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 I SAY NO'
 
 NEW THREE-VOLUME NOVELS AT 
 ALL LIBRARIES. 
 
 FOXGLOVE MANOK. By ROHKU'i' BrciiANAX. 
 
 PRINCESS NAPUAXINE. By OlJlOA. 
 
 DOROTHY FORSTER. By Waltkr Bksant. 
 
 A DRAWN GAME. By Basil, 
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. Bv Sarah Tvti.kk. 
 
 SAINT MUNGO'S CITY. By SASAii TvTl.icii. 
 
 HEART SALVAGE BY &T5A AND LAND. By Mrs. Cooriai. 
 
 CHATTO & ^WINDUS, Piccadilly, W.
 
 "I SAY NO" 
 
 BY 
 
 WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Ifonboir 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1884 
 
 [ The right of trnuslation is reserve(r\
 
 PRINTKn r?Y 
 
 KKI,I,Y AND CO., OATK STKKKT, I,IN0Ol,N"S INN riKl.DS; 
 
 ANP MIDDTiR MILL, KINfiSTONON Til AMKS.
 
 fX5 
 
 ^ C(.1^ 
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP, 
 
 I'AGK 
 
 I. — The Smuggled Supper .... 3 
 
 -ix II. — Biography in the Bedroom . . . I7 
 
 b III.— The Late Mr. Brown . . . -34 
 
 IV.— Miss Ladd's Drawing-Master ... 46 
 
 V. — Discoveries in the Garden . . .60 
 
 -^ VI.— On the Way to The Village ... 80 
 
 ^ VII.— "Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before" . 96 
 
 "^>^ VIII.— Master and Pupil . . . • "o 
 
 r 
 4 
 
 IX.— Mrs. Rook and the Locket . . .121 
 
 X. — Guesses at the Truth .... 140 
 
 XL— The Drawing-Master's Confession . . .150 
 
 XII. —Mrs. Ellmothbr . . • • .169
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PACIK 
 
 XIII.- MiSH J. K J IMA .182 
 
 197 
 
 XIV.- Mrs. M08KY ..... 
 
 XV. E.MiLV . . 21 1 
 
 XVI. — MisK Jktiiko • . . . . 222 
 
 XVII. — Doctor Aiaawy 
 
 XVIII.— M1S8 Ladd . . 
 
 XIX. — Sir Jervis Eedwood .... 256 
 
 XX. — The HevereiM) Miles Miraiiel . . 260 
 
 XXI. — Polly and Sally ..... 273 
 
 XXII. — Alban Morris ..... 284 
 
 234 
 243
 
 AT SCHOOL 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 "I SAY NO." 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE SMUGGLED SUPPER. 
 
 Outside the bedroom the night was black 
 and still. 
 
 The small rain fell too softly to be heard 
 ill the garden ; not a leaf stirred in tlie 
 airless calm ; the watch-dog was asleep, tlic 
 cats were indoors : far or near, under the 
 murky heaven, not a sound was stirring. 
 
 Inside the bedroom the niglit was black 
 
 and still. 
 
 2—2
 
 4 '' I SAY NOr 
 
 Miss Ladd knew her business as a school- 
 mistress too well to allow night-liglils ; and 
 Miss Ladd's y )ii ng ladies were supposed to 
 be f^xst asleep, in accordance with the rules 
 of the house. Only at intervals the silence 
 was faintly disturbed, when the restless 
 turning of one of the girls in her bed be- 
 trayed itself by a gentle rustling between 
 the sheets. In the long intervals of stillness, 
 not even the softly audible breathing of 
 young creatures asleep was to be heard. 
 
 The first sound that told of life and 
 movement revealed the mechanical move- 
 ment of the clock. Speaking from the 
 lower reii'ions, the tongue of Father Time 
 told the hour before midnight. 
 
 A soft voice rose wearily near the door 
 of the room. It counted the strokes of tlie 
 clock — and reminded one of the girls of 
 the lapse of time. 
 
 "Emily! eleven o'clock."
 
 THE SMrCrGLED SVPPER. 5 
 
 There was no reply. After an interval 
 tlie weary voice tried ai?ain, in londer tones. 
 
 "Emily!" 
 
 A girl, wliose bed was at tlie inner end 
 of the room, sighed under the heavy heat 
 of the night — and said, in peremptory tones, 
 "Is that Cecilia?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "I'm getting liungry, Emily. Is the new 
 girl asleep ? " 
 
 The new girl answered promptly and 
 spitefully, "No, she isn't." 
 
 Having a private object of their own in 
 view, the five wise virgins of Miss Ladd's 
 first class had waited an hour, in wakeful 
 anticipation of the falling asleep of the 
 stranger — and it had ended in this way! A 
 ripple of laughter ran round the room. The 
 new o'irl, mortified and offended, entered her 
 protest in plain words.
 
 6 ^' I SAY NO." 
 
 "You are treating nic shamefully! You 
 all distrust me, because I am a stranger." 
 
 " Say we don't understand you," Emily 
 ans\\:ered5 speaking for her schoolfellows ; 
 '• and you will be nearer the truth." 
 
 " Who expected you to understand me, 
 when I only came here to-day? I have 
 told you already my name is Francine de 
 Sor. If you w^ant to know more, I'm nine- 
 teen years old, and I come from the West 
 Indies." 
 
 Emily still took the lead. "Why do you 
 come here ? " she asked. " Who ever heard 
 of a girl joining a new school just before 
 the holidays? You are nineteen years old, 
 are you? I'm a year younger tliau you — 
 and I have fniished my education. The 
 next big girl in the room is a year younger 
 than me — and she has fmislied her educa- 
 tion. What can you possibly have left to 
 learn at your age ? "
 
 THE SMUGGLED SUPPER. 7 
 
 " Everythino' ! " cried tlie strano-er from 
 the West Indies, with an ontburst of tears. 
 " I'm a poor ignorant creatnre. Your edu- 
 cation ought to have taught you to pity 
 me instead of making fun of me. I hate 
 you alL For shame, for shame!" 
 
 Some of the girls Liughed. One of them 
 — the Imngry girl who had counted the 
 strokes of the clock — took Francine's part. 
 
 " Xeyer mind their laughing. Miss de Sor. 
 You are quite right, you have good reason 
 to complain of us." 
 
 Miss de Sor dried her eyes. "Thank you 
 — wlioever you are," she answered, briskly. 
 
 "My name is Cecilia Wyvil," the other 
 proceeded. " It was not, perhaps, quite nice 
 of you to say you hated us all. At the 
 same time we haye forgotten our good 
 breeding — and the least we can do is to 
 beg your pardon. 
 
 This expression of generous sentiment ap-
 
 S "/ SAY A<f: 
 
 peared to liave an irritating effect ou the 
 peremptory young person who took tlie lead 
 in the room. Perhaps she disapproved of 
 free trade in generous sentiment. 
 
 "I can tell you one thing, Cecilia," she 
 said ; " you sha'nt l)eat me in generosity. 
 Strike a light, one of you, and lay the 
 blame on me if Miss Ladd fnids us out. I 
 mean to shake hands with the new girl — 
 and how can I do it in the dark? Miss 
 de Sor, my name's Brown, and I'm queen 
 of the bedroom. I — not Cecilia — offer our 
 apologies if we have offended you. Cecilia 
 is my dearest friend, but I don't allow her 
 to take the lead in the room. Oh, what a 
 lovely night-gown ! " 
 
 The sudden flow of the candlelight had 
 revealed Francine, sitting up in her bed, 
 and displaying such treasures of real lace 
 over her bosom that the queen lost all 
 sense of royal dignity in irrepressible
 
 THE SMrnOLETJ SUPPER. 
 
 admiration. " Seven and sixpence," Emily 
 remarked, looking at lier own niglitgown, 
 and despising it. One after another, the 
 girls yielded to the attraction of the wonder- 
 ful lace. Slim and plump, fair and dark, 
 they circled round the new pupil in their 
 flowing white robes, and arrived by common 
 consent at one and the same conclusion : 
 '• IIow rich her father must be ! " 
 
 Favoured by fortune in the matter of 
 money was this enviable person possessed 
 of beauty as well? 
 
 In the disposition of the beds. Miss de 
 Sor was placed between Cecilia on the right 
 hand, and Emily on the left. If, by some 
 fantastic turn of events, a man — say in 
 the interests of propriety, a married 
 doctor, with Miss Ladd to look after him — 
 had been permitted to enter the room, and 
 had been asked what he thought of the 
 girls when he came out, he would not even
 
 lo ''I SAY NO." 
 
 liave mentioned Francine. ])lind to the 
 beauties of the expensive night-gown, lie 
 would have noticed her k)ng upper Hp, her 
 obstinate chin, her sallow complexion, her 
 eyes placed too close together — and would 
 have turned his attention to her nearest 
 neighbours. On one side, his languid in- 
 terest would have been instantly roused l)y 
 Cecilia's glowing auburn hair, her exquis- 
 itely pure skin, and her tender blue eyes. 
 On the other, he would have discovered a 
 bright little creature, who would have fas- 
 cinated and perplexed him at one and the 
 same time. If he had been questioned 
 about her by a stranger, he would have 
 been at a loss to say positively whether she 
 w^as dark or li^^ht : he would have remem- 
 bered how her eyes had lield him, but he 
 w^ould not have known of what colour they 
 were. And yet, she would have remained 
 a vivid picture in his memory v/hen other
 
 THE SMUGGLED SUPPEB. n 
 
 impressions, derived at tlie same time, had 
 vanished. "There was one little witch 
 among them, who was worth all the rest 
 pnt together; and I can't tell you why. 
 They called her Emily. If I wasn't a mar- 
 ried man " There, he would have 
 
 thought of his Avife, and would have sighed 
 and said no more. 
 
 While the girls were still admiring Fran- 
 cine, the clock struck the half-hour past 
 eleven. 
 
 Cecilia stole on tiptoe to the door — looked 
 out, and listened — closed the door again — 
 and addressed the meeting with the irresis- 
 tible charm of her sweet voice and her 
 persuasive smile. 
 
 "Are none of you hungry yet?" she 
 enquired. "The teachers are safe in their 
 rooms ; we have set ourselves right with 
 Francine. Why keep the supper waiting 
 under Emily's bed ? "
 
 12 'F.^AVNfr 
 
 Sucli reasoning as this, with such per- 
 sonal attractions to recommend it, admitted 
 of l)ut oiie repl3\ The queen waved her 
 liand graciousl}', and said '* Pull it out." 
 
 Is a lovely girl — whose face possesses tlie 
 crowniino; charm of expression, whose slirrlit- 
 est movement reveals the supple symmetry 
 of lier figure — less lovely because slie is 
 blessed with a good appetite, and is not 
 ashamed to acknowledge it? With a grace 
 all her o^vn, Cecilia dived under the bed, 
 and produced a basket of jam tarts, a 
 basket of fruit and sweetmeats, a basket of 
 sparkling lemonade, and a superb cake — all 
 paid for by general subscription, and smug- 
 gled into the room by kind connivance of the 
 servants. On this occasion, tlie feast was 
 especially plentiful and expensive in com- 
 memoration, not only of the arrival of the 
 Midsummer holidays, but of the coming 
 freedom of Miss Ladd's two leading' youni]^
 
 THE SMUGGLED SUPPER. 13 
 
 ladies. With widely different destinies 
 before them, Emily and Cecilia had com- 
 pleted their school life, and were now to 
 go out into the world. 
 
 The contrast in the characters of the 
 two girls showed itself, even in such a 
 trifle as the preparations for supper. 
 
 Gentle Cecilia, sitting on the floor sur- 
 rounded by good things, left it to the 
 ingenuity of others to decide whether the 
 baskets should be all emptied at once, 
 or handed round from bed to bed, one 
 at a time. In tlie meanwhile, her lovely 
 blue eyes rested tenderly on the tarts. 
 
 Emily's commanding spirit seized on the 
 reins of government, and employed eacli of 
 her schoolfellows in the occupation which 
 she was fittest to undertake. " Miss de 
 Sor, let me look at your hand. Ah ! d 
 thought so. You have got the thickest 
 wrist amongst us ; you shall draw the
 
 14 ''ISAYNOr 
 
 corks. If you let the lemonade pop, not 
 a drop of it goes down your throat. Ellie, 
 Annis, Priscilla, you are three notoriously 
 lazy girls ; it's doing you a true kindness 
 to set you to work. Effie, clear the toilette- 
 table for supper ; away with the combs, the 
 brushes, and the looking-glass. Annis, tear 
 the leaves out of your book of exercises, 
 and set them out for plates. No ! I'll 
 unpack ; nobody touches the baskets but 
 me. Priscilla, you have the prettiest ears 
 in the room. You shall act as sentinel, 
 my dear, and listen at the door. Cecilia, 
 when you have done devouring those tarts 
 with your eyes, take that pair of scissors 
 (Miss de Sor, allow me to apologise for the 
 mean manner in whicli this school is carried 
 on ; the knives and forks are counted and 
 locked up every night)— I say take that 
 pair of scissors, Cecilia, and carve tlie cake, 
 and don't keep the largest bit for yourself.
 
 THE SMUGGLED SUPPER. 15 
 
 Are we all ready ? Very well. Now take 
 example by me. Talk as much as you 
 like, so long as you don't talk too loud. 
 There is one other thing before we begin. 
 The men always propose toasts on these 
 occasions ; let's be like the men. Can any 
 of you make a speech? Ah, it falls on me 
 as usual. I propose the first toast. Down 
 with all schools and teachers — especially the 
 new teacher, who came this Iialf-year. Oh, 
 mercy, how it stings ! " The fixed gas in 
 the lemonade took the orator, at that 
 moment, by the throat, and effectually 
 checked the flow of her eloquence. It 
 made no difference to the girls. Excepting 
 the case of feeble stomachs, who cares for 
 eloquence in the presence of a supper- 
 table ? There were no feeble stomachs in 
 that bedroom. With what inexhaustible 
 energy Miss Ladd's young ladies ate and 
 drank ! How merrily they enjoyed the
 
 1 6 ^^ISAYNOr 
 
 delightful privilege of talking nonsense ! 
 And — alas ! alas ! — how vainly they tried, 
 in after life, to renew the once unalloyed 
 enjoyment of tarts and leriionade ! 
 
 In the unintelligible scheme of creation, 
 there appears to be no human happiness — 
 not even the happiness of school girls — 
 which is ever complete. Just as it was 
 drawing to a close, the enjoyment of the 
 feast was interrupted by an alarm from the 
 sentinel at the door. 
 
 " Put out the candle ! " Priscilla whis- 
 pered. " Somebody on the stairs."
 
 BIOGRAPHY IN THE BEDBOOM. 17 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 • BIOGRAPHY IN THE BEDR00:M. 
 
 The candle was instant!}^ extinguished. In 
 discreet silence tlie girls stole back to tlieir 
 beds, and listened. 
 
 As an aid to tlie vigilance of the sen- 
 tinel, the door had been left ajar. Through 
 the narrow opening, a creaking of the 
 broad wooden stairs of the old house 
 became audible. In another moment there 
 was silence. An interval passed, and the 
 creaking was heard again. This time, the 
 sound was distant and diminishing. On a 
 sudden it stopped. The midnight silence 
 was disturbed no more. 
 
 What did this mean ? 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 i8 ''isAvyor 
 
 lla'] one among tin; many persons in 
 autUurity under Miss Ladd's roof lieard the 
 girls talking, and ascended llie stairs to 
 surprise them in the act of violating one 
 of the rules of tlie house ? So far, such a 
 proceeding was by no means unconunon. 
 But was it within the limits of probability 
 that a teacher should alter her opinion of 
 her own duty half-way up the stairs, and 
 deliberately go back to her own room 
 again ? The bare idea of such a thing was 
 absurd on the face of it. What more 
 rational explanation could ingenuity dis- 
 cover on the spur of the moment ? 
 Francine was the first to offer a sufT^ofestion. 
 She shook and shivered in her bed, and 
 said, " For heaven's sake, light the candle 
 again ! It's a Ghost." 
 
 " Clear away the supper, you fools, before 
 the ghost can report us to Miss Ladd." 
 
 With this excellent advice Emily checked
 
 BIOGRAPHY IN THE BEDROOM. 19 
 
 the rising panic. The door was closed, tlie 
 candle was ht ; all traces of the supper 
 disappeared. For five minutes more they 
 listened again. Xo sound came from the 
 stairs ; no teacher, or ghost of a teacher, 
 appeared at the door. 
 
 Having eaten her supper, Cecilia's imme- 
 diate anxieties were at an end ; she was at 
 leisure to exert her intelho'ence for the 
 
 o 
 
 benefit of her schoolfellows. In her gentle 
 
 ingratiating way, she offered a composing 
 
 suggestion. " When we heard the creaking, 
 
 I don't believe there was anybody on the 
 
 stairs. In these old houses there are always 
 
 strange noises at night — and they say the 
 
 stairs here were made more than two hundred 
 
 years since." 
 
 The girls looked at each other with a 
 
 sense of relief — but they waited to hear the 
 
 opinion of the queen. Emily, as usual, 
 
 justified the confidence placed in her. She 
 
 3—2
 
 20 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 discovered an ingenious method of putting 
 Cecilia's suggestion to the test. 
 
 "Let's go on talking," she said. If Cecih;i 
 is riglit, the teachers arc all asleep, and we 
 have nothiui]^ to fear from them. If she's 
 wrong, we shall sooner or lalur see one of 
 them at the door. Don't be alanued, Miss 
 de Sor. Catching us talking at night, in 
 this school, onl}' means a reprimand. Catcli- 
 ing us with a light, ends in punishment. 
 Blow out the candle." 
 
 Francine's belief in the ghost was too 
 sincerely superstitious to be shaken : she 
 started up in bed. " Oh, don't leave me in 
 the dark ! I'll take the punishment, if we 
 are found out." 
 
 " On 3^our sacred word of lionour ? " 
 Emily stipulated. 
 
 " Yes — 3^es ! " 
 
 The queen's sense of humour was tickled. 
 *' Tliere's something funny," she remarked,
 
 BIOGRAPHY IX THE BEDROOM. 21 
 
 addres.sing lier subjects, '* in a big girl like 
 this, comiiifj to a new scliool, and beoinninsf 
 with a punishment. May I ask if you are a 
 foreigner, Miss de Sor ? " 
 
 " My papa is a Spanish gentleman," 
 Francine answered, with dignity. 
 
 " And your mamma ? " 
 
 " My mamma is English." 
 
 " And you liave always lived in the West 
 Indies?" 
 
 " I have alwa3\s lived in the island of St. 
 Domingo." 
 
 Emilv checked off on her fmofers the 
 different points thus far discovered in tlie 
 cliaracter of Mr. de Sor's dauo-hter. " She's 
 ignorant, and superstitious, and foreign, and 
 rich. My dear (forgive the famiharity), you 
 are an interesting girl— and VN^e must really 
 know more of you. Entertain the bedroom. 
 What have you l)een about all your life ? 
 And what, in the name of wonder, brings
 
 22 '^ I SAY NO." 
 
 you here? Before you begin, I insist 
 on one condition, in the name of all the 
 young ladies in the room. No useful infor- 
 mation about the West Indies ! " 
 
 Francine disappointed her audience. 
 
 She was ready enough to make herself an 
 object of interest to her companions ; but 
 she was not possessed of the capacity to 
 arrange events in their proper order, neces- 
 sary to the recital of the simplest narrative. 
 Emily was obliged to help her, by means of 
 questions. In one respect, the result justi- 
 fied the trouble taken to obtain it. A 
 sufficient reason was discovered for the extra- 
 ordinary appearance of a new pupil, on the 
 day before the school closed for the holidays. 
 
 Mr. de Sor's elder brother had left him 
 an estate in San Domingo, and a fortune in 
 money as well ; on the one easy condition 
 that he continued to reside in the island. 
 The question of expense being now beneath
 
 BIOGBAPHY IX THE BEDROOM. 23 
 
 the notice of the family, Francine had been 
 sent to Engiand, especially recommended to 
 Miss Ladd as a young lady witli grand 
 prospects, sorely in need of a fashionable 
 education. The voyage had been so timed, 
 by the advice of the schoolmistress, as to 
 make the holidays a means of obtaining this 
 object privately. Francine was to be taken 
 to Brighton, where excellent masters could 
 be obtained to assist Miss Ladd. With six 
 weeks before her, she might in some degree 
 make up for lost time ; and, when the school 
 opened again, she would avoid the mortifi- 
 cation of being put down in tlie lowest class, 
 along with the children. 
 
 The examination of Miss de Sor liaving 
 produced these results was pursued no 
 further. Her character now appeared in a 
 new, and not very attractive, light. She 
 audaciously took to herself the whole credit 
 of telling her story.
 
 24 "ISAYKO." 
 
 " I tliiiik it's my turn now," slie said, "to 
 be interested and amused. May I ask you 
 to begin, Miss Emily. All I know of you 
 at present is, that your fiimily name is 
 Brown." 
 
 Emily lield up her hand for silence. 
 
 Was the mysterious creaking on the stairs 
 making itself heard once more? No. The 
 sound that had caught Emily's quick ear 
 came from the beds, on the opposite side of 
 the room, occupied by the three lazy girls. 
 With no new alarm to disturb them, Efiie, 
 Annis, and Priscilla had yielded to the 
 composing influences of a good supper and 
 a warm night. They Avere fast asleep — 
 and the stoutest of the three (softly, as 
 became a yoinig lady) was snoring I 
 
 The unblemished reputation of tlic bed- 
 room was dear to ]^]mily, in her capacity of 
 queen. She felt herself huniiHated in the 
 ])resence of the new pnpil.
 
 BIOGRAFIIY IN THE BEBEOOM. 25 
 
 " If that fat girl ever gets a lover," slie 
 said indignantly, " I sliall consider it my 
 duty to warn the poor man before he marries 
 her. Her ridiculous name is Euphemia. I 
 have christened her (far more appropriately) 
 Boiled Veah No colour in her hair, no 
 colour in her eyes, no colour in her com- 
 plexion. In short, no flavour in Euphemia. 
 You naturally object to snoring. Pardon 
 me if I turn my back on you — I am going 
 to throw my slipper at her." 
 
 The soft voice of Cecilia — suspiciously 
 drowsy in tone — interposed in tlie interests 
 of mercy. 
 
 " She can't help it, poor thing ; and she 
 really isn't loud enough to disturb us." 
 
 '' She won't disturb you, at any rate ! 
 liouse yourself, Cecilia. We are wide awake 
 on this side of the room — and Francine says 
 it's our turn to amuse her." 
 
 A low murmur, dying away gently in a
 
 20 ^'iSAVSor 
 
 sigh, was the only answer. Sweet Cecilia 
 had yielded to the somnolent influences of 
 the supper and the night. The soft infection 
 of repose seemed to be in some danger of 
 communicating itself to Francine. Iler large 
 mouth opened luxuriously in a long-continued 
 yawn. 
 
 " Good-night ! " said Emily. 
 
 Miss de Sor became wide awake in an 
 instant. 
 
 " No," she said positively ; "you are 
 quite mistaken if you think I am going to 
 sleep. Please exert yourself, Miss Emily — 
 I am waitincf to be interested." 
 
 Emily appeared to be unwilling to exert 
 herself. She preferred talking of the weather. 
 
 " Isn't the wind rising ? " she said. 
 
 There could be no doubt of it. The 
 leaves in the garden were beginning to 
 rustle, and the pattering of the rain sounded 
 on the windows.
 
 BIOGBAPHY IX THE BEDBOOM. 27 
 
 Francine (as lier straight cliin proclaimed 
 to all students of physiognomy) was an 
 obstinate girl. Determined to carry lier 
 point, she tried Emily's own system on Emily 
 herself — she put questions. 
 
 " Have you been long at this school ? " 
 
 " More than three years." 
 
 " Have you got any brothers and sisters ? " 
 
 " I am an only child." 
 
 " Are your father and mother alive ? " 
 
 Emily suddenly raised herself in her bed : 
 
 " Wait a minute," she said ; " I think 1 
 hear it again." 
 
