I SAY NO

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The governess parted them. Emily dropped into the chair that her
friend had left. Even her hopeful nature sank under the burden of
life at that moment.

A hard voice, speaking close at her side, startled her.

"Would you rather be Me," the voice asked, "without a creature to
care for you?"

Emily raised her head. Francine, the unnoticed witness of the
parting interview, was standing by her, idly picking the leaves
from a rose which had dropped out of Cecilia's nosegay.

Had she felt her own isolated position? She had felt it
resentfully.

Emily looked at her, with a heart softened by sorrow. There was
no answering kindness in the eyes of Miss de Sor--there was only
a dogged endurance, sad to see in a creature so young.

"You and Cecilia are going to write to each other," she said. "I
suppose there is some comfort in that. When I left the island
they were glad to get rid of me. They said, 'Telegraph when you
are safe at Miss Ladd's school.' You see, we are so rich, the
expense of telegraphing to the West Indies is nothing to us.
Besides, a telegram has an advantage over a letter--it doesn't
take long to read. I daresay I shall write home. But they are in
no hurry; and I am in no hurry. The school's breaking up; you are
going your way, and I am going mine--and who cares what becomes
of me? Only an ugly old schoolmistress, who is paid for caring. I
wonder why I am saying all this? Because I like you? I don't know
that I like you any better than you like me. When I wanted to be
friends with you, you treated me coolly; I don't want to force
myself on you. I don't particularly care about you. May I write
to you from Brighton?"

Under all this bitterness--the first exhibition of Francine's
temper, at its worst, which had taken place since she joined the
school--Emily saw, or thought she saw, distress that was too
proud, or too shy, to show itself. "How can you ask the
question?" she answered cordially.

Francine was incapable of meeting the sympathy offered to her,
even half way. "Never mind how," she said. "Yes or no is all I
want from you."

"Oh, Francine! Francine! what are you made of! Flesh and blood?
or stone and iron? Write to me of course--and I will write back
again."

"Thank you. Are you going to stay here under the trees?"

"Yes."

"All by yourself?"

"All by myself."

"With nothing to do?"

"I can think of Cecilia."

Francine eyed her with steady attention for a moment.

"Didn't you tell me last night that you were very poor?" she
asked.

"I did."

"So poor that you are obliged to earn your own living?"

"Yes."

Francine looked at her again.

"I daresay you won't believe me," she said. "I wish I was you."

She turned away irritably, and walked back to the house.

Were there really longings for kindness and love under the
surface of this girl's perverse nature? Or was there nothing to
be hoped from a better knowledge of her?--In place of tender
remembrances of Cecilia, these were the perplexing and unwelcome
thoughts which the more potent personality of Francine forced
upon Emily's mind.

She rose impatiently, and looked at her watch. When would it be
her turn to leave the school, and begin the new life?

Still undecided what to do next, her interest was excited by the
appearance of one of the servants on the lawn. The woman
approached her, and presented a visiting-card; bearing on it the
name of _Sir Jervis Redwood_. Beneath the name, there was a line
written in pencil: "Mrs. Rook, to wait on Miss Emily Brown." The
way to the new life was open before her at last!

Looking again at the commonplace announcement contained in the
line of writing, she was not quite satisfied. Was it claiming a
deference toward herself, to which she was not entitled, to
expect a letter either from Sir Jervis, or from Miss Redwood;
giving her some information as to the journey which she was about
to undertake, and expressing with some little politeness the wish
to make her comfortable in her future home? At any rate, her
employer had done her one service: he had reminded her that her
station in life was not what it had been in the days when her
father was living, and when her aunt was in affluent
circumstances.

She looked up from the card. The servant had gone. Alban Morris
was waiting at a little distance--waiting silently until she
noticed him.

CHAPTER VIII.

MASTER AND PUPIL.

Emily's impulse was to avoid the drawing-master for the second
time. The moment afterward, a kinder feeling prevailed. The
farewell interview with Cecilia had left influences which pleaded
for Alban Morris. It was the day of parting good wishes and
general separations: he had only perhaps come to say good-by. She
advanced to offer her hand, when he stopped her by pointing to
Sir Jervis Redwood's card.

"May I say a word, Miss Emily, about that woman?" he asked

"Do you mean Mrs. Rook?"

"Yes. You know, of course, why she comes here?"

"She comes here by appointment, to take me to Sir Jervis
Redwood's house. Are you acquainted with her?"

