I SAY NO
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Wilkie Collins >> I SAY NO
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"Engaged with a visitor?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. A young lady named Miss de Sor."
Where had he heard that name before? He remembered 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 interests, he might have
remembered that mere gossip is not always to be despised. It has
worked fatal mischief in its time.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
FRANCINE.
"You're surprised to see me, of course?" 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 asking. 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 mean because I hate myself for liking you. Oh, never mind my
reasons. I insisted on going 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 am, till my duenna finishes her business
and fetches me. What a prospect for You! Have you got any cold
meat in the house? I'm not a glutton, like Cecilia--but I'm
afraid I shall want some lunch."
"Don't talk in that way, Francine!"
"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). What 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 showed it from every
point of view. "See how it's made: Paris, of course! Money, my
dear; money will do anything--except making one learn one's
lessons."
"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. 'Pupils without
brains I am accustomed to,' he said in his broken English; 'but a
pupil 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."
"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
that Mr. Mirabel--you look as if you had heard of him."
"I have heard of him from Cecilia."
"Is _she_ at Brighton? Then there's one fool more in a
fashionable watering place. Oh, she's in Switzerland, is she? I
don'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, fluty, 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," Emily said.
"My dear, don't be obstinate. Wait till you hear him."
"I am quite content to wait."
"Ah, you're just in the right state of mind to be converted;
you're in a fair way to become one of his greatest admirers. 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."
Emily looked at the name written on the card.
"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 back of the card.
Doctor Allday had rightly foreseen events. Rejected by the
doctor, Mrs. Ellmother had no alternative but to ask Emily to
help her.
"If she is out of place," Francine went 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 asks 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?"
"What has Miss Ladd to do with it?"
"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 one 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 Miss Ladd's pupil, my dear. Thanks to my laziness
and my temper, I am to he raised to the dignity of 'a parlor
boarder.' In other words, I am to be a young lady who patronizes
the school; with a room of my own, and a servant of my own. All
pr ovided for by a private arrangement between my father and Miss
Ladd, before I left the West Indies. My mother was at the bottom
of it, I have not the least doubt. You don't appear to understand
me."
"I don't, indeed!"
Francine considered a little. "Perhaps they 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.
'Francine will never get on at school, at her age. Try her, by
all means; but make some other arrangement with Miss Ladd in case
of a failure--or she will be returned 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 forget 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 elderly woman, or I shall be sent back to the
West Indies after all. How long did Mrs. 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."
"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 back for her answer. Somebody must satisfy me. I mean
to make Mrs. Ellmother explain 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 has 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."
"Cecilia's a fool," Francine remarked gravely; "but now I think
of it, she may be worth cultivating. Her father 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 can 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 some 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 give parties? And do the right sort of men
go to them? Hush! I think I hear the bell again. 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."
CHAPTER XXIX
"BONY."
Mrs. Ellmother reluctantly entered the room.
Since Emily had seen her last, her personal appearance 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 body; 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 end 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 side, they stood face to face; strangers
brought together by the force of circumstances, 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 appearance 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 to conciliate the old woman by a little act
of attention. Turning to Emily, Francine pointed 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 will 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," Emily 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 herself.
"I may perhaps offer you the employment you 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 need of
a maid. Would you be willing to consider it, if I proposed to
engage you?"
"Yes, miss."
"In that case, you can hardly object to the 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 Emily 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," she said; "in justice to you, I have mentioned your long
term of service."
M rs. Ellmother addressed Francine. "You know, 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, miss, to you, or
to anybody."
She recovered some of her old firmness, when she made that reply.
Francine saw the necessity of yielding--for the time at least,
Emily remained silent, oppressed by remembrance of the doubts and
fears which had darkened the last miserable days of her aunt's
illness. She began already to 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 offense. 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 woman 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 have 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 have every assistance
that I can give. I will beg Miss Ladd, as a favor to me, not 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 the
promised interference in her favor. "That's kind of you, miss,"
she 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 yourself, in that
particular?"
This effort of humor produced its intended effect. Mrs.
Ellmother, thrown off her guard, actually smiled. "Lord, miss,
what 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, rather than
amused, by the repulse which had baffled her curiosity once more.
Mrs. Ellmother reminded the merry young lady that 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?"
"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."
"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 have 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 dinner; and she died within the year. If we are to
get on together nicely, I'll take 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 will 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. Ellmother 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 want 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 opened
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 Emily. "If they do, there's one among them knows
my thoughts, and feels for me. Good-by, miss--and don't think
worse of me than I deserve."
Emily went back to the parlor. The only resource 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 kind
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 getting 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 more of it than you do.
If you persist in taking your own view, you as good as tell 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 curiosity. 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
her; and I shall succeed."
"I have already told you, Francine--you will 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 Indies, among
black servants, without learning something."
"What do you mean?"
"More, my clever friend, than you are likely to guess. In the
meantime, don't forget the duties of hospitality. Ring the bell
for luncheon."
CHAPTER XXX.
LADY DORIS.
The arrival of Miss Ladd, some time before she had been expected,
interrupted the two girls at a critical moment. She had hurried
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 that Emily should go
to Brighton on the next day.
Left by herself, her thoughts might have reverted 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 opened that one first. It was an answer
to the letter of apology which she had persisted 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 summoned, had expressed no surprise. "My patient is over
seventy years of age," 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 the 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
medical 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 brought 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?"
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