I SAY NO

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Her sitting-room and bedroom, situated at the back of the house,
communicated with each other. The sitting-room, ornamented with a
pretty paper of delicate gray, and furnished with curtains of the
same color, 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 prints possessed by
Miss Ladd's father) hung on the walls. The carpet was in harmony
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 fill
the vacancies left by Emily and Cecilia. Mrs. Ellmother was duly
established 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, but because
she was "a person who didn't talk." The prejudice against
habitual silence, among the lower order of the people, is almost
as inveterate 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 last
completed the arrangement of her rooms, and had dismissed Mrs.
Ellmother (kept hard at work since the morning) to take a little
rest. Standing alone at her 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 notice,
on the part of a person so specially favored as herself. She
turned sidewise, and looked along the length of the terrace. At
the far end a tall man was slowly 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 loss how to employ her idle time. In the first place, he
was a man. In the second 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 shake 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 with 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 looked
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 proceeded, "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 de 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 raised her eyebrows and
lifted her hands, in playful remonstrance. "Do remember it's _my_
room," she said, "and take some little interest in it, for _my_
sake!"

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"Come and sit down by me." She made room for him on the sofa. Her
one favorite aspiration--the longing to excite envy in
others--expressed itself in her next words. "Say something
pretty," 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, Mr. 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 devotion as yours! I don't envy Emily; I
only wish--" She pau sed 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 feel the heat," she
admitted, with a resignation which gently reproved him; "it is so
heavy and oppressive here after Brighton. Perhaps my sad life,
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 near
us. All very well in winter; but in summer I have heard of girls
in this school 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 it.

"Do you mean that the girls were really ill?" she asked.

"No. They slept badly--lost appetite--started at trifling noises.
In short, their nerves were out of order."

"Did they get well again at home, in another 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 different atmospheres on
health was not exhausted yet. "Do you know where the girls 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
asking 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 thought, "She's only
an inquisitive fool after all!" His examination of her books
confirmed him in the delusion that there was really nothing in
Francine'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 that 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 they 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 languishing 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," 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
silence. "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--Who 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 immediately; 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 extra
money for each new pupil who took drawing lessons? In this last
case, Francine saw her opportunity of being even with him "You
brute! Catch me attending your class!"

CHAPTER XXXIII.

RECOLLECTIONS OF ST. DOMINGO.

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 recollections. 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 St.
Domingo.

She struck a light, and unlocked her writing desk. From one of
the drawers she took out an old household account-book.

The first page contained some entries, relating 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 interest 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 been found for the manuscript by Francine. She had
written at the top of the page: _Sappho's Nonsense_.

After reading the first few sentences she rapidly turned over the
leaves, and stopped at a blank space near the end of the book.
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 with 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 have
received. When I wrote down, at your biding, all that I had told
you by word 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 mistress, as a joke? I am
almost afraid it is sometimes not far off from the truth.

"Let me be careful, however, to avoid leading 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 working 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 island 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 him, 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.
If 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 again in her desk.
"Now I know," she said to herself, "what reminded 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 decide, Mrs. Ellmother presented herself, and offered her
apologies.

"It's the first time I have overslept myself, 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?"

"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 went 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 chalk 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
takes 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. Ellmother'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."

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 "Dear Miss de Sor" waive all ceremony, and consent to be a
guest (later in the autumn) at her father's house? Circumstances
connected with her sister's health would delay their return to
England for a little while. By the end of the month she hoped to
be at home again, and to hear if Francine was disengaged. Her
address, 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."

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 hung over the lowest part of the valley,
between the village and the hills beyond. A little exercise
produced a feeling of fatigue. Francine returned to her room, and
trifled with her tea and toast.

Her next proceeding was to open her writing-desk, 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.

The old woman had been born and bred in the North, on an open
moor. She had been removed to the keen air of Canada when she
left 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, would she feel it as those
school-girls had felt it--especially that one among them, 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 shook it with a
gesture of reproof. "I thought we agreed, miss, that there was to
be no pumping."

The business of the toilet proceeded in silence.

A week passed. During an interval in the labors of the school,
Miss Ladd knocked at the door of Francine's room.

"I want to speak to you, my dear, about Mrs. Ellmother. Have you
noticed that she doesn't seem to be in good health?"

"She looks rather pale, Miss Ladd."

"It's more serious than that, Francine. The 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 that slight noise, as if it terrified
her. Her nerves are seriously out of order. Can you 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 mind
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."

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 begin 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 laughter
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 left 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 said 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
interval, she opened her desk--and hesitated. She took a sheet of
note-paper--and paused, as if still in doubt. She snatched up her
pen, with a sudden recovery of resolution--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 for any
little service which might be within your power. I shall be
greatly obliged if you can obtain for me, and send to this place,
a supply of artists' modeling wax--sufficient for the product ion
of a small image."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

IN THE DARK.

A week later, Alban Morris happened to be in Miss Ladd's study,
with a report to make on the subject of his drawing-class. Mrs.
Ellmother interrupted them for a moment. She entered the room to
return a book which Francine had borrowed that morning.

"Has Miss de Sor done with it already?" 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 only master in the
school who smoked. As Mrs. Ellmother passed him, on her way out,
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
person in whom Emily is interested."

From that moment Mrs. Ellmother became a person 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 regard for you."

"You don't mean Miss Emily?"

"Yes, I do. I respect and admire Miss Emily; and I have tried, in
my poor way, to be of some little service to her."

Mrs. Ellmother's haggard face instantly softened. "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 like 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 many of them in
this house."

Was she alluding to Francine? Alban tried to make 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 said 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, recalled 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 among 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 been 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.

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