,
vain, malicious, false--to know that Francine's character presented these f=
aults,
without any discoverable merits to set against them, was surely enough to
justify a gloomy view of the prospect, if she succeeded in winning the posi=
tion
of Emily's friend. Alban reasoned it out logically in this way--without
satisfying himself, and without accounting for the remembrance that haunted=
him
of Mrs. Ellmother's farewell look. "A commonplace man would say we are
both in a morbid state of mind," he thought; "and sometimes
commonplace men turn out to be right."
He was too deeply preoccupied to notice that he
had advanced perilously near Francine's window. She suddenly stepped out of=
her
room, and spoke to him.
"Do you happen to know, Mr. Morris, why M=
rs.
Ellmother has gone away without bidding me good-by?"
"She was probably afraid, Miss de Sor, th=
at
you might make her the victim of another joke."
Francine eyed him steadily. "Have you any
particular reason for speaking to me in that way?"
"I am not aware that I have answered you
rudely--if that is what you mean."
"That is not what I mean. You seem to have
taken a dislike to me. I should be glad to know why."
"I dislike cruelty--and you have behaved
cruelly to Mrs. Ellmother."
"Meaning to be cruel?" Francine
inquired.
"You know as well as I do, Miss de Sor, t=
hat
I can't answer that question."
Francine looked at him again "Am I to
understand that we are enemies?" she asked.
"You are to understand," he replied,
"that a person whom Miss Ladd employs to help her in teaching, cannot
always presume to express his sentiments in speaking to the young ladies.&q=
uot;
"If that means anything, Mr. Morris, it m=
eans
that we are enemies."
"It means, Miss de Sor, that I am the
drawing-master at this school, and that I am called to my class."
Francine returned to her room, relieved of the
only doubt that had troubled her. Plainly no suspicion that she had overhea=
rd
what passed between Mrs. Ellmother and himself existed in Alban's mind. As =
to
the use to be made of her discovery, she felt no difficulty in deciding to =
wait,
and be guided by events. Her curiosity and her self-esteem had been alike
gratified--she had got the better of Mrs. Ellmother at last, and with that
triumph she was content. While Emily remained her friend, it would be an ac=
t of
useless cruelty to disclose the terrible truth. There had certainly been a
coolness between them at Brighton. But Francine--still influenced by the
magnetic attraction which drew her to Emily--did not conceal from herself t=
hat
she had offered the provocation, and had been therefore the person to blame.
"I can set all that right," she thought, "when we meet at
Monksmoor Park." She opened her desk and wrote the shortest and sweete=
st
of letters to Cecilia. "I am entirely at the disposal of my charming
friend, on any convenient day--may I add, my dear, the sooner the better?&q=
uot;
=
The pupils of the drawing-class put away their
pencils and color-boxes in high good humor: the teacher's vigilant eye for =
faults
had failed him for the first time in their experience. Not one of them had =
been
reproved; they had chattered and giggled and drawn caricatures on the margi=
n of
the paper, as freely as if the master had left the room. Alban's wandering
attention was indeed beyond the reach of control. His interview with Franci=
ne
had doubled his sense of responsibility toward Emily--while he was further =
than
ever from seeing how he could interfere, to any useful purpose, in his pres=
ent
position, and with his reasons for writing under reserve.
One of the servants addressed him as he was
leaving the schoolroom. The landlady's boy was waiting in the hall, with a
message from his lodgings.
"Now then! what is it?" he asked,
irritably.
"The lady wants you, sir." With this=
mysterious
answer, the boy presented a visiting card. The name inscribed on it
was--"Miss Jethro."
She had arrived by the train, and she was then
waiting at Alban's lodgings. "Say I will be with her directly."
Having given the message, he stood for a while, with his hat in his
hand--literally lost in astonishment. It was simply impossible to guess at =
Miss
Jethro's object: and yet, with the usual perversity of human nature, he was
still wondering what she could possibly want with him, up to the final mome=
nt when
he opened the door of his sitting-room.
She rose and bowed with the same grace of
movement, and the same well-bred composure of manner, which Doctor Allday h=
ad
noticed when she entered his consulting-room. Her dark melancholy eyes rest=
ed
on Alban with a look of gentle interest. A faint flush of color animated fo=
r a
moment the faded beauty of her face--passed away again--and left it paler t=
han
before.
"I cannot conceal from myself," she
began, "that I am intruding on you under embarrassing circumstances.&q=
uot;
"May I ask, Miss Jethro, to what
circumstances you allude?"
"You forget, Mr. Morris, that I left Miss
Ladd's school, in a manner which justified doubt of me in the minds of
strangers."
"Speaking as one of those strangers,"
Alban replied, "I cannot feel that I had any right to form an opinion,=
on
a matter which only concerned Miss Ladd and yourself."
Miss Jethro bowed gravely. "You encourage=
me
to hope," she said. "I think you will place a favorable construct=
ion
on my visit when I mention my motive. I ask you to receive me, in the inter=
ests
of Miss Emily Brown."
Stating her purpose in calling on him in those
plain terms, she added to the amazement which Alban already felt, by handin=
g to
him--as if she was presenting an introduction--a letter marked, "Priva=
te,"
addressed to her by Doctor Allday.
"I may tell you," she premised,
"that I had no idea of troubling you, until Doctor Allday suggested it=
. I
wrote to him in the first instance; and there is his reply. Pray read it.&q=
uot;
The letter was dated, "Penzance"; and
the doctor wrote, as he spoke, without ceremony.
=
"MADAM--Your
letter has been forwarded to me. I am spending my autumn holiday in the far
West of Cornwall. However, if I had been at home, it would have made no
difference. I should have begged leave to decline holding any further
conversation with you, on the subject of Miss Emily Brown, for the following
reasons:
"In the first place, though I cannot doubt
your sincere interest in the young lady's welfare, I don't like your myster=
ious
way of showing it. In the second place, when I called at your address in
London, after you had left my house, I found that you had taken to flight. I
place my own interpretation on this circumstance; but as it is not founded =
on
any knowledge of facts, I merely allude to it, and say no more."
Arrived at that point, Alban offered to return=
the
letter. "Do you really mean me to go on reading it?" he asked.
"Yes," she said quietly.
Alban returned to the letter.
"In the third place, I have good reason to
believe that you entered Miss Ladd's school as a teacher, under false
pretenses. After that discovery, I tell you plainly I hesitate to attach cr=
edit
to any statement that you may wish to make. At the same time, I must not pe=
rmit
my prejudices (as you will probably call them) to stand in the way of Miss
Emily's interests--supposing them to be really depending on any interferenc=
e of
yours. Miss Ladd's drawing-master, Mr. Alban Morris, is even more devoted to
Miss Emily's service than I am. Whatever you might have said to me, you can=
say
to him--with this possible advantage, that he may believe you."
There the letter ended. Alban handed it back in
silence.
Miss Jethro pointed to the words, "Mr. Al=
ban
Morris is even more devoted to Miss Emily's service than I am."
"Is that true?" she asked.
"Quite true."
"I don't complain, Mr. Morris, of the hard
things said of me in that letter; you are at liberty to suppose, if you lik=
e,
that I deserve them. Attribute it to pride, or attribute it to reluctance to
make needless demands on your time--I shall not attempt to defend myself. I
leave you to decide whether the woman who has shown you that letter--having=
something
important to say to you--is a person who is mean enough to say it under fal=
se
pretenses."
"Tell me what I can do for you, Miss Jeth=
ro:
and be assured, beforehand, that I don't doubt your sincerity."
"My purpose in coming here," she
answered, "is to induce you to use your influence over Miss Emily
Brown--"
"With what object?" Alban asked,
interrupting her.
"My object is her own good. Some years si=
nce,
I happened to become acquainted with a person who has attained some celebri=
ty
as a preacher. You have perhaps heard of Mr. Miles Mirabel?"
"I have heard of him."
"I have been in correspondence with
him," Miss Jethro proceeded. "He tells me he has been introduced =
to a
young lady, who was formerly one of Miss Ladd's pupils, and who is the daug=
hter
of Mr. Wyvil, of Monksmoor Park. He has called on Mr. Wyvil; and he has sin=
ce
received an invitation to stay at Mr. Wyvil's house. The day fixed for the
visit is Monday, the fifth of next month."
Alban listened--at a loss to know what interes=
t he
was supposed to have in being made acquainted with Mr. Mirabel's engagement=
s.
Miss Jethro's next words enlightened him.
"You are perhaps aware," she resumed,
"that Miss Emily Brown is Miss Wyvil's intimate friend. She will be on=
e of
the guests at Monksmoor Park. If there are any obstacles which you can plac=
e in
her way--if there is any influence which you can exert, without exciting su=
spicion
of your motive--prevent her, I entreat you, from accepting Miss Wyvil's inv=
itation,
until Mr. Mirabel's visit has come to an end."
"Is there anything against Mr. Mirabel?&q=
uot;
he asked.
"I say nothing against him."
"Is Miss Emily acquainted with him?"=
"No."
"Is he a person with whom it would be
disagreeable to her to associate?"
"Quite the contrary."
"And yet you expect me to prevent them fr=
om
meeting! Be reasonable, Miss Jethro."
"I can only be in earnest, Mr. Morris--mo=
re
truly, more deeply in earnest than you can suppose. I declare to you that I=
am
speaking in Miss Emily's interests. Do you still refuse to exert yourself f=
or
her sake?"
"I am spared the pain of refusal," A=
lban
answered. "The time for interference has gone by. She is, at this mome=
nt,
on her way to Monksmoor Park."
Miss Jethro attempted to rise--and dropped back
into her chair. "Water!" she said faintly. After drinking from the
glass to the last drop, she began to revive. Her little traveling-bag was on
the floor at her side. She took out a railway guide, and tried to consult i=
t.
Her fingers trembled incessantly; she was unable to find the page to which =
she wished
to refer. "Help me," she said, "I must leave this place--by =
the first
train that passes."
"To see Emily?" Alban asked.
"Quite useless! You have said it
yourself--the time for interference has gone by. Look at the guide."
"What place shall I look for?"
"Look for Vale Regis."
Alban found the place. The train was due in ten
minutes. "Surely you are not fit to travel so soon?" he suggested=
.
"Fit or not, I must see Mr. Mirabel--I mu=
st
make the effort to keep them apart by appealing to him."
"With any hope of success?"
"With no hope--and with no interest in the
man himself. Still I must try."
"Out of anxiety for Emily's welfare?"=
;
"Out of anxiety for more than that."=
"For what?"
"If you can't guess, I daren't tell
you."
That strange reply startled Alban. Before he c=
ould
ask what it meant, Miss Jethro had left him.
In the emergencies of life, a person readier of
resource than Alban Morris it would not have been easy to discover. The
extraordinary interview that had now come to an end had found its limits.
Bewildered and helpless, he stood at the window of his room, and asked hims=
elf
(as if he had been the weakest man living), "What shall I do?"
The windows of the long drawing-room at Monksm=
oor
are all thrown open to the conservatory. Distant masses of plants and flowe=
rs,
mingled in ever-varying forms of beauty, are touched by the melancholy lust=
er
of the rising moon. Nearer to the house, the restful shadows are disturbed =
at
intervals, where streams of light fall over them aslant from the lamps in t=
he
room. The fountain is playing. In rivalry with its lighter music, the
nightingales are singing their song of ecstasy. Sometimes, the laughter of
girls is heard--and, sometimes, the melody of a waltz. The younger guests at
Monksmoor are dancing.
Emily and Cecilia are dressed alike in white, =
with
flowers in their hair. Francine rivals them by means of a gorgeous contrast=
of
color, and declares that she is rich with the bright emphasis of diamonds a=
nd
the soft persuasion of pearls.
Miss Plym (from the rectory) is fat and fair a=
nd
prosperous: she overflows with good spirits; she has a waist which defies
tight-lacing, and she dances joyously on large flat feet. Miss Darnaway
(officer's daughter with small means) is the exact opposite of Miss Plym. S=
he
is thin and tall and faded--poor soul. Destiny has made it her hard lot in =
life
to fill the place of head-nursemaid at home. In her pensive moments, she th=
inks
of the little brothers and sisters, whose patient servant she is, and wonde=
rs
who comforts them in their tumbles and tells them stories at bedtime, while=
she
is holiday-making at the pleasant country house.
Tender-hearted Cecilia, remembering how few
pleasures this young friend has, and knowing how well she dances, never all=
ows
her to be without a partner. There are three invaluable young gentlemen
present, who are excellent dancers. Members of different families, they are
nevertheless fearfully and wonderfully like each other. They present the sa=
me
rosy complexions and straw-colored mustachios, the same plump cheeks, vacan=
t eyes
and low forehead; and they utter, with the same stolid gravity, the same
imbecile small talk. On sofas facing each other sit the two remaining guest=
s,
who have not joined the elders at the card-table in another room. They are =
both
men. One of them is drowsy and middle-aged--happy in the possession of large
landed property: happier still in a capacity for drinking Mr. Wyvil's famous
port-wine without gouty results.
The other gentleman--ah, who is the other? He =
is
the confidential adviser and bosom friend of every young lady in the house.=
Is
it necessary to name the Reverend Miles Mirabel?
There he sits enthroned, with room for a fair
admirer on either side of him--the clerical sultan of a platonic harem. His
persuasive ministry is felt as well as heard: he has an innocent habit of f=
ondling
young persons. One of his arms is even long enough to embrace the circumfer=
ence
of Miss Plym--while the other clasps the rigid silken waist of Francine.
"I do it everywhere else," he says innocently, "why not
here?" Why not indeed--with that delicate complexion and those beautif=
ul
blue eyes; with the glorious golden hair that rests on his shoulders, and t=
he
glossy beard that flows over his breast? Familiarities, forbidden to mere m=
en,
become privileges and condescensions when an angel enters society--and more
especially when that angel has enough of mortality in him to be amusing. Mr.
Mirabel, on his social side, is an irresistible companion. He is cheerfulne=
ss itself;
he takes a favorable view of everything; his sweet temper never differs with
anybody. "In my humble way," he confesses, "I like to make t=
he
world about me brighter." Laughter (harmlessly produced, observe!) is =
the
element in which he lives and breathes. Miss Darnaway's serious face puts h=
im
out; he has laid a bet with Emily--not in money, not even in gloves, only in
flowers--that he will make Miss Darnaway laugh; and he has won the wager.
Emily's flowers are in his button-hole, peeping through the curly interstic=
es
of his beard. "Must you leave me?" he asks tenderly, when there i=
s a
dancing man at liberty, and it is Francine's turn to claim him. She leaves =
her
seat not very willingly. For a while, the place is vacant; Miss Plym seizes=
the
opportunity of consulting the ladies' bosom friend.
"Dear Mr. Mirabel, do tell me what you th=
ink
of Miss de Sor?"
Dear Mr. Mirabel bursts into enthusiasm and ma=
kes
a charming reply. His large experience of young ladies warns him that they =
will
tell each other what he thinks of them, when they retire for the night; and=
he
is careful on these occasions to say something that will bear repetition.
"I see in Miss de Sor," he declares,
"the resolution of a man, tempered by the sweetness of a woman. When t=
hat
interesting creature marries, her husband will be--shall I use the vulgar
word?--henpecked. Dear Miss Plym, he will enjoy it; and he will be quite ri=
ght
too; and, if I am asked to the wedding, I shall say, with heartfelt sinceri=
ty,
Enviable man!"
In the height of her admiration for Mr. Mirabe=
l's
wonderful eye for character, Miss Plym is called away to the piano. Cecilia
succeeds to her friend's place--and has her waist taken in charge as a matt=
er
of course.
"How do you like Miss Plym?" she asks
directly.
Mr. Mirabel smiles, and shows the prettiest li=
ttle
pearly teeth. "I was just thinking of her," he confesses pleasant=
ly;
"Miss Plym is so nice and plump, so comforting and domestic--such a
perfect clergyman's daughter. You love her, don't you? Is she engaged to be
married? In that case--between ourselves, dear Miss Wyvil, a clergyman is
obliged to be cautious--I may own that I love her too."
Delicious titillations of flattered self-esteem betray themselves in Cecilia's lovely complexion. She is the chosen confida= nte of this irresistible man; and she would like to express her sense of obligation. But Mr. Mirabel is a master in the art of putting the right wor= ds in the right places; and simple Cecilia distrusts herself and her grammar.<= o:p>
At that moment of embarrassment, a friend leav=
es
the dance, and helps Cecilia out of the difficulty.
Emily approaches the sofa-throne,
breathless--followed by her partner, entreating her to give him "one t=
urn
more." She is not to be tempted; she means to rest. Cecilia sees an ac=
t of
mercy, suggested by the presence of the disengaged young man. She seizes his
arm, and hurries him off to poor Miss Darnaway; sitting forlorn in a corner,
and thinking of the nursery at home. In the meanwhile a circumstance occurs.
Mr. Mirabel's all-embracing arm shows itself in a new character, when Emily=
sits
by his side.
It becomes, for the first time, an irresolute =
arm.
It advances a little--and hesitates. Emily at once administers an unexpected
check; she insists on preserving a free waist, in her own outspoken languag=
e. "No,
Mr. Mirabel, keep that for the others. You can't imagine how ridiculous you=
and
the young ladies look, and how absurdly unaware of it you all seem to be.&q=
uot;
For the first time in his life, the reverend and ready-witted man of the wo=
rld
is at a loss for an answer. Why?
For this simple reason. He too has felt the
magnetic attraction of the irresistible little creature whom every one like=
s.
Miss Jethro has been doubly defeated. She has failed to keep them apart; and
her unexplained misgivings have not been justified by events: Emily and Mr.
Mirabel are good friends already. The brilliant clergyman is poor; his
interests in life point to a marriage for money; he has fascinated the
heiresses of two rich fathers, Mr. Tyvil and Mr. de Sor--and yet he is
conscious of an influence (an alien influence, without a balance at its
bankers), which has, in some mysterious way, got between him and his intere=
sts.
On Emily's side, the attraction felt is of ano=
ther
nature altogether. Among the merry young people at Monksmoor she is her old
happy self again; and she finds in Mr. Mirabel the most agreeable and amusi=
ng
man whom she has ever met. After those dismal night watches by the bed of h=
er
dying aunt, and the dreary weeks of solitude that followed, to live in this=
new
world of luxury and gayety is like escaping from the darkness of night, and
basking in the fall brightn ess of day. Cecilia declares that she looks, on=
ce
more, like the joyous queen of the bedroom, in the bygone time at school; a=
nd
Francine (profaning Shakespeare without knowing it), says, "Emily is
herself again!"
"Now that your arm is in its right place,
reverend sir," she gayly resumes, "I may admit that there are
exceptions to all rules. My waist is at your disposal, in a case of
necessity--that is to say, in a case of waltzing."
"The one case of all others," Mirabel
answers, with the engaging frankness that has won him so many friends,
"which can never happen in my unhappy experience. Waltzing, I blush to=
own
it, means picking me up off the floor, and putting smelling salts to my
nostrils. In other words, dear Miss Emily, it is the room that waltzes--not=
I.
I can't look at those whirling couples there, with a steady head. Even the
exquisite figure of our young hostess, when it describes flying circles, tu=
rns
me giddy."
Hearing this allusion to Cecilia, Emily drops =
to
the level of the other girls. She too pays her homage to the Pope of private
life. "You promised me your unbiased opinion of Cecilia," she rem=
inds
him; "and you haven't given it yet."
The ladies' friend gently remonstrates. "=
Miss
Wyvil's beauty dazzles me. How can I give an unbiased opinion? Besides, I am
not thinking of her; I can only think of you."
Emily lifts her eyes, half merrily, half tende=
rly,
and looks at him over the top of her fan. It is her first effort at flirtat=
ion.
She is tempted to engage in the most interesting of all games to a girl--the
game which plays at making love. What has Cecilia told her, in those bedroom
gossipings, dear to the hearts of the two friends? Cecilia has whispered,
"Mr. Mirabel admires your figure; he calls you 'the Venus of Milo, in a
state of perfect abridgment.'" Where is the daughter of Eve, who would=
not
have been flattered by that pretty compliment--who would not have talked so=
ft
nonsense in return? "You can only think of Me," Emily repeats
coquettishly. "Have you said that to the last young lady who occupied =
my
place, and will you say it again to the next who follows me?"
"Not to one of them! Mere compliments are=
for
the others--not for you."
"What is for me, Mr. Mirabel?"
"What I have just offered you--a confessi=
on
of the truth."
Emily is startled by the tone in which he repl=
ies.
He seems to be in earnest; not a vestige is left of the easy gayety of his
manner. His face shows an expression of anxiety which she has never seen in=
it
yet. "Do you believe me?" he asks in a whisper.
She tries to change the subject.
"When am I to hear you preach, Mr.
Mirabel?"
He persists. "When you believe me," =
he
says.
His eyes add an emphasis to that reply which is
not to be mistaken. Emily turns away from him, and notices Francine. She has
left the dance, and is looking with marked attention at Emily and Mirabel.
"I want to speak to you," she says, and beckons impatiently to Em=
ily.
Mirabel whispers, "Don't go!"
Emily rises nevertheless--ready to avail herse=
lf
of the first excuse for leaving him. Francine meets her half way, and takes=
her
roughly by the arm.
"What is it?" Emily asks.
"Suppose you leave off flirting with Mr.
Mirabel, and make yourself of some use."
"In what way?"
"Use your ears--and look at that girl.&qu=
ot;
She points disdainfully to innocent Miss Plym.=
The
rector's daughter possesses all the virtues, with one exception--the virtue=
of
having an ear for music. When she sings, she is out of tune; and, when she
plays, she murders time.
"Who can dance to such music as that?&quo=
t;
says Francine. "Finish the waltz for her."
Emily naturally hesitates. "How can I take
her place, unless she asks me?"
Francine laughs scornfully. "Say at once,=
you
want to go back to Mr. Mirabel."
"Do you think I should have got up, when =
you
beckoned to me," Emily rejoins, "if I had not wanted to get away =
from
Mr. Mirabel?"
Instead of resenting this sharp retort, Franci=
ne
suddenly breaks into good humor. "Come along, you little spit-fire; I'=
ll
manage it for you."
She leads Emily to the piano, and stops Miss P=
lym
without a word of apology: "It's your turn to dance now. Here's Miss B=
rown
waiting to relieve you."
Cecilia has not been unobservant, in her own q=
uiet
way, of what has been going on. Waiting until Francine and Miss Plym are ou=
t of
hearing, she bends over Emily, and says, "My dear, I really do think
Francine is in love with Mr. Mirabel."
"After having only been a week in the same
house with him!" Emily exclaims.
"At any rate," said Cecilia, more
smartly than usual, "she is jealous of you."
The next morning, Mr. Mirabel took two members=
of
the circle at Monksmoor by surprise. One of them was Emily; and one of them=
was
the master of the house.
Seeing Emily alone in the garden before breakf=
ast,
he left his room and joined her. "Let me say one word," he pleade=
d,
"before we go to breakfast. I am grieved to think that I was so
unfortunate as to offend you, last night."
Emily's look of astonishment answered for her
before she could speak. "What can I have said or done," she asked,
"to make you think that?"
"Now I breathe again!" he cried, with
the boyish gayety of manner which was one of the secrets of his popularity
among women. "I really feared that I had spoken thoughtlessly. It is a
terrible confession for a clergyman to make--but it is not the less true th=
at I
am one of the most indiscreet men living. It is my rock ahead in life that I
say the first thing which comes uppermost, without stopping to think. Being
well aware of my own defects, I naturally distrust myself."
"Even in the pulpit?" Emily inquired=
.
He laughed with the readiest appreciation of t=
he
satire--although it was directed against himself.
"I like that question," he said;
"it tells me we are as good friends again as ever. The fact is, the si=
ght
of the congregation, when I get into the pulpit, has the same effect upon me
that the sight of the footlights has on an actor. All oratory (though my
clerical brethren are shy of confessing it) is acting--without the scenery =
and
the costumes. Did you really mean it, last night, when you said you would l=
ike
to hear me preach?"
"Indeed, I did."
"How very kind of you. I don't think myse=
lf
the sermon is worth the sacrifice. (There is another specimen of my indiscr=
eet
way of talking!) What I mean is, that you will have to get up early on Sund=
ay
morning, and drive twelve miles to the damp and dismal little village, in w=
hich
I officiate for a man with a rich wife who likes the climate of Italy. My c=
ongregation
works in the fields all the week, and naturally enough goes to sleep in chu=
rch
on Sunday. I have had to counteract that. Not by preaching! I wouldn't puzz=
le
the poor people with my eloquence for the world. No, no: I tell them little
stories out of the Bible--in a nice easy gossiping way. A quarter of an hou=
r is
my limit of time; and, I am proud to say, some of them (mostly the women) d=
o to
a certain extent keep awake. If you and the other ladies decide to honor me=
, it
is needless to say you shall have one of my grand efforts. What will be the
effect on my unfortunate flock remains to be seen. I will have the church
brushed up, and luncheon of course at the parsonage. Beans, bacon, and beer=
--I
haven't got anything else in the house. Are you rich? I hope not!"
"I suspect I am quite as poor as you are,=
Mr.
Mirabel."
"I am delighted to hear it. (More of my
indiscretion!) Our poverty is another bond between us."
Before he could enlarge on this text, the
breakfast bell rang.
He gave Emily his arm, quite satisfied with the
result of the morning's talk. In speaking seriously to her on the previous
night, he had committed the mistake of speaking too soon. To amend this fal=
se
step, and to recover his position in Emily's estimation, had been his objec=
t in
view--and it had been successfully accomplished. At the breakfast-table that
morning, the companionable clergyman was more amusing than ever.
The meal being over, the company dispersed as
usual--with the one exception of Mirabel. Without any apparent reason, he k=
ept
his place at the table. Mr. Wyvil, the most courteous and considerate of me=
n,
felt it an attention due to his guest not to leave the room first. All that=
he could
venture to do was to give a little hint. "Have you any plans for the
morning?" he asked.
"I have a plan that depends entirely on
yourself," Mirabel answered; "and I am afraid of being as indiscr=
eet
as usual, if I mention it. Your charming daughter tells me you play on the
violin."
Modest Mr. Wyvil looked confused. "I hope=
you
have not been annoyed," he said; "I practice in a distant room so
that nobody may hear me."
"My dear sir, I am eager to hear you! Mus=
ic
is my passion; and the violin is my favorite instrument."
Mr. Wyvil led the way to his room, positively
blushing with pleasure. Since the death of his wife he had been sadly in wa=
nt
of a little encouragement. His daughters and his friends were
careful--over-careful, as he thought--of intruding on him in his hours of
practice. And, sad to say, his daughters and his friends were, from a music=
al
point of view, perfectly right.
Literature has hardly paid sufficient attentio=
n to
a social phenomenon of a singularly perplexing kind. We hear enough, and mo=
re
than enough, of persons who successfully cultivate the Arts--of the remarka=
ble
manner in which fitness for their vocation shows itself in early life, of t=
he
obstacles which family prejudice places in their way, and of the unremitting
devotion which has led to the achievement of glorious results.
But how many writers have noticed those other
incomprehensible persons, members of families innocent for generations past=
of
practicing Art or caring for Art, who have notwithstanding displayed from t=
heir
earliest years the irresistible desire to cultivate poetry, painting, or mu=
sic;
who have surmounted obstacles, and endured disappointments, in the single-h=
earted
resolution to devote their lives to an intellectual pursuit--being absolute=
ly
without the capacity which proves the vocation, and justifies the sacrifice.
Here is Nature, "unerring Nature," presented in flat contradiction
with herself. Here are men bent on performing feats of running, without hav=
ing
legs; and women, hopelessly barren, living in constant expectation of large
families to the end of their days. The musician is not to be found more
completely deprived than Mr. Wyvil of natural capacity for playing on an in=
strument--and,
for twenty years past, it had been the pride and delight of his heart to le=
t no
day of his life go by without practicing on the violin.
"I am sure I must be tiring you," he
said politely--after having played without mercy for an hour and more.
No: the insatiable amateur had his own purpose=
to
gain, and was not exhausted yet. Mr. Wyvil got up to look for some more mus=
ic.
In that interval desultory conversation naturally took place. Mirabel contr=
ived
to give it the necessary direction--the direction of Emily.
"The most delightful girl I have met with=
for
many a long year past!" Mr. Wyvil declared warmly. "I don't wonde=
r at
my daughter being so fond of her. She leads a solitary life at home, poor
thing; and I am honestly glad to see her spirits reviving in my house."=
;
"An only child?" Mirabel asked.
In the necessary explanation that followed,
Emily's isolated position in the world was revealed in few words. But one m=
ore
discovery--the most important of all--remained to be made. Had she used a
figure of speech in saying that she was as poor as Mirabel himself? or had =
she
told him the shocking truth? He put the question with perfect delicacy---but
with unerring directness as well.
Mr. Wyvil, quoting his daughter's authority,
described Emily's income as falling short even of two hundred a year. Having
made that disheartening reply, he opened another music book. "You know
this sonata, of course?" he said. The next moment, the violin was under
his chin and the performance began.
While Mirabel was, to all appearance, listening
with the utmost attention, he was actually endeavoring to reconcile himself=
to
a serious sacrifice of his own inclinations. If he remained much longer in =
the same
house with Emily, the impression that she had produced on him would be
certainly strengthened--and he would be guilty of the folly of making an of=
fer
of marriage to a woman who was as poor as himself. The one remedy that coul=
d be
trusted to preserve him from such infatuation as this, was absence. At the =
end of
the week, he had arranged to return to Vale Regis for his Sunday duty; enga=
ging
to join his friends again at Monksmoor on the Monday following. That rash
promise, there could be no further doubt about it, must not be fulfilled.
He had arrived at this resolution, when the
terrible activity of Mr. Wyvil's bow was suspended by the appearance of a t=
hird
person in the room.
Cecilia's maid was charged with a neat little
three-cornered note from her young lady, to be presented to her master.
Wondering why his daughter should write to him, Mr. Wyvil opened the note, =
and
was informed of Cecilia's motive in these words:
"DEAREST PAPA--I hear Mr. Mirabel is with
you, and as this is a secret, I must write. Emily has received a very stran=
ge
letter this morning, which puzzles her and alarms me. When you are quite at
liberty, we shall be so much obliged if you will tell us how Emily ought to
answer it."
Mr. Wyvil stopped Mirabel, on the point of try=
ing
to escape from the music. "A little domestic matter to attend to,"=
; he
said. "But we will finish the sonata first."
Out of the music room, and away from his violi=
n,
the sound side of Mr. Wyvil's character was free to assert itself. In his
public and in his private capacity, he was an eminently sensible man.
As a member of parliament, he set an example w=
hich
might have been followed with advantage by many of his colleagues. In the f=
irst
place he abstained from hastening the downfall of representative institutio=
ns
by asking questions and making speeches. In the second place, he was able to
distinguish between the duty that he owed to his party, and the duty that he
owed to his country. When the Legislature acted politically--that is to say,
when it dealt with foreign complications, or electoral reforms--he followed=
his
leader. When the Legislature acted socially--that is to say, for the good of
the people--he followed his conscience. On the last occasion when the great
Russian bugbear provoked a division, he voted submissively with his Conserv=
ative
allies. But, when the question of opening museums and picture galleries on
Sundays arrayed the two parties in hostile camps, he broke into open mutiny=
, and
went over to the Liberals. He consented to help in preventing an extension =
of
the franchise; but he refused to be concerned in obstructing the repeal of
taxes on knowledge. "I am doubtful in the first case," he said,
"but I am sure in the second." He was asked for an explanation:
"Doubtful of what? and sure of what?" To the astonishment of his
leader, he answered: "The benefit to the people." The same sound
sense appeared in the transactions of his private life. Lazy and dishonest
servants found that the gentlest of masters had a side to his character whi=
ch
took them by surprise. And, on certain occasions in the experience of Cecil=
ia
and her sister, the most indulgent of fathers proved to be as capable of sa=
ying
No, as the sternest tyrant who ever ruled a fireside.
Called into council by his daughter and his gu=
est,
Mr. Wyvil assisted them by advice which was equally wise and kind--but which
afterward proved, under the perverse influence of circumstances, to be advi=
ce
that he had better not have given.
