I SAY NO

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"I want to know, Miss Emily, where Francine
de Sor is now?"

"She is at the house in the country, which I have left."

"Where does she go next, if you please? Back to Miss Ladd?"

"I suppose so. What interest have you in knowing where she goes
next?"

"I won't interrupt you, miss. It's true that I ran away into the
garden. I can guess who followed me. How did she find her way to
me and Mr. Morris, in the dark?"

"The smell of tobacco guided her--she knew who smoked--she had
seen him talking to you, on that very day--she followed the
scent--she heard what you two said to each other--and she has
repeated it to me. Oh, my old friend, the malice of a revengeful
girl has enlightened me, when you, my nurse--and he, my
lover--left me in the dark: it has told me how my father died!"

"That's said bitterly, miss!"

"Is it said truly?"

"No. It isn't said truly of myself. God knows you would never
have been kept in the dark, if your aunt had listened to me. I
begged and prayed--I went down on my knees to her--I warned her,
as I told you just now. Must I tell _you_ what a headstrong woman
Miss Letitia was? She insisted. She put the choice before me of
leaving her at once and forever--or giving in. I wouldn't have
given in to any other creature on the face of this earth. I am
obstinate, as you have often told me. Well, your aunt's obstinacy
beat mine; I was too fond of her to say No. Besides, if you ask
me who was to blame in the first place, I tell you it wasn't your
aunt; she was frightened into it."

"Who frightened her?"

"Your godfather--the great London surgeon--he who was visiting in
our house at the time."

"Sir Richard?"

"Yes--Sir Richard. He said he wouldn't answer for the
consequences, in the delicate state of your health, if we told
you the truth. Ah, he had it all his own way after that. He went
with Miss Letitia to the inquest; he won over the coroner and the
newspaper men to his will; he kept your aunt's name out of the
papers; he took charge of the coffin; he hired the undertaker and
his men, strangers from London; he wrote the certificate--who but
he! Everybody was cap in hand to the famous man!"

"Surely, the servants and the neighbors asked questions?"

"Hundreds of questions! What did that matter to Sir Richard? They
were like so many children, in _his_ hands. And, mind you, the
luck helped him. To begin with, there was the common name. Who
was to pick out your poor father among the thousands of James
Browns? Then, again, the house and lands went to the male heir,
as they called him--the man your father quarreled with in the
bygone time. He brought his own establishment with him. Long
before you got back from the friends you were staying with--don't
you remember it?--we had cleared out of the house; we were miles
and miles away; and the old servants were scattered abroad,
finding new situations wherever they could. How could you suspect
us? We had nothing to fear in that way; but my conscience pricked
me. I made another attempt to prevail on Miss Letitia, when you
had recovered your health. I said, 'There's no fear of a relapse
now; break it to her gently, but tell her the truth.' No! Your
aunt was too fond of you. She daunted me with dreadful fits of
crying, when I tried to persuade her. And that wasn't the worst
of it. She bade me remember what an excitable man your father
was--she reminded me that the misery of your mother's death laid
him low with brain fever--she said, 'Emily takes after her
father; I have heard you say it yourself; she has his
constitution, and his sensitive nerves. Don't you know how she
loved him--how she talks of him to this day? Who can tell (if we
are not careful) what dreadful mischief we may do?' That was how
my mistress worked on me. I got infected with her fears; it was
as if I had caught an infection of disease. Oh, my dear, blame me
if it must be; but don't forget how I have suffered for it since!
I was driven away from my dying mistress, in terror of what she
might say, while you were watching at her bedside. I have lived
in fear of what you might ask me--and have longed to go back to
you--and have not had the courage to do it. Look at me now!"

The poor woman tried to take out her handkerchief; her quivering
hand helplessly entangled itself in her dress. "I can't even dry
my eyes," she said faintly. "Try to forgive me, miss!"

Emily put her arms round the old nurse's neck. "It is _you_," she
said sadly, "who must forgive me."

For a while they were silent. Through the window that was open to
the little garden, came the one sound that could be heard--the
gentle trembling of leaves in the evening wind.

The silence was harshly broken by the bell at the cottage door.
They both started.

Emily's heart beat fast. "Who can it be?" she said.

Mrs. Ellmother rose. "Shall I say you can't see anybody?" she
asked, before leaving the room.

"Yes! yes!"

Emily heard the door opened--heard low voices in the passage.
There was a momentary interval. Then, Mrs. Ellmother returned.
She said nothing. Emily spoke to her.

"Is it a visitor?"

"Yes."