"She is a perfect stranger to me. I met her by accident on her
way here. If Mrs. Rook had been content with asking me to direct
her to the school, I should not be troubling you at this moment.
But she forced her conversation on me. And she said something
which I think you ought to know. Have you heard of Sir Jervis
Redwood's housekeeper before to-day?"

"I have only heard what my friend--Miss Cecilia Wyvil--has told
me."

"Did Miss Cecilia tell you that Mrs. Rook was acquainted with
your father or with any members of your family?"

"Certainly not!"

Alban reflected. "It was natural enough," he resumed, "that Mrs.
Rook should feel some curiosity about You. What reason had she
for putting a question to me about your father--and putting it in
a very strange manner?"

Emily's interest was instantly excited. She led the way back to
the seats in the shade. "Tell me, Mr. Morris, exactly what the
woman said." As she spoke,
she signed to him to be seated.

Alban observed the natural grace of her action when she set him
the example of taking a chair, and the little heightening of her
color caused by anxiety to hear what he had still to tell her.
Forgetting the restraint that he had hitherto imposed on himself,
he enjoyed the luxury of silently admiring her. Her manner
betrayed none of the conscious confusion which would have shown
itself, if her heart had been secretly inclined toward him. She
saw the man looking at her. In simple perplexity she looked at
the man.

"Are you hesitating on my account?" she asked. "Did Mrs. Rook say
something of my father which I mustn't hear?"

"No, no! nothing of the sort!"

"You seem to be confused."

Her innocent indifference tried his patience sorely. His memory
went back to the past time--recalled the ill-placed passion of
his youth, and the cruel injury inflicted on him--his pride was
roused. Was he making himself ridiculous? The vehement throbbing
of his heart almost suffocated him. And there she sat, wondering
at his odd behavior. "Even this girl is as cold-blooded as the
rest of her sex!" That angry thought gave him back his
self-control. He made his excuses with the easy politeness of a
man of the world.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Emily; I was considering how to put what
I have to say in the fewest and plainest words. Let me try if I
can do it. If Mrs. Rook had merely asked me whether your father
and mother were living, I should have attributed the question to
the commonplace curiosity of a gossiping woman, and have thought
no more of it. What she actually did say was this: 'Perhaps you
can tell me if Miss Emily's father--' There she checked herself,
and suddenly altered the question in this way: 'If Miss Emily's
_parents_ are living?' I may be making mountains out of
molehills; but I thought at the time (and think still) that she
had some special interest in inquiring after your father, and,
not wishing me to notice it for reasons of her own, changed the
form of the question so as to include your mother. Does this
strike you as a far-fetched conclusion?"

"Whatever it may be," Emily said, "it is my conclusion, too. How
did you answer her?"

"Quite easily. I could give her no information--and I said so."

"Let me offer you the information, Mr. Morris, before we say
anything more. I have lost both my parents."

Alban's momentary outbreak of irritability was at an end. He was
earnest and yet gentle, again; he forgave her for not
understanding how dear and how delightful to him she was. "Will
it distress you," he said, "if I ask how long it is since your
father died?"

"Nearly four years," she replied. "He was the most generous of
men; Mrs. Rook's interest in him may surely have been a grateful
interest. He may have been kind to her in past years--and she may
remember him thankfully. Don't you think so?"

Alban was unable to agree with her. "If Mrs. Rook's interest in
your father was the harmless interest that you have suggested,"
he said, "why should she have checked herself in that
unaccountable manner, when she first asked me if he was living?
The more I think of it now, the less sure I feel that she knows
anything at all of your family history. It may help me to decide,
if you will tell me at what time the death of your mother took
place."

"So long ago," Emily replied, "that I can't even remember her
death. I was an infant at the time."

"And yet Mrs. Rook asked me if your 'parents' were living! One of
two things," Alban concluded. "Either there is some mystery in
this matter, which we cannot hope to penetrate at present--or
Mrs. Rook may have been speaking at random; on the chance of
discovering whether you are related to some 'Mr. Brown' whom she
once knew."

"Besides," Emily added, "it's only fair to remember what a common
family name mine is, and how easily people may make mistakes. I
should like to know if my dear lost father was really in her mind
when she spoke to you. Do you think I could find it out?"

"If Mrs. Rook has any reasons for concealment, I believe you
would have no chance of finding it out--unless, indeed, you could
take her by surprise."

"In what way, Mr. Morris?"

