I SAY NO

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"She may pervert your letter to some use of her own, which you
may have reason to regret." Did Emily remember Alban'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. Whether the old man lived or whether he died,
his literary labors were fatally interrupted 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 read it until she had first written
to Alban. "He will come to-morrow," she 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 Mrs. 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 journey
back to England in a fortnight. "My one regret," Cecilia added,
"is the parting with Lady Doris. She and her husband are going to
Genoa, 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, what 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 break
one's heart only to look at it. When once I get to London, there
shall be no more solitude for my poor afflicted friend. Papa will
be free from his parliamentary 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 country parsonage, in which
this brilliant clergyman submits to exile, is only twelve 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 preacher--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 kindly
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 easy.

"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 marriage, 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 teeth that he can't shut his mouth, you will not need to be
told that I refused him. This vindictive person has abused me
ever since, in the most shameful manner. I heard him last night,
under my window, trying to set one of his friends against 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 young 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. What 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 again 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 known him, but for Lady Doris--who is a perfect
stranger to me."

She had just placed the letter in her desk, when a visitor was
announced. Doctor Allday presented himself (in a hurry as usual).

"Another patient waiting?" Emily asked 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 cause you have
forbidden her. I'll try the other way with you now, Miss Emily.
There 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 and 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 have had a
long talk about you, my dear. Mr. Morris is a capital fellow; I
recommend him as a sweetheart. I also back him in the matter of
Mrs. Rook.--What's the 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 friend 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 ungenerously 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."

"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 put on his
spectacles, read the letter, and handed it back to Emily with an
impenetrable countenance. "What do you think of my new
spectacles?" 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 spectacles back in the case. "This comes
from the third. Very gratifying--very gratifying."

Emily's sense of humor was not the uppermost sense in her at that
moment. She pointed with a peremptory forefinger to Mrs. Rook'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 that
were ashamed to show themselves.

CHAPTER XXXI.

MOIRA.

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 manner was unusually subdued; she received
him with her customary grace, but not with 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 expectation that she might
tell him what the disappointment was. She remained silent, and
she looked away from him. Was he in any way answerable for the
depression of spirits to which she alluded? The doubt occurred to
him--but he said nothing.

"I suppose you have received my letter?" 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, the last time I was here,
so gently and so forgivingly--"

"If I had written a little later," she interposed, "the tone of
my letter might have been less agreeable to you. 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."

"Do you mean Doctor Allday?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"What you wished him to say. He did his best; 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." She spoke sadly, not angrily--and pointed to the letter
lying on her desk.

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 how 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 to 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.
Ridiculous convictions! ridiculous fears! Men with morbid minds
are their own tormentors. 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 timidly as if he had been a boy
addressing his first sweetheart.

She was half inclined to laugh, and half inclined 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?" he repeated, turning to Emily as if an idea had struck
him. "Did I hear, 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
doubtful of Francine, simply because she was a stranger.

"Miss de Sor is a new friend of yours," 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
previous day, when he had heard that Emily was engaged. He might
have sent in his card, 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 the 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 follow 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 depression 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." 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?"

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.

. . . . . . . .

On the same day Emily was at Brighton.

Francine happened to be alone in the drawing-room. Her first
proceeding, when Emily was shown in, was to stop the servant.

"Have you taken my letter to the post?"

"Yes, miss."

"It doesn't matter." She dismissed the 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 the care of her
father, at the House of Commons. I stupidly forgot that you would
be able to give me the right address in Switzerland. You don't
object, I hope, 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 your
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 some little
surprise--not unmingled with disgust. She discovered on the
toilet-table a coarsely caricatured portrait of Mrs. Ellmother.
It was a sketch in pencil--wretchedly drawn; but spitefully
successful as a likeness. "I didn't know you were 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 taken to spoiling
paper too. I might really have turned out an artist, if I had
been 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 young time (at least
she said so herself) she was quite a beauty, in her particular
style. Her master's favorite; he educated her himself. Besides
drawing and painting, and modeling in wax, she could sing and
play--all the accomplishments thrown away on a slave! When her
owner died, my uncle bought her at the sale 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
took a fancy to me, when she found out I didn't get on well with
my father and mother. 'I owe it to _my_ father and mother,' she
used to say, 'that I am a slave. When I see affectionate
daughters, it wrings my heart.' Sappho was a strange compound. 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 become 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
murdered 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 what 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 answered, "she was my father's
property, not mine. In the second place, she's dead. 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 subject 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 bedroom is my only refuge from Miss Ladd."

On the morning of the last day in the week, Emily had a little
talk in private with her old schoolmistress. Miss Ladd listened
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 appointed 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 waited to hear the result.

After a long interval, Miss Ladd returned to the 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 either 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
woman; she is so well known to you, and she was so long in your
aunt's service, that I am bound to consider the importance of
securing a person who is exactly fitted 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 sure. I will send her here."

"One word more before you go," Emily said.

"Did you ask her why she left my aunt?"

"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 necessary 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. Emily 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 bargain. "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. Emily 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 myself? 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.

BOOK THE THIRD--NETHERWOODS.

CHAPTER XXXII.

IN THE GRAY ROOM.

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 Netherwoods (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 property--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 admiral, he refused
them all. The privilege of shooting was not one of the
attractions 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.

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