"Have you said I can't see anybody?"

"I couldn't say it."

"Why not?"

"Don't be hard on him, my dear. It's Mr. Alban Morris."

CHAPTER L.

MISS LADD ADVISES.

Mrs. Ellmother sat by the dying embers of the kitchen fire;
thinking over the events of the day in perplexity and distress.

She had waited at the cottage door for a friendly word with
Alban, after he had left Emily. The stern despair in his face
warned her to let him go in silence. She had looked into the
parlor next. Pale and cold, Emily lay on the sofa--sunk in
helpless depression of body and mind. "Don't speak to me," she
whispered; "I am quite worn out." It was but too plain that the
view of Alban's conduct which she had already expressed, was the
view to which she had adhered at the interview between them. They
had parted in grief---perhaps in anger--perhaps forever. Mrs.
Ellmother lifted Emily in compassionate silence, and carried her
upstairs, and waited by her until she slept.

In the still hours of the night, the thoughts of the faithful old
servant--dwelling for a while on past and present--advanced, by
slow degrees, to consideration of the doubtful future. Measuring,
to the best of her ability, the responsibility which had fallen
on her, she felt that it was more than she could bear, or ought
to bear, alone. To whom could she look for help?

The gentlefolks at Monksmoor were strangers to her. Doctor Allday
was near at hand--but Emily had said, "Don't send for him; he
will torment me with questions--and I want to keep my mind quiet,
if I can." But one person was left, to whose ever-ready kindness
Mrs. Ellmother could appeal--and that person was Miss Ladd.

It would have been easy to ask the help of the good
schoolmistress in comforting and advising the favorite pupil whom
she loved. But Mrs. Ellmother had another object in view: she was
determined that the cold-blooded cruelty of Emily's treacherous
friend should not be allowed to triumph with impunity. If an
ignorant old woman could do nothing else, she could tell the
plain truth, and could leave Miss Ladd to decide whether such a
person as Francine deserved to remain under her care.

To feel justified in taking this step was one thing: to put it
all clearly in writing was another. After vainly making the
attempt overnight, Mrs. Ellmother tore up her letter, and
communicated with Miss Ladd by means of a telegraphic message, in
the morning. "Miss Emily is in great distress. I must not leave
her. I have something besides to say to you which cannot be put
into a letter. Will you please come to us?"

Later in the forenoon, Mrs. Ellmother was called to the door by
the arrival of a visitor. The personal appearance of the stranger
impressed her favorably. He was a handsome little gentleman; his
manners were winning, and his voice was singularly pleasant to
hear.

"I have come from Mr. Wyvil's house in the country," he said;
"and I bring a letter from his daughter. May I take the
opportunity of asking if Miss Emily is well?"

"Far from it, sir, I am sorry to say. She is so poorly that she
keeps her bed."

At this reply, the visitor's face revealed such sincere sympathy
and regret, that Mrs. Ellmo ther was interested in him: she added
a word more. "My mistress has had a hard trial to bear, sir. I
hope there is no bad news for her in the young lady's letter?"

"On the contrary, there is news that she will be glad to
hear--Miss Wyvil is coming here this evening. Will you excuse my
asking if Miss Emily has had medical advice?"

"She won't hear of seeing the doctor, sir. He's a good friend of
hers--and he lives close by. I am unfortunately alone in the
house. If I could leave her, I would go at once and ask his
advice."

"Let _me_ go!" Mirabel eagerly proposed.

Mrs. Ellmother's face brightened. "That's kindly thought of,
sir--if you don't mind the trouble."

"My good lady, nothing is a trouble in your young mistress's
service. Give me the doctor's name and address--and tell me what
to say to him."

"There's one thing you must be careful of," Mrs. Ellmother
answered. "He mustn't come here, as if he had been sent for--she
would refuse to see him."

Mirabel understood her. "I will not forget to caution him. Kindly
tell Miss Emily I called--my name is Mirabel. I will return
to-morrow."

He hastened away on his errand--only to find that he had arrived
too late. Doctor Allday had left London; called away to a serious
case of illness. He was not expected to get back until late in
the afternoon. Mirabel left a message, saying that he would
return in the evening.

The next visitor who arrived at the cottage was the trusty
friend, in whose generous nature Mrs. Ellmother had wisely placed
confidence. Miss Ladd had resolved to answer the telegram in
person, the moment she read it.

"If there is bad news," she said, "let me hear it at once. I am
not well enough to bear suspense; my busy life at the school is
beginning to tell on me."

