I SAY NO

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She interrupted him for the third time. "Emily?" she repeated.
"Are you as familiar as that already? Does she call you 'Miles,'
when you are by yourselves? Is there any effort at fascination
which this charming creature has left untried? She told you no
doubt what a lonely life she leads in her poor little home?"

Even Mirabel felt that he must not permit this to pass.

"She has said nothing to me about herself," he answered. "What I
know of her, I know from Mr. Wyvil."

"Oh, indeed! You asked Mr. Wyvil about her family, of course?
What did he say?"

"He said she lost her mother when she was a child--and he told me
her father had died suddenly, a few years since, of heart
complaint."

"Well, and what else?--Never mind now! Here is somebody coming."

The person was only one of the servants. Mirabel felt grateful to
the man for interrupting them. Animated by sentiments of a
precisely opposite nature, Francine spoke to him sharply.

"What do you want here?"

"A message, miss."

"From whom?"

"From Miss Brown."

"For me?"

"No, miss." He turned to Mirabel. "Miss Brown wishes to speak to
you, sir, if you are not e ngaged."

Francine controlled herself until the man was out of hearing.

"Upon my word, this is too shameless!" she declared indignantly.
"Emily can't leave you with me for five minutes, without wanting
to see you again. If you go to her after all that you have said
to me," she cried, threatening Mirabel with her outstretched
hand, "you are the meanest of men!"

He _was_ the meanest of men--he carried out his cowardly
submission to the last extremity.

"Only say what you wish me to do," he replied.

Even Francine expected some little resistance from a creature
bearing the outward appearance of a man. "Oh, do you really mean
it?" she asked "I want you to disappoint Emily. Will you stay
here, and let me make your excuses?"

"I will do anything to please you."

Francine gave him a farewell look. Her admiration made a
desperate effort to express itself appropriately in words. "You
are not a man," she said, "you are an angel!"

Left by himself, Mirabel sat down to rest. He reviewed his own
conduct with perfect complacency. "Not one man in a hundred could
have managed that she-devil as I have done," he thought. "How
shall I explain matters to Emily?"

Considering this question, he looked by chance at the unfinished
crown of roses. "The very thing to help me!" he said--and took
out his pocketbook, and wrote these lines on a blank page: "I
have had a scene of jealousy with Miss de Sor, which is beyond
all description. To spare _you_ a similar infliction, I have done
violence to my own feelings. Instead of instantly obeying the
message which you have so kindly sent to me, I remain here for a
little while--entirely for your sake."

Having torn out the page, and twisted it up among the roses, so
that only a corner of the paper appeared in view, Mirabel called
to a lad who was at work in the garden, and gave him his
directions, accompanied by a shilling. "Take those flowers to the
servants' hall, and tell one of the maids to put them in Miss
Brown's room. Stop! Which is the way to the fruit garden?"

The lad gave the necessary directions. Mirabel walked away
slowly, with his hands in his pockets. His nerves had been
shaken; he thought a little fruit might refresh him.

CHAPTER XLVII.

DEBATING.

In the meanwhile Emily had been true to her promise to relieve
Mirabel's anxieties, on the subject of Miss Jethro. Entering the
drawing-room in search of Alban, she found him talking with
Cecilia, and heard her own name mentioned as she opened the door.

"Here she is at last!" Cecilia exclaimed. "What in the world has
kept you all this time in the rose garden?"

"Has Mr. Mirabel been more interesting than usual?" Alban asked
gayly. Whatever sense of annoyance he might have felt in Emily's
absence, was forgotten the moment she appeared; all traces of
trouble in his face vanished when they looked at each other.

"You shall judge for yourself," Emily replied with a smile. "Mr.
Mirabel has been speaking to me of a relative who is very dear to
him--his sister."

Cecilia was surprised. "Why has he never spoken to _us_ of his
sister?" she asked.

