I SAY NO

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What refuge was left open to him?

If he took to flight, his sudden disappearance would be a
suspicious circumstance in itself, and would therefore provoke
inquiries which might lead to serious results. Supposing that he
overlooked the risk thus presented, would he be capable of
enduring a separation from Emily, which might be a separation for
life? Even in the first horror of discovering his situation, her
influence remained unshaken--the animating spirit of the one
manly capacity for resistance which raised him above the reach of
his own fears. The only prospect before him which he felt himself
to be incapable of contemplating, was the prospect of leaving
Emily.

Having arrived at this conclusion, his fears urged him to think
of providing for his own safety.

The first precaution to adopt was to separate Emily from friends
whose advice might be hostile to his interests--perhaps even
subversive of his security. To effect this design, he had need of
an ally whom he could trust. That ally was at his disposal, far
away in the north.

At the time when Francine's jealousy began to interfere with all
freedom of intercourse between Emily and himself at Monksmoor, he
had contemplated making arrangements which might enable them to
meet at the house of his invalid sister, Mrs. Delvin. He had
spoken of her, and of the bodily affliction which confined her to
her room, in terms which had already interested Emily. In the
present emergency, he decided on returning to the subject, and on
hastening the meeting between the two women which he had first
suggested at Mr. Wyvil's country seat.

No time was to be lost in carrying out this intention. He wrote
to Mrs. Delvin by that day's post; confiding to her, in the first
place, the critical position in which he now found himself. This
done, he proceeded as follows:

"To your sound judgment, dearest Agatha, it may appear that I am
making myself needlessly uneasy about the future. Two persons
only know that I am the man who escaped from the inn at Zeeland.
You are one of them, and Miss Jethro is the other. On you I can
absolutely rely; and, after my experience of her, I ought to feel
sure of Miss Jethro. I admit this; but I cannot get over my
distrust of Emily's friends. I fear the cunning old doctor; I
doubt Mr. Wyvil; I hate Alban Morris.

"Do me a favor, my dear. Invite Emily to be your guest, and so
separate her from these friends. The old servant who attends on
her will be included in the invitation, of course. Mrs. Ellmother
is, as I believe, devoted to the interests of Mr. Alban Morris:
she will be well out of the way of doing mischief, while we have
her safe in your northern solitude.

"There is no fear that Emily will refuse your invitation.

"In the first place, she is already interested in you. In the
second place, I shall consider the small proprieties of social
life; and, instead of traveling with her to your house, I shall
follow by a later train. In the third place, I am now the chosen
adviser in whom she trusts; and what I tell her to do, she will
do. It pains me, really and truly pains me, to be compelled to
deceive her--but the other alternative is to reveal myself as the
wretch of whom she is in search. Was there ever such a situation?
And, oh, Agatha, I am so fond of her! If I fail to persuade her
to be my wife, I don't care what becomes of me. I used to think
disgrace, and death on the scaffold, the most frightful prospect
that a man can contemplate. In my present frame of mind, a life
without Emily may just as well end in that way as in any other.
When we are together in your old sea-beaten tower, do your best,
my dear, to incline the heart of this sweet girl toward me. If
she remains in London, how do I know that Mr. Morris may not
recover the place he has lost in her good opinion? The bare idea
of it turns me cold.

"There is one more point on which I must touch, before I can
finish my letter.

"When you last wrote, you told me that Sir Jervis Redwood was not
expected to live much longer, and that the establishment would be
broken up after his death. Can you find out for me what will
become, under the circumstances, of Mr. and Mrs. Rook? So far as
I am concerned, I don't doubt that the alteration in my personal
appearance, which has protected me for years past, may be trusted
to preserve me from recognition by these two people. But it is of
the utmost importance, remembering the project to which Emily has
devoted herself, that she should not meet with Mrs. Rook. They
have been already in correspondence; and Mrs. Rook has expressed
an intention (if the opportunity offers itself) of calling at the
cottage. Another reason, and a pressing reason, for removing
Emily from London! We can easily keep the Rooks out of _your_
house; but I own I should feel more at my ease, if I heard that
they had left Northumberland."

With that confession, Mrs. Delvin's brother closed his letter.

CHAPTER LVI.

ALBAN SEES HIS WAY.

During the first days of Mirabel's sojourn at his hotel in
London, events were in progress at Netherwoods, affecting the
interests of the man who was the especial object of his distrust.
Not long after Miss Ladd had returned to her school, she heard of
an artist who was capable of filling the place to be vacated by
Alban Morris. It was then the twenty-third of the month. In four
days more the new master would be ready to enter on his duties;
and Alban would be at liberty.