"Only one way occurs to me just now," he said. "Do you happen to
have a miniature or a photograph of your father?"

Emily held out a handsome locket, with a monogram in diamonds,
attached to her watch chain. "I have his photograph here," she
rejoined; "given to me by my dear old aunt, in the days of her
prosperity. Shall I show it to Mrs. Rook?"

"Yes--if she happens, by good luck, to offer you an opportunity."

Impatient to try the experiment, Emily rose as he spoke. "I
mustn't keep Mrs. Rook waiting," she said.

Alban stopped her, on the point of leaving him. The confusion and
hesitation which she had already noticed began to show themselves
in his manner once more.

"Miss Emily, may I ask you a favor before you go? I am only one
of the masters employed in the school; but I don't think--let me
say, I hope I am not guilty of presumption--if I offer to be of
some small service to one of my pupils--"

There his embarrassment mastered him. He despised himself not
only for yielding to his own weakness, but for faltering like a
fool in the expression of a simple request. The next words died
away on his lips.

This time, Emily understood him.

The subtle penetration which had long since led her to the
discovery of his secret--overpowered, thus far, by the absorbing
interest of the moment--now recovered its activity. In an
instant, she remembered that Alban's motive for cautioning her,
in her coming intercourse with Mrs. Rook, was not the merely
friendly motive which might have actuated him, in the case of one
of the other girls. At the same time, her quickness of
apprehension warned her not to risk encouraging this persistent
lover, by betraying any embarrassment on her side. He was
evidently anxious to be present (in her interests) at the
interview with Mrs. Rook. Why not? Could he reproach her with
raising false hope, if she accepted his services, under
circumstances of doubt and difficulty which he had himself been
the first to point out? He could do nothing of the sort. Without
waiting until he had recovered himself, she answered him (to all
appearances) as composedly as if he had spoken to her in the
plainest terms.

"After all that you have told me," she said, "I shall indeed feel
obliged if you will be present when I see Mrs. Rook."

The eager brightening of his eyes, the flush of happiness that
made him look young on a sudden, were signs not to be mistaken.
The sooner they were in the presence of a third person (Emily
privately concluded) the better it might be for both of them. She
led the way rapidly to the house.

CHAPTER IX.

MRS. ROOK AND THE LOCKET.

As mistress of a prosperous school, bearing a widely-extended
reputation, Miss Ladd prided herself on the liberality of her
household arrangements. At breakfast and dinner, not only the
solid comforts but the elegant luxuries of the table, were set
before the young ladies "Other schools may, and no doubt do,
offer to pupils the affectionate care to which they have been
accustomed under the parents' roof," Miss Ladd used to say. "At
my school, that care extends to their meals, and provides them
with a _cuisine_ which, I flatter myself, equals the most
successful efforts of the cooks at home." Fathers, mothers, and
friends, when they paid visits to this excellent lady, brought
away with them the most gratifying recollections of her
hospitality. The men, in particular, seldom failed to recognize
in their hostess the rarest virtue that a single lady can
possess--the virtue of putting wine on the table which may be
gratefully remembered by her guests the next morning.

An agreeable surprise awaited Mrs. Rook when she entered the
house of bountiful Miss Ladd.

Luncheon was ready for Sir Jervis Redwood's confidential emissary
in the waiting-room. Detained at the final rehearsals of music
and recitation, Miss Ladd was worthily represented by cold
chicken and ham, a fruit tart, and a pint decanter of generous
sherry. "Your mistress is a perfect lady!" Mrs. Rook said to the
servant, wi th a burst of enthusiasm. "I can carve for myself,
thank you; and I don't care how long Miss Emily keeps me
waiting."

As they ascended the steps leading into the house, Alban asked
Emily if he might look again at her locket.

"Shall I open it for you?" she suggested.

No: I only want to look at the outside of it."

He examined the side on which the monogram appeared, inlaid with
diamonds. An inscription was engraved beneath.

"May I read it?" he said.

"Certainly!"

The inscription ran thus: "In loving memory of my father. Died
30th September, 1877."

"Can you arrange the locket," Alban asked, "so that the side on
which the diamonds appear hangs outward?"

She understood him. The diamonds might attract Mrs. Rook's
notice; and in that case, she might ask to see the locket of her
own accord. "You are beginning to be of use to me, already,"
Emily said, as they turned into the corridor which led to the
waiting-room.

They found Sir Jervis's housekeeper luxuriously recumbent in the
easiest chair in the room.