"It's a sad subject to speak of, my dear. His sister lives a life
of suffering--she has been for years a prisoner in her room. He
writes to her constantly. His letters from Monksmoor have
interested her, poor soul. It seems he said something about
me--and she has sent a kind message, inviting me to visit her one
of these days. Do you understand it now, Cecilia?"

"Of course I do! Tell me--is Mr. Mirabel's sister older or
younger than he is?"

"Older."

"Is she married?"

"She is a widow."

"Does she live with her brother?" Alban asked.

"Oh, no! She has her own house--far away in Northumberland."

"Is she near Sir Jervis Redwood?"

"I fancy not. Her house is on the coast."

"Any children?" Cecilia inquired.

"No; she is quite alone. Now, Cecilia, I have told you all I
know--and I have something to say to Mr. Morris. No, you needn't
leave us; it's a subject in which you are interested. A subject,"
she repeated, turning to Alban, "which you may have noticed is
not very agreeable to me."

"Miss Jethro?" Alban guessed.

"Yes; Miss Jethro."

Cecilia's curiosity instantly asserted itself.

"_We_ have tried to get Mr. Mirabel to enlighten us, and tried in
vain," she said. "You are a favorite. Have you succeeded?"

"I have made no attempt to succeed," Emily replied. "My only
object is to relieve Mr. Mirabel's anxiety, if I can--with your
help, Mr. Morris."

"In what way can I help you?"

"You mustn't be angry."

"Do I look angry?"

"You look serious. It is a very simple thing. Mr. Mirabel is
afraid that Miss Jethro may have said something disagreeable
about him, which you might hesitate to repeat. Is he making
himself uneasy without any reason?"

"Without the slightest reason. I have concealed nothing from Mr.
Mirabel."

"Thank you for the explanation." She turned to Cecilia. "May I
send one of the servants with a message? I may as well put an end
to Mr. Mirabel's suspense."

The man was summoned, and was dispatched with the message. Emily
would have done well, after this, if she had abstained from
speaking further of Miss Jethro. But Mirabel's doubts had,
unhappily, inspired a similar feeling of uncertainty in her own
mind. She was now disposed to attribute the tone of mystery in
Alban's unlucky letter to some possible concealment suggested by
regard for herself. "I wonder whether _I_ have any reason to feel
uneasy?" she said--half in jest, half in earnest.

"Uneasy about what?" Alban inquired.

"About Miss Jethro, of course! Has she said anything of me which
your kindness has concealed?"

Alban seemed to be a little hurt by the doubt which her question
implied. "Was that your motive," he asked, "for answering my
letter as cautiously as if you had been writing to a stranger?"

"Indeed you are quite wrong!" Emily earnestly assured him. "I was
perplexed and startled--and I took Mr. Wyvil's advice, before I
wrote to you. Shall we drop the subject?"

Alban would have willingly dropped the subject--but for that
unfortunate allusion to Mr. Wyvil. Emily had unconsciously
touched him on a sore place. He had already heard from Cecilia of
the consultation over his letter, and had disapproved of it. "I
think you were wrong to trouble Mr. Wyvil," he said.

The altered tone of his voice suggested to Emily that he would
have spoken more severely, if Cecilia had not been in the room.
She thought him needlessly ready to complain of a harmless
proceeding--and she too returned to the subject, after having
proposed to drop it not a minute since!

"You didn't tell me I was to keep your letter a secret," she
replied.

Cecilia made matters worse--with the best intentions. "I'm sure,
Mr. Morris, my father was only too glad to give Emily his
advice."

Alban remained silent--ungraciously silent as Emily thought,
after Mr. Wyvil's kindness to him.

"The thing to regret," she remarked, "is that Mr. Morris allowed
Miss Jethro to leave him without explaining herself. In his
place, I should have insisted on knowing why she wanted to
prevent me from meeting Mr. Mirabel in this house."

Cecilia made another unlucky attempt at judicious interference.
This time, she tried a gentle remonstrance.