On the twenty-fourth, Alban received a telegram which startled
him. The person sending the message was Mrs. Ellmother; and the
words were: "Meet me at your railway station to-day, at two
o'clock."

He found the old woman in the waiting-room; and he met with a
rough reception.

"Minutes are precious, Mr. Morris," she said; "you are two
minutes late. The next train to London stops here in half an
hour--and I must go back by it."

"Good heavens, what brings you here? Is Emily--?"

"Emily is well enough in health--if that's what you mean? As to
why I come here, the reason is that it's a deal easier for me
(worse luck!) to take this journey than to write a letter. One
good turn deserves another. I don't forget how kind you were to
me, away there at the school--and I can't, and won't, see what's
going on at the cottage, behind your back, without letting you
know of it. Oh, you needn't be alarmed about _her!_ I've made an
excuse to get away for a few hours--but I haven't left her by
herself. Miss Wyvil has come to London again; and Mr. Mirabel
spends the best part of his time with her. Excuse me for a
moment, will you? I'm so thirsty after the journey, I can hardly
speak."

She presented herself at the counter in the waiting-room. "I'll
trouble you, young woman, for a glass of ale." She returned to
Alban in a better humor. "It's not bad stuff, that! When I have
said
my say, I'll have a drop more--just to wash the taste of Mr.
Mirabel out of my mouth. Wait a bit; I have something to ask you.
How much longer are you obliged to stop here, teaching the girls
to draw?"

"I leave Netherwoods in three days more," Alban replied.

"That's all right! You may be in time to bring Miss Emily to her
senses, yet."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean--if you don't stop it--she will marry the parson."

"I can't believe it, Mrs. Ellmother! I won't believe it!"

"Ah, it's a comfort to him, poor fellow, to say that! Look here,
Mr. Morris; this is how it stands. You're in disgrace with Miss
Emily--and he profits by it. I was fool enough to take a liking
to Mr. Mirabel when I first opened the door to him; I know better
now. He got on the blind side of me; and now he has got on the
blind side of _her_. Shall I tell you how? By doing what you
would have done if you had had the chance. He's helping her--or
pretending to help her, I don't know which--to find the man who
murdered poor Mr. Brown. After four years! And when all the
police in England (with a reward to encourage them) did their
best, and it came to nothing!"

"Never mind that!" Alban said impatiently. "I want to know how
Mr. Mirabel is helping her?"

"That's more than I can tell you. You don't suppose they take me
into their confidence? All I can do is to pick up a word, here
and there, when fine weather tempts them out into the garden. She
tells him to suspect Mrs. Rook, and to make inquiries after Miss
Jethro. And he has his plans; and he writes them down, which is
dead against his doing anything useful, in my opinion. I don't
hold with your scribblers. At the same time I wouldn't count too
positively, in your place, on his being likely to fail. That
little Mirabel--if it wasn't for his beard, I should believe he
was a woman, and a sickly woman too; he fainted in our house the
other day--that little Mirabel is in earnest. Rather than leave
Miss Emily from Saturday to Monday, he has got a parson out of
employment to do his Sunday work for him. And, what's more, he
has persuaded her (for some reasons of his own) to leave London
next week."

"Is she going back to Monksmoor?"

"Not she! Mr. Mirabel has got a sister, a widow lady; she's a
cripple, or something of the sort. Her name is Mrs. Delvin. She
lives far away in the north country, by the sea; and Miss Emily
is going to stay with her."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Sure? I've seen the letter."

"Do you mean the letter of invitation?"

"Yes--I do. Miss Emily herself showed it to me. I'm to go with
her--'in attendance on my mistress,' as the lady puts it. This I
will say for Mrs. Delvin: her handwriting is a credit to the
school that taught her; and the poor bedridden creature words her
invitation so nicely, that I myself couldn't have resisted
it--and I'm a hard one, as you know. You don't seem to heed me,
Mr. Morris."

"I beg your pardon, I was thinking."

"Thinking of what--if I may make so bold?"

"Of going back to London with you, instead of waiting till the
new master comes to take my place."

