I SAY NO

W >> Wilkie Collins >> I SAY NO

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27

Reciting with her face toward the trees, Emily started, dropped
the character of Macbeth, and instantly became herself again:
herself, with a rising color and an angry brightening of the
eyes. "Excuse me, I can't trust my memory: I must get the play."
With that abrupt apology, she walked away rapidly in the
direction of the house.

In some surprise, Francine turned, and looked at the trees. She
discovered--in full retreat, on his side--the eccentric
drawing-master, Alban Morris.

Did he, too, admire the dagger-scene? And was he modestly
desirous of hearing it recited, without showing himself? In that
case, why should Emily (whose besetting weakness was certainly
not want of confidence in her own resources) leave the garden the
moment she caught sight of him? Francine consulted her instincts.
She had just arrived at a conclusion which expressed itself
outwardly by a malicious smile, when gentle Cecilia appeared on
the lawn--a lovable object in a broad straw hat and a white
dress, with a nosegay in her bosom--smiling, and fanning herself.

"It's so hot in the schoolroom," she said, "and some of the
girls, poor things, are so ill-tempered at rehearsal--I have made
my escape. I hope you got your breakfast, Miss de Sor. What have
you been doing here, all by yourself?"

"I have been making an interesting discovery," Francine replied.

"An interesting discovery in our garden? What _can_ it be?"

"The drawing-master, my dear, is in love with Emily. Perhaps she
doesn't care about him. Or, perhaps, I have been an innocent
obstacle in the way of an appointment between them."

Cecilia had breakfasted to her heart's content on her favorite
dish--buttered eggs. She was in such good spirits that she was
inclined to be coquettish, even when there was no man present to
fascinate. "We are not allowed to talk about love in this
school," she said--and hid her face behind her fan. "Besides, if
it came to Miss Ladd's ears, poor Mr. Morris might lose his
situation."

"But isn't it true?" asked Francine.

"It may be true, my dear; but nobody knows. Emily hasn't breathed
a word about it to any of us. And Mr. Morris keeps his own
secret. Now and then we catch him looking at her--and we draw our
own conclusions."

"Did you meet Emily on your way here?"

"Yes, and she passed without speaking to me."

"Thinking perhaps of Mr. Morris."

Cecilia shook her head. "Thinking, Francine, of the new life
before her--and regretting, I am afraid, that she ever confided
her hopes and wishes to me. Did she tell you last night what her
prospects are when she leaves school?"

"She told me you had been very kind in helping her. I daresay I
should have heard more, if I had not fallen asleep. What is she
going to do?"

"To live in a dull house, far away in the north," Cecilia
answered; "with only old people in it. She will have to write and
translate for a great scholar, who is studying mysterious
inscriptions--hieroglyphics, I think they are called--found among
the ruins of Central America. It's really no laughing matter,
Francine! Emily made a joke of it, too. 'I'll take anything but a
situation as a governess,' she said; 'the children who have Me to
teach them would be to be pitied indeed!' She begged and prayed
me to help her to get an honest living. What could I do? I could
only write home to papa. He is a member of Parliament: and
everybody who wants a place seems to think he is bound to find it
for them. As it happened, he had heard from an old friend of his
(a certain Sir Jervis Redwood), who was in search of a secretary.
Being in favor of letting the women compete for employment with
the men, Sir Jervis was willing to try, what he calls, 'a
female.' Isn't that a horrid way of speaking of us? and Miss Ladd
says it's ungrammatical, besides. Papa had written back to say he
knew of no lady whom he could recommend. When he got my letter
speaking of Emily, he kindly wrote again. In the interval, Sir
Jervis had received two applications for the vacant place. They
were both from old ladies--and he declined to employ them."

"Because they were old," Francine suggested maliciously.

"You shall hear him give his own reasons, my dear. Papa sent me
an extract from his letter. It made me rather angry; and (perhaps
for that reason) I think I can repeat it word for word:--'We are
four old people in this house, and we don't want a fifth. Let us
have a young one to cheer us. If your daughter's friend likes the
terms, and is not encumbered with a sweetheart, I will send for
her when the school breaks up at midsummer.' Coarse and
selfish--isn't it? However, Emily didn't agree with me, when I
showed her the extract. She accepted the place, very much to her
aunt's surprise and regret, when that excellent person heard of
it. Now that the time has come (though Emily won't acknowledge
it), I believe she secretly shrinks, poor dear, from the
prospect."