"Remember, Emily, how Mr. Morris was situated. He could hardly be
rude to a lady. And I daresay Miss Jethro had good reasons for
not wishing to explain herself."

Francine opened the drawing-room door and heard Cecilia's last
words.

"Miss Jethro again!" she exclaimed.

"Where is Mr. Mirabel?" Emily asked. "I sent him a message."

"He regrets to say he is otherwise engaged for the present,"
Francine replied with spiteful politeness. "Don't let me
interrupt the conversation. Who is this Miss Jethro, whose name
is on everybody's lips?"

Alban could keep silent no longer. "We have done with the
subject," he said sharply.

"Because I am here?"

"Because we have said more than enough about Miss Jethro
already."

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Morris," Emily answered, resenting the
masterful tone which Alban's interference had assumed. "I have
not done with Miss Jethro yet, I can assure you."

"My dear, you don't know where she lives," Cecilia reminded her.

"Leave me to discover i t!" Emily answered hotly. "Perhaps Mr.
Mirabel knows. I shall ask Mr. Mirabel."

"I thought you would find a reason for returning to Mr. Mirabel,"
Francine remarked.

Before Emily could reply, one of the maids entered the room with
a wreath of roses in her hand.

"Mr. Mirabel sends you these flowers, miss," the woman said,
addressing Emily. "The boy told me they were to be taken to your
room. I thought it was a mistake, and I have brought them to you
here."

Francine, who happened to be nearest to the door, took the roses
from the girl on pretense of handing them to Emily. Her jealous
vigilance detected the one visible morsel of Mirabel's letter,
twisted up with the flowers. Had Emily entrapped him into a
secret correspondence with her? "A scrap of waste paper among
your roses," she said, crumpling it up in her hand as if she
meant to throw it away.

But Emily was too quick for her. She caught Francine by the
wrist. "Waste paper or not," she said; "it was among my flowers
and it belongs to me."

Francine gave up the letter, with a look which might have
startled Emily if she had noticed it. She handed the roses to
Cecilia. "I was making a wreath for you to wear this evening, my
dear--and I left it in the garden. It's not quite finished yet."

Cecilia was delighted. "How lovely it is!" she exclaimed. "And
how very kind of you! I'll finish it myself." She turned away to
the conservatory.

"I had no idea I was interfering with a letter," said Francine;
watching Emily with fiercely-attentive eyes, while she smoothed
out the crumpled paper.

Having read what Mirabel had written to her, Emily looked up, and
saw that Alban was on the point of following Cecilia into the
conservatory. He had noticed something in Francine's face which
he was at a loss to understand, but which made her presence in
the room absolutely hateful to him. Emily followed and spoke to
him.

"I am going back to the rose garden," she said.

"For any particular purpose?" Alban inquired

"For a purpose which, I am afraid, you won't approve of. I mean
to ask Mr. Mirabel if he knows Miss Jethro's address."

"I hope he is as ignorant of it as I am," Alban answered gravely.

"Are we going to quarrel over Miss Jethro, as we once quarreled
over Mrs. Rook?" Emily asked--with the readiest recovery of her
good humor. "Come! come! I am sure you are as anxious, in your
own private mind, to have this matter cleared up as I am."

"With one difference--that I think of consequences, and you
don't." He said it, in his gentlest and kindest manner, and
stepped into the conservatory.

"Never mind the consequences," she called after him, "if we can
only get at the truth. I hate being deceived!"

"There is no person living who has better reason than you have to
say that."

Emily looked round with a start. Alban was out of hearing. It was
Francine who had answered her.

"What do you mean?" she said.

Francine hesitated. A ghastly paleness overspread her face.

"Are you ill?" Emily asked.

"No--I am thinking."

After waiting for a moment in silence, Emily moved away toward
the door of the drawing-room. Francine suddenly held up her hand.

"Stop!" she cried.

Emily stood still.

"My mind is made up," Francine said.

"Made up--to what?"