"Don't do that, sir! You would do harm instead of good, if you
showed yourself at the cottage now. Besides, it would not be fair
to Miss Ladd, to leave her before the other man takes your girls
off your hands. Trust me to look after your interests; and don't
go near Miss Emily--don't even write to her--unless you have got
something to say about the murder, which she will be eager to
hear. Make some discovery in that direction, Mr. Morris, while
the parson is only trying to do it or pretending to do it--and
I'll answer for the result. Look at the clock! In ten minutes
more the train will be here. My memory isn't as good as it was;
but I do think I have told you all I had to tell."

"You are the best of good friends!" Alban said warmly.

"Never mind about that, sir. If you want to do a friendly thing
in return, tell me if you know what has become of Miss de Sor."

"She has returned to Netherwoods."

"Aha! Miss Ladd is as good as her word. Would you mind writing to
tell me of it, if Miss de Sor leaves the school again? Good Lord!
there she is on the platform with bag and baggage. Don't let her
see me, Mr. Morris! If she comes in here, I shall set the marks
of my ten finger-nails on that false face of hers, as sure as I
am a Christian woman."

Alban placed himself at the door, so as to hide Mrs. Ellmother.
There indeed was Francine, accompanied by one of the teachers at
the school. She took a seat on the bench outside the
booking-office, in a state of sullen indifference--absorbed in
herself--noticing nothing. Urged by ungovernable curiosity, Mrs.
Ellmother stole on tiptoe to Alban's side to look at her. To a
person acquainted with the circumstances there could be no
possible doubt of what had happened. Francine had failed to
excuse herself, and had been dismissed from Miss Ladd's house.

"I would have traveled to the world's end," Mrs. Ellmother said,
"to see _that!_"

She returned to her place in the waiting-room, perfectly
satisfied.

The teacher noticed Alban, on leaving the booking-office after
taking the tickets. "I shall be glad," she said, looking toward
Francine, "when I have resigned the charge of that young lady to
the person who is to receive her in London."

"Is she to be sent back to her parents?" Alban asked.

"We don't know yet. Miss Ladd will write to St. Domingo by the
next mail. In the meantime, her father's agent in London--the
same person who pays her allowance--takes care of her until he
hears from the West Indies."

"Does she consent to this?"

"She doesn't seem to care what becomes of her. Miss Ladd has
given her every opportunity of explaining and excusing herself,
and has produced no impression. You can see the state she is in.
Our good mistress--always hopeful even in the worst cases, as you
know--thinks she is feeling ashamed of herself, and is too proud
and self-willed to own it. My own idea is, that some secret
disappointment is weighing on her mind. Perhaps I am wrong."

No. Miss Ladd was wrong; and the teacher was right.

The passion of revenge, being essentially selfish in its nature,
is of all passions the narrowest in its range of view. In
gratifying her jealous hatred of Emily, Francine had correctly
foreseen consequences, as they might affect the other object of
her enmity--Alban Morris. But she had failed to perceive the
imminent danger of another result, which in a calmer frame of
mind might not have escaped discovery. In triumphing over Emily
and Alban, she had been the indirect means of inflicting on
herself the bitterest of all disappointments--she had brought
Emily and Mirabel together. The first forewarning of this
catastrophe had reached her, on hearing that Mirabel would not
return to Monksmoor. Her worst fears had been thereafter
confirmed by a letter from Cecilia, which had followed her to
Netherwoods. From that moment, she, who had made others wretched,
paid the penalty in suffering as keen as any that she had
inflicted. Completely prostrated; powerless, through ignorance of
his address in London, to make a last appeal to Mirabel; she was
literally, as had just been said, careless what became of her.
When the train approached, she sprang to her feet--advanced to
the edge of the platform--and suddenly drew back, shuddering. The
teacher looked in terror at Alban. Had the desperate girl
meditated throwing herself under the wheels of the engine? The
thought had been in both their minds; but neither of them
acknowledged it. Francine stepped quietly into the carriage, when
the train drew up, and laid her head back in a corner, and closed
her eyes. Mrs. Ellmother took her place in another compartment,
and beckoned to Alban to speak to her at the window.

"Where can I see you, when you go to London?" she asked.

"At Doctor Allday's house."

"On what day?"

"On Tuesday next."

CHAPTER LVII.

APPROACHING THE END.

Alban reached London early enough in the afternoon to find the
doctor at his luncheon. "Too late to see Mrs. Ellmother," he
announced. "Sit down and have something to eat."

"Has she left any message for me?"

"A message, my good friend, that you won't like to hear. She is
off w ith her mistress, this morning, on a visit to Mr. Mirabel's
sister."

"Does he go with them?"

"No; he follows by a later train."

"Has Mrs. Ellmother mentioned the address?"