 " The creaking on the stairs ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Either she was mistaken, or the change 
 for the worse in the weather made it not 
 easy to hear slight noises in the house. 
 The wind was still rising. The passage of 
 it through the great trees in the garden 
 began to sound like the fall of waves on
 
 28 ^^ISAVNOr 
 
 a distant beach. It drove the rain — a 
 heavy downponr by this time — rattling 
 against tlie windows. 
 
 " Ahnost a storm, isn't it ? " Emily said. 
 
 Francine's last question had not been 
 answered yet. She took the earliest oppor- 
 tunity of repeating it : 
 
 "Never mind the weather," she said. 
 " Tell me about your father and mother. 
 Are they both alive ? " 
 
 Emily's i-eply only related to one of her 
 parents. 
 
 " My motlier died befoi'e I was old 
 enough to feel my loss." 
 
 ''And your father?" 
 
 Emily referrcnl to another relative — her 
 father's sister. 
 
 " Since I have grown uj)," slie "proceeded, 
 " my good aunt has been a second mother 
 to me. My story is, in one respect, the 
 reverse of yours. You are unexpectedly
 
 BIOGRAPHY IX THE BEDROOM. 29 
 
 ricli ; and I am unexpectedly poor. ]\Iy 
 aunt's fortune was to liave been my fortune, 
 if I outlived lier. She lias been ruined by 
 tlie failure of a bank. In lier old age, she 
 must live on an income of two hundred a 
 year — and I must get my own living when 
 I leave school." 
 
 " Surely your father can help you ? " 
 Francine persisted. 
 
 " His property is landed property." Her 
 voice faltered, as she referred to him, even 
 in that indirect manner. " It is entailed ; 
 his nearest male relative inherits it." 
 
 The delicacy which is easily discouraged 
 was not one of the weaknesses in the nature 
 of Francine." 
 
 " Do I understand that your father is 
 dead ? " she asked. 
 
 Our thick-skinned fellow- creatures have 
 the rest of us at their mercy : only give 
 them time, and they carry their point in
 
 30 '^ISAYXO:- 
 
 tlie end. In sad subdued tones — telling of 
 deeply-rooted reserves of feeling, seldom 
 revealed to strangers — Emily yielded at last. 
 
 " Yes," slie said, " my father is dead." 
 
 " Long ago ? " 
 
 " Some people might think it long ago. I 
 was very fond of my father. It's nearly 
 four years since he died, and my heart 
 still aches when I think of him. I'm not 
 easily depressed by troubles, Miss de Sor. 
 But his death was sudden — he was in his 
 
 grave when I first heard of it — and Oh, 
 
 he was so good to me ; he was so good to 
 me ! " 
 
 The gay high-spirited little creature, who 
 took the lead among them all — who was 
 the life and soul of the school — hid her 
 face in her hands, and burst out crying. 
 
 Startled and — to do her justice — ashamed, 
 Francine attempted to make excuses. 
 Emily's generous nature passed over the
 
 cruel persistency that Lad tortured lier. 
 " Xo, no ; I have nothing to forgive. It 
 isn't your fauh. Other girls have got 
 mothers and brothers and sisters — and get 
 reconciled to such a loss as mine. Don't 
 make excuses." 
 
 "Yes, but I want you to know that I 
 feel for you," Francine insisted, without the 
 slightest approach to sympathy in face, 
 voice, or manner. " When my uncle died, 
 and left us all the money, papa was much 
 shocked. He trusted to time to help him." 
 
 " Time has been long about it with me, 
 Francine. I am afraid there is something 
 perverse in my nature ; the hope of meeting 
 ai^ain in a better world seems so faint and 
 so far away. Xo more of it now ! Let us 
 talk of that good creature who is asleep 
 on the other side of you. Did I tell you 
 that I must earn my own bread when I 
 leave school ? Well, Cecilia has written
 
 32 'iSAyyor 
 
 home and found an employment for me. 
 Not a situation as governess — something 
 quite out of the common way. You shall 
 hear all about it." 
 
 In tlie brief interval that had passed, the 
 weather had beoun to chano-e aii^ain. The 
 
 D DO 
 
 wind v\^as as liigli as ever ; but to judge by 
 tlie lessening patter on the windows the 
 rain was passing away. 
 
 Emily began. 
 
 She was too grateful to her friend and 
 schoolfellow, and too deeply interested in 
 her stor}^, to notice the air of indifference 
 with which Francine settled herself on her 
 pillow to hear the praises of Cecilia. The 
 most beautiful girl in the school was not 
 an object of interest to a young lady witli 
 an obstinate chin and unfortunately-placed 
 eyes. Pouring warm from the speaker's 
 heart the story ran smoothly on, to the 
 monotonous accomj^aninient of the moaning
 
 BIOGRAPHY IN THE BEDROOM. 33 
 
 vriud. By fine degrees Francine's eyes 
 closed, opened, and closed again. Towards 
 the latter part of tlie narrative Emily's 
 memory became, for the moment only, con- 
 fnsed between two events. She stopped to 
 consider — noticed Francine's silence, in an 
 interval when she might have said a word 
 of encouragement — and looked closer at her. 
 Miss de Sor was asleep. 
 
 " She might have told me she was tired," 
 Emily said to herself quietly. " Well ! 
 the best thing I can do is to put out the 
 light and follow her example." 
 
 As she took up the extinguisher, the bed- 
 room door was suddenly opened from the 
 outer side. A tall woman, robed in a black 
 dressing-gown, stood on the threshold, look- 
 ing at Emily. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 34 ''ISAVNOr 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE LATE MR. BROWN. 
 
 The woman's lean long-fingered hand pointed 
 to the candle. 
 
 "Don't put it out." Saying those words, 
 she looked round the room, and satisfied 
 herself that the other girls were asleep. 
 
 Emily laid down the extinguisher. " You 
 mean to report us, of course," she said. 
 " I am the only one awake, Miss Jethro ; 
 lay the blame on me." 
 
 " I have no iutention of reporting you. 
 But I have something to say." 
 
 She paused, and pushed her thick black 
 hair (already streaked with grey) back
 
 THE LATE MB. BBOWX. 35 
 
 from her temples. Her eyes, large and dark 
 and dim, rested on Emih^ with a sorrowful 
 interest. " When j^our young friends wake 
 to-morrow morning," she w^ent on, " 3^ou can 
 tell them that the new teacher, wdiom no- 
 body likes, has left the school." 
 
 For once, even quick-wdtted Emily was 
 bewildered. " Going awa}^" she said, " wdien 
 you have only been here since Easter ! " 
 
 Miss Jetliro advanced, not noticing Emily's 
 expression of surprise. " I am not very 
 strong at the best of times," she continued, 
 " may I sit down on your bed ? " Eemark- 
 able, on other occasions, for her cold com- 
 posure, her voice trembled as she made 
 that request — a strange request surely, 
 when there w^ere chairs at her disposal. 
 
 Emily made room for her with the dazed 
 
 look of a girl in a dream. " I beg your 
 
 pardon. Miss Jethro, one of the things I 
 
 can't endure is being puzzled. If you don't 
 
 4—2
 
 36 ''ISAYNOr 
 
 mean to report us, why did you coinc in 
 and catch mc witli Uic light?" 
 
 Miss Jethro's explanation was far from 
 relieving tlie perplexity wliich her conduct 
 had caused. 
 
 " I have been mean enough," slie answered, 
 " to listen at the door, and I heard you 
 talkino- of your father. I w^ant to hear more 
 about him. That is why I came in." 
 
 " You knew my father ! " Emily exclaimed- 
 
 " I believe I knew him. But his name 
 is so common — tliere are so many thousands 
 of ' James Browns ' in England — that I am 
 in fear of making a mistake. I heard you 
 say that he died nearly four years since. 
 Can you mention any particulars wliich 
 might help to enlighten me ? If you think 
 I am taking a liberty " 
 
 Emily stopped her. " I would help you 
 if I could," she said. "But I was in poor 
 health at the time ; and I was staying
 
 THE LATE MB. BROWN. 37 
 
 with friends far away in Scotland, to try 
 change of air. The news of my father's 
 death brought on a relapse. Weeks passed 
 before I was strong enough to travel — weeks 
 and weeks before I saw his grave ! I can 
 only tell you what I know from my aunt. 
 He died of heart-complaint." 
 
 Miss Jethro started. 
 
 Emily looked at her for the first time, 
 with eyes that betrayed a feeling of distrust. 
 "What have I said to startle you?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Notliing! I am nervous in stormy weather 
 — don't notice me." She went on abruptly 
 with her inquiries. "Will3^ou tell me the 
 date of your father's death ? " 
 
 " The date was the thirtieth of September, 
 nearly four years since." 
 
 She waited, after that reply. 
 
 Miss Jethro was silent. 
 
 "And this," Emily continued, "is the
 
 38 "/ <S'.-iri\'0." 
 
 tliirtietli of June, eigliteen liuudrGcl and 
 ciglity-one. You cau now judge for your- 
 self. Did you know my father?" 
 
 Miss Jethro answered nieeluinically, using 
 the same words. 
 
 " I did know your fiither." 
 
 Emily's feeling of distrust was not set at 
 rest. "I never lieard him speak of you," 
 slic said. 
 
 In her younger days, the teacher must 
 have been a handsome woman. Her 
 grandly-formed features still suggested the 
 idea of imperial beauty — perhaps Jewish in 
 its origin. When Emily said, " I never 
 lieard him speak of you," the colour Hew 
 into her pallid cheeks : her dim eyes be- 
 came alive again with a momentary light. 
 She left her seat on the bed, and, turning 
 away, mastered the emotion that shook 
 her. 
 
 "ITow liot the night is," she said; and
 
 THE LATE MB. BROWN. 39 
 
 sighed, and resumed the subject with a 
 steady countenance. "I am not surprised 
 tliat your father never mentioned me — to 
 youT She spoke quietly ; but her face 
 was paler than ever. She sat down again 
 on the bed. " Is there anything I can do 
 for you," she asked, "before I go away? 
 Oh, I only mean some trifling service that 
 would lay you under no obligation, and 
 would not obhge you to keep up your 
 acquaintance with me." 
 
 Her eyes — the dim black eyes that must 
 once have been irresistibly beautiful — 
 looked at Emily so sadly that the generous 
 girl reproached herself for having doubted 
 her father's friend. "Are you thinking of 
 him,'' she said, gently, " when you ask if 
 you can be of service to me ? " 
 
 Miss Jethro made no direct reply. "You 
 were fond of your father?" she added, 
 in a whisper. " You told your school-
 
 40 '•/ SAY y or 
 
 fellow that your heart still aches when 
 you speak of him." 
 
 "I only told lier the truth," Emily 
 answered, simply. 
 
 Miss Jethro shuddered — on that hot night! 
 — shuddered as if a cliill had struck 
 her. 
 
 Emily held out her hand : the kind feel- 
 ino' that had been roused in her glittered 
 prettily in lier eyes. "I am afraid I have 
 not done you justice," she said. "Will you 
 forgive me and shake hands ? " 
 
 Miss Jethro rose, and drew back. " Look 
 at the light ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 The candle was all but burnt out. 
 Emily still offered her hand — and still Miss 
 Jethro refused to see it. 
 
 "There is just light enough left," she 
 said, " to show me my way to the door. 
 Good-night — and good-bye." 
 
 Emily caught at her dress, and stopped
 
 THE LATE ME. BE OWX. ' 41 
 
 her. "Why won't you shake hands with 
 me ? " she asked. 
 
 The wick of the candle fell over in the 
 socket, and left them in the dark. Emily 
 resolutel}^ held the teacher's dress. With 
 or without light, she was still bent on 
 making Miss Jethro explain herself. 
 
 They had throughout spoken in guarded 
 tones, fearing to disturb the sleeping girls. 
 The sudden darkness had its inevitable 
 effect. Their voices sank to whispers now. 
 " My • father's friend," Emily pleaded, " is 
 surely my friend ? " 
 
 "Drop the subject." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " You can never be my friend." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Let me ^o ! " 
 
 Emily's sense of self-respect forbade her 
 to persist any longer. " I beg your pardon 
 for having kept you here against your
 
 42 "I SAY no:' 
 
 Avill," she said — and dropped her liold on 
 the dress 
 
 Miss Jethro iiislaiitl}' yielded on her side. 
 " I am sorry to have been obstinate," she 
 answered. "If you do despise me, it is after 
 all no more than I have deserved." Iler 
 hot breath beat on Emily's face : the un- 
 happy woman must have bent over the l)ed 
 as she made her confession. "I am not a 
 fit person for you to associate with." 
 
 " I don't believe it ! " 
 
 Miss Jethro sighed bitterly. "Young 
 and warm hearted — I was once like you ! " 
 She controlled that outburst of despair. 
 ITer next words were spoken in steadier 
 tones. " You will have it — you shall have 
 it ! " she said. " Some one (in this house 
 or out of it ; I don't know which) has 
 betrayed me to the mistress of the school. 
 A wretch in my situation suspects every- 
 bodv, and worse still, does it without
 
 THE LA TE MB. BR JVy. 43 
 
 reason or excuse. I lieard you girls talk- 
 ing when you ought to have been asleep. 
 You all dislike me. How did I know it 
 mightn't be one of you ? Absurd, to a 
 jDerson with a well-balanced mind ! I went 
 half-wa}^ up the stairs, and felt ashamed 
 of myself, and went back to my room. If 
 I could only have got some rest ! Ah, 
 well, it was not to be done. My own 
 vile suspicions kept me awake ; I left my 
 bed again. You know what I heard on 
 the other side of that door, and why I was 
 interested in hearing it. Your father 
 never told me he had a daughter. ' Miss 
 Brown,' at this school, was any 'Miss 
 Brown,' to me ; I had no idea of who 
 you really were until to-night. I'm wander- 
 ing. What does all this matter to you ? 
 Miss Ladd has been merciful ; she lets me 
 go without exposing me. You can guess 
 what has happened. No? Not even yet?
 
 44 ^' I SAY NO." 
 
 Is it innocence or kiiuliioss that makes 
 yon so slow to nnderstand ? My clear, I 
 have obtained admission to this respectable 
 lionse by means of folse references, and I 
 liave been discovered. N'ow you know 
 why you must not be the friend of such 
 a woman as I am ! Once more, good-night 
 — and good-bye. " 
 
 Emily shrank from tliat miserable fare- 
 well. "Bid me good-night," slie said, 
 "but don't bid me good-bye. Lot me see 
 you again." 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 The sound of the softly-closed door was 
 just audible in the darkness. She had 
 spoken — she had gone — never to be seen 
 by Emily again. 
 
 Miserable, interesting, unfathomable crea- 
 ture — the problem that night of Emilys 
 waking thoughts : the phantom of her
 
 THE LATE MB. BEOWK 45 
 
 dreams. " Bad ? or good ? " she asked 
 herself. "False; for she listened at the 
 door. True ; for slic told me the tale of 
 her own disgrace. A friend of my father ; 
 and she never knew that he had a 
 daugliter. Iiefined, accomplished, lad\Mike ; 
 and she stoops to use a false reference. 
 Who is to reconcile such contradictions as 
 these?" 
 
 Dawn looked in at the window — dawn 
 of the memorable day which was, for 
 Emily, the beginning of a new life. The 
 years were before her ; and the years in 
 their course reveal baffling mysteries of 
 life and death.
 
 46 "ISAYNOr 
 
 CIIAPTEE IV. , 
 
 MISS ladd's drawing-master. 
 
 Fraxcine was awakened tlie next morninrr 
 by one of tlie housemaids, bringing up her 
 breakfast on a tray. Astonished at tliis 
 concession to Laziness, in an institution 
 devoted to the practice of all the virtues, 
 she looked round. The bedroom was 
 deserted. 
 
 "The other young ladies are as bu>y 
 as bees, Miss," the housemaid explained. 
 "They were up and dressed two hours 
 ago : and the breakfast has l)een cleared 
 away long since. It's Miss Emily's fault. 
 She wouldn't allow them to wake you ; 
 she said }'ou could be of no possible use
 
 MISS LADD'S DBAWiyG-MASTEjR. 47 
 
 downstairs, and you had better be treated 
 like a visitor. Miss Cecilia was so dis- 
 tressed at your missing j^our breakfast 
 tliat she spoke to the housekeeper, and I 
 was sent up to you. Please to excuse it 
 if the tea's cold. This is Grand Day, and 
 we are all topsy-turvy in consequence." 
 
 Inquiring what '' Grand Day " meant, 
 and why it produced this extraordinary 
 result in a ladies' school, Francine dis- 
 covered that the first day of the vacation 
 was devoted to the distribution of prizes, 
 in the presence of parents, guardians, and 
 friends An Entertainment was added, 
 comprising those merciless tests of human 
 endurance called Eecitations ; liglit refresh- 
 ments and musical performances being dis- 
 tributed at intervals, to encourao:e the ex- 
 hausted audience. TKe local newspaper 
 sent a reporter to describe the proceed- 
 ings, and some of Miss Ladd's young ladies
 
 48 ^^ISAYXOr 
 
 ciijo3'c'(l tlie iiitoxicaling luxury of seeing 
 llieir names in print. 
 
 "It. beiiius at tliree (/cloek,"' the house- 
 maid went on, "and, what with i)ra('Using 
 and rehearsing, and ornamenting the school- 
 room, there's a hubbulj lit to make a person's 
 head spin. Besides whieli,'' said tlie ^irl, 
 lowering her voice, and aj^proacdiing a little 
 nearer to Francine, " we have all been 
 taken by surprise. The iirst thing in the 
 morninu" Miss Jethro left us, without saving 
 good-bye to anybody." 
 
 "Who is Miss Jethro?" 
 
 "The new teacher, miss. We none of us 
 liked her, and we all snspect there's some- 
 thing wrong. Miss Ladd and the clergyman 
 had a long talk together yesterday (in 
 private, yon know), and they sent for Miss 
 Jethro — whicli looks bad, doesn't it? Is 
 there anything more I can do for 3'ou, 
 miss ? It's a beautiful day after the rain
 
 MISS LADB'S DRAJVING-MASTER. 49 
 
 If I was you, I sliould go and enjoy myself 
 in the garden." 
 
 Having finished her breakfast, Francine 
 dacided on profiting by tliis sensible sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 The servant who showed lier the way to 
 the garden was not favourably impressed by 
 the new pupil : Francine's temper asserted 
 itself a little too plainly in her face. To 
 a girl possessing a high opinion of her 
 own importance it was not very agreeable 
 to feel herself excluded, as an illiterate 
 stranorer, from the one absorbin<2f interest of 
 her schoolfellows. " Will the time ever 
 come," she wondered, bitterly, " when I 
 shall win a prize, and sing and play before 
 all the company? How I should enjoy 
 making the girls envy me ! " 
 
 A broad lawn, overshadowed at one end 
 by fine old trees — flower beds and shrub- 
 beries, and winding ])atlis prettily and 
 
 VOL. I, Q
 
 so ^'ISAYNOr 
 
 invitingly laid out — made the garden a wel- 
 come refucfe on that fine summer morniniif. 
 The novelty of tlie scene, after lier expe- 
 rience in the West Indies, the delicious 
 breezes cooled by the rain of the night, 
 exerted tlieir cheering influence even on the 
 sullen disposition of Francine. She smiled, 
 in spite of herself, as slie followed tlie 
 pleasant paths, and heard the birds singing 
 their summer sono\s over her head. 
 
 Wandering among the trees, which 
 occupied a considerable extent of ground, 
 she passed into an open space beyond, and 
 discovered an old fish-pond, overgrown by 
 aquatic plants. Driblets of water trickled 
 from a dilapidated fountain in the middle. 
 On the farther side of the pond the ground 
 sloped downwards towards the south, and 
 revealed, over a low paling, a pretty view 
 of a village and its church, backed by fir 
 woods mounting the heathy sides of a range
 
 MISS LAD US BBAWiyG-MASTER. 51 
 
 of liills beyond. A fanciful lit lie wooden 
 
 building, imitating tlie form of a Swiss 
 
 cottage, was placed so as to command the 
 
 prospect. Xear it, in the shado'.v of the 
 
 buildine, stood a rustic chair and table — ■ 
 
 with a colour-box on one, and a portfolio 
 
 on the other. Fluttering over the grass, at 
 
 the mercy of the capricious breeze, was a 
 
 neglected sheet of drawing paper. Francine 
 
 ran round the pond, and picked up the 
 
 paper just as it was on the point of being 
 
 tilted into the water. It contained a sketch 
 
 in water colours of the village and the 
 
 woods, Francine had looked at the view 
 
 itself with indifference — the picture of the 
 
 viev/ interested her. Ordinary visitors to 
 
 Galleries of Art, which admit students, show 
 
 the same strange perversity. The work of 
 
 the copyist commands their whole attention ; 
 
 they take no interest in the original 
 
 picture. 
 
 5—2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 ^'i SAY no:' 
 
 Looking uj) from the sketch, Francine 
 was startled. She discovered a man, at the 
 window of the Swiss summer-house, watch- 
 ing lier. 
 
 " When you have done with that 
 drawing," lie said, quietly, " please let me 
 have it back again." 
 
 lie was tall and thin and dark. His 
 finely sluiped intelligent face — hidden, as 
 to the lower part of it, by a curly 
 black beard — would have been absolutely 
 handsome, even in the eyes of a school-girl, 
 but ftjr the deep furrows that marked 
 it prematurely between the eyebrows, and 
 at the sides of tlic moutli. In the same 
 way, an underlying mockery impaired tlie 
 attraction of his otherwise refined and gen- 
 tle manner. Amoncf his fellow-creatures, 
 children and dogs were the only critics who 
 appreciated his merits, without discovering 
 tlie defects wliich lessened the favourable
 
 MISS LADD'S DEAWiya-MASTEE. 53 
 
 appreciation of liim by iiieii and women. 
 He dressed neatly, bnt liis morning coat 
 Avas badly made, and his picturesque felt 
 hat was too old. In short, there seeiued to 
 be no good quality about him whicli was 
 not perversely associated with a drawback 
 of some kind. He was one of those harm- 
 less and luckless men, possessed of excellent 
 qualities, who fail nevertheless to achieve 
 popularity in their social sphere. 
 
 Franc in e handed his sketch to him, 
 through the window ; doubtful whether the 
 words that he had addressed to her were 
 spoken in jest or in earnest. 
 
 " I only presumed to touch your draw- 
 ing," she said, " because it was in danger." 
 
 " What danger ? " he inquired. 
 
 Francine pointed to the pond. "If I 
 had not been in time to pick it up, it 
 would have been blown into the water." 
 
 "Do you think it was worth picking up?"
 
 54 "ISAVNOr 
 
 Putting that (|uestioii, lie looked first at 
 the sketch — then at tlie \iew which it 
 represented — then back again at the sketch. 
 Tlie corners of his month turned upwards 
 with a humorous expression of scorn. 
 "Madam Nature," he said, "I heg your 
 pardon." With those words, he composedly 
 tore his work of art into small ])ie(*es, and 
 scattered them out of the window. 
 
 " What a pity ! " said Franchie. 
 
 He joined her on the c^round outside the 
 
 •I o 
 
 cottage. "Why is it a pity?" he asked. 
 
 " fSucli a nice drawing." 
 
 " It isn't a nice drawing." 
 
 "You're not yery poHte, sir." 
 
 He looked at her — and sighed, as if lie 
 pitied so young a woman for having a 
 temper so ready to take offence. In his 
 flattest contradictions he always preserved 
 the character of a politely-positive man. 
 
 "Put it in plain words. Miss," he replied.
 
 MISS L ALL'S LBAniXG-MASTEI?, 55 
 
 '• I have ofiended the predominant sense 
 in your nature — your sense of self-esteem. 
 You don't hke to be told, even indirectly, 
 that you know nothing of Art. In these 
 days everybody knows everything — and 
 thinks notliing wortli knowing after all. 
 But beware how you presume on an appear- 
 ance of indifference, which is nothing but 
 conceit in disguise. The ruling passion of 
 civilised humanity is, Conceit. You may 
 try the regard of your dearest friend in 
 any other way, and be forgiven. Euffle the 
 smooth surface of your friend's self-esteem 
 — and there will Ije an unacknowledged cool- 
 ness between you which will last for life. 
 Excuse me for giving you the benefit of my 
 trumpery experience. This sort of smart 
 talk is my form of conceit. Can I be of 
 use to you in some better way ? Are you 
 looking for one of our younor ladies ? " 
 Francine beofan to feel a certain reluc-
 
 56 ''ISAVNO:' 
 
 taut iiitcTL'st in liiiu wlieu he spoke of "our 
 3'oiini^' ladies." She asked if he belonged 
 to the school. 
 