"There is nothing that need alarm you, ma'am--but there is a
great deal to say, before you see Miss Emily. My stupid head
turns giddy with thinking of it. I hardly know where to begin."

"Begin with Emily," Miss Ladd suggested.

Mrs. Ellmother took the advice. She described Emily's unexpected
arrival on the previous day; and she repeated what had passed
between them afterward. Miss Ladd's first impulse, when she had
recovered her composure, was to go to Emily without waiting to
hear more. Not presuming to stop her, Mrs. Ellmother ventured to
put a question "Do you happen to have my telegram about you,
ma'am?" Miss Ladd produced it. "Will you please look at the last
part of it again?"

Miss Ladd read the words: "I have something besides to say to you
which cannot be put into a letter." She at once returned to her
chair.

"Does what you have still to tell me refer to any person whom I
know?" she said.

"It refers, ma'am, to Miss de Sor. I am afraid I shall distress
you."

"What did I say, when I came in?" Miss Ladd asked. "Speak out
plainly; and try--it's not easy, I know--but try to begin at the
beginning."

Mrs. Ellmother looked back through her memory of past events, and
began by alluding to the feeling of curiosity which she had
excited in Francine, on the day when Emily had made them known to
one another. From this she advanced to the narrative of what had
taken place at Netherwoods--to the atrocious attempt to frighten
her by means of the image of wax--to the discovery made by
Francine in the garden at night--and to the circumstances under
which that discovery had been communicated to Emily.

Miss Ladd's face reddened with indignation. "Are you sure of all
that you have said?" she asked.

"I am quite sure, ma'am. I hope I have not done wrong," Mrs.
Ellmother added simply, "in telling you all this?"

"Wrong?" Miss Ladd repeated warmly. "If that wretched girl has no
defense to offer, she is a disgrace to my school--and I owe you a
debt of gratitude for showing her to me in her true character.
She shall return at once to Netherwoods; and she shall answer me
to my entire satisfaction--or leave my house. What cruelty! what
duplicity! In all my experience of girls, I have never met with
the like of it. Let me go to my dear little Emily--and try to
forget what I have heard."

Mrs. Ellmother led the good lady to Emily's room--and, returning
to the lower part of the house, went out into the garden. The
mental effort that she had made had left its result in an aching
head, and in an overpowering sense of depression. "A mouthful of
fresh air will revive me," she thought.

The front garden and back garden at the cottage communicated with
each other. Walking slowly round and round, Mrs. Ellmother heard
footsteps on the road outside, which stopped at the gate. She
looked through the grating, and discovered Alban Morris.

"Come in, sir!" she said, rejoiced to see him. He obeyed in
silence. The full view of his face shocked Mrs. Ellmother. Never
in her experience of the friend who had been so kind to her at
Netherwoods, had he looked so old and so haggard as he looked
now. "Oh, Mr. Alban, I see how she has distressed you! Don't take
her at her word. Keep a good heart, sir--young girls are never
long together of the same mind."

Alban gave her his hand. "I mustn't speak about it," he said.
"Silence helps me to bear my misfortune as becomes a man. I have
had some hard blows in my time: they don't seem to have blunted
my sense of feeling as I thought they had. Thank God, she doesn't
know how she has made me suffer! I want to ask her pardon for
having forgotten myself yesterday. I spoke roughly to her, at one
time. No: I won't intrude on her; I have said I am sorry, in
writing. Do you mind giving it to her? Good-by--and thank you. I
mustn't stay longer; Miss Ladd expects me at Netherwoods."

"Miss Ladd is in the house, sir, at this moment."

"Here, in London!"

"Upstairs, with Miss Emily."

"Upstairs? Is Emily ill?"

"She is getting better, sir. Would you like to see Miss Ladd?"

"I should indeed! I have something to say to her--and time is of
importance to me. May I wait in the garden?"

"Why not in the parlor, sir?"

"The parlor reminds me of happier days. In time, I may have
courage enough to look at the room again. Not now."

"If she doesn't make it up with that good man," Mrs. Ellmother
thought, on her way back to the house, "my nurse-child is what I
have never believed her to be yet--she's a fool."

In half an hour more, Miss Ladd joined Alban on the little plot
of grass behind the cottage. "I bring Emily's reply to your
letter," she said. "Read it, before you speak to me."

Alban read it: "Don't suppose you have offended me--and be
assured that I feel gratefully the tone in which your note is
written. I try to write forbearingly on my side; I wish I could
write acceptably as well. It is not to be done. I am as unable as
ever to enter into your motives. You are not my relation; you
were under no obligation of secrecy: you heard me speak
ignorantly of the murder of my father, as if it had been the
murder of a stranger; and yet you kept me--deliberately, cruelly
kept me--deceived! The remembrance of it burns me like fire. I
cannot--oh, Alban, I cannot restore you to the place in my
estimation which you have lost! If you wish to help me to bear my
trouble, I entreat you not to write to me again."

Alban offered the letter silently to Miss Ladd. She signed to him
to keep it.

"I know what Emily has written," she said; "and I have told her,
what I now tell you--she is wrong; in every way, wrong. It is the
misfortune of her impetuous nature that she rushes to
conclusions--and those conclusions once formed, she holds to them
with all the strength of her character. In this matter, she has
looked at her side of the question exclusively; she is blind to
your side."

"Not willfully!" Alban interposed.

Miss Ladd looked at him with admiration. "You defend Emily?" she
said.

"I love her," Alban answered.

Miss Ladd felt for him, as Mrs. Ellmother had felt for him.
"Trust to time, Mr. Morris," she resumed. "The danger to be
afraid of is--the danger of some headlong action, on her part, in
the interval. Who can say what the end may be, if she persists in
her present way of thinking? There is something monstrous, in a
young girl declaring that it is _her_ duty to pursue a murderer,
and to bring him to justice! Don't you see it yourself?"

A lban still defended Emily. "It seems to me to be a natural
impulse," he said--"natural, and noble."

"Noble!" Miss Ladd exclaimed.

"Yes--for it grows out of the love which has not died with her
father's death."

"Then you encourage her?"

"With my whole heart--if she would give me the opportunity!"

"We won't pursue the subject, Mr. Morris. I am told by Mrs.
Ellmother that you have something to say to me. What is it?"

"I have to ask you," Alban replied, "to let me resign my
situation at Netherwoods."

Miss Ladd was not only surprised; she was also--a very rare thing
with her--inclined to be suspicious. After what he had said to
Emily, it occurred to her that Alban might be meditating some
desperate project, with the hope of recovering his lost place in
her favor.

"Have you heard of some better employment?" she asked.

"I have heard of no employment. My mind is not in a state to give
the necessary attention to my pupils."

"Is that your only reason for wishing to leave me?"

"It is one of my reasons."

"The only one which you think it necessary to mention?"

"Yes."

"I shall be sorry to lose you, Mr. Morris."

"Believe me, Miss Ladd, I am not ungrateful for your kindness."

"Will you let me, in all kindness, say something more?" Miss Ladd
answered. "I don't intrude on your secrets--I only hope that you
have no rash project in view."

"I don't understand you, Miss Ladd."

"Yes, Mr. Morris--you do."

She shook hands with him--and went back to Emily.

CHAPTER LI.

THE DOCTOR SEES.

Alban returned to Netherwoods--to continue his services, until
another master could be found to take his place.

By a later train Miss Ladd followed him. Emily was too well aware
of the importance of the mistress's presence to the well-being of
the school, to permit her to remain at the cottage. It was
understood that they were to correspond, and that Emily's room
was waiting for her at Netherwoods, whenever she felt inclined to
occupy it

Mrs. Ellmother made the tea, that evening, earlier than usual.
Being alone again with Emily, it struck her that she might take
advantage of her position to say a word in Alban's favor. She had
chosen her time unfortunately. The moment she pronounced the
name, Emily checked her by a look, and spoke of another
person--that person being Miss Jethro.

Mrs. Ellmother at once entered her protest, in her own downright
way. "Whatever you do," she said, "don't go back to that! What
does Miss Jethro matter to you?"

"I am more interested in her than you suppose--I happen to know
why she left the school."

"Begging your pardon, miss, that's quite impossible!"

"She left the school," Emily persisted, "for a serious reason.
Miss Ladd discovered that she had used false references."

"Good Lord! who told you that?"

"You see I know it. I asked Miss Ladd how she got her
information. She was bound by a promise never to mention the
person's name. I didn't say it to her--but I may say it to you. I
am afraid I have an idea of who the person was."

"No," Mrs. Ellmother obstinately asserted, "you can't possibly
know who it was! How should you know?"

"Do you wish me to repeat what I heard in that room opposite,
when my aunt was dying?"

"Drop it, Miss Emily! For God's sake, drop it!"

"I can't drop it. It's dreadful to me to have suspicions of my
aunt--and no better reason for them than what she said in a state
of delirium. Tell me, if you love me, was it her wandering fancy?
or was it the truth?"

"As I hope to be saved, Miss Emily, I can only guess as you do--I
don't rightly know. My mistress trusted me half way, as it were.
I'm afraid I have a rough tongue of my own sometimes. I offended
her--and from that time she kept her own counsel. What she did,
she did in the dark, so far as I was concerned."

"How did you offend her?"

"I shall be obliged to speak of your father if I tell you how?"

"Speak of him."

"_He_ was not to blame--mind that!" Mrs. Ellmother said
earnestly. "If I wasn't certain of what I say now you wouldn't
get a word out of me. Good harmless man--there's no denying
it--he _was_ in love with Miss Jethro! What's the matter?"

Emily was thinking of her memorable conversation with the
disgraced teacher on her last night at school. "Nothing" she
answered. "Go on."

"If he had not tried to keep it secret from us, "Mrs. Ellmother
resumed, "your aunt might never have taken it into her head that
he was entangled in a love affair of the shameful sort. I don't
deny that I helped her in her inquiries; but it was only because
I felt sure from the first that the more she discovered the more
certainly my master's innocence would show itself. He used to go
away and visit Miss Jethro privately. In the time when your aunt
trusted me, we never could find out where. She made that
discovery afterward for herself (I can't tell you how long
afterward); and she spent money in employing mean wretches to pry
into Miss Jethro's past life. She had (if you will excuse me for
saying it) an old maid's hatred of the handsome young woman, who
lured your father away from home, and set up a secret (in a
manner of speaking) between her brother and herself. I won't tell
you how we looked at letters and other things which he forgot to
leave under lock and key. I will only say there was one bit, in a
journal he kept, which made me ashamed of myself. I read it out
to Miss Letitia; and I told her in so many words, not to count
any more on me. No; I haven't got a copy of the words--I can
remember them without a copy. 'Even if my religion did not forbid
me to peril my soul by leading a life of sin with this woman whom
I love'--that was how it began--'the thought of my daughter would
keep me pure. No conduct of mine shall ever make me unworthy of
my child's affection and respect.' There! I'm making you cry; I
won't stay here any longer. All that I had to say has been said.
Nobody but Miss Ladd knows for certain whether your aunt was
innocent or guilty in the matter of Miss Jethro's disgrace.
Please to excuse me; my work's waiting downstairs."

From time to time, as she pursued her domestic labors, Mrs.
Ellmother thought of Mirabel. Hours on hours had passed--and the
doctor had not appeared. Was he too busy to spare even a few
minutes of his time? Or had the handsome little gentleman, after
promising so fairly, failed to perform his errand? This last
doubt wronged Mirabel. He had engaged to return to the doctor's
house; and he kept his word.

Doctor Allday was at home again, and was seeing patients.
Introduced in his turn, Mirabel had no reason to complain of his
reception. At the same time, after he had stated the object of
his visit, something odd began to show itself in the doctor's
manner.

He looked at Mirabel with an appearance of uneasy curiosity; and
he contrived an excuse for altering the visitor's position in the
room, so that the light fell full on Mirabel's face.

"I fancy I must have seen you," the doctor said, "at some former
time."

"I am ashamed to say I don't remember it," Mirabel answered.

"Ah, very likely I'm wrong! I'll call on Miss Emily, sir, you may
depend on it."

Left in his consulting-room, Doctor Allday failed to ring the
bell which summoned the next patient who was waiting for him. He
took his diary from the table drawer, and turned to the daily
entries for the past month of July.

Arriving at the fifteenth day of the month, he glanced at the
first lines of writing: "A visit from a mysterious lady, calling
herself Miss Jethro. Our conference led to some very unexpected
results."

No: that was not what he was in search of. He looked a little
lower down: and read on regularly, from that point, as follows:

"Called on Miss Emily, in great anxiety about the discoveries
which she might make among her aunt's papers. Papers all
destroyed, thank God--except the Handbill, offering a reward for
discovery of the murderer, which she found in the scrap-book.
Gave her back the Handbill. Emily much surprised that the wretch
should have escaped, with such a careful description of him
circulated everywhere. She read the description aloud to me, in
her nice clear voice: 'Supposed age between twenty-five and
thirty years. A well-made man of small stature. Fai r complexion,
delicate features, clear blue eyes. Hair light, and cut rather
short. Clean shaven, with the exception of narrow
half-whiskers'--and so on. Emily at a loss to understand how the
fugitive could disguise himself. Reminded her that he could
effectually disguise his head and face (with time to help him) by
letting his hair grow long, and cultivating his beard. Emily not
convinced, even by this self-evident view of the case. Changed
the subject."

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