Of the eatable part of the lunch some relics were yet left. In
the pint decanter of sherry, not a drop remained. The genial
influence of the wine (hastened by the hot weather) was visible
in Mrs. Rook's flushed face, and in a special development of her
ugly smile. Her widening lips stretched to new lengths; and the
white upper line of her eyeballs were more freely and horribly
visible than ever.

"And this is the dear young lady?" she said, lifting her hands in
over-acted admiration. At the first greetings, Alban perceived
that the impression produced was, in Emily's case as in his case,
instantly unfavorable.

The servant came in to clear the table. Emily stepped aside for a
minute to give some directions about her luggage. In that
interval Mrs. Rook's cunning little eyes turned on Alban with an
expression of malicious scrutiny.

"You were walking the other way," she whispered, "when I met
you." She stopped, and glanced over her shoulder at Emily. "I see
what attraction has brought you back to the school. Steal your
way into that poor little fool's heart; and then make her
miserable for the rest of her life!--No need, miss, to hurry,"
she said, shifting the polite side of her toward Emily, who
returned at the moment. "The visits of the trains to your station
here are like the visits of the angels described by the poet,
'few and far between.' Please excuse the quotation. You wouldn't
think it to look at me--I'm a great reader."

"Is it a long journey to Sir Jervis Redwood's house?" Emily
asked, at a loss what else to say to a woman who was already
becoming unendurable to her.

Mrs. Rook looked at the journey from an oppressively cheerful
point of view.

"Oh, Miss Emily, you shan't feel the time hang heavy in my
company. I can converse on a variety of topics, and if there is
one thing more than another that I like, it's amusing a pretty
young lady. You think me a strange creature, don't you? It's only
my high spirits. Nothing strange about me--unless it's my queer
Christian name. You look a little dull, my dear. Shall I begin
amusing you before we are on the railway? Shall I tell you how I
came by my queer name?"

Thus far, Alban had controlled himself. This last specimen of the
housekeeper's audacious familiarity reached the limits of his
endurance.

"We don't care to know how you came by your name," he said.

"Rude," Mrs. Rook remarked, composedly. "But nothing surprises
me, coming from a man."

She turned to Emily. "My father and mother were a wicked married
couple," she continued, "before I was born. They 'got religion,'
as the saying is, at a Methodist meeting in a field. When I came
into the world--I don't know how you feel, miss; I protest
against being brought into the world without asking my leave
first--my mother was determined to dedicate me to piety, before I
was out of my long clothes. What name do you suppose she had me
christened by? She chose it, or made it, herself--the name of
'Righteous'! Righteous Rook! Was there ever a poor baby degraded
by such a ridiculous name before? It's needless to say, when I
write letters, I sign R. Rook--and leave people to think it's
Rosamond, or Rosabelle, or something sweetly pretty of that kind.
You should have seen my husband's face when he first heard that
his sweetheart's name was 'Righteous'! He was on the point of
kissing me, and he stopped. I daresay he felt sick. Perfectly
natural under the circumstances."

Alban tried to stop her again. "What time does the train go?" he
asked.

Emily entreated him to restrain himself, by a look. Mrs. Rook was
still too inveterately amiable to take offense. She opened her
traveling-bag briskly, and placed a railway guide in Alban's
hands.

"I've heard that the women do the men's work in foreign parts,"
she said. "But this is England; and I am an Englishwoman. Find
out when the train goes, my dear sir, for yourself."

Alban at once consulted the guide. If there proved to be no
immediate need of starting for the station, he was determined
that Emily should not be condemned to pass the interval in the
housekeeper's company. In the meantime, Mrs. Rook was as eager as
ever to show her dear young lady what an amusing companion she
could be.

"Talking of husbands," she resumed, "don't make the mistake, my
dear, that I committed. Beware of letting anybody persuade you to
marry an old man. Mr. Rook is old enough to be my father. I bear
with him. Of course, I bear with him. At the same time, I have
not (as the poet says) 'passed through the ordeal unscathed.' My
spirit--I have long since ceased to believe in anything of the
sort: I only use the word for want of a better--my spirit, I say,
has become embittered. I was once a pious young woman; I do
assure you I was nearly as good as my name. Don't let me shock
you; I have lost faith and hope; I have become--what's the last
new name for a free-thinker? Oh, I keep up with the times, thanks
to old Miss Redwood! She takes in the newspapers, and makes me
read them to her. What _is_ the new name? Something ending in ic.
Bombastic? No, Agnostic?--that's it! I have become an Agnostic.
The inevitable result of marrying an old man; if there's any
blame it rests on my husband."

