I SAY NO

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Doctor Allday was an elderly man, with a cool manner and a ruddy
complexion--thoroughly acclimatized to the atmosphere of pain and
grief in which it was his destiny to live. He spoke to Emily
(without any undue familiarity) as if he had been accustomed to
see her for the greater part of her life.

"That's a curious woman," he said, when Mrs. Ellmother closed the
door; "the most headstrong person, I think, I ever met with. But
devoted to her mistress, and, making allowance for her
awkwardness, not a bad nurse. I am afraid I can't give you an
encouraging report of your aunt. The rheumatic fever (aggravated
by the situation of this house--built on clay, you know, and
close to stagnant water) has been latterly complicated by
delirium."

"Is that a bad sign, sir?"

"The worst possible sign; it shows that the disease has affected
the heart. Yes: she is suffering from inflammation of the eyes,
but that is an unimportant symptom. We can keep the pain under by
means of cooling lotions and a dark room. I've often heard her
speak of you--especially since the illness assumed a serious
character. What did you say? Will she know you, when you go into
her room? This is about the time when the delirium usually sets
in. I'll see if there's a quiet interval.'

He opened the door--and came back again.

"By the way," he resumed, "I ought perhaps to explain how it was
that I took the liberty of sending you that telegram. Mrs.
Ellmother refused to inform you of her mistress's serious
illness. That circumstance, according to my view of it, laid the
responsibility on the doctor's shoulders. The form taken by your
aunt's delirium--I mean the apparent tendency of the words that
escape her in that state--seems to excite some incomprehensible
feeling in the mind of her crabbed servant. She wouldn't even let
_me_ go into the bedroom, if she could possibly help it. Did Mrs.
Ellmother give you a warm welcome when you came here?"

"Far from it. My arrival seemed to annoy her."

"Ah--just what I expected. These faithful old servants always end
by presuming on their fidelity. Did you ever hear what a witty
poet--I forget his name: he lived to be ninety--said of the man
who had been his valet for more than half a century? 'For thirty
years he was the best of servants; and for thirty years he has
been the hardest of masters.' Quite true--I might say the same of
my housekeeper. Rather a good story, isn't it?"

The story was completely thrown away on Emily; but one subject
interested her now. "My poor aunt has always been fond of me,"
she said. "Perhaps she might know me, when she recognizes nobody
else."

"Not very likely," the doctor answered. "But there's no laying
down any rule in cases of this kind. I have sometimes observed
that circumstances which have produced a strong impression on
patients, when they are in a state of health, give a certain
direction to the wandering of their minds, when they are in a
state of fever. You will say, 'I am not a circumstance; I don't
see how this encourages me to hope'--and you will be quite right.
Instead of talking of my medical experience, I shall do better to
look at Miss Letitia, and let you know the result. You have got
other relations, I suppose? No? Very distressing--very
distressing."

Who has not suffered as Emily suffered, when she was left alone?
Are there not moments--if we dare to confess the truth--when poor
humanity loses its hold on the consolations of religion and the
hope of immortality, and feels the cruelty of creation that bids
us live, on the condition that we die, and leads the first warm
beginnings of love, with merciless certainty, to the cold
conclusion of the grave?

"She's quiet, for the time being," Dr. Allday announced, on his
return. "Remember, please, that she can't see you in the inflamed
state of her eyes, and don't disturb the bed-curtains. The sooner
you go to her the better, perhaps--if you have anything to say
which depends on her recognizing your voice. I'll call to-morrow
morning. Very distressing," he repeated, taking his hat and
making his bow--"Very distressing."

Emily crossed the narrow little passage which separated the two
rooms, and opened the bed-chamber door. Mrs. Ellmother met her on
the threshold. "No," said the obstinate old servant, "you can't
come in."

The faint voice of Miss Letitia made itself heard, calling Mrs.
Ellmother by her familiar nick-name.

"Bony, who is it?"

"Never mind."

"Who is it?"

"Miss Emily, if you must know."

"Oh! poor dear, why does she come here? Who told her I was ill?"

"The doctor told her."

"Don't come in, Emily. It will only distress you--and it will do
me no good. God bles s you, my love. Don't come in."

"There!" said Mrs. Ellmother. "Do you hear that? Go back to the
sitting-room."

Thus far, the hard necessity of controlling herself had kept
Emily silent. She was now able to speak without tears. "Remember
the old times, aunt," she pleaded, gently. "Don't keep me out of
your room, when I have come here to nurse you!"

"I'm her nurse. Go back to the sitting-room," Mrs. Ellmother
repeated.

True love lasts while life lasts. The dying woman relented.

"Bony! Bony! I can't be unkind to Emily. Let her in."

Mrs. Ellmother still insisted on having her way.

"You're contradicting your own orders," she said to her mistress.
"You don't know how soon you may begin wandering in your mind
again. Think, Miss Letitia--think."

This remonstrance was received in silence. Mrs. Ellmother's great
gaunt figure still blocked up the doorway.

"If you force me to it," Emily said, quietly, "I must go to the
doctor, and ask him to interfere."

"Do you mean that?" Mrs. Ellmother said, quietly, on her side.

"I do mean it," was the answer.

The old servant suddenly submitted--with a look which took Emily
by surprise. She had expected to see anger; the face that now
confronted her was a face subdued by sorrow and fear.

"I wash my hands of it," Mrs. Ellmother said. "Go in--and take
the consequences."

CHAPTER XIII.

MISS LETITIA.

Emily entered the room. The door was immediately closed on her
from the outer side. Mrs. Ellmother's heavy steps were heard
retreating along the passage. Then the banging of the door that
led into the kitchen shook the flimsily-built cottage. Then,
there was silence.

The dim light of a lamp hidden away in a corner and screened by a
dingy green shade, just revealed the closely-curtained bed, and
the table near it bearing medicine-bottles and glasses. The only
objects on the chimney-piece were a clock that had been stopped
in mercy to the sufferer's irritable nerves, and an open case
containing a machine for pouring drops into the eyes. The smell
of fumigating pastilles hung heavily on the air. To Emily's
excited imagination, the silence was like the silence of death.
She approached the bed trembling. "Won't you speak to me, aunt?"

"Is that you, Emily? Who let you come in?"

"You said I might come in, dear. Are you thirsty? I see some
lemonade on the table. Shall I give it to you?"

"No! If you open the bed-curtains, you let in the light. My poor
eyes! Why are you here, my dear? Why are you not at the school?"

"It's holiday-time, aunt. Besides, I have left school for good."

"Left school?" Miss Letitia's memory made an effort, as she
repeated those words. "You were going somewhere when you left
school," she said, "and Cecilia Wyvil had something to do with
it. Oh, my love, how cruel of you to go away to a stranger, when
you might live here with me!" She paused--her sense of what she
had herself just said began to grow confused. "What stranger?"
she asked abruptly. "Was it a man? What name? Oh, my mind! Has
death got hold of my mind before my body?"

"Hush! hush! I'll tell you the name. Sir Jervis Redwood."

"I don't know him. I don't want to know him. Do you think he
means to send for you. Perhaps he _has_ sent for you. I won't
allow it! You shan't go!"

"Don't excite yourself, dear! I have refused to go; I mean to
stay here with you."

The fevered brain held to its last idea. "_Has_ he sent for you?"
she said again, louder than before.

Emily replied once more, in terms carefully chosen with the one
purpose of pacifying her. The attempt proved to be useless, and
worse--it seemed to make her suspicious. "I won't be deceived!"
she said; "I mean to know all about it. He did send for you. Whom
did he send?"

"His housekeeper."

"What name?" The tone in which she put the question told of
excitement that was rising to its climax. "Don't you know that
I'm curious about names?" she burst out. "Why do you provoke me?
Who is it?"

"Nobody you know, or need care about, dear aunt. Mrs. Rook."

Instantly on the utterance of that name, there followed an
unexpected result. Silence ensued.

Emily waited--hesitated--advanced, to part the curtains, and look
in at her aunt. She was stopped by a dreadful sound of
laughter--the cheerless laughter that is heard among the mad. It
suddenly ended in a dreary sigh.

Afraid to look in, she spoke, hardly knowing what she said. "Is
there anything you wish for? Shall I call--?"

Miss Letitia's voice interrupted her. Dull, low, rapidly
muttering, it was unlike, shockingly unlike, the familiar voice
of her aunt. It said strange words.

"Mrs. Rook? What does Mrs. Rook matter? Or her husband either?
Bony, Bony, you're frightened about nothing. Where's the danger
of those two people turning up? Do you know how many miles away
the village is? Oh, you fool--a hundred miles and more. Never
mind the coroner, the coroner must keep in his own district--and
the jury too. A risky deception? I call it a pious fraud. And I
have a tender conscience, and a cultivated mind. The newspaper?
How is _our_ newspaper to find its way to her, I should like to
know? You poor old Bony! Upon my word you do me good--you make me
laugh."

The cheerless laughter broke out again--and died away again
drearily in a sigh.

Accustomed to decide rapidly in the ordinary emergencies of her
life, Emily felt herself painfully embarrassed by the position in
which she was now placed.