"Very likely," Francine agreed--without even a pretense of
sympathy. "But tell me, who are the four old people?"

"First, Sir Jervis himself--seventy, last birthday. Next, his
unmarried sister--nearly eighty. Next, his man-servant, Mr.
Rook--well past sixty. And last, his man-servant's wife, who
considers herself young, being only a little over forty. That is
the household. Mrs. Rook is coming to-day to attend Emily on the
journey to the North; and I am not at all sure that Emily will
like her."

"A disagreeable woman, I suppose?"

"No--not exactly that. Rather odd and flighty. The fact is, Mrs.
Rook has had her troubles; and perhaps they have a little
unsettled her. She and her husband used to keep the village inn,
close to our park: we know all about them at home. I am sure I
pity these poor people. What are you looking at, Francine?"

Feeling no sort of interest in Mr. and Mrs. Rook, Francine was
studying her schoolfellow's lovely face in search of defects. She
had already discovered that Cecilia's eyes were placed too widely
apart, and that her chin wanted size and character.

"I was admiring your complexion, dear," she answered coolly.
"Well, and why do you pity the Rooks?"

Simple Cecilia smiled, and went on with her story.

"They are obliged to go out to service in their old age, through
a misfortune for which they are in no way to blame. Their
customers deserted the inn, and Mr. Rook became bankrupt. The inn
got what they call a bad name--in a very dreadful way. There was
a murder committed in the house."

"A murder?" cried Francine. "Oh, this is exciting! You provoking
girl, why didn't you tell me about it before?"

"I didn't think of it," said Cecilia placidly.

"Do go on! Were you at home when it happened?"

"I w as here, at school."

"You saw the newspapers, I suppose?"

"Miss Ladd doesn't allow us to read newspapers. I did hear of it,
however, in letters from home. Not that there was much in the
letters. They said it was too horrible to be described. The poor
murdered gentleman--"

Francine was unaffectedly shocked. "A gentleman!" she exclaimed.
"How dreadful!"

"The poor man was a stranger in our part of the country," Cecilia
resumed; "and the police were puzzled about the motive for a
murder. His pocketbook was missing; but his watch and his rings
were found on the body. I remember the initials on his linen
because they were the same as my mother's initial before she was
married--'J. B.' Really, Francine, that's all I know about it."

"Surely you know whether the murderer was discovered?"

"Oh, yes--of course I know that! The government offered a reward;
and clever people were sent from London to help the county
police. Nothing came of it. The murderer has never been
discovered, from that time to this."

"When did it happen?"

"It happened in the autumn."

"The autumn of last year?"

"No! no! Nearly four years since."

CHAPTER VI.

ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE.

Alban Morris--discovered by Emily in concealment among the
trees--was not content with retiring to another part of the
grounds. He pursued his retreat, careless in what direction it
might take him, to a footpath across the fields, which led to the
highroad and the railway station.

Miss Ladd's drawing-master was in that state of nervous
irritability which seeks relief in rapidity of motion. Public
opinion in the neighborhood (especially public opinion among the
women) had long since decided that his manners were offensive,
and his temper incurably bad. The men who happened to pass him on
the footpath said "Good-morning" grudgingly. The women took no
notice of him--with one exception. She was young and saucy, and
seeing him walking at the top of his speed on the way to the
railway station, she called after him, "Don't be in a hurry, sir!
You're in plenty of time for the London train."

To her astonishment he suddenly stopped. His reputation for
rudeness was so well established that she moved away to a safe
distance, before she ventured to look at him again. He took no
notice of her--he seemed to be considering with himself. The
frolicsome young woman had done him a service: she had suggested
an idea.

"Suppose I go to London?" he thought. "Why not?--the school is
breaking up for the holidays--and _she_ is going away like the
rest of them." He looked round in the direction of the
schoolhouse. "If I go back to wish her good-by, she will keep out
of my way, and part with me at the last moment like a stranger.
After my experience of women, to be in love again--in love with a
girl who is young enough to be my daughter--what a fool, what a
driveling, degraded fool I must be!"

Hot tears rose in his eyes. He dashed them away savagely, and
went on again faster than ever--resolved to pack up at once at
his lodgings in the village, and to take his departure by the
next train.

At the point where the footpath led into the road, he came to a
standstill for the second time.

The cause was once more a person of the sex associated in his
mind with a bitter sense of injury. On this occasion the person
was only a miserable little child, crying over the fragments of a
broken jug.

Alban Morris looked at her with his grimly humorous smile. "So
you've broken a jug?" he remarked.