The letter to Emily which Cecilia had recommen=
ded
to her father's consideration, had come from Netherwoods, and had been writ=
ten
by Alban Morris.
He assured Emily that he had only decided on
writing to her, after some hesitation, in the hope of serving interests whi=
ch
he did not himself understand, but which might prove to be interests worthy=
of consideration,
nevertheless. Having stated his motive in these terms, he proceeded to rela=
te
what had passed between Miss Jethro and himself. On the subject of Francine,
Alban only ventured to add that she had not produced a favorable impression=
on
him, and that he could not think her likely, on further experience, to prov=
e a
desirable friend.
On the last leaf were added some lines, which
Emily was at no loss how to answer. She had folded back the page, so that no
eyes but her own should see how the poor drawing-master finished his letter:
"I wish you all possible happiness, my dear, among your new friends; b=
ut
don't forget the old friend who thinks of you, and dreams of you, and longs=
to see
you again. The little world I live in is a dreary world, Emily, in your abs=
ence.
Will you write to me now and then, and encourage me to hope?"
Mr. Wyvil smiled, as he looked at the folded p=
age,
which hid the signature.
"I suppose I may take it for granted,&quo=
t;
he said slyly, "that this gentleman really has your interests at heart?
May I know who he is?"
Emily answered the last question readily enoug= h. Mr. Wyvil went on with his inquiries. "About the mysterious lady, with= the strange name," he proceeded--"do you know anything of her?"<= o:p>
Emily related what she knew; without revealing=
the
true reason for Miss Jethro's departure from Netherwoods. In after years, it
was one of her most treasured remembrances, that she had kept secret the
melancholy confession which had startled her, on the last night of her life=
at school.
Mr. Wyvil looked at Alban's letter again. &quo=
t;Do
you know how Miss Jethro became acquainted with Mr. Mirabel?" he asked=
.
"I didn't even know that they were
acquainted."
"Do you think it likely--if Mr. Morris had
been talking to you instead of writing to you--that he might have said more
than he has said in his letter?"
Cecilia had hitherto remained a model of
discretion. Seeing Emily hesitate, temptation overcame her. "Not a dou=
bt
of it, papa!" she declared confidently.
"Is Cecilia right?" Mr. Wyvil inquir=
ed.
Reminded in this way of her influence over Alb=
an,
Emily could only make one honest reply. She admitted that Cecilia was right=
.
Mr. Wyvil thereupon advised her not to express=
any
opinion, until she was in a better position to judge for herself. "When
you write to Mr. Morris," he continued, "say that you will wait to
tell him what you think of Miss Jethro, until you see him again."
"I have no prospect at present of seeing =
him
again," Emily said.
"You can see Mr. Morris whenever it suits=
him
to come here," Mr. Wyvil replied. "I will write and ask him to vi=
sit
us, and you can inclose the invitation in your letter."
"Oh, Mr. Wyvil, how good of you!"
"Oh, papa, the very thing I was going to =
ask
you to do!"
The excellent master of Monksmoor looked
unaffectedly surprised. "What are you two young ladies making a fuss
about?" he said. "Mr. Morris is a gentleman by profession; and--m=
ay I
venture to say it, Miss Emily?--a valued friend of yours as well. Who has a
better claim to be one of my guests?"
Cecilia stopped her father as he was about to
leave the room. "I suppose we mustn't ask Mr. Mirabel what he knows of
Miss Jethro?" she said.
"My dear, what can you be thinking of? Wh=
at
right have we to question Mr. Mirabel about Miss Jethro?"
"It's so very unsatisfactory, papa. There
must be some reason why Emily and Mr. Mirabel ought not to meet--or why sho=
uld
Miss Jethro have been so very earnest about it?"
"Miss Jethro doesn't intend us to know wh=
y,
Cecilia. It will perhaps come out in time. Wait for time."
Left together, the girls discussed the course
which Alban would probably take, on receiving Mr. Wyvil's invitation.
"He will only be too glad," Cecilia
asserted, "to have the opportunity of seeing you again."
"I doubt whether he will care about seein=
g me
again, among strangers," Emily replied. "And you forget that there
are obstacles in his way. How is he to leave his class?"
"Quite easily! His class doesn't meet on =
the
Saturday half-holiday. He can be here, if he starts early, in time for
luncheon; and he can stay till Monday or Tuesday."
"Who is to take his place at the
school?"
"Miss Ladd, to be sure--if you make a poi=
nt
of it. Write to her, as well as to Mr. Morris."
The letters being written--and the order having
been given to prepare a room for the expected guest--Emily and Cecilia retu=
rned
to the drawing-room. They found the elders of the party variously engaged--=
the men
with newspapers, and the ladies with work. Entering the conservatory next, =
they
discovered Cecilia's sister languishing among the flowers in an easy chair.
Constitutional laziness, in some young ladies, assumes an invalid character,
and presents the interesting spectacle of perpetual convalescence. The doct=
or
declared that the baths at St. Moritz had cured Miss Julia. Miss Julia decl=
ined
to agree with the doctor.
"Come into the garden with Emily and
me," Cecilia said.
"Emily and you don't know what it is to be
ill," Julia answered.
The two girls left her, and joined the young
people who were amusing themselves in the garden. Francine had taken posses=
sion
of Mirabel, and had condemned him to hard labor in swinging her. He made an
attempt to get away when Emily and Cecilia approached, and was peremptorily=
recalled
to his duty. "Higher!" cried Miss de Sor, in her hardest tones of
authority. "I want to swing higher than anybody else!" Mirabel su=
bmitted
with gentleman-like resignation, and was rewarded by tender encouragement
expressed in a look.
"Do you see that?" Cecilia whispered.
"He knows how rich she is--I wonder whether he will marry her."
Emily smiled. "I doubt it, while he is in
this house," she said. "You are as rich as Francine--and don't fo=
rget
that you have other attractions as well."
Cecilia shook her head. "Mr. Mirabel is v= ery nice," she admitted; "but I wouldn't marry him. Would you?"<= o:p>
Emily secretly compared Alban with Mirabel.
"Not for the world!" she answered.
The next day was the day of Mirabel's departur=
e.
His admirers among the ladies followed him out to the door, at which Mr.
Wyvil's carriage was waiting. Francine threw a nosegay after the departing
guest as he got in. "Mind you come back to us on Monday!" she sai=
d.
Mirabel bowed and thanked her; but his last look was for Emily, standing ap=
art
from the others at the top of the steps. Francine said nothing; her lips cl=
osed
convulsively--she turned suddenly pale.
=
On the Monday, a plowboy from Vale Regis arriv=
ed
at Monksmoor.
In respect of himself, he was a person beneath
notice. In respect of his errand, he was sufficiently important to cast a g=
loom
over the household. The faithless Mirabel had broken his engagement, and th=
e plowboy
was the herald of misfortune who brought his apology. To his great
disappointment (he wrote) he was detained by the affairs of his parish. He
could only trust to Mr. Wyvil's indulgence to excuse him, and to communicate
his sincere sense of regret (on scented note paper) to the ladies.
Everybody believed in the affairs of the
parish--with the exception of Francine. "Mr. Mirabel has made the best
excuse he could think of for shortening his visit; and I don't wonder at
it," she said, looking significantly at Emily.
Emily was playing with one of the dogs; exerci=
sing
him in the tricks which he had learned. She balanced a morsel of sugar on h=
is
nose--and had no attention to spare for Francine.
Cecilia, as the mistress of the house, felt it=
her
duty to interfere. "That is a strange remark to make," she answer=
ed.
"Do you mean to say that we have driven Mr. Mirabel away from us?"=
;
"I accuse nobody," Francine began wi=
th
spiteful candor.
"Now she's going to accuse everybody!&quo=
t;
Emily interposed, addressing herself facetiously to the dog.
"But when girls are bent on fascinating m=
en,
whether they like it or not," Francine proceeded, "men have only =
one
alternative--they must keep out of the way." She looked again at Emily,
more pointedly than ever.
Even gentle Cecilia resented this. "Whom =
do
you refer to?" she said sharply.
"My dear!" Emily remonstrated,
"need you ask?" She glanced at Francine as she spoke, and then ga=
ve
the dog his signal. He tossed up the sugar, and caught it in his mouth. His
audience applauded him--and so, for that time, the skirmish ended.
Among the letters of the next morning's delive=
ry,
arrived Alban's reply. Emily's anticipations proved to be correct. The draw=
ing-master's
du ties would not permit him to leave Netherwoods; and he, like Mirabel, se=
nt his
apologies. His short letter to Emily contained no further allusion to Miss
Jethro; it began and ended on the first page.
Had he been disappointed by the tone of reserv=
e in
which Emily had written to him, under Mr. Wyvil's advice? Or (as Cecilia
suggested) had his detention at the school so bitterly disappointed him tha=
t he
was too disheartened to write at any length? Emily made no attempt to arriv=
e at
a conclusion, either one way or the other. She seemed to be in depressed sp=
irits;
and she spoke superstitiously, for the first time in Cecilia's experience of
her.
"I don't like this reappearance of Miss
Jethro," she said. "If the mystery about that woman is ever clear=
ed
up, it will bring trouble and sorrow to me--and I believe, in his own secret
heart, Alban Morris thinks so too."
"Write, and ask him," Cecilia sugges=
ted.
"He is so kind and so unwilling to distre=
ss
me," Emily answered, "that he wouldn't acknowledge it, even if I =
am
right."
In the middle of the week, the course of priva=
te
life at Monksmoor suffered an interruption--due to the parliamentary positi=
on
of the master of the house.
The insatiable appetite for making and hearing
speeches, which represents one of the marked peculiarities of the English r=
ace (including
their cousins in the United States), had seized on Mr. Wyvil's constituents.
There was to be a political meeting at the market hall, in the neighboring
town; and the member was expected to make an oration, passing in review
contemporary events at home and abroad. "Pray don't think of accompany=
ing
me," the good man said to his guests. "The hall is badly ventilat=
ed,
and the speeches, including my own, will not be worth hearing."
This humane warning was ungratefully disregard=
ed.
The gentlemen were all interested in "the objects of the meeting";
and the ladies were firm in the resolution not to be left at home by
themselves. They dressed with a view to the large assembly of spectators be=
fore
whom they were about to appear; and they outtalked the men on political
subjects, all the way to the town.
The most delightful of surprises was in store =
for
them, when they reached the market hall. Among the crowd of ordinary gentle=
men,
waiting under the portico until the proceedings began, appeared one person =
of distinction,
whose title was "Reverend," and whose name was Mirabel.
Francine was the first to discover him. She da=
rted
up the steps and held out her hand.
"This is a pleasure!" she cried.
"Have you come here to see--" she was about to say Me, but, obser=
ving
the strangers round her, altered the word to Us. "Please give me your
arm," she whispered, before her young friends had arrived within heari=
ng.
"I am so frightened in a crowd!"
She held fast by Mirabel, and kept a jealous w=
atch
on him. Was it only her fancy? or did she detect a new charm in his smile w=
hen
he spoke to Emily?
Before it was possible to decide, the time for=
the
meeting had arrived. Mr. Wyvil's friends were of course accommodated with s=
eats
on the platform. Francine, still insisting on her claim to Mirabel's arm, g=
ot a
chair next to him. As she seated herself, she left him free for a moment. In
that moment, the infatuated man took an empty chair on the other side of hi=
m,
and placed it for Emily. He communicated to that hated rival the information
which he ought to have reserved for Francine. "The committee insist,&q=
uot;
he said, "on my proposing one of the Resolutions. I promise not to bore
you; mine shall be the shortest speech delivered at the meeting."
The proceedings began.
Among the earlier speakers not one was inspire=
d by
a feeling of mercy for the audience. The chairman reveled in words. The mov=
er
and seconder of the first Resolution (not having so much as the ghost of an
idea to trouble either of them), poured out language in flowing and overflo=
wing
streams, like water from a perpetual spring. The heat exhaled by the crowded
audience was already becoming insufferable. Cries of "Sit down!"
assailed the orator of the moment. The chairman was obliged to interfere. A=
man
at the back of the hall roared out, "Ventilation!" and broke a wi=
ndow
with his stick. He was rewarded with three rounds of cheers; and was ironic=
ally
invited to mount the platform and take the chair.
Under these embarrassing circumstances, Mirabel
rose to speak.
He secured silence, at the outset, by a humoro=
us
allusion to the prolix speaker who had preceded him. "Look at the cloc=
k,
gentlemen," he said; "and limit my speech to an interval of ten
minutes." The applause which followed was heard, through the broken
window, in the street. The boys among the mob outside intercepted the flow =
of
air by climbing on each other's shoulders and looking in at the meeting,
through the gaps left by the shattered glass. Having proposed his Resolution
with discreet brevity of speech, Mirabel courted popularity on the plan ado=
pted
by the late Lord Palmerston in the House of Commons--he told stories, and m=
ade
jokes, adapted to the intelligence of the dullest people who were listening=
to
him. The charm of his voice and manner completed his success. Punctually at=
the
tenth minute, he sat down amid cries of "Go on." Francine was the
first to take his hand, and to express admiration mutely by pressing it. He
returned the pressure--but he looked at the wrong lady--the lady on the oth=
er
side.
Although she made no complaint, he instantly s=
aw
that Emily was overcome by the heat. Her lips were white, and her eyes were
closing. "Let me take you out," he said, "or you will
faint."
Francine started to her feet to follow them. T=
he
lower order of the audience, eager for amusement, put their own humorous
construction on the young lady's action. They roared with laughter. "L=
et
the parson and his sweetheart be," they called out; "two's compan=
y,
miss, and three isn't." Mr. Wyvil interposed his authority and rebuked
them. A lady seated behind Francine interfered to good purpose by giving he=
r a
chair, which placed her out of sight of the audience. Order was restored--a=
nd the
proceedings were resumed.
On the conclusion of the meeting, Mirabel and
Emily were found waiting for their friends at the door. Mr. Wyvil innocently
added fuel to the fire that was burning in Francine. He insisted that Mirab=
el
should return to Monksmoor, and offered him a seat in the carriage at Emily=
's side.
Later in the evening, when they all met at din=
ner,
there appeared a change in Miss de Sor which surprised everybody but Mirabe=
l.
She was gay and good-humored, and especially amiable and attentive to
Emily--who sat opposite to her at the table. "What did you and Mr. Mir=
abel
talk about while you were away from us?" she asked innocently.
"Politics?"
Emily readily adopted Francine's friendly tone.
"Would you have talked politics, in my place?" she asked gayly.
"In your place, I should have had the most
delightful of companions," Francine rejoined; "I wish I had been
overcome by the heat too!"
Mirabel--attentively observing her--acknowledg=
ed
the compliment by a bow, and left Emily to continue the conversation. In
perfect good faith she owned to having led Mirabel to talk of himself. She =
had
heard from Cecilia that his early life had been devoted to various occupati=
ons,
and she was interested in knowing how circumstances had led him into devoti=
ng
himself to the Church. Francine listened with the outward appearance of
implicit belief, and with the inward conviction that Emily was deliberately
deceiving her. When the little narrative was at an end, she was more agreea=
ble
than ever. She admired Emily's dress, and she rivaled Cecilia in enjoyment =
of
the good things on the table; she entertained Mirabel with humorous anecdot=
es
of the priests at St. Domingo, and was so interested in the manufacture of
violins, ancient and modern, that Mr. Wyvil promised to show her his famous
collection of instruments, after dinner. Her overflowing amiability included
even poor Miss Darnaway and the absent brothers and sisters. She heard with=
flattering
sympathy, how they had been ill and had got well again; what amusing tricks
they played, what alarming accidents happened to them, and how remarkably
clever they were--"including, I do assure you, dear Miss de Sor, the b=
aby
only ten months old." When the ladies rose to retire, Francine was,
socially speaking, the heroine of the evening.
While the violins were in course of exhibition,
Mirabel found an opportunity of speaking to Emily, unobserved.
"Have you said, or done, anything to offe=
nd
Miss de Sor?" he asked.
"Nothing whatever!" Emily declared,
startled by the question. "What makes you think I have offended her?&q=
uot;
"I have been trying to find a reason for =
the
change in her," Mirabel answered--"especially the change toward
yourself."
"Well?"
"Well--she means mischief."
"Mischief of what sort?"
"Of a sort which may expose her to
discovery--unless she disarms suspicion at the outset. That is (as I believ=
e)
exactly what she has been doing this evening. I needn't warn you to be on y=
our
guard."
All the next day Emily was on the watch for
events--and nothing happened. Not the slightest appearance of jealousy betr=
ayed
itself in Francine. She made no attempt to attract to herself the attention=
s of
Mirabel; and she showed no hostility to Emily, either by word, look, or man=
ner.
........
The day after, an event occurred at Netherwood=
s.
Alban Morris received an anonymous letter, addressed to him in these terms:=
"A certain young lady, in whom you are
supposed to be interested, is forgetting you in your absence. If you are not
mean enough to allow yourself to be supplanted by another man, join the par=
ty
at Monksmoor before it is too late."
The day after the political meeting was a day =
of
departures, at the pleasant country house.
Miss Darnaway was recalled to the nursery at h=
ome.
The old squire who did justice to Mr. Wyvil's port-wine went away next, hav=
ing
guests to entertain at his own house. A far more serious loss followed. The
three dancing men had engagements which drew them to new spheres of activit=
y in
other drawing-rooms. They said, with the same dreary grace of manner, "=
;Very
sorry to go"; they drove to the railway, arrayed in the same perfect
traveling suits of neutral tint; and they had but one difference of opinion
among them--each firmly believed that he was smoking the best cigar to be g=
ot
in London.
The morning after these departures would have =
been
a dull morning indeed, but for the presence of Mirabel.
When breakfast was over, the invalid Miss Julia
established herself on the sofa with a novel. Her father retired to the oth=
er
end of the house, and profaned the art of music on music's most expressive
instrument. Left with Emily, Cecilia, and Francine, Mirabel made one of his
happy suggestions. "We are thrown on our own resources," he said.
"Let us distinguish ourselves by inventing some entirely new amusement=
for
the day. You young ladies shall sit in council--and I will be secretary.&qu=
ot; He
turned to Cecilia. "The meeting waits to hear the mistress of the hous=
e."
Modest Cecilia appealed to her school friends =
for
help; addressing herself in the first instance (by the secretary's advice) =
to Francine,
as the eldest. They all noticed another change in this variable young perso=
n.
She was silent and subdued; and she said wearily, "I don't care what we
do--shall we go out riding?"
The unanswerable objection to riding as a form=
of
amusement, was that it had been more than once tried already. Something cle=
ver
and surprising was anticipated from Emily when it came to her turn. She, to=
o, disappointed
expectation. "Let us sit under the trees," was all that she could
suggest, "and ask Mr. Mirabel to tell us a story."
Mirabel laid down his pen and took it on himse=
lf
to reject this proposal. "Remember," he remonstrated, "that I
have an interest in the diversions of the day. You can't expect me to be am=
used
by my own story. I appeal to Miss Wyvil to invent a pleasure which will inc=
lude
the secretary."
Cecilia blushed and looked uneasy. "I thi=
nk I
have got an idea," she announced, after some hesitation. "May I
propose that we all go to the keeper's lodge?" There her courage failed
her, and she hesitated again.
Mirabel gravely registered the proposal, as fa=
r as
it went. "What are we to do when we get to the keeper's lodge?" he
inquired.
"We are to ask the keeper's wife,"
Cecilia proceeded, "to lend us her kitchen."
"To lend us her kitchen," Mirabel
repeated.
"And what are we to do in the kitchen?&qu=
ot;
Cecilia looked down at her pretty hands crosse=
d on
her lap, and answered softly, "Cook our own luncheon."
Here was an entirely new amusement, in the most
attractive sense of the words! Here was charming Cecilia's interest in the
pleasures of the table so happily inspired, that the grateful meeting offer=
ed
its tribute of applause--even including Francine. The members of the council
were young; their daring digestions contemplated without fear the prospect =
of
eating their own amateur cookery. The one question that troubled them now w=
as
what they were to cook.
"I can make an omelet," Cecilia vent=
ured
to say.
"If there is any cold chicken to be
had," Emily added, "I undertake to follow the omelet with a
mayonnaise."
"There are clergymen in the Church of Eng=
land
who are even clever enough to fry potatoes," Mirabel announced--"=
and
I am one of them. What shall we have next? A pudding? Miss de Sor, can you =
make
a pudding?"
Francine exhibited another new side to her cha=
racter--a
diffident and humble side. "I am ashamed to say I don't know how to co=
ok
anything," she confessed; "you had better leave me out of it.&quo=
t;
But Cecilia was now in her element. Her plan of
operations was wide enough even to include Francine. "You shall wash t=
he
lettuce, my dear, and stone the olives for Emily's mayonnaise. Don't be
discouraged! You shall have a companion; we will send to the rectory for Mi=
ss
Plym--the very person to chop parsley and shallot for my omelet. Oh, Emily,
what a morning we are going to have!" Her lovely blue eyes sparkled wi=
th
joy; she gave Emily a kiss which Mirabel must have been more or less than m=
an not
to have coveted. "I declare," cried Cecilia, completely losing he=
r head,
"I'm so excited, I don't know what to do with myself!"
Emily's intimate knowledge of her friend appli=
ed
the right remedy. "You don't know what to do with yourself?" she
repeated. "Have you no sense of duty? Give the cook your orders."=
Cecilia instantly recovered her presence of mi=
nd.
She sat down at the writing-table, and made out a list of eatable productio=
ns
in the animal and vegetable world, in which every other word was underlined=
two
or three times over. Her serious face was a sight to see, when she rang for=
the
cook, and the two held a privy council in a corner.
On the way to the keeper's lodge, the young
mistress of the house headed a procession of servants carrying the raw
materials. Francine followed, held in custody by Miss Plym--who took her
responsibilities seriously, and clamored for instruction in the art of chop=
ping
parsley. Mirabel and Emily were together, far behind; they were the only two
members of the company whose minds were not occupied in one way or another =
by
the kitchen.
"This child's play of ours doesn't seem to
interest you," Mirabel remarked.
"I am thinking," Emily answered,
"of what you said to me about Francine."
"I can say something more," he rejoi=
ned.
"When I noticed the change in her at dinner, I told you she meant
mischief. There is another change to-day, which suggests to my mind that the
mischief is done."
"And directed against me?" Emily ask=
ed.
Mirabel made no direct reply. It was impossible
for him to remind her that she had, no matter how innocently, exposed herse=
lf
to the jealous hatred of Francine. "Time will tell us, what we don't k=
now
now," he replied evasively.
"You seem to have faith in time, Mr.
Mirabel."
"The greatest faith. Time is the invetera=
te
enemy of deceit. Sooner or later, every hidden thing is a thing doomed to
discovery."
"Without exception?"
"Yes," he answered positively,
"without exception."
At that moment Francine stopped and looked bac=
k at
them. Did she think that Emily and Mirabel had been talking together long
enough? Miss Plym--with the parsley still on her mind---advanced to consult
Emil y's experience. The two walked on together, leaving Mirabel to overtak=
e Francine.
He saw, in her first look at him, the effort that it cost her to suppress t=
hose
emotions which the pride of women is most deeply interested in concealing.
Before a word had passed, he regretted that Emily had left them together.
"I wish I had your cheerful
disposition," she began, abruptly. "I am out of spirits or out of
temper--I don't know which; and I don't know why. Do you ever trouble yours=
elf
with thinking of the future?"
"As seldom as possible, Miss de Sor. In s=
uch
a situation as mine, most people have prospects--I have none."
He spoke gravely, conscious of not feeling at =
ease
on his side. If he had been the most modest man that ever lived, he must ha=
ve
seen in Francine's face that she loved him.
When they had first been presented to each oth=
er,
she was still under the influence of the meanest instincts in her scheming =
and
selfish nature. She had thought to herself, "With my money to help him,
that man's celebrity would do the rest; the best society in England would b=
e glad
to receive Mirabel's wife." As the days passed, strong feeling had tak=
en
the place of those contemptible aspirations: Mirabel had unconsciously insp=
ired
the one passion which was powerful enough to master Francine--sensual passi=
on.
Wild hopes rioted in her. Measureless desires which she had never felt befo=
re,
united themselves with capacities for wickedness, which had been the horrid
growth of a few nights--capacities which suggested even viler attempts to r=
id
herself of a supposed rivalry than slandering Emily by means of an anonymou=
s letter.
Without waiting for it to be offered, she took Mirabel's arm, and pressed i=
t to
her breast as they slowly walked on. The fear of discovery which had troubl=
ed
her after she had sent her base letter to the post, vanished at that
inspiriting moment. She bent her head near enough to him when he spoke to f=
eel
his breath on her face.
"There is a strange similarity," she
said softly, "between your position and mine. Is there anything cheeri=
ng
in my prospects? I am far away from home--my father and mother wouldn't car=
e if
they never saw me again. People talk about my money! What is the use of mon=
ey
to such a lonely wretch as I am? Suppose I write to London, and ask the law=
yer
if I may give it all away to some deserving person? Why not to you?"
"My dear Miss de Sor--!"
"Is there anything wrong, Mr. Mirabel, in
wishing that I could make you a prosperous man?"
"You must not even talk of such a
thing!"
"How proud you are!" she said
submissively.
"Oh, I can't bear to think of you in that
miserable village--a position so unworthy of your talents and your claims! =
And
you tell me I must not talk about it. Would you have said that to Emily, if=
she
was as anxious as I am to see you in your right place in the world?"
"I should have answered her exactly as I =
have
answered you."
"She will never embarrass you, Mr. Mirabe=
l,
by being as sincere as I am. Emily can keep her own secrets."
"Is she to blame for doing that?"
"It depends on your feeling for her."=
;
"What feeling do you mean?"
"Suppose you heard she was engaged to be
married?" Francine suggested.
Mirabel's manner--studiously cold and formal t=
hus
far--altered on a sudden. He looked with unconcealed anxiety at Francine.
"Do you say that seriously?" he asked.
"I said 'suppose.' I don't exactly know t=
hat
she is engaged."
"What do you know?"
"Oh, how interested you are in Emily! She=
is
admired by some people. Are you one of them?"
Mirabel's experience of women warned him to try
silence as a means of provoking her into speaking plainly. The experiment
succeeded: Francine returned to the question that he had put to her, and
abruptly answered it.
"You may believe me or not, as you like--I
know of a man who is in love with her. He has had his opportunities; and he=
has
made good use of them. Would you like to know who he is?"
"I should like to know anything which you=
may
wish to tell me." He did his best to make the reply in a tone of
commonplace politeness--and he might have succeeded in deceiving a man. The
woman's quicker ear told her that he was angry. Francine took the full
advantage of that change in her favor.
"I am afraid your good opinion of Emily w=
ill
be shaken," she quietly resumed, "when I tell you that she has
encouraged a man who is only drawing-master at a school. At the same time, a
person in her circumstances--I mean she has no money--ought not to be very =
hard
to please. Of course she has never spoken to you of Mr. Alban Morris?"=
"Not that I remember."
Only four words--but they satisfied Francine.<= o:p>
The one thing wanting to complete the obstacle
which she had now placed in Emily's way, was that Alban Morris should enter=
on
the scene. He might hesitate; but, if he was really fond of Emily, the
anonymous letter would sooner or later bring him to Monksmoor. In the meant=
ime,
her object was gained. She dropped Mirabel's arm.
"Here is the lodge," she said
gayly--"I declare Cecilia has got an apron on already! Come, and
cook."
=
Mirabel left Francine to enter the lodge by
herself. His mind was disturbed: he felt the importance of gaining time for
reflection before he and Emily met again.
The keeper's garden was at the back of the lod=
ge.
Passing through the wicket-gate, he found a little summer-house at a turn in
the path. Nobody was there: he went in and sat down.
At intervals, he had even yet encouraged himse=
lf
to underrate the true importance of the feeling which Emily had awakened in
him. There was an end to all self-deception now. After what Francine had sa=
id
to him, this shallow and frivolous man no longer resisted the all-absorbing
influence of love. He shrank under the one terrible question that forced it=
self
on his mind:--Had that jealous girl spoken the truth?
In what process of investigation could he trus=
t,
to set this anxiety at rest? To apply openly to Emily would be to take a
liberty, which Emily was the last person in the world to permit. In his rec=
ent
intercourse with her he had felt more strongly than ever the importance of
speaking with reserve. He had been scrupulously careful to take no unfair a=
dvantage
of his opportunity, when he had removed her from the meeting, and when they=
had
walked together, with hardly a creature to observe them, in the lonely
outskirts of the town. Emily's gaiety and good humor had not led him astray=
: he
knew that these were bad signs, viewed in the interests of love. His one ho=
pe
of touching her deeper sympathies was to wait for the help that might yet c=
ome
from time and chance. With a bitter sigh, he resigned himself to the necess=
ity
of being as agreeable and amusing as ever: it was just possible that he mig=
ht
lure her into alluding to Alban Morris, if he began innocently by making her
laugh.
As he rose to return to the lodge, the keeper'=
s little
terrier, prowling about the garden, looked into the summer-house. Seeing a
stranger, the dog showed his teeth and growled.
Mirabel shrank back against the wall behind hi=
m,
trembling in every limb. His eyes stared in terror as the dog came nearer: =
barking
in high triumph over the discovery of a frightened man whom he could bully.=
Mirabel
called out for help. A laborer at work in the garden ran to the place--and
stopped with a broad grin of amusement at seeing a grown man terrified by a
barking dog. "Well," he said to himself, after Mirabel had passed=
out
under protection, "there goes a coward if ever there was one yet!"=
;
Mirabel waited a minute behind the lodge to
recover himself. He had been so completely unnerved that his hair was wet w=
ith
perspiration. While he used his handkerchief, he shuddered at other
recollections than the recollection of the dog. "After that night at t=
he
inn," he thought, "the least thing frightens me!"
He was received by the young ladies with cries=
of
derisive welcome. "Oh, for shame! for shame! here are the potatoes alr=
eady
cut, and nobody to fry them!"
Mirabel assumed the mask of cheerfulness--with=
the
desperate resolution of an actor, amusing his audience at a time of domestic
distress. He astonished the keeper's wife by showing that he really knew ho=
w to
use her frying-pan. Cecilia's omelet was tough--but the young ladies ate it=
. Emily's
mayonnaise sauce was almost as liquid as water--they swallowed it neverthel=
ess
by the help of spoons. The potatoes followed, crisp and dry and delicious--=
and
Mirabel became more popular than ever. "He is the only one of us,"
Cecilia sadly acknowledged, "who knows how to cook."
When they all left the lodge for a stroll in t=
he
park, Francine attached herself to Cecilia and Miss Plym. She resigned Mira=
bel
to Emily--in the happy belief that she had paved the way for a misunderstan=
ding
between them.
The merriment at the luncheon table had revived
Emily's good spirits. She had a light-hearted remembrance of the failure of=
her
sauce. Mirabel saw her smiling to herself. "May I ask what amuses
you?" he said.
"I was thinking of the debt of gratitude =
that
we owe to Mr. Wyvil," she replied. "If he had not persuaded you to
return to Monksmoor, we should never have seen the famous Mr. Mirabel with a
frying pan in his hand, and never have tasted the only good dish at our
luncheon."
Mirabel tried vainly to adopt his companion's =
easy
tone. Now that he was alone with her, the doubts that Francine had aroused
shook the prudent resolution at which he had arrived in the garden. He ran =
the
risk, and told Emily plainly why he had returned to Mr. Wyvil's house.
"Although I am sensible of our host's
kindness," he answered, "I should have gone back to my parsonage-=
-but
for You."
She declined to understand him seriously.
"Then the affairs of your parish are neglected--and I am to blame!&quo=
t;
she said.
"Am I the first man who has neglected his
duties for your sake?" he asked. "I wonder whether the masters at
school had the heart to report you when you neglected your lessons?"
She thought of Alban--and betrayed herself by a
heightened color. The moment after, she changed the subject. Mirabel could =
no
longer resist the conclusion that Francine had told him the truth.
"When do you leave us," she inquired=
.
"To-morrow is Saturday--I must go back as
usual."
"And how will your deserted parish receive
you?"
He made a desperate effort to be as amusing as
usual.
"I am sure of preserving my popularity,&q=
uot;
he said, "while I have a cask in the cellar, and a few spare sixpences=
in
my pocket. The public spirit of my parishioners asks for nothing but money =
and
beer. Before I went to that wearisome meeting, I told my housekeeper that I=
was
going to make a speech about reform. She didn't know what I meant. I explai=
ned
that reform might increase the number of British citizens who had the right=
of
voting at elections for parliament. She brightened up directly. 'Ah,' she s=
aid,
'I've heard my husband talk about elections. The more there are of them (he
says) the more money he'll get for his vote. I'm all for reform.' On my way=
out
of the house, I tried the man who works in my garden on the same subject. He
didn't look at the matter from the housekeeper's sanguine point of view. 'I
don't deny that parliament once gave me a good dinner for nothing at the
public-house,' he admitted. 'But that was years ago--and (you'll excuse me,
sir) I hear nothing of another dinner to come. It's a matter of opinion, of
course. I don't myself believe in reform.' There are specimens of the state=
of
public spirit in our village!" He paused. Emily was listening--but he =
had
not succeeded in choosing a subject that amused her. He tried a topic more =
nearly
connected with his own interests; the topic of the future. "Our good
friend has asked me to prolong my visit, after Sunday's duties are over,&qu=
ot;
he said. "I hope I shall find you here, next week?"
"Will the affairs of your parish allow yo=
u to
come back?" Emily asked mischievously.
"The affairs of my parish--if you force m=
e to
confess it--were only an excuse."
"An excuse for what?"
"An excuse for keeping away from
Monksmoor--in the interests of my own tranquillity. The experiment has fail=
ed.
While you are here, I can't keep away."
She still declined to understand him seriously.
"Must I tell you in plain words that flattery is thrown away on me?&qu=
ot;
she said.
"Flattery is not offered to you," he
answered gravely. "I beg your pardon for having led to the mistake by
talking of myself." Having appealed to her indulgence by that act of
submission, he ventured on another distant allusion to the man whom he hated
and feared. "Shall I meet any friends of yours," he resumed,
"when I return on Monday?"
"What do you mean?"
"I only meant to ask if Mr. Wyvil expects=
any
new guests?"
As he put the question, Cecilia's voice was he=
ard
behind them, calling to Emily. They both turned round. Mr. Wyvil had joined=
his
daughter and her two friends. He advanced to meet Emily.
"I have some news for you that you little expect," he said. "A telegram has just arrived from Netherwoods. = Mr. Alban Morris has got leave of absence, and is coming here to-morrow."<= o:p>
Time at Monksmoor had advanced to the half hour
before dinner, on Saturday evening.
Cecilia and Francine, Mr. Wyvil and Mirabel, w=
ere
loitering in the conservatory. In the drawing-room, Emily had been
considerately left alone with Alban. He had missed the early train from
Netherwoods; but he had arrived in time to dress for dinner, and to offer t=
he
necessary explanations.
If it had been possible for Alban to allude to=
the
anonymous letter, he might have owned that his first impulse had led him to
destroy it, and to assert his confidence in Emily by refusing Mr. Wyvil's
invitation. But try as he might to forget them, the base words that he had =
read
remained in his memory. Irritating him at the outset, they had ended in rou=
sing
his jealousy. Under that delusive influence, he persuaded himself that he h=
ad
acted, in the first instance, without due consideration. It was surely his
interest--it might even be his duty--to go to Mr. Wyvil's house, and judge =
for
himself. After some last wretched moments of hesitation, he had decided on
effecting a compromise with his own better sense, by consulting Miss Ladd. =
That
excellent lady did exactly what he had expected her to do. She made
arrangements which granted him leave of absence, from the Saturday to the
Tuesday following. The excuse which had served him, in telegraphing to Mr. =
Wyvil,
must now be repeated, in accounting for his unexpected appearance to Emily.
"I found a person to take charge of my class," he said; "and=
I gladly
availed myself of the opportunity of seeing you again."
After observing him attentively, while he was
speaking to her, Emily owned, with her customary frankness, that she had
noticed something in his manner which left her not quite at her ease.
"I wonder," she said, "if there=
is
any foundation for a doubt that has troubled me?" To his unutterable
relief, she at once explained what the doubt was. "I am afraid I offen=
ded
you, in replying to your letter about Miss Jethro."
In this case, Alban could enjoy the luxury of
speaking unreservedly. He confessed that Emily's letter had disappointed hi=
m.
"I expected you to answer me with less
reserve," he replied; "and I began to think I had acted rashly in
writing to you at all. When there is a better opportunity, I may have a wor=
d to
say--" He was apparently interrupted by something that he saw in the
conservatory. Looking that way, Emily perceived that Mirabel was the object
which had attracted Alban's attention. The vile anonymous letter was in his
mind again. Without a preliminary word to prepare Emily, he suddenly changed
the subject. "How do you like the clergyman?" he asked.
"Very much indeed," she replied, wit=
hout
the slightest embarrassment. "Mr. Mirabel is clever and agreeable--and=
not
at all spoiled by his success. I am sure," she said innocently, "=
you
will like him too."
Alban's face answered her unmistakably in the
negative sense--but Emily's attention was drawn the other way by Francine. =
She
joined them at the moment, on the lookout for any signs of an encouraging
result which her treachery might already have produced. Alban had been incl=
ined
to suspect her when he had received the letter. He rose and bowed as she ap=
proached.
Something--he was unable to realize what it was--told him, in the moment wh=
en
they looked at each other, that his suspicion had hit the mark.
In the conservatory the ever-amiable Mirabel h=
ad
left his friends for a while in search of flowers for Cecilia. She turned to
her father when they were alone, and asked him which of the gentlemen was to
take her in to dinner--Mr. Mirabel or Mr. Morris?
"Mr. Morris, of course," he answered.
"He is the new guest--and he turns out to be more than the equal,
socially-speaking, of our other friend. When I showed him his room, I asked=
if
he was related to a man who bore the same name--a fellow student of mine, y=
ears
and years ago, at college. He is my friend's younger son; one of a ruined
family--but persons of high distinction in their day."
Mirabel returned with the flowers, just as din=
ner
was announced.
"You are to take Emily to-day," Ceci=
lia
said to him, leading the way out of the conservatory. As they entered the
drawing-room, Alban was just offering his arm to Emily. "Papa gives yo=
u to
me, Mr. Morris," Cecilia explained pleasantly. Alban hesitated, appare=
ntly
not understanding the allusion. Mirabel interfered with his best grace:
"Mr. Wyvil offers you the honor of taking his daughter to the
dining-room." Alban's face darkened ominously, as the elegant little
clergyman gave his arm to Emily, and followed Mr. Wyvil and Francine out of=
the
room. Cecilia looked at her silent and surly companion, and almost envied h=
er
lazy sister, dining--under cover of a convenient headache--in her own room.=
Having already made up his mind that Alban Mor=
ris
required careful handling, Mirabel waited a little before he led the
conversation as usual. Between the soup and the fish, he made an interesting
confession, addressed to Emily in the strictest confidence.
"I have taken a fancy to your friend Mr.
Morris," he said. "First impressions, in my case, decide everythi=
ng;
I like people or dislike them on impulse. That man appeals to my sympathies=
. Is
he a good talker?"
"I should say Yes," Emily answered
prettily, "if you were not present."
Mirabel was not to be beaten, even by a woman,=
in
the art of paying compliments. He looked admiringly at Alban (sitting oppos=
ite
to him), and said: "Let us listen."
This flattering suggestion not only pleased
Emily--it artfully served Mirabel's purpose. That is to say, it secured him=
an
opportunity for observation of what was going on at the other side of the
table.
Alban's instincts as a gentleman had led him to
control his irritation and to regret that he had suffered it to appear. Anx=
ious
to please, he presented himself at his best. Gentle Cecilia forgave and for=
got
the angry look which had startled her. Mr. Wyvil was delighted with the son=
of
his old friend. Emily felt secretly proud of the good opinions which her
admirer was gathering; and Francine saw with pleasure that he was asserting=
his
claim to Emily's preference, in the way of all others which would be most
likely to discourage his rival. These various impressions--produced while
Alban's enemy was ominously silent--began to suffer an imperceptible change,
from the moment when Mirabel decided that his time had come to take the lea=
d. A
remark made by Alban offered him the chance for which he had been on the wa=
tch.
He agreed with the remark; he enlarged on the remark; he was brilliant and
familiar, and instructive and amusing--and still it was all due to the rema=
rk.
Alban's temper was once more severely tried. Mirabel's mischievous object h=
ad not
escaped his penetration. He did his best to put obstacles in the adversary's
way--and was baffled, time after time, with the readiest ingenuity. If he
interrupted--the sweet-tempered clergyman submitted, and went on. If he
differed--modest Mr. Mirabel said, in the most amiable manner, "I dare=
say
I am wrong," and handled the topic from his opponent's point of view.
Never had such a perfect Christian sat before at Mr. Wyvil's table: not a h=
ard
word, not an impatient look, escaped him. The longer Alban resisted, the mo=
re
surely he lost ground in the general estimation. Cecilia was disappointed;
Emily was grieved; Mr. Wyvil's favorable opinion began to waver; Francine w=
as
disgusted. When dinner was over, and the carriage was waiting to take the
shepherd back to his flock by moonlight, Mirabel's triumph was complete. He=
had
made Alban the innocent means of publicly exhibiting his perfect temper and=
perfect
politeness, under their best and brightest aspect.
So that day ended. Sunday promised to pass
quietly, in the absence of Mirabel. The morning came--and it seemed doubtful
whether the promise would be fulfilled.
Francine had passed an uneasy night. No such
encouraging result as she had anticipated had hitherto followed the appeara=
nce
of Alban Morris at Monksmoor. He had clumsily allowed Mirabel to improve hi=
s position--while
he had himself lost ground--in Emily's estimation. If this first disastrous
consequence of the meeting between the two men was permitted to repeat itse=
lf
on future occasions, Emily and Mirabel would be brought more closely togeth=
er,
and Alban himself would be the unhappy cause of it. Francine rose, on the
Sunday morning, before the table was laid for breakfast--resolved to try the
effect of a timely word of advice.
Her bedroom was situated in the front of the
house. The man she was looking for presently passed within her range of view
from the window, on his way to take a morning walk in the park. She followed
him immediately.
"Good-morning, Mr. Morris."
He raised his hat and bowed--without speaking,=
and
without looking at her.
"We resemble each other in one
particular," she proceeded, graciously; "we both like to breathe =
the
fresh air before breakfast."
He said exactly what common politeness obliged=
him
to say, and no more--he said, "Yes."
Some girls might have been discouraged. Franci=
ne
went on.
"It is no fault of mine, Mr. Morris, that=
we
have not been better friends. For some reason, into which I don't presume to
inquire, you seem to distrust me. I really don't know what I have done to
deserve it."
"Are you sure of that?" he asked--ey=
ing
her suddenly and searchingly as he spoke.
Her hard face settled into a rigid look; her e=
yes
met his eyes with a stony defiant stare. Now, for the first time, she knew =
that
he suspected her of having written the anonymous letter. Every evil quality=
in her
nature steadily defied him. A hardened old woman could not have sustained t=
he
shock of discovery with a more devilish composure than this girl displayed.
"Perhaps you will explain yourself," she said.
"I have explained myself," he answer=
ed.
"Then I must be content," she rejoin=
ed,
"to remain in the dark. I had intended, out of my regard for Emily, to
suggest that you might--with advantage to yourself, and to interests that a=
re
very dear to you--be more careful in your behavior to Mr. Mirabel. Are you
disposed to listen to me?"
"Do you wish me to answer that question
plainly, Miss de Sor?"
"I insist on your answering it plainly.&q=
uot;
"Then I am not disposed to listen to
you."
"May I know why? or am I to be left in the
dark again?"
"You are to be left, if you please, to yo=
ur
own ingenuity."
Francine looked at him, with a malignant smile.
"One of these days, Mr. Morris--I will deserve your confidence in my
ingenuity." She said it, and went back to the house.
This was the only element of disturbance that
troubled the perfect tranquillity of the day. What Francine had proposed to=
do,
with the one idea of making Alban serve her purpose, was accomplished a few
hours later by Emily's influence for good over the man who loved her.
They passed the afternoon together uninterrupt=
edly
in the distant solitudes of the park. In the course of conversation Emily f=
ound
an opportunity of discreetly alluding to Mirabel. "You mustn't be jeal=
ous of
our clever little friend," she said; "I like him, and admire him;=
but--"
"But you don't love him?"
She smiled at the eager way in which Alban put=
the
question.
"There is no fear of that," she answ=
ered
brightly.
"Not even if you discovered that he loves
you?"
"Not even then. Are you content at last?
Promise me not to be rude to Mr. Mirabel again."
"For his sake?"
"No--for my sake. I don't like to see you
place yourself at a disadvantage toward another man; I don't like you to
disappoint me."
The happiness of hearing her say those words
transfigured him--the manly beauty of his earlier and happier years seemed =
to
have returned to Alban. He took her hand--he was too agitated to speak.
"You are forgetting Mr. Mirabel," she
reminded him gently.
"I will be all that is civil and kind to =
Mr.
Mirabel; I will like him and admire him as you do. Oh, Emily, are you a lit=
tle,
only a very little, fond of me?"
"I don't quite know."
"May I try to find out?"
"How?" she asked.
Her fair cheek was very near to him. The
softly-rising color on it said, Answer me here--and he answered.
=
On Monday, Mirabel made his appearance--and the
demon of discord returned with him.
Alban had employed the earlier part of the day=
in
making a sketch in the park--intended as a little present for Emily. Presen=
ting
himself in the drawing-room, when his work was completed, he found Cecilia =
and
Francine alone. He asked where Emily was.
The question had been addressed to Cecilia.
Francine answered it.
"Emily mustn't be disturbed," she sa=
id.
"Why not?"
"She is with Mr. Mirabel in the rose gard=
en.
I saw them talking together--evidently feeling the deepest interest in what
they were saying to each other. Don't interrupt them--you will only be in t=
he way."
Cecilia at once protested against this last
assertion. "She is trying to make mischief, Mr. Morris--don't believe =
her.
I am sure they will be glad to see you, if you join them in the garden.&quo=
t;
Francine rose, and left the room. She turned, =
and
looked at Alban as she opened the door. "Try it," she said--"=
;and
you will find I am right."
"Francine sometimes talks in a very
ill-natured way," Cecilia gently remarked. "Do you think she means
it, Mr. Morris?'
"I had better not offer an opinion,"
Alban replied.
"Why?"
"I can't speak impartially; I dislike Mis=
s de
Sor."
There was a pause. Alban's sense of self-respe=
ct
forbade him to try the experiment which Francine had maliciously suggested.=
His
thoughts--less easy to restrain--wandered in the direction of the garden. T=
he
attempt to make him jealous had failed; but he was conscious, at the same t=
ime,
that Emily had disappointed him. After what they had said to each other in =
the
park, she ought to have remembered that women are at the mercy of appearanc=
es.
If Mirabel had something of importance to say to her, she might have avoided
exposing herself to Francine's spiteful misconstruction: it would have been
easy to arrange with Cecilia that a third person should be present at the
interview.
While he was absorbed in these reflections,
Cecilia--embarrassed by the silence--was trying to find a topic of
conversation. Alban roughly pushed his sketch-book away from him, on the ta=
ble.
Was he displeased with Emily? The same question had occurred to Cecilia at =
the
time of the correspondence, on the subject of Miss Jethro. To recall those
letters led her, by natural sequence, to another effort of memory. She was =
reminded
of the person who had been the cause of the correspondence: her interest was
revived in the mystery of Miss Jethro.
"Has Emily told you that I have seen your
letter?" she asked.
He roused himself with a start. "I beg yo=
ur
pardon. What letter are you thinking of?"
"I was thinking of the letter which menti=
ons
Miss Jethro's strange visit. Emily was so puzzled and so surprised that she
showed it to me--and we both consulted my father. Have you spoken to Emily
about Miss Jethro?"
"I have tried--but she seemed to be unwil=
ling
to pursue the subject."
"Have you made any discoveries since you
wrote to Emily?"
"No. The mystery is as impenetrable as
ever."
As he replied in those terms, Mirabel entered =
the
conservatory from the garden, evidently on his way to the drawing-room.
To see the man, whose introduction to Emily it=
had
been Miss Jethro's mysterious object to prevent--at the very moment when he=
had
been speaking of Miss Jethro herself--was, not only a temptation of curiosi=
ty,
but a direct incentive (in Emily's own interests) to make an effort at
discovery. Alban pursued the conversation with Cecilia, in a tone which was
loud enough to be heard in the conservatory.
"The one chance of getting any information
that I can see," he proceeded, "is to speak to Mr. Mirabel."=
"I shall be only too glad, if I can be of=
any
service to Miss Wyvil and Mr. Morris."
With those obliging words, Mirabel made a dram=
atic
entry, and looked at Cecilia with his irresistible smile. Startled by his
sudden appearance, she unconsciously assisted Alban's design. Her silence g=
ave
him the opportunity of speaking in her place.
"We were talking," he said quietly to
Mirabel, "of a lady with whom you are acquainted."
"Indeed! May I ask the lady's name?"=
"Miss Jethro."
Mirabel sustained the shock with extraordinary
self-possession--so far as any betrayal by sudden movement was concerned. B=
ut
his color told the truth: it faded to paleness--it revealed, even to Cecili=
a's
eyes, a man overpowered by fright.
Alban offered him a chair. He refused to take =
it
by a gesture. Alban tried an apology next. "I am afraid I have ignoran=
tly
revived some painful associations. Pray excuse me."
The apology roused Mirabel: he felt the necess=
ity
of offering some explanation. In timid animals, the one defensive capacity
which is always ready for action is cunning. Mirabel was too wily to disput=
e the
inference--the inevitable inference--which any one must have drawn, after
seeing the effect on him that the name of Miss Jethro had produced. He admi=
tted
that "painful associations" had been revived, and deplored the
"nervous sensibility" which had permitted it to be seen.
"No blame can possibly attach to you, my =
dear
sir," he continued, in his most amiable manner. "Will it be indis=
creet,
on my part, if I ask how you first became acquainted with Miss Jethro?"=
;
"I first became acquainted with her at Mi=
ss
Ladd's school," Alban answered. "She was, for a short time only, =
one
of the teachers; and she left her situation rather suddenly." He
paused--but Mirabel made no remark. "After an interval of a few
months," he resumed, "I saw Miss Jethro again. She called on me a=
t my
lodgings, near Netherwoods."
"Merely to renew your former
acquaintance?"
Mirabel made that inquiry with an eager anxiety
for the reply which he was quite unable to conceal. Had he any reason to dr=
ead
what Miss Jethro might have it in her power to say of him to another person?
Alban was in no way pledged to secrecy, and he was determined to leave no m=
eans
untried of throwing light on Miss Jethro's mysterious warning. He repeated =
the
plain narrative of the interview, which he had communicated by letter to Em=
ily.
Mirabel listened without making any remark.
"After what I have told you, can you give=
me
no explanation?" Alban asked.
"I am quite unable, Mr. Morris, to help
you."
Was he lying? or speaking, the truth? The
impression produced on Alban was that he had spoken the truth.
Women are never so ready as men to resign
themselves to the disappointment of their hopes. Cecilia, silently listenin=
g up
to this time, now ventured to speak--animated by her sisterly interest in
Emily.
"Can you not tell us," she said to
Mirabel, "why Miss Jethro tried to prevent Emily Brown from meeting you
here?"
"I know no more of her motive than you
do," Mirabel replied.
Alban interposed. "Miss Jethro left me,&q= uot; he said, "with the intention--quite openly expressed--of trying to pre= vent you from accepting Mr. Wyvil's invitation. Did she make the attempt?"<= o:p>
Mirabel admitted that she had made the attempt.
"But," he added, "without mentioning Miss Emily's name. I was
asked to postpone my visit, as a favor to herself, because she had her own
reasons for wishing it. I had my reasons" (he bowed with gallantry to
Cecilia) "for being eager to have the honor of knowing Mr. Wyvil and h=
is
daughter; and I refused."
Once more, the doubt arose: was he lying? or
speaking the truth? And, once more, Alban could not resist the conclusion t=
hat
he was speaking the truth.
"There is one thing I should like to know=
,"
Mirabel continued, after some hesitation. "Has Miss Emily been informe=
d of
this strange affair?"
"Certainly!"
Mirabel seemed to be disposed to continue his
inquiries--and suddenly changed his mind. Was he beginning to doubt if Alban
had spoken without concealment, in describing Miss Jethro's visit? Was he s=
till
afraid of what Miss Jethro might have said of him? In any case, he changed =
the subject,
and made an excuse for leaving the room.
"I am forgetting my errand," he said=
to
Alban. "Miss Emily was anxious to know if you had finished your sketch=
. I
must tell her that you have returned."
He bowed and withdrew.
Alban rose to follow him--and checked himself.=
"No," he thought, "I trust
Emily!" He sat down again by Cecilia's side.
Mirabel had indeed returned to the rose garden=
. He
found Emily employed as he had left her, in making a crown of roses, to be =
worn
by Cecilia in the evening. But, in one other respect, there was a change.
Francine was present.
"Excuse me for sending you on a needless
errand," Emily said to Mirabel; "Miss de Sor tells me Mr. Morris =
has
finished his sketch. She left him in the drawing-room--why didn't you bring=
him
here?"
"He was talking with Miss Wyvil."
Mirabel answered absently--with his eyes on
Francine. He gave her one of those significant looks, which says to a third
person, "Why are you here?" Francine's jealousy declined to
understand him. He tried a broader hint, in words.
"Are you going to walk in the garden?&quo=
t;
he said.
Francine was impenetrable. "No," she
answered, "I am going to stay here with Emily."
Mirabel had no choice but to yield. Imperative
anxieties forced him to say, in Francine's presence, what he had hoped to s=
ay
to Emily privately.
"When I joined Miss Wyvil and Mr.
Morris," he began, "what do you think they were doing? They were
talking of--Miss Jethro."
Emily dropped the rose-crown on her lap. It was
easy to see that she had been disagreeably surprised.
"Mr. Morris has told me the curious story=
of
Miss Jethro's visit," Mirabel continued; "but I am in some doubt
whether he has spoken to me without reserve. Perhaps he expressed himself m=
ore
freely when he spoke to you. Miss Jethro may have said something to him whi=
ch
tended to lower me in your estimation?"
"Certainly not, Mr. Mirabel--so far as I =
know.
If I had heard anything of the kind, I should have thought it my duty to te=
ll
you. Will it relieve your anxiety, if I go at once to Mr. Morris, and ask h=
im
plainly whether he has concealed anything from you or from me?"
Mirabel gratefully kissed her hand. "Your
kindness overpowers me," he said--speaking, for once, with true emotio=
n.
Emily immediately returned to the house. As so=
on
as she was out of sight, Francine approached Mirabel, trembling with suppre=
ssed
rage.
Miss de Sor began cautiously with an apology.
"Excuse me, Mr. Mirabel, for reminding you of my presence."
Mr. Mirabel made no reply.
"I beg to say," Francine proceeded,
"that I didn't intentionally see you kiss Emily's hand."
Mirabel stood, looking at the roses which Emily
had left on her chair, as completely absorbed in his own thoughts as if he =
had
been alone in the garden.
"Am I not even worth notice?" Franci=
ne
asked. "Ah, I know to whom I am indebted for your neglect!" She t=
ook
him familiarly by the arm, and burst into a harsh laugh. "Tell me now,=
in
confidence--do you think Emily is fond of you?"
The impression left by Emily's kindness was st=
ill
fresh in Mirabel's memory: he was in no humor to submit to the jealous
resentment of a woman whom he regarded with perfect indifference. Through t=
he
varnish of politeness which overlaid his manner, there rose to the surface =
the underlying
insolence, hidden, on all ordinary occasions, from all human eyes. He answe=
red
Francine--mercilessly answered her--at last.
"It is the dearest hope of my life that s=
he
may be fond of me," he said.
Francine dropped his arm "And fortune fav=
ors
your hopes," she added, with an ironical assumption of interest in
Mirabel's prospects. "When Mr. Morris leaves us to-morrow, he removes =
the
only obstacle you have to fear. Am I right?"
"No; you are wrong."
"In what way, if you please?"
"In this way. I don't regard Mr. Morris a=
s an
obstacle. Emily is too delicate and too kind to hurt his feelings--she is n=
ot
in love with him. There is no absorbing interest in her mind to divert her
thoughts from me. She is idle and happy; she thoroughly enjoys her visit to
this house, and I am associated with her enjoyment. There is my chance--!&q=
uot;
He suddenly stopped. Listening to him thus far,
unnaturally calm and cold, Francine now showed that she felt the lash of his
contempt. A hideous smile passed slowly over her white face. It threatened =
the vengeance
which knows no fear, no pity, no remorse--the vengeance of a jealous woman.
Hysterical anger, furious language, Mirabel was prepared for. The smile
frightened him.
"Well?" she said scornfully, "w=
hy
don't you go on?"
A bolder man might still have maintained the
audacious position which he had assumed. Mirabel's faint heart shrank from =
it.
He was eager to shelter himself under the first excuse that he could find. =
His ingenuity,
paralyzed by his fears, was unable to invent anything new. He feebly availed
himself of the commonplace trick of evasion which he had read of in novels,=
and
seen in action on the stage.
"Is it possible," he asked, with an
overacted assumption of surprise, "that you think I am in earnest?&quo=
t;
In the case of any other person, Francine would
have instantly seen through that flimsy pretense. But the love which accepts
the meanest crumbs of comfort that can be thrown to it--which fawns and gro=
vels
and deliberately deceives itself, in its own intensely selfish interests--w=
as
the love that burned in Francine's breast. The wretched girl believed Mirab=
el
with such an ecstatic sense of belief that she trembled in every limb, and
dropped into the nearest chair.
"I was in earnest," she said faintly.
"Didn't you see it?"
He was perfectly shameless; he denied that he =
had
seen it, in the most positive manner. "Upon my honor, I thought you we=
re
mystifying me, and I humored the joke."
She sighed, and looking at him with an express=
ion
of tender reproach. "I wonder whether I can believe you," she said
softly.
"Indeed you may believe me!" he assu=
red
her.
She hesitated--for the pleasure of hesitating.
"I don't know. Emily is very much admired by some men. Why not by
you?"
"For the best of reasons," he answer=
ed
"She is poor, and I am poor. Those are facts which speak for
themselves."
"Yes--but Emily is bent on attracting you.
She would marry you to-morrow, if you asked her. Don't attempt to deny it!
Besides, you kissed her hand."
"Oh, Miss de Sor!"
"Don't call me 'Miss de Sor'! Call me
Francine. I want to know why you kissed her hand."
He humored her with inexhaustible servility.
"Allow me to kiss your hand, Francine!--and let me explain that kissin=
g a
lady's hand is only a form of thanking her for her kindness. You must own t=
hat
Emily--"
She interrupted him for the third time.
"Emily?" she repeated. "Are you as familiar as that already?
Does she call you 'Miles,' when you are by yourselves? Is there any effort =
at
fascination which this charming creature has left untried? She told you no
doubt what a lonely life she leads in her poor little home?"
Even Mirabel felt that he must not permit this=
to
pass.
"She has said nothing to me about
herself," he answered. "What I know of her, I know from Mr.
Wyvil."
"Oh, indeed! You asked Mr. Wyvil about her
family, of course? What did he say?"
"He said she lost her mother when she was=
a
child--and he told me her father had died suddenly, a few years since, of h=
eart
complaint."
"Well, and what else?--Never mind now! He=
re
is somebody coming."
The person was only one of the servants. Mirab=
el
felt grateful to the man for interrupting them. Animated by sentiments of a=
precisely
opposite nature, Francine spoke to him sharply.
"What do you want here?"
"A message, miss."
"From whom?"
"From Miss Brown."
"For me?"
"No, miss." He turned to Mirabel.
"Miss Brown wishes to speak to you, sir, if you are not engaged."=
Francine controlled herself until the man was =
out
of hearing.
"Upon my word, this is too shameless!&quo=
t;
she declared indignantly. "Emily can't leave you with me for five minu=
tes,
without wanting to see you again. If you go to her after all that you have =
said
to me," she cried, threatening Mirabel with her outstretched hand,
"you are the meanest of men!"
He was the meanest of men--he carried out his
cowardly submission to the last extremity.
"Only say what you wish me to do," he
replied.
Even Francine expected some little resistance =
from
a creature bearing the outward appearance of a man. "Oh, do you really
mean it?" she asked "I want you to disappoint Emily. Will you stay
here, and let me make your excuses?"
"I will do anything to please you."<= o:p>
Francine gave him a farewell look. Her admirat=
ion
made a desperate effort to express itself appropriately in words. "You=
are
not a man," she said, "you are an angel!"
Left by himself, Mirabel sat down to rest. He
reviewed his own conduct with perfect complacency. "Not one man in a
hundred could have managed that she-devil as I have done," he thought.
"How shall I explain matters to Emily?"
Considering this question, he looked by chance=
at
the unfinished crown of roses. "The very thing to help me!" he
said--and took out his pocketbook, and wrote these lines on a blank page:
"I have had a scene of jealousy with Miss de Sor, which is beyond all
description. To spare you a similar infliction, I have done violence to my =
own
feelings. Instead of instantly obeying the message which you have so kindly
sent to me, I remain here for a little while--entirely for your sake."=
Having torn out the page, and twisted it up am=
ong
the roses, so that only a corner of the paper appeared in view, Mirabel cal=
led
to a lad who was at work in the garden, and gave him his directions,
accompanied by a shilling. "Take those flowers to the servants' hall, =
and
tell one of the maids to put them in Miss Brown's room. Stop! Which is the =
way
to the fruit garden?"
The lad gave the necessary directions. Mirabel
walked away slowly, with his hands in his pockets. His nerves had been shak=
en;
he thought a little fruit might refresh him.
=
In the meanwhile Emily had been true to her
promise to relieve Mirabel's anxieties, on the subject of Miss Jethro. Ente=
ring
the drawing-room in search of Alban, she found him talking with Cecilia, and
heard her own name mentioned as she opened the door.
"Here she is at last!" Cecilia
exclaimed. "What in the world has kept you all this time in the rose g=
arden?"
"Has Mr. Mirabel been more interesting th=
an
usual?" Alban asked gayly. Whatever sense of annoyance he might have f=
elt
in Emily's absence, was forgotten the moment she appeared; all traces of
trouble in his face vanished when they looked at each other.
"You shall judge for yourself," Emily
replied with a smile. "Mr. Mirabel has been speaking to me of a relati=
ve
who is very dear to him--his sister."
Cecilia was surprised. "Why has he never
spoken to us of his sister?" she asked.
"It's a sad subject to speak of, my dear.=
His
sister lives a life of suffering--she has been for years a prisoner in her
room. He writes to her constantly. His letters from Monksmoor have interest=
ed
her, poor soul. It seems he said something about me--and she has sent a kin=
d message,
inviting me to visit her one of these days. Do you understand it now,
Cecilia?"
"Of course I do! Tell me--is Mr. Mirabel's
sister older or younger than he is?"
"Older."
"Is she married?"
"She is a widow."
"Does she live with her brother?" Al=
ban
asked.
"Oh, no! She has her own house--far away =
in
Northumberland."
"Is she near Sir Jervis Redwood?"
"I fancy not. Her house is on the
coast."
"Any children?" Cecilia inquired.
"No; she is quite alone. Now, Cecilia, I =
have
told you all I know--and I have something to say to Mr. Morris. No, you nee=
dn't
leave us; it's a subject in which you are interested. A subject," she
repeated, turning to Alban, "which you may have noticed is not very
agreeable to me."
"Miss Jethro?" Alban guessed.
"Yes; Miss Jethro."
Cecilia's curiosity instantly asserted itself.=
"We have tried to get Mr. Mirabel to
enlighten us, and tried in vain," she said. "You are a favorite. =
Have
you succeeded?"
"I have made no attempt to succeed,"
Emily replied. "My only object is to relieve Mr. Mirabel's anxiety, if=
I
can--with your help, Mr. Morris."
"In what way can I help you?"
"You mustn't be angry."
"Do I look angry?"
"You look serious. It is a very simple th=
ing.