After what she had already heard, could she reconcile it to her
sense of duty to her aunt to remain any longer in the room?

In the hopeless self-betrayal of delirium, Miss Letitia had
revealed some act of concealment, committed in her past life, and
confided to her faithful old servant. Under these circumstances,
had Emily made any discoveries which convicted her of taking a
base advantage of her position at the bedside? Most assuredly
not! The nature of the act of concealment; the causes that had
led to it; the person (or persons) affected by it--these were
mysteries which left her entirely in the dark. She had found out
that her aunt was acquainted with Mrs. Rook, and that was
literally all she knew.

Blameless, so far, in the line of conduct that she had pursued,
might she still remain in the bed-chamber--on this distinct
understanding with herself: that she would instantly return to
the sitting-room if she heard anything which could suggest a
doubt of Miss Letitia's claim to her affection and respect? After
some hesitation, she decided on leaving it to her conscience to
answer that question. Does conscience ever say, No--when
inclination says, Yes? Emily's conscience sided with her
reluctance to leave her aunt.

Throughout the time occupied by these reflections, the silence
had remained unbroken. Emily began to feel uneasy. She timidly
put her hand through the curtains, and took Miss Letitia's hand.
The contact with the burning skin startled her. She turned away
to the door, to call the servant--when the sound of her aunt's
voice hurried her back to the bed.

"Are you there, Bony?" the voice asked.

Was her mind getting clear again? Emily tried the experiment of
making a plain reply. "Your niece is with you," she said. "Shall
I call the servant?"

Miss Letitia's mind was still far away from Emily, and from the
present time.

"The servant?" she repeated. "All the servants but you, Bony,
have been sent away. London's the place for us. No gossiping
servants and no curious neighbors in London. Bury the horrid
truth in London. Ah, you may well say I look anxious and
wretched. I hate deception--and yet, it must be done. Why do you
waste time in talking? Why don't you find out where the vile
woman lives? Only let me get at her--and I'll make Sara ashamed
of herself."

Emily's heart beat fast when she heard the woman's name. "Sara"
(as she and her school-fellows knew) was the baptismal name of
Miss Jethro. Had her aunt alluded to the disgraced teacher, or to
some other woman?

She waited eagerly to hear more. There was nothing to be heard.
At this most interesting moment, the silence remained
undisturbed.

In the fervor of her anxiety to set her doubts at rest, Emily's
faith in her own good resolutions began to waver. The temptation
to say somethin g which might set her aunt talking again was too
strong to be resisted--if she remained at the bedside. Despairing
of herself she rose and turned to the door. In the moment that
passed while she crossed the room the very words occurred to her
that would suit her purpose. Her cheeks were hot with shame--she
hesitated--she looked back at the bed--the words passed her lips.

"Sara is only one of the woman's names," she said. "Do you like
her other name?"

The rapidly-muttering tones broke out again instantly--but not in
answer to Emily. The sound of a voice had encouraged Miss Letitia
to pursue her own confused train of thought, and had stimulated
the fast-failing capacity of speech to exert itself once more.

"No! no! He's too cunning for you, and too cunning for me. He
doesn't leave letters about; he destroys them all. Did I say he
was too cunning for us? It's false. We are too cunning for him.
Who found the morsels of his letter in the basket? Who stuck them
together? Ah, _we_ know! Don't read it, Bony. 'Dear Miss
Jethro'--don't read it again. 'Miss Jethro' in his letter; and
'Sara,' when he talks to himself in the garden. Oh, who would
have believed it of him, if we hadn't seen and heard it
ourselves!"

There was no more doubt now.

But who was the man, so bitterly and so regretfully alluded to?

No: this time Emily held firmly by the resolution which bound her
to respect the helpless position of her aunt. The speediest way
of summoning Mrs. Ellmother would be to ring the bell. As she
touched the handle a faint cry of suffering from the bed called
her back.

"Oh, so thirsty!" murmured the failing voice--so thirsty!"

She parted the curtains. The shrouded lamplight just showed her
the green shade over Miss Letitia s eyes--the hollow cheeks below
it--the arms laid helplessly on the bed-clothes. "Oh, aunt, don't
you know my voice? Don't you know Emily? Let me kiss you, dear!"
Useless to plead with her; useless to kiss her; she only
reiterated the words, "So thirsty! so thirsty!" Emily raised the
poor tortured body with a patient caution which spared it pain,
and put the glass to her aunt's lips. She drank the lemonade to
the last drop. Refreshed for the moment, she spoke again--spoke
to the visionary servant of her delirious fancy, while she rested
in Emily's arms.

"For God's sake, take care how you answer if she questions you.
If _she_ knew what _we_ know! Are men ever ashamed? Ha! the vile
woman! the vile woman!"

Her voice, sinking gradually, dropped to a whisper. The next few
words that escaped her were muttered inarticulately. Little by
little, the false energy of fever was wearing itself out. She lay
silent and still. To look at her now was to look at the image of
death. Once more, Emily kissed her--closed the curtains--and rang
the bell. Mrs. Ellmother failed to appear. Emily left the room to
call her.

Arrived at the top of the kitchen stairs, she noted a slight
change. The door below, which she had heard banged on first
entering her aunt's room, now stood open. She called to Mrs.
Ellmother. A strange voice answered her. Its accent was soft and
courteous; presenting the strongest imaginable contrast to the
harsh tones of Miss Letitia's crabbed old maid.

"Is there anything I can do for you, miss?"

The person making this polite inquiry appeared at the foot of the
stairs--a plump and comely woman of middle age. She looked up at
the young lady with a pleasant smile.

"I beg your pardon," Emily said; "I had no intention of
disturbing you. I called to Mrs. Ellmother."

The stranger advanced a little way up the stairs, and answered,
"Mrs. Ellmother is not here."

"Do you expect her back soon?"

"Excuse me, miss--I don't expect her back at all."

"Do you mean to say that she has left the house?"

"Yes, miss. She has left the house."

CHAPTER XIV.

MRS. MOSEY.

Emily's first act--after the discovery of Mrs. Ellmother's
incomprehensible disappearance--was to invite the new servant to
follow her into the sitting-room.

"Can you explain this?" she began.

"No, miss."

"May I ask if you have come here by Mrs. Ellmother's invitation?"

"By Mrs. Ellmother's _request_, miss."

"Can you tell me how she came to make the request?"

"With pleasure, miss. Perhaps--as you find me here, a stranger to
yourself, in place of the customary servant--I ought to begin by
giving you a reference."

"And, perhaps (if you will be so kind), by mentioning your name,"
Emily added.

"Thank you for reminding me, miss. My name is Elizabeth Mosey. I
am well known to the gentleman who attends Miss Letitia. Dr.
Allday will speak to my character and also to my experience as a
nurse. If it would be in any way satisfactory to give you a
second reference--"

"Quite needless, Mrs. Mosey."

"Permit me to thank you again, miss. I was at home this evening,
when Mrs. Ellmother called at my lodgings. Says she, 'I have come
here, Elizabeth, to ask a favor of you for old friendship's
sake.' Says I, 'My dear, pray command me, whatever it may be.' If
this seems rather a hasty answer to make, before I knew what the
favor was, might I ask you to bear in mind that Mrs. Ellmother
put it to me 'for old friendship's sake'--alluding to my late
husband, and to the business which we carried on at that time?
Through no fault of ours, we got into difficulties. Persons whom
we had trusted proved unworthy. Not to trouble you further, I may
say at once, we should have been ruined, if our old friend Mrs.
Ellmother had not come forward, and trusted us with the savings
of her lifetime. The money was all paid back again, before my
husband's death. But I don't consider--and, I think you won't
consider--that the obligation was paid back too. Prudent or not
prudent, there is nothing Mrs. Ellmother can ask of me that I am
not willing to do. If I have put myself in an awkward situation
(and I don't deny that it looks so) this is the only excuse,
miss, that I can make for my conduct."

Mrs. Mosey was too fluent, and too fond of hearing the sound of
her own eminently persuasive voice. Making allowance for these
little drawbacks, the impression that she produced was decidedly
favorable; and, however rashly she might have acted, her motive
was beyond reproach. Having said some kind words to this effect,
Emily led her back to the main interest of her narrative.

"Did Mrs. Ellmother give no reason for leaving my aunt, at such a
time as this?" she asked.

"The very words I said to her, miss."

"And what did she say, by way of reply?"

"She burst out crying--a thing I have never known her to do
before, in an experience of twenty years."

"And she really asked you to take her place here, at a moment's
notice?"

"That was just what she did," Mrs. Mosey answered. "I had no need
to tell her I was astonished; my lips spoke for me, no doubt.
She's a hard woman in speech and manner, I admit. But there's
more feeling in her than you would suppose. 'If you are the good
friend I take you for,' she says, 'don't ask me for reasons; I am
doing what is forced on me, and doing it with a heavy heart.' In
my place, miss, would you have insisted on her explaining
herself, after that? The one thing I naturally wanted to know
was, if I could speak to some lady, in the position of mistress
here, before I ventured to intrude. Mrs. Ellmother understood
that it was her duty to help me in this particular. Your poor
aunt being out of the question she mentioned you."