 The comers of his inoutb turned up 
 a^uain. " I'm one of the masters," lie said. 
 *' Are you going to belong to tlie school, 
 too?" 
 
 Francinc bent her head, with a gravity 
 and condescension intended to keep liim at 
 his proper distance. Far from being dis- 
 couraged, he permitted his curiosily to take 
 additional libei'ties. "Are yon to hive the 
 misfortune of being one of my i'U[)"!ls?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " I don't know who you are." 
 
 "You wont be much wiser when you do 
 know. My nan:ie is Alban Morris." 
 
 Francine corrected herself. " I mean, I 
 don't know what you teach." 
 
 Alban Morris })ointed to the fragments 
 of his sketch from Nature. "I am a bad
 
 MISS LABD'S DRAWlNG-MASTEPi. 57 
 
 artist," lie said. " Some bad artists become 
 Eoyal Academicians. Some take to drink. 
 Some get a pension. And some — I am one 
 of them — find refnge in schools. Drawing 
 is an 'Extra' at this scliool. Will 3^on 
 take my advice ? Spare yonr good father's 
 pocket ; say you don't vrant to learn to 
 draw. 
 
 He was so gravely in earnest that Fran- 
 cine bnrst ont lauo-hinp'. " Yon are a 
 stran^^e man," she said. 
 
 "Wrong again, Miss. I am only an un- 
 happy man." 
 
 The furrows in his face deepened, the 
 latent hnmonr died ont of his eyes. He 
 turned to the summer-house wdndow, and 
 took np a pipe and tobacco ponch, left on 
 the ledge. 
 
 " I lost my only friend last year," he 
 said. '• Since the death of my dog, my 
 ])ipe is the one companion I have left.
 
 58 ''ISAYNOr 
 
 Naturally, I am not allowed to enjoy the 
 honest fellow's society in the presence of 
 ladies. They liave tlieir own taste in per- 
 fumes. Tlieir clothes and their letters reek 
 with tlie f(etid secretion of tlie musk deer. 
 The clean vegetable smell of tobacco is 
 unendurable to them. Allow me to retire 
 — and let me tliank you for the trou])le 
 you took to save my drawing." 
 
 The tone of indiflference in which he ex- 
 pressed his gratitude piqued Francine. She 
 i-(\sented it by drawing her own conclusion 
 from what he had said of the ladies and 
 tlie musk-deer. "I was wron^* in admiring 
 A'our drawino- " she remarked ; " and wronij^ 
 again in thinking you a strange man. Am 
 I wrong, for the third time, in believing 
 that you dislike women ? " 
 
 " I am sorry to say you are right," 
 Alban Morris answered, gravely. 
 
 " Is there not even one exception? "
 
 MISS LADD'S DBAWING-MASTEE. 59 
 
 The instant the words passed her lips, 
 she saw that there was some secretly sensi- 
 tive feelino- in him which she had hurt. His 
 black brows gathered into a frown, his 
 piercing eyes looked at her with angry 
 surprise. It was over in a moment. He 
 raised his shabby hat, and made her a 
 
 1)0W. 
 
 " There is a sore place still left in me," 
 he said; "and you have innocently liit it. 
 Good morning." 
 
 Before she could speak again, he had 
 turned the corner of the summer-house, 
 and was lost to view in a shrubbery on the 
 westward side of the grounds.
 
 60 "I SAY .xrr 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DISCOVERIES IX THE GAUD EX. 
 
 Left by lierself, Miss de Sol* turned back 
 again by way of the trees. 
 
 So far, her interview with the drawing- 
 master had helped to pass tlie time. Some 
 girls might have found it no easy task to 
 arrive at a true view of the character of 
 Alban Morris. Francine's essentially super- 
 ficial observation set him down as "a 
 little mad," and left him there, judged 
 and dismissed to her own entire satis- 
 faction. 
 
 Arriving at the lawn, she discovered 
 lunily pacing backwards and forwards, with
 
 DISCOVERIES IN THE GARDEN. 6i 
 
 lier head down and her hands behind her, 
 deep in thought. Francine's high opinion 
 of herself would have carried her past any 
 of the other girls, unless they had made 
 special advances to her. She stopped and 
 looked at Emily. 
 
 It is the sad fate of little women in 
 general to grow too fat, and to be born 
 with short legs. Emily's slim finely-strung 
 figure spoke for itself as to the first of 
 these misfortunes, and asserted its happy 
 freedom from the second, if she only walked 
 across a room. Xature had built her, from 
 liead to foot, on a skeleton-scaffolding in 
 perfect proportion. Tall or short matters 
 little to the result, in women wlio possess 
 the first and foremost advantao-e of l:)e2^inninf]: 
 well in their bones. When they live to 
 old aofe, thev often astonish thouc^htless 
 men, who walk behind them in the street. 
 '• I orive vou mv honour, she was as easv
 
 62 -'ISAYNOr 
 
 and u])right as a young girl ; and Avlieii 
 you got in frcmt of lier and looked — white 
 liaii", and seventy years of age!" 
 
 Francine approached Emily, moved by a 
 rare impulse in lier nature — the impulse to 
 be sociable. " You look out of spirits," 
 she began. " Surely you don't regret 
 lea \'ing school ? " 
 
 In her present mood, Emily took the 
 opportunity (in the popular phrase) of 
 snubbinir Francine. " You liave cfuessed 
 Avroiig ; I do regret," she answered. " I 
 have found in Cecilia my dearest friend, at 
 school. And school brouofht with it tlie 
 
 o 
 
 cliange in my life which has helped me 
 
 to bear the loss of my father. If you 
 
 must know what I was thinking of just 
 
 now, I was thinking of my aunt. She has 
 
 not answered my last letter— and I'm be- 
 ginning to be afraid she is ill." 
 " I'm very sorry," said Francine.
 
 DISCOT^RIES IN THE GABDEX. 63 
 
 "\Vliy? You don't know my aunt; and 
 YOU have only known me, since yesterday 
 afternoon. Why are you sorry ? " 
 
 Franc hie remamed silent. '\Mthout realis- 
 im? it, she was bei^inninix to feel the 
 dominant influence that Emily exercised 
 over the weaker natures that came in 
 contact with her. To And herself irresis- 
 tibly attracted by a stranger at a new 
 school — an unfortunate little creature, whose 
 destiny was to earn her own living — filled 
 the narrow mind of Miss de Sor with per- 
 plexity. Having waited in vain for a 
 reply, Emily turned away, and resumed 
 the train of thought which her school- 
 fellow had interrupted. 
 
 By an association of ideas, of which she 
 was not herself aware, she now passed from 
 thinkins^ of her aunt to thinkincr of Miss 
 Jethro. The interview of the previous night
 
 64 ''I SAY y or 
 
 liad dwelt on lier mind at iutcM'vals, in tlie 
 liours of the new day. 
 
 Acting on instinct rather than on reason, 
 she liad kept tliat remarkahle incident in lier 
 school life a secret from ever^'one. No 
 discoveries had been made l)y other persons. 
 In speaking to her staff of teacliers, Miss 
 Ladd had alhided to the affair in the most 
 cautious terms. " Circumstances of a private 
 nature liave obliged the lady to retire from 
 ni}" school. When we meet after the holi- 
 days, another teacher will be in her place." 
 Tliero, Miss Ladd's explanation had begun 
 and ended. Inquiries addressed to the ser- 
 vants had led to no resuh. Miss Jethro's 
 luo'fjfa£re was to Ije forwarded to tlie London 
 terminus of the railway — and ]\[iss Jethro 
 lierself liad baffled investigation by leaving 
 the school on foot. Emily's interest in the 
 lost teacher was not the transitory interest of 
 curiosity ; her father's mysterious friend was
 
 DISCOVERIES IN THE GAEDEN. 6$ 
 
 a person whom she honestly desired to see 
 again. Perplexed by the difficulty of finding 
 a means of traciDg Miss Jethro, she reached 
 the shady limit of the trees, and turned to 
 walk back again. Approaching the place at 
 which she and Francine had met, an idea 
 occurred to her. It was just possible that 
 Miss Jethro might not be unknown to her 
 aunt. 
 
 Still meditating on the cold reception 
 that she had encountered, and still feeling 
 the influence which mastered her in spite of 
 herself, Francine interpreted Emily's return 
 as an implied expression of regret. She 
 advanced with a constrained smile, and 
 spoke first. 
 
 " How are the young ladies getting on in 
 the schoolroom P " she asked, by way of 
 renewing the conversation. 
 
 Emily's face assumed a look of surprise 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 66 "I SAY NO." 
 
 wliicli said plainly, Can't 3^011 take a hint 
 and leave me to myself? 
 
 Francine was constitutionally impene- 
 trable to reproof of this sort : her thick 
 skin was not even tickled. " Why are you 
 not helping them," she went on ; " you, 
 who have the clearest head among us, and 
 take the lead in everything ? " 
 
 It may be a humiliating confession to 
 make, yet it is surely true that we are 
 all accessible to flattery. DifTerent tastes 
 appreciate different methods of burning 
 incense — but the perfume is more or less 
 agreeable to all varieties of noses. Fran- 
 cine's method had its tranquilising effect 
 on Emily. She answered, indulgenth% 
 *' AFiss de Sor, I have nothing to do with 
 it." 
 
 " Nothing to do with it ? No prizes to win 
 before you leave school ? " 
 
 " I won all the prizes, years ago."
 
 DISCOVERIES IN THE GARDEN. 67 
 
 "But there are recitations. Surely you 
 recite ? " 
 
 Harmless words in themselves, pursuing 
 the same smooth course of flattery as before 
 — but with what a different result ! Emily's 
 face reddened with anger the moment they 
 were spoken. Having already irritated 
 Alban Morris, unlucky Francine, by a second 
 mischievous interposition of accident, had 
 succeeded in making Emily smart next. 
 " Who has told you," she burst out ; " I 
 insist on knowing ! " 
 
 " Nobody has told me anything ! " Francine 
 declared piteously. 
 
 " Nobody has told you how I have been 
 insulted ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ! Oh, Miss Brown, who could 
 insult you ? " 
 
 In a man, the sense of injury does some- 
 times submit to the discipline of silence. 
 
 In a woman — never. Suddenly reminded of 
 
 6—2
 
 68 ^ISAYNOr 
 
 her past wrongs (by the pardonable error 
 of a poUte schoolfellow), Emily committed 
 the startling inconsistency of appealing to 
 the sympathies of Francine ! 
 
 " Would you believe it ? I have been 
 forbidden to recite — I, the head girl of the 
 school. Oh, not to-day ! It happened a 
 month ago — when we were all in consulta- 
 tion, making our arrangements. Miss Ladd 
 asked me if I had decided on a piece to 
 recite. I said, 'I have not only decided, I 
 have learnt the piece.' ' And what may 
 it be ? ' ' The dagger-scene in Macbeth.' 
 There was a howl — I can call it by no other 
 name — a howl of indignation. A man's 
 soliloquy, and, worse still, a murdering 
 man's soliloquy, recited by one of Miss 
 Ladd's young ladies, before an audience of 
 parents and guardians ! That was the tone 
 they look with me. I was as firm as a 
 rock. The dagger-scene or nothing. The
 
 BISCOVEBIES IN THE GABDEN. 69 
 
 result is — nothing ! An insult to Shakes- 
 peare, and an insult to Me. I felt it — I feel 
 it still. I was prepared for any sacrifice in 
 the cause of the drama. If Miss Ladd had 
 met me in a proper spirit, do you know 
 what I would have done ? I would have 
 played Macbeth in costume. Just hear me, 
 and judge for yourself. I begin with a 
 dreadful vacancy in my eyes, and a hollow 
 moaning in my voice : ' Is this a dagger that 
 I see before me ?'" 
 
 Eeciting with her face towards the trees, 
 Emily started, dropped the character of 
 Macbeth, and instantly became herself again : 
 herself, with a rising colour 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
 
 70 "I SAY NO." 
 
 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 (wliosc besetting 
 weakness was certainly not want of confi- 
 dence in her own resources) leave the garden 
 the moment she caught sidit of himP 
 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,
 
 DISCO VEEIES IN THE GARDEN. 71 
 
 Jkiiss 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 ca?i it be?" 
 
 "The drawing-master, my dear, is in 
 
 love with Emil}'. Perhaps she doesn't care 
 
 about him. Or, perliaps, I have been an 
 
 innocent obstacle in the way of an appoint- 
 ment between them." 
 
 Cecilia had breakfasted to her heart's 
 content, on her favourite 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."
 
 72 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 " 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 con- 
 fided 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 doi? "
 
 DISCOVERIES IN THE GARDEN. 73 
 
 "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 — hiero- 
 glyphics, 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 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 
 Avrite home to papa. He is a member of 
 Parhament : and everybody who w^ants 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 Eedwood), who was in search of 
 a secretary. Being in favour of letting
 
 74 "ISAYNOr 
 
 the women compete for employment witli 
 tlie men, Sir Jervis was willing to try, 
 what lie calls, ' a female.' Isn't that a 
 liorrid 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
 
 DISCOVERIES IN THE GARDEN. 75 
 
 to clieer 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 pretence 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. Eook — 
 well past sixty. And last, his manservant's 
 wife, who considers herself young, being only 
 a little over forty. That is the household.
 
 76 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 Mrs. Eook is coming to-day to attend Emily 
 on the journey to tlie Nortli ; and I am not 
 at all sure that Emily will like her." 
 
 " A disagreeable woman, I suppose ? " 
 
 "No — not exactly that. Bather odd and 
 flighty. The fact is, Mrs. Eook has had her 
 troubles ; and perhaps they have a little 
 unsettled her. She aad 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. Eook, Francine was studying her 
 schoolfellow's lovely face in search of 
 defects. She had already discovered that 
 CeciUa'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 Eooks?"
 
 BI8C0VEB1ES IN THE GARDEN. 77 
 
 Simple Cecilia smiled, and went on with 
 lier 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. Eook 
 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 was 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
 
 78 "I SAY NO." 
 
 letters from home. Not tliat there was 
 much in the letters. They said it was too 
 horrible to be described. The poor mur- 
 dered gentleman " 
 
 Francine was unaffectedly shocked. "A 
 gentleman ! " she exclaimed. " How dread- 
 ful ! " 
 
 •' 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 pocket-book 
 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 initials before she 
 was married — ' J. B.' Eeally, 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
 
 DISCOVERIES IN THE GARDEN. 79 
 
 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."
 
 8o '^ISAVNO: 
 
 CIIAPTEK VI. 
 
 ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE. 
 
 Alban Morris — discovered by Emily in 
 concealment among tlie trees — was not con- 
 tent 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 high road 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 neighbourhood (especially public 
 opinion among the women) had long since 
 decided that liis manners were oflensive, 
 and his temper incurably bad. The men
 
 ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE. Si 
 
 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 — 
 lie 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. 
 "Wliy 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 school-house. "If 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 82 "ISAYNOr 
 
 I L,^() hack to wisli lier good-bye, she ^vill 
 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 witli a girl who is young 
 enough to be my daughter — what a fool, 
 what a drivelling 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 lodc^inc^s in the villac^e, 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.
 
 ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE. 83 
 
 Alban Morris looked at her with his 
 grimly humorous smile. " So you've broken 
 the 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. N'ow listen to me. Mother 
 shall give you bread-and-butter again this 
 time." 
 
 The child stared at liim with the tears 
 suspended in her eyes. He went on talk- 
 ing to lier as seriously as ever. 
 
 "You understand what I have just said 
 to you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Have you got a pocket-handkerchief?" 
 
 7- 2
 
 S4 ''ISAVNO." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Tlien dry your eyes with mine." 
 
 He tossed his handkercliief to her witli 
 one hand, and picked np a fragment of 
 the broken jug with tlie 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 u^rave 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, Avith a smack in it. "Now come and 
 get another jug," he said, as he put her 
 down. Her red round eyes opened wide
 
 Oy THE n'AY TO THE VILLAGE. 85 
 
 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 chiM ; " 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 labourer. " 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
 
 86 "i sjy KO:' 
 
 were late in bringing his beer. On the 
 point of hurrying aAway, witliout a word of 
 farewell, slie remembered the laws of 
 politeness as taught at tlie 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 him- 
 self. 
 
 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 
 hand-bag that she carried) had not stopped 
 at the village. 
 
 As she advanced towards him along the
 
 ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE. 87 
 
 road, he remarked that she was a small 
 wiry active woman — dressed in briglit 
 colours, 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 round- 
 ness. 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 v^as 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
 
 8S ''ISAy^YJ:' 
 
 cliarming to tlie end of my days." To 
 Alban's surprise, she stopped and addressed 
 liini. 
 
 "Ob, 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 arti- 
 culation, 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 grey eyes in 
 the strangest manner. The higher lid rose 
 so as to disclose, for a moment, the upper 
 part of the e3'eball, 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 
 unfavourable impression that she had pro- 
 duced on liim, Alban answered rougldy, 
 "Straight on," and tried to pass her. 
 
 She stoj^ped him with a peremptory gesture.
 
 ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE. ?.() 
 
 " 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, contemptu- 
 ously ; '•' 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 directing 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 humour. He rather enjoyed seeing 
 his own prejudice against women grotesquely 
 reflected in this flighty stranger's prejudice 
 against men. As the best excuse for him- 
 self that he could make, he gave her all 
 tlie information that she could possibly want 
 ^then tried again to pass on — and again
 
 90 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 in vain. He had recovered his phace in lier 
 estimation : she liad not done with liim 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 
 tlie school, and make her enquiries 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 ? "
 
 ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE. 91 
 
 "Alban Morris." 
 
 "Thank you. I am Mrs. Eook. I pre- 
 sume you have heard of Sir Jervis Eed- 
 wood?" 
 
 " 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 ahvays poring over his books 
 and writings ; and Miss Eedwood, 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 your- 
 self in my place, wouldn't you ? Now do
 
 92 ''I SAY no:' 
 
 toll me. What sort of ^iiirl is JNFiss Emily 
 Brown ? " 
 
 The name that he was perpetually think- 
 ing of-— on this woman's lips ! Alban looked 
 at her. 
 
 '' Well," said Mrs. I^ook, " am I to have 
 no answer ? Ah, you want leading. So like 
 a man again ! Is she pretty ? " 
 
 Still examining the housekeeper vrith 
 mingled feelings of interest and distrust, 
 Alban answered ungraciously : 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Good tempered?" 
 
 Alban again said, " Yes." 
 
 "So much about herself," Mrs. Eook 
 remarked. " About her family now ? " She 
 shifted lier bag restlessly from one hand to 
 the other. " Perhaps you can tell me if 
 Miss Emily's father — " she suddenly cor- 
 rected herself — " if Miss Emily's parents are 
 livlun-p"
 
 ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE. 93 
 
 "I don't kno^v." 
 
 " You mean you won't tell me." 
 
 "I mean exactly what I have said." 
 
 " Oh, it doesn't matter," Mrs. Eook re- 
 joined ; "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 upperhand 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? Ob, you
 
 94 "I SAY NO." 
 
 may look as fierce as you plc^ase — the time's 
 gone by when a man could frigliten 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 
 efibrt 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 
 enquiries of others, in the fear that they, 
 too, might fnid out his secret, and that their 
 contempt miglit be added to the contempt 
 which he felt for himself. In this position, 
 and with these obstacles in his way, th3
 
 ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE. 95 
 
 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 Eedwood's flighty housekeeper, 
 completely forgetting the purpose which had 
 brought him thus far on the way to his 
 lodgings. Before Mrs. Eook was out of 
 sight, Alban Morris was following her back 
 to the school.
 
 96 "JSAYyor 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 " COMLNG EVENTS CAST TIIEIK SHADOWS BEFORE." 
 
 Miss de Sou and Miss Wyvil were still 
 sittino' too'ether under the trees, talkinc^ of 
 the murder at the inn. 
 
 " And is tliat really all 3^ou can tell me? " 
 said Francine. 
 
 " That is all," Cecilia answered. 
 
 " Is there no love in it ? " 
 
 '' None that I know of." 
 
 "It's tlie 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."
 
 " COMING events:' ETC. 97 
 
 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, 
 shudderini]: 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 
 towards the house. The door was thrown 
 open at the same moment. A lithe little 
 person rapidly descended the steps that 
 led to the lawn. 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 98 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 "It's Emily come back again," said 
 Francine. 
 
 " And she seems to be ratlier in a 
 hurry," CeciHa remarked. 
 
 Francine's satirical smile showed itself for 
 a moment. Did this appearance of hurry 
 in Emil^^'s movements denote impatience to 
 resume the recital of " the da^ejer scene ? " 
 
 CO 
 
 She had no book in her hand ; she never 
 even looked towards Francine. Sorrov/ 
 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 con- 
 fided her domestic anxieties. " Bad news 
 from your aunt ? " she asked. 
 
 " No, my dear ; no news at all." Emily 
 put her arms tenderly round Iier friend's 
 neck. "The time has come, Cecilia," she 
 said. " We must wish each other goocV 
 bye."
 
 " COMING EVEXTSr ETC. 99 
 
 " Is Mrs. Eook here already ? " 
 
 "It's you^ dear, who are gomg," Emily 
 answered, sadly. " They have sent the 
 governess to fetch yon. Miss Ladd is too 
 bnsy in the schooh'oom to see her — and 
 she has told me all about it. Don't be 
 alarmed. There is no bad news from 
 homo. Your plans arc altered ; that's 
 all." 
 
 " Altered ? " Cecilia repeated, " In what 
 way?" 
 
 " In a very agreeable way — you are 
 o'oino' 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 
 
 8—2
 
 loo ''I SAY NO." 
 
 the way ; and you can remove it. Y(nir 
 sister has the c^ood old ufoverness to take 
 care of her, and the courier to relieve 
 her of all trouble on the journey. They 
 were to have started yesterday. You 
 knov^^ how fond Julia is of you. At the 
 last nionient, she won't hear of going 
 away, unless you go too. The rooms are 
 waiting at St. Morilz; and your father is 
 annoyed (the governess says) by the delay 
 that has taken place already." 
 
 She paused. Cecilia was silent. " Surely 
 yon don't hesitate ? " Emily said. 
 
 " I am too happy to go wherever Julia 
 goes," Cecilia answered, warmly ; " I was 
 thinking of you, dear." Her tender nature, 
 slirinking from the liard necessities of 
 life, shrank from the cruelly-close prospect 
 of parting. " I tliought we were to have . 
 liad some liours together yet," she said. 
 " Why are we hurried in this way ?
 
 " COMING EVENTS," ETC. loi 
 
 There is no second train to London, from 
 onr 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 gaiety, 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
 
 I02 ''ISAYKOr 
 
 with inc. Why not ? You always got on 
 well witli Julia, uIk'U you came to see 
 us in llie holidays. Oh, my darling! my 
 darling! What sliall 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, 
 siie made the effort — and h:)i-e the pain 
 of it without lettini2f a cry or a tear 
 escape Iier. " Our ways in life lie far 
 apart," she said, gently. "There is the 
 liope of meeting again, dear- -if there is 
 nothing more." 
 
 The clasp of Cecilia's arms 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,
 
 " COMING events; etc. 103 
 
 to be anxious about my prospects. I 
 mean to be Sir Jervis Eedwood's favourite 
 before I liave been a week in liis service." 
 She stopped, and pointed to the house. The 
 governess was approaching them. " One 
 more kiss, darlini]^. We shall not forc^et 
 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 ! " 
 
 The governess parted them. Emily drop- 
 ped 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
 
 104 ^' I SAY no:' 
 
 unnoticed witness of the parting interview, 
 was standing by lier, idly picking tlie 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 kind- 
 ness in the eyes of Miss de Sor— there 
 was onl}^ 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
 
 " COMING EVENTS," ETC. 105 
 
 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 school- 
 mistress, 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 w^ant 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 exhi- 
 bition 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, cordiall}^ 
 
 Francine was incapable of meeting the
 
 io6 ''I SAY NO" 
 
 sympatliy oficred to her, even lialf way. 
 "Never iniiul 'how,'" slie 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 ao*ain." 
 