"There it is, in her own handwriting."

Alban read the address:--"Mrs. Delvin, The Clink, Belford,
Northumberland."

"Turn to the back of that bit of paper," the doctor said. "Mrs.
Ellmother has written something on it."

She had written these words: "No discoveries made by Mr. Mirabel,
up to this time. Sir Jervis Redwood is dead. The Rooks are
believed to be in Scotland; and Miss Emily, if need be, is to
help the parson to find them. No news of Miss Jethro."

"Now you have got your information," Doctor Allday resumed, "let
me have a look at you. You're not in a rage: that's a good sign
to begin with."

"I am not the less determined," Alban answered.

"To bring Emily to her senses?" the doctor asked.

"To do what Mirabel has _not_ done--and then to let her choose
between us."

"Ay? ay? Your good opinion of her hasn't altered, though she has
treated you so badly?"

"My good opinion makes allowance for the state of my poor
darling's mind, after the shock that has fallen on her," Alban
answered quietly. "She is not _my_ Emily now. She will be _my_
Emily yet. I told her I was convinced of it, in the old days at
school--and my conviction is as strong as ever. Have you seen
her, since I have been away at Netherwoods?"

"Yes; and she is as angry with me as she is with you."

"For the same reason?"

"No, no. I heard enough to warn me to hold my tongue. I refused
to help her--that's all. You are a man, and you may run risks
which no young girl ought to encounter. Do you remember when I
asked you to drop all further inquiries into the murder, for
Emily's sake? The circumstances have altered since that time. Can
I be of any use?"

"Of the greatest use, if you can give me Miss Jethro's address."

"Oh! You mean to begin in that way, do you?"

"Yes. You know that Miss Jethro visited me at Netherwoods?"

"Go on."

"She showed me your answer to a letter which she had written to
you. Have you got that letter?"

Doctor Allday produced it. The address was at a post-office, in a
town on the south coast. Looking up when he had copied it, Alban
saw the doctor's eyes fixed on him with an oddly-mingled
expression: partly of sympathy, partly of hesitation.

"Have you anything to suggest?" he asked.

"You will get nothing out of Miss Jethro," the doctor answered,
"unless--" there he stopped.

"Unless, what?"

"Unless you can frighten her."

"How am I to do that?"

After a little reflection, Doctor Allday returned, without any
apparent reason, to the subject of his last visit to Emily.

"There was one thing she said, in the course of our talk," he
continued, "which struck me as being sensible: possibly (for we
are all more or less conceited), because I agreed with her
myself. She suspects Miss Jethro of knowing more about that
damnable murder than Miss Jethro is willing to acknowledge. If
you want to produce the right effect on her--" he looked hard at
Alban and checked himself once more.

"Well? what am I to do?"

"Tell her you have an idea of who the murderer is."

"But I have no idea."

"But _I_ have."

"Good God! what do you mean?"

"Don't mistake me! An impression has been produced on my
mind--that's all. Call it a freak or fancy; worth trying perhaps
as a bold experiment, and worth nothing more. Come a little
nearer. My housekeeper is an excellent woman, but I have once or
twice caught her rather too near to that door. I think I'll
whisper it."

He did whisper it. In breathless wonder, Alban heard of the doubt
which had crossed Doctor Allday's mind, on the evening when
Mirabel had called at his house.

"You look as if you didn't believe it," the doctor remarked.

"I'm thinking of Emily. For her sake I hope and trust you are
wrong. Ought I to go to her at once? I don't know what to do!"

"Find out first, my good fellow, whether I am right or wrong. You
can do it, if you will run the risk with Miss Jethro."

Alban recovered himself. His old friend's advice was clearly the
right advice to follow. He examined his railway guide, and then
looked at his watch. "If I can find Miss Jethro," he answered,
"I'll risk it before the day is out."

Tile doctor accompanied him to the door. "You will write to me,
won't you?"

"Without fail. Thank you--and good-by."

BOOK THE SEVENTH--THE CLINK.

CHAPTER LVIII.

A COUNCIL OF TWO.

Early in the last century one of the picturesque race of robbers
and murderers, practicing the vices of humanity on the
borderlands watered by the river Tweed, built a tower of stone on
the coast of Northumberland. He lived joyously in the
perpetration of atrocities; and he died penitent, under the
direction of his priest. Since that event, he has figured in
poems and pictures; and has been greatly admired by modern ladies
and gentlemen, whom he would have outraged and robbed if he had
been lucky enough to meet with them in the good old times.