"How did she speak of me? In an angry way?"

"No, indeed--quite the contrary. She says, 'You will find Miss
Emily at the cottage. She is Miss Letitia's niece. Everybody
likes her--and everybody is right.'"

"She really said that?"

"Those were her words. And, what is more, she gave me a message
for you at parting. 'If Miss Emily is surprised' (that was how
she put it) 'give her my duty and good wishes; and tell her to
remember what I said, when she took my place at her aunt's
bedside.' I don't presume to inquire what this means," said Mrs.
Mosey respectfully, ready to hear what it meant, if Emily would
only be so good as to tell her. "I deliver the message, miss, as
it was delivered to me. After which, Mrs. Ellmother went her way,
and I went mine."

"Do you know where she wen t?"

"No, miss."

"Have you nothing more to tell me?"

"Nothing more; except that she gave me my directions, of course,
about the nursing. I took them down in writing--and you will find
them in their proper place, with the prescriptions and the
medicines."

Acting at once on this hint, Emily led the way to her aunt's
room.

Miss Letitia was silent, when the new nurse softly parted the
curtains--looked in--and drew them together again. Consulting her
watch, Mrs. Mosey compared her written directions with the
medicine-bottles on the table, and set one apart to be used at
the appointed time. "Nothing, so far, to alarm us," she
whispered. "You look sadly pale and tired, miss. Might I advise
you to rest a little?"

"If there is any change, Mrs. Mosey--either for the better or the
worse--of course you will let me know?"

"Certainly, miss."

Emily returned to the sitting-room: not to rest (after all that
she had heard), but to think.

Amid much that was unintelligible, certain plain conclusions
presented themselves to her mind.

After what the doctor had already said to Emily, on the subject
of delirium generally, Mrs. Ellmother's proceedings became
intelligible: they proved that she knew by experience the
perilous course taken by her mistress's wandering thoughts, when
they expressed themselves in words. This explained the
concealment of Miss Letitia's illness from her niece, as well as
the reiterated efforts of the old servant to prevent Emily from
entering the bedroom.

But the event which had just happened--that is to say, Mrs.
Ellmother's sudden departure from the cottage--was not only of
serious importance in itself, but pointed to a startling
conclusion.

The faithful maid had left the mistress, whom she had loved and
served, sinking under a fatal illness--and had put another woman
in her place, careless of what that woman might discover by
listening at the bedside--rather than confront Emily after she
had been within hearing of her aunt while the brain of the
suffering woman was deranged by fever. There was the state of the
case, in plain words.

In what frame of mind had Mrs. Ellmother adopted this desperate
course of action?

To use her own expression, she had deserted Miss Letitia "with a
heavy heart." To judge by her own language addressed to Mrs.
Mosey, she had left Emily to the mercy of a stranger--animated,
nevertheless, by sincere feelings of attachment and respect. That
her fears had taken for granted suspicion which Emily had not
felt, and discoveries which Emily had (as yet) not made, in no
way modified the serious nature of the inference which her
conduct justified. The disclosure which this woman dreaded--who
could doubt it now?--directly threatened Emily's peace of mind.
There was no disguising it: the innocent niece was associated
with an act of deception, which had been, until that day, the
undetected secret of the aunt and the aunt's maid.

In this conclusion, and in this only, was to be found the
rational explanation of Mrs. Ellmother's choice--placed between
the alternatives of submitting to discovery by Emily, or of
leaving the house.

Poor Miss Letitia's writing-table stood near the window of the
sitting-room. Shrinking from the further pursuit of thoughts
which might end in disposing her mind to distrust of her dying
aunt, Emily looked round in search of some employment
sufficiently interesting to absorb her attention. The
writing-table reminded her that she owed a letter to Cecilia.
That helpful friend had surely the first claim to know why she
had failed to keep her engagement with Sir Jervis Redwood.

After mentioning the telegram which had followed Mrs. Rook's
arrival at the school, Emily's letter proceeded in these terms:

"As soon as I had in some degree recovered myself, I informed
Mrs. Rook of my aunt's serious illness.

"Although she carefully confined herself to commonplace
expressions of sympathy, I could see that it was equally a relief
to both of us to feel that we were prevented from being traveling
companions. Don't suppose that I have taken a capricious dislike
to Mrs. Rook--or that you are in any way to blame for the
unfavorable impression which she has produced on me. I will make
this plain when we meet. In the meanwhile, I need only tell you
that I gave her a letter of explanation to present to Sir Jervis
Redwood. I also informed him of my address in London: adding a
request that he would forward your letter, in case you have
written to me before you receive these lines.

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