"You asked what I meant, just now."

"I did."

"Well, my mind is made up to answer you. Miss Emily Brown, you
are leading a sadly frivolous life in this house. I am going to
give you something more serious to think about than your
flirtation with Mr. Mirabel. Oh, don't be impatient! I am coming
to the point. Without knowing it yourself, you have been the
victim of deception for years past--cruel deception--wicked
deception that puts on the mask of mercy."

"Are you alluding to Miss Jethro?" Emily asked, in astonishment.
"I thought you were strangers to each other. Just now, you wanted
to know who she was."

"I know nothing about her. I care nothing about her. I am not
thinking of Miss Jethro."

"Who are you thinking of?"

"I am thinking," Francine answered, "of your dead father."

CHAPTER XLVIII.

INVESTIGATING.

Having revived his sinking energies in the fruit garden, Mirabel
seated himself under the shade of a tree, and reflected on the
critical position in which he was placed by Francine's jealousy.

If Miss de Sor continued to be Mr. Wyvil's guest, there seemed to
be no other choice before Mirabel than to leave Monksmoor--and to
trust to a favorable reply to his sister's invitation for the
free enjoyment of Emily's society under another roof. Try as he
might, he could arrive at no more satisfactory conclusion than
this. In his preoccupied state, time passed quickly. Nearly an
hour had elapsed before he rose to return to the house.

Entering the hall, he was startled by a cry of terror in a
woman's voice, coming from the upper regions. At the same time
Mr. Wyvil, passing along the bedroom corridor after leaving the
music-room, was confronted by his daughter, hurrying out of
Emily's bedchamber in such a state of alarm that she could hardly
speak.

"Gone!" she cried, the moment she saw her father.

Mr. Wyvil took her in his arms and tried to compose her. "Who has
gone?" he asked.

"Emily! Oh, papa, Emily has left us! She has heard dreadful
news--she told me so herself."

"What news? How did she hear it?"

"I don't know how she heard it. I went back to the drawing-room
to show her my roses--"

"Was she alone?"

"Yes! She frightened me--she seemed quite wild. She said, 'Let me
be by myself; I shall have to go home.' She kissed me--and ran up
to her room. Oh, I am such a fool! Anybody else would have taken
care not to lose sight of her."

"How long did you leave her by herself?"

"I can't say. I thought I would go and tell you. And then I got
anxious about her, and knocked at her door, and looked into the
room. Gone! Gone!"

Mr. Wyvil rang the bell and confided Cecilia to the care of her
maid. Mirabel had already joined him in the corridor. They went
downstairs together and consulted with Alban. He volunteered to
make immediate inquiries at the railway station. Mr. Wyvil
followed him, as far as the lodge gate which opened on the
highroad--while Mirabel went to a second gate, at the opposite
extremity of the park.

Mr. Wyvil obtained the first news of Emily. The lodge keeper had
seen her pass him, on her way out of the park, in the greatest
haste. He had called after her, "Anything wrong, miss?" and had
received no reply. Asked what time had elapsed since this had
happened, he was too confused to be able to answer with any
certainty. He knew that she had taken the road which led to the
station--and he knew no more.

Mr. Wyvil and Mirabel met again at the house, and instituted an
examination of the servants. No further discoveries were made.

The question which occurred to everybody was suggested by the
words which Cecilia had repeated to her father. Emily had said
she had "heard dreadful news"--how had that news reached her? The
one postal delivery at Monksmoor was in the morning. Had any
special messenger arrived, with a letter for Emily? The servants
were absolutely certain that no such person had entered the
house. The one remaining conclusion suggested that somebody must
have communicated the evil tidings by word of mouth. But here
again no evidence was to be obtained. No visitor had called
during the day, and no new guests had arrived. Investigation was
completely baffled.

Alban returned from the railway, with news of the fugitive.