"And spilt father's beer," the child answered. Her frail little
body shook with terror. "Mother'll beat me when I go home," she
said.

"What does mother do when you bring the jug back safe and sound?"
Alban asked.

"Gives me bren-butter."

"Very well. Now listen to me. Mother shall give you bread and
butter again this time."

The child stared at him with the tears suspended in her eyes. He
went on talking to her as seriously as ever.

"You understand what I have just said to you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you got a pocket-handkerchief?"

"No, sir."

"Then dry your eyes with mine."

He tossed his handkerchief to her with one hand, and picked up a
fragment of the broken jug with the other. "This will do for a
pattern," he said to himself. The child stared at the
handkerchief--stared at Alban--took courage--and rubbed
vigorously at her eyes. The instinct, which is worth all the
reason that ever pretended to enlighten mankind--the instinct
that never deceives--told this little ignorant creature that she
had found a friend. She returned the handkerchief in grave
silence. Alban took her up in his arms.

"Your eyes are dry, and your face is fit to be seen," he said.
"Will you give me a kiss?" The child gave him a resolute kiss,
with a smack in it. "Now come and get another jug," he said, as
he put her down. Her red round eyes opened wide in alarm. "Have
you got money enough?" she asked. Alban slapped his pocket. "Yes,
I have," he answered. "That's a good thing," said the child;
"come along."

They went together hand in hand to the village, and bought the
new jug, and had it filled at the beer-shop. The thirsty father
was at the upper end of the fields, where they were making a
drain. Alban carried the jug until they were within sight of the
laborer. "You haven't far to go," he said. "Mind you don't drop
it again--What's the matter now?"

"I'm frightened."

"Why?"

"Oh, give me the jug."

She almost snatched it out of his hand. If she let the precious
minutes slip away, there might be another beating in store for
her at the drain: her father was not of an indulgent disposition
when his children were late in bringing his beer. On the point of
hurrying away, without a word of farewell, she remembered the
laws of politeness as taught at the infant school--and dropped
her little curtsey--and said, "Thank you, sir." That bitter sense
of injury was still in Alban's mind as he looked after her. "What
a pity she should grow up to be a woman!" he said to himself.

The adventure of the broken jug had delayed his return to his
lodgings by more than half an hour. When he reached the road once
more, the cheap up-train from the North had stopped at the
station. He heard the ringing of the bell as it resumed the
journey to London.

One of the passengers (judging by the handbag that she carried)
had not stopped at the village.

As she advanced toward him along the road, he remarked that she
was a small wiry active woman--dressed in bright colors, combined
with a deplorable want of taste. Her aquiline nose seemed to be
her most striking feature as she came nearer. It might have been
fairly proportioned to the rest of her face, in her younger days,
before her cheeks had lost flesh and roundness. Being probably
near-sighted, she kept her eyes half-closed; there were cunning
little wrinkles at the corners of them. In spite of appearances,
she was unwilling to present any outward acknowledgment of the
march of time. Her hair was palpably dyed--her hat was jauntily
set on her head, and ornamented with a gay feather. She walked
with a light tripping step, swinging her bag, and holding her
head up smartly. Her manner, like her dress, said as plainly as
words could speak, "No matter how long I may have lived, I mean
to be young and charming to the end of my days." To Alban's
surprise she stopped and addressed him.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Could you tell me if I am in the right
road to Miss Ladd's school?"

She spoke with nervous rapidity of articulation, and with a
singularly unpleasant smile. It parted her thin lips just widely
enough to show her suspiciously beautiful teeth; and it opened
her keen gray eyes in the strangest manner. The higher lid rose
so as to disclose, for a moment, the upper part of the eyeball,
and to give her the appearance--not of a woman bent on making
herself agreeable, but of a woman staring in a panic of terror.
Careless to conceal the unfavorable impression that she had
produced on him, Alban answered roughly, "Straight on," and tried
to pass her.

She stopped him with a peremptory gesture. "I have treated you
politely," she said, "and how do you treat me in return? Well! I
am not surprised. Men are all brutes by nature--and you are a
man.
'Straight on'?" she repeated contemptuously; "I should like to
know how far that helps a person in a strange place. Perhaps you
know no more where Miss Ladd's school is than I do? or, perhaps,
you don't care to take the trouble of addressing me? Just what I
should have expected from a person of your sex! Good-morning."