 " Thank you. Are you going to stay 
 here under the trees ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "All by yourself?" 
 
 " All by myself." 
 
 " With nothimr to do ? " 
 
 " I can think of Cecilia." 
 
 Francine eyed her with steady attention 
 for a moment. 
 
 " Didn't you tell me last night that 3'ou 
 were very poor?" she asked. 
 
 - I did." 
 
 " So poor that you are obliged to earn 
 your own living? "
 
 " COMING events;' etc. 107 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Franciiie looked at lier again. 
 
 " I daresay you won't believe me," she 
 said. "I wish I was you." 
 
 She turned a'\vay 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 notliing to 
 be hoped from a better knowledge of her? 
 — In place of tender remembrances of 
 Cecilia, these were the perplexing and un- 
 welcome thoughts which tlie 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 in- 
 terest was excited by the appearance of one 
 of the servants on the lawn. The woman
 
 loS ^' I SAY N or 
 
 approached lier, and presented a visiting- 
 card ; bearing on it the name of aSW Jervis 
 Redwood. Beneatli the name, there was a 
 line written in pencil : " Mrs. Eook, to wait 
 on Miss Emily Brown." The way to the new 
 life was open before her at last ! 
 
 Looking again at the commonplace an- 
 nouncement contained in the line of writing, 
 slie was not quite satisfied. Was it claiming 
 a deference towards herself, to which she was 
 not entitled, to expect a letter either from Sir 
 Jervis or from Miss Eedwood ; giving her 
 some information as to the journey which she 
 was about to undertake, and expressing witli 
 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 liad been in the days when her 
 father was living, and when her aunt was in 
 affluent circumstances.
 
 " COMING events:' ETC. 109 
 
 She looked up from the card. The servant 
 had gone. Alban Morris was waiting at a 
 little distance — waiting silently until she 
 noticed him.
 
 no '^ I SAY no: 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 MASTER AND PUPIL. 
 
 Emily's impulse was to avoid tlie drawing- 
 master for the second time. Tlie moment 
 afterwards, a kinder feeling prevailed. The 
 farewell interview with Cecilia had left in- 
 fluences which pleaded for Alban Morris. 
 It was the day of parting good wishes and 
 general separations : he had oidy perhaps 
 come to say good-bye. She advanced to ofier 
 her hand, when he stopped her by pointing 
 to Sir Jervis Eedwood's card. 
 
 " May I say a word, Miss Emily, about that 
 woman?" he asked. 
 
 " Do you mean Mrs. Eook ? "
 
 MASTER jyn PUPIL. Ill 
 
 " Yes. You know, of course, wliy she 
 conies here ? " 
 
 "She comes here, by appointment, to 
 take me to Sir Jervis Eedvrood 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. Eook 
 liad been content with asking me to direct 
 her to the school, I should not be troubhng 
 you at this moment. But she forced her con- 
 versation on me. And she said something 
 wliich I think you ouo-ht to know. Have 
 you heard of Sir Jervis Eedwood's house- 
 keeper before to-day ? " 
 
 " I have only heard what my friend — Miss 
 Cecilia Wyvil — has told me." 
 
 " Did Miss Cecilia tell you that Mrs. Eook 
 was acquainted with your father or with any 
 members of your famil}- ? " 
 
 •• Certainly not ! " 
 
 Alban reflected. "It vras natural enouoh/'
 
 112 "ISAYNOr 
 
 he resumed, " that Mrs. Eook 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 tlie 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 lier 
 action when she set him the example of 
 taking a chair, and the little heightening of 
 lier colour 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 woukl have shown itself, if 
 licr heart liad hccn secretly inclined towards 
 liim. She saw the man looking at her. In 
 simple perplexity she looked at the man.
 
 MASTER AND PUPIL. 113 
 
 "Are you hesitating on my account? " she 
 asked. " Did Mrs. Eook 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 Avent 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 him- 
 self ridiculous ? The vehement throbbing of 
 his heart almost suffocated him. And there 
 she sat, wondering at his odd beliaviour. 
 " Even tliis girl is as cold-blooded as the rest 
 of her sex ! " That angry tliought 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 wdiat I have to say 
 in the fewest and plainest words. Let me 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 114 ^' I SAY NO." 
 
 try if I can do it. If Mrs. Eook had merely 
 asked me whether your fatlier 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 : 'Per- 
 haps you can tell me if Miss Emily's father 
 ' There she checked herself, and sud- 
 denly altered the question in this way : — 
 ' if Miss Emily's jKireiits 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 fatlier, 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 ? " 
 
 " Wliatever it may be," Emily said, '' it 
 is my conclusion too. IIow did you answer 
 lier ? "
 
 MASTER AyjJ PUPIL. 115 
 
 '^ Quite easily. I could give her no in- 
 formation — and I said so." 
 
 " Let me oiler you tlie iuformatiou, Mr. 
 Morris, before we say any tiling 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 under- 
 standino' how dear and how deliaditful to 
 him she was. " Will it distress you," he 
 said, " if I ask how long it is since your 
 father died?" 
 
 " Nearly four j/ears," she replied. " He 
 was the most generous of men ; Mrs. Eook's 
 interest in him may surely have been a 
 grateful interest. He may have been kind 
 to lier in past years — and she may remember 
 him thankfully. Don't you think so?" 
 
 Alban was unable to agree with her. 
 
 " If Mrs. Eook's interest in 3^our father was 
 
 the harmless interest that you liave sug- 
 
 9—2
 
 ii6 '^ISAVXO." 
 
 gested," lie said, "why sliould slie have 
 checked, herself in tliat unaccountable 
 manner, when she first asked me if he was 
 living? The more I tliink of it now, the 
 less sure I feel that slie knows anything at 
 all of your family history. It may help me 
 to decide, if you will tell me at wdiat time 
 the dealli of your mother took phace." 
 
 " So long ago," Emily replied, " that I can't 
 even remember her death. I was an infant 
 at the time." 
 
 "And yet Mrs. Eook 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. Eook 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, " il's only fair
 
 MASTEB AND PUPIL. 117 
 
 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 5^ou. Do you think I could find 
 it out?" 
 
 " If Mrs. Eook has any reasons for con- 
 cealment, 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 pliotograph 
 here," she rejoined; "given to me by my 
 dear old aunt, in the days of her prosperity. 
 Shall I show it to Mrs. Eook?"
 
 iis ''I SAY no:' 
 
 "Yes — if she liappeus, b\- good luck, to 
 ofler you an opportunity." 
 
 Impatient to try the experiment, Emily 
 rose as lie spoke. "I mustn't keep Mrs. 
 Eook Avaiting," she said. 
 
 Alban stopped her, on the point of leav- 
 ing lum. 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 favour 
 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. 
 lie 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.
 
 MASTER AND PUFIL. 119 
 
 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. Eook, 
 was not the merely friendly motive wliich 
 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 encouraghig 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. Eook. Why not? Could he 
 reproach her with raising false hopes, if she 
 accepted his services, under circumstances 
 of doubt and difficulty wliich he had him- 
 self been the first to point out? He could 
 do nothing of the sort. Without waiting
 
 120 ^' I SAY no:' 
 
 until he had recovered himself, she answered 
 him (to all appearance) as composedly as 
 if he had spoken to her in the plainest 
 terms. 
 
 "After all that you have told me," she 
 said, "I sliall indeed feel obliged if you 
 will be present when I see Mrs. Eook." 
 
 The eaufcr briirhtenini^ of his eyes, the 
 Hush of hapi)iness that made liini look 
 young on a sudden, were signs not to be 
 mistaken. The sooner they wave in the 
 presence of a third person (Emily privately 
 concluded) tlie l)etter it might be for both 
 of them. She led the way rapidly to the 
 house.
 
 MBS. ROOK AND THE LOCKET. 121 
 
 CHAPTEB IX. 
 
 MRS. ROOK AND THE LOCKET. 
 
 As mistress of a prosperous school, bear- 
 ing 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
 
 122 ^'iSAV^o:' 
 
 cooks at lioinc." Fatliurs, mothers, and 
 friends, wlien tliey })aid visits to tliis 
 excellent lady, brought away ^vith tlieni 
 the most gratifying recollections of her 
 hospitality. The men, in particular, seldom 
 failed to recognise in their hostess the 
 rarest virtue that a single lady can possess 
 — the virtue of putting wine on her table 
 which may be gratefully remembered by 
 licr guests the next morning. 
 
 An agreeable surprise awaited Mrs. Eook, 
 wlicTi she entered the house of bountiful 
 Miss Ladd. 
 
 Luncheon was ready for Sir Jervis Eed- 
 wood's confidential emissary in the waiting- 
 room. Detained at the fmal rehearsals of music 
 and recitation. Miss Ladd was worthily repre- 
 sented by cold chicken and liam, a fruit 
 tart, and a pint decanter of generous 
 sherry. " Your mistress is a perfect lady ! " 
 Mrs. Eook said to tlic servant, with a
 
 MBS. nOOK AND THE LOCKET. 123 
 
 burst of entliusiasm. "I can carve for 
 myself, thank you ; and I don't care how 
 long Miss Emily keeps me waitiug." 
 
 As they ascended the steps leading into 
 the house, Alban asked Emily if lie might 
 
 look again at her locket. 
 
 " Shall I open it for you ? " she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " No : I only want to look at the out- 
 side 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 ! " 
 
 Tlie inscription ran thus : — " In loving 
 memory of my father. Died 30tli Sep- 
 tember, 1877." 
 
 " Can you arrange the locket," Alban 
 asked, " so that the side on which the 
 diamonds appear hangs outwards ? "
 
 124 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 She understood him. Tlie diamonds might* 
 attract Mrs. Eook's notice ; and, in tliat 
 case, slie might ask to see tlie locket of 
 her own accord. " You are beginning to 
 be of use to me, ah-ead}^" Emily said, as 
 they turned into the corridor which led to 
 the waiting-room. 
 
 They found Sir Jervis's housekeeper lux- 
 uriously recumbent in tlie easiest chair in 
 the room. 
 
 Of the eatable part of the lunch some 
 relics were yet left. In tlie pint decanter 
 of sherry, not a drop remained. The genial 
 influence of the wine (hastened by the 
 hot weather) was visible in Mrs. Eook'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 was more freely 
 and horribly visible than ever. 
 
 "And this is the dear . young ladyP"
 
 MRS. ROOK AND THE LOCKET. 125 
 
 slie 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 
 unfavourable. 
 
 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. Book'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 stop- 
 ped, 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 towards Emilv, who returned at the
 
 126 ''ISAYNOr 
 
 inomc'iit. "The visits of tlic trains to 
 your station licre are like the visits of tlie 
 angels described by tlie poet, ' few and fjir 
 between.' Please excuse tlie quotation. 
 You wouldn't tliink it to look at me — I'm 
 a great reader." 
 
 " Is it a loug journey to Sir Jervis 
 licd wood's house?" Emily asked, at a loss 
 what else to say to a woman who was 
 already becoming unendurable to lier. 
 
 Mrs. Rook looked at the journey from 
 an oppressively cheerful point of view. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Emdy, you sha'n't feel the 
 time hang heav}^ 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 stramre creature, don't vou ? 
 It's only my higli spirits. Xothing strange 
 about me — unless it's my queer Christian 
 name. You look a little dull, mv dear.
 
 MRS. BOOK AND THE LOCKET. 127 
 
 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 liousekeeper's 
 audacious familiarity reached the limits of 
 his endurance. 
 
 '' We don't care to know how you came 
 by your name," he said. 
 
 " Eude," Mrs. Eook 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 askim:^ my leave first — my 
 mother was determined to dedicate me to
 
 12S " / .sj r .vfA"' 
 
 piety, before I was out of my louuj clothes. 
 Wliat name do you suppose she had me 
 christened by? She chose it, or made it, 
 lierself — the name of ' Eighteous ! ' Eight- 
 cous Eook ! Was there ever a poor baby 
 degraded by such a ridiculous name before ? 
 It's needless to say, when I write letters, 
 I sign E. Eook — and leave people to think 
 it's Eosamond, or Eosabelle, or something 
 sweetly pretty of that kind. You should 
 liave seen my husband's face when he first 
 heard that his sweetheart's name w\as 
 ' Eighteous ! ' He was on the point of kiss- 
 ing me, and he stopped. I daresay he felt 
 sick. Perfectly natural under the circum- 
 stances." 
 
 Alban tried to stop lier again. " What 
 time does the train go?" he asked. 
 
 Emily entreated him to restrain himself, 
 by a look. Mrs. Eook was still too inve- 
 terately amiable to take offence. She opened
 
 MBS. BOOK AXB THE LOCKET. 129 
 
 her travelling bag briskly, and placed a rail- 
 way 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 com- 
 pany. In the meantime, Mrs. Eook 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 per- 
 suade 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 
 
 VOL. I, .10
 
 I30 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 the same time, I have not (as tlie poet says) 
 ' passed through the ordeal unscathed.' My 
 spirit — I liavc long since ceased to believe 
 in anything of the sort ; I only use tlie 
 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, tlianks to old Miss Eedwood ! 
 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 marry- 
 ing 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
 
 MRS. BOOK AND THE LOCKET. 131 
 
 sure, Miss Emily, you would find it pleasanter 
 to wait in the garden." 
 
 " Kot at all a bad notion," Mrs. Eook 
 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 dis- 
 tract her attention ; keep her near me 
 here." 
 
 Mrs. Eook gaily opened the door. " Take 
 me to the flower-beds," she said; "I believe 
 in nothing — but I adore flowers." 
 
 "You'll find it too hot in the garden," 
 
 Alban said roughly. 
 
 10—2
 
 132 "I SAY NO." 
 
 ]\Irs. liook waited at the door, with lier 
 eye on Emily. " Wliat do you any, Miss?" 
 
 ''1 think we shall be more comfortable 
 if we stay where we are." 
 
 " Whatever pleases yon, my dear, pleases 
 me." With this reply, the compliant house- 
 keeper — as amiable as ever on the- surface 
 — returned to her chair. 
 
 Would she notice the locket as she sat 
 dc-wn ? Emily turned towards the window, 
 10 as to let the light fall on the diamonds. 
 
 Xo : Mrs. Eook was absorbed, at the 
 mumcut, in her own reflections. Miss 
 luuily, having prevented her from seeing 
 the garden, she was maliciously bent on 
 d if appointing Miss Emily in return. Sir 
 Jcivi.s's secretary (being young) took a 
 lio])erul view no doubt of her future 
 ])io^pects. Mrs. Look decided on darken- 
 in <» that view in a mischievously-suggestive 
 manner, peculiar to herself.
 
 MliS. BOOK AND THE LOCKET. 133 
 
 " You will naturally feel some cuiiosit}^ 
 about your new home," she began, " and I 
 haven't said a word about it yet. IIovv^ 
 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 m?. 
 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 any- 
 thing to see when you look out of window, 
 except sheep, you will find yourself wofully 
 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 tli3 
 darkness overtakes you, you may, or may 
 not, tumble down a deserted lead mino. 
 But the company, inside the house, makes 
 amends for it all," Mrs. Book proceeded,
 
 134 "I SAY NO." 
 
 enjoying the expression of dismay which was 
 beginning to sliow itself on Emily's face. 
 " Plenty of excitement for yon, my dear, in 
 onr small family. Sir Jervis will introduce 
 yon to plaster casts of hideous Indian idols ; 
 lie will keep you writing for him, without 
 mercy, from morning to night ; and when he 
 does let you go, old Miss Eedwood will fmd 
 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 hateJ any 
 human being as he hates his wife. By the 
 way, I must not forget — in the interests of 
 trutli, you know — to mention one drawback 
 that does exist in our domestic circle. One
 
 MBS. ROOK AND THE LOCKET. 135 
 
 of tliese 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 linger, or one of the pins at his 
 breast. He keeps the 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 defence 
 of the property of my employers, am capable
 
 136 "I SAY NO." 
 
 of becoming a perfect fiend. And we none 
 of ns understand tlie use of firearms ! " 
 
 While slie was in fidl enjoyment of this 
 last aggravation of the horrors of the pros- 
 pect, Emily tried another change of position 
 — and, this time, with success. Greedy 
 admiration suddenly opened Mrs. Eook's 
 little eyes to tlieir utmost width. " My heart 
 alive, Miss, wliat do I see at your watch 
 chain? How they sparlde ! Might I ask 
 for a closer view ? " 
 
 Emily's fingers trembled ; but she suc- 
 ceeded in detaching the locket from the 
 chain. Alban handed it to Mrs. Eook. 
 
 She began by admiring the diamonds — 
 with a certain reserve. "Nothins^ like so 
 large as Sir Jervis's diamonds ; but choice 
 specimens, no doubt. Might I ask what the 
 value ? " 
 
 She stopped. The inscription had 
 attracted her notice : she began to read it
 
 ^ MRS. ROOK AND THE LOCKET. 137 
 
 aloud : — " In loving memory of my father. 
 Died " 
 
 Her face instantly became rigid. The 
 next words were suspended on her lips. 
 
 Alban seized the chance of making her 
 betray herself — under pretence of helping 
 her. " Perhaps you find the figures not 
 easy to read," he said. "The date is 
 'thirtieth September, eighteen hundred and 
 seventy-seven'-— nearly four years since." 
 
 Not a word, not a movement, escaped Mrs. 
 Eook. She held the locket before her as she 
 had held it from the first. Alban looked at 
 Emily. Her eyes were riveted on the house- 
 keeper : she was barely capable of preserving 
 the appearance of composure. Seeing the 
 necessity of acting for her, he at once said the 
 words which she was unable to say for herself. 
 
 " Perhaps, Mrs. Eook, you would like to 
 look at the portrait ? " he suggested. " Shall 
 I open the locket for you ? "
 
 138 " SAY NO." 
 
 Without speaking, without Icjokiiig up, she 
 handed tlic h)ckct to Alban. 
 
 lie opened it, and oficred it to lier. She 
 neither accepted nor refused it: lier hands 
 remained hanging over the arms of the 
 chair. lie put the locket on her lap. 
 
 The portrait produced no marked efTect on 
 Mrs. Eook. Had the date prepared her to 
 sec it ? She sat looking at it — still without 
 moving : still without saying a word. Alban 
 had no mercy on her. "That is the portrait 
 of Miss Emily's father," he said. "Does it 
 represent the same Mr. Brown, whom you 
 had in your mind when you asked me if 
 Miss Emily's fiither was still living ? " 
 
 That question roused her. She looked 
 up, on the instant ; she answered loudly 
 and insolently, " No I " 
 
 " And yet," Alban persisted, " you broke 
 down in reading the inscription ; and con- 
 sidering what a talkative woman you are.
 
 MBS. BOOK AND THE LOCKET. 139 
 
 the portrait lias had a strange effect on 
 you — to say the least of it." 
 
 She eyed liiin steadily while he was 
 speaking — and turned to Emily when he 
 had done. "You mentioned the heat, just 
 now, Miss. The heat has overcome me ; 
 I shall soon o'et rio'lit a^'ain." 
 
 o o o 
 
 The insolent futility of that excuse 
 irritated Emily into answering her. " You 
 will get right again perhaps all the sooner," 
 she said, " if we trouble you with no more 
 questions, and leave you to recover by 
 yourself." 
 
 The first change of expression which 
 relaxed the iron tensity of the housekeeper's 
 face, showed itself when she heard that 
 reply. At last there was a feeling in Mrs. 
 Eook which openly declared itself — a feeling 
 of impatience to see Alban and Emily leave 
 the room. 
 
 They left her, without a word more.
 
 I40 " I SAV no: 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 GUESSES AT THE TRUTH. 
 
 "What are we to do next? Oh, Mr. 
 Morris, you must have seen all sorts of 
 i:)eople in yonr time — you know liuman 
 nature, and I don't. Help me with a word 
 of advice ! " 
 
 Emily forgot that he was in love with 
 her — forgot everything but the effect pro- 
 duced by the locket on Mrs. Eook, and the 
 vaguely alarming conclusion to which it 
 pointed. In the fervour of her anxiety she 
 took Alban's arm as familiarly as if he had 
 been her brother. He was gentle, he was 
 considerate ; he tried earnestly to com- 
 pose her. " We can do notliing to any good
 
 GUESSES AT THE TRUTH. 141 
 
 purpose," he said, " unless we begin by 
 thinking quietly. Pardon me for saying so 
 — you are needlessly exciting yourself." 
 
 There was a reason for her excitement, 
 of which he was necessarily ignorant. Her 
 memory of the night interview with Miss 
 Jethro had inevitably intensified the sus- 
 picion inspired by the conduct of Mrs. Eook. 
 In less than twenty-four hours, Emily had 
 seen two women shrinking from secret 
 remembrances of her father — which might 
 well be guilty remembrances — innocently 
 excited by herself! How had they injured 
 him? Of what infamy, on their parts, did 
 his beloved and stainless memory remind 
 them? Who could fathom the mystery 
 of it ? " What does it mean ? " she cried, 
 looking wildly in Alban's compassionate face. 
 " You must have formed some idea of 
 your own. What does it mean ? " 
 
 " Come, and sit down, Miss Emil3\ We
 
 142 '^ I SAY no:' 
 
 will try if we can find out what it means, 
 together." 
 
 They returned to the shady solitude under 
 the trees. Away, in front of the house, 
 the distant grating of carriage wheels told 
 of the arrival of Miss Ladd's guests, and 
 of the speedy beginning of the ceremonies 
 of the day. 
 
 " We must . help each other," Alban 
 resumed. " When we first spoke of Mrs. 
 Eook, you mentioned Miss Cecilia Wyvil 
 as a person who knew something about 
 her. Have you any objection to tell me 
 what you may have heard in that way ? " 
 
 In complying with his request, Emily 
 necessarily repeated what Cecilia had told 
 Francine, when the two girls had met that 
 morning in the garden. 
 
 Alban now knew how Emily had obtained 
 employment as Sir Jervis's secretary ; liow 
 Mr. and Mrs. Eook had been previously
 
 GUESSES AT THE TliUTH. 143 
 
 known to Cecilia's father as respectable 
 people keeping an inn in his own neighbonr- 
 hood ; and, finally, how they had l)een 
 obliged to begin life again in domestic 
 service, because the terrible event of a 
 murder had given the inn a bad name, and 
 had driven aw^ay the customers on whose 
 encouragement their business depended. 
 
 Listening in silence, Alban remained silent 
 when Emily's narrative had come to an 
 end. 
 
 "Have 3^ou nothing to say to me P " she 
 asked. 
 
 "I am thinking over wdiat I have just 
 lieard," he answered. 
 
 Emily noticed a certain formality in his 
 tone and manner, which disagreeably sur- 
 prised her. He seemed to have made his 
 reply as a mere concession to politeness, 
 while he was thinking; of somethino- else 
 which really interested him.
 
 144 ''ISAYNOr 
 
 " Have I disappointed you in any way ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 "On tlie contrary, you have interested 
 .me. I want to be quite sure that I 
 remember exactly wliat you have said. 
 You mentioned, I think, that your friend- 
 ship with Miss CeciUa Wyvil began here, 
 at the school?" 
 
 "Yes.' 
 
 "And in speaking of the murder at the 
 village inn, you told me that the crime was 
 committed — I have forgotten how long 
 ago?" 
 
 His manner still suggested that he was 
 idly talking about what slie had told him, 
 while some more important subject for 
 reflection was in possession of his mind. 
 
 " I don't know that I said anything about 
 the time that had passed since the crime 
 was committed," she answered sharply. 
 "What does the murder matter to lis? I
 
 GUESSES AT THE TRUTH. 145 
 
 think Cecilia told me it happened about four 
 years since. Excuse me for noticing it, Mr. 
 Morris — you seem to have some interests of 
 your own to occupy your attention. Why 
 couldn't }'ou say so plainly when we came 
 out here ? I should not have asked you to 
 help me, in that case. Since my poor 
 father's death, I have been used to fight 
 through my troubles by myself." 
 
 She rose, and looked at him proudly. 
 The next moment her eyes filled with 
 tears. 
 
 In spite of her resistance, Alban took 
 her hand. " Dear Miss Emxily," he said, 
 " you distress me ; you have not done me 
 justice. Your interests only are in m}^ mind." 
 