He had reached the station, some time after the departure of the
London train. The clerk at the office recognized his description
of Emily, and stated that she had taken her ticket for London.
The station-master had opened the carriage door for her, and had
noticed that the young lady appeared to be very much agitated.
This information obtained, Alban had dispatched a telegram to
Emily--in Cecilia's name: "Pray send us a few words to relieve
our anxiety, and let us know if we can be of any service to you."

This was plainly all that could be done--but Cecilia was not
satisfied. If her father had permitted it, she would have
followed Emily. Alban comforted her. He apologized to Mr. Wyvil
for shortening his visit, and announced his inten tion of
traveling to London by the next train. "We may renew our
inquiries to some advantage," he added, after hearing what had
happened in his absence, "if we can find out who was the last
person who saw her, and spoke to her, before your daughter found
her alone in the drawing-room. When I went out of the room, I
left her with Miss de Sor."

The maid who waited on Miss de Sor was sent for. Francine had
been out, by herself, walking in the park. She was then in her
room, changing her dress. On hearing of Emily's sudden departure,
she had been (as the maid reported) "much shocked and quite at a
loss to understand what it meant."

Joining her friends a few minutes later, Francine presented, so
far as personal appearance went, a strong contrast to the pale
and anxious faces round her. She looked wonderfully well, after
her walk. In other respects, she was in perfect harmony with the
prevalent feeling. She expressed herself with the utmost
propriety; her sympathy moved poor Cecilia to tears.

"I am sure, Miss de Sor, you will try to help us?" Mr. Wyvil
began

"With the greatest pleasure," Francine answered.

"How long were you and Miss Emily Brown together, after Mr.
Morris left you?"

"Not more than a quarter of an hour, I should think."

"Did anything remarkable occur in the course of conversation?"

"Nothing whatever."

Alban interfered for the first time. "Did you say anything," he
asked, "which agitated or offended Miss Brown?"

"That's rather an extraordinary question," Francine remarked.

"Have you no other answer to give?" Alban inquired.

"I answer--No!" she said, with a sudden outburst of anger.

There, the matter dropped. While she spoke in reply to Mr. Wyvil,
Francine had confronted him without embarrassment. When Alban
interposed, she never looked at him--except when he provoked her
to anger. Did she remember that the man who was questioning her,
was also the man who had suspected her of writing the anonymous
letter? Alban was on his guard against himself, knowing how he
disliked her. But the conviction in his own mind was not to be
resisted. In some unimaginable way, Francine was associated with
Emily's flight from the house.

The answer to the telegram sent from the railway station had not
arrived, when Alban took his departure for London. Cecilia's
suspense began to grow unendurable: she looked to Mirabel for
comfort, and found none. His office was to console, and his
capacity for performing that office was notorious among his
admirers; but he failed to present himself to advantage, when Mr.
Wyvil's lovely daughter had need of his services. He was, in
truth, too sincerely anxious and distressed to be capable of
commanding his customary resources of ready-made sentiment and
fluently-pious philosophy. Emily's influence had awakened the
only earnest and true feeling which had ever ennobled the popular
preacher's life.

Toward evening, the long-expected telegram was received at last.
What could be said, under the circumstances, it said in these
words:

"Safe at home--don't be uneasy about me--will write soon."

With that promise they were, for the time, forced to be content.

BOOK THE FIFTH--THE COTTAGE.

CHAPTER XLIX.

EMILY SUFFERS.

Mrs. Ellmother--left in charge of Emily's place of abode, and
feeling sensible of her lonely position from time to time--had
just thought of trying the cheering influence of a cup of tea,
when she heard a cab draw up at the cottage gate. A violent ring
at the bell followed. She opened the door--and found Emily on the
steps. One look at that dear and familiar face was enough for the
old servant.

"God help us," she cried, "what's wrong now?"

Without a word of reply, Emily led the way into the bedchamber
which had been the scene of Miss Letitia's death. Mrs. Ellmother
hesitated on the threshold.

"Why do you bring me in here?" she asked.