Alban felt the reproof; she had appealed to his most
readily-impressible sense--his sense of humor. He rather enjoyed
seeing his own prejudice against women grotesquely reflected in
this flighty stranger's prejudice against men. As the best excuse
for himself that he could make, he gave her all the information
that she could possibly want--then tried again to pass on--and
again in vain. He had recovered his place in her estimation: she
had not done with him yet.

"You know all about the way there," she said "I wonder whether
you know anything about the school?"

No change in her voice, no change in her manner, betrayed any
special motive for putting this question. Alban was on the point
of suggesting that she should go on to the school, and make her
inquiries there--when he happened to notice her eyes. She had
hitherto looked him straight in the face. She now looked down on
the road. It was a trifling change; in all probability it meant
nothing--and yet, merely because it was a change, it roused his
curiosity. "I ought to know something about the school," he
answered. "I am one of the masters."

"Then you're just the man I want. May I ask your name?"

"Alban Morris."

"Thank you. I am Mrs. Rook. I presume you have heard of Sir
Jervis Redwood?"

"No."

"Bless my soul! You are a scholar, of course--and you have never
heard of one of your own trade. Very extraordinary. You see, I am
Sir Jervis's housekeeper; and I am sent here to take one of your
young ladies back with me to our place. Don't interrupt me! Don't
be a brute again! Sir Jervis is not of a communicative
disposition. At least, not to me. A man--that explains it--a man!
He is always poring over his books and writings; and Miss
Redwood, at her great age, is in bed half the day. Not a thing do
I know about this new inmate of ours, except that I am to take
her back with me. You would feel some curiosity yourself in my
place, wouldn't you? Now do tell me. What sort of girl is Miss
Emily Brown?"

The name that he was perpetually thinking of--on this woman's
lips! Alban looked at her.

"Well," said Mrs. Rook, "am I to have no answer? Ah, you want
leading. So like a man again! Is she pretty?"

Still examining the housekeeper with mingled feelings of interest
and distrust, Alban answered ungraciously:

"Yes."

"Good-tempered?"

Alban again said "Yes."

"So much about herself," Mrs. Rook remarked. "About her family
now?" She shifted her bag restlessly from one hand to another.
"Perhaps you can tell me if Miss Emily's father--" she suddenly
corrected herself--"if Miss Emily's parents are living?"

"I don't know."

"You mean you won't tell me."

"I mean exactly what I have said."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Mrs. Rook rejoined; "I shall find out at
the school. The first turning to the left, I think you
said--across the fields?"

He was too deeply interested in Emily to let the housekeeper go
without putting a question on his side:

"Is Sir Jervis Redwood one of Miss Emily's old friends?" he
asked.

"He? What put that into your head? He has never even seen Miss
Emily. She's going to our house--ah, the women are getting the
upper hand now, and serve the men right, I say!--she's going to
our house to be Sir Jervis's secretary. You would like to have
the place yourself, wouldn't you? You would like to keep a poor
girl from getting her own living? Oh, you may look as fierce as
you please--the time's gone by when a man could frighten _me_. I
like her Christian name. I call Emily a nice name enough. But
'Brown'! Good-morning, Mr. Morris; you and I are not cursed with
such a contemptibly common name as that! 'Brown'? Oh, Lord!"

She tossed her head scornfully, and walked away, humming a tune.

Alban stood rooted to the spot. The effort of his later life had
been to conceal the hopeless passion which had mastered him in
spite of himself. Knowing nothing from Emily--who at once pitied
and avoided him--of her family circumstances or of her future
plans, he had shrunk from making inquiries of others, in the fear
that they, too, might find out his secret, and that their
contempt might be added to the contempt which he felt for
himself. In this position, and with these obstacles in his way,
the announcement of Emily's proposed journey--under the care of a
stranger, to fill an employment in the house of a stranger--not
only took him by surprise, but inspired him with a strong feeling
of distrust. He looked after Sir Jervis Redwood's flighty
housekeeper, completely forgetting the purpose which had brought
him thus far on the way to his lodgings. Before Mrs. Rook was out
of sight, Alban Morris was following her back to the school.

CHAPTER VII.

"COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE."

Miss De Sor and Miss Wyvil were still sitting together under the
trees, talking of the murder at the inn.

"And is that really all you can tell me?" said Francine.

"That is all," Cecilia answered.

"Is there no love in it?"

"None that I know of."

"It's the most uninteresting murder that ever was committed. What
shall we do with ourselves? I'm tired of being here in the
garden. When do the performances in the schoolroom begin?"

"Not for two hours yet."