 Answering her in those terms, he had not 
 spoken as frankly as usual. He had only 
 told her a part of the truth. 
 
 Hearing that the woman whom they had 
 
 just left had been landlady of an inn, and 
 VOL. I. r
 
 146 "ISAVNOr 
 
 that a mil rile r liad been coininiUed under 
 her roof, he was led to ask liiniself if any 
 explanation might be found, in these cir- 
 cumstances, of the otherwise incomprehen- 
 sible effect produced .on Mrs. Eook by the 
 inscription on the locket. 
 
 In the pursuit of this inquiry, there had 
 arisen in his mind a monstrous suspicion, 
 which pohited to Mrs. Eook. It impelled 
 him to ascertain the dale at whicli the 
 murder had been committed, and (if the 
 discovery encouraged further investigation) 
 to find out next the manner in which Mr. 
 Brown had died. 
 
 Tlius far, what progress had lie made? lie 
 had discovered that the date of Mr. Brown's 
 death, inscribed on the locket, and the date 
 of the crime committed at the inn, 
 a|)proached each otlier nearly enougli to 
 justify further investigation. 
 
 In the meantime, had he succeeded in
 
 GUESSES AT THE TRUTH. 147 
 
 keeping his object concealed from Emily ? 
 He had perfectly succeeded. Hearing him 
 decLare that her interests only had occupied 
 liis mind, the poor girl innocently entreated 
 him to forgive her little outbreak of temper. 
 " If you have any more questions to ask me, 
 Mr. Morris, pray go on. I promise never 
 to think unjustly of you again." 
 
 He went on, with an uneasy conscience — 
 for it seemed cruel to deceive her, even in 
 the interests of truth — but still he went on. 
 
 " Suppose we assume that this woman 
 has injured your father in some way," he 
 said." Am I right in believing that it was 
 in his character to forgive injuries?" 
 
 "Entirely right." 
 
 "In that case, his death may have left 
 
 Mrs. Eook in a position to be called to 
 
 account, by those who owe a duty to his 
 
 memory — I mean the surviving members 
 
 of his family." 
 
 11—2
 
 148 " J SAY y or 
 
 " There are but two of us, Mr. Morris. 
 My aunt and myself." 
 
 " There are his executors." 
 
 " My aunt is his only executor." 
 
 *' Your father's sister — I presume ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He may have left instructions with her, 
 which might be of the greatest use to us." 
 
 " I will write to-day, and find out," Emily 
 replied. "I had already planned to con- 
 sult my aunt," she added, thinking again 
 of Miss Jethro. 
 
 " If your aunt has not received any 
 positive instructions," Alban continued, 
 " she may remember some allusion to Mrs. 
 Eook, on your father's part, at the time 
 of his last illness " 
 
 Emily stopped him. " You don't know 
 how my dear father died " she said. " He was 
 struck down — apparently in perfect health — 
 by disease of the heart."
 
 GUESSES AT THE TRUTH. 149 
 
 " Struck down in his own house ? " 
 
 " Yes — in his own house." 
 
 Those words closed Alban's Hps. The in- 
 vestigation so carefully and so delicately con- 
 ducted, had failed to serve any useful purpose. 
 He had now ascertained the manner of Mr. 
 Brown's death, and the place of Mr. Brown's 
 death — and he was as far from confn-ming his 
 suspicions of Mrs. Eook as ever.
 
 ISO "I SAY no:' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE drawing-master's confession. 
 
 " Is there nothing else you can suggest ? " 
 Emily asked. 
 • " Nothing — at present." 
 
 "If my aunt fails us, have we no other 
 hope?" 
 
 " I have hope in Mrs. Eook," Alban 
 answered. " I see I surprise you ; but I 
 really mean what I say. Sir Jer vis's house- 
 keeper is an excitable woman, and she is fond 
 of wine. There is always a weak side in the 
 character of such a person as that. If we 
 wait for our chance, and turn it to the right 
 use when it comes, we may yet succeed in 
 making her betray herself." 
 
 Emily listened to him in bewilderment.
 
 THE DBA WING-MASTERS CONFESSION. 1 5 1 
 
 " You talk as if I was sure of your help in 
 the future," she said. " Have you forgotten 
 that I leave school to-day, never to return ? 
 In half an hour more, I shall be condemned 
 to a long journey in the company of that 
 liorribie creature — with a life to look forward 
 to, in the same house with her, among 
 strangers ! A miserable prospect, and a hard 
 trial of a oirl's courac^e — is it not, Mr. 
 Morris ? " 
 
 " You will at least have one person, Miss 
 Emily, who will try with all his heart and 
 soul to encourage you." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean," said Alban quietly, " that the 
 Midsummer vacation begins to-day; and that 
 the drawing-master is going to spend his 
 holidays in the North." 
 
 Emily jumped up from her chair. "You!" 
 she exclaimed, " You are going to Nortlium- 
 berland? With me?"
 
 152 '^ISAY^Or 
 
 " Why not ? " Albau asked. " The rail- 
 way is open to all travellers alike, if they 
 have money enough to buy a ticket." 
 
 "Mr. Morris! what can you be thinking of? 
 Indeed, indeed I am not ungrateful. I know 
 you mean kindly — you are a good generous 
 man. But do remember how completely a 
 girl, in my jDOsition, is at the mercy of appear- 
 ances. You, travelhng in the same carriage 
 with me ! and that woman putting her own 
 vile interpretation on it, and degrading me in 
 Sir Jervis Eedwood's estimation, on the day 
 when I enter his house ! Oh, it's worse than 
 thoughtless — it's madness, downright mad- 
 
 ness. 
 
 " You are quite right," Alban gravely 
 agreed, " it is madness. I lost whatever 
 little reason I once possessed. Miss Emily, 
 on the day when I fu'st met you out 
 walking with the young ladies of the 
 school."
 
 THE DBA JVIXG-MASTEB'S COyFESSIOX. 1 53 
 
 Emily turned away in significant silence. 
 Alban followed her. 
 
 " You promised, just now," lie said, " never 
 to lliink unjustly of me again. I respect and 
 admire you far too sincerely to take a base 
 advantage of this occasion — the only occasion 
 on whicJi I have been permitted to speak 
 with you alone. Wait a little before you 
 condemn a man whom you don't understand. 
 I will say nothing to annoy you —I only ask 
 leave to explain myself. Will you take your 
 chair again ? " 
 
 She returned unwillingly to her seat. " It 
 can only end," she thought sadly, " in my 
 disappointing him ! " 
 
 " I have had the worst possible opinion of 
 women, for years past," Alban resumed ; 
 " and the only reason I can give for it con- 
 demns me out of my own mouth. I have 
 been infamously treated by one woman ; and 
 my wounded self-esteem has meanly revenged
 
 154 "I SAY NO." 
 
 itself by reviling tlie wliole sex. Wait a 
 little, Miss Emily. My fault has received its 
 fit punislimeut. I have been thoroughly 
 humiliated — and you have done it." 
 
 " Mr. Morris ! " 
 
 " Take no offence, pray, where no offence is 
 meant. Some few years since, it was the 
 great misfortune of my life to meet with a 
 Jilt. You know what I mean ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " She was my equal by birth (I am a 
 3^ounger son of a country squire), and my 
 superior in rank. I can honestly tell you 
 that I was fool enough to love her with 
 all my heart and soul. She never allowed 
 me to doubt — I may say this without con- 
 ceit, remembering the miserable end of it — 
 that my feeling for her was returned. Her 
 father and mother (excellent people) ap- 
 proved of the contemplated marriage. She 
 accepted my presents ; she allowed all the
 
 THE DRAWING-MASTERS CONFESSION. 155 
 
 customary preparations for a wedding to 
 proceed to completion ; slic had not even 
 mercy enougli, or sliame enough, to pre- 
 vent me from publicly degrading myself by 
 waiting for her at the altar, in the pre- 
 sence of a larcre conoTe<?ation. The minutes 
 passed — and no bride appeared. The clergy- 
 man, waiting like me, was requested to 
 return to the vestry. I was invited to 
 follow him. You foresee the end of tlie 
 story, of course? She had run away with 
 another man. But can you guess who the 
 man was ? Her groom." 
 
 Emily's face reddened with indignation. 
 "She suffered for it? Oh, Mr. Morris, 
 surely she suffered for it ! " 
 
 "Not at all. She had money enough 
 to reward the groom for marrying her; 
 and she let herself down easily to her 
 husband's level. It was a suitable mar- 
 riage in every respect. When 1 last heard
 
 156 ''iSAvyo:' 
 
 of tliem, tliey were regularly in the habit 
 of getting drunk together. I am afraid I 
 have disgusted you ? We Avill drop the 
 subject, and resume my precious autobio- 
 graphy at a later date. One showery day 
 in the autumn of last year, you young 
 ladies went out with Miss Ladd for a walk. 
 When you were all trotting back again, 
 under your umbrellas, did you (in par- 
 ticukr) notice an ill-tempered fellow stand- 
 ing in the road, and getting a good look 
 at you, on the high footpath above him ? " 
 
 Emily smiled, in spite of herself. " I 
 don't remember it," she said. 
 
 " You wore a brown jacket which fitted 
 you as if you had been born in it— and 
 you had the smartest little straw hat I 
 ever saw on a woman's head. It was the 
 first time I ever noticed such things. I 
 think I could paint a portrait of the boots 
 you wore (mud included), from memory
 
 THE DRAWING'MASTERS CONFESSION. 157 
 
 alone. That was the impression you pro- 
 duced on me. After believing, honestly 
 believing, that love was one of the lost 
 illusions of my life — after feeling, honestly 
 feeling, that I would as soon look at the devil, 
 as look at a Avoman — there was the state of 
 mind to which retribution had reduced me ; 
 using for its instrument. Miss Emily Brown. 
 Oh, don't be afraid of what I may say 
 next ! In your presence, and out of your 
 presence, I'm man enough to be ashamed 
 of my own folly. I am resisting your in- 
 fluence over me at this moment, with the 
 strongest of all resolutions- — the resolution 
 of despair. Let's look at the humorous 
 side of the stor}^ again. What do you 
 think I did when the regiment of young 
 ladies had passed by me ? " 
 
 Emily declined to guess. 
 
 " I followed you back to the school ; 
 and, on pretence of having a daughter to
 
 158 ^' I SAY NO." 
 
 educate, I got one of Miss Ladd's pro- 
 si)ectuses from the porter at the lodge 
 gate. I was in your neighbourhood, you 
 must know, on a sketching tour. I went 
 back to my inn, and seriously considered 
 what had happened to me. The result of 
 my cogitations was that I went abroad. Only 
 for a change — not at all because 1 was 
 trying to Aveaken the impression you had 
 produced on me ! After awhile, I returned 
 to England. Only because I was tired of 
 travelling — not at all because your influence 
 drew me back ! Another interval passed ; 
 and luck turned my way, for a wonder. 
 The drawing-master's place became vacant 
 here. Miss Ladd advertised ; I produced 
 my testimonials ; and took the situation. 
 Only because the salary was a welcome 
 certainty, to a poor man — not at all because 
 the new position brought me into personal 
 association with Miss Emily Brown ! Do
 
 THE DRAWING-MASTERS CONFESSION. 159 
 
 you begin to see why I liave troubled 
 you with all this talk about myself ? 
 Apply the contemptible system^ of self- 
 delusion which my confession has revealed, 
 to that holiday arrangement for a tour 
 in the north which has astonished and 
 annoyed you. I am going to travel this 
 afternoon by your train. Only because 
 I feel an intelligent longing to see the 
 northernmost county of England — not at 
 all l)ecause I won't let you trust yourself 
 alone with Mrs. Eook ! Not at all because 
 I won't leave you to enter Sir Jervis Eed- 
 wood's service, without a friend within 
 reach in case you want him! Mad? Oh, 
 yes — perfectly mad. But, tell me this : 
 What do all sensible people do when they 
 find themselves in the company of a 
 lunatic? They humour him. Let me take 
 your ticket, and see your luggage labelled ; 
 I only ask leave to be your travelling
 
 i6o "7 SAY NO." 
 
 servant. If you are proud — I shall like 
 you all the better, if you are — pay me 
 wages, and keep nie in my proper place 
 ill that way." 
 
 Some girls, addressed with this reckless 
 intermingihig of jest and earnest, would have 
 felt confused ; and some would have felt 
 flattered. With a good-tempered resolution, 
 which never passed the limits of modesty 
 and refinement, Emily met Alban Morris on 
 his own ground. 
 
 " You have said you respect me," she 
 began ; " I am going to prove that I believe 
 you. The least I can do is not to misin- 
 terpret you, on my side. Am I to understand, 
 Mr. Morris — you won't think the worse of 
 me, I hope, if I speak plainly — am I to 
 understand that you are in love with me ? " 
 
 " Yes, Miss Emily — if you please." 
 
 He had answered with the quaint gravity 
 which was peculiar to him ; but he was
 
 THE DRAWING-MASTERS CONFESSION. 161 
 
 already conscious of a sense of discourage- 
 ment. Her composure was a bad sign — 
 from his point of view. 
 
 " My time w^ill come, I dare say," she 
 proceeded. " At present I know nothing of 
 love, by experience ; I only know what some 
 of my schoolfellows talk about in secret. 
 Judging by what they tell me, a girl blushes, 
 when her lover pleads with her to favour his 
 addresses. Am I blushing ? " 
 
 " Must I speak plainly, too ? " Alban asked. 
 
 "If 3^ou have no objection," she answered, 
 as composedly as if she had been address- 
 ing her grandfather. 
 
 " Then, Miss Emily, I must say — you are 
 not blushing." 
 
 She went on. " Another token of love 
 — as I am informed — is to tremble. Am I 
 trembling ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Am I too confused to look at you?" 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 1 62 "I SAY no:' 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Do I walk away, with dignity — and tlien 
 stop, and steal a timid glance at my lover, 
 over my shoulder ? " 
 
 " I wish you did ! " 
 
 " A plain answer, Mr. Morris ! Yes, or 
 No." 
 
 " No — of course." 
 
 " In one last word, do I give you any sort 
 of encouragement to try again?" 
 
 " In one last word, I have made a fool of 
 myself — and you have taken the kindest 
 possible way of telling me so." 
 
 This time, she made no attempt to reply 
 in his own tone. The good-humoured gaiety 
 of her manner disappeared. She was in 
 earnest — truly sadly in earnest— when she 
 said her next words. 
 
 " Is it not best, in your own interests, that 
 we should bid each other good-bye ? " she 
 asked. " In the time to come — wlicn you
 
 THE BBAWiyG-M ASTERS COyFESSIOK 163 
 
 only remember how kind you once were to 
 me — we may look forward to meeting again. 
 After all that you have suffered, so bitterly 
 and so undeservedly, don't, pray don't, make 
 me feel that another woman has behaved 
 cruelly to you, and that I — so grieved to 
 distress you — am that heartless creature ! " 
 
 J^ever in her life had she been so irre- 
 sistibly charming as she was at that moment. 
 Her sweet nature showed all its innocent pity 
 for him in her face. 
 
 He saw it — he felt it — he was not unworthy 
 of it. In silence, he lifted her hand to his 
 lips. He turned pale as he kissed it. 
 
 " Say that you agree with me ! " she 
 pleaded. 
 
 " I obey you." 
 
 As he answered, he pointed to the lawn at 
 
 their feet. "Look," he said, " at that dead 
 
 leaf which the air is wafting over the grass 
 
 Is it possible that such sympathy as you feel 
 
 12—2
 
 1 64 " J SAY NO r 
 
 for Me, sucli love as I feel for You, can 
 waste, wither, and fall to the gronnd like 
 that leaf? I leave yon, Emily — with the 
 firm conviction that there is a time of fnl- 
 filment to come in onr two lives. Happen 
 what may in tlie interval — 1 trnst the 
 futnre." 
 
 The words had barely passed his lips, 
 when the voice of one of the servants 
 reached them from the house. "Miss 
 Emily! are you in the garden?" 
 
 Emily stepped out into the sunshine. The 
 servant hurried to meet her, and placed a 
 telegram in her hand. She looked at it with 
 a sudden misgiving. In her small experience, 
 a telesfram was associated with the com- 
 munication of bad news. She conquered 
 her hesitation — opened it — read it. The 
 colour left her face: she shuddered. The 
 telegram dropped on the grass.
 
 THE DRAWING-MASTERS CONFESSION. 165 
 
 " Eead it," slie said faintly, as Albaii 
 picked it up. 
 
 He read tliese words : " Come to London 
 directly. Miss Letitia is dangerously ill." 
 
 " Your aunt ? " lie asked. 
 
 " Yes— my aunt."
 
 IN LONDON.
 
 BOOK THE SECOND. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 MRS. ELl.M OTHER. 
 
 The metropolis of Great Britain is, i]i 
 certain respects, like no other metropolis 
 on tlie face of the eartli. In the popula- 
 tion that throngs the streets, the extremes 
 of Wealth and the extremes of Poverty 
 meet, as they meet nowhere else. In the 
 streets themselves, the glory and the shame 
 of architecture — the mansion and the 
 hovel — are neighbours in situation, as they 
 are neighbours nowhere else. London, in 
 its social aspect, is the city of contrasts. 
 Towards the close of evening, Emily 
 left the railway terminus for the place of
 
 170 "2 SAY NO" 
 
 residence in wliicli loss of fortune had 
 compelled lier aunt to take refuge. As 
 slie approached her destination, the cab 
 passed — by merely crossing a road — from 
 a spacious and beautiful Park, with its 
 surrounding houses topped by statues and 
 cupolas, to a row of cottages, hard by a 
 stinking ditch miscalled a canal. The city 
 of contrasts : north and south, east and 
 west, the city of social contrasts. 
 
 Emily stopped the cab before the gar- 
 den gate of a cottage, at the further end 
 of the row. The bell was answered by 
 tlie one servant now in her aunt's employ- 
 ment — Miss 'Letitia's maid. 
 
 Personally, this good creature was one 
 of the ill-fated women, whose appearance 
 suggests that Nature intended to make 
 men of them, and altered her mind at 
 the last moment. Miss Letitia's maid was 
 tall and i>aunt and awkward. The hrst
 
 MRS. ELLM OTHER. 171 
 
 impression produced by lier face was an 
 impression of bones. They rose high on 
 lier forehead ; they projected on her 
 cheeks ; and they reached their boldest 
 development in her jaws. In the cavernous 
 eyes of tliis unfortunate person rigid ob- 
 stinacy and rigid goodness looked out 
 together, with equal severity, on all her 
 fellow-creatures alike. Her mistress (whom 
 she had served for a quarter of a cen- 
 tury and more) called her '' Bony." She 
 accepted this cruelly appropriate nick-name 
 as a mark of affectionate familiarity which 
 honoured a servant. No other person was 
 allowed to take liberties with her : to every 
 one but her mistress she was known as 
 Mrs. EUmother. 
 
 " How is my aunt ? " Emily asked. 
 
 " Bad." 
 
 " Why have I not heard of her illness before ? " 
 
 " Because she's too fond of you to let
 
 172 ''ISAYNOr 
 
 you be distressed about lier. 'Don't tell 
 Emily ; ' those were lier orders, as long as 
 she kept her senses." 
 
 "Kept her senses? Good heavens I what 
 do you mean ? " 
 
 " Fever — that's what I mean." 
 
 " I must see her directly ; I am not 
 afraid of infection." 
 
 " There's no infection to be afraid of. 
 But you mustn't see lier for all that." 
 
 " I insist on seeing her." 
 
 "Miss Emily, I am disappointing you 
 for your own good. Don't you know me 
 well enough to trust me, by this time ? " 
 
 " I do trust you." 
 
 " Then leave my mistress to me — and 
 go and make yourself comfortable in your 
 own room." 
 
 Emily's answer was a positive refusal. 
 Mrs. Ellmother, driven to her last re- 
 sources, raised a new ol)stacle.
 
 MBS. ELLMOTIIER. 173 
 
 " It's not to be done, I tell you ! How 
 can you see Miss Letitia, when she can't 
 bear the light in her room ? Do you 
 know what colour her eyes are? Eecl, 
 poor soul — red as a boiled lobster." 
 
 With every word the woman uttered, 
 Emily's perplexity and distress increased. 
 
 "You told me my aunt's ilhiess was 
 fever," she said — " and now you speak of 
 some complaint in her eyes. Stand out 
 of the way, if 3^ou please, and let me 
 go to her." 
 
 Mrs. Ellmother, still keeping her place, 
 looked through the open door. 
 
 " Here's the doctor," she announced. 
 " It seems I can't satisfy you ; ask him 
 what's the matter. Come in, doctor." 
 She threw open the door of the parlour, 
 and introduced Emily. "This is the mis- 
 tress's niece, sir. Please try if you can 
 keep her quiet. I can't." She placed
 
 174 "ISAYNOr 
 
 chairs witli the hospitable politeness of 
 the old school — and returned to her 
 post at Miss Letitia's bedside. 
 
 Doctor Allday was an elderly man, with 
 a cool manner and a ruddy complexion — 
 thoroughly acclimatised to the atmosphere 
 of pain and grief in which it was liis 
 destiny to live. lie spoke to Emily 
 (witliout any undue familiarity) as if lie 
 had been accustomed to sec her for the 
 greater part of her life. 
 
 " That's a curious woman/' he said, 
 when Mrs. Ellmotlier closed the door; 
 " the most headstrong person, I think, I 
 ever met witli. But devoted to her mis- 
 tress, 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 Iiouse 
 — built on clay, you know, and close to
 
 MES. ELLMOTHEB. 175 
 
 stagnant water) lias been latterly compli- 
 cated by delirium." 
 
 "Is that a bad sign, sir?" 
 
 ''The worst possible sign; it shews that 
 the disease has affected the heart. Yes : 
 she is sufferinof from inflammation of the 
 eyes, but that is an unimportant symptom. 
 We can keep the pain under by means 
 of coolim? lotions and a dark room. I've 
 often heard her speak of you — especially 
 since the illness assumed a serious charac- 
 ter. What did you say ? Will she know 
 you, when you go into her room? " This 
 is about the time vrhen the delirium 
 usually sets in. I'll see if there's a quiet 
 interval." 
 
 He opened the door — and came back 
 ao'aiu. 
 
 "By the way," he resumed, " I ought per- 
 haps to explain hov/ it was that I took 
 the libcrt}^ of sending you that telegram.
 
 176 "ISAYXOr 
 
 Mrs. Ellmollier refused to inform you ot 
 her mistress's serious illness. That circum- 
 stance, 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 ex- 
 cite 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 pre- 
 suming 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
 
 MBS. ELLM OTHER. 177 
 
 century? 'For thirty j^ears 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 liouse- 
 keeper. Eather 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 miglit 
 know me, when she recognises 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 cir- 
 cumstance ; I don't sec how this encourages 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 178 " I SAY NO." 
 
 me to liope' — and you will be quite right. 
 Instead of talking of my medical experience, 
 I si 1 all 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 condi- 
 tion 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," Doc- 
 tor Allday announced, on his return. 
 "Eemember, please, that she can't see you 
 in the inflamed state of her eyes, and don't 
 disturb the bed-curtains. The sooner you
 
 MES. ELLM OTHER. 179 
 
 go to her the better perhaps — if you have 
 anythmg to say which depends on her re- 
 cognising 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 bedchamber door. Mrs. Ellmother met 
 her on the threshold. " No," said the ob- 
 stinate old servant, " you can't come in." 
 
 The faint voice of Miss Letitia made 
 itself heard, calling Mrs. Ellmother by her 
 familiar nickname. 
 
 "Bony, who is it?" 
 
 " Never mind." 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 " Miss Emily — if you must know." 
 
 "0! poor dear, why does she come here? 
 
 Who told her I was ill ? " 
 
 "The doctor told her." 
 
 13—2
 
 l8o "JSAYNOr 
 
 "Don't come in, Emily. It will only 
 distress you — and it Avill do me no good. 
 God hless you, my love. Don't come in." 
 
 " There ! " said Mrs. Ellmotlicr. " Do 
 you hear that ? Go back to the sitting- 
 room." 
 
 Thus far, the hard necessity of control- 
 ling herself had kept Emily silent. She 
 was now able to speak without tears. 
 " Kemember 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 sittimx- 
 room," Mrs. Ellmother repeated. 
 