His son succeeded him, and failed to profit by the paternal
example: that is to say, he made the fatal mistake of fighting
for other people instead of fighting for himself.

In the rebellion of Forty-Five, this northern squire sided to
serious purpose with Prince Charles and the Highlanders. He lost
his head; and his children lost their inheritance. In the lapse
of years, the confiscated property fell into the hands of
strangers; the last of whom (having a taste for the turf)
discovered, in course of time, that he was in want of money. A
retired merchant, named Delvin (originally of French extraction),
took a liking to the wild situation, and purchased the tower. His
wife--already in failing health--had been ordered by the doctors
to live a quiet life by the sea. Her husband's death left her a
rich and lonely widow; by day and night alike, a prisoner in her
room; wasted by disease, and having but two interests which
reconciled her to life--writing poetry in the intervals of pain,
and paying the debts of a reverend brother who succeeded in the
pulpit, and prospered nowhere else.

In the later days of its life, the tower had been greatly
improved as a place of residence. The contrast was remarkable
between the dreary gray outer walls, and the luxuriously
furnished rooms inside, rising by two at a time to the lofty
eighth story of the building. Among the scattered populace of the
country round, the tower was still known by the odd name given to
it in the bygone time--"The Clink." It had been so called (as was
supposed) in allusion to the noise made by loose stones, washed
backward and forward at certain times of the tide, in hollows of
the rock on which the building stood.

On the evening of her arrival at Mrs. Delvin's retreat, Emily
retired at an early hour, fatigued by her long journey. Mirabel
had an opportunity of speaking with his sister privately in her
own room.

"Send me away, Agatha, if I disturb you," he said, "and let me
know when I can see you in the morning."

"My dear Miles, have you forgotten that I am never able to sleep
in calm weather? My lullaby, for years past, has been the moaning
of the great North Sea, under my window. Listen! There is not a
sound outside on this peaceful night. It is the right time of the
tide, just now--and yet, 'the clink' is not to be heard. Is the
moon up?"

Mirabel opened the curtains. "The whole sky is one great abyss of
black," he answered. "If I was superstitious, I should think that
horrid darkness a bad omen for the future. Are you suffering,
Agatha?"

"Not just now. I suppose I look sadly changed for the worse since
you saw me last?"

But for the feverish brightness of her eyes, she would have
looked like a corpse. Her wrinkled forehead, her hollow cheeks,
her white lips told their terrible tale of the suffering of
years. The ghastly appearance of her face was heightened by the
furnishing of the room. This doomed woman, dying slowly day by
day, delighted in bright colors and sumptuous materials. The
paper on the walls, the curtains, the carpet presented the hues
of the rainbow. She lay on a couch covered with purple silk,
under draperies of green velvet to keep her warm. Rich lace hid h
er scanty hair, turning prematurely gray; brilliant rings
glittered on her bony fingers. The room was in a blaze of light
from lamps and candles. Even the wine at her side that kept her
alive had been decanted into a bottle of lustrous Venetian glass.
"My grave is open," she used to say; "and I want all these
beautiful things to keep me from looking at it. I should die at
once, if I was left in the dark."

Her brother sat by the couch, thinking "Shall I tell you what is
in your mind?" she asked.

Mirabel humored the caprice of the moment. "Tell me!" he said.

"You want to know what I think of Emily," she answered. "Your
letter told me you were in love; but I didn't believe your
letter. I have always doubted whether you were capable of feeling
true love--until I saw Emily. The moment she entered the room, I
knew that I had never properly appreciated my brother. You _are_
in love with her, Miles; and you are a better man than I thought
you. Does that express my opinion?"

Mirabel took her wasted hand, and kissed it gratefully.

"What a position I am in!" he said. "To love her as I love her;
and, if she knew the truth, to be the object of her horror--to be
the man whom she would hunt to the scaffold, as an act of duty to
the memory of her father!"

"You have left out the worst part of it," Mrs. Delvin reminded
him. "You have bound yourself to help her to find the man. Your
one hope of persuading her to become your wife rests on your
success in finding him. And you are the man. There is your
situation! You can't submit to it. How can you escape from it?"

"You are trying to frighten me, Agatha."

"I am trying to encourage you to face your position boldly."

"I am doing my best," Mirabel said, with sullen resignation.
"Fortune has favored me so far. I have, really and truly, been
unable to satisfy Emily by discovering Miss Jethro. She has left
the place at which I saw her last--there is no trace to be found
of her--and Emily knows it."

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