Francine yawned. "And what part do you take in it?" she asked.

"No part, my dear. I tried once--only to sing a simple little
song. When I found myself standing before all the company and saw
rows of ladies and gentlemen waiting for me to begin, I was so
frightened that Miss Ladd had to make an apology for me. I didn't
get over it for the rest of the day. For the first time in my
life, I had no appetite for my dinner. Horrible!" said Cecilia,
shuddering over the remembrance of it. "I do assure you, I
thought I was going to die."

Perfectly unimpressed by this harrowing narrative, Francine
turned her head lazily toward the house. The door was thrown open
at the same moment. A lithe little person rapidly descended the
steps that led to the lawn.

"It's Emily come back again," said Francine.

"And she seems to be rather in a hurry," Cecilia remarked.

Francine's satirical smile showed itself for a moment. Did this
appearance of hurry in Emily's movements denote impatience to
resume the recital of "the dagger-scene"? She had no book in her
hand; she never even looked toward Francine. Sorrow became
plainly visible in her face as she approached the two girls.

Cecilia rose in alarm. She had been the first person to whom
Emily had confided her domestic anxieties. "Bad news from your
aunt?" she asked.

"No, my dear; no news at all." Emily put her arms tenderly round
her friend's neck. "The time has come, Cecilia," she said. "We
must wish each other good-by."

"Is Mrs. Rook here already?"

"It's _you_, dear, who are going," Emily answered sadly. "They
have sent the governess to fetch you. Miss Ladd is too busy in
the schoolroom to see her--and she has told me all about it.
Don't be alarmed. There is no bad news from home. Your plans are
altered; that's all."

"Altered?" Cecilia repeated. "In what way?"

"In a very agreeable way--you are going to travel. Your father
wishes you to be in London, in time for the evening mail to
France."

Cecilia guessed what had happened. "My sister is not getting
well," she said, "and the doctors are sending her to the
Continent."

"To the baths at St. Moritz," Emily added. "There is only one
difficulty in the way; and you can remove it. Your sister has the
good old governess to take care of her, and the courier to
relieve her of all trouble on the journey. They were to have
started yesterday. You know how fond Julia is of you. At the last
moment, she won't hear of going away, unless you go too. The
rooms are waiting at St. Moritz; and your father is annoyed (the
governess says) by the delay that has taken place already."

She paused. Cecilia was silent. "Surely you don't hesitate?"
Emily said.

"I am too happy to go wherever Julia go es," Cecilia answered
warmly; "I was thinking of you, dear." Her tender nature,
shrinking from the hard necessities of life, shrank from the
cruelly-close prospect of parting. "I thought we were to have had
some hours together yet," she said. "Why are we hurried in this
way? There is no second train to London, from our station, till
late in the afternoon."

"There is the express," Emily reminded her; "and there is time to
catch it, if you drive at once to the town." She took Cecilia's
hand and pressed it to her bosom. "Thank you again and again,
dear, for all you have done for me. Whether we meet again or not,
as long as I live I shall love you. Don't cry!" She made a faint
attempt to resume her customary gayety, for Cecilia's sake. "Try
to be as hard-hearted as I am. Think of your sister--don't think
of me. Only kiss me."

Cecilia's tears fell fast. "Oh, my love, I am so anxious about
you! I am so afraid that you will not be happy with that selfish
old man--in that dreary house. Give it up, Emily! I have got
plenty of money for both of us; come abroad with me. Why not? You
always got on well with Julia, when you came to see us in the
holidays. Oh, my darling! my darling! What shall I do without
you?"

All that longed for love in Emily's nature had clung round her
school-friend since her father's death. Turning deadly pale under
the struggle to control herself, she made the effort--and bore
the pain of it without letting a cry or a tear escape her. "Our
ways in life lie far apart," she said gently. "There is the hope
of meeting again, dear--if there is nothing more."

The clasp of Cecilia's arm tightened round her. She tried to
release herself; but her resolution had reached its limits. Her
hands dropped, trembling. She could still try to speak
cheerfully, and that was all.

"There is not the least reason, Cecilia, to be anxious about my
prospects. I mean to be Sir Jervis Redwood's favorite before I
have been a week in his service."

She stopped, and pointed to the house. The governess was
approaching them. "One more kiss, darling. We shall not forget
the happy hours we have spent together; we shall constantly write
to each other." She broke down at last. "Oh, Cecilia! Cecilia!
leave me for God's sake--I can't bear it any longer!"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27