 True love lasts while life lasts. The dy- 
 ing woman relented. 
 
 " Bony ! Bony ! I can't be unkind to 
 Emily. Let her in." 
 
 Mrs. Ellmother still insisted on havinjjr 
 her way. "You're contradicting your own
 
 MBS. ELLM OTHER. i8i 
 
 orders," slie said to her mistress. "You 
 don't know how soon you may begin wan- 
 dering 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 sub- 
 dued by sorrow and fear. 
 
 " I wash my hands of it," Mrs. Ellmother 
 said. " Go in — and take the conse- 
 quences."
 
 i82 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 CIIAPTEE 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, 
 tlie banging of the door that led into the 
 kitchen shook the flimsily-biiilt 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 
 tlie chimney-piece were a clock that had 
 been stopped in mercy to the sufferer's
 
 MISS LETITIA. 183 
 
 irritable nerves, and an open case contain- 
 ing 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 trembUng. " 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.
 
 184 "ISAYNOr 
 
 " You were going somewhere when you left 
 school," she said ; " and Cecilia Wyvil had 
 something to do with it. Oli, 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 
 harself just said began to grow confused. 
 " What stranger ? " she asked abruptly. 
 " Was it a man ? AVhat name ? OJi, 
 my mind ! Has death got hold of my 
 mind, before my body ? " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! I'll tell you the name. 
 Sir Jervis Eedwood." 
 
 " I don't know him. I don't want to 
 know him. Do vou think he means to 
 send for you ? Perhaps, he has sent for 
 you. I won't allow it ! You sha'n't go ! " 
 
 " Don't excite yourself, dear ! I have 
 refused to go ; I mean to stay here with 
 you." 
 
 llie fevered l)rain held to its last idea.
 
 MISS LETiriA. 185 
 
 '' IJas lie sent for you ? " slie said again, 
 louder tlian before. 
 
 Emily replied once more, in terms care- 
 fully 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 slie 
 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. Eook." 
 
 Instantly on the utterance of that name, 
 there followed an unexpected result. Silence 
 ensued.
 
 1 86 ''ISAYKOr 
 
 Emily waited — hesitated — advanced, to 
 part the curtains, and look in at her aunt. 
 She was stopped by a dreadful sound of 
 kiughter — the cheerless laughter that is 
 heard among tlie mad. It suddenly ended 
 in a dreary sigh. 
 
 Afraid to look in, she spoke, hardly 
 knowing what she said. "Is there any- 
 thing 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. Eook? What does Mrs. Eook 
 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 ? 0, you fool — 
 a hundred miles and more. Never mind 
 the coroner, the coroner must keep in his
 
 MISS LETITIA. 187 
 
 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 news- 
 paper to fmd 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 
 heriself painfully embarrassed by the poeition 
 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 helpless self-betrayal of delirium. 
 Miss Letitia had revealed some act of con- 
 cealment, committed in her past life, and 
 confided to her faithful old servant. Under
 
 i88 "I SAY NO." 
 
 tliese circumstances, liad Emily made any 
 discoveries wliicli convicted her of taking 
 a base advantage of lier 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) 
 afTected by it — these were mysteries whicli 
 left her entirely in the dark. She had 
 found out that her aunt was acquainted 
 with Mrs. Eook, and that was literally all 
 slie knew. 
 
 lUameless, so far, in the line of conduct 
 that she had pursued, might she still re- 
 main in the bed-chamber — on this distinct 
 understanding with herself: that she would 
 instantly return to the sitting-room if she 
 heard anytliing 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 tliat question. Does conscience ever
 
 MISS LETITIA. 189 
 
 say, No — when inclination says, Yes ? 
 Emily's conscience sided witli her reluctance 
 to leave her aunt. 
 
 Throughout the time occupied by these 
 reflections, the silence had remained un- 
 broken. Emily began to feel uneasy. Slie 
 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
 
 I90 ''1 SAY 1^0." 
 
 the servants ])ut you, Bony, have been sent 
 away. London's the place for us. No 
 gossiping servants and no curious neigh- 
 bours in London. Bury the liorrid trutli 
 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 that vile woman lives ? 
 Only let me get at her — and I'll make 
 Sara ashamed of herself." 
 
 Emily's heart heat fast when she heard 
 the woman's name. " Sara " (as she and 
 her schoolfellows 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 tliis most 
 interestingr moment, the silence remained 
 undisturbed.
 
 MISS LETITIA. 191 
 
 In tlie fervour of her anxiety to set her 
 doubts at rest, Emily's faith in her own 
 good resolutions began to waver. The 
 temptation to say something which might 
 set her aunt talking again was too strong 
 to be resisted — if she remained at the bed- 
 side. 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. " Bo 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 en- 
 couraged Miss Letitia to pursue her own 
 confused train of thought, and had stimu-
 
 192 "i SAY yo" 
 
 lated the fast-failing cai)acity of speech 
 to exert itself once more. 
 
 " No ! no ! lie'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 cunnini^ for him. 
 Who found the morsels of his letter in 
 the basket? Who stuck them together? 
 Ah, ive 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. 
 0, who would have believed it of him, 
 if we hadn't seen it and heard it our- 
 selves ! " 
 
 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
 
 MISS LETITIA. 193 
 
 respect the helpless position of her aunt. 
 The speediest way of summoning Mrs. 
 Elhnother 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 faiUng 
 voice — " so thirsty ! " 
 
 She parted the curtains. The shrouded 
 lamplight just showed her the green shade 
 over Miss Letitia's eyes — the holloAv 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 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 194 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 last drop. Picfreslied for tlie moment, slie 
 spoke again — spoke to the visionary ser- 
 vant of her delirious fancy, Avhile slie 
 rested in Emily's arms. 
 
 " For God's sake, take care how you 
 answer, if she questions you. If she knew 
 what ive know ! Are men ever ashamed ? 
 Ila ! the vile woman ! the vile woman ! " 
 
 Her voice, sinking gradually, dropped 
 to a whisper. The next few Avords that 
 escaped lier 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 
 loc^k at the image of death. Once more, 
 Emily kissed lier — closed the curtains — 
 and rang the bell. 
 
 Mrs. Ellmother failed to appear. Emily 
 left the room to call to her. 
 
 Arrived at the top of the kitchen 
 stairs, she noticed a slight change. The
 
 MISS LETITIA. 195 
 
 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 strone^est imag^inable 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," 
 
 14—2
 
 196 "I SAY NO." 
 
 " 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 lias left the house."
 
 MRS. MOSEY. 197 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 MRS. MOSEY. 
 
 Emily's first act — after the disc^overy of 
 Mrs. Ellmotlier's incomprehensible disap- 
 pearance — was to invite the new servant 
 to follow her into the sitting-room. 
 
 "Can yon explain this?" she began. 
 
 "No, Miss." 
 
 " May I ask if yon have come here, by 
 Mrs. EUmother's invitation?" 
 
 "By Mrs. EUmother'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 ? "
 
 198 ''2 SAY no:' 
 
 "And, perhaps (if you ^vill he so kind), 
 by mentioning your name," Emily added. 
 
 "Thank you for reminding me. Miss. 
 My name is EUzabeth Mosey. I am well 
 known to the gentleman who attends Miss 
 Letitia. Doctor AUday will speak to my 
 character, and also to my experience as a 
 nurse. If it would be in any way satis- 
 factory 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 favour 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 favour was, mii^dit I ask 
 you to bear in mind that Mrs. Ellmother 
 put it to me "for old friendship's sake"
 
 MBS. MOSEY. 199 
 
 — alluding to ray 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. Kot 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 life- 
 time. 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 notliing 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
 
 200 ''I SAY no:' 
 
 fond of hearing the sound of lier own 
 eminently persuasive voice. Making al- 
 lowance for these little drawbacks, the 
 impression that she produced was decidedly 
 favourable ; and, however rashly she might 
 have acted, lier motive was beyond re- 
 proach. 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 tiling I have 
 never known her to do before, in an ex- 
 perience of twenty years." 
 
 " And she really asked you to take her 
 ]:)lace here, at a moment's notice ? " 
 
 " That was just what she did," Mrs.
 
 MRS. MOSEY. 20 1 
 
 Mosey answered. " I had no need to tell 
 her I was astonished ; my looks 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 ex- 
 plaining 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. Elhnother 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 ? " 
 
 "l^o, indeed — quite the contrary. She
 
 202 '^ I SAY NO. 
 
 says, ' You Avill find Miss Emily at tlie 
 cottage. She is Miss Letitia's niece. Every- 
 body 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 went ? " 
 
 "No, Miss." 
 
 *'Have you nothing more to tell me?" 
 
 " Nothing more ; except that she gave me
 
 .JMRS. MOSEY. 203 
 
 my directions, of course, about tlie nursing. 
 I took them down in writing — and you 
 will find them in their proper place, witli 
 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. Consult- 
 ing 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, ]\Iiss. Might I advise 
 you to rest a little?" 
 
 "If there is any change, Mrs. Mosey — 
 either for the better or the w^orse — of 
 course you will let me know ? " 
 
 "Certainly, Miss!" 
 
 Emily returned to the sitting-room : not
 
 204 "^ SAY NO." 
 
 to rest (after all that she had heard), but 
 to tliink. 
 
 Amid murli tliat was imintelhgiljle, certain 
 plain conchisions presented themselves to 
 her mind. 
 
 After what the doctor liad already said 
 to Emily, on the subject of dehrium 
 generally, Mrs. Ellmother's proceedings be- 
 came 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 bed-room. 
 
 But the event which had just happened — 
 that is to say, Mrs. Ellmother's sudden de- 
 partui-e from the cottage — was not only of 
 serious importance in itself, but pointed to a 
 startlinir conclusion.
 
 MBS. MOSEY. 205 
 
 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, 
 wliile 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 de- 
 serted 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 sus- 
 picion which Emily had not felt, and 
 discoveries wliich Emily had (as yet) not
 
 2o6 "7 SAY NO." 
 
 made, in no way modified tlie serious nature 
 of the inference wliieli licr conduct justified. 
 The disclosure whi(ih 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 onl}^ 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 tlie window of the sittinij^-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 employ-
 
 MRS. MOSEY. 207 
 
 raent sufficiently interesting to absorb her 
 attention. The writing table reminded lier 
 tliat she owed a letter to Cecilia. That help- 
 ful friend had surely the first claim to know 
 why she had failed to keep her engagement 
 with Sir Jervis Eedwood. 
 
 After mentioning? the telecfram which had 
 followed Mrs. Eook's arrival at the school, 
 Emily's letter proceeded in these terms : — 
 
 " As soon as I had in some degree re- 
 covered myself, I informed Mrs. Eook 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 travelling companions. Don't suppose 
 that I have taken a capricious dislike to 
 Mrs. Eook — or that you are in any way to 
 blame for the unfavourable impression which 
 she has produced on me. I will make this
 
 2o8 ''I SAY NO r 
 
 plain when we meet. In the mean while, I 
 need only I ell you that I gave her a letter 
 of explanation to present to Sir Jervis 
 Eedwood. 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. 
 
 " Khid 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 
 I'ather 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 enjoy- 
 ment of your pleasant visit to the Engadine, 
 by writing at any length of the sorrow 
 that I am suffering. You know how I love
 
 MRS. MOSEY. 209 
 
 my aimt, and liow gratefully I have al- 
 ways 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 sym- 
 pathy ; 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 remem- 
 ber how cheerfully I used to look forward 
 to my new life, on leaving school ? Good- 
 bye, my darling. While I can see your 
 sweet face, in my thoughts, I don't des- 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 2IO ''ISAVNOr 
 
 pair — (lark as it looks now — of the future 
 that is before rae." 
 
 Emily had closed and addressed her letter, 
 and was just rising from lier cliair, when 
 she heard the voice of the new nurse at 
 the door.
 
 EMILY. 21 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 EMILY. 
 
 " May I say a word ? " Mrs. Mosey in- 
 quired. She entered the room — pale and 
 trembling. Seeing that ominous change, 
 Emily dropped back into lier chair. 
 
 "Dead?" she said faintly. 
 
 Mrs. Mosey looked at her in vacant sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "I wished to say, Miss, that your aunt 
 lias 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." 
 
 15—2
 
 212 *'I SAY Nor 
 
 Confused and friglitencd as she was, 
 Mrs. Mosey still found relief in her cus- 
 tomary 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 expe- 
 rience — ! " 
 
 " Don't tell me of it ! " Emily interposed. 
 
 " 0, but I must tell you ! In your own 
 interests. Miss Emily — in your own inter- 
 ests. 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 
 lias expected impossibilities of me ; and
 
 1311 LY. 21 r 
 
 Mrs. Ellmother must take the consequences. 
 I don't say slie didn't warn me — speaking, 
 you ^Yill please to understand, in tlie 
 strictest confidence. ' Elizabeth,' she says, 
 * jou 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 
 yery well, and sounds like speaking out, 
 doesn't it? Nothing of the sort! Mrs. Eli- 
 mother warns me to expect this, that, and 
 the other. But there is one horrid thinu: 
 (which I heard, mind, oyer and oyer again 
 at your aunt's bedside) that she does 7wt 
 prepare me for ; and that horrid thing is 
 —Murder ! "
 
 214 ''I SAY no:' 
 
 At that last word, Mrs. Mosey dropped 
 her voice to a wliis})er — and waited to sec 
 what eflect slic liad produced. 
 
 Sorely tried ah'eady by tlie cruel per- 
 plexities of lier position, Emily's courage 
 failed to resist the first sensation of hori-or, 
 aroused in her l)y 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 witli her own 
 horrors. 
 
 " An inn. Miss Emily ; a lonely inn, some- 
 where in the country ; and a comfortless 
 room at the inn, with a make- shift bed at 
 one end of it, and a make- shift bed at 
 the other — I give you my word of honour, 
 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,
 
 EMILY. 215 
 
 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 2fettin<x tired of listen- 
 ing — wlien she burst out plain again, in 
 tliat one horrid word — 0, Miss, don't be 
 impatient ! don't interrupt me ! " 
 
 Emily did interrupt, nevertheless. In some 
 degree at least she had recovered her- 
 self. " No more of it ! " she said — " 1 
 won't hear a word more." 
 
 But Mrs. Mosey was too resolutely bent 
 on asserting her own importance, by mak- 
 ing the most of the alarm that she had 
 suffered, to be repressed by an}^ ordinary 
 method of remonstrance. Without i)aA'iiii? 
 the slightest attention to what Emily had 
 said, she went on again more loudly and 
 more excitably than ever. 
 
 "Listen, Miss — listeu ! The dreadful part 
 of it is to come ; you haven't heard about
 
 2i6 -isAvyo." 
 
 the two gentlemen yet. One of tlieni was 
 murdered — what do you think of that ! — 
 and the otlier (I lieard your aunt say it, 
 in so many words) committed tlie 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 / was in her 
 room. ' Whoever you are, good peo})le ' 
 (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 nothim:^ about him like a 
 man, except his voice — a fine round voice. 
 You'll know liim, my friends — the wretcli, 
 the monster — you'll know him by his 
 voice.' That was how she put it ; I tell 
 you again, that Avas how she put it. Did 
 you hear her scream ? Ah, my dear 
 vouuLi' lady, so much the better for vou !
 
 EMILY. 217 
 
 ' 0, the horrid murder ' (she says) — ' hush 
 it up!' I'll take my Bible oath before the 
 ma<?istrate," cried Mrs. Mosev, startim? out 
 of her chair. " Your aunt said, ' Hush it 
 up ! ' " 
 
 Emily crossed the room. The energy of 
 licr 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 petri- 
 fied. She had fully expected — having 
 reached the end of ]icr 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 flat- 
 tered, to grant the prayer of the helpless 
 young lady. Those were her anticipations
 
 2i8 '' I SAY NOr 
 
 — and liow had lliey been fulfdled? She 
 had been treated like a mad women in a 
 state of revoU ! 
 
 "How dare you assault me?" trlie asked 
 ])iteously. " You ought to be asliamed of 
 yourself. God knows I meant well." 
 
 "You are not the hrst 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 3'ou lis- 
 tened to what my aunt said." 
 
 " Allow me to explain m3^self ." 
 
 "No: not a word more on that subjeet 
 shall pass between us. llemain here, 
 if you please ; I have something to sug- 
 gest in your own interests. Wait, and com- 
 pose yourself." 
 
 The purpose which had taken a foremost 
 place in Emil\'s mind rested on the firm
 
 EMILY. 219 
 
 foundation of lier love and pity for her 
 aunt. 
 
 Xow that she liad 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 lieard in her 
 aunt's room, could she reasonably resist the 
 conclusion that tliere must be a foundation 
 in truth for what Mrs. i\Iosey 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 con- 
 victions ; and persuaded herself that she 
 had been in tlie wrong, when she had at- 
 tached 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 deathbed — rather
 
 220 "7 SAY NO." 
 
 than permit Mrs. Mosey to have a second 
 opportunity of drawing her own inferences 
 from what she niiglit liear in Miss Lelitia'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 niglit." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Miss; there is an 
 objection. I liave already told you I 
 can't ]-econcile it to my conscience to 
 leave you liere by yourself. I am not an 
 iidiuman woman," said Mrs. Mosey, putting 
 lier handkerchief to lier eyes —smitten with 
 pity for lierself. 
 
 Emily tried the effect of a conciliatory
 
 EMILY. 221 
 
 reply. " I am grateiiil for 3'our kindness 
 in offering to stay witli me," slie 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 any- 
 body." 
 
 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.
 
 / SAY yor 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 JMISS JETIIRO. 
 
 A FORTNIGHT after tlie disappearance of 
 Mrs. EUmothcr, and the dismissal of Mrs. 
 Mosey, Doctor Allday entered his consult- 
 ing-room ; punctual to the hour nt wliicli 
 he Avas accustomed to receive patients. 
 
 An occasional wrinkling of his eyebrows, 
 accompanied by an intermittent restless- 
 ness in liis movements, appeared to indicate 
 some disturbance of tliis wortliy man's 
 professional composure. Bis mind was 
 indeed not at ease. Even tlie inexci table 
 old doctor had felt the attraction whicli 
 had already conquered three such dissimilar 
 people as Alban Morris, Cecilia Wyvil, and
 
 MISS JETHEO. 223 
 
 Fraiicine 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 — ^vorn 
 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 AUday 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 con- 
 sulted 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."
 
 224 ^'ISAYlS'Or 
 
 The doctor recognised tlic name — and 
 the usual proceedings ensued. After careful 
 examination, he arrived at a favourable 
 conclusion. "I may tell you at once," lie 
 said — " there is no reason to be alarmed 
 about the state of 3'our heart." 
 
 " I have never felt any alarm about my- 
 self," she answered quietly. " A sudden 
 death is an easy death. If one's affairs 
 arc 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 liad 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 
 up-stairs, and don't fatigue yourself by
 
 MISS JETHRO. 225 
 
 violent exercise — and I see no reason why 
 you shouldn't live to be an old woman." 
 
 " God forbid ! " tlie lady said to herself. 
 She turned away, and looked out of the 
 window with a bitter smile. 
 
 Doctor Allday wrote his prescription. 
 " Are 3'ou likely to make a long stay in 
 London ? " he asked. 
 
 " I am here for a little while only. Do 
 you w^isli 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 noiicing what 
 Doctor Allday had said, she laid the con- 
 sultation fee on his table. At the same 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 226 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 luoiiient, the footman appeared witli a 
 letter. " From Miss Emily ]3rown," he 
 said. " No answer required." 
 
 lie held the door open as he delivered 
 the message ; seeing that Miss Jethro ^vas 
 about to leave the room. She dismissed 
 him b}^ 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," tlie doctor answered. " Are you 
 a friend of hers ? " 
 
 " I am acquainted Avith her." 
 " You would be doing tlie poor child 
 a kindness, if you would go and see 
 her. Slie has no friends in London." 
 " Pardon me — she has an aunt." 
 " ller aunt died, a week since." 
 "Are there no other relations?" 
 " None. A mehu.clioly state of things,
 
 MISS JETHEO. 227 
 
 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," lie 
 said when he had done " Can you 1 " 
 
 " 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
 
 228 '^I SAY NO." 
 
 it is administered by a handsome woman. 
 " I t]iou(]^]it you mitrlit liave known Miss 
 Emily's father," he persisted. 
 
 Miss Jethro rose, and wislied liim goDd- 
 moriung. " 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 in- 
 terest 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 Eniil}^ 
 having apparently reminded her of the 
 question which she had hitherto declined 
 to notice.
 
 MISS JETHEO. 229 
 
 "In that case," Doctor AUclay proceeded, 
 " I want a word of advice. Won't you 
 sit down ? " 
 
 She took a chair in silence. An irre- 
 gular movement in the lower part of her 
 veil seemed to indicate that she was 
 breathing with difficulty. The doctor ob- 
 served her Avitli 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 pre- 
 scription, she reminded him that he had 
 proposed to ask her advice.
 
 230 ^' I SAY NO." 
 
 '• 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 phiinly." 
 
 With these prefatory words, he de- 
 scribed tn^ 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 ! " 
 
 lie stopped — in the expectation that 
 Miss Jethro would express some surprise. 
 Not a word passed her lips.
 
 MISS JETHRO. 231 
 
 " Mrs. EUmother'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 ex- 
 planation. On the day of the funeral, there 
 she was at the church, dressed in deep mourn- 
 ing ; 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 
 listened without making any remark. 
 
 " Have you no opinion to express ? " 
 the doctor asked bluntly. 
 
 " I am waiting," Miss Jethro answered. 
 
 " Waiting— for what ? " 
 
 " 1 haven't heard yet, why you want 
 my advice."
 
 - 232 "/ SAY ^^o:' 
 
 Doctor AUday's observation of luimanity 
 liad liitlierto reckoned want of caution among 
 tlie deficient moral qualities in the natures 
 of women. lie set down Miss Jetliro as 
 a remarkable exception to a general rule. 
 
 " I want you to advise rac 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 wander- 
 ings, 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 com- 
 posed enough to examine the papers left 
 by her aunt."
 
 MISS JETHRO. 233 
 
 Miss Jetliro suddenly turned in her cliair, 
 and looked at Doctor Allday. 
 
 " Are you beginning to feel interested ? " 
 the doctor asked mischievous^. 
 
 She neither acknowledo^ed nor denied it. 
 " Go on " — was all she said. 
 
 "I don't know how you feel," he pro- 
 ceeded ; " / am afraid of the discoveries 
 which she may make ; and I am strongly 
 tempted to advise her to leave the pro- 
 posed examination to her aunt's lawyer. Is 
 there anything in your knowledge of Miss 
 Emily's late father, which tells you that 
 T 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."
 
 234 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIL 
 
 DOCTOR ALLDAY. 
 
 Absorbed in tlie 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 he of no further use to 
 you," Miss Jethro rejoined. She made a 
 second attempt to leave the room. 
 
 Doctor Alklay turned to the next page 
 of the letter. "Stop!" he cried. "She 
 has found somethiug — and here it is." 
 
 lie held up a small printed Handbill,
 
 DOCTOR ALL DAY. 235 
 
 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 Eeward. — 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
 
 236 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 well-made man, of small stature. Fair com- 
 plexion, delicate features, clear blue eyes. 
 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 lin- 
 gers of the left hand. Dressed neatly in 
 a dark-grey tourist's suit. Carried a knap- 
 sack, as if on a pedestrian excursion. 
 Eemarkably good voice, smooth, full, and 
 persuasive. Ingratiating manners. Apply 
 to the Chief Inspector ; Metropolitan Police 
 Office, London." 
 
 Miss Jethro laid aside the handbill with- 
 out any visible appearance of agitation. 
 The doctor took up Emily's letter, and read 
 as follows : 
 
 " You will l)e as much relieved as I was, 
 my kind friend, when you look at the paper 
 enclosed. I found it loose in a blank book, 
 with cuttings from newspapers, and odd an-
 
 DOCTOB ALLDAY. 237 
 
 nouiicements of lost property and other 
 curious tilings (all liuddled together be- 
 tween the leaves), which my aunt no doubt 
 intended to set in order and fix in their 
 proper places. She must have been think- 
 ing of ]ier book, poor soul, in her last 
 illness. Here is the origin of those ' ter- 
 rible 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 amtation 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 !
 
 238 ''I SAY no:' 
 
 " It has been a long time coming," he re- 
 marked, 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 dis- 
 coveries may be." 
 
 " What I do know, or don't know, is of 
 no importance," she answered sharply. 
 
 " Excuse me, it is of very serious impor- 
 tance. 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 hrst 
 lime, 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 con- 
 sideration for Miss Emily's tranquillity.
 
 BOCTOB ALL DAY. 239 
 
 Promise me absolute secrecy, on your word 
 of honour." 
 
 lie gave the promise. 
 
 " I want to know one thing, first," Miss 
 Jethro proceeded. " Did she teil you — 
 as she once told me — that lier father had 
 died of heart-complaint?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Did you put any questions to her ? " 
 
 " I asked how lons^ a^o 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 your- 
 self, 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."
 
 240 " I SAY NOr 
 
 "Who was the wretch who did it?" 
 '•You are wroni2in<f tlie dead, sir! The 
 truth can only have been concealed out 
 of the purest motives of hjve and pity. I 
 don't desire to disguise the conclusion at 
 which I have arrived, after what I have 
 heard from yourself. The person respon- 
 sible must be Miss Emily's aunt — and the 
 old servant must have been in her confi- 
 dence. Eemember ! You are bound in 
 honour not to repeat to any living creature 
 what I have just said." 
 
 The doctor followed Miss Jethro to tlie 
 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 raniT 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
 
 DOCTOR ALLDAY, 241 
 
 am going to the cottage," lie said. " If 
 anybody wants me, I shall be back in a 
 quarter of an hour." 
 
 On the Doint of leavino- the house, lie 
 remembered that Emily would probably 
 expect him to return the Handbill. As he 
 took it up, the hrst lines caught his eye : 
 he read the date at which the murder had 
 been committed, for the second time. On 
 a sudden the ruddy colour left his face. 
 
 "Good God!" he cried, "her father 
 was murdered — and that woman was con- 
 cerned in it." 
 
 Following the impulse that urged him, 
 he secured the Handbill in his pocket-book 
 - — snatched up the c?a*d which his patient 
 had presented as lier introduction — and in- 
 stantly left the house. He called the first 
 cab that passed him, and" drove to Miss 
 Jethro's lodmno's. 
 
 " Gone " — was the servant's answer when 
 VOL. u 17
 
 242 "ISAYNOr 
 
 he inquired for her. He insisted on speak- 
 ing to tlie hmdlady. " 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 enclosed 
 in payment of my debt to you. I will 
 send for my luggage." 
 
 The doctor withdrew. 
 
 " Unexpectedly obliged to leave London," 
 he repeated, as he got into the cab again. 
 " Her flight condemns her : not a doubt 
 of it now. As fast as you can ! " he shouted 
 to the man ; directing him to drive U 
 Emily's cottage.
 
 MISS LADD. 
 
 243 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 MISS LADD. 
 
 Arriving at the cottage, Doctor Allday 
 discovered a gentleman who was just closing 
 the garden gate behind him. 
 
 "Has Miss Emily had a visitor?" he 
 inquired, when the servant admitted him. 
 
 " The gentleman left a letter for Miss 
 Emily, sir." 
 
 " Did he ask to see her ? " 
 
 " He asked after Liiss Letitia's health. 
 When he heard that she was dead, he 
 seemed to be startled, and went away 
 immediately." 
 
 '' Did he give liis name ? " 
 
 "Xo, sir." 
 
 The doctor found Emily absorbed over 
 
 17—2
 
 244 ''ISAV^^o:' 
 
 her letter. His anxiety to forestall any 
 possible discovery of tlie deception, which 
 had concealed the terrible story of her 
 father's death, kept Doctor Allday's vigilance 
 on the watch. lie doubted the gentleman 
 who had abstained from giving his name ; 
 he even distrusted the other unknown 
 person who had written to Emily. 
 
 She looked up. Her face relieved him 
 of his misgivings, before she could speak. 
 
 " At last, I liave ]ieard from my dearest 
 friend," she said. " You remember wliat I 
 told you about Cecilia ? Here is a letter — 
 a long delightful letter — from the Engadiiie, 
 left at the door by some gentleman unknown. 
 I was questioning the servant when you 
 rang the bell." 
 
 " You may question me, if you prefer it. 
 I arrived just as the gentleman was shutting 
 your garden gate." 
 
 "Oh, tell me! what was he hke ? "
 
 MISS LABI). 245 
 
 " Tall, and thin, and dark. Wore a 
 vile republican-looking felt hat. Had nasty- 
 ill-tempered wrinkles between his eyebrows. 
 The jrort of man I distrust by instinct." 
 
 '•Why?" 
 
 " Because he doesn't shave." 
 
 " Do you mean that he vrore a beard ? " 
 
 " Yes ; a curly black beard." 
 
 Emily clasped her hands in amazement. 
 " Can it be Alban Morris ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 The doctor looked at her with a sardonic 
 smile ; he thought it likely^ that he had 
 discovered her sweetheart. 
 
 " Who is Mr. Alban Morris ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " The drawing master at Miss Ladd's 
 school." 
 
 Doctor Allday dropped the subject : 
 masters at ladies' schools were not persons 
 who interested him. He returned to the 
 purpose which had brought him to the
 
 246 '^ISAVNO." 
 
 cottage — and produced the Handbill that 
 liad been sent to him in Emily's letter. 
 
 " I suppose you want to liave it back 
 again ? " he said. 
 
 She took it from liim, and looked at 
 it with interest. 
 
 "Isn't it strange," she suggested, " that 
 the murderer should have escaped, with 
 such a carefid description of him as this 
 circulated all over England ? " 
 
 She read the description to the doctor. 
 
 "Name not known. Supposed age be- 
 tween twenty-five and thirty years. A well- 
 made man, of small stature. Fair com- 
 plexion, delicate features, clear blue eyes. 
 Hair light, and cut rather short. Clean 
 shaven, with the exception of narrow half 
 whiskers. Small, white, well-shaped hands. 
 AVore valuable rin^^^s on the two last finders 
 of the left hand. Dressed neatly " 
 
 "That part of the description is useless,"
 
 MISS LADD. 247 
 
 the doctor remarked ; "he would change 
 his clothes." 
 
 " But could he change his voice ? " Emily 
 objected. " Listen to this : ' Eemarkably 
 good voice ; smooth, full, and persuasive.' 
 And here again ! ' Inorratiatim? manners.' 
 Perhaps you will say he could put on an 
 appearance of rudeness ? " 
 
 "I will say this, my dear. He would 
 be able to disguise himself so effectually 
 that ninety-nine people out of a hundred 
 Avould fail to identify him, either l)y his 
 voice or his manner." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Look back at the description : ' Hair 
 cut rather short ; clean shaven, with the 
 exception of narrow lialf whiskers.' The 
 wretch was safe from pursuit ; he had 
 ample time at his disposal — don't you see 
 how he could completely alter the appear- 
 ance of his head and face ? No more, my
 
 248 •'/ SAY ^'0." 
 
 dear, of this disagreeable subject ! Let 
 us get to something interesting. Have you 
 found anything else among your aunt's 
 papers ? " 
 
 " I liave met witli a great disappohit- 
 ment," Emily replied. " Did I tell you how 
 I discovered tlie Handbill ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I found it, Avith the scrap-book and -the 
 newspaper-cuttings, under a collection of 
 empty boxes and bottles, in a drawer of the 
 washhand-stand. And I naturally expected 
 to make ^'far more interesting discoveries 
 in this room. My search was over in five 
 minutes. Nothins^ in the cabinet there, in 
 the corner, but a few books and some china. 
 Nothing in the writing-desk, on that side- 
 table, but a packet of note-paper and some 
 sealing-wax. Nothing here, in tlic drawers, 
 but tradesmen's receipts, materials for 
 knitting, and old i)liotographs. She must
 
 MISS LAD]). 249 
 
 have destroyed all her papers, poor dear, 
 before her last illness ; and the Handbill and 
 tbe other things can only have escaped, 
 because they were left in a place which 
 she never thouofht of examining^. Isn't it 
 
 provoking ? " 
 
 With a mind inexpressibly relieved, good 
 doctor Allday asked permission to return 
 to his patients ; leaving Emily to devote 
 herself to her friend's letter. 
 
 On his way out, he noticed that the door 
 of the bed-chamber on the opposite side of 
 the passage stood open. Since Miss Letitia's 
 death the room had not been used. Well 
 within view stood the washhand-stand to 
 which Emily had alluded. The doctor 
 advanced to the house door — reflected — 
 hesitated — and looked towards the empty 
 room. 
 
 It had struck him that there might be a 
 second drawer which Emily had overlooked.
 
 250 "I SAY NO." 
 
 Would he be justified in setting this doubt 
 at rest ? If he passed over ordinary scruples 
 it would not be without excuse. Miss 
 Letitia h:id spoken to him of lier affairs, and 
 had asked him to act (in Emily's interests), 
 as co-executor with her lawyer. The rapid 
 progress of the illness had made it impos- 
 sible for her to execute the necessary codi- 
 cil. But the doctor had been morally (if 
 not legally) taken into her confidence — and, 
 for that reason, he decided that he had a 
 right in this serious matter to satisfy liis 
 own mind. 
 
 A glance was enough to sliow him that 
 no second drawer had been overlooked. 
 
 There was no other discovery to detain 
 the doctor. The wardrobe only contained the 
 poor old lady's clothes ; tlie one cupboard 
 was open and empty. On the point of 
 leaving the room, he went back to the wash- 
 hand-stand. While he liad the opportunity,
 
 MISS LADD. 251 
 
 it might not be amiss to make sure that 
 Emily had thoroughly examined those old 
 boxes and bottles, which she had alluded to 
 with some little contempt. 
 
 The drawer was of considerable length. 
 When he tried to pull it completely out 
 from the grooves in which it ran, it resisted 
 him. In his present frame of mind, this was 
 a suspicious circumstance in itself. He 
 cleared away the litter so as to make room 
 for the introduction of his hand and arm 
 into the drawer. In another moment his 
 fingers touched a piece of paper, jammed 
 between the inner end of the drawer and the 
 bottom of the flat surface of the washhand- 
 stand. With a little care, he succeeded in 
 extricating the paper. Only pausing to 
 satisfy himself that there was nothing else to 
 be found, and to close the drawer after 
 replacing its contents, he left the cottage. 
 
 The cab was waitino^ for him. On the
 
 252 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 drive Lack to his own house, lie opened tlie 
 crumpled paper. 
 
 It proved to l)e a letter addressed to Miss 
 Letitia ; and it was signed by no less a 
 person than Euiily's schoolmistress. Looking 
 back from the end to the beginning, Doctor 
 Allday discovered, in the first sentence, the 
 name of- — Miss Jethro. 
 
 But for the interview of that morning with 
 his patient, he might have doubted the pro- 
 priety of making himself further acquainted 
 with the letter. As things were, he read it 
 without hesitation. 
 
 " Deaii Madam, — I cannot but regard it 
 as a pro\idential circumstance that your 
 niece, in writing to you from my house, 
 should have mentioned among other events 
 of her school life, the arrival of my new 
 teacher, Miss Jethro. 
 
 " To say that I w^as surprised is to express 
 very inadequately what I felt when I read
 
 MISS LADD. 253 
 
 your letter, informing me confidentially that 
 I had employed a woman who was unworthy 
 to associate with the youno- persons placed 
 under my care. It is impossible for me to 
 suppose that a lady in your position, and 
 possessed of your high principles, would 
 make such a serious accusation as this, with- 
 out unanswerable ■ reasons for doing so. At 
 the same time I cannot, consistently with 
 my duty as a Christian, suffer my opinion of 
 Miss Jethro to be in any way modified, until 
 proofs are laid before me which it is im- 
 possible to dispute. 
 
 " Placing the same confidence in your 
 discretion, which you have placed in mine, 
 I now enclose the references and testi- 
 monials which Miss Jethro submitted to me, 
 when she presented herself to fill the vacant 
 situation in my school. 
 
 " I earnestly request you to lose no time 
 in instituting the confidential inquiries which
 
 254 "I SAY NO." 
 
 you have volunteered to make. Whatever 
 the result may be, pray return to me the 
 enclosures which I have trusted to your 
 care, and believe me, dear Madam, in much 
 suspense and anxiety, sincerely yours, 
 
 " Amelia Ladd." 
 
 It is needless to describe, at any length, 
 the impression which these lines produced 
 on the doctor. 
 
 If he had heard, what Emily had heard 
 at the time of her aunt's last illness, lie 
 would have called to mind Miss Let ilia's 
 betrayal of her interest in some man un- 
 known, whom she believed to have been 
 beguiled by Miss Jetliro — and he would 
 have perceived that the vindictive hatred, 
 thus produced, must have inspired the 
 letter of denunciation which the school- 
 mistress had acknowledged. He would aL-o 
 have inferred that Miss Letitia's inquiries 
 had proved her accusation to be well
 
 MISS LABI). 255 
 
 founded — if he had known of the new 
 teacher's sudden dismissal from the school. 
 As things were, he was merely confirmed 
 in his bad opinion of Miss Jethro ; and 
 he was induced, on reflection, to keep his 
 discovery to himself. 
 
 " If poor Miss Emily saw the old lady 
 exhibited in the character of an informer," 
 he thought, " what a blow would be struck 
 at her innocent respect for the memory of 
 her aunt! "
 
 256 "/ SAY 2>'0. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 SIR JEIIVIS REDWOOD. 
 
 In the meantime, Emily, left by herself, 
 had her own correspondence to occupy 
 her attention. 
 
 Besides the letter from Cecilia (directed 
 to tlie care of Sir Jervis Eedwood), she 
 had received some lines addressed to her 
 by Sir Jervis himself. The two enclosures 
 had been secured in a sealed envelope, 
 directed to tlie cottage. 
 
 If Alban Morris liad been indeed tlie 
 person trusted as messenger by Sir Jervis, 
 the conclusion that followed fdled Emily 
 with overpowering emotions of curiosity 
 and surprise. 
 
 Havino' no longer the motive of servint^
 
 SIR JERVIS REDWOOD. 257 
 
 and protecting her, Alban must, neverthe- 
 less, have taken the journey to North- 
 umberland. He must have gained Sir 
 Jervis Redwood's favour and confidence — 
 and he might even have been a guest at 
 the baronet's country seat — when Cecilia's 
 letter arrived. What did it mean? 
 
 Emily looked back at her experience of 
 her last day at school, and recalled her 
 consultation with Alban on the subject of 
 Mrs. Eook. Was he still bent on clearing 
 up his suspicions of Sir Jervis's house- 
 keeper ? And, with that end in view, had 
 he followed the woman, on her return to 
 her master's place of abode ? 
 
 Suddenly, almost irritably, Emily snatched 
 up Sir Jervis's letter. Before the doctor 
 had come in, she had glanced at it, and 
 had thrown it aside in her impatience to 
 read what Cecilia had written. In her 
 present altered frame of mind, she was 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 25S "/ SAV y(K" 
 
 inclined to tliink that Sir Jervis might be 
 the more interesting correspondent of the 
 two. 
 
 On retnrning to his letter, she was dis- 
 appointed at the outset. 
 
 In the first place, his handwriting was so 
 abominably bad tliat she was obliged to 
 guess at his meaning. In the second place, 
 he never hinted at the circumstances under 
 which Cecilia's letter had been confided to 
 the gentleman who had left it at her door. 
 
 She would once more have treated the 
 baronet's communication with contempt — 
 but for the discovery that it contained an 
 offer of employment in London, addressed 
 to herself 
 
 Sir Jervis had necessarily been obliged 
 to engage another secretary in Emily's 
 absence. But he was still in want of a 
 person to serve his literary interest^ in 
 London. lie liad reason to believe that
 
 SIB JERVIS REDWOOD. 
 
 discoveries made by modern travellers in 
 Central America had been reported from 
 time to time by the English press ; and he 
 wished copies to be taken of any notices 
 of tills sort which might be found, on re^ 
 ferring to the files of newspapers kept in 
 the reading-room of the British Museum. 
 If Emily considered herself capable of con- 
 tributing in this way to the completeness 
 of his great work on " the ruined cities," 
 slie liad only to apply to his bookseller 
 in London, who would pay her the cus- 
 tomary remuneration, and give her every 
 assistance of which she might stand in need. 
 The bookseller's name and address followed 
 (with nothino' legible but the two words, 
 " Bond Street,") ; and there was an end of 
 Sir Jervis's proposal. 
 
 Emily laid it aside, deferring her answer 
 until she had read Cecilia's letter. 
 
 18—2
 
 26o ''I SAY NO. 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 Tlir: KEVEKEND MILES MIRABEL. 
 
 " I AU making a little excursion from the 
 Engadine, my dearest of all dear friends. 
 Two charming felloAV- travellers take care 
 of me ; and we may perhaps get as fiir 
 as the Lake of Como. 
 
 " My sister (already much improved in 
 lieahh) remains at St. Moritz with the old 
 g-)verncss. The moment I know what exact 
 course we are going to take, I shall write 
 to Julia to forward any letters which 
 arrive in my absence. My life, in this 
 earthly paradise, will be only complete 
 \^hen I hear from my darling Emily. 
 
 " In the meantime, we are staying for the
 
 THK BEVEREXD MILES MIRABEL. 261 
 
 niglit at some interesting place, the nan;e 
 of whicli I have unacconntably forgotten ; 
 and here I am in my room, ^vriting to 3'cu 
 at last — dying to know if Sir Jervis has 
 yet thrown himself at your feet, and offered 
 to make you Lady Eedwood with magnifi- 
 cent settlements. 
 
 " But you are waiting to hear who m}' 
 new friends are. My dear, one of them is, 
 next to yourself, the most delio-litful creature 
 in existence. Society knows her as Lady 
 Janeaway. I loye her already, by her 
 Christian name ; she is my friend Dorij. 
 And she reciprocates my sentiments. 
 
 " You will now understand that union of 
 sympathies made us acquainted with each 
 other. 
 
 " If there is anything in me to be proud 
 of, I think it must be my admirable 
 appetite. And, if I have a passion, the 
 name of it is Pastry. Here again, Lady
 
 262 "/ SAY XO." 
 
 Doris reciprocates ni}^ sentiments. We sit 
 next to each otlier at tlie table cVJiote. 
 
 " Good lieavens, I liave forgotten lier 
 luisband ! They liave been married ratlier 
 more than a montli. Did I tell you tliat 
 slie is just two years older than I am? 
 
 " I declare I am forirettino- liim ac^ain ! 
 He is Lord Janeaway. Such a quiet modest 
 man, and so easily amused. lie carries 
 with him everywhere a dirty little tin 
 case, witli air holes in tlie cover. He goes 
 softly poking about among bushes and 
 brambles, and under rocks, and behind old 
 wooden houses. When he has caua'ht some 
 hideous insect that makes one shudder, he 
 blushes with pleasure, and looks at liis wiie 
 and me, and says, with the prettiest hsp: 
 'This is what I call enjoying the da}'.' To 
 see the manner in wliicli he obeys Her is, 
 between ourselves, to feel proud of being a 
 woman.
 
 THE EEVEEEXD MILES MIRABEL. 263 
 
 "Where was I? Oh! at tiie table cVhote. 
 
 " Xever, Emily — I say it with a solemn 
 sense of the claims of truth — never have I 
 eaten such an infamous abominable madden- 
 ingly bad dinner, as the dinner they gave 
 us on our first day at the hotel. I ask 
 you if I am not patient ; I appeal to j^our 
 own recollection of occasions when I have 
 exhibited extraordinary self-control. My 
 dear, I held out until they brought the 
 pastry round. I took one bite, and committed 
 the most shockino- offence a stains t sfood 
 manners at table that you can imai?ine. My 
 handkerchief, my poor innocent handkerchief, 
 received the horrid — please suppose the rest. 
 My hair stands on end, when I think of it. 
 Our neighbours at the table saw me. The 
 coarse men laughed. The sweet young bride 
 snicerely feeling for me, said, ' Will you 
 allow me to shake hands ? I did exactly 
 what you have done the day before
 
 264 "I SAY NO." 
 
 yesterday.' Sucli was the beginning of my 
 friendship with Lady Doris Janeaway. 
 
 "We are two resolute women — I mean 
 that she is resolute, and that I follow her — 
 and we have asserted our right of dining 
 to our own satisfaction, by means of an 
 interview with the chief cook. 
 
 " This interesting person is an ex-Zouave 
 in the French army. Instead of making 
 excuses, he confessed that the barbarous 
 tastes of the English and American visitors 
 had so discouraged him, tliat he had lost 
 all pride and pleasure in the exercise of 
 his art. As an example of what he meant, 
 he mentioned his experience of two young 
 Englishmen who could speak no foreign 
 language. The waiters reported tliat they 
 objected to their breakfasts, and especially to 
 the eggs. Thereupon (to translate the French- 
 man's own way of putting it) he exhausted 
 himself in exquisite preparations of eggs.
 
 THE REVEREND MILES MIRABEL. 265 
 
 Eggs a la trij)e, au gratin, a VAurore^ a la 
 Dauphine, a la Poulette, a la Tartar e, a la 
 Venitienne, a la Bordelaise, and so on, and 
 so on. Still, tlie two young gentlemen were 
 not satisfied. The ex-Zouave, infuriated, 
 wounded in his honour, disgraced as a 
 professor, insisted on an explanation. What, 
 in heaven's name, did they want for break- 
 fast ? They wanted boiled eggs ; and a 
 fish which they called a Bloaterre. It was 
 impossible, he said, to express his contempt 
 for the English idea of a breakfast, in the 
 presence of ladies. You know how a cat 
 expresses herself in the presence of a dog — 
 and you will understand the allusion. Oh, 
 Emily, what dinners we have had, in our 
 own room, since we spoke to that noble 
 cook ! 
 
 " Have I any more news to send to you ? 
 Are you interested, my dear, in eloquent 
 young clergymen ?
 
 266 "/ SAY NO." 
 
 " On our first ap])earance at the pn])lic 
 table "we noticed a reniarkahle air of 
 depression anion^ tlie ladies. Had some 
 adventurous gcntU.'nian tried to climb a 
 mountain, and failed? Had disastrous 
 political news arrived from England ; a 
 defeat of the Conservatives, for instance ? 
 Had a revolution in the fashions broken out 
 in Paris, and had all our best dresses become 
 of no earthly value to us ? I applied for 
 information to the only lady present who 
 shone on the company with a cheerful face 
 — my friend Doris, of course. 
 
 '"What day was yesterday ?' she asked. 
 
 " 'Sunday,' I answered. 
 
 " ' Of all melancholy Sundays,' slie con- 
 tinued, ' the most melancholy in the calendar. 
 Mr. Miles Mirabel p readied his farewell 
 sermon, in our temporary cha])el U[)stairs.' 
 
 "'And you have not recovered it yet?' 
 
 '"We are all heart-l)roken, Miss Wyvil.'
 
 THE REVEREND MILES MIRABEL. 267 
 
 " Tliis naturally interested me. I asked 
 what sort of sermons Mr. Mirabel preached. 
 Lady Janeaway said : ' Come up to our 
 room after dinner. The subject is too dis- 
 tressing to be discussed in public' 
 
 " She began by making me personally 
 acquainted with the reverend gentleman — 
 that is to say, she showed me the photo- 
 graphic portraits of him. They were tv\'o 
 in number. One only presented his face. 
 Tlie other exhibited him at full leno-th, 
 adorned in his surplice. Every lady in the 
 congregation had received the two photo- 
 graphs as a farewell present. ' My por- 
 traits,' Lady Doris remarked, ' are the onlv 
 complete specimens. The others have been 
 irretrievably ruined by tears.' 
 
 " You will now expect a personal descrij) 
 tion of this fascinating man. WJiat tlie 
 ])hotographs failed to tell me, my friend was 
 so kind as to complete from the resources
 
 268 '' I SAY NOr 
 
 of her o\\\\ experience. Here is tlie result 
 preseiileLl to tlie best of my ability. 
 
 "He is young — not yet tliirty years of age. 
 His r(^in])lexiou is fair ; his features arc 
 delicate ; his eyes are clear blue. He has 
 pretty hand^, and rings prettier still. And 
 such a voice, and such manners ! You will 
 say there are plenty of pet parsons who 
 answer to this description. Wait a little 
 — I have kept his chief distinction tiU 
 the last. His beautiful liglit hair llows 
 in profusion over his shoulders; and his 
 glossy beard waves, at apostolic length, 
 down to the lower buttons of his waist- 
 coat. 
 
 "What do you think of the Eeverend 
 Miles Mirabel now? 
 
 " The life and adventures of our charming 
 young clergyman, bear eloquent testimony to 
 tlie saintly patience of his disposition, under 
 trials which would have overwhelmed an
 
 THE REVEREND MILES MIRABEL. 269 
 
 ordinary man. (Lady Doris, please notice, 
 quotes in this place the language of his 
 admirers ; and I report Lady Doris.) 
 
 " He has been clerk in a lawyer's office — 
 unjustly dismissed. He has given readings 
 from Shakespeare — infamously neglected. 
 He has been secretary to a promenade 
 concert company — deceived by a penniless 
 manager. He has been employed in negotia- 
 tions for making foreign railways — repudiated 
 by an unprincipled Government. He has 
 been translator to a publishing house — de- 
 clared incapable by envious newspapers and 
 reviews. He has taken refuge in dramatic 
 criticism — dismissed by a corrupt editor. 
 Through all these means of purification for 
 the priestly career, lie passed at last into the 
 one sphere that was worthy of him: he 
 entered the Church, under the protection 
 of influential friends. Oh, happy change ! 
 From that moment his labours have been
 
 270 " / SA r .va 
 
 blest. Twice already, he lias been presented 
 with silver tea-pots filled with sovereigns. 
 Go where he may, precious sympathies 
 environ him ; and domestic affection 
 places his knife and fork at innumerable 
 family tables. After a continental career, 
 wliicli will leave undying recollections, lie 
 is now recalled to England — at the sug- 
 gestion of a person of distinction in the 
 Church, who prefers a mild climate. It will 
 now be his valued privilege to represent an 
 absent rector in a country living ; remote 
 from cities, secluded in pastoral solitude, 
 among simple breeders of sheep. May the 
 shepherd prove worthy of the flock! 
 
 " Here again, my dear, I must give the 
 merit where the merit is due. This Memoir of 
 Mr. Mirabel is not of my writing. It formed 
 part of his firewell sermon, preserved in the 
 memory of Lady Doris — and it shows (once 
 more in the lanoua^e of his admirers) tliat the
 
 THE R EVER EX D MILES M IE A BEL. 271 
 
 truest liumility may be found in the cliarac- 
 ter of the most gifted man. 
 
 " Let me only add, that you will have 
 opportunities of seeing and hearing this 
 popular preacher, when circumstances per- 
 mit him to address congregations in the 
 large towns. I am at the end of my news ; 
 and I Le!2in to feel — after this loncf lono- 
 letter— that it is time to go to bed. Xeed I 
 say that I have often spoken of you to Doris, 
 and that she entreats you to be her 
 friend as well as mine, when we meet again 
 in Eno'land ? 
 
 o 
 
 " Good-bye, darling, for the present. 
 With fondest love, 
 
 '^Your Cecilia." 
 
 " P.S. — I have formed a new habit. In 
 case of feeling liungry in the night, I keep 
 a box of chocolate under the pillow. You 
 have no idea what a comfort it is. If I 
 ever meet with the man who fulfds mv
 
 272 ''I SAY NO." 
 
 ideal, I sliall make it a coiulition of the 
 marriage settlement, tliat I am to have 
 chocolate under the pillow."
 
 POLLY AND SALLY. zjz 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 POLLY AND SALLY. 
 
 Without a care to trouble her ; abroad or 
 at liome, finding inexhaustible varieties of 
 amusement ; seeing new places, making new 
 acquaintances — what a disheartening contrast 
 did Cecilia's happy life present to the life 
 of her friend ! Who, in Emily's position, 
 could have read that joyously-written letter 
 from Switzerland, and not have lost heart 
 and faith, for the moment at least, as the 
 inevitable result ? 
 
 A buoyant temperament is of all moral 
 qualities the most precious, in this respect ; 
 it is the one force in us — when virtuous 
 resolution proves insufficient — which resists 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 274 "ISAYKOr 
 
 by iiisliiict tlie stealthy approaches of des- 
 pair. " I shall only cry," Emily thought, 
 " if I stay at home ; better go out." 
 
 Observant persons, accustomed to fi^equcnt 
 the Loudon Parks, can hardly have failed 
 to notice the number of solitary strangers 
 sadly endeavouring to vary their lives by 
 taking a walk. They linger about the 
 flower-beds ; they sit for hours on the 
 l^enclies ; they look with patient curiosity 
 at other people who have companions ; they 
 notice ladies on horseback and children at 
 play, with submissive interest; some of the 
 men fmd company in a })ipe, without appear- 
 ing to enjoy it ; some of the women find 
 a substitute for dinner, in little dry biscuits 
 wrapped in crumpled scraps of })aper ; 
 they are not sociable ; they are hardly 
 ever seen to make a('(piaintance with each 
 other; perhaps they are shame-faced, or proud, 
 or sullen ; perhaps they despair of others,
 
 FOLLY AND SALLY. 275 
 
 being accustomed to despair of themselves ; 
 perhaps they liave their reasons for never 
 venturing to encounter curiosity, or their 
 vices wliicli dread detection, or their virtues 
 which suffer hardship with the resignation 
 that is sufficient for itself. The one thing 
 certain is, that these unfortunate people 
 resist discovery. We know that they are 
 stranijers in London — and we know no 
 more. 
 
 And Emily was one of them. 
 
 Among the other forlorn wanderers in 
 the Parks, there appeared latterly a trim 
 little figure in black (with the face pro- 
 tected from notice behind a crape veil), 
 which was beginning to be familiar, day 
 after da}^ to nursemaids and children, and 
 to rouse curiosity among harmless solitaries 
 meditatinii^ on benches, and idle vao\abonds 
 strolling over the grass. The woman-servant, 
 
 whom the considerate doctor had provided, 
 
 3 9—2
 
 275 '' I SAY NO." 
 
 Avas tlie one person in Emily's absence left to 
 take care of the lionse. Tlicrc was no other 
 creatnre who conld be a companion to the 
 fiiendless girl. Mrs. Ellmother had never 
 shown herself again since tlie funeral. 
 Mrs. Mosey conld not forget that she had 
 been (no matter how politely) requested to 
 withdraw. To whom could Emily say, 
 '•Let ns go ont for a walk?" She had 
 communicated the news of lier aunt's death 
 to Miss Ladd, at Brighton ; and had heard 
 from Francine. The worthy schoolmistress 
 had written to her with the truest kindness. 
 " Choose yonr own time, my poor child, and 
 come and stay with me at Brigliton ; the 
 sooner the better." Emily shrank — not 
 from accepting the invitation — bnt from 
 encountering^ Francine. The hard West 
 Indian heiress looked harder tlian ever 
 with a pen in her hand. Tier letter an- 
 nounced tliat she was "getting on wretchedl}^
 
 TOLLY A^D SALLY. 277 
 
 with ]ier studies (which she hated) ; she 
 found the masters appointed to instruct her 
 ugly and disagreeable (and loathed the 
 sight of them) ; she had taken a dislike to 
 Miss Ladd (and time only confirmed that 
 unfavourable impression) ; Brighton was 
 always the same ; the sea was always the 
 same ; the drives were always the same. 
 Francine felt a presentiment that she should 
 do something desperate, unless Emily joined 
 her, and made Brighton endurable behind 
 the horrid schoolmistress's back." Solitude 
 in London was a privilege and a pleasure, 
 viewed as the alternative to such companion- 
 ship as this. Emily wrote gratefully to Miss 
 Ladd, and asked to be excused. 
 
 Other days had passed drearily since 
 that time ; but the one day that had brought 
 with it Cecilia's letter set past happine^'s 
 and present sorrow together so vividly 
 and so cruelly that Emily's courage sank.
 
 278 ''I SAY NO" 
 
 She liad forced back tlie tears, in her lonely 
 liomc ; she had ^L^^one out to seek consola- 
 tion and encouragement under the sunny 
 sky — to fnid comfort for her sore heart 
 in the radiant summer beauty of flowers 
 and grass, in the sweet breathing of tlie air, 
 in the happy heavenward soaring of the 
 birds. No ! Mother Nature is step mother 
 to the sick at heart. Soon, too soon, she 
 could hardly see where she went. Again 
 and again slie resolutely cleared her eyes, 
 under the shelter of her veil, wlien passing 
 strangers noticed her ; and again and again 
 the tears found their way back. Oh, if 
 the girls at the school were to see her now — 
 the girls who used to say in their moments 
 of sadness, "Let us go to Emily and be 
 cheered " — would they know her again ? 
 She sat down to rest and recover herself 
 on the nearest bench. It was unoccupied. 
 No passing footsteps were audible on the
 
 FOLLY ASD SALLY. 279 
 
 remote path to which she had strayed. 
 Sohtude at home ! Solitude in the Park ! 
 Where was Cecilia at tliat moment ? In 
 Italy, among the lakes and mountains, 
 ha;:py in the company of her hght-hearted 
 friend. 
 
 The lonely interval passed, and persons 
 came near. Two sisters, girls like herself, 
 stopped to rest on the bench. 
 
 They were full of their own interests ; 
 they hardly looked at the stranger in 
 mourning garments. The younger sister 
 was to be married, and the elder was to 
 be bridesmaid. They talked of their dresses 
 and their presents ; they compared the 
 dashing bridegroom of one with the timid 
 lover of the other ; they laughed over their 
 own small sallies of wit, over their joyous 
 dreams of the future, over their opinions 
 of the guests invited to the wedding. Too 
 joyfully restless to remain inactive any longer,
 
 28o " I SAv ^^o:' 
 
 tlicy jumped up again from the .seat. One 
 of them said, " Polly, I'm too happy ! " and 
 danced as she walked away. Tlie other 
 cried, "Sally, for shame!" and laughed, as 
 if she had hit on tlie most irresistible joke 
 that ever was made. 
 
 Emily rose, and went home. 
 
 By some mysterious influence which slic 
 
 was unable to trace, the boisterous merriment 
 
 of the two girlsiihad roused in her a sense of 
 
 *•• 
 revolt ao'ainst the life that she was leadini'-. 
 
 Change, speedy change, to some occupation 
 
 that would force her to exert herself, 
 
 presented the one promise of brighter days 
 
 that she could see. To feel this was to be 
 
 inevitably reminded of Sir Jervis Eedwood. 
 
 Here was a man, who had never even seen 
 
 her, transformed by the incomprehensible 
 
 operation of Chance into the friend of wliom 
 
 she stood in need — the friend who pointed 
 
 tlie way to a new world of action, the
 
 POLLY Ay If SALLY. 2S1 
 
 busy world of readers in tlie library of 
 the Museum. 
 
 Early in the new week, Emily had ac- 
 cepted Sir Jervis's proposal, and had so 
 interested the bookseller to whom she had 
 been directed to apply, that he took it on 
 himself to modify the arbitrary instructions 
 of his employer. 
 
 " The old gentleman has no mercy on 
 himself, and no mercy on others," he ex- 
 plained, " where his literary labours are 
 concerned. You must spare yourself, Miss 
 Emily. It is not only absurd, it's cruel, 
 to expect you to ransack old newspapers 
 for discoveries in Yucatan, from the time 
 when Stephens published his Travels in 
 Central America — nearly forty years since ! 
 Begin with back numbers, published within 
 a few years — say five years from the present 
 date— and let us see what your search over 
 that interval will brino- forth."
 
 282 '•/ SAV Nor 
 
 Accepting this friendly advice, Emily 
 l)e^^'an witli the newspaper-volume dating 
 from New Year's Day, 187G. 
 
 'J'lie hrst hour of her search strengthened 
 the sincere sense of gratitude witli wliicli 
 .she I'emembered the bookseller's kindness. 
 To keep her attention steadily fixed on the 
 one subject that interested her employer, 
 and to resist the temptation to read those 
 miscellaneous items of news which especially 
 interest women, put her patience and reso- 
 lution to a merciless test. Happily for her- 
 self, her neighbours on either side were no 
 idlers. To see them so absorbed over tlieir 
 work that they never once looked at her, 
 after the first moment when she took her 
 place between them, was to find exactly the 
 example of which she stood most in need. 
 As the hours wore on, she pursued her 
 weary way, down one column and up an- 
 other, resigned at least (if not rpiite recon-
 
 POLLY AND SALLY. 283 
 
 ciled yet) to her task. Her labours ended, 
 for the day, with such encouragement as she 
 might derive from the conviction of having, 
 tlius far, honestly pursued an useless search. 
 
 News was waiting for her when she reached 
 home, which raised her sinking spirits. 
 
 On leavinof the cottage that mornirii:^ she 
 had given certain instructions, relating to 
 the modest stranf^er who had taken chari^e 
 of her correspondence — in case of his pay- 
 ini? a second visit, durinc^ her absence at 
 the Museum. The first words spoken by the 
 servant, on opening the door, informed her 
 that the unknown gentleman had called 
 again. This time, he had boldly left his 
 card. There was the welcome name that 
 she had expected to see — Alban Morris.
 
 284 ''I SAY so:' 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ALBAN MORRIS. 
 
 Having looked at the card, Emily put lier 
 first question to tlie servant. 
 
 "Did you tell Mr. Morris ^vllat your 
 orders were ? " slie asked. 
 
 " Yes, Miss ; I said I was to luive shown 
 him in, if you had been at home. Perhaps 
 I did wrong ; I told him what you told me 
 wdien you went out this morning — I said 
 you liad gone to read at the Museum." 
 " What makes you think you did wrong ? " 
 " Well, Miss, he didn't say anything, but he 
 looked upset." 
 
 " Do you mean that he looked angry ? " 
 The servant shook lier head. " Not ex- 
 actly angry — puzzled and put out."
 
 ALB AN MO BR IS. 285- 
 
 " Did he leave any message ? " 
 " He said he would call later, if you would 
 be so good as to receive him." 
 
 In half an hour more, Alban and Emily 
 were together again. The light fell full on 
 her face as she rose to receive him. 
 "Oh, how you have suffered!" 
 The words escaped him before he could 
 restrain himself. He looked at her with the 
 tender sympathy, so precious to women, 
 which she had not seen in the face of any 
 human creature since the loss of her aunt. 
 Even the good doctor's efforts to console 
 lier had been efforts of professional routine 
 — the inevitable result of his life-long fami- 
 liarity with sorrow and death. While 
 Alban's eyes rested on her, Emily felt her 
 tears rising. In the fear that he might 
 misinterpret her reception of him, she made 
 an effort to speak with some appearance of 
 composure.
 
 286 '^ I SAY NOr 
 
 " I lead a lonely life," she said ; " and I 
 can well understand that my fiice shows it. 
 You are one of my very few friends, Mr. 
 Morris" — the tears rose again; it discouraged 
 her to see him standing irresolute, witli his 
 hat in his hand, fearful of intruding on her. 
 "Indeed, indeed, you are welcome," she said, 
 very earnestly. 
 
 In those sad days her heart was easily 
 touched. She gave him her hand for the 
 second time. lie held it gently for a 
 moment. Every day since they had parted 
 she had heen in his thouc^hts ; slie had 
 become dearer to him than ever. He was 
 too deeply afTected to trust himself to answer. 
 Tliat silence pleaded for him as nothing had 
 pleaded for him yet. In her secret self she 
 remembered with wonder how she had 
 received his confession in the school garden. 
 It was a little hard on him, surely, to have 
 forbidden him even to hope.
 
 ALBAN MOBRIS. 287 
 
 Conscious of her own weakness- -even 
 while giving way to it — she felt the necessity 
 of turnino' his attention from herself. In 
 some confusion, she pointed to a chair at her 
 side, and spoke of his first visit, when he had 
 left lier letters at the door. Havinc^ confided 
 to him all that she had discovered, and all 
 that she had guessed, on that occasion, it was 
 by an easy transition that she alluded next 
 to the motive for his journey to the North. 
 
 "I thought it might be suspicion of Mrs. 
 liook," she said. " Was I mistaken ? " 
 
 "No; you were right." 
 
 "They were serious suspicions, I suppose? " 
 
 " Certainly ! I sliould not otherwise have 
 devoted my holidav-time to clearimr them 
 up." 
 
 " May I know what they were ? " 
 
 " I am sorr}^ to disappoint you," he began. 
 
 " But 3^ou would rather not answer my 
 question," she interposed.
 
 2SS ''TSAYKO." 
 
 " I would rather hear you tell me if you 
 have made any other guess." 
 
 " One more, Mr. Morris. I guessed that 
 you had become acquainted with Sir Jervis 
 Eedwood." 
 
 " For the second time, Miss Emily, you 
 have arrived at a sound conclusion. My one 
 hoi)e of finding opportunities for observing 
 Sir Jcr vis's housekeeper depended on my 
 chance of gaining admission to Sir Jervis's 
 house." 
 
 " IIow did you succeed ? Perhaps you 
 provided yourself with a letter of intro- 
 duction ? " 
 
 "I knew nobody wlio could introduce 
 me," Alban replied. " As the event proved, 
 a letter would have been needless. Sir 
 Jervis introduced himself — and, more won- 
 derful still, he invited me to his house at 
 our first interview." 
 
 "Sir Jervis introduced liimself?" Emily
 
 ALB AN MOREIS. 289 
 
 repeated, in amazement. " From Cecilia's 
 description of him, I should have thought 
 he was the last person in the world to do 
 that ! " 
 
 Alban smiled. " And you would like to 
 knoAv how it happened?" he suggested. 
 
 " The very favour I was going to ask of 
 you," she replied. 
 
 Instead of at once complying with her 
 wishes, he paused — hesitated — and made a 
 strange request. " Will you forgive my 
 rudeness, if I ask leave to walk up and 
 down the room while I talk? I am a rest- 
 less man. Walking up and down helps me 
 to express myself freely." 
 
 Her face brightened for the first time. 
 " How like You that is ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 Alban looked at her with surprise and 
 delight. She had betrayed an interest in 
 studying his character, which he appre- 
 ciated at its full value. " I should never 
 VOL. I. 20
 
 290 '' I SAY NO." 
 
 have dared to hope," he said, "that you 
 knew me so well already." 
 
 "You are forgetting your story," she 
 reminded him. 
 
 He moved to the opposite side of the 
 room, where there were fewest impediments 
 in the shape of furniture. "With his head 
 down, and his hands crossed behind him 
 he paced to and fro. Habit made him 
 express himself in his usual quaint way 
 — but he became embarrassed as he went 
 on. Was he disturbed by his recollections ? 
 or by the fear of taking Emily into his 
 confidence too freely ? 
 
 '* Different people have different ways of 
 telling a story," he said. " Mine is the 
 methodical way — I begin at the beginning. 
 We will start, if you please, in the railway — 
 we will proceed in a one-horse chaise — and 
 we will stop at a village, situated in a 
 hole. It was the nearest place to Sir
 
 ALB AN MORE IS. 291 
 
 Jervis's house, and it was tlierefore my 
 destination. I picked out the biggest of 
 the cottages — I mean the huts — and asked 
 the woman at the door if she had a bed 
 to let. She evidently thought me either 
 mad or drunk. I wasted no time in persua- 
 sion ; the right person to plead my cause 
 was asleep in her arms. I began by admir- 
 ing the baby ; and I ended by taking the 
 baby's portrait. From that moment I 
 became a member of the family — the 
 member who had his own way. Besides 
 the room occupied by the husband and 
 wife, there was a sort of kennel in which 
 the husband's brother slept. He was dis- 
 missed (with five shillings of mine to 
 comfort him) to find shelter somewhere 
 else ; and I was promoted to the vacant 
 place. It is my misfortune to be tall. 
 When I went to bed, I slept with my head 
 
 on the pillow, and my feet out of the 
 
 20—2
 
 292 '' I SAY NO." 
 
 window. Very cool and pleasant in summer 
 weather. The next morning, I set my trap 
 for Sir Jervis." 
 
 " Your trap ? " Emily repeated, wonder- 
 ing what he meant. 
 
 " I went out to sketch from Nature," 
 Alban continued. " Can anybody (with or 
 without a title — I don't care), living in a 
 lonely country house, see a stranger hard 
 at work with a colour box and brushes, 
 and not stop to look at what he is doing ? 
 Three days passed, and nothing happened. 
 I was quite patient ; the grand open country 
 all round me offered lessons of inestimable 
 value in what we call aerial perspective. 
 On the fourth day, I was absorbed over 
 the hardest of all hard tasks in landscape 
 art, studying the clouds straight from 
 Nature. The magnificent moorland silence 
 was suddenly profaned by a man's voice, 
 speaking (or rather croaking) behind me.
 
 ALBAN MORRIS. 293 
 
 ' The worst curse of human life,' the voice 
 said, ' is the detestable necessity of taking 
 exercise. I hate losing my time ; I hate 
 fine scenery ; I hate fresh air ; 1 hate a 
 pony. Go on, you brute ! ' Being too deeply 
 engaged with the clouds to look round, I 
 had supposed this pretty speech to be 
 addressed to some second person. Nothing 
 of the sort ; the croaking voice had a 
 habit of speaking to itself. In a minute 
 more, there came within my range of view a 
 solitary old man, mounted on a rough pony." 
 
 "Was it Sir Jervis ? " 
 
 Alban hesitated. 
 
 " It looked more like t\\e popular notion 
 of the devil," he said. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Morris!" 
 
 "I give you my first impression. Miss 
 Emily, for what it is worth. He had his 
 high-peaked hat in his hand, to keep his 
 head cool. His wiry iron-grey hair looked
 
 294 "/ SAY NO." 
 
 like hair standing on end ; his bushy eye- 
 brows curled upwards towards his narrow 
 temples ; his horrid old globular eyes stared 
 with a wicked brightness ; his pointed beard 
 hid his chin ; he was covered from his 
 throat to his ankles in a loose black 
 garment, something between a coat and a 
 cloak ; and, to complete him, he had a 
 club foot. I don't doubt that Sir Jervis 
 Eedwood is the earthly alias which he finds 
 convenient — but I stick to that first impres- 
 sion which appeared to surprise you. ' Ha ! 
 an artist ; you seem to be the sort of man 
 I want ! ' In those terms he introduced him- 
 self. Observe, if you please, that my trap 
 caught him the moment he came my way. 
 Who wouldn't be an artist ? " 
 
 " Did he take a liking to you ? " Emily 
 inquired. 
 
 " Not he ! I don't believe he ever took 
 a liking to anybody in his life."
 
 ALBAN MORRIS. 295 
 
 " Then how did yon get yonr invitation 
 to his honse ? " 
 
 " That's the amnsing part of it, Miss 
 Emily. Give me a little breathing time, 
 and you shall hear." 
 
 END OF VOL. I,
 
 iMarch, 1884. 
 
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 Polly. 
 
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 Antonlna. 
 
 Miss or Mrs.? 
 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 Basil. 
 
 The New Magda- 
 
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 Hide and Seek. 
 
 len. 
 
 Robin Gray. Queen of the Mea~ 
 
 The Dead Secret. 
 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 
 dow. 
 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 
 Law and the Lady. 
 
 What will the 
 
 In Pastures Green 
 
 My Miscellanies. 
 
 TheTwo Destinies 
 
 World Say? 
 
 The Flower of the 
 
 Woman In White. 
 
 Haunted Hotel. 
 
 In Honour Bound. 
 
 Forest. 
 
 The Moonstone. 
 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 
 The Dead Heart. 
 
 A Heart's Problen* 
 
 Man and Wife. 
 
 Jezebel'sDaughter 
 
 In Love and War. 
 
 The Braes o" Yai*- 
 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 
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 James Duke 
 
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 Patricia Kemball. 
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 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
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 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 
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 Linley Rochford. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
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 HumorousStories 
 
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 Valentina. 
 
 BY CHARLES READE. 
 It Is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 Hard Cash. 
 Peg Wofflngton. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 Put Yourself In His Place. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 Foul Play. 
 
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 The Course of True Love. 
 Autobiography of a Thief. 
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 The Wandering Heir. 
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 Two Dreamers. 
 
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