Mr. Mirabel is afraid that Miss Jethro may have said something disagreeable
about him, which you might hesitate to repeat. Is he making himself uneasy
without any reason?"
"Without the slightest reason. I have
concealed nothing from Mr. Mirabel."
"Thank you for the explanation." She
turned to Cecilia. "May I send one of the servants with a message? I m=
ay
as well put an end to Mr. Mirabel's suspense."
The man was summoned, and was dispatched with =
the
message. Emily would have done well, after this, if she had abstained from
speaking further of Miss Jethro. But Mirabel's doubts had, unhappily, inspi=
red
a similar feeling of uncertainty in her own mind. She was now disposed to a=
ttribute
the tone of mystery in Alban's unlucky letter to some possible concealment
suggested by regard for herself. "I wonder whether I have any reason to
feel uneasy?" she said--half in jest, half in earnest.
"Uneasy about what?" Alban inquired.=
"About Miss Jethro, of course! Has she sa=
id
anything of me which your kindness has concealed?"
Alban seemed to be a little hurt by the doubt
which her question implied. "Was that your motive," he asked,
"for answering my letter as cautiously as if you had been writing to a
stranger?"
"Indeed you are quite wrong!" Emily
earnestly assured him. "I was perplexed and startled--and I took Mr.
Wyvil's advice, before I wrote to you. Shall we drop the subject?"
Alban would have willingly dropped the
subject--but for that unfortunate allusion to Mr. Wyvil. Emily had
unconsciously touched him on a sore place. He had already heard from Cecili=
a of
the consultation over his letter, and had disapproved of it. "I think =
you
were wrong to trouble Mr. Wyvil," he said.
The altered tone of his voice suggested to Emi=
ly
that he would have spoken more severely, if Cecilia had not been in the roo=
m.
She thought him needlessly ready to complain of a harmless proceeding--and =
she
too returned to the subject, after having proposed to drop it not a minute =
since!
"You didn't tell me I was to keep your le=
tter
a secret," she replied.
Cecilia made matters worse--with the best inte=
ntions.
"I'm sure, Mr. Morris, my father was only too glad to give Emily his
advice."
Alban remained silent--ungraciously silent as
Emily thought, after Mr. Wyvil's kindness to him.
"The thing to regret," she remarked,
"is that Mr. Morris allowed Miss Jethro to leave him without explaining
herself. In his place, I should have insisted on knowing why she wanted to
prevent me from meeting Mr. Mirabel in this house."
Cecilia made another unlucky attempt at judici=
ous
interference. This time, she tried a gentle remonstrance.
"Remember, Emily, how Mr. Morris was
situated. He could hardly be rude to a lady. And I daresay Miss Jethro had =
good
reasons for not wishing to explain herself."
Francine opened the drawing-room door and heard
Cecilia's last words.
"Miss Jethro again!" she exclaimed.<= o:p>
"Where is Mr. Mirabel?" Emily asked.
"I sent him a message."
"He regrets to say he is otherwise engaged
for the present," Francine replied with spiteful politeness. "Don=
't
let me interrupt the conversation. Who is this Miss Jethro, whose name is on
everybody's lips?"
Alban could keep silent no longer. "We ha=
ve
done with the subject," he said sharply.
"Because I am here?"
"Because we have said more than enough ab=
out
Miss Jethro already."
"Speak for yourself, Mr. Morris," Em=
ily
answered, resenting the masterful tone which Alban's interference had assum=
ed.
"I have not done with Miss Jethro yet, I can assure you."
"My dear, you don't know where she
lives," Cecilia reminded her.
"Leave me to discover it!" Emily
answered hotly. "Perhaps Mr. Mirabel knows. I shall ask Mr. Mirabel.&q=
uot;
"I thought you would find a reason for
returning to Mr. Mirabel," Francine remarked.
Before Emily could reply, one of the maids ent=
ered
the room with a wreath of roses in her hand.
"Mr. Mirabel sends you these flowers,
miss," the woman said, addressing Emily. "The boy told me they we=
re
to be taken to your room. I thought it was a mistake, and I have brought th=
em
to you here."
Francine, who happened to be nearest to the do=
or,
took the roses from the girl on pretense of handing them to Emily. Her jeal=
ous
vigilance detected the one visible morsel of Mirabel's letter, twisted up w=
ith
the flowers. Had Emily entrapped him into a secret correspondence with her?=
"A
scrap of waste paper among your roses," she said, crumpling it up in h=
er
hand as if she meant to throw it away.
But Emily was too quick for her. She caught
Francine by the wrist. "Waste paper or not," she said; "it w=
as
among my flowers and it belongs to me."
Francine gave up the letter, with a look which
might have startled Emily if she had noticed it. She handed the roses to
Cecilia. "I was making a wreath for you to wear this evening, my dear-=
-and
I left it in the garden. It's not quite finished yet."
Cecilia was delighted. "How lovely it
is!" she exclaimed. "And how very kind of you! I'll finish it
myself." She turned away to the conservatory.
"I had no idea I was interfering with a
letter," said Francine; watching Emily with fiercely-attentive eyes, w=
hile
she smoothed out the crumpled paper.
Having read what Mirabel had written to her, E=
mily
looked up, and saw that Alban was on the point of following Cecilia into the
conservatory. He had noticed something in Francine's face which he was at a
loss to understand, but which made her presence in the room absolutely hate=
ful to
him. Emily followed and spoke to him.
"I am going back to the rose garden,"
she said.
"For any particular purpose?" Alban
inquired
"For a purpose which, I am afraid, you wo=
n't
approve of. I mean to ask Mr. Mirabel if he knows Miss Jethro's address.&qu=
ot;
"I hope he is as ignorant of it as I
am," Alban answered gravely.
"Are we going to quarrel over Miss Jethro=
, as
we once quarreled over Mrs. Rook?" Emily asked--with the readiest reco=
very
of her good humor. "Come! come! I am sure you are as anxious, in your =
own
private mind, to have this matter cleared up as I am."
"With one difference--that I think of
consequences, and you don't." He said it, in his gentlest and kindest
manner, and stepped into the conservatory.
"Never mind the consequences," she
called after him, "if we can only get at the truth. I hate being
deceived!"
"There is no person living who has better
reason than you have to say that."
Emily looked round with a start. Alban was out=
of
hearing. It was Francine who had answered her.
"What do you mean?" she said.
Francine hesitated. A ghastly paleness overspr=
ead
her face.
"Are you ill?" Emily asked.
"No--I am thinking."
After waiting for a moment in silence, Emily m=
oved
away toward the door of the drawing-room. Francine suddenly held up her han=
d.
"Stop!" she cried.
Emily stood still.
"My mind is made up," Francine said.=
"Made up--to what?"
"You asked what I meant, just now."<= o:p>
"I did."
"Well, my mind is made up to answer you. =
Miss
Emily Brown, you are leading a sadly frivolous life in this house. I am goi=
ng
to give you something more serious to think about than your flirtation with=
Mr.
Mirabel. Oh, don't be impatient! I am coming to the point. Without knowing =
it
yourself, you have been the victim of deception for years past--cruel
deception--wicked deception that puts on the mask of mercy."
"Are you alluding to Miss Jethro?" E=
mily
asked, in astonishment. "I thought you were strangers to each other. J=
ust
now, you wanted to know who she was."
"I know nothing about her. I care nothing
about her. I am not thinking of Miss Jethro."
"Who are you thinking of?"
"I am thinking," Francine answered,
"of your dead father."
Having revived his sinking energies in the fru=
it
garden, Mirabel seated himself under the shade of a tree, and reflected on =
the
critical position in which he was placed by Francine's jealousy.
If Miss de Sor continued to be Mr. Wyvil's gue= st, there seemed to be no other choice before Mirabel than to leave Monksmoor--= and to trust to a favorable reply to his sister's invitation for the free enjoy= ment of Emily's society under another roof. Try as he might, he could arrive at = no more satisfactory conclusion than this. In his preoccupied state, time pass= ed quickly. Nearly an hour had elapsed before he rose to return to the house.<= o:p>
Entering the hall, he was startled by a cry of
terror in a woman's voice, coming from the upper regions. At the same time =
Mr.
Wyvil, passing along the bedroom corridor after leaving the music-room, was=
confronted
by his daughter, hurrying out of Emily's bedchamber in such a state of alarm
that she could hardly speak.
"Gone!" she cried, the moment she saw
her father.
Mr. Wyvil took her in his arms and tried to
compose her. "Who has gone?" he asked.
"Emily! Oh, papa, Emily has left us! She =
has
heard dreadful news--she told me so herself."
"What news? How did she hear it?"
"I don't know how she heard it. I went ba=
ck
to the drawing-room to show her my roses--"
"Was she alone?"
"Yes! She frightened me--she seemed quite
wild. She said, 'Let me be by myself; I shall have to go home.' She kissed
me--and ran up to her room. Oh, I am such a fool! Anybody else would have t=
aken
care not to lose sight of her."
"How long did you leave her by herself?&q=
uot;
"I can't say. I thought I would go and te=
ll
you. And then I got anxious about her, and knocked at her door, and looked =
into
the room. Gone! Gone!"
Mr. Wyvil rang the bell and confided Cecilia to
the care of her maid. Mirabel had already joined him in the corridor. They =
went
downstairs together and consulted with Alban. He volunteered to make immedi=
ate inquiries
at the railway station. Mr. Wyvil followed him, as far as the lodge gate wh=
ich
opened on the highroad--while Mirabel went to a second gate, at the opposite
extremity of the park.
Mr. Wyvil obtained the first news of Emily. The
lodge keeper had seen her pass him, on her way out of the park, in the grea=
test
haste. He had called after her, "Anything wrong, miss?" and had
received no reply. Asked what time had elapsed since this had happened, he =
was
too confused to be able to answer with any certainty. He knew that she had
taken the road which led to the station--and he knew no more.
Mr. Wyvil and Mirabel met again at the house, =
and
instituted an examination of the servants. No further discoveries were made=
.
The question which occurred to everybody was
suggested by the words which Cecilia had repeated to her father. Emily had =
said
she had "heard dreadful news"--how had that news reached her? The=
one
postal delivery at Monksmoor was in the morning. Had any special messenger
arrived, with a letter for Emily? The servants were absolutely certain that=
no
such person had entered the house. The one remaining conclusion suggested t=
hat
somebody must have communicated the evil tidings by word of mouth. But here
again no evidence was to be obtained. No visitor had called during the day,=
and
no new guests had arrived. Investigation was completely baffled.
Alban returned from the railway, with news of =
the
fugitive.
He had reached the station, some time after the
departure of the London train. The clerk at the office recognized his
description of Emily, and stated that she had taken her ticket for London. =
The
station-master had opened the carriage door for her, and had noticed that t=
he
young lady appeared to be very much agitated. This information obtained, Al=
ban
had dispatched a telegram to Emily--in Cecilia's name: "Pray send us a=
few
words to relieve our anxiety, and let us know if we can be of any service to
you."
This was plainly all that could be done--but
Cecilia was not satisfied. If her father had permitted it, she would have
followed Emily. Alban comforted her. He apologized to Mr. Wyvil for shorten=
ing
his visit, and announced his intention of traveling to London by the next
train. "We may renew our inquiries to some advantage," he added,
after hearing what had happened in his absence, "if we can find out who
was the last person who saw her, and spoke to her, before your daughter fou=
nd
her alone in the drawing-room. When I went out of the room, I left her with
Miss de Sor."
The maid who waited on Miss de Sor was sent fo=
r.
Francine had been out, by herself, walking in the park. She was then in her
room, changing her dress. On hearing of Emily's sudden departure, she had b=
een
(as the maid reported) "much shocked and quite at a loss to understand
what it meant."
Joining her friends a few minutes later, Franc=
ine
presented, so far as personal appearance went, a strong contrast to the pale
and anxious faces round her. She looked wonderfully well, after her walk. In
other respects, she was in perfect harmony with the prevalent feeling. She =
expressed
herself with the utmost propriety; her sympathy moved poor Cecilia to tears=
.
"I am sure, Miss de Sor, you will try to =
help
us?" Mr. Wyvil began
"With the greatest pleasure," Franci=
ne
answered.
"How long were you and Miss Emily Brown
together, after Mr. Morris left you?"
"Not more than a quarter of an hour, I sh=
ould
think."
"Did anything remarkable occur in the cou=
rse
of conversation?"
"Nothing whatever."
Alban interfered for the first time. "Did=
you
say anything," he asked, "which agitated or offended Miss
Brown?"
"That's rather an extraordinary
question," Francine remarked.
"Have you no other answer to give?"
Alban inquired.
"I answer--No!" she said, with a sud=
den
outburst of anger.
There, the matter dropped. While she spoke in
reply to Mr. Wyvil, Francine had confronted him without embarrassment. When
Alban interposed, she never looked at him--except when he provoked her to a=
nger.
Did she remember that the man who was questioning her, was also the man who=
had
suspected her of writing the anonymous letter? Alban was on his guard again=
st
himself, knowing how he disliked her. But the conviction in his own mind was
not to be resisted. In some unimaginable way, Francine was associated with
Emily's flight from the house.
The answer to the telegram sent from the railw=
ay
station had not arrived, when Alban took his departure for London. Cecilia's
suspense began to grow unendurable: she looked to Mirabel for comfort, and
found none. His office was to console, and his capacity for performing that=
office
was notorious among his admirers; but he failed to present himself to
advantage, when Mr. Wyvil's lovely daughter had need of his services. He wa=
s,
in truth, too sincerely anxious and distressed to be capable of commanding =
his
customary resources of ready-made sentiment and fluently-pious philosophy.
Emily's influence had awakened the only earnest and true feeling which had =
ever
ennobled the popular preacher's life.
Toward evening, the long-expected telegram was
received at last. What could be said, under the circumstances, it said in t=
hese
words:
"Safe at home--don't be uneasy about me--=
will
write soon."
With that promise they were, for the time, for=
ced
to be content.
=
Mrs. Ellmother--left in charge of Emily's plac=
e of
abode, and feeling sensible of her lonely position from time to time--had j=
ust
thought of trying the cheering influence of a cup of tea, when she heard a =
cab
draw up at the cottage gate. A violent ring at the bell followed. She opene=
d the
door--and found Emily on the steps. One look at that dear and familiar face=
was
enough for the old servant.
"God help us," she cried, "what=
's
wrong now?"
Without a word of reply, Emily led the way into
the bedchamber which had been the scene of Miss Letitia's death. Mrs. Ellmo=
ther
hesitated on the threshold.
"Why do you bring me in here?" she
asked.
"Why did you try to keep me out?" Em=
ily
answered.
"When did I try to keep you out, miss?&qu=
ot;
"When I came home from school, to nurse my
aunt. Ah, you remember now! Is it true--I ask you here, where your old mist=
ress
died--is it true that my aunt deceived me about my father's death? And that=
you
knew it?"
There was dead silence. Mrs. Ellmother trembled
horribly--her lips dropped apart--her eyes wandered round the room with a s=
tare
of idiotic terror. "Is it her ghost tells you that?" she whispere=
d.
"Where is her ghost? The room whirls round and round, miss--and the air
sings in my ears."
Emily sprang forward to support her. She stagg=
ered
to a chair, and lifted her great bony hands in wild entreaty. "Don't
frighten me," she said. "Stand back."
Emily obeyed her. She dashed the cold sweat off
her forehead. "You were talking about your father's death just now,&qu=
ot;
she burst out, in desperate defiant tones. "Well! we know it and we are
sorry for it--your father died suddenly."
"My father died murdered in the inn at
Zeeland! All the long way to London, I have tried to doubt it. Oh, me, I kn=
ow
it now!"
Answering in those words, she looked toward the
bed. Harrowing remembrances of her aunt's delirious self-betrayal made the =
room
unendurable to her. She ran out. The parlor door was open. Entering the roo=
m,
she passed by a portrait of her father, which her aunt had hung on the wall
over the fireplace. She threw herself on the sofa and burst into a passiona=
te
fit of crying. "Oh, my father--my dear, gentle, loving father; my firs=
t,
best, truest friend--murdered! murdered! Oh, God, where was your justice, w=
here
was your mercy, when he died that dreadful death?"
A hand was laid on her shoulder; a voice said =
to
her, "Hush, my child! God knows best."
Emily looked up, and saw that Mrs. Ellmother h=
ad
followed her. "You poor old soul," she said, suddenly remembering;
"I frightened you in the other room."
"I have got over it, my dear. I am old; a=
nd I
have lived a hard life. A hard life schools a person. I make no
complaints." She stopped, and began to shudder again. "Will you
believe me if I tell you something?" she asked. "I warned my
self-willed mistress. Standing by your father's coffin, I warned her. Hide =
the
truth as you may (I said), a time will come when our child will know what y=
ou
are keeping from her now. One or both of us may live to see it. I am the one
who has lived; no refuge in the grave for me. I want to hear about it--ther=
e's
no fear of frightening or hurting me now. I want to hear how you found it o=
ut.
Was it by accident, my dear? or did a person tell you?"
Emily's mind was far away from Mrs. Ellmother.=
She
rose from the sofa, with her hands held fast over her aching heart.
"The one duty of my life," she
said--"I am thinking of the one duty of my life. Look! I am calm now; =
I am
resigned to my hard lot. Never, never again, can the dear memory of my fath=
er
be what it was! From this time, it is the horrid memory of a crime. The cri=
me
has gone unpunished; the man has escaped others. He shall not escape Me.&qu=
ot;
She paused, and looked at Mrs. Ellmother absently. "What did you say j=
ust
now? You want to hear how I know what I know? Naturally! naturally! Sit down
here--sit down, my old friend, on the sofa with me--and take your mind back=
to Netherwoods.
Alban Morris--"
Mrs. Ellmother recoiled from Emily in dismay.
"Don't tell me he had anything to do with it! The kindest of men; the =
best
of men!"
"The man of all men living who least dese=
rves
your good opinion or mine," Emily answered sternly.
"You!" Mrs. Ellmother exclaimed,
"you say that!"
"I say it. He--who won on me to like him-=
-he
was in the conspiracy to deceive me; and you know it! He heard me talk of t=
he
newspaper story of the murder of my father--I say, he heard me talk of it
composedly, talk of it carelessly, in the innocent belief that it was the
murder of a stranger--and he never opened his lips to prevent that horrid p=
rofanation!
He never even said, speak of something else; I won't hear you! No more of h=
im!
God forbid I should ever see him again. No! Do what I told you. Carry your =
mind
back to Netherwoods. One night you let Francine de Sor frighten you. You ran
away from her into the garden. Keep quiet! At your age, must I set you an
example of self-control?
"I want to know, Miss Emily, where Franci=
ne
de Sor is now?"
"She is at the house in the country, whic=
h I
have left."
"Where does she go next, if you please? B=
ack
to Miss Ladd?"
"I suppose so. What interest have you in
knowing where she goes next?"
"I won't interrupt you, miss. It's true t=
hat
I ran away into the garden. I can guess who followed me. How did she find h=
er
way to me and Mr. Morris, in the dark?"
"The smell of tobacco guided her--she knew
who smoked--she had seen him talking to you, on that very day--she followed=
the
scent--she heard what you two said to each other--and she has repeated it to
me. Oh, my old friend, the malice of a revengeful girl has enlightened me, =
when
you, my nurse--and he, my lover--left me in the dark: it has told me how my=
father
died!"
"That's said bitterly, miss!"
"Is it said truly?"
"No. It isn't said truly of myself. God k=
nows
you would never have been kept in the dark, if your aunt had listened to me=
. I
begged and prayed--I went down on my knees to her--I warned her, as I told =
you
just now. Must I tell you what a headstrong woman Miss Letitia was? She ins=
isted.
She put the choice before me of leaving her at once and forever--or giving =
in.
I wouldn't have given in to any other creature on the face of this earth. I=
am
obstinate, as you have often told me. Well, your aunt's obstinacy beat mine=
; I
was too fond of her to say No. Besides, if you ask me who was to blame in t=
he
first place, I tell you it wasn't your aunt; she was frightened into it.&qu=
ot;
"Who frightened her?"
"Your godfather--the great London surgeon=
--he
who was visiting in our house at the time."
"Sir Richard?"
"Yes--Sir Richard. He said he wouldn't an=
swer
for the consequences, in the delicate state of your health, if we told you =
the
truth. Ah, he had it all his own way after that. He went with Miss Letitia =
to
the inquest; he won over the coroner and the newspaper men to his will; he =
kept
your aunt's name out of the papers; he took charge of the coffin; he hired =
the
undertaker and his men, strangers from London; he wrote the certificate--who
but he! Everybody was cap in hand to the famous man!"
"Surely, the servants and the neighbors a=
sked
questions?"
"Hundreds of questions! What did that mat=
ter
to Sir Richard? They were like so many children, in his hands. And, mind yo=
u,
the luck helped him. To begin with, there was the common name. Who was to p=
ick
out your poor father among the thousands of James Browns? Then, again, the
house and lands went to the male heir, as they called him--the man your fat=
her quarreled
with in the bygone time. He brought his own establishment with him. Long be=
fore
you got back from the friends you were staying with--don't you remember it?=
--we
had cleared out of the house; we were miles and miles away; and the old
servants were scattered abroad, finding new situations wherever they could.=
How
could you suspect us? We had nothing to fear in that way; but my conscience
pricked me. I made another attempt to prevail on Miss Letitia, when you had
recovered your health. I said, 'There's no fear of a relapse now; break it =
to
her gently, but tell her the truth.' No! Your aunt was too fond of you. She=
daunted
me with dreadful fits of crying, when I tried to persuade her. And that was=
n't
the worst of it. She bade me remember what an excitable man your father
was--she reminded me that the misery of your mother's death laid him low wi=
th
brain fever--she said, 'Emily takes after her father; I have heard you say =
it
yourself; she has his constitution, and his sensitive nerves. Don't you know
how she loved him--how she talks of him to this day? Who can tell (if we are
not careful) what dreadful mischief we may do?' That was how my mistress wo=
rked
on me. I got infected with her fears; it was as if I had caught an infectio=
n of
disease. Oh, my dear, blame me if it must be; but don't forget how I have
suffered for it since! I was driven away from my dying mistress, in terror =
of
what she might say, while you were watching at her bedside. I have lived in
fear of what you might ask me--and have longed to go back to you--and have =
not
had the courage to do it. Look at me now!"
The poor woman tried to take out her handkerch=
ief;
her quivering hand helplessly entangled itself in her dress. "I can't =
even
dry my eyes," she said faintly. "Try to forgive me, miss!"
Emily put her arms round the old nurse's neck.
"It is you," she said sadly, "who must forgive me."
For a while they were silent. Through the wind=
ow
that was open to the little garden, came the one sound that could be heard-=
-the
gentle trembling of leaves in the evening wind.
The silence was harshly broken by the bell at =
the
cottage door. They both started.
Emily's heart beat fast. "Who can it
be?" she said.
Mrs. Ellmother rose. "Shall I say you can=
't
see anybody?" she asked, before leaving the room.
"Yes! yes!"
Emily heard the door opened--heard low voices =
in
the passage. There was a momentary interval. Then, Mrs. Ellmother returned.=
She
said nothing. Emily spoke to her.
"Is it a visitor?"
"Yes."
"Have you said I can't see anybody?"=
"I couldn't say it."
"Why not?"
"Don't be hard on him, my dear. It's Mr.
Alban Morris."
Mrs. Ellmother sat by the dying embers of the
kitchen fire; thinking over the events of the day in perplexity and distres=
s.
She had waited at the cottage door for a frien=
dly
word with Alban, after he had left Emily. The stern despair in his face war=
ned
her to let him go in silence. She had looked into the parlor next. Pale and
cold, Emily lay on the sofa--sunk in helpless depression of body and mind.
"Don't speak to me," she whispered; "I am quite worn out.&qu=
ot;
It was but too plain that the view of Alban's conduct which she had already
expressed, was the view to which she had adhered at the interview between t=
hem.
They had parted in grief---perhaps in anger--perhaps forever. Mrs. Ellmothe=
r lifted
Emily in compassionate silence, and carried her upstairs, and waited by her
until she slept.
In the still hours of the night, the thoughts =
of
the faithful old servant--dwelling for a while on past and present--advance=
d,
by slow degrees, to consideration of the doubtful future. Measuring, to the
best of her ability, the responsibility which had fallen on her, she felt t=
hat
it was more than she could bear, or ought to bear, alone. To whom could she
look for help?
The gentlefolks at Monksmoor were strangers to
her. Doctor Allday was near at hand--but Emily had said, "Don't send f=
or
him; he will torment me with questions--and I want to keep my mind quiet, i=
f I
can." But one person was left, to whose ever-ready kindness Mrs. Ellmo=
ther
could appeal--and that person was Miss Ladd.
It would have been easy to ask the help of the
good schoolmistress in comforting and advising the favorite pupil whom she
loved. But Mrs. Ellmother had another object in view: she was determined th=
at
the cold-blooded cruelty of Emily's treacherous friend should not be allowe=
d to
triumph with impunity. If an ignorant old woman could do nothing else, she
could tell the plain truth, and could leave Miss Ladd to decide whether suc=
h a
person as Francine deserved to remain under her care.
To feel justified in taking this step was one
thing: to put it all clearly in writing was another. After vainly making the
attempt overnight, Mrs. Ellmother tore up her letter, and communicated with
Miss Ladd by means of a telegraphic message, in the morning. "Miss Emi=
ly
is in great distress. I must not leave her. I have something besides to say=
to
you which cannot be put into a letter. Will you please come to us?"
Later in the forenoon, Mrs. Ellmother was call=
ed
to the door by the arrival of a visitor. The personal appearance of the str=
anger
impressed her favorably. He was a handsome little gentleman; his manners we=
re winning,
and his voice was singularly pleasant to hear.
"I have come from Mr. Wyvil's house in the
country," he said; "and I bring a letter from his daughter. May I
take the opportunity of asking if Miss Emily is well?"
"Far from it, sir, I am sorry to say. She=
is
so poorly that she keeps her bed."
At this reply, the visitor's face revealed such
sincere sympathy and regret, that Mrs. Ellmother was interested in him: she
added a word more. "My mistress has had a hard trial to bear, sir. I h=
ope
there is no bad news for her in the young lady's letter?"
"On the contrary, there is news that she =
will
be glad to hear--Miss Wyvil is coming here this evening. Will you excuse my
asking if Miss Emily has had medical advice?"
"She won't hear of seeing the doctor, sir.
He's a good friend of hers--and he lives close by. I am unfortunately alone=
in
the house. If I could leave her, I would go at once and ask his advice.&quo=
t;
"Let me go!" Mirabel eagerly propose=
d.
Mrs. Ellmother's face brightened. "That's
kindly thought of, sir--if you don't mind the trouble."
"My good lady, nothing is a trouble in yo=
ur
young mistress's service. Give me the doctor's name and address--and tell me
what to say to him."
"There's one thing you must be careful
of," Mrs. Ellmother answered. "He mustn't come here, as if he had
been sent for--she would refuse to see him."
Mirabel understood her. "I will not forge=
t to
caution him. Kindly tell Miss Emily I called--my name is Mirabel. I will re=
turn
to-morrow."
He hastened away on his errand--only to find t=
hat
he had arrived too late. Doctor Allday had left London; called away to a
serious case of illness. He was not expected to get back until late in the
afternoon. Mirabel left a message, saying that he would return in the eveni=
ng.
The next visitor who arrived at the cottage was
the trusty friend, in whose generous nature Mrs. Ellmother had wisely placed
confidence. Miss Ladd had resolved to answer the telegram in person, the mo=
ment
she read it.
"If there is bad news," she said,
"let me hear it at once. I am not well enough to bear suspense; my busy
life at the school is beginning to tell on me."
"There is nothing that need alarm you,
ma'am--but there is a great deal to say, before you see Miss Emily. My stup=
id
head turns giddy with thinking of it. I hardly know where to begin."
"Begin with Emily," Miss Ladd sugges=
ted.
Mrs. Ellmother took the advice. She described
Emily's unexpected arrival on the previous day; and she repeated what had
passed between them afterward. Miss Ladd's first impulse, when she had
recovered her composure, was to go to Emily without waiting to hear more. N=
ot presuming
to stop her, Mrs. Ellmother ventured to put a question "Do you happen =
to
have my telegram about you, ma'am?" Miss Ladd produced it. "Will =
you
please look at the last part of it again?"
Miss Ladd read the words: "I have somethi=
ng
besides to say to you which cannot be put into a letter." She at once
returned to her chair.
"Does what you have still to tell me refe=
r to
any person whom I know?" she said.
"It refers, ma'am, to Miss de Sor. I am
afraid I shall distress you."
"What did I say, when I came in?" Mi=
ss
Ladd asked. "Speak out plainly; and try--it's not easy, I know--but tr=
y to
begin at the beginning."
Mrs. Ellmother looked back through her memory =
of
past events, and began by alluding to the feeling of curiosity which she had
excited in Francine, on the day when Emily had made them known to one anoth=
er. From
this she advanced to the narrative of what had taken place at Netherwoods--=
to
the atrocious attempt to frighten her by means of the image of wax--to the
discovery made by Francine in the garden at night--and to the circumstances
under which that discovery had been communicated to Emily.
Miss Ladd's face reddened with indignation.
"Are you sure of all that you have said?" she asked.
"I am quite sure, ma'am. I hope I have not
done wrong," Mrs. Ellmother added simply, "in telling you all
this?"
"Wrong?" Miss Ladd repeated warmly.
"If that wretched girl has no defense to offer, she is a disgrace to my
school--and I owe you a debt of gratitude for showing her to me in her true
character. She shall return at once to Netherwoods; and she shall answer me=
to
my entire satisfaction--or leave my house. What cruelty! what duplicity! In=
all
my experience of girls, I have never met with the like of it. Let me go to =
my
dear little Emily--and try to forget what I have heard."
Mrs. Ellmother led the good lady to Emily's
room--and, returning to the lower part of the house, went out into the gard=
en.
The mental effort that she had made had left its result in an aching head, =
and
in an overpowering sense of depression. "A mouthful of fresh air will
revive me," she thought.
The front garden and back garden at the cottage
communicated with each other. Walking slowly round and round, Mrs. Ellmother
heard footsteps on the road outside, which stopped at the gate. She looked
through the grating, and discovered Alban Morris.
"Come in, sir!" she said, rejoiced to
see him. He obeyed in silence. The full view of his face shocked Mrs.
Ellmother. Never in her experience of the friend who had been so kind to he=
r at
Netherwoods, had he looked so old and so haggard as he looked now. "Oh,
Mr. Alban, I see how she has distressed you! Don't take her at her word. Ke=
ep a
good heart, sir--young girls are never long together of the same mind."=
;
Alban gave her his hand. "I mustn't speak
about it," he said. "Silence helps me to bear my misfortune as
becomes a man. I have had some hard blows in my time: they don't seem to ha=
ve
blunted my sense of feeling as I thought they had. Thank God, she doesn't k=
now
how she has made me suffer! I want to ask her pardon for having forgotten
myself yesterday. I spoke roughly to her, at one time. No: I won't intrude =
on
her; I have said I am sorry, in writing. Do you mind giving it to her?
Good-by--and thank you. I mustn't stay longer; Miss Ladd expects me at
Netherwoods."
"Miss Ladd is in the house, sir, at this
moment."
"Here, in London!"
"Upstairs, with Miss Emily."
"Upstairs? Is Emily ill?"
"She is getting better, sir. Would you li=
ke
to see Miss Ladd?"
"I should indeed! I have something to say=
to
her--and time is of importance to me. May I wait in the garden?"
"Why not in the parlor, sir?"
"The parlor reminds me of happier days. In
time, I may have courage enough to look at the room again. Not now."
"If she doesn't make it up with that good
man," Mrs. Ellmother thought, on her way back to the house, "my
nurse-child is what I have never believed her to be yet--she's a fool."=
;
In half an hour more, Miss Ladd joined Alban on
the little plot of grass behind the cottage. "I bring Emily's reply to
your letter," she said. "Read it, before you speak to me."
Alban read it: "Don't suppose you have
offended me--and be assured that I feel gratefully the tone in which your n=
ote
is written. I try to write forbearingly on my side; I wish I could write
acceptably as well. It is not to be done. I am as unable as ever to enter i=
nto
your motives. You are not my relation; you were under no obligation of secr=
ecy:
you heard me speak ignorantly of the murder of my father, as if it had been=
the
murder of a stranger; and yet you kept me--deliberately, cruelly kept me--d=
eceived!
The remembrance of it burns me like fire. I cannot--oh, Alban, I cannot res=
tore
you to the place in my estimation which you have lost! If you wish to help =
me
to bear my trouble, I entreat you not to write to me again."
Alban offered the letter silently to Miss Ladd.
She signed to him to keep it.
"I know what Emily has written," she
said; "and I have told her, what I now tell you--she is wrong; in every
way, wrong. It is the misfortune of her impetuous nature that she rushes to
conclusions--and those conclusions once formed, she holds to them with all =
the
strength of her character. In this matter, she has looked at her side of the
question exclusively; she is blind to your side."
"Not willfully!" Alban interposed.
Miss Ladd looked at him with admiration. "=
;You
defend Emily?" she said.
"I love her," Alban answered.
Miss Ladd felt for him, as Mrs. Ellmother had =
felt
for him. "Trust to time, Mr. Morris," she resumed. "The dang=
er
to be afraid of is--the danger of some headlong action, on her part, in the
interval. Who can say what the end may be, if she persists in her present w=
ay
of thinking? There is something monstrous, in a young girl declaring that i=
t is
her duty to pursue a murderer, and to bring him to justice! Don't you see i=
t yourself?"
Alban still defended Emily. "It seems to =
me
to be a natural impulse," he said--"natural, and noble."
"Noble!" Miss Ladd exclaimed.
"Yes--for it grows out of the love which =
has
not died with her father's death."
"Then you encourage her?"
"With my whole heart--if she would give me
the opportunity!"
"We won't pursue the subject, Mr. Morris.=
I
am told by Mrs. Ellmother that you have something to say to me. What is
it?"
"I have to ask you," Alban replied,
"to let me resign my situation at Netherwoods."
Miss Ladd was not only surprised; she was also=
--a
very rare thing with her--inclined to be suspicious. After what he had said=
to
Emily, it occurred to her that Alban might be meditating some desperate
project, with the hope of recovering his lost place in her favor.
"Have you heard of some better employment=
?"
she asked.
"I have heard of no employment. My mind is
not in a state to give the necessary attention to my pupils."
"Is that your only reason for wishing to
leave me?"
"It is one of my reasons."
"The only one which you think it necessar=
y to
mention?"
"Yes."
"I shall be sorry to lose you, Mr.
Morris."
"Believe me, Miss Ladd, I am not ungratef=
ul
for your kindness."
"Will you let me, in all kindness, say
something more?" Miss Ladd answered. "I don't intrude on your
secrets--I only hope that you have no rash project in view."
"I don't understand you, Miss Ladd."=
"Yes, Mr. Morris--you do."
She shook hands with him--and went back to Emi=
ly.
Alban returned to Netherwoods--to continue his
services, until another master could be found to take his place.
By a later train Miss Ladd followed him. Emily=
was
too well aware of the importance of the mistress's presence to the well-bei=
ng
of the school, to permit her to remain at the cottage. It was understood th=
at
they were to correspond, and that Emily's room was waiting for her at
Netherwoods, whenever she felt inclined to occupy it.
Mrs. Ellmother made the tea, that evening, ear=
lier
than usual. Being alone again with Emily, it struck her that she might take
advantage of her position to say a word in Alban's favor. She had chosen her
time unfortunately. The moment she pronounced the name, Emily checked her b=
y a
look, and spoke of another person--that person being Miss Jethro.
Mrs. Ellmother at once entered her protest, in=
her
own downright way. "Whatever you do," she said, "don't go ba=
ck
to that! What does Miss Jethro matter to you?"
"I am more interested in her than you
suppose--I happen to know why she left the school."
"Begging your pardon, miss, that's quite
impossible!"
"She left the school," Emily persist=
ed,
"for a serious reason. Miss Ladd discovered that she had used false
references."
"Good Lord! who told you that?"
"You see I know it. I asked Miss Ladd how=
she
got her information. She was bound by a promise never to mention the person=
's
name. I didn't say it to her--but I may say it to you. I am afraid I have an
idea of who the person was."
"No," Mrs. Ellmother obstinately
asserted, "you can't possibly know who it was! How should you know?&qu=
ot;
"Do you wish me to repeat what I heard in
that room opposite, when my aunt was dying?"
"Drop it, Miss Emily! For God's sake, drop
it!"
"I can't drop it. It's dreadful to me to =
have
suspicions of my aunt--and no better reason for them than what she said in a
state of delirium. Tell me, if you love me, was it her wandering fancy? or =
was
it the truth?"
"As I hope to be saved, Miss Emily, I can
only guess as you do--I don't rightly know. My mistress trusted me half way=
, as
it were. I'm afraid I have a rough tongue of my own sometimes. I offended
her--and from that time she kept her own counsel. What she did, she did in =
the
dark, so far as I was concerned."
"How did you offend her?"
"I shall be obliged to speak of your fath=
er
if I tell you how?"
"Speak of him."
"He was not to blame--mind that!" Mr=
s.
Ellmother said earnestly. "If I wasn't certain of what I say now you
wouldn't get a word out of me. Good harmless man--there's no denying it--he=
was
in love with Miss Jethro! What's the matter?"
Emily was thinking of her memorable conversati=
on
with the disgraced teacher on her last night at school. "Nothing"=
she
answered. "Go on."
"If he had not tried to keep it secret fr=
om
us," Mrs. Ellmother resumed, "your aunt might never have taken it
into her head that he was entangled in a love affair of the shameful sort. I
don't deny that I helped her in her inquiries; but it was only because I fe=
lt
sure from the first that the more she discovered the more certainly my mast=
er's
innocence would show itself. He used to go away and visit Miss Jethro
privately. In the time when your aunt trusted me, we never could find out
where. She made that discovery afterward for herself (I can't tell you how =
long
afterward); and she spent money in employing mean wretches to pry into Miss
Jethro's past life. She had (if you will excuse me for saying it) an old ma=
id's
hatred of the handsome young woman, who lured your father away from home, a=
nd
set up a secret (in a manner of speaking) between her brother and herself. I
won't tell you how we looked at letters and other things which he forgot to
leave under lock and key. I will only say there was one bit, in a journal he
kept, which made me ashamed of myself. I read it out to Miss Letitia; and I
told her in so many words, not to count any more on me. No; I haven't got a
copy of the words--I can remember them without a copy. 'Even if my religion=
did
not forbid me to peril my soul by leading a life of sin with this woman who=
m I love'--that
was how it began--'the thought of my daughter would keep me pure. No conduc=
t of
mine shall ever make me unworthy of my child's affection and respect.' Ther=
e!
I'm making you cry; I won't stay here any longer. All that I had to say has
been said. Nobody but Miss Ladd knows for certain whether your aunt was
innocent or guilty in the matter of Miss Jethro's disgrace. Please to excuse
me; my work's waiting downstairs."
=
From
time to time, as she pursued her domestic labors, Mrs. Ellmother thought of
Mirabel. Hours on hours had passed--and the doctor had not appeared. Was he=
too
busy to spare even a few minutes of his time? Or had the handsome little
gentleman, after promising so fairly, failed to perform his errand? This la=
st
doubt wronged Mirabel. He had engaged to return to the doctor's house; and =
he
kept his word.
Doctor Allday was at home again, and was seeing
patients. Introduced in his turn, Mirabel had no reason to complain of his
reception. At the same time, after he had stated the object of his visit,
something odd began to show itself in the doctor's manner.
He looked at Mirabel with an appearance of une=
asy
curiosity; and he contrived an excuse for altering the visitor's position in
the room, so that the light fell full on Mirabel's face.
"I fancy I must have seen you," the
doctor said, "at some former time."
"I am ashamed to say I don't remember
it," Mirabel answered.
"Ah, very likely I'm wrong! I'll call on =
Miss
Emily, sir, you may depend on it."
Left in his consulting-room, Doctor Allday fai=
led
to ring the bell which summoned the next patient who was waiting for him. He
took his diary from the table drawer, and turned to the daily entries for t=
he
past month of July.
Arriving at the fifteenth day of the month, he
glanced at the first lines of writing: "A visit from a mysterious lady,
calling herself Miss Jethro. Our conference led to some very unexpected
results."
No: that was not what he was in search of. He
looked a little lower down: and read on regularly, from that point, as foll=
ows:
"Called on Miss Emily, in great anxiety a=
bout
the discoveries which she might make among her aunt's papers. Papers all
destroyed, thank God--except the Handbill, offering a reward for discovery =
of
the murderer, which she found in the scrap-book. Gave her back the Handbill=
. Emily
much surprised that the wretch should have escaped, with such a careful
description of him circulated everywhere. She read the description aloud to=
me,
in her nice clear voice: 'Supposed age between twenty-five and thirty years=
. A
well-made man of small stature. Fai r complexion, delicate features, clear =
blue
eyes. Hair light, and cut rather short. Clean shaven, with the exception of
narrow half-whiskers'--and so on. Emily at a loss to understand how the fug=
itive
could disguise himself. Reminded her that he could effectually disguise his
head and face (with time to help him) by letting his hair grow long, and
cultivating his beard. Emily not convinced, even by this self-evident view =
of
the case. Changed the subject."
The doctor put away his diary, and rang the be=
ll.
"Curious," he thought. "That
dandified little clergyman has certainly reminded me of my discussion with
Emily, more than two months since. Was it his flowing hair, I wonder? or his
splendid beard? Good God! suppose it should turn out--?"
He was interrupted by the appearance of his
patient. Other ailing people followed. Doctor Allday's mind was professiona=
lly
occupied for the rest of the evening.
=
Shortly after Miss Ladd had taken her departur=
e, a
parcel arrived for Emily, bearing the name of a bookseller printed on the
label. It was large, and it was heavy. "Reading enough, I should think=
, to
last for a lifetime," Mrs. Ellmother remarked, after carrying the parc=
el
upstairs.
Emily called her back as she was leaving the r=
oom.
"I want to caution you," she said, "before Miss Wyvil comes.
Don't tell her--don't tell anybody--how my father met his death. If other
persons are taken into our confidence, they will talk of it. We don't know =
how
near to us the murderer may be. The slightest hint may put him on his guard=
."
"Oh, miss, are you still thinking of
that!"
"I think of nothing else."
"Bad for your mind, Miss Emily--and bad f=
or
your body, as your looks show. I wish you would take counsel with some disc=
reet
person, before you move in this matter by yourself."
Emily sighed wearily. "In my situation, w=
here
is the person whom I can trust?"
"You can trust the good doctor."
"Can I? Perhaps I was wrong when I told y=
ou I
wouldn't see him. He might be of some use to me."
Mrs. Ellmother made the most of this concessio=
n,
in the fear that Emily might change her mind. "Doctor Allday may call =
on
you tomorrow," she said.
"Do you mean that you have sent for
him?"
"Don't be angry! I did it for the best--a=
nd
Mr. Mirabel agreed with me."
"Mr. Mirabel! What have you told Mr.
Mirabel?"
"Nothing, except that you are ill. When he
heard that, he proposed to go for the doctor. He will be here again to-morr=
ow,
to ask for news of your health. Will you see him?"
"I don't know yet--I have other things to
think of. Bring Miss Wyvil up here when she comes."
"Am I to get the spare room ready for
her?"
"No. She is staying with her father at the
London house."
Emily made that reply almost with an air of
relief. When Cecilia arrived, it was only by an effort that she could show
grateful appreciation of the sympathy of her dearest friend. When the visit
came to an end, she felt an ungrateful sense of freedom: the restraint was =
off
her mind; she could think again of the one terrible subject that had any
interest for her now. Over love, over friendship, over the natural enjoymen=
t of
her young life, predominated the blighting resolution which bound her to av=
enge
her father's death. Her dearest remembrances of him--tender remembrances
once--now burned in her (to use her own words) like fire. It was no ordinary
love that had bound parent and child together in the bygone time. Emily had
grown from infancy to girlhood, owing all the brightness of her life--a life
without a mother, without brothers, without sisters--to her father alone. To
submit to lose this beloved, this only companion, by the cruel stroke of
disease was of all trials of resignation the hardest to bear. But to be sev=
ered
from him by the murderous hand of a man, was more than Emily's fervent natu=
re
could passively endure. Before the garden gate had closed on her friend she=
had
returned to her one thought, she was breathing again her one aspiration. The
books that she had ordered, with her own purpose in view--books that might
supply her want of experience, and might reveal the perils which beset the
course that lay before her--were unpacked and spread out on the table. Hour
after hour, when the old servant believed that her mistress was in bed, she=
was
absorbed over biographies in English and French, which related the stratage=
ms
by means of which famous policemen had captured the worst criminals of their
time. From these, she turned to works of fiction, which found their chief t=
opic
of interest in dwelling on the discovery of hidden crime. The night passed,=
and
dawn glimmered through the window--and still she opened book after book with
sinking courage--and still she gained nothing but the disheartening convict=
ion
of her inability to carry out her own plans. Almost every page that she tur=
ned
over revealed the immovable obstacles set in her way by her sex and her age.
Could she mix with the people, or visit the scenes, familiar to the experie=
nce
of men (in fact and in fiction), who had traced the homicide to his
hiding-place, and had marked him among his harmless fellow-creatures with t=
he
brand of Cain? No! A young girl following, or attempting to follow, that
career, must reckon with insult and outrage--paying their abominable tribut=
e to
her youth and her beauty, at every turn. What proportion would the men who
might respect her bear to the men who might make her the object of advances,
which it was hardly possible to imagine without shuddering. She crept exhau=
sted
to her bed, the most helpless, hopeless creature on the wide surface of the
earth--a girl self-devoted to the task of a man.
Careful to perform his promise to Mirabel, wit=
hout
delay, the doctor called on Emily early in the morning--before the hour at
which he usually entered his consulting-room.
"Well? What's the matter with the pretty
young mistress?" he asked, in his most abrupt manner, when Mrs. Ellmot=
her
opened the door. "Is it love? or jealousy? or a new dress with a wrink=
le
in it?"
"You will hear about it, sir, from Miss E=
mily
herself. I am forbidden to say anything."
"But you mean to say something--for all
that?"
"Don't joke, Doctor Allday! The state of
things here is a great deal too serious for joking. Make up your mind to be
surprised--I say no more."
Before the doctor could ask what this meant, E=
mily
opened the parlor door. "Come in!" she said, impatiently.
Doctor Allday's first greeting was strictly
professional. "My dear child, I never expected this," he began.
"You are looking wretchedly ill." He attempted to feel her pulse.=
She
drew her hand away from him.
"It's my mind that's ill," she answe=
red.
"Feeling my pulse won't cure me of anxiety and distress. I want advice=
; I
want help. Dear old doctor, you have always been a good friend to me--be a
better friend than ever now."
"What can I do?"
"Promise you will keep secret what I am g=
oing
to say to you--and listen, pray listen patiently, till I have done."
Doctor Allday promised, and listened. He had b=
een,
in some degree at least, prepared for a surprise--but the disclosure which =
now
burst on him was more than his equanimity could sustain. He looked at Emily=
in silent
dismay. She had surprised and shocked him, not only by what she said, but by
what she unconsciously suggested. Was it possible that Mirabel's personal
appearance had produced on her the same impression which was present in his=
own
mind? His first impulse, when he was composed enough to speak, urged him to=
put
the question cautiously.
"If you happened to meet with the suspect=
ed
man," he said, "have you any means of identifying him?"
"None whatever, doctor. If you would only
think it over--"
He stopped her there; convinced of the danger =
of
encouraging her, and resolved to act on his conviction.
"I have enough to occupy me in my
profession," he said. "Ask your other friend to think it over.&qu=
ot;
"What other friend?"
"Mr. Alban Morris."
The moment he pronounced the name, he saw that=
he
had touched on some painful association. "Has Mr. Morris refused to he=
lp
you?" he inquired.
"I have not asked him to help me."
"Why?"
There was no choice (with such a man as Doctor
Allday) between offending him or answering him. Emily adopted the last
alternative. On this occasion she had no reason to complain of his silence.=
"Your view of Mr. Morris's conduct surpri=
ses
me," he replied--"surprises me more than I can say," he adde=
d;
remembering that he too was guilty of having kept her in ignorance of the
truth, out of regard--mistaken regard, as it now seemed to be--for her peac=
e of
mind.
"Be good to me, and pass it over if I am
wrong," Emily said: "I can't dispute with you; I can only tell you
what I feel. You have always been so kind to me--may I count on your kindne=
ss
still?"
Doctor Allday relapsed into silence.
"May I at least ask," she went on,
"if you know anything of persons--" She paused, discouraged by the
cold expression of inquiry in the old man's eyes as he looked at her.
"What persons?" he said.
"Persons whom I suspect."
"Name them."
Emily named the landlady of the inn at Zeeland:
she could now place the right interpretation on Mrs. Rook's conduct, when t=
he
locket had been put into her hand at Netherwoods. Doctor Allday answered
shortly and stiffly: he had never even seen Mrs. Rook. Emily mentioned Miss
Jethro next--and saw at once that she had interested him.
"What do you suspect Miss Jethro of
doing?" he asked.
"I suspect her of knowing more of my fath=
er's
death than she is willing to acknowledge," Emily replied.
The doctor's manner altered for the better.
"I agree with you," he said frankly. "But I have some knowle=
dge
of that lady. I warn you not to waste time and trouble in trying to discove=
r the
weak side of Miss Jethro."
"That was not my experience of her at
school," Emily rejoined. "At the same time I don't know what may =
have
happened since those days. I may perhaps have lost the place I once held in=
her
regard."
"How?"
"Through my aunt."
"Through your aunt?"
"I hope and trust I am wrong," Emily
continued; "but I fear my aunt had something to do with Miss Jethro's
dismissal from the school--and in that case Miss Jethro may have found it
out." Her eyes, resting on the doctor, suddenly brightened. "You =
know
something about it!" she exclaimed.
He considered a little--whether he should or
should not tell her of the letter addressed by Miss Ladd to Miss Letitia, w=
hich
he had found at the cottage.
"If I could satisfy you that your fears a=
re
well founded," he asked, "would the discovery keep you away from =
Miss
Jethro?"
"I should be ashamed to speak to her--eve=
n if
we met."
"Very well. I can tell you positively, th=
at
your aunt was the person who turned Miss Jethro out of the school. When I g=
et home,
I will send you a letter that proves it."
Emily's head sank on her breast. "Why do I
only hear of this now?" she said.
"Because I had no reason for letting you =
know
of it, before to-day. If I have done nothing else, I have at least succeede=
d in
keeping you and Miss Jethro apart."
Emily looked at him in alarm. He went on witho=
ut
appearing to notice that he had startled her. "I wish to God I could as
easily put a stop to the mad project which you are contemplating."
"The mad project?" Emily repeated.
"Oh, Doctor Allday. Do you cruelly leave me to myself, at the time of =
all
others, when I am most in need of your sympathy?"
That appeal moved him. He spoke more gently; he
pitied, while he condemned her.
"My poor dear child, I should be cruel
indeed, if I encouraged you. You are giving yourself up to an enterprise, so
shockingly unsuited to a young girl like you, that I declare I contemplate =
it
with horror. Think, I entreat you, think; and let me hear that you have
yielded--not to my poor entreaties--but to your own better sense!" His
voice faltered; his eyes moistened. "I shall make a fool of myself,&qu=
ot;
he burst out furiously, "if I stay here any longer. Good-by."
He left her.
She walked to the window, and looked out at the
fair morning. No one to feel for her--no one to understand her--nothing nea=
rer
that could speak to poor mortality of hope and encouragement than the bright
heaven, so far away! She turned from the window. "The sun shines on the
murderer," she thought, "as it shines on me."
She sat down at the table, and tried to quiet =
her
mind; to think steadily to some good purpose. Of the few friends that she
possessed, every one had declared that she was in the wrong. Had they lost =
the one
loved being of all beings on earth, and lost him by the hand of a homicide-=
-and
that homicide free? All that was faithful, all that was devoted in the girl=
's
nature, held her to her desperate resolution as with a hand of iron. If she
shrank at that miserable moment, it was not from her design--it was from the
sense of her own helplessness. "Oh, if I had been a man!" she sai=
d to
herself. "Oh, if I could find a friend!"
=
Mrs. Ellmother looked into the parlor. "I
told you Mr. Mirabel would call again," she announced. "Here he
is."
"Has he asked to see me?"
"He leaves it entirely to you."
For a moment, and a moment only, Emily was
undecided. "Show him in," she said.
Mirabel's embarrassment was visible the moment=
he
entered the room. For the first time in his life--in the presence of a
woman--the popular preacher was shy. He who had taken hundreds of fair hands
with sympathetic pressure--he who had offered fluent consolation, abroad an=
d at
home, to beauty in distress--was conscious of a rising color, and was absol=
utely
at a loss for words when Emily received him. And yet, though he appeared at
disadvantage--and, worse still, though he was aware of it himself--there was
nothing contemptible in his look and manner. His silence and confusion reve=
aled
a change in him which inspired respect. Love had developed this spoiled dar=
ling
of foolish congregations, this effeminate pet of drawing-rooms and boudoirs,
into the likeness of a Man--and no woman, in Emily's position, could have
failed to see that it was love which she herself had inspired.
Equally ill at ease, they both took refuge in =
the
commonplace phrases suggested by the occasion. These exhausted there was a
pause. Mirabel alluded to Cecilia, as a means of continuing the conversatio=
n.
"Have you seen Miss Wyvil?" he inqui=
red.
"She was here last night; and I expect to=
see
her again to-day before she returns to Monksmoor with her father. Do you go
back with them?"
"Yes--if you do."
"I remain in London."
"Then I remain in London, too."
The strong feeling that was in him had forced =
its
way to expression at last. In happier days--when she had persistently refus=
ed
to let him speak to her seriously--she would have been ready with a
light-hearted reply. She was silent now. Mirabel pleaded with her not to
misunderstand him, by an honest confession of his motives which presented h=
im
under a new aspect. The easy plausible man, who had hardly ever seemed to b=
e in
earnest before--meant, seriously meant, what he said now.
"May I try to explain myself?" he as=
ked.
"Certainly, if you wish it."
"Pray, don't suppose me capable,"
Mirabel said earnestly, "of presuming to pay you an idle compliment. I
cannot think of you, alone and in trouble, without feeling anxiety which can
only be relieved in one way--I must be near enough to hear of you, day by d=
ay.
Not by repeating this visit! Unless you wish it, I will not again cross the
threshold of your door. Mrs. Ellmother will tell me if your mind is more at
ease; Mrs. Ellmother will tell me if there is any new trial of your fortitu=
de. She
needn't even mention that I have been speaking to her at the door; and she =
may
be sure, and you may be sure, that I shall ask no inquisitive questions. I =
can
feel for you in your misfortune, without wishing to know what that misfortu=
ne
is. If I can ever be of the smallest use, think of me as your other servant.
Say to Mrs. Ellmother, 'I want him'--and say no more."
Where is the woman who could have resisted such
devotion as this--inspired, truly inspired, by herself? Emily's eyes soften=
ed
as she answered him.
"You little know how your kindness touches
me," she said.
"Don't speak of my kindness until you have
put me to the proof," he interposed. "Can a friend (such a friend=
as
I am, I mean) be of any use?"
"Of the greatest use if I could feel
justified in trying you."
"I entreat you to try me!"
"But, Mr. Mirabel, you don't know what I =
am
thinking of."
"I don't want to know."
"I may be wrong. My friends all say I am
wrong."
"I don't care what your friends say; I do=
n't
care about any earthly thing but your tranquillity. Does your dog ask wheth=
er
you are right or wrong? I am your dog. I think of You, and I think of nothi=
ng
else."
She looked back through the experience of the =
last
few days. Miss Ladd--Mrs. Ellmother--Doctor Allday: not one of them had felt
for her, not one of them had spoken to her, as this man had felt and had
spoken. She remembered the dreadful sense of solitude and helplessness whic=
h had
wrung her heart, in the interval before Mirabel came in. Her father himself
could hardly have been kinder to her than this friend of a few weeks only. =
She
looked at him through her tears; she could say nothing that was eloquent,
nothing even that was adequate. "You are very good to me," was her
only acknowledgment of all that he had offered. How poor it seemed to be! a=
nd
yet how much it meant!
He rose--saying considerately that he would le=
ave
her to recover herself, and would wait to hear if he was wanted.
"No," she said; "I must not let=
you
go. In common gratitude I ought to decide before you leave me, and I do dec=
ide to
take you into my confidence." She hesitated; her color rose a little.
"I know how unselfishly you offer me your help," she resumed; &qu=
ot;I
know you speak to me as a brother might speak to a sister--"
He gently interrupted her. "No," he
said; "I can't honestly claim to do that. And--may I venture to remind
you?--you know why."
She started. Her eyes rested on him with a
momentary expression of reproach.
"Is it quite fair," she asked, "=
;in
my situation, to say that?"
"Would it have been quite fair," he
rejoined, "to allow you to deceive yourself? Should I deserve to be ta=
ken
into your confidence, if I encouraged you to trust me, under false pretense=
s?
Not a word more of those hopes on which the happiness of my life depends sh=
all
pass my lips, unless you permit it. In my devotion to your interests, I pro=
mise
to forget myself. My motives may be misinterpreted; my position may be misu=
nderstood.
Ignorant people may take me for that other happier man, who is an object of
interest to you--"
"Stop, Mr. Mirabel! The person to whom you
refer has no such claim on me as you suppose."
"Dare I say how happy I am to hear it? Wi=
ll
you forgive me?"
"I will forgive you if you say no more.&q=
uot;
Their eyes met. Completely overcome by the new
hope that she had inspired, Mirabel was unable to answer her. His sensitive
nerves trembled under emotion, like the nerves of a woman; his delicate com=
plexion
faded away slowly into whiteness. Emily was alarmed--he seemed to be on the
point of fainting. She ran to the window to open it more widely.
"Pray don't trouble yourself," he sa=
id,
"I am easily agitated by any sudden sensation--and I am a little overc=
ome
at this moment by my own happiness."
"Let me give you a glass of wine."
"Thank you--I don't need it indeed."=
"You really feel better?"
"I feel quite well again--and eager to he=
ar
how I can serve you."
"It's a long story, Mr. Mirabel--and a
dreadful story."
"Dreadful?"
"Yes! Let me tell you first how you can s=
erve
me. I am in search of a man who has done me the cruelest wrong that one hum=
an
creature can inflict on another. But the chances are all against me--I am o=
nly a
woman; and I don't know how to take even the first step toward discovery.&q=
uot;
"You will know, when I guide you."
He reminded her tenderly of what she might exp=
ect
from him, and was rewarded by a grateful look. Seeing nothing, suspecting
nothing, they advanced together nearer and nearer to the end.
"Once or twice," Emily continued,
"I spoke to you of my poor father, when we were at Monksmoor--and I mu=
st
speak of him again. You could have no interest in inquiring about a
stranger--and you cannot have heard how he died."
"Pardon me, I heard from Mr. Wyvil how he
died."
"You heard what I had told Mr. Wyvil,&quo=
t;
Emily said: "I was wrong."
"Wrong!" Mirabel exclaimed, in a ton=
e of
courteous surprise. "Was it not a sudden death?"
"It was a sudden death."
"Caused by disease of the heart?"
"Caused by no disease. I have been deceiv=
ed
about my father's death--and I have only discovered it a few days since.&qu=
ot;
At the impending moment of the frightful shock
which she was innocently about to inflict on him, she stopped--doubtful whe=
ther
it would be best to relate how the discovery had been made, or to pass at o=
nce
to the result. Mirabel supposed that she had paused to control her agitatio=
n. He
was so immeasurably far away from the faintest suspicion of what was coming
that he exerted his ingenuity, in the hope of sparing her.
"I can anticipate the rest," he said.
"Your sad loss has been caused by some fatal accident. Let us change t=
he
subject; tell me more of that man whom I must help you to find. It will only
distress you to dwell on your father's death."
"Distress me?" she repeated. "H=
is
death maddens me!"
"Oh, don't say that!"
"Hear me! hear me! My father died murdere=
d,
at Zeeland--and the man you must help me to find is the wretch who killed
him."
She started to her feet with a cry of terror.
Mirabel dropped from his chair senseless to the floor.
Emily recovered her presence of mind. She open=
ed
the door, so as to make a draught of air in the room, and called for water.
Returning to Mirabel, she loosened his cravat. Mrs. Ellmother came in, just=
in time
to prevent her from committing a common error in the treatment of fainting
persons, by raising Mirabel's head. The current of air, and the sprinkling =
of
water over his face, soon produced their customary effect. "He'll come
round, directly," Mrs. Ellmother remarked. "Your aunt was sometim=
es
taken with these swoons, miss; and I know something about them. He looks a =
poor
weak creature, in spite of his big beard. Has anything frightened him?"=
;
Emily little knew how correctly that chance gu=
ess
had hit on the truth!
"Nothing can possibly have frightened
him," she replied; "I am afraid he is in bad health. He turned
suddenly pale while we were talking; and I thought he was going to be taken
ill; he made light of it, and seemed to recover. Unfortunately, I was right=
; it
was the threatening of a fainting fit--he dropped on the floor a minute aft=
erward."
A sigh fluttered over Mirabel's lips. His eyes
opened, looked at Mrs. Ellmother in vacant terror, and closed again. Emily
whispered to her to leave the room. The old woman smiled satirically as she
opened the door--then looked back, with a sudden change of humor. To see the
kind young mistress bending over the feeble little clergyman set her--by so=
me
strange association of ideas--thinking of Alban Morris. "Ah," she=
muttered
to herself, on her way out, "I call him a Man!"
There was wine in the sideboard--the wine which
Emily had once already offered in vain. Mirabel drank it eagerly, this time=
. He
looked round the room, as if he wished to be sure that they were alone.
"Have I fallen to a low place in your estimation?" he asked, smil=
ing
faintly. "I am afraid you will think poorly enough of your new ally, a=
fter
this?"
"I only think you should take more care of
your health," Emily replied, with sincere interest in his recovery.
"Let me leave you to rest on the sofa."
He refused to remain at the cottage--he asked,
with a sudden change to fretfulness, if she would let her servant get him a
cab. She ventured to doubt whether he was quite strong enough yet to go awa=
y by
himself. He reiterated, piteously reiterated, his request. A passing cab was
stopped directly. Emily accompanied him to the gate. "I know what to
do," he said, in a hurried absent way. "Rest and a little tonic
medicine will soon set me right." The clammy coldness of his skin made
Emily shudder, as they shook hands. "You won't think the worse of me f=
or
this?" he asked.
"How can you imagine such a thing!" =
she
answered warmly.
"Will you see me, if I come to-morrow?&qu=
ot;
"I shall be anxious to see you."
So they parted. Emily returned to the house,
pitying him with all her heart.
Reaching the hotel at which he was accustomed =
to
stay when he was in London, Mirabel locked the door of his room. He looked =
at
the houses on the opposite side of the street. His mind was in such a state=
of
morbid distrust that he lowered the blind over the window. In solitude and =
obscurity,
the miserable wretch sat down in a corner, and covered his face with his ha=
nds,
and tried to realize what had happened to him.
Nothing had been said at the fatal interview w=
ith
Emily, which could have given him the slightest warning of what was to come.
Her father's name--absolutely unknown to him when he fled from the inn--had
only been communicated to the public by the newspaper reports of the adjour=
ned inquest.
At the time when those reports appeared, he was in hiding, under circumstan=
ces
which prevented him from seeing a newspaper. While the murder was still a
subject of conversation, he was in France--far out of the track of English
travelers--and he remained on the continent until the summer of eighteen
hundred and eighty-one. No exercise of discretion, on his part, could have
extricated him from the terrible position in which he was now placed. He st=
ood
pledged to Emily to discover the man suspected of the murder of her father;=
and
that man was--himself!
What refuge was left open to him?
If he took to flight, his sudden disappearance
would be a suspicious circumstance in itself, and would therefore provoke
inquiries which might lead to serious results. Supposing that he overlooked=
the
risk thus presented, would he be capable of enduring a separation from Emil=
y,
which might be a separation for life? Even in the first horror of discoveri=
ng
his situation, her influence remained unshaken--the animating spirit of the=
one
manly capacity for resistance which raised him above the reach of his own
fears. The only prospect before him which he felt himself to be incapable of
contemplating, was the prospect of leaving Emily.
Having arrived at this conclusion, his fears u=
rged
him to think of providing for his own safety.
The first precaution to adopt was to separate
Emily from friends whose advice might be hostile to his interests--perhaps =
even
subversive of his security. To effect this design, he had need of an ally w=
hom
he could trust. That ally was at his disposal, far away in the north.
At the time when Francine's jealousy began to
interfere with all freedom of intercourse between Emily and himself at
Monksmoor, he had contemplated making arrangements which might enable them =
to
meet at the house of his invalid sister, Mrs. Delvin. He had spoken of her,=
and
of the bodily affliction which confined her to her room, in terms which had
already interested Emily. In the present emergency, he decided on returning=
to
the subject, and on hastening the meeting between the two women which he had
first suggested at Mr. Wyvil's country seat.
No time was to be lost in carrying out this
intention. He wrote to Mrs. Delvin by that day's post; confiding to her, in=
the
first place, the critical position in which he now found himself. This done=
, he
proceeded as follows:
"To your sound judgment, dearest Agatha, =
it
may appear that I am making myself needlessly uneasy about the future. Two
persons only know that I am the man who escaped from the inn at Zeeland. You
are one of them, and Miss Jethro is the other. On you I can absolutely rely;
and, after my experience of her, I ought to feel sure of Miss Jethro. I adm=
it
this; but I cannot get over my distrust of Emily's friends. I fear the cunn=
ing old
doctor; I doubt Mr. Wyvil; I hate Alban Morris.
"Do me a favor, my dear. Invite Emily to =
be
your guest, and so separate her from these friends. The old servant who att=
ends
on her will be included in the invitation, of course. Mrs. Ellmother is, as=
I
believe, devoted to the interests of Mr. Alban Morris: she will be well out=
of
the way of doing mischief, while we have her safe in your northern solitude=
.
"There is no fear that Emily will refuse =
your
invitation.
"In the first place, she is already inter=
ested
in you. In the second place, I shall consider the small proprieties of soci=
al
life; and, instead of traveling with her to your house, I shall follow by a
later train. In the third place, I am now the chosen adviser in whom she tr=
usts;
and what I tell her to do, she will do. It pains me, really and truly pains=
me,
to be compelled to deceive her--but the other alternative is to reveal myse=
lf
as the wretch of whom she is in search. Was there ever such a situation? An=
d,
oh, Agatha, I am so fond of her! If I fail to persuade her to be my wife, I
don't care what becomes of me. I used to think disgrace, and death on the
scaffold, the most frightful prospect that a man can contemplate. In my pre=
sent
frame of mind, a life without Emily may just as well end in that way as in =
any other.
When we are together in your old sea-beaten tower, do your best, my dear, to
incline the heart of this sweet girl toward me. If she remains in London, h=
ow
do I know that Mr. Morris may not recover the place he has lost in her good=
opinion?
The bare idea of it turns me cold.
"There is one more point on which I must
touch, before I can finish my letter.
"When you last wrote, you told me that Sir
Jervis Redwood was not expected to live much longer, and that the establish=
ment
would be broken up after his death. Can you find out for me what will becom=
e,
under the circumstances, of Mr. and Mrs. Rook? So far as I am concerned, I
don't doubt that the alteration in my personal appearance, which has protec=
ted me
for years past, may be trusted to preserve me from recognition by these two
people. But it is of the utmost importance, remembering the project to which
Emily has devoted herself, that she should not meet with Mrs. Rook. They ha=
ve
been already in correspondence; and Mrs. Rook has expressed an intention (if
the opportunity offers itself) of calling at the cottage. Another reason, a=
nd a
pressing reason, for removing Emily from London! We can easily keep the Roo=
ks
out of your house; but I own I should feel more at my ease, if I heard that=
they
had left Northumberland."
With that confession, Mrs. Delvin's brother cl=
osed
his letter.
=
During the first days of Mirabel's sojourn at =
his
hotel in London, events were in progress at Netherwoods, affecting the inte=
rests
of the man who was the especial object of his distrust. Not long after Miss=
Ladd
had returned to her school, she heard of an artist who was capable of filli=
ng
the place to be vacated by Alban Morris. It was then the twenty-third of the
month. In four days more the new master would be ready to enter on his duti=
es;
and Alban would be at liberty.
On the twenty-fourth, Alban received a telegram
which startled him. The person sending the message was Mrs. Ellmother; and =
the
words were: "Meet me at your railway station to-day, at two o'clock.&q=
uot;
He found the old woman in the waiting-room; an=
d he
met with a rough reception.
"Minutes are precious, Mr. Morris," =
she
said; "you are two minutes late. The next train to London stops here in
half an hour--and I must go back by it."
"Good heavens, what brings you here? Is
Emily--?"
"Emily is well enough in health--if that's
what you mean? As to why I come here, the reason is that it's a deal easier=
for
me (worse luck!) to take this journey than to write a letter. One good turn
deserves another. I don't forget how kind you were to me, away there at the=
school--and
I can't, and won't, see what's going on at the cottage, behind your back,
without letting you know of it. Oh, you needn't be alarmed about her! I've =
made
an excuse to get away for a few hours--but I haven't left her by herself. M=
iss
Wyvil has come to London again; and Mr. Mirabel spends the best part of his
time with her. Excuse me for a moment, will you? I'm so thirsty after the
journey, I can hardly speak."
She presented herself at the counter in the
waiting-room. "I'll trouble you, young woman, for a glass of ale."
She returned to Alban in a better humor. "It's not bad stuff, that! Wh=
en I
have said my say, I'll have a drop more--just to wash the taste of Mr. Mira=
bel
out of my mouth. Wait a bit; I have something to ask you. How much longer a=
re
you obliged to stop here, teaching the girls to draw?"
"I leave Netherwoods in three days
more," Alban replied.
"That's all right! You may be in time to
bring Miss Emily to her senses, yet."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean--if you don't stop it--she will m=
arry
the parson."
"I can't believe it, Mrs. Ellmother! I wo=
n't
believe it!"
"Ah, it's a comfort to him, poor fellow, =
to
say that! Look here, Mr. Morris; this is how it stands. You're in disgrace =
with
Miss Emily--and he profits by it. I was fool enough to take a liking to Mr.
Mirabel when I first opened the door to him; I know better now. He got on t=
he
blind side of me; and now he has got on the blind side of her. Shall I tell=
you
how? By doing what you would have done if you had had the chance. He's help=
ing
her--or pretending to help her, I don't know which--to find the man who
murdered poor Mr. Brown. After four years! And when all the police in Engla=
nd
(with a reward to encourage them) did their best, and it came to nothing!&q=
uot;
"Never mind that!" Alban said
impatiently. "I want to know how Mr. Mirabel is helping her?"
"That's more than I can tell you. You don=
't
suppose they take me into their confidence? All I can do is to pick up a wo=
rd,
here and there, when fine weather tempts them out into the garden. She tells
him to suspect Mrs. Rook, and to make inquiries after Miss Jethro. And he h=
as his
plans; and he writes them down, which is dead against his doing anything us=
eful,
in my opinion. I don't hold with your scribblers. At the same time I wouldn=
't
count too positively, in your place, on his being likely to fail. That litt=
le
Mirabel--if it wasn't for his beard, I should believe he was a woman, and a
sickly woman too; he fainted in our house the other day--that little Mirabe=
l is
in earnest. Rather than leave Miss Emily from Saturday to Monday, he has go=
t a
parson out of employment to do his Sunday work for him. And, what's more, he
has persuaded her (for some reasons of his own) to leave London next
week."
"Is she going back to Monksmoor?"
"Not she! Mr. Mirabel has got a sister, a
widow lady; she's a cripple, or something of the sort. Her name is Mrs. Del=
vin.
She lives far away in the north country, by the sea; and Miss Emily is goin=
g to
stay with her."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Sure? I've seen the letter."
"Do you mean the letter of invitation?&qu=
ot;
"Yes--I do. Miss Emily herself showed it =
to
me. I'm to go with her--'in attendance on my mistress,' as the lady puts it.
This I will say for Mrs. Delvin: her handwriting is a credit to the school =
that
taught her; and the poor bedridden creature words her invitation so nicely,
that I myself couldn't have resisted it--and I'm a hard one, as you know. Y=
ou don't
seem to heed me, Mr. Morris."
"I beg your pardon, I was thinking."=
"Thinking of what--if I may make so
bold?"
"Of going back to London with you, instea=
d of
waiting till the new master comes to take my place."
"Don't do that, sir! You would do harm
instead of good, if you showed yourself at the cottage now. Besides, it wou=
ld
not be fair to Miss Ladd, to leave her before the other man takes your girls
off your hands. Trust me to look after your interests; and don't go near Mi=
ss
Emily--don't even write to her--unless you have got something to say about =
the murder,
which she will be eager to hear. Make some discovery in that direction, Mr.
Morris, while the parson is only trying to do it or pretending to do it--and
I'll answer for the result. Look at the clock! In ten minutes more the train
will be here. My memory isn't as good as it was; but I do think I have told=
you
all I had to tell."
"You are the best of good friends!"
Alban said warmly.
"Never mind about that, sir. If you want =
to
do a friendly thing in return, tell me if you know what has become of Miss =
de
Sor."
"She has returned to Netherwoods."
"Aha! Miss Ladd is as good as her word. W=
ould
you mind writing to tell me of it, if Miss de Sor leaves the school again? =
Good
Lord! there she is on the platform with bag and baggage. Don't let her see =
me, Mr.
Morris! If she comes in here, I shall set the marks of my ten finger-nails =
on
that false face of hers, as sure as I am a Christian woman."
Alban placed himself at the door, so as to hide
Mrs. Ellmother. There indeed was Francine, accompanied by one of the teache=
rs
at the school. She took a seat on the bench outside the booking-office, in a
state of sullen indifference--absorbed in herself--noticing nothing. Urged =
by ungovernable
curiosity, Mrs. Ellmother stole on tiptoe to Alban's side to look at her. T=
o a
person acquainted with the circumstances there could be no possible doubt of
what had happened. Francine had failed to excuse herself, and had been
dismissed from Miss Ladd's house.
"I would have traveled to the world's end=
,"
Mrs. Ellmother said, "to see that!"
She returned to her place in the waiting-room,
perfectly satisfied.
The teacher noticed Alban, on leaving the
booking-office after taking the tickets. "I shall be glad," she s=
aid,
looking toward Francine, "when I have resigned the charge of that young
lady to the person who is to receive her in London."
"Is she to be sent back to her parents?&q=
uot;
Alban asked.
"We don't know yet. Miss Ladd will write =
to
St. Domingo by the next mail. In the meantime, her father's agent in
London--the same person who pays her allowance--takes care of her until he
hears from the West Indies."
"Does she consent to this?"
"She doesn't seem to care what becomes of
her. Miss Ladd has given her every opportunity of explaining and excusing h=
erself,
and has produced no impression. You can see the state she is in. Our good m=
istress--always
hopeful even in the worst cases, as you know--thinks she is feeling ashamed=
of
herself, and is too proud and self-willed to own it. My own idea is, that s=
ome
secret disappointment is weighing on her mind. Perhaps I am wrong."
No. Miss Ladd was wrong; and the teacher was
right.
The passion of revenge, being essentially self=
ish
in its nature, is of all passions the narrowest in its range of view. In
gratifying her jealous hatred of Emily, Francine had correctly foreseen
consequences, as they might affect the other object of her enmity--Alban
Morris. But she had failed to perceive the imminent danger of another resul=
t, which
in a calmer frame of mind might not have escaped discovery. In triumphing o=
ver
Emily and Alban, she had been the indirect means of inflicting on herself t=
he
bitterest of all disappointments--she had brought Emily and Mirabel togethe=
r.
The first forewarning of this catastrophe had reached her, on hearing that
Mirabel would not return to Monksmoor. Her worst fears had been thereafter
confirmed by a letter from Cecilia, which had followed her to Netherwoods. =
From
that moment, she, who had made others wretched, paid the penalty in sufferi=
ng
as keen as any that she had inflicted. Completely prostrated; powerless,
through ignorance of his address in London, to make a last appeal to Mirabe=
l; she
was literally, as had just been said, careless what became of her. When the
train approached, she sprang to her feet--advanced to the edge of the
platform--and suddenly drew back, shuddering. The teacher looked in terror =
at
Alban. Had the desperate girl meditated throwing herself under the wheels of
the engine? The thought had been in both their minds; but neither of them
acknowledged it. Francine stepped quietly into the carriage, when the train
drew up, and laid her head back in a corner, and closed her eyes. Mrs.
Ellmother took her place in another compartment, and beckoned to Alban to s=
peak
to her at the window.
"Where can I see you, when you go to
London?" she asked.
"At Doctor Allday's house."
"On what day?"
"On Tuesday next."
Alban reached London early enough in the after=
noon
to find the doctor at his luncheon. "Too late to see Mrs. Ellmother,&q=
uot;
he announced. "Sit down and have something to eat."
"Has she left any message for me?"
"A message, my good friend, that you won't
like to hear. She is off with her mistress, this morning, on a visit to Mr.
Mirabel's sister."
"Does he go with them?"
"No; he follows by a later train."
"Has Mrs. Ellmother mentioned the
address?"
"There it is, in her own handwriting.&quo=
t;
Alban read the address:--"Mrs. Delvin, The
Clink, Belford, Northumberland."
"Turn to the back of that bit of paper,&q=
uot;
the doctor said. "Mrs. Ellmother has written something on it."
She had written these words: "No discover=
ies
made by Mr. Mirabel, up to this time. Sir Jervis Redwood is dead. The Rooks=
are
believed to be in Scotland; and Miss Emily, if need be, is to help the pars=
on
to find them. No news of Miss Jethro."
"Now you have got your information,"
Doctor Allday resumed, "let me have a look at you. You're not in a rag=
e:
that's a good sign to begin with."
"I am not the less determined," Alban
answered.
"To bring Emily to her senses?" the
doctor asked.
"To do what Mirabel has not done--and the=
n to
let her choose between us."
"Ay? ay? Your good opinion of her hasn't
altered, though she has treated you so badly?"
"My good opinion makes allowance for the
state of my poor darling's mind, after the shock that has fallen on her,&qu=
ot;
Alban answered quietly. "She is not my Emily now. She will be my Emily
yet. I told her I was convinced of it, in the old days at school--and my
conviction is as strong as ever. Have you seen her, since I have been away =
at Netherwoods?"
"Yes; and she is as angry with me as she =
is
with you."
"For the same reason?"
"No, no. I heard enough to warn me to hol=
d my
tongue. I refused to help her--that's all. You are a man, and you may run r=
isks
which no young girl ought to encounter. Do you remember when I asked you to
drop all further inquiries into the murder, for Emily's sake? The circumsta=
nces
have altered since that time. Can I be of any use?"
"Of the greatest use, if you can give me =
Miss
Jethro's address."
"Oh! You mean to begin in that way, do
you?"
"Yes. You know that Miss Jethro visited m=
e at
Netherwoods?"
"Go on."
"She showed me your answer to a letter wh=
ich
she had written to you. Have you got that letter?"
Doctor Allday produced it. The address was at a
post-office, in a town on the south coast. Looking up when he had copied it,
Alban saw the doctor's eyes fixed on him with an oddly-mingled expression:
partly of sympathy, partly of hesitation.
"Have you anything to suggest?" he
asked.
"You will get nothing out of Miss
Jethro," the doctor answered, "unless--" there he stopped.
"Unless, what?"
"Unless you can frighten her."
"How am I to do that?"
After a little reflection, Doctor Allday retur=
ned,
without any apparent reason, to the subject of his last visit to Emily.
"There was one thing she said, in the cou=
rse
of our talk," he continued, "which struck me as being sensible:
possibly (for we are all more or less conceited), because I agreed with her
myself. She suspects Miss Jethro of knowing more about that damnable murder
than Miss Jethro is willing to acknowledge. If you want to produce the right
effect on her--" he looked hard at Alban and checked himself once more=
.
"Well? what am I to do?"
"Tell her you have an idea of who the
murderer is."
"But I have no idea."
"But I have."
"Good God! what do you mean?"
"Don't mistake me! An impression has been
produced on my mind--that's all. Call it a freak or fancy; worth trying per=
haps
as a bold experiment, and worth nothing more. Come a little nearer. My
housekeeper is an excellent woman, but I have once or twice caught her rath=
er
too near to that door. I think I'll whisper it."
He did whisper it. In breathless wonder, Alban
heard of the doubt which had crossed Doctor Allday's mind, on the evening w=
hen
Mirabel had called at his house.
"You look as if you didn't believe it,&qu=
ot;
the doctor remarked.
"I'm thinking of Emily. For her sake I ho=
pe
and trust you are wrong. Ought I to go to her at once? I don't know what to
do!"
"Find out first, my good fellow, whether =
I am
right or wrong. You can do it, if you will run the risk with Miss Jethro.&q=
uot;
Alban recovered himself. His old friend's advi=
ce
was clearly the right advice to follow. He examined his railway guide, and =
then
looked at his watch. "If I can find Miss Jethro," he answered,
"I'll risk it before the day is out."
The doctor accompanied him to the door. "=
You
will write to me, won't you?"
"Without fail. Thank you--and good-by.&qu=
ot;
Early in the last century one of the picturesq=
ue
race of robbers and murderers, practicing the vices of humanity on the
borderlands watered by the river Tweed, built a tower of stone on the coast=
of Northumberland.
He lived joyously in the perpetration of atrocities; and he died penitent,
under the direction of his priest. Since that event, he has figured in poems
and pictures; and has been greatly admired by modern ladies and gentlemen, =
whom
he would have outraged and robbed if he had been lucky enough to meet with =
them
in the good old times.
His son succeeded him, and failed to profit by=
the
paternal example: that is to say, he made the fatal mistake of fighting for
other people instead of fighting for himself.
In the rebellion of Forty-Five, this northern
squire sided to serious purpose with Prince Charles and the Highlanders. He
lost his head; and his children lost their inheritance. In the lapse of yea=
rs,
the confiscated property fell into the hands of strangers; the last of whom=
(having
a taste for the turf) discovered, in course of time, that he was in want of
money. A retired merchant, named Delvin (originally of French extraction), =
took
a liking to the wild situation, and purchased the tower. His wife--already =
in
failing health--had been ordered by the doctors to live a quiet life by the
sea. Her husband's death left her a rich and lonely widow; by day and night
alike, a prisoner in her room; wasted by disease, and having but two intere=
sts
which reconciled her to life--writing poetry in the intervals of pain, and
paying the debts of a reverend brother who succeeded in the pulpit, and
prospered nowhere else.
In the later days of its life, the tower had b=
een
greatly improved as a place of residence. The contrast was remarkable betwe=
en
the dreary gray outer walls, and the luxuriously furnished rooms inside, ri=
sing
by two at a time to the lofty eighth story of the building. Among the scatt=
ered
populace of the country round, the tower was still known by the odd name gi=
ven
to it in the bygone time--"The Clink." It had been so called (as =
was
supposed) in allusion to the noise made by loose stones, washed backward and
forward at certain times of the tide, in hollows of the rock on which the
building stood.
On the evening of her arrival at Mrs. Delvin's
retreat, Emily retired at an early hour, fatigued by her long journey. Mira=
bel
had an opportunity of speaking with his sister privately in her own room.
"Send me away, Agatha, if I disturb
you," he said, "and let me know when I can see you in the
morning."
"My dear Miles, have you forgotten that I=
am
never able to sleep in calm weather? My lullaby, for years past, has been t=
he
moaning of the great North Sea, under my window. Listen! There is not a sou=
nd
outside on this peaceful night. It is the right time of the tide, just now-=
-and
yet, 'the clink' is not to be heard. Is the moon up?"
Mirabel opened the curtains. "The whole s=
ky
is one great abyss of black," he answered. "If I was superstitiou=
s, I
should think that horrid darkness a bad omen for the future. Are you suffer=
ing,
Agatha?"
"Not just now. I suppose I look sadly cha=
nged
for the worse since you saw me last?"
But for the feverish brightness of her eyes, s=
he
would have looked like a corpse. Her wrinkled forehead, her hollow cheeks, =
her
white lips told their terrible tale of the suffering of years. The ghastly
appearance of her face was heightened by the furnishing of the room. This
doomed woman, dying slowly day by day, delighted in bright colors and sumpt=
uous
materials. The paper on the walls, the curtains, the carpet presented the h=
ues
of the rainbow. She lay on a couch covered with purple silk, under draperie=
s of
green velvet to keep her warm. Rich lace hid h er scanty hair, turning
prematurely gray; brilliant rings glittered on her bony fingers. The room w=
as
in a blaze of light from lamps and candles. Even the wine at her side that =
kept
her alive had been decanted into a bottle of lustrous Venetian glass. "=
;My
grave is open," she used to say; "and I want all these beautiful
things to keep me from looking at it. I should die at once, if I was left in
the dark."
Her brother sat by the couch, thinking "S=
hall
I tell you what is in your mind?" she asked.
Mirabel humored the caprice of the moment.
"Tell me!" he said.
"You want to know what I think of
Emily," she answered. "Your letter told me you were in love; but I
didn't believe your letter. I have always doubted whether you were capable =
of
feeling true love--until I saw Emily. The moment she entered the room, I kn=
ew
that I had never properly appreciated my brother. You are in love with her,
Miles; and you are a better man than I thought you. Does that express my
opinion?"
Mirabel took her wasted hand, and kissed it
gratefully.
"What a position I am in!" he said.
"To love her as I love her; and, if she knew the truth, to be the obje=
ct
of her horror--to be the man whom she would hunt to the scaffold, as an act=
of
duty to the memory of her father!"
"You have left out the worst part of
it," Mrs. Delvin reminded him. "You have bound yourself to help h=
er
to find the man. Your one hope of persuading her to become your wife rests =
on
your success in finding him. And you are the man. There is your situation! =
You
can't submit to it. How can you escape from it?"
"You are trying to frighten me, Agatha.&q=
uot;
"I am trying to encourage you to face your
position boldly."
"I am doing my best," Mirabel said, =
with
sullen resignation. "Fortune has favored me so far. I have, really and
truly, been unable to satisfy Emily by discovering Miss Jethro. She has left
the place at which I saw her last--there is no trace to be found of her--and
Emily knows it."
"Don't forget," Mrs. Delvin replied,
"that there is a trace to be found of Mrs. Rook, and that Emily expects
you to follow it."
Mirabel shuddered. "I am surrounded by
dangers, whichever way I look," he said. "Do what I may, it turns=
out
to be wrong. I was wrong, perhaps, when I brought Emily here."
"No!"
"I could easily make an excuse," Mir=
abel
persisted "and take her back to London."
"And for all you know to the contrary,&qu=
ot;
his wiser sister replied, "Mrs. Rook may go to London; and you may take
Emily back in time to receive her at the cottage. In every way you are safe=
r in
my old tower. And--don't forget--you have got my money to help you, if you =
want
it. In my belief, Miles, you will want it."
"You are the dearest and best of sisters!
What do you recommend me to do?"
"What you would have been obliged to
do," Mrs. Delvin answered, "if you had remained in London. You mu=
st
go to Redwood Hall tomorrow, as Emily has arranged it. If Mrs. Rook is not
there, you must ask for her address in Scotland. If nobody knows the addres=
s,
you must still bestir yourself in trying to find it. And, when you do fall =
in
with Mrs. Rook--"
"Well?"
"Take care, wherever it may be, that you =
see
her privately."
Mirabel was alarmed. "Don't keep me in
suspense," he burst out. "Tell me what you propose."
"Never mind what I propose, to-night. Bef=
ore
I can tell you what I have in my mind, I must know whether Mrs. Rook is in
England or Scotland. Bring me that information to-morrow, and I shall have
something to say to you. Hark! The wind is rising, the rain is falling. The=
re
is a chance of sleep for me--I shall soon hear the sea. Good-night."
"Good-night, dearest--and thank you again=
, and
again!"
Early in the morning Mirabel set forth for Red=
wood
Hall, in one of the vehicles which Mrs. Delvin still kept at "The
Clink" for the convenience of visitors. He returned soon after noon;
having obtained information of the whereabout of Mrs. Rook and her husband.
When they had last been heard of, they were at Lasswade, near Edinburgh.
Whether they had, or had not, obtained the situation of which they were in
search, neither Miss Redwood nor any one else at the Hall could tell.
In half an hour more, another horse was harnes=
sed,
and Mirabel was on his way to the railway station at Belford, to follow Mrs.
Rook at Emily's urgent request. Before his departure, he had an interview w=
ith his
sister.
Mrs. Delvin was rich enough to believe implici=
tly
in the power of money. Her method of extricating her brother from the serio=
us
difficulties that beset him, was to make it worth the while of Mr. and Mrs.
Rook to leave England. Their passage to America would be secretly paid; and
they would take with them a letter of credit addressed to a banker in New Y=
ork.
If Mirabel failed to discover them, after they had sailed, Emily could not =
blame
his want of devotion to her interests. He understood this; but he remained
desponding and irresolute, even with the money in his hands. The one person=
who
could rouse his courage and animate his hope, was also the one person who m=
ust
know nothing of what had passed between his sister and himself. He had no
choice but to leave Emily, without being cheered by her bright looks,
invigorated by her inspiriting words. Mirabel went away on his doubtful err=
and
with a heavy heart.
"The Clink" was so far from the near=
est
post town, that the few letters, usually addressed to the tower, were deliv=
ered
by private arrangement with a messenger. The man's punctuality depended on =
the
convenience of his superiors employed at the office. Sometimes he arrived
early, and sometimes he arrived late. On this particular morning he present=
ed himself,
at half past one o'clock, with a letter for Emily; and when Mrs. Ellmother
smartly reproved him for the delay, he coolly attributed it to the hospital=
ity
of friends whom he had met on the road.
The letter, directed to Emily at the cottage, =
had
been forwarded from London by the person left in charge. It addressed her as
"Honored Miss." She turned at once to the end--and discovered the
signature of Mrs. Rook!
"And Mr. Mirabel has gone," Emily
exclaimed, "just when his presence is of the greatest importance to
us!"
Shrewd Mrs. Ellmother suggested that it might =
be
as well to read the letter first--and then to form an opinion.
Emily read it.
=
"Lasswade,
near Edinburgh, Sept. 26th.
"HONORED MISS--I take up my pen to bespeak
your kind sympathy for my husband and myself; two old people thrown on the
world again by the death of our excellent master. We are under a month's no=
tice
to leave Redwood Hall.
"Hearing of a situation at this place (al=
so
that our expenses would be paid if we applied personally), we got leave of
absence, and made our application. The lady and her son are either the
stingiest people that ever lived--or they have taken a dislike to me and my
husband, and they make money a means of getting rid of us easily. Suffice i=
t to
say that we have refused to accept starvation wages, and that we are still =
out
of place. It is just possible that you may have heard of something to suit =
us.
So I write at once, knowing that good chances are often lost through needle=
ss
delay.
"We stop at Belford on our way back, to s=
ee
some friends of my husband, and we hope to get to Redwood Hall in good time=
on
the 28th. Would you please address me to care of Miss Redwood, in case you =
know
of any good situation for which we could apply. Perhaps we may be driven to=
try
our luck in London. In this case, will you permit me to have the honor of p=
resenting
my respects, as I ventured to propose when I wrote to you a little time sin=
ce.
"I beg to remain, Honored Miss,
"Your humble servant,
"R. ROOK."
=
Emily
handed the letter to Mrs. Ellmother. "Read it," she said, "a=
nd tell
me what you think."
"I think you had better be careful."=
"Careful of Mrs. Rook?"
"Yes--and careful of Mrs. Delvin too.&quo=
t;
Emily was astonished. "Are you really
speaking seriously?" she said. "Mrs. Delvin is a most interesting
person; so patient under her sufferings; so kind, so clever; so interested =
in
all that interests me. I shall take the letter to her at once, and ask her
advice."
"Have your own way, miss. I can't tell you
why--but I don't like her!"
Mrs. Delvin's devotion to the interests of her
guest took even Emily by surprise. After reading Mrs. Rook's letter, she ra=
ng
the bell on her table in a frenzy of impatience. "My brother must be
instantly recalled," she said. "Telegraph to him in your own name,
telling him what has happened. He will find the message waiting for him, at=
the
end of his journey."
The groom, summoned by the bell, was ordered to
saddle the third and last horse left in the stables; to take the telegram to
Belford, and to wait there until the answer arrived.
"How far is it to Redwood Hall?" Emi=
ly
asked, when the man had received his orders.
"Ten miles," Mrs. Delvin answered.
"How can I get there to-day?"
"My dear, you can't get there."
"Pardon me, Mrs. Delvin, I must get
there."
"Pardon me. My brother represents you in =
this
matter. Leave it to my brother."
The tone taken by Mirabel's sister was positiv=
e,
to say the least of it. Emily thought of what her faithful old servant had
said, and began to doubt her own discretion in so readily showing the lette=
r.
The mistake--if a mistake it was--had however been committed; and, wrong or
right, she was not disposed to occupy the subordinate position which Mrs.
Delvin had assigned to her.
"If you will look at Mrs. Rook's letter
again," Emily replied, "you will see that I ought to answer it. S=
he
supposes I am in London."
"Do you propose to tell Mrs. Rook that you
are in this house?" Mrs. Delvin asked.
"Certainly."
"You had better consult my brother, before
you take any responsibility on yourself."
Emily kept her temper. "Allow me to remind
you," she said, "that Mr. Mirabel is not acquainted with Mrs.
Rook--and that I am. If I speak to her personally, I can do much to assist =
the
object of our inquiries, before he returns. She is not an easy woman to dea=
l with--"
"And therefore," Mrs. Delvin interpo=
sed,
"the sort of person who requires careful handling by a man like my
brother--a man of the world."
"The sort of person, as I venture to
think," Emily persisted, "whom I ought to see with as little loss=
of
time as possible."
Mrs. Delvin waited a while before she replied.=
In
her condition of health, anxiety was not easy to bear. Mrs. Rook's letter a=
nd
Emily's obstinacy had seriously irritated her. But, like all persons of
ability, she was capable, when there was serious occasion for it, of exerti=
ng self-control.
She really liked and admired Emily; and, as the elder woman and the hostess,
she set an example of forbearance and good humor.
"It is out of my power to send you to Red=
wood
Hall at once," she resumed. "The only one of my three horses now =
at
your disposal is the horse which took my brother to the Hall this morning. A
distance, there and back, of twenty miles. You are not in too great a hurry=
, I
am sure, to allow the horse time to rest?"
Emily made her excuses with perfect grace and
sincerity. "I had no idea the distance was so great," she confess=
ed.
"I will wait, dear Mrs. Delvin, as long as you like."
They parted as good friends as ever--with a
certain reserve, nevertheless, on either side. Emily's eager nature was
depressed and irritated by the prospect of delay. Mrs. Delvin, on the other
hand (devoted to her brother's interests), thought hopefully of obstacles w=
hich
might present themselves with the lapse of time. The horse might prove to be
incapable of further exertion for that day. Or the threatening aspect of the
weather might end in a storm.
But the hours passed--and the sky cleared--and=
the
horse was reported to be fit for work again. Fortune was against the lady of
the tower; she had no choice but to submit.
Mrs. Delvin had just sent word to Emily that t=
he
carriage would be ready for her in ten minutes, when the coachman who had
driven Mirabel to Belford returned. He brought news which agreeably surpris=
ed
both the ladies. Mirabel had reached the station five minutes too late; the=
coachman
had left him waiting the arrival of the next train to the North. He would n=
ow
receive the telegraphic message at Belford, and might return immediately by
taking the groom's horse. Mrs. Delvin left it to Emily to decide whether she
would proceed by herself to Redwood Hall, or wait for Mirabel's return.
Under the changed circumstances, Emily would h=
ave
acted ungraciously if she had persisted in holding to her first intention. =
She
consented to wait.
The sea still remained calm. In the stillness =
of
the moorland solitude on the western side of "The Clink," the rap=
id
steps of a horse were heard at some little distance on the highroad.