"There's more than an hour yet before the train starts," Alban
interposed. "I am sure, Miss Emily, you would find it pleasanter
to wait in the garden."

"Not at all a bad notion," Mrs. Rook declared. "Here's a man who
can make himself useful, for once. Let's go into the garden."

She rose, and led the way to the door. Alban seized the
opportunity of whispering to Emily.

"Did you notice the empty decanter, when we first came in? That
horrid woman is drunk."

Emily pointed significantly to the locket. "Don't let her go. The
garden will distract her attention: keep her near me here."

Mrs. Rook gayly opened the door. "Take me to the flower-beds,"
she said. "I believe in nothing--but I adore flowers."

Mrs. Rook waited at the door, with her eye on Emily. "What do
_you_ say, miss?"

"I think we shall be more comfortable if we stay where we are."

"Whatever pleases you, my dear, pleases me." With this reply, the
compliant housekeeper--as amiable as ever on the
surface--returned to her chair.

Would she notice the locket as she sat down? Emily turned toward
the window, so as to let the light fall on the diamonds.

No: Mrs. Rook was absorbed, at the moment, in her own
reflections. Miss Emily, having prevented her from seeing the
garden, she was maliciously bent on disappointing Miss Emily in
return. Sir Jervis's secretary (being young) took a hopeful view
no doubt of her future prospects. Mrs. Rook decided on darkening
that view in a mischievously-suggestive manner, peculiar to
herself.

"You will naturally feel some curiosity about your new home," she
began, "and I haven't said a word about it yet. How very
thoughtless of me! Inside and out, dear Miss Emily, our house is
just a little dull. I say _our_ house, and why not--when the
management of it is all thrown on me. We are built of stone; and
we are much too long, and are not half high enough. Our situation
is on the coldest side of the county, away in the west. We are
close to the Cheviot hills; and if you fancy there is anything to
see when you look out of window, except sheep, you will find
yourself woefully mistaken. As for walks, if you go out on one
side of the house you may, or may not, be gored by cattle. On the
other side, if the darkness overtakes you, you may, or may not,
tumble down a deserted lead mine. But the company, inside the
house, makes amends for it all," Mrs. Rook proceeded, enjoying
the expression of dismay which was beginning to show itself on
Emily's face. "Plenty of excitement for you, my dear, in our
small family. Sir Jervis will introduce you to plaster casts of
hideous Indian idols; he will keep you writing for him, without
mercy, from morning to night; and when he does let you go, old
Miss Redwood will find she can't sleep, and will send for the
pretty young lady-secretary to read to her. My husband I am sure
you will like. He is a respectable man, and bears the highest
character. Next to the idols, he's the most hideous object in the
house. If you are good enough to encourage him, I don't say that
he won't amuse you; he will tell you, for instance, he never in
his life hated any human being as he hates his wife. By the way,
I must not forget--in the interests of truth, you know--to
mention one drawback that does exist in our domestic circle. One
of these days we shall have our brains blown out or our throats
cut. Sir Jervis's mother left him ten thousand pounds' worth of
precious stones all contained in a little cabinet with drawers.
He won't let the banker take care of his jewels; he won't sell
them; he won't even wear one of the rings on his finger, or one
of the pins at his breast. He keeps his cabinet on his
dressing-room table; and he says, 'I like to gloat over my
jewels, every night, before I go to bed.' Ten thousand pounds'
worth of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and what not--at
the mercy of the first robber who happens to hear of them. Oh, my
dear, he would have no choice, I do assure you, but to use his
pistols. We shouldn't quietly submit to be robbed. Sir Jervis
inherits the spirit of his ancestors. My husband has the temper
of a game cock. I myself, in defense of the property of my
employers, am capable of becoming a perfect fiend. And we none of
us understand the use of firearms!"

While she was in full enjoyment of this last aggravation of the
horrors of the prospect, Emily tried another change of
position--and, this time, with success. Greedy admiration
suddenly opened Mrs. Rook's little eyes to their utmost width.
"My heart alive, miss, what do I see at your watch-chain? How
they sparkle! Might I ask for a closer view?"

Emily's fingers trembled; but she succeeded in detaching the
locket from the chain. Alban handed it to Mrs. Rook.

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