I SAY NO

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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 that 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
nothing 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 produced 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 face of the corpse
photographed, before the coffin was closed. On the same day the
jury agreed on their verdict: "Willful murder against some person
unknown."

. . . . . . . .

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); had
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 unreasonably
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 remains.

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 assistance 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.

. . . . . . . .

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 newspaper, 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 never 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
granted 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 death
of her father by murder, and believing it to be the story of a
stranger--because 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 won this cruel victory over
truth destined still to triumph in the days which were 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.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MOTHER EVE.

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, when my anxiety was
relieved? Shall I go away now?"

"You must take a chair, Mr. Morris, and hear 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
numbers of the same newspaper, which you have been examining at
the British Museum. There 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
try again."

The servant interrupted them by answering the bell; Alban once
more escaped detection. Emily gave her orders with an approach to
the old gayety of her school days. "Tea, as soon as possible--and
let 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 anything 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, you shall
have it without reserve!"

She was as good as her word. What she had thought, 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. Mr. M orris, we owe an apology to Mrs.
Rook."

Alban's astonishment, when he heard this, forced its way to
expression in words. "What can you possibly mean?" he asked.

The tea was brought in before Emily could reply. 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 woman'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;
and 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 killed. 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 remarkable change of opinion,
since we spoke of the subject in the garden at school."

"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 guided by my advice!" he
said earnestly. "Pray don't write that letter!"

"Why not?"

It was too late to recall the words which he had 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 emergency, 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 that question
fairly, on its own merits. In other words, he shrank from the
terrible 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
herself.

"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 done 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 honestly
intended for your own good," he gently replied.

"You would have more influence over me, Mr. Morris, if you were a
little readier to take me into your confidence. I daresay 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, "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 while 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 your mother--and she
suspected Mrs. Rook of murder, because the poor woman looked at a
door, and disliked being in the next room to a fidgety old maid."

Alban's manner changed: he shrank from that chance allusion to
doubts and fears which he dare not acknowledge. "Let us talk of
something else," he said.

She looked at him with a saucy smile. "Have I driven you into a
corner at last? And is _that_ your way of getting out of it?"

Even his endurance failed. "Are you trying 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 composure.

"I think of Emily--I love Emily--my one hope is that Emily may
love me. Oh, my dear, is there no excuse if I forget to call 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 said.

"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
landlady 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 this 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 philosopher; you may do him some good. Doctor
Allday--Mr. Alban Morris."

The doctor recognized the man, with the felt hat 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
beard 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 mind, he was outwardly
courteous, because he was inwardly suspicious. Mrs. Rook had 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."

The exchange of polite conventionalities having been
accomplished, Alban approache d 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 stranger.

"Oh, yes!" she said quietly.

"Will you think again, before you decide?"

"Certainly, Mr. Morris. But it won't alter 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 disapproval. 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 doctor 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 her reference."

"Did you consent?"

"Consent! If I act as her reference, I shall 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 put 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 better still."

"Why am I to decline to see her?"

"In consequence of her behavior to your aunt, 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 applies 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 monitor 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 the 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.

CHAPTER XXVII.

MENTOR AND TELEMACHUS.

If Emily's eyes could have followed Alban as her 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 came 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. Morris. 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 your arm? Thank you. At my age, girls in
general--unless they are my patients--are 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 hardly 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 promised 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 may say, Doctor Allday,
is trusted to my honor. If you doubt my honor, be so good as to
let go my arm--I am not walking your way."

The doctor's hand tightened its grasp. "That 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
heard 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 said, "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
daughter has been deceived about it."

Alban listened with surprise--and with some little 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' the 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 the information that I have
received. Setting that aside, we have the same object 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 person 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 conclusion. 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; "she 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."

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 headache.

Alban waited a day, in the hope that Emily might write to him. No
letter arrived. He repeated his visit the next morning. Fortune
was still against him. On this occasion, Emily was engaged.

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