"Why did you try to keep me out?" Emily answered.

"When did I try to keep you out, miss?"

"When I came home from school, to nurse my aunt. Ah, you remember
now! Is it true--I ask you here, where your old mistress died--is
it true that my aunt deceived me about my father's death? And
that you knew it?"

There was dead silence. Mrs. Ellmother trembled horribly--her
lips dropped apart--her eyes wandered round the room with a stare
of idiotic terror. "Is it her ghost tells you that?" she
whispered. "Where is her ghost? The room whirls round and round,
miss--and the air sings in my ears."

Emily sprang forward to support her. She staggered to a chair,
and lifted her great bony hands in wild entreaty. "Don't frighten
me," she said. "Stand back."

Emily obeyed her. She dashed the cold sweat off her forehead.
"You were talking about your father's death just now," she burst
out, in desperate defiant tones. "Well! we know it and we are
sorry for it--your father died suddenly."

"My father died murdered in the inn at Zeeland! All the long way
to London, I have tried to doubt it. Oh, me, I know it now!"

Answering in those words, she looked toward the bed. Harrowing
remembrances of her aunt's delirious self-betrayal made the room
unendurable to her. She ran out. The parlor door was open.
Entering the room, she passed by a portrait of her father, which
her aunt had hung on the wall over the fireplace. She threw
herself on the sofa and burst into a passionate fit of crying.
"Oh, my father--my dear, gentle, loving father; my first, best,
truest friend--murdered! murdered! Oh, God, where was your
justice, where was your mercy, when he died that dreadful death?"

A hand was laid on her shoulder; a voice said to her, "Hush, my
child! God knows best."

Emily looked up, and saw that Mrs. Ellmother had followed her.
"You poor old soul," she said, suddenly remembering; "I
frightened you in the other room."

"I have got over it, my dear. I am old; and I have lived a hard
life. A hard life schools a person. I make no complaints." She
stopped, and began to shudder again. "Will you believe me if I
tell you something?" she asked. "I warned my self-willed
mistress. Standing by your father's coffin, I warned her. Hide
the truth as you may (I said), a time will come when our child
will know what you are keeping from her now. One or both of us
may live to see it. I am the one who has lived; no refuge in the
grave for me. I want to hear about it--there's no fear of
frightening or hurting me now. I want to hear how you found it
out. Was it by accident, my dear? or did a person tell you?"

Emily's mind was far away from Mrs. Ellmother. She rose from the
sofa, with her hands held fast over her aching heart.

"The one duty of my life," she said--"I am thinking of the one
duty of my life. Look! I am calm now; I am resigned to my hard
lot. Never, never again, can the dear memory of my father be what
it was! From this time, it is the horrid memory of a crime. The
crime has gone unpunished; the man has escaped others. He shall
not escape Me." She paused, and looked at Mrs. Ellmother
absently. "What did you say just now? You want to hear how I know
what I know? Naturally! naturally! Sit down here--sit down, my
old friend, on the sofa with me--and take your mind back to
Netherwoods. Alban Morris--"

Mrs. Ellmother recoiled from Emily in dismay. "Don't tell me _he_
had anything to do with it! The kindest of men; the best of men!"

"The man of all men living who least deserves your good opinion
or mine," Emily answered sternly.

"You!" Mrs. Ellmother exclaimed, "_you_ say that!"

"I say it. He--who won on me to like him--he was in the
conspiracy to deceive me; and you know it! He heard me talk of
the newspaper story of the murder of my father--I say, he heard
me talk of it composedly, talk of it carelessly, in the innocent
belief that it was the murder of a stranger--and he never opened
his lips to prevent that horrid profanation! He never even said,
speak of something else; I won't hear you! No more of him! God
forbid I should ever see him again. No! Do what I told you. Carry
your mind back to Netherwoods. One night you let Francine de Sor
frighten you. You ran away from her into the garden. Keep quiet!
At your age, must I set you an example of self-control?

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