I SAY NO

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"Kind Mr. Alban Morris accompanied me to the railway-station, and
arranged with the guard to take special care of me on the journey
to London. We used to think him rather a heartless man. We were
quite wrong. I don't know what his plans are for spending the
summer holidays. Go where he may, I remember his kindness; my
best wishes go with him.

"My dear, I must not sadden your enjoyment of your pleasant visit
to the Engadine, by writing at any length of the sorrow that I am
suffering. You know how I love my aunt, and how gratefully I have
always felt her motherly goodness to me. The doctor does not
conceal the truth. At her age, there is no hope: my father's
last-left relation, my one dearest friend, is dying.

"No! I must not forget that I have another friend--I must find
some comfort in thinking of _you_.

"I do so long in my solitude for a letter from my dear Cecilia.
Nobody comes to see me, when I most want sympathy; I am a
stranger in this vast city. The members of my mother's family are
settled in Australia: they have not even written to me, in all
the long years that have passed since her death. You remember how
cheerfully I used to look forward to my new life, on leaving
school? Good-by, my darling. While I can see your sweet face, in
my thoughts, I don't despair--dark as it looks now--of the future
that is before me."

Emily had closed and addressed her letter, and was just rising
from her chair, when she heard the voice of the new nurse at the
door.

CHAPTER XV

EMILY.

"May I say a word?" Mrs. Mosey inquired. She entered the
room--pale and trembling. Seeing that ominous change, Emily
dropped back into her chair.

"Dead?" she said faintly.

Mrs. Mosey looked at her in vacant surprise.

"I wish to say, miss, that your aunt has frightened me."

Even that vague allusion was enough for Emily.

"You need say no more," she replied. "I know but too well how my
aunt's mind is affected by the fever."

Confused and frightened as she was, Mrs. Mosey still found relief
in her customary flow of words.

"Many and many a person have I nursed in fever," she announced.
"Many and many a person have I heard say strange things. Never
yet, miss, in all my experience--!"

"Don't tell me of it!" Emily interposed.

"Oh, but I _must_ tell you! In your own interests, Miss Emily--in
your own interests. I won't be inhuman enough to leave you alone
in the house to-night; but if this delirium goes on, I must ask
you to get another nurse. Shocking suspicions are lying in wait
for me in that bedroom, as it were. I can't resist them as I
ought, if I go back again, and hear your aunt saying what she has
been saying for the last half hour and more. Mrs. Ellmother has
expected impossibilities of me; and Mrs. Ellmother must take the
consequences. I don't say she didn't warn me--speaking, you will
please to understand, in the strictest confidence. 'Elizabeth,'
she says, 'you know how wildly people talk in Miss Letitia's
present condition. Pay no heed to it,' she says. 'Let it go in at
one ear and out at the other,' she says. 'If Miss Emily asks
questions--you know nothing about it. If she's frightened--you
know nothing about it. If she bursts into fits of crying that are
dreadful to see, pity her, poor thing, but take no notice.' All
very well, and sounds like speaking out, doesn't it? Nothing of
the sort! Mrs. Ellmother warns me to expect this, that, and the
other. But there is one horrid thing (which I heard, mind, over
and over again at your aunt's bedside) that she does _not_
prepare me for; and that horrid thing is--Murder!"

At that last word, Mrs. Mosey dropped her voice to a whisper--and
waited to see what effect she had produced.

Sorely tried
already by the cruel perplexities of her position, Emily's
courage failed to resist the first sensation of horror, aroused
in her by the climax of the nurse's hysterical narrative.
Encouraged by her silence, Mrs. Mosey went on. She lifted one
hand with theatrical solemnity--and luxuriously terrified herself
with her own horrors.

"An inn, Miss Emily; a lonely inn, somewhere in the country; and
a comfortless room at the inn, with a makeshift bed at one end of
it, and a makeshift bed at the other--I give you my word of
honor, that was how your aunt put it. She spoke of two men next;
two men asleep (you understand) in the two beds. I think she
called them 'gentlemen'; but I can't be sure, and I wouldn't
deceive you--you know I wouldn't deceive you, for the world. Miss
Letitia muttered and mumbled, poor soul. I own I was getting
tired of listening--when she burst out plain again, in that one
horrid word--Oh, miss, don't be impatient! don't interrupt me!"

Emily did interrupt, nevertheless. In some degree at least she
had recovered herself. "No more of it!" she said--"I won't hear a
word more."

But Mrs. Mosey was too resolutely bent on asserting her own
importance, by making the most of the alarm that she had
suffered, to be repressed by any ordinary method of remonstrance.
Without paying the slightest attention to what Emily had said,
she went on again more loudly and more excitably than ever.

"Listen, miss--listen! The dreadful part of it is to come; you
haven't heard about the two gentlemen yet. One of them was
murdered--what do you think of that!--and the other (I heard your
aunt say it, in so many words) committed the crime. Did Miss
Letitia fancy she was addressing a lot of people when _you_ were
nursing her? She called out, like a person making public
proclamation, when I was in her room. 'Whoever you are, good
people' (she says), 'a hundred pounds reward, if you find the
runaway murderer. Search everywhere for a poor weak womanish
creature, with rings on his little white hands. There's nothing
about him like a man, except his voice--a fine round voice.
You'll know him, my friends--the wretch, the monster--you'll know
him by his voice.' That was how she put it; I tell you again,
that was how she put it. Did you hear her scream? Ah, my dear
young lady, so much the better for you! 'O the horrid murder'
(she says)--'hush it up!' I'll take my Bible oath before the
magistrate," cried Mrs. Mosey, starting out of her chair, "your
aunt said, 'Hush it up!'"

Emily crossed the room. The energy of her character was roused at
last. She seized the foolish woman by the shoulders, forced her
back in the chair, and looked her straight in the face without
uttering a word.

For the moment, Mrs. Mosey was petrified. She had fully
expected--having reached the end of her terrible story--to find
Emily at her feet, entreating her not to carry out her intention
of leaving the cottage the next morning; and she had determined,
after her sense of her own importance had been sufficiently
flattered, to grant the prayer of the helpless young lady. Those
were her anticipations--and how had they been fulfilled? She had
been treated like a mad woman in a state of revolt!

"How dare you assault me?" she asked piteously. "You ought to be
ashamed of yourself. God knows I meant well."

"You are not the first person," Emily answered, quietly releasing
her, "who has done wrong with the best intentions."

"I did my duty, miss, when I told you what your aunt said."

"You forgot your duty when you listened to what my aunt said."

"Allow me to explain myself."

"No: not a word more on _that_ subject shall pass between us.
Remain here, if you please; I have something to suggest in your
own interests. Wait, and compose yourself."

The purpose which had taken a foremost place in Emily's mind
rested on the firm foundation of her love and pity for her aunt.

Now that she had regained the power to think, she felt a hateful
doubt pressed on her by Mrs. Mosey's disclosures. Having taken
for granted that there was a foundation in truth for what she
herself had heard in her aunt's room, could she reasonably resist
the conclusion that there must be a foundation in truth for what
Mrs. Mosey had heard, under similar circumstances?

There was but one way of escaping from this dilemma--and Emily
deliberately took it. She turned her back on her own convictions;
and persuaded herself that she had been in the wrong, when she
had attached importance to anything that her aunt had said, under
the influence of delirium. Having adopted this conclusion, she
resolved to face the prospect of a night's solitude by the
death-bed--rather than permit Mrs. Mosey to have a second
opportunity of drawing her own inferences from what she might
hear in Miss Letitia's room.

"Do you mean to keep me waiting much longer, miss?"

"Not a moment longer, now you are composed again," Emily
answered. "I have been thinking of what has happened; and I fail
to see any necessity for putting off your departure until the
doctor comes to-morrow morning. There is really no objection to
your leaving me to-night."

"I beg your pardon, miss; there _is_ an objection. I have already
told you I can't reconcile it to my conscience to leave you here
by yourself. I am not an inhuman woman," said Mrs. Mosey, putting
her handkerchief to her eyes--smitten with pity for herself.

Emily tried the effect of a conciliatory reply. "I am grateful
for your kindness in offering to stay with me," she said.

"Very good of you, I'm sure," Mrs. Mosey answered ironically.
"But for all that, you persist in sending me away."

"I persist in thinking that there is no necessity for my keeping
you here until to-morrow."

"Oh, have it your own way! I am not reduced to forcing my company
on anybody."

Mrs. Mosey put her handkerchief in her pocket, and asserted her
dignity. With head erect and slowly-marching steps she walked out
of the room. Emily was left in the cottage, alone with her dying
aunt.

CHAPTER XVI.

MISS JETHRO.

A fortnight after the disappearance of Mrs. Ellmother, and the
dismissal of Mrs. Mosey, Doctor Allday entered his
consulting-room, punctual to the hour at which he was accustomed
to receive patients.

An occasional wrinkling of his eyebrows, accompanied by an
intermittent restlessness in his movements, appeared to indicate
some disturbance of this worthy man's professional composure. His
mind was indeed not at ease. Even the inexcitable old doctor had
felt the attraction which had already conquered three such
dissimilar people as Alban Morris, Cecilia Wyvil, and Francine de
Sor. He was thinking of Emily.

A ring at the door-bell announced the arrival of the first
patient.

The servant introduced a tall lady, dressed simply and elegantly
in dark apparel. Noticeable features, of a Jewish cast--worn and
haggard, but still preserving their grandeur of form--were
visible through her veil. She moved with grace and dignity; and
she stated her object in consulting Doctor Allday with the ease
of a well-bred woman.

"I come to ask your opinion, sir, on the state of my heart," she
said; "and I am recommended by a patient, who has consulted you
with advantage to herself." She placed a card on the doctor's
writing-desk, and added: "I have become acquainted with the lady,
by being one of the lodgers in her house."

The doctor recognized the name--and the usual proceedings ensued.
After careful examination, he arrived at a favorable conclusion.
"I may tell you at once," he said--"there is no reason to be
alarmed about the state of your heart."

"I have never felt any alarm about myself," she answered quietly.
"A sudden death is an easy death. If one's affairs are settled,
it seems, on that account, to be the death to prefer. My object
was to settle _my_ affairs--such as they are--if you had
considered my life to be in danger. "Is there nothing the matter
with me?"

"I don't say that," the doctor replied. "The action of your heart
is very feeble. Take the medicine that I shall prescribe; pay a
little more attention to eating and drinking than ladies usually
do; don't run upstairs, and don't fatigue yourself by violent
exercise--and I see no reason wh y you shouldn't live to be an
old woman."

"God forbid!" the lady said to herself. She turned away, and
looked out of the window with a bitter smile.

Doctor Allday wrote his prescription. "Are you likely to make a
long stay in London?" he asked.

"I am here for a little while only. Do you wish to see me again?"

"I should like to see you once more, before you go away--if you
can make it convenient. What name shall I put on the
prescription?"

"Miss Jethro."

"A remarkable name," the doctor said, in his matter-of-fact way.

Miss Jethro's bitter smile showed itself again.

Without otherwise noticing what Doctor Allday had said, she laid
the consultation fee on the table. At the same moment, the
footman appeared with a letter. "From Miss Emily Brown," he said.
"No answer required."

He held the door open as he delivered the message, seeing that
Miss Jethro was about to leave the room. She dismissed him by a
gesture; and, returning to the table, pointed to the letter.

"Was your correspondent lately a pupil at Miss Ladd's school?"
she inquired.

"My correspondent has just left Miss Ladd," the doctor answered.
"Are you a friend of hers?"

"I am acquainted with her."

"You would be doing the poor child a kindness, if you would go
and see her. She has no friends in London."

"Pardon me--she has an aunt."

"Her aunt died a week since."

"Are there no other relations?"

"None. A melancholy state of things, isn't it? She would have
been absolutely alone in the house, if I had not sent one of my
women servants to stay with her for the present. Did you know her
father?"

Miss Jethro passed over the question, as if she had not heard it.
"Has the young lady dismissed her aunt's servants?" she asked.

"Her aunt kept but one servant, ma'am. The woman has spared Miss
Emily the trouble of dismissing her." He briefly alluded to Mrs.
Ellmother's desertion of her mistress. "I can't explain it," he
said when he had done. "Can _you_?"

"What makes you think, sir, that I can help you? I have never
even heard of the servant--and the mistress was a stranger to
me."

At Doctor Allday's age a man is not easily discouraged by
reproof, even when it is administered by a handsome woman. "I
thought you might have known Miss Emily's father," he persisted.

Miss Jethro rose, and wished him good-morning. "I must not occupy
any more of your valuable time," she said.

"Suppose you wait a minute?" the doctor suggested.

Impenetrable as ever, he rang the bell. "Any patients in the
waiting-room?" he inquired. "You see I have time to spare," he
resumed, when the man had replied in the negative. "I take an
interest in this poor girl; and I thought--"

"If you think that I take an interest in her, too," Miss Jethro
interposed, "you are perfectly right--I knew her father," she
added abruptly; the allusion to Emily having apparently reminded
her of the question which she had hitherto declined to notice.

"In that case," Doctor Allday proceeded, "I want a word of
advice. Won't you sit down?"

She took a chair in silence. An irregular movement in the lower
part of her veil seemed to indicate that she was breathing with
difficulty. The doctor observed her with close attention. "Let me
see my prescription again," he said. Having added an ingredient,
he handed it back with a word of explanation. "Your nerves are
more out of order than I supposed. The hardest disease to cure
that I know of is--worry."

The hint could hardly have been plainer; but it was lost on Miss
Jethro. Whatever her troubles might be, her medical adviser was
not made acquainted with them. Quietly folding up the
prescription, she reminded him that he had proposed to ask her
advice.

"In what way can I be of service to you?" she inquired.

"I am afraid I must try your patience," the doctor acknowledged,
"if I am to answer that question plainly."

With these prefatory words, he described the events that had
followed Mrs. Mosey's appearance at the cottage. "I am only doing
justice to this foolish woman," he continued, "when I tell you
that she came here, after she had left Miss Emily, and did her
best to set matters right. I went to the poor girl directly--and
I felt it my duty, after looking at her aunt, not to leave her
alone for that night. When I got home the next morning, whom do
you think I found waiting for me? Mrs. Ellmother!"

He stopped--in the expectation that Miss Jethro would express
some surprise. Not a word passed her lips.

"Mrs. Ellmother's object was to ask how her mistress was going
on," the doctor proceeded. "Every day while Miss Letitia still
lived, she came here to make the same inquiry--without a word of
explanation. On the day of the funeral, there she was at the
church, dressed in deep mourning; and, as I can personally
testify, crying bitterly. When the ceremony was over--can you
believe it?--she slipped away before Miss Emily or I could speak
to her. We have seen nothing more of her, and heard nothing more,
from that time to this."

He stopped again, the silent lady still listening without making
any remark.

"Have you no opinion to express?" the doctor asked bluntly.

"I am waiting," Miss Jethro answered.

"Waiting--for what?"

"I haven't heard yet, why you want my advice."

Doctor Allday's observation of humanity had hitherto reckoned
want of caution among the deficient moral qualities in the
natures of women. He set down Miss Jethro as a remarkable
exception to a general rule.

"I want you to advise me as to the right course to take with Miss
Emily," he said. "She has assured me she attaches no serious
importance to her aunt's wanderings, when the poor old lady's
fever was at its worst. I don't doubt that she speaks the
truth--but I have my own reasons for being afraid that she is
deceiving herself. Will you bear this in mind?"

"Yes--if it's necessary."

"In plain words, Miss Jethro, you think I am still wandering from
the point. I have got to the point. Yesterday, Miss Emily told me
that she hoped to be soon composed enough to examine the papers
left by her aunt."

Miss Jethro suddenly turned in her chair, and looked at Doctor
Allday.

"Are you beginning to feel interested?" the doctor asked
mischievously.

She neither acknowledged nor denied it. "Go on"--was all she
said.

"I don't know how _you_ feel," he proceeded; "_I_ am afraid of
the discoveries which she may make; and I am strongly tempted to
advise her to leave the proposed examination to her aunt's
lawyer. Is there anything in your knowledge of Miss Emily's late
father, which tells you that I am right?"

"Before I reply," said Miss Jethro, "it may not be amiss to let
the young lady speak for herself."

"How is she to do that?" the doctor asked.

Miss Jethro pointed to the writing table. "Look there," she said.
"You have not yet opened Miss Emily's letter."

CHAPTER XVII.

DOCTOR ALLDAY.

Absorbed in the effort to overcome his patient's reserve, the
doctor had forgotten Emily's letter. He opened it immediately.

After reading the first sentence, he looked up with an expression
of annoyance. "She has begun the examination of the papers
already," he said.

"Then I can be of no further use to you," Miss Jethro rejoined.
She made a second attempt to leave the room.

Doctor Allday turned to the next page of the letter. "Stop!" he
cried. "She has found something--and here it is."

He held up a small printed Handbill, which had been placed
between the first and second pages. "Suppose you look at it?" he
said.

"Whether I am interested in it or not?" Miss Jethro asked.

"You may be interested in what Miss Emily says about it in her
letter."

"Do you propose to show me her letter?"

"I propose to read it to you."

Miss Jethro took the Handbill without further objection. It was
expressed in these words:

"MURDER. 100 POUNDS REWARD.--Whereas a murder was committed on
the thirtieth September, 1877, at the Hand-in-Hand Inn, in the
village of Zeeland, Hampshire, the above reward will be paid to
any person or persons whose exertions shall lead to the arrest
and conviction of the suspected murderer. Name not known.
Supposed age, between twenty and thirty years. A well-made man,
of small stature. Fair complexion, delicate features, clear blue
eye s. Hair light, and cut rather short. Clean shaven, with the
exception of narrow half-whiskers. Small, white, well-shaped
hands. Wore valuable rings on the two last fingers of the left
hand. Dressed neatly in a dark-gray tourist-suit. Carried a
knapsack, as if on a pedestrian excursion. Remarkably good voice,
smooth, full, and persuasive. Ingratiating manners. Apply to the
Chief Inspector, Metropolitan Police Office, London."

Miss Jethro laid aside the Handbill without any visible
appearance of agitation. The doctor took up Emily's letter, and
read as follows:

"You will be as much relieved as I was, my kind friend, when you
look at the paper inclosed. I found it loose in a blank book,
with cuttings from newspapers, and odd announcements of lost
property and other curious things (all huddled together between
the leaves), which my aunt no doubt intended to set in order and
fix in their proper places. She must have been thinking of her
book, poor soul, in her last illness. Here is the origin of those
'terrible words' which frightened stupid Mrs. Mosey! Is it not
encouraging to have discovered such a confirmation of my opinion
as this? I feel a new interest in looking over the papers that
still remain to be examined--"

Before he could get to the end of the sentence Miss Jethro's
agitation broke through her reserve.

"Do what you proposed to do!" she burst out vehemently. "Stop her
at once from carrying her examination any further! If she
hesitates, insist on it!"

At last Doctor Allday had triumphed! "It has been a long time
coming," he remarked, in his cool way; "and it's all the more
welcome on that account. You dread the discoveries she may make,
Miss Jethro, as I do. And _you_ know what those discoveries may
be."

"What I do know, or don't know, is of no importance." she
answered sharply.

"Excuse me, it is of very serious importance. I have no authority
over this poor girl--I am not even an old friend. You tell me to
insist. Help me to declare honestly that I know of circumstances
which justify me; and I may insist to some purpose."

Miss Jethro lifted her veil for the first time, and eyed him
searchingly.

"I believe I can trust you," she said. "Now listen! The one
consideration on which I consent to open my lips, is
consideration for Miss Emily's tranquillity. Promise me absolute
secrecy, on your word of honor."

He gave the promise.

"I want to know one thing, first," Miss Jethro proceeded. "Did
she tell you--as she once told me--that her father had died of
heart-complaint?"

"Yes."

"Did you put any questions to her?"

"I asked how long ago it was."

"And she told you?"

"She told me."

"You wish to know, Doctor Allday, what discoveries Miss Emily may
yet make, among her aunt's papers. Judge for yourself, when I
tell you that she has been deceived about her father's death."

"Do you mean that he is still living?"

"I mean that she has been deceived--purposely deceived--about the
_manner_ of his death."

"Who was the wretch who did it?"

"You are wronging the dead, sir! The truth can only have been
concealed out of the purest motives of love and pity. I don't
desire to disguise the conclusion at which I have arrived after
what I have heard from yourself. The person responsible must be
Miss Emily's aunt--and the old servant must have been in her
confidence. Remember! You are bound in honor not to repeat to any
living creature what I have just said."

The doctor followed Miss Jethro to the door. "You have not yet
told me," he said, "_how_ her father died."

"I have no more to tell you."

With those words she left him.

He rang for his servant. To wait until the hour at which he was
accustomed to go out, might be to leave Emily's peace of mind at
the mercy of an accident. "I am going to the cottage," he said.
"If anybody wants me, I shall be back in a quarter of an hour."

On the point of leaving the house, he remembered that Emily would
probably expect him to return the Handbill. As he took it up, the
first lines caught his eye: he read the date at which the murder
had been committed, for the second time. On a sudden the ruddy
color left his face.

"Good God!" he cried, "her father was murdered--and that woman
was concerned in it."

Following the impulse that urged him, he secured the Handbill in
his pocketbook--snatched up the card which his patient had
presented as her introduction--and instantly left the house. He
called the first cab that passed him, and drove to Miss Jethro's
lodgings.

"Gone"--was the servant's answer when he inquired for her. He
insisted on speaking to the landlady. "Hardly ten minutes have
passed," he said, "since she left my house."

"Hardly ten minutes have passed," the landlady replied, "since
that message was brought here by a boy."

The message had been evidently written in great haste: "I am
unexpectedly obliged to leave London. A bank note is inclosed in
payment of my debt to you. I will send for my luggage."

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