Emily ran out, followed by careful Mrs. Ellmot=
her,
expecting to meet Mirabel.
She was disappointed: it was the groom who had
returned. As he pulled up at the house, and dismounted, Emily noticed that =
the
man looked excited.
"Is there anything wrong?" she asked=
.
"There has been an accident, miss."<= o:p>
"Not to Mr. Mirabel!''
"No, no, miss. An accident to a poor fool=
ish
woman, traveling from Lasswade."
Emily looked at Mrs. Ellmother. "It can't=
be
Mrs. Rook!" she said.
"That's the name, miss! She got out before
the train had quite stopped, and fell on the platform."
"Was she hurt?"
"Seriously hurt, as I heard. They carried=
her
into a house hard by--and sent for the doctor."
"Was Mr. Mirabel one of the people who he=
lped
her?"
"He was on the other side of the platform,
miss; waiting for the train from London. I got to the station and gave him =
the
telegram, just as the accident took place. We crossed over to hear more abo=
ut
it. Mr. Mirabel was telling me that he would return to 'The Clink' on my
horse--when he heard the woman's name mentioned. Upon that, he changed his =
mind
and went to the house."
"Was he let in?"
"The doctor wouldn't hear of it. He was
making his examination; and he said nobody was to be in the room but her
husband and the woman of the house."
"Is Mr. Mirabel waiting to see her?"=
"Yes, miss. He said he would wait all day=
, if
necessary; and he gave me this bit of a note to take to the mistress."=
Emily turned to Mrs. Ellmother. "It's
impossible to stay here, not knowing whether Mrs. Rook is going to live or
die," she said. "I shall go to Belford--and you will go with me.&=
quot;
The groom interfered. "I beg your pardon,
miss. It was Mr. Mirabel's most particular wish that you were not, on any
account, to go to Belford."
"Why not?"
"He didn't say."
Emily eyed the note in the man's hand with
well-grounded distrust. In all probability, Mirabel's object in writing was=
to
instruct his sister to prevent her guest from going to Belford. The carriage
was waiting at the door. With her usual promptness of resolution, Emily dec=
ided
on taking it for granted that she was free to use as she pleased a carriage=
which
had been already placed at her disposal.
"Tell your mistress," she said to the
groom, "that I am going to Belford instead of to Redwood Hall."
In a minute more, she and Mrs. Ellmother were =
on
their way to join Mirabel at the station.
=
Emily found Mirabel in the waiting room at
Belford. Her sudden appearance might well have amazed him; but his face
expressed a more serious emotion than surprise--he looked at her as if she =
had
alarmed him.
"Didn't you get my message?" he aske=
d.
"I told the groom I wished you to wait for my return. I sent a note to=
my
sister, in case he made any mistake."
"The man made no mistake," Emily
answered. "I was in too great a hurry to be able to speak with Mrs.
Delvin. Did you really suppose I could endure the suspense of waiting till =
you
came back? Do you think I can be of no use--I who know Mrs. Rook?"
"They won't let you see her."
"Why not? You seem to be waiting to see
her."
"I am waiting for the return of the recto=
r of
Belford. He is at Berwick; and he has been sent for at Mrs. Rook's urgent
request."
"Is she dying?"
"She is in fear of death--whether rightly=
or
wrongly, I don't know. There is some internal injury from the fall. I hope =
to
see her when the rector returns. As a brother clergyman, I may with perfect
propriety ask him to use his influence in my favor."
"I am glad to find you so eager about
it."
"I am always eager in your interests.&quo=
t;
"Don't think me ungrateful," Emily
replied gently. "I am no stranger to Mrs. Rook; and, if I send in my n=
ame,
I may be able to see her before the clergyman returns."
She stopped. Mirabel suddenly moved so as to p=
lace
himself between her and the door. "I must really beg of you to give up
that idea," he said; "you don't know what horrid sight you may
see--what dreadful agonies of pain this unhappy woman may be suffering.&quo=
t;
His manner suggested to Emily that he might be
acting under some motive which he was unwilling to acknowledge. "If you
have a reason for wishing that I should keep away from Mrs. Rook," she
said, "let me hear what it is. Surely we trust each other? I have done=
my
best to set the example, at any rate."
Mirabel seemed to be at a loss for a reply.
While he was hesitating, the station-master pa=
ssed
the door. Emily asked him to direct her to the house in which Mrs. Rook had
been received. He led the way to the end of the platform, and pointed to the
house. Emily and Mrs. Ellmother immediately left the station. Mirabel
accompanied them, still remonstrating, still raising obstacles.
The house door was opened by an old man. He lo=
oked
reproachfully at Mirabel. "You have been told already," he said,
"that no strangers are to see my wife?"
Encouraged by discovering that the man was Mr.
Rook, Emily mentioned her name. "Perhaps you may have heard Mrs. Rook
speak of me," she added.
"I've heard her speak of you
oftentimes."
"What does the doctor say?"
"He thinks she may get over it. She doesn=
't
believe him."
"Will you say that I am anxious to see he=
r,
if she feels well enough to receive me?"
Mr. Rook looked at Mrs. Ellmother. "Are t=
here
two of you wanting to go upstairs?" he inquired.
"This is my old friend and servant,"
Emily answered. "She will wait for me down here."
"She can wait in the parlor; the good peo=
ple of
this house are well known to me." He pointed to the parlor door--and t=
hen
led the way to the first floor. Emily followed him. Mirabel, as obstinate as
ever, followed Emily.
Mr. Rook opened a door at the end of the landi=
ng;
and, turning round to speak to Emily, noticed Mirabel standing behind her.
Without making any remarks, the old man pointed significantly down the stai=
rs.
His resolution was evidently immovable. Mirabel appealed to Emily to help h=
im.
"She will see me, if you ask her," he
said, "Let me wait here?"
The sound of his voice was instantly followed =
by a
cry from the bed-chamber--a cry of terror.
Mr. Rook hurried into the room, and closed the
door. In less than a minute, he opened it again, with doubt and horror plai=
nly
visible in his face. He stepped up to Mirabel--eyed him with the closest
scrutiny--and drew back again with a look of relief.
"She's wrong," he said; "you are
not the man."
This strange proceeding startled Emily.
"What man do you mean?" she asked.
Mr. Rook took no notice of the question. Still
looking at Mirabel, he pointed down the stairs once more. With vacant
eyes--moving mechanically, like a sleep-walker in his dream--Mirabel silent=
ly
obeyed. Mr. Rook turned to Emily.
"Are you easily frightened?" he said=
"I don't understand you," Emily repl=
ied.
"Who is going to frighten me? Why did you speak to Mr. Mirabel in that
strange way?"
Mr. Rook looked toward the bedroom door.
"Maybe you'll hear why, inside there. If I could have my way, you
shouldn't see her--but she's not to be reasoned with. A caution, miss. Don'=
t be
too ready to believe what my wife may say to you. She's had a fright."=
He
opened the door. "In my belief," he whispered, "she's off her
head."
Emily crossed the threshold. Mr. Rook softly
closed the door behind her.
A decent elderly woman was seated at the bedsi=
de.
She rose, and spoke to Emily with a mingling of sorrow and confusion striki=
ngly
expressed on her face. "It isn't my fault," she said, "that =
Mrs.
Rook receives you in this manner; I am obliged to humor her."
She drew aside, and showed Mrs. Rook with her =
head
supported by many pillows, and her face strangely hidden from view under a
veil. Emily started back in horror. "Is her face injured?" she as=
ked.
Mrs. Rook answered the question herself. Her v=
oice
was low and weak; but she still spoke with the same nervous hurry of
articulation which had been remarked by Alban Morris, on the day when she a=
sked
him to direct her to Netherwoods.
"Not exactly injured," she explained;
"but one's appearance is a matter of some anxiety even on one's death-=
bed.
I am disfigured by a thoughtless use of water, to bring me to when I had my
fall--and I can't get at my toilet-things to put myself right again. I don't
wish to shock you. Please excuse the veil."
Emily remembered the rouge on her cheeks, and =
the
dye on her hair, when they had first seen each other at the school. Vanity-=
-of
all human frailties the longest-lived--still held its firmly-rooted place i=
n this
woman's nature; superior to torment of conscience, unassailable by terror of
death!
The good woman of the house waited a moment be=
fore
she left the room. "What shall I say," she asked, "if the
clergyman comes?"
Mrs. Rook lifted her hand solemnly
"Say," she answered, "that a dying sinner is making atonement
for sin. Say this young lady is present, by the decree of an all-wise
Providence. No mortal creature must disturb us." Her hand dropped back
heavily on the bed. "Are we alone?" she asked.
"We are alone," Emily answered.
"What made you scream just before I came in?"
"No! I can't allow you to remind me of
that," Mrs. Rook protested. "I must compose myself. Be quiet. Let=
me
think."
Recovering her composure, she also recovered t=
hat
sense of enjoyment in talking of herself, which was one of the marked
peculiarities in her character.
"You will excuse me if I exhibit
religion," she resumed. "My dear parents were exemplary people; I=
was
most carefully brought up. Are you pious? Let us hope so."
Emily was once more reminded of the past.
The bygone time returned to her memory--the ti=
me
when she had accepted Sir Jervis Redwood's offer of employment, and when Mr=
s.
Rook had arrived at the school to be her traveling companion to the North. =
The
wretched creature had entirely forgotten her own loose talk, after she had =
drunk
Miss Ladd's good wine to the last drop in the bottle. As she was boasting n=
ow
of her piety, so she had boasted then of her lost faith and hope, and had
mockingly declared her free-thinking opinions to be the result of her ill-a=
ssorted
marriage. Forgotten--all forgotten, in this later time of pain and fear.
Prostrate under the dread of death, her innermost nature--stripped of the
concealments of her later life--was revealed to view. The early religious
training, at which she had scoffed in the insolence of health and strength,
revealed its latent influence--intermitted, but a living influence always f=
rom
first to last. Mrs. Rook was tenderly mindful of her exemplary parents, and
proud of exhibiting religion, on the bed from which she was never to rise a=
gain.
"Did I tell you that I am a miserable
sinner?" she asked, after an interval of silence.
Emily could endure it no longer. "Say tha=
t to
the clergyman," she answered--"not to me."
"Oh, but I must say it," Mrs. Rook
insisted. "I am a miserable sinner. Let me give you an instance of
it," she continued, with a shameless relish of the memory of her own
frailties. "I have been a drinker, in my time. Anything was welcome, w=
hen
the fit was on me, as long as it got into my head. Like other persons in
liquor, I sometimes talked of things that had better have been kept secret.=
We
bore that in mind--my old man and I---when we were engaged by Sir Jervis. M=
iss
Redwood wanted to put us in the next bedroom to hers--a risk not to be run.=
I
might have talked of the murder at the inn; and she might have heard me. Pl=
ease
to remark a curious thing. Whatever else I might let out, when I was in my =
cups,
not a word about the pocketbook ever dropped from me. You will ask how I kn=
ow
it. My dear, I should have heard of it from my husband, if I had let that
out--and he is as much in the dark as you are. Wonderful are the workings of
the human mind, as the poet says; and drink drowns care, as the proverb say=
s.
But can drink deliver a person from fear by day, and fear by night? I belie=
ve,
if I had dropped a word about the pocketbook, it would have sobered me in an
instant. Have you any remark to make on this curious circumstance?"
Thus far, Emily had allowed the woman to ramble
on, in the hope of getting information which direct inquiry might fail to
produce. It was impossible, however, to pass over the allusion to the
pocketbook. After giving her time to recover from the exhaustion which her
heavy breathing sufficiently revealed, Emily put the question:
"Who did the pocketbook belong to?"<= o:p>
"Wait a little," said Mrs. Rook.
"Everything in its right place, is my motto. I mustn't begin with the
pocketbook. Why did I begin with it? Do you think this veil on my face conf=
uses
me? Suppose I take it off. But you must promise first--solemnly promise you
won't look at my face. How can I tell you about the murder (the murder is p=
art
of my confession, you know), with this lace tickling my skin? Go away--and
stand there with your back to me. Thank you. Now I'll take it off. Ha! the =
air feels
refreshing; I know what I am about. Good heavens, I have forgotten somethin=
g! I
have forgotten him. And after such a fright as he gave me! Did you see him =
on
the landing?"
"Who are you talking of?" Emily aske=
d.
Mrs. Rook's failing voice sank lower still.
"Come closer," she said, "this =
must
be whispered. Who am I talking of?" she repeated. "I am talking of
the man who slept in the other bed at the inn; the man who did the deed with
his own razor. He was gone when I looked into the outhouse in the gray of t=
he
morning. Oh, I have done my duty! I have told Mr. Rook to keep an eye on him
downstairs. You haven't an idea how obstinate and stupid my husband is. He =
says
I couldn't know the man, because I didn't see him. Ha! there's such a thing=
as
hearing, when you don't see. I heard--and I knew it again."
Emily turned cold from head to foot.
"What did you know again?" she said.=
"His voice," Mrs. Rook answered.
"I'll swear to his voice before all the judges in England."
Emily rushed to the bed. She looked at the wom=
an
who had said those dreadful words, speechless with horror.
"You're breaking your promise!" cried
Mrs. Rook. "You false girl, you're breaking your promise!"
She snatched at the veil, and put it on again.=
The
sight of her face, momentary as it had been, reassured Emily. Her wild eyes,
made wilder still by the blurred stains of rouge below them, half washed
away--her disheveled hair, with streaks of gray showing through the
dye--presented a spectacle which would have been grotesque under other
circumstances, but which now reminded Emily of Mr. Rook's last words; warni=
ng
her not to believe what his wife said, and even declaring his conviction th=
at her
intellect was deranged. Emily drew back from the bed, conscious of an
overpowering sense of self-reproach. Although it was only for a moment, she=
had
allowed her faith in Mirabel to be shaken by a woman who was out of her min=
d.
"Try to forgive me," she said. "=
;I
didn't willfully break my promise; you frightened me."
Mrs. Rook began to cry. "I was a handsome
woman in my time," she murmured. "You would say I was handsome st=
ill,
if the clumsy fools about me had not spoiled my appearance. Oh, I do feel so
weak! Where's my medicine?"
The bottle was on the table. Emily gave her the
prescribed dose, and revived her failing strength.
"I am an extraordinary person," she
resumed. "My resolution has always been the admiration of every one who
knew me. But my mind feels--how shall I express it?--a little vacant. Have
mercy on my poor wicked soul! Help me."
"How can I help you?"
"I want to recollect. Something happened =
in
the summer time, when we were talking at Netherwoods. I mean when that impu=
dent
master at the school showed his suspicions of me. (Lord! how he frightened =
me,
when he turned up afterward at Sir Jervis's house.) You must have seen your=
self
he suspected me. How did he show it?"
"He showed you my locket," Emily
answered.
"Oh, the horrid reminder of the murder!&q=
uot;
Mrs. Rook exclaimed. "I didn't mention it: don't blame Me. You poor in=
nocent,
I have something dreadful to tell you."
Emily's horror of the woman forced her to spea=
k.
"Don't tell me!" she cried. "I know more than you suppose; I
know what I was ignorant of when you saw the locket."
Mrs. Rook took offense at the interruption.
"Clever as you are, there's one thing you
don't know," she said. "You asked me, just now, who the pocketbook
belonged to. It belonged to your father. What's the matter? Are you
crying?"
Emily was thinking of her father. The pocketbo=
ok
was the last present she had given to him--a present on his birthday. "=
;Is
it lost?" she asked sadly.
"No; it's not lost. You will hear more of=
it
directly. Dry your eyes, and expect something interesting--I'm going to talk
about love. Love, my dear, means myself. Why shouldn't it? I'm not the only
nice-looking woman, married to an old man, who has had a lover."
"Wretch! what has that got to do with
it?"
"Everything, you rude girl! My lover was =
like
the rest of them; he would bet on race-horses, and he lost. He owned it to =
me,
on the day when your father came to our inn. He said, 'I must find the
money--or be off to America, and say good-by forever.' I was fool enough to=
be
fond of him. It broke my heart to hear him talk in that way. I said, 'If I =
find
the money, and more than the money, will you take me with you wherever you =
go?'
Of course, he said Yes. I suppose you have heard of the inquest held at our=
old
place by the coroner and jury? Oh, what idiots! They believed I was asleep =
on
the night of the murder. I never closed my eyes--I was so miserable, I was =
so
tempted."
"Tempted? What tempted you?"
"Do you think I had any money to spare? Y=
our
father's pocketbook tempted me. I had seen him open it, to pay his bill
over-night. It was full of bank-notes. Oh, what an overpowering thing love =
is!
Perhaps you have known it yourself."
Emily's indignation once more got the better of
her prudence. "Have you no feeling of decency on your death-bed!"=
she
said.
Mrs. Rook forgot her piety; she was ready with=
an
impudent rejoinder. "You hot-headed little woman, your time will
come," she answered. "But you're right--I am wandering from the
point; I am not sufficiently sensible of this solemn occasion. By-the-by, do
you notice my language? I inherit correct English from my mother--a cultiva=
ted
person, who married beneath her. My paternal grandfather was a gentleman. D=
id I
tell you that there came a time, on that dreadful night, when I could stay =
in bed
no longer? The pocketbook--I did nothing but think of that devilish pocketb=
ook,
full of bank-notes. My husband was fast asleep all the time. I got a chair =
and
stood on it. I looked into the place where the two men were sleeping, throu=
gh
the glass in the top of the door. Your father was awake; he was walking up =
and
down the room. What do you say? Was he agitated? I didn't notice. I don't k=
now
whether the other man was asleep or awake. I saw nothing but the pocketbook
stuck under the pillow, half in and half out. Your father kept on walking up
and down. I thought to myself, 'I'll wait till he gets tired, and then I'll
have another look at the pocketbook.' Where's the wine? The doctor said I m=
ight
have a glass of wine when I wanted it."
Emily found the wine and gave it to her. She
shuddered as she accidentally touched Mrs. Rook's hand.
The wine helped the sinking woman.
"I must have got up more than once,"=
she
resumed. "And more than once my heart must have failed me. I don't cle=
arly
remember what I did, till the gray of the morning came. I think that must h=
ave
been the last time I looked through the glass in the door."
She began to tremble. She tore the veil off her
face. She cried out piteously, "Lord, be merciful to me a sinner! Come
here," she said to Emily. "Where are you? No! I daren't tell you =
what
I saw; I daren't tell you what I did. When you're pos sessed by the devil,
there's nothing, nothing, nothing you can't do! Where did I find the courag=
e to
unlock the door? Where did I find the courage to go in? Any other woman wou=
ld have
lost her senses, when she found blood on her fingers after taking the
pocketbook--"
Emily's head swam; her heart beat furiously--s=
he
staggered to the door, and opened it to escape from the room.
"I'm guilty of robbing him; but I'm innoc=
ent
of his blood!" Mrs. Rook called after her wildly. "The deed was
done--the yard door was wide open, and the man was gone--when I looked in f=
or
the last time. Come back, come back!"
Emily looked round.
"I can't go near you," she said,
faintly.
"Come near enough to see this."
She opened her bed-gown at the throat, and dre=
w up
a loop of ribbon over her head. 'The pocketbook was attached to the ribbon.=
She
held it out.
"Your father's book," she said.
"Won't you take your father's book?"
For a moment, and only for a moment, Emily was
repelled by the profanation associated with her birthday gift. Then, the lo=
ving
remembrance of the dear hands that had so often touched that relic, drew the
faithful daughter back to the woman whom she abhorred. Her eyes rested tend=
erly
on the book. Before it had lain in that guilty bosom, it had been his book.=
The
beloved memory was all that was left to her now; the beloved memory consecr=
ated
it to her hand. She took the book.
"Open it," said Mrs. Rook.
There were two five-pound bank-notes in it.
"His?" Emily asked.
"No; mine--the little I have been able to
save toward restoring what I stole."
"Oh!" Emily cried, "is there so=
me
good in this woman, after all?"
"There's no good in the woman!" Mrs.
Rook answered desperately. "There's nothing but fear--fear of hell now;
fear of the pocketbook in the past time. Twice I tried to destroy it--and t=
wice
it came back, to remind me of the duty that I owed to my miserable soul. I
tried to throw it into the fire. It struck the bar, and fell back into the
fender at my feet. I went out, and cast it into the well. It came back agai=
n in
the first bucket of water that was drawn up. From that moment, I began to s=
ave what
I could. Restitution! Atonement! I tell you the book found a tongue--and th=
ose
were the grand words it dinned in my ears, morning and night." She sto=
oped
to fetch her breath--stopped, and struck her bosom. "I hid it here, so
that no person should see it, and no person take it from me. Superstition? =
Oh,
yes, superstition! Shall tell you something? You may find yourself
superstitious, if you are ever cut to the heart as I was. He left me! The m=
an I
had disgraced myself for, deserted me on the day when I gave him the stolen
money. He suspected it was stolen; he took care of his own cowardly self--a=
nd
left me to the hard mercy of the law, if the theft was found out. What do y=
ou
call that, in the way of punishment? Haven't I suffered? Haven't I made
atonement? Be a Christian--say you forgive me."
"I do forgive you."
"Say you will pray for me."
"I will."
"Ah! that comforts me! Now you can go.&qu=
ot;
Emily looked at her imploringly. "Don't s=
end
me away, knowing no more of the murder than I knew when I came here! Is the=
re
nothing, really nothing, you can tell me?"
Mrs. Rook pointed to the door.
"Haven't I told you already? Go downstair=
s,
and see the wretch who escaped in the dawn of the morning!"
"Gently, ma'am, gently! You're talking too
loud," cried a mocking voice from outside.
"It's only the doctor," said Mrs. Ro=
ok.
She crossed her hands over her bosom with a deep-drawn sigh. "I want no
doctor, now. My peace is made with my Maker. I'm ready for death; I'm fit f=
or
Heaven. Go away! go away!"
=
In a moment more, the doctor came in--a brisk,
smiling, self-sufficient man--smartly dressed, with a flower in his
button-hole. A stifling odor of musk filled the room, as he drew out his
handkerchief with a flourish, and wiped his forehead.
"Plenty of hard work in my line, just
now," he said. "Hullo, Mrs. Rook! somebody has been allowing you =
to
excite yourself. I heard you, before I opened the door. Have you been
encouraging her to talk?" he asked, turning to Emily, and shaking his
finger at her with an air of facetious remonstrance.
Incapable of answering him; forgetful of the
ordinary restraints of social intercourse--with the one doubt that preserved
her belief in Mirabel, eager for confirmation--Emily signed to this strange=
r to
follow her into a corner of the room, out of hearing. She made no excuses: =
she took
no notice of his look of surprise. One hope was all she could feel, one wor=
d was
all she could say, after that second assertion of Mirabel's guilt. Indicati=
ng
Mrs. Rook by a glance at the bed, she whispered the word:
"Mad?"
Flippant and familiar, the doctor imitated her=
; he
too looked at the bed.
"No more mad than you are, miss. As I said
just now, my patient has been exciting herself; I daresay she has talked a
little wildly in consequence. Hers isn't a brain to give way, I can tell yo=
u.
But there's somebody else--"
Emily had fled from the room. He had destroyed=
her
last fragment of belief in Mirabel's innocence. She was on the landing tryi=
ng
to console herself, when the doctor joined her.
"Are you acquainted with the gentleman
downstairs?" he asked.
"What gentleman?"
"I haven't heard his name; he looks like a
clergyman. If you know him--"
"I do know him. I can't answer questions!=
My
mind--"
"Steady your mind, miss! and take your fr=
iend
home as soon as you can. He hasn't got Mrs. Rook's hard brain; he's in a st=
ate
of nervous prostration, which may end badly. Do you know where he lives?&qu=
ot;
"He is staying with his sister--Mrs.
Delvin."
"Mrs. Delvin! she's a friend and patient =
of
mine. Say I'll look in to-morrow morning, and see what I can do for her
brother. In the meantime, get him to bed, and to rest; and don't be afraid =
of giving
him brandy."
The doctor returned to the bedroom. Emily heard
Mrs. Ellmother's voice below.
"Are you up there, miss?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Ellmother ascended the stairs. "It w=
as
an evil hour," she said, "that you insisted on going to this plac=
e.
Mr. Mirabel--" The sight of Emily's face suspended the next words on h=
er
lips. She took the poor young mistress in her motherly arms. "Oh, my
child! what has happened to you?"
"Don't ask me now. Give me your arm--let =
us
go downstairs."
"You won't be startled when you see Mr.
Mirabel--will you, my dear? I wouldn't let them disturb you; I said nobody
should speak to you but myself. The truth is, Mr. Mirabel has had a dreadful
fright. What are you looking for?"
"Is there a garden here? Any place where =
we
can breathe the fresh air?"
There was a courtyard at the back of the house.
They found their way to it. A bench was placed against one of the walls. Th=
ey
sat down.
"Shall I wait till you're better before I=
say
any more?" Mrs. Ellmother asked. "No? You want to hear about Mr.
Mirabel? My dear, he came into the parlor where I was; and Mr. Rook came in
too---and waited, looking at him. Mr. Mirabel sat down in a corner, in a da=
zed
state as I thought. It wasn't for long. He jumped up, and clapped his hand =
on
his heart as if his heart hurt him. 'I must and will know what's going on
upstairs,' he says. Mr. Rook pulled him back, and told him to wait till the=
young
lady came down. Mr. Mirabel wouldn't hear of it. 'Your wife's frightening h=
er,'
he says; 'your wife's telling her horrible things about me.' He was taken o=
n a
sudden with a shivering fit; his eyes rolled, and his teeth chattered. Mr. =
Rook
made matters worse; he lost his temper. 'I'm damned,' he says, 'if I don't
begin to think you are the man, after all; I've half a mind to send for the
police.' Mr. Mirabel dropped into his chair. His eyes stared, his mouth fell
open. I took hold of his hand. Cold--cold as ice. What it all meant I can't
say. Oh, miss, you know! Let me tell you the rest of it some other time.&qu=
ot;
Emily insisted on hearing more. "The
end!" she cried. "How did it end?"
"I don't know how it might have ended, if=
the
doctor hadn't come in--to pay his visit, you know, upstairs. He said some
learned words. When he came to plain English, he asked if anybody had frigh=
tened
the gentleman. I said Mr. Rook had frightened him. The doctor says to Mr. R=
ook,
'Mind what you are about. If you frighten him again, you may have his death=
to
answer for.' That cowed Mr. Rook. He asked what he had better do. 'Give me =
some
brandy for him first,' says the doctor; 'and then get him home at once.' I
found the brandy, and went away to the inn to order the carriage. Your ears=
are
quicker than mine, miss--do I hear it now?"
They rose, and went to the house door. The
carriage was there.
Still cowed by what the doctor had said, Mr. R=
ook
appeared, carefully leading Mirabel out. He had revived under the action of=
the
stimulant. Passing Emily he raised his eyes to her--trembled--and looked do=
wn again.
When Mr. Rook opened the door of the carriage he paused, with one of his fe=
et
on the step. A momentary impulse inspired him with a false courage, and bro=
ught
a flush into his ghastly face. He turned to Emily.
"May I speak to you?" he asked.
She started back from him. He looked at Mrs.
Ellmother. "Tell her I am innocent," he said. The trembling seize=
d on
him again. Mr. Rook was obliged to lift him into the carriage.
Emily caught at Mrs. Ellmother's arm. "Yo=
u go
with him," she said. "I can't."
"How are you to get back, miss?"
She turned away and spoke to the coachman. &qu=
ot;I
am not very well. I want the fresh air--I'll sit by you."
Mrs. Ellmother remonstrated and protested, in
vain. As Emily had determined it should be, so it was.
"Has he said anything?" she asked, w=
hen
they had arrived at their journey's end.
"He has been like a man frozen up; he has=
n't
said a word; he hasn't even moved."
"Take him to his sister; and tell her all
that you know. Be careful to repeat what the doctor said. I can't face Mrs.
Delvin. Be patient, my good old friend; I have no secrets from you. Only wa=
it
till to-morrow; and leave me by myself to-night."
Alone in her room, Emily opened her writing-ca=
se.
Searching among the letters in it, she drew out a printed paper. It was the
Handbill describing the man who had escaped from the inn, and offering a re=
ward
for the discovery of him.
At the first line of the personal description =
of
the fugitive, the paper dropped from her hand. Burning tears forced their w=
ay
into her eyes. Feeling for her handkerchief, she touched the pocketbook whi=
ch
she had received from Mrs. Rook. After a little hesitation she took it out.=
She
looked at it. She opened it.
The sight of the bank-notes repelled her; she =
hid
them in one of the pockets of the book. There was a second pocket which she=
had
not yet examined. She pat her hand into it, and, touching something, drew o=
ut a
letter.
The envelope (already open) was addressed to
"James Brown, Esq., Post Office, Zeeland." Would it be inconsiste=
nt
with her respect for her father's memory to examine the letter? No; a glance
would decide whether she ought to read it or not.
It was without date or address; a startling le=
tter
to look at--for it only contained three words:
"I say No."
The words were signed in initials:
"S. J."
In the instant when she read the initials, the
name occurred to her.
Sara Jethro.
The discovery of the letter gave a new directi=
on
to Emily's thoughts--and so, for the time at least, relieved her mind from =
the burden
that weighed on it. To what question, on her father's part, had "I say
No" been Miss Jethro's brief and stern reply? Neither letter nor envel=
ope
offered the slightest hint that might assist inquiry; even the postmark had
been so carelessly impressed that it was illegible.
Emily was still pondering over the three
mysterious words, when she was interrupted by Mrs. Ellmother's voice at the
door.
"I must ask you to let me come in, miss;
though I know you wished to be left by yourself till to-morrow. Mrs. Delvin
says she must positively see you to-night. It's my belief that she will send
for the servants, and have herself carried in here, if you refuse to do what
she asks. You needn't be afraid of seeing Mr. Mirabel."
"Where is he?"
"His sister has given up her bedroom to
him," Mrs. Ellmother answered. "She thought of your feelings befo=
re
she sent me here--and had the curtains closed between the sitting-room and =
the
bedroom. I suspect my nasty temper misled me, when I took a dislike to Mrs.
Delvin. She's a good creature; I'm sorry you didn't go to her as soon as we=
got
back."
"Did she seem to be angry, when she sent =
you
here?"
"Angry! She was crying when I left her.&q=
uot;
Emily hesitated no longer.
She noticed a remarkable change in the invalid=
's
sitting-room--so brilliantly lighted on other occasions--the moment she ent=
ered
it. The lamps were shaded, and the candles were all extinguished. "My =
eyes
don't bear the light so well as usual," Mrs. Delvin said. "Come a=
nd
sit near me, Emily; I hope to quiet your mind. I should be grieved if you l=
eft
my house with a wrong impression of me."
Knowing what she knew, suffering as she must h=
ave
suffered, the quiet kindness of her tone implied an exercise of self-restra=
int
which appealed irresistibly to Emily's sympathies. "Forgive me," =
she
said, "for having done you an injustice. I am ashamed to think that I
shrank from seeing you when I returned from Belford."
"I will endeavor to be worthy of your bet=
ter
opinion of me," Mrs. Delvin replied. "In one respect at least, I =
may
claim to have had your best interests at heart--while we were still persona=
lly
strangers. I tried to prevail on my poor brother to own the truth, when he
discovered the terrible position in which he was placed toward you. He was =
too conscious
of the absence of any proof which might induce you to believe him, if he
attempted to defend himself--in one word, he was too timid--to take my advi=
ce.
He has paid the penalty, and I have paid the penalty, of deceiving you.&quo=
t;
Emily started. "In what way have you dece=
ived
me?" she asked.
"In the way that was forced on us by our = own conduct," Mrs. Delvin said. "We have appeared to help you, without really doing so; we calculated on inducing you to marry my brother, and then (when he could speak with the authority of a husband) on prevailing on you = to give up all further inquiries. When you insisted on seeing Mrs. Rook, Miles= had the money in his hand to bribe her and her husband to leave England."<= o:p>
"Oh, Mrs. Delvin!"
"I don't attempt to excuse myself. I don't
expect you to consider how sorely I was tempted to secure the happiness of =
my
brother's life, by marriage with such a woman as yourself. I don't remind y=
ou
that I knew--when I put obstacles in your way--that you were blindly devoti=
ng yourself
to the discovery of an innocent man."
Emily heard her with angry surprise.
"Innocent?" she repeated. "Mrs. Rook recognized his voice the
instant she heard him speak."
Impenetrable to interruption, Mrs. Delvin went=
on.
"But what I do ask," she persisted, "even after our short
acquaintance, is this. Do you suspect me of deliberately scheming to make y=
ou
the wife of a murderer?"
Emily had never viewed the serious question
between them in this light. Warmly, generously, she answered the appeal that
had been made to her. "Oh, don't think that of me! I know I spoke
thoughtlessly and cruelly to you, just now--"
"You spoke impulsively," Mrs. Delvin
interposed; "that was all. My one desire before we part--how can I exp=
ect
you to remain here, after what has happened?--is to tell you the truth. I h=
ave
no interested object in view; for all hope of your marriage with my brother=
is
now at an end. May I ask if you have heard that he and your father were
strangers, when they met at the inn?"
"Yes; I know that."
"If there had been any conversation betwe=
en
them, when they retired to rest, they might have mentioned their names. But
your father was preoccupied; and my brother, after a long day's walk, was so
tired that he fell asleep as soon as his head was on the pillow. He only wo=
ke
when the morning dawned. What he saw when he looked toward the opposite bed=
might
have struck with terror the boldest man that ever lived. His first impulse =
was
naturally to alarm the house. When he got on his feet, he saw his own razor=
--a
blood-stained razor on the bed by the side of the corpse. At that discovery=
, he
lost all control over himself. In a panic of terror, he snatched up his
knapsack, unfastened the yard door, and fled from the house. Knowing him, as
you and I know him, can we wonder at it? Many a man has been hanged for mur=
der,
on circumstantial evidence less direct than the evidence against poor Miles.
His horror of his own recollections was so overpowering that he forbade me =
even
to mention the inn at Zeeland in my letters, while he was abroad. 'Never te=
ll
me (he wrote) who that wretched murdered stranger was, if I only heard of h=
is
name, I believe it would haunt me to my dying day. I ought not to trouble y=
ou
with these details--and yet, I am surely not without excuse. In the absence=
of
any proof, I cannot expect you to believe as I do in my brother's innocence.
But I may at least hope to show you that there is some reason for doubt. Wi=
ll
you give him the benefit of that doubt?"
"Willingly!" Emily replied. "Am=
I
right in supposing that you don't despair of proving his innocence, even
yet'?"
"I don't quite despair. But my hopes have
grown fainter and fainter, as the years have gone on. There is a person
associated with his escape from Zeeland; a person named Jethro--"
"You mean Miss Jethro!"
"Yes. Do you know her?"
"I know her--and my father knew her. I ha=
ve
found a letter, addressed to him, which I have no doubt was written by Miss
Jethro. It is barely possible that you may understand what it means. Pray l=
ook
at it."
"I am quite unable to help you," Mrs.
Delvin answered, after reading the letter. "All I know of Miss Jethro =
is
that, but for her interposition, my brother might have fallen into the hand=
s of
the police. She saved him."
"Knowing him, of course?"
"That is the remarkable part of it: they =
were
perfect strangers to each other."
"But she must have had some motive."=
"There is the foundation of my hope for
Miles. Miss Jethro declared, when I wrote and put the question to her, that=
the
one motive by which she was actuated was the motive of mercy. I don't belie=
ve
her. To my mind, it is in the last degree improbable that she would consent=
to protect
a stranger from discovery, who owned to her (as my brother did) that he was=
a
fugitive suspected of murder. She knows something, I am firmly convinced, of
that dreadful event at Zeeland--and she has some reason for keeping it secr=
et.
Have you any influence over her?"
"Tell me where I can find her."
"I can't tell you. She has removed from t=
he
address at which my brother saw her last. He has made every possible
inquiry--without result."
As she replied in those discouraging terms, the
curtains which divided Mrs. Delvin's bedroom from her sitting-room were dra=
wn
aside. An elderly woman-servant approached her mistress's couch.
"Mr. Mirabel is awake, ma'am. He is very =
low;
I can hardly feel his pulse. Shall I give him some more brandy?"
Mrs. Delvin held out her hand to Emily. "=
Come
to me to-morrow morning," she said--and signed to the servant to wheel=
her
couch into the next room. As the curtain closed over them, Emily heard Mira=
bel's
voice. "Where am I?" he said faintly. "Is it all a dream?&qu=
ot;
The prospect of his recovery the next morning =
was
gloomy indeed. He had sunk into a state of deplorable weakness, in mind as =
well
as in body. The little memory of events that he still preserved was regarde=
d by
him as the memory of a dream. He alluded to Emily, and to his meeting with =
her
unexpectedly. But from that point his recollection failed him. They had tal=
ked
of something interesting, he said--but he was unable to remember what it wa=
s. And
they had waited together at a railway station--but for what purpose he could
not tell. He sighed and wondered when Emily would marry him--and so fell as=
leep
again, weaker than ever.
Not having any confidence in the doctor at
Belford, Mrs. Delvin had sent an urgent message to a physician at Edinburgh,
famous for his skill in treating diseases of the nervous system. "I ca=
nnot
expect him to reach this remote place, without some delay," she said;
"I must bear my suspense as well as I can."
"You shall not bear it alone," Emily
answered. "I will wait with you till the doctor comes."
Mrs. Delvin lifted her frail wasted hands to
Emily's face, drew it a little nearer--and kissed her.
=
The parting words had been spoken. Emily and h=
er
companion were on their way to London.
For some little time, they traveled in
silence--alone in the railway carriage. After submitting as long as she cou=
ld
to lay an embargo on the use of her tongue, Mrs. Ellmother started the
conversation by means of a question: "Do you think Mr. Mirabel will get
over it, miss?"
"It's useless to ask me," Emily said.
"Even the great man from Edinburgh is not able to decide yet, whether =
he
will recover or not."
"You have taken me into your confidence, =
Miss
Emily, as you promised--and I have got something in my mind in consequence.=
May
I mention it without giving offense?"
"What is it?"
"I wish you had never taken up with Mr.
Mirabel."
Emily was silent. Mrs. Ellmother, having a des=
ign
of her own to accomplish, ventured to speak more plainly. "I often thi=
nk
of Mr. Alban Morris," she proceeded. "I always did like him, and I
always shall."
Emily suddenly pulled down her veil. "Don=
't
speak of him!" she said.
"I didn't mean to offend you."
"You don't offend me. You distress me. Oh,
how often I have wished--!" She threw herself back in a corner of the
carriage and said no more.
Although not remarkable for the possession of
delicate tact, Mrs. Ellmother discovered that the best course she could now
follow was a course of silence.
Even at the time when she had most implicitly
trusted Mirabel, the fear that she might have acted hastily and harshly tow=
ard
Alban had occasionally troubled Emily's mind. The impression produced by la=
ter events
had not only intensified this feeling, but had presented the motives of that
true friend under an entirely new point of view. If she had been left in
ignorance of the manner of her father's death--as Alban had designed to lea=
ve
her; as she would have been left, but for the treachery of Francine--how
happily free she would have been from thoughts which it was now a terror to=
her
to recall. She would have parted from Mirabel, when the visit to the pleasa=
nt
country house had come to an end, remembering him as an amusing acquaintance
and nothing more. He would have been spared, and she would have been spared,
the shock that had so cruelly assailed them both. What had she gained by Mr=
s.
Rook's detestable confession? The result had been perpetual disturbance of =
mind
provoked by self-torturing speculations on the subject of the murder. If
Mirabel was innocent, who was guilty? The false wife, without pity and with=
out
shame--or the brutal husband, who looked capable of any enormity? What was =
her
future to be? How was it all to end? In the despair of that bitter
moment--seeing her devoted old servant looking at her with kind compassiona=
te
eyes--Emily's troubled spirit sought refuge in impetuous self-betrayal; the
very betrayal which she had resolved should not escape her, hardly a minute
since!
She bent forward out of her corner, and sudden=
ly
drew up her veil. "Do you expect to see Mr. Alban Morris, when we get
back?" she asked.
"I should like to see him, miss--if you h=
ave
no objection."
"Tell him I am ashamed of myself! and say=
I
ask his pardon with all my heart!"
"The Lord be praised!" Mrs. Ellmother
burst out--and then, when it was too late, remembered the conventional
restraints appropriate to the occasion. "Gracious, what a fool I am!&q=
uot;
she said to herself. "Beautiful weather, Miss Emily, isn't it?" s=
he
continued, in a desperate hurry to change the subject.
Emily reclined again in her corner of the
carriage. She smiled, for the first time since she had become Mrs. Delvin's
guest at the tower.
=
BOOK
THE LAST--AT HOME AGAIN.
Reaching the cottage at night, Emily found the
card of a visitor who had called during the day. It bore the name of "=
Miss
Wyvil," and had a message written on it which strongly excited Emily's
curiosity.
"I have seen the telegram which tells your
servant that you return to-night. Expect me early to-morrow morning--with n=
ews
that will deeply interest you."
To what news did Cecilia allude? Emily questio=
ned
the woman who had been left in charge of the cottage, and found that she had
next to nothing to tell. Miss Wyvil had flushed up, and had looked excited,
when she read the telegraphic message--that was all. Emily's impatience was=
, as
usual, not to be concealed. Expert Mrs. Ellmother treated the case in the r=
ight
way--first with supper, and then with an adjournment to bed. The clock stru=
ck
twelve, when she put out the young mistress's candle. "Ten hours to pa=
ss
before Cecilia comes here!" Emily exclaimed. "Not ten minutes,&qu=
ot; Mrs.
Ellmother reminded her, "if you will only go to sleep."
Cecilia arrived before the breakfast-table was
cleared; as lovely, as gentle, as affectionate as ever--but looking unusual=
ly
serious and subdued.
"Out with it at once!" Emily cried.
"What have you got to tell me?'
"Perhaps, I had better tell you first,&qu=
ot;
Cecilia said, "that I know what you kept from me when I came here, aft=
er
you left us at Monksmoor. Don't think, my dear, that I say this by way of
complaint. Mr. Alban Morris says you had good reasons for keeping your
secret."
"Mr. Alban Morris! Did you get your
information from him?"
"Yes. Do I surprise you?"
"More than words can tell!"
"Can you bear another surprise? Mr. Morris
has seen Miss Jethro, and has discovered that Mr. Mirabel has been wrongly
suspected of a dreadful crime. Our amiable little clergyman is guilty of be=
ing
a coward--and guilty of nothing else. Are you really quiet enough to read a=
bout
it?"
She produced some leaves of paper filled with
writing. "There," she explained, "is Mr. Morris's own accoun=
t of
all that passed between Miss Jethro and himself."
"But how do you come by it?"
"Mr. Morris gave it to me. He said, 'Show=
it
to Emily as soon as possible; and take care to be with her while she reads =
it.'
There is a reason for this--" Cecilia's voice faltered. On the brink of
some explanation, she seemed to recoil from it. "I will tell you by-an=
d-by
what the reason is," she said.
Emily looked nervously at the manuscript.
"Why doesn't he tell me himself what he has discovered? Is he--" =
The
leaves began to flutter in her trembling fingers--"is he angry with
me?"
"Oh, Emily, angry with You! Read what he =
has
written and you shall know why he keeps away."
Emily opened the manuscript.
=
"The information which I have obtained fr=
om
Miss Jethro has been communicated to me, on the condition that I shall not
disclose the place of her residence. 'Let me pass out of notice (she said) =
as
completely as if I had passed out of life; I wish to be forgotten by some, =
and
to be unknown by others.'" With this one stipulation, she left me free=
to
write the present narrative of what passed at the interview between us. I f=
eel that
the discoveries which I have made are too important to the persons interest=
ed
to be trusted to memory.
=
1. She
Receives Me.
"Finding Miss Jethro's place of abode, wi=
th
far less difficulty than I had anticipated (thanks to favoring circumstance=
s),
I stated plainly the object of my visit. She declined to enter into
conversation with me on the subject of the murder at Zeeland.
"I was prepared to meet with this rebuke,=
and
to take the necessary measures for obtaining a more satisfactory reception.=
'A
person is suspected of having committed the murder,' I said; 'and there is
reason to believe that you are in a position to say whether the suspicion i=
s justified
or not. Do you refuse to answer me, if I put the question?'
"Miss Jethro asked who the person was.
"I mentioned the name--Mr. Miles Mirabel.=
"It is not necessary, and it would certai=
nly
be not agreeable to me, to describe the effect which this reply produced on
Miss Jethro. After giving her time to compose herself, I entered into certa=
in
explanations, in order to convince her at the outset of my good faith. The
result justified my anticipations. I was at once admitted to her confidence=
.
"She said, 'I must not hesitate to do an =
act
of justice to an innocent man. But, in such a serious matter as this, you h=
ave
a right to judge for yourself whether the person who is now speaking to you=
is
a person whom you can trust. You may believe that I tell the truth about
others, if I begin--whatever it may cost me--by telling the truth about
myself.'"
=
2. She
Speaks of Herself.
"I shall not attempt to place on record t=
he
confession of a most unhappy woman. It was the common story of sin bitterly
repented, and of vain effort to recover the lost place in social esteem. Too
well known a story, surely, to be told again.
"But I may with perfect propriety repeat =
what
Miss Jethro said to me, in allusion to later events in her life which are
connected with my own personal experience. She recalled to my memory a visit
which she had paid to me at Netherwoods, and a letter addressed to her by
Doctor Allday, which I had read at her express request.
"She said, 'You may remember that the let=
ter
contained some severe reflections on my conduct. Among other things, the do=
ctor
mentions that he called at the lodging I occupied during my visit to London,
and found I had taken to flight: also that he had reason to believe I had
entered Miss Ladd's service, under false pretenses.'
"I asked if the doctor had wronged her.
"She answered 'No: in one case, he is
ignorant; in the other, he is right. On leaving his house, I found myself
followed in the street by the man to whom I owe the shame and misery of my =
past
life. My horror of him is not to be described in words. The one way of esca=
ping
was offered by an empty cab that passed me. I reached the railway station
safely, and went back to my home in the country. Do you blame me?'
"It was impossible to blame her--and I sa=
id
so.
"She then confessed the deception which s=
he
had practiced on Miss Ladd. 'I have a cousin,' she said, 'who was a Miss Je=
thro
like me. Before her marriage she had been employed as a governess. She piti=
ed
me; she sympathized with my longing to recover the character that I had los=
t. With
her permission, I made use of the testimonials which she had earned as a
teacher--I was betrayed (to this day I don't know by whom)--and I was dismi=
ssed
from Netherwoods. Now you know that I deceived Miss Ladd, you may reasonably
conclude that I am likely to deceive You.'
"I assured her, with perfect sincerity, t=
hat
I had drawn no such conclusion. Encouraged by my reply, Miss Jethro proceed=
ed
as follows."
=
3. She
Speaks of Mirabel.
"'Four years ago, I was living near Cowes=
, in
the Isle of Wight--in a cottage which had been taken for me by a gentleman =
who
was the owner of a yacht. We had just returned from a short cruise, and the
vessel was under orders to sail for Cherbourg with the next tide.
"'While I was walking in my garden, I was
startled by the sudden appearance Of a man (evidently a gentleman) who was a
perfect stranger to me. He was in a pitiable state of terror, and he implor=
ed
my protection. In reply to my first inquiries, he mentioned the inn at Zeel=
and,
and the dreadful death of a person unknown to him; whom I recognized (partl=
y by
the description given, and partly by comparison of dates) as Mr. James Brow=
n. I
shall say nothing of the shock inflicted on me: you don't want to know what=
I
felt. What I did (having literally only a minute left for decision) was to =
hide
the fugitive from discovery, and to exert my influence in his favor with the
owner of the yacht. I saw nothing more of him. He was put on board, as soon=
as
the police were out of sight, and was safely landed at Cherbourg.'
"I asked what induced her to run the risk=
of
protecting a stranger, who was under suspicion of having committed a murder=
.
"She said, 'You shall hear my explanation
directly. Let us have done with Mr. Mirabel first. We occasionally correspo=
nded,
during the long absence on the continent; never alluding, at his express
request, to the horrible event at the inn. His last letter reached me, afte=
r he
had established himself at Vale Regis. Writing of the society in the neighb=
orhood,
he informed me of his introduction to Miss Wyvil, and of the invitation tha=
t he
had received to meet her friend and schoolfellow at Monksmoor. I knew that =
Miss
Emily possessed a Handbill describing personal peculiarities in Mr. Mirabel,
not hidden under the changed appearance of his head and face. If she rememb=
ered
or happened to refer to that description, while she was living in the same
house with him, there was a possibility at least of her suspicion being
excited. The fear of this took me to you. It was a morbid fear, and, as eve=
nts
turned out, an unfounded fear: but I was unable to control it. Failing to p=
roduce
any effect on you, I went to Vale Regis, and tried (vainly again) to induce=
Mr.
Mirabel to send an excuse to Monksmoor. He, like you, wanted to know what my
motive was. When I tell you that I acted solely in Miss Emily's interests, =
and
that I knew how she had been deceived about her father's death, need I say =
why
I was afraid to acknowledge my motive?'
"I understood that Miss Jethro might well=
be
afraid of the consequences, if she risked any allusion to Mr. Brown's horri=
ble
death, and if it afterward chanced to reach his daughter's ears. But this s=
tate
of feeling implied an extraordinary interest in the preservation of Emily's=
peace
of mind. I asked Miss Jethro how that interest had been excited?
"She answered, 'I can only satisfy you in=
one
way. I must speak of her father now.'"
=
Emily
looked up from the manuscript. She felt Cecilia's arm tenderly caressing he=
r.
She heard Cecilia say, "My poor dear, there is one last trial of your
courage still to come. I am afraid of what you are going to read, when you =
turn
to the next page. And yet--"
"And yet," Emily replied gently,
"it must be done. I have learned my hard lesson of endurance, Cecilia,
don't be afraid."
Emily turned to the next page.
=
4. She
Speaks of the Dead.
"For the first time, Miss Jethro appeared=
to
be at a loss how to proceed. I could see that she was suffering. She rose, =
and
opening a drawer in her writing table, took a letter from it.
"She said, 'Will you read this? It was
written by Miss Emily's father. Perhaps it may say more for me than I can s=
ay
for myself?'
"I copy the letter. It was thus expressed=
:
"'You have declared that our farewell to-=
day
is our farewell forever. For the second time, you have refused to be my wif=
e;
and you have done this, to use your own words, in mercy to Me.
"'In mercy to Me, I implore you to recons=
ider
your decision.
"'If you condemn me to live without you--I
feel it, I know it--you condemn me to despair which I have not fortitude en=
ough
to endure. Look at the passages which I have marked for you in the New
Testament. Again and again, I say it; your true repentance has made you wor=
thy
of the pardon of God. Are you not worthy of the love, admiration, and respe=
ct of
man? Think! oh, Sara, think of what our lives might be, and let them be uni=
ted
for time and for eternity.
"'I can write no more. A deadly faintness
oppresses me. My mind is in a state unknown to me in past years. I am in su=
ch
confusion that I sometimes think I hate you. And then I recover from my
delusion, and know that man never loved woman as I love you.
"'You will have time to write to me by th=
is
evening's post. I shall stop at Zeeland to-morrow, on my way back, and ask =
for
a letter at the post office. I forbid explanations and excuses. I forbid
heartless allusions to your duty. Let me have an answer which does not keep=
me
for a moment in suspense.
"'For the last time, I ask you: Do you
consent to be my wife? Say, Yes--or say, No.'
"I gave her back the letter--with the one
comment on it, which the circumstances permitted me to make:
"'You said No?'
"She bent her head in silence.
"I went on--not willingly, for I would ha=
ve
spared her if it had been possible. I said, 'He died, despairing, by his own
hand--and you knew it?'
"She looked up. 'No! To say that I knew i=
t is
too much. To say that I feared it is the truth.'
"'Did you love him?'
"She eyed me in stern surprise. 'Have I a=
ny
right to love? Could I disgrace an honorable man by allowing him to marry m=
e?
You look as if you held me responsible for his death.'
"'Innocently responsible,' I said.
"She still followed her own train of thou=
ght.
'Do you suppose I could for a moment anticipate that he would destroy himse=
lf,
when I wrote my reply? He was a truly religious man. If he had been in his
right mind, he would have shrunk from the idea of suicide as from the idea =
of a
crime.'
"On reflection, I was inclined to agree w=
ith
her. In his terrible position, it was at least possible that the sight of t=
he
razor (placed ready, with the other appliances of the toilet, for his fello=
w-traveler's
use) might have fatally tempted a man whose last hope was crushed, whose mi=
nd
was tortured by despair. I should have been merciless indeed, if I had held
Miss Jethro accountable thus far. But I found it hard to sympathize with the
course which she had pursued, in permitting Mr. Brown's death to be attribu=
ted
to murder without a word of protest. 'Why were you silent?' I said.
"She smiled bitterly.
"'A woman would have known why, without
asking,' she replied. 'A woman would have understood that I shrank from a
public confession of my shameful past life. A woman would have remembered w=
hat
reasons I had for pitying the man who loved me, and for accepting any
responsibility rather than associate his memory, before the world, with an
unworthy passion for a degraded creature, ending in an act of suicide. Even=
if
I had made that cruel sacrifice, would public opinion have believed such a
person as I am--against the evidence of a medical man, and the verdict of a
jury? No, Mr. Morris! I said nothing, and I was resolved to say nothing, so
long as the choice of alternatives was left to me. On the day when Mr. Mira=
bel
implored me to save him, that choice was no longer mine--and you know what I
did. And now again when suspicion (after all the long interval that had pas=
sed)
has followed and found that innocent man, you know what I have done. What m=
ore
do you ask of me?'
"'Your pardon,' I said, 'for not having
understood you--and a last favor. May I repeat what I have heard to the one
person of all others who ought to know, and who must know, what you have to=
ld
me?'
"It was needless to hint more plainly tha=
t I
was speaking of Emily. Miss Jethro granted my request.
"'It shall be as you please,' she answere=
d.
'Say for me to his daughter, that the grateful remembrance of her is my one
refuge from the thoughts that tortured me, when we spoke together on her la=
st
night at school. She has made this dead heart of mine feel a reviving breat=
h of
life, when I think of her. Never, in our earthly pilgrimage, shall we meet
again--I implore her to pity and forget me. Farewell, Mr. Morris; farewell
forever.'
"I confess that the tears came into my ey=
es.
When I could see clearly again, I was alone in the room."
=
Emily closed the pages which told her that her
father had died by his own hand.
Cecilia still held her tenderly embraced. By s=
low
degrees, her head dropped until it rested on her friend's bosom. Silently s=
he
suffered. Silently Cecilia bent forward, and kissed her forehead. The sounds
that penetrated to the room were not out of harmony with the time. From a d=
istant
house the voices of children were just audible, singing the plaintive melod=
y of
a hymn; and, now and then, the breeze blew the first faded leaves of autumn
against the window. Neither of the girls knew how long the minutes followed
each other uneventfully, before there was a change. Emily raised her head, =
and
looked at Cecilia.
"I have one friend left," she said.<= o:p>
"Not only me, love--oh, I hope not only
me!"
"Yes. Only you."
"I want to say something, Emily; but I am
afraid of hurting you."
"My dear, do you remember what we once re=
ad
in a book of history at school? It told of the death of a tortured man, in =
the
old time, who was broken on the wheel. He lived through it long enough to s=
ay
that the agony, after the first stroke of the club, dulled his capacity for=
feeling
pain when the next blows fell. I fancy pain of the mind must follow the same
rule. Nothing you can say will hurt me now."
"I only wanted to ask, Emily, if you were
engaged--at one time--to marry Mr. Mirabel. Is it true?"
"False! He pressed me to consent to an
engagement--and I said he must not hurry me."
"What made you say that?"
"I thought of Alban Morris."
Vainly Cecilia tried to restrain herself. A cr=
y of
joy escaped her.
"Are you glad?" Emily asked.
"Why?"
Cecilia made no direct reply. "May I tell=
you
what you wanted to know, a little while since?" she said. "You as=
ked why
Mr. Morris left it all to me, instead of speaking to you himself. When I put
the same question to him, he told me to read what he had written. 'Not a sh=
adow
of suspicion rests on Mr. Mirabel,' he said. 'Emily is free to marry him--a=
nd
free through Me. Can I tell her that? For her sake, and for mine, it must n=
ot
be. All that I can do is to leave old remembrances to plead for me. If they
fail, I shall know that she will be happier with Mr. Mirabel than with me.'
'And you will submit?' I asked. 'Because I love her,' he answered, 'I must
submit.' Oh, how pale you are! Have I distressed you?"
"You have done me good."
"Will you see him?"
Emily pointed to the manuscript. "At such=
a
time as this?" she said.
Cecilia still held to her resolution. "Su=
ch a
time as this is the right time," she answered. "It is now, when y=
ou
most want to be comforted, that you ought to see him. Who can quiet your po=
or
aching heart as he can quiet it?" She impulsively snatched at the
manuscript and threw it out of sight. "I can't bear to look at it,&quo=
t;
she said. "Emily! if I have done wrong, will you forgive me? I saw him
this morning before I came here. I was afraid of what might happen--I refus=
ed
to break the dreadful news to you, unless he was somewhere near us. Your go=
od
old servant knows where to go. Let me send her--"
Mrs. Ellmother herself opened the door, and st=
ood
doubtful on the threshold, hysterically sobbing and laughing at the same ti=
me.
"I'm everything that's bad!" the good old creature burst out.
"I've been listening--I've been lying--I said you wanted him. Turn me =
out
of my situation, if you like. I've got him! Here he is!"
In another moment, Emily was in his arms--and =
they
were alone. On his faithful breast the blessed relief of tears came to her =
at
last: she burst out crying.
"Oh, Alban, can you forgive me?"
He gently raised her head, so that he could see
her face.
"My love, let me look at you," he sa=
id.
"I want to think again of the day when we parted in the garden at scho=
ol.
Do you remember the one conviction that sustained me? I told you, Emily, th=
ere
was a time of fulfillment to come in our two lives; and I have never wholly
lost the dear belief. My own darling, the time has come!"
=
The
winter time had arrived. Alban was clearing his palette, after a hard day's
work at the cottage. The servant announced that tea was ready, and that Miss
Ladd was waiting to see him in the next room.
Alban ran in, and received the visitor cordial=
ly
with both hands. "Welcome back to England! I needn't ask if the sea-vo=
yage
has done you good. You are looking ten years younger than when you went
away."
Miss Ladd smiled. "I shall soon be ten ye=
ars
older again, if I go back to Netherwoods," she replied. "I didn't
believe it at the time; but I know better now. Our friend Doctor Allday was
right, when he said that my working days were over. I must give up the scho=
ol
to a younger and stronger successor, and make the best I can in retirement =
of
what is left of my life. You and Emily may expect to have me as a near
neighbor. Where is Emily?"
"Far away in the North."
"In the North! You don't mean that she has
gone back to Mrs. Delvin?"
"She has gone back--with Mrs. Ellmother to
take care of her--at my express request. You know what Emily is, when there=
is
an act of mercy to be done. That unhappy man has been sinking (with interva=
ls
of partial recovery) for months past. Mrs. Delvin sent word to us that the =
end
was near, and that the one last wish her brother was able to express was th=
e wish
to see Emily. He had been for some hours unable to speak when my wife arriv=
ed.
But he knew her, and smiled faintly. He was just able to lift his hand. She
took it, and waited by him, and spoke words of consolation and kindness from
time to time. As the night advanced, he sank into sleep, still holding her
hand. They only knew that he had passed from sleep to death--passed without=
a
movement or a sigh--when his hand turned cold. Emily remained for a day at =
the
tower to comfort poor Mrs. Delvin--and she comes home, thank God, this
evening!"
"I needn't ask if you are happy?" Mi=
ss
Ladd said.
"Happy? I sing, when I have my bath in the
morning. If that isn't happiness (in a man of my age) I don't know what
is!"
"And how are you getting on?"
"Famously! I have turned portrait painter,
since you were sent away for your health. A portrait of Mr. Wyvil is to
decorate the town hall in the place that he represents; and our dear
kind-hearted Cecilia has induced a fascinated mayor and corporation to conf=
ide
the work to my hands."
"Is there no hope yet of that sweet girl
being married?" Miss Ladd asked. "We old maids all believe in
marriage, Mr. Morris--though some of us don't own it."
"There seems to be a chance," Alban
answered. "A young lord has turned up at Monksmoor; a handsome pleasant
fellow, and a rising man in politics. He happened to be in the house a few =
days
before Cecilia's birthday; and he asked my advice about the right present to
give her. I said, 'Try something new in Tarts.' When he found I was in earn=
est,
what do you think he did? Sent his steam yacht to Rouen for some of the fam=
ous
pastry! You should have seen Cecilia, when the young lord offered his delic=
ious
gift. If I could paint that smile and those eyes, I should be the greatest
artist living. I believe she will marry him. Need I say how rich they will =
be?
We shall not envy them--we are rich too. Everything is comparative. The
portrait of Mr. Wyvil will put three hundred pounds in my pocket. I have ea=
rned
a hundred and twenty more by illustrations, since we have been married. And=
my
wife's income (I like to be particular) is only five shillings and tenpence
short of two hundred a year. Moral! we are rich as well as happy."
"Without a thought of the future?" M=
iss
Ladd asked slyly.
"Oh, Doctor Allday has taken the future in
hand! He revels in the old-fashioned jokes, which used to be addressed to
newly-married people, in his time. 'My dear fellow,' he said the other day,
'you may possibly be under a joyful necessity of sending for the doctor, be=
fore
we are all a year older. In that case, let it be understood that I am Honor=
ary Physician
to the family.' The warm-hearted old man talks of getting me another portra=
it
to do. 'The greatest ass in the medical profession (he informed me) has just
been made a baronet; and his admiring friends have decided that he is to be
painted at full length, with his bandy legs hidden under a gown, and his gr=
eat
globular eyes staring at the spectator--I'll get you the job.' Shall I tell=
you
what he says of Mrs. Rook's recovery?"
Miss Ladd held up her hands in amazement.
"Recovery!" she exclaimed.
"And a most remarkable recovery too,"
Alban informed her. "It is the first case on record of any person gett=
ing
over such an injury as she has received. Doctor Allday looked grave when he
heard of it. 'I begin to believe in the devil,' he said; 'nobody else could
have saved Mrs. Rook.' Other people don't take that view. She has been
celebrated in all the medical newspapers--and she has been admitted to come
excellent almshouse, to live in comfortable idleness to a green old age. Th=
e best
of it is that she shakes her head, when her wonderful recovery is mentioned.
'It seems such a pity,' she says; 'I was so fit for heaven.' Mr. Rook having
got rid of his wife, is in excellent spirits. He is occupied in looking aft=
er
an imbecile old gentleman; and, when he is asked if he likes the employment=
, he
winks mysteriously and slaps his pocket. Now, Miss Ladd, I think it's my tu=
rn
to hear some news. What have you got to tell me?"
"I believe I can match your account of Mr=
s.
Rook," Miss Ladd said. "Do you care to hear what has become of
Francine?"
Alban, rattling on hitherto in boyish high
spirits, suddenly became serious. "I have no doubt Miss de Sor is doing
well," he said sternly. "She is too heartless and wicked not to
prosper."
"You are getting like your old cynical se=
lf
again, Mr. Morris--and you are wrong. I called this morning on the agent who
had the care of Francine, when I left England. When I mentioned her name, he
showed me a telegram, sent to him by her father. 'There's my authority,' he
said, 'for letting her leave my house.' The message was short enough to be =
easily
remembered: 'Anything my daughter likes as long as she doesn't come back to
us.' In those cruel terms Mr. de Sor wrote of his own child. The agent was =
just
as unfeeling, in his way. He called her the victim of slighted love and cle=
ver
proselytizing. 'In plain words,' he said, 'the priest of the Catholic chapel
close by has converted her; and she is now a novice in a convent of Carmeli=
te
nuns in the West of England. Who could have expected it? Who knows how it m=
ay
end?"
As Miss Ladd spoke, the bell rang at the cotta=
ge
gate. "Here she is!" Alban cried, leading the way into the hall.
"Emily has come home."