CHAPTER LII. “IF I COULD FIND A FRIEND!”
Shortly after Miss Ladd had taken her departure, a parcel arrived for Emily, bearing the name of a bookseller printed on the label. It was large, and it was heavy. “Reading enough, I should think, to last for a lifetime,” Mrs. Ellmother remarked, after carrying the parcel upstairs.
Emily called her back as she was leaving the room. “I want to caution you,” she said, “before Miss Wyvil comes. Don’t tell her—don’t tell anybody—how my father met his death. If other persons are taken into our confidence, they will talk of it. We don’t know how near to us the murderer may be. The slightest hint may put him on his guard.”
“Oh, miss, are you still thinking of that!”
“I think of nothing else.”
“Bad for your mind, Miss Emily—and bad for your body, as your looks show. I wish you would take counsel with some discreet person, before you move in this matter by yourself.”
Emily sighed wearily. “In my situation, where is the person whom I can trust?”
“You can trust the good doctor.”
“Can I? Perhaps I was wrong when I told you I wouldn’t see him. He might be of some use to me.”
Mrs. Ellmother made the most of this concession, in the fear that Emily might change her mind. “Doctor Allday may call on you tomorrow,” she said.
“Do you mean that you have sent for him?”
“Don’t be angry! I did it for the best—and Mr. Mirabel agreed with me.”
“Mr. Mirabel! What have you told Mr. Mirabel?”
“Nothing, except that you are ill. When he heard that, he proposed to go for the doctor. He will be here again to-morrow, to ask for news of your health. Will you see him?”
“I don’t know yet—I have other things to think of. Bring Miss Wyvil up here when she comes.”
“Am I to get the spare room ready for her?”
“No. She is staying with her father at the London house.”
Emily made that reply almost with an air of relief. When Cecilia arrived, it was only by an effort that she could show grateful appreciation of the sympathy of her dearest friend. When the visit came to an end, she felt an ungrateful sense of freedom: the restraint was off her mind; she could think again of the one terrible subject that had any interest for her now. Over love, over friendship, over the natural enjoyment of her young life, predominated the blighting resolution which bound her to avenge her father’s death. Her dearest remembrances of him—tender remembrances once—now burned in her (to use her own words) like fire. It was no ordinary love that had bound parent and child together in the bygone time. Emily had grown from infancy to girlhood, owing all the brightness of her life—a life without a mother, without brothers, without sisters—to her father alone. To submit to lose this beloved, this only companion, by the cruel stroke of disease was of all trials of resignation the hardest to bear. But to be severed from him by the murderous hand of a man, was more than Emily’s fervent nature could passively endure. Before the garden gate had closed on her friend she had returned to her one thought, she was breathing again her one aspiration. The books that she had ordered, with her own purpose in view—books that might supply her want of experience, and might reveal the perils which beset the course that lay before her—were unpacked and spread out on the table. Hour after hour, when the old servant believed that her mistress was in bed, she was absorbed over biographies in English and French, which related the stratagems by means of which famous policemen had captured the worst criminals of their time. From these, she turned to works of fiction, which found their chief topic of interest in dwelling on the discovery of hidden crime. The night passed, and dawn glimmered through the window—and still she opened book after book with sinking courage—and still she gained nothing but the disheartening conviction of her inability to carry out her own plans. Almost every page that she turned over revealed the immovable obstacles set in her way by her sex and her age. Could she mix with the people, or visit the scenes, familiar to the experience of men (in fact and in fiction), who had traced the homicide to his hiding-place, and had marked him among his harmless fellow-creatures with the brand of Cain? No! A young girl following, or attempting to follow, that career, must reckon with insult and outrage—paying their abominable tribute to her youth and her beauty, at every turn. What proportion would the men who might respect her bear to the men who might make her the object of advances, which it was hardly possible to imagine without shuddering. She crept exhausted to her bed, the most helpless, hopeless creature on the wide surface of the earth—a girl self-devoted to the task of a man.
Careful to perform his promise to Mirabel, without delay, the doctor called on Emily early in the morning—before the hour at which he usually entered his consulting-room.
“Well? What’s the matter with the pretty young mistress?” he asked, in his most abrupt manner, when Mrs. Ellmother opened the door. “Is it love? or jealousy? or a new dress with a wrinkle in it?”
“You will hear about it, sir, from Miss Emily herself. I am forbidden to say anything.”
“But you mean to say something—for all that?”
“Don’t joke, Doctor Allday! The state of things here is a great deal too serious for joking. Make up your mind to be surprised—I say no more.”
Before the doctor could ask what this meant, Emily opened the parlor door. “Come in!” she said, impatiently.
Doctor Allday’s first greeting was strictly professional. “My dear child, I never expected this,” he began. “You are looking wretchedly ill.” He attempted to feel her pulse. She drew her hand away from him.
“It’s my mind that’s ill,” she answered. “Feeling my pulse won’t cure me of anxiety and distress. I want advice; I want help. Dear old doctor, you have always been a good friend to me—be a better friend than ever now.”
“What can I do?”
“Promise you will keep secret what I am going to say to you—and listen, pray listen patiently, till I have done.”
Doctor Allday promised, and listened. He had been, in some degree at least, prepared for a surprise—but the disclosure which now burst on him was more than his equanimity could sustain. He looked at Emily in silent dismay. She had surprised and shocked him, not only by what she said, but by what she unconsciously suggested. Was it possible that Mirabel’s personal appearance had produced on her the same impression which was present in his own mind? His first impulse, when he was composed enough to speak, urged him to put the question cautiously.
“If you happened to meet with the suspected man,” he said, “have you any means of identifying him?”
“None whatever, doctor. If you would only think it over—”
He stopped her there; convinced of the danger of encouraging her, and resolved to act on his conviction.
“I have enough to occupy me in my profession,” he said. “Ask your other friend to think it over.”
“What other friend?”
“Mr. Alban Morris.”
The moment he pronounced the name, he saw that he had touched on some painful association. “Has Mr. Morris refused to help you?” he inquired.
“I have not asked him to help me.”
“Why?”
There was no choice (with such a man as Doctor Allday) between offending him or answering him. Emily adopted the last alternative. On this occasion she had no reason to complain of his silence.
“Your view of Mr. Morris’s conduct surprises me,” he replied—“surprises me more than I can say,” he added; remembering that he too was guilty of having kept her in ignorance of the truth, out of regard—mistaken regard, as it now seemed to be—for her peace of mind.
“Be good to me, and pass it over if I am wrong,” Emily said: “I can’t dispute with you; I can only tell you what I feel. You have always been so kind to me—may I count on your kindness still?”
Doctor Allday relapsed into silence.
“May I at least ask,” she went on, “if you know anything of persons—” She paused, discouraged by the cold expression of inquiry in the old man’s eyes as he looked at her.
“What persons?” he said.
“Persons whom I suspect.”
“Name them.”
Emily named the landlady of the inn at Zeeland: she could now place the right interpretation on Mrs. Rook’s conduct, when the locket had been put into her hand at Netherwoods. Doctor Allday answered shortly and stiffly: he had never even seen Mrs. Rook. Emily mentioned Miss Jethro next—and saw at once that she had interested him.
“What do you suspect Miss Jethro of doing?” he asked.
“I suspect her of knowing more of my father’s death than she is willing to acknowledge,” Emily replied.
The doctor’s manner altered for the better. “I agree with you,” he said frankly. “But I have some knowledge of that lady. I warn you not to waste time and trouble in trying to discover the weak side of Miss Jethro.”
“That was not my experience of her at school,” Emily rejoined. “At the same time I don’t know what may have happened since those days. I may perhaps have lost the place I once held in her regard.”
“How?”
“Through my aunt.”
“Through your aunt?”
“I hope and trust I am wrong,” Emily continued; “but I fear my aunt had something to do with Miss Jethro’s dismissal from the school—and in that case Miss Jethro may have found it out.” Her eyes, resting on the doctor, suddenly brightened. “You know something about it!” she exclaimed.
He considered a little—whether he should or should not tell her of the letter addressed by Miss Ladd to Miss Letitia, which he had found at the cottage.
“If I could satisfy you that your fears are well founded,” he asked, “would the discovery keep you away from Miss Jethro?”
“I should be ashamed to speak to her—even if we met.”
“Very well. I can tell you positively, that your aunt was the person who turned Miss Jethro out of the school. When I get home, I will send you a letter that proves it.”
Emily’s head sank on her breast. “Why do I only hear of this now?” she said.
“Because I had no reason for letting you know of it, before to-day. If I have done nothing else, I have at least succeeded in keeping you and Miss Jethro apart.”
Emily looked at him in alarm. He went on without appearing to notice that he had startled her. “I wish to God I could as easily put a stop to the mad project which you are contemplating.”
“The mad project?” Emily repeated. “Oh, Doctor Allday. Do you cruelly leave me to myself, at the time of all others, when I am most in need of your sympathy?”
That appeal moved him. He spoke more gently; he pitied, while he condemned her.
“My poor dear child, I should be cruel indeed, if I encouraged you. You are giving yourself up to an enterprise, so shockingly unsuited to a young girl like you, that I declare I contemplate it with horror. Think, I entreat you, think; and let me hear that you have yielded—not to my poor entreaties—but to your own better sense!” His voice faltered; his eyes moistened. “I shall make a fool of myself,” he burst out furiously, “if I stay here any longer. Good-by.”
He left her.
She walked to the window, and looked out at the fair morning. No one to feel for her—no one to understand her—nothing nearer that could speak to poor mortality of hope and encouragement than the bright heaven, so far away! She turned from the window. “The sun shines on the murderer,” she thought, “as it shines on me.”
She sat down at the table, and tried to quiet her mind; to think steadily to some good purpose. Of the few friends that she possessed, every one had declared that she was in the wrong. Had they lost the one loved being of all beings on earth, and lost him by the hand of a homicide—and that homicide free? All that was faithful, all that was devoted in the girl’s nature, held her to her desperate resolution as with a hand of iron. If she shrank at that miserable moment, it was not from her design—it was from the sense of her own helplessness. “Oh, if I had been a man!” she said to herself. “Oh, if I could find a friend!”
CHAPTER LIII. THE FRIEND IS FOUND.
Mrs. Ellmother looked into the parlor. “I told you Mr. Mirabel would call again,” she announced. “Here he is.”
“Has he asked to see me?”
“He leaves it entirely to you.”
For a moment, and a moment only, Emily was undecided. “Show him in,” she said.
Mirabel’s embarrassment was visible the moment he entered the room. For the first time in his life—in the presence of a woman—the popular preacher was shy. He who had taken hundreds of fair hands with sympathetic pressure—he who had offered fluent consolation, abroad and at home, to beauty in distress—was conscious of a rising color, and was absolutely at a loss for words when Emily received him. And yet, though he appeared at disadvantage—and, worse still, though he was aware of it himself—there was nothing contemptible in his look and manner. His silence and confusion revealed a change in him which inspired respect. Love had developed this spoiled darling of foolish congregations, this effeminate pet of drawing-rooms and boudoirs, into the likeness of a Man—and no woman, in Emily’s position, could have failed to see that it was love which she herself had inspired.
Equally ill at ease, they both took refuge in the commonplace phrases suggested by the occasion. These exhausted there was a pause. Mirabel alluded to Cecilia, as a means of continuing the conversation.
“Have you seen Miss Wyvil?” he inquired.
“She was here last night; and I expect to see her again to-day before she returns to Monksmoor with her father. Do you go back with them?”
“Yes—if you do.”
“I remain in London.”
“Then I remain in London, too.”
The strong feeling that was in him had forced its way to expression at last. In happier days—when she had persistently refused to let him speak to her seriously—she would have been ready with a light-hearted reply. She was silent now. Mirabel pleaded with her not to misunderstand him, by an honest confession of his motives which presented him under a new aspect. The easy plausible man, who had hardly ever seemed to be in earnest before—meant, seriously meant, what he said now.
“May I try to explain myself?” he asked.
“Certainly, if you wish it.”
“Pray, don’t suppose me capable,” Mirabel said earnestly, “of presuming to pay you an idle compliment. I cannot think of you, alone and in trouble, without feeling anxiety which can only be relieved in one way—I must be near enough to hear of you, day by day. Not by repeating this visit! Unless you wish it, I will not again cross the threshold of your door. Mrs. Ellmother will tell me if your mind is more at ease; Mrs. Ellmother will tell me if there is any new trial of your fortitude. She needn’t even mention that I have been speaking to her at the door; and she may be sure, and you may be sure, that I shall ask no inquisitive questions. I can feel for you in your misfortune, without wishing to know what that misfortune is. If I can ever be of the smallest use, think of me as your other servant. Say to Mrs. Ellmother, ‘I want him’—and say no more.”
Where is the woman who could have resisted such devotion as this—inspired, truly inspired, by herself? Emily’s eyes softened as she answered him.
“You little know how your kindness touches me,” she said.
“Don’t speak of my kindness until you have put me to the proof,” he interposed. “Can a friend (such a friend as I am, I mean) be of any use?”
“Of the greatest use if I could feel justified in trying you.”
“I entreat you to try me!”
“But, Mr. Mirabel, you don’t know what I am thinking of.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“I may be wrong. My friends all say I am wrong.”
“I don’t care what your friends say; I don’t care about any earthly thing but your tranquillity. Does your dog ask whether you are right or wrong? I am your dog. I think of You, and I think of nothing else.”
She looked back through the experience of the last few days. Miss Ladd—Mrs. Ellmother—Doctor Allday: not one of them had felt for her, not one of them had spoken to her, as this man had felt and had spoken. She remembered the dreadful sense of solitude and helplessness which had wrung her heart, in the interval before Mirabel came in. Her father himself could hardly have been kinder to her than this friend of a few weeks only. She looked at him through her tears; she could say nothing that was eloquent, nothing even that was adequate. “You are very good to me,” was her only acknowledgment of all that he had offered. How poor it seemed to be! and yet how much it meant!
He rose—saying considerately that he would leave her to recover herself, and would wait to hear if he was wanted.
“No,” she said; “I must not let you go. In common gratitude I ought to decide before you leave me, and I do decide to take you into my confidence.” She hesitated; her color rose a little. “I know how unselfishly you offer me your help,” she resumed; “I know you speak to me as a brother might speak to a sister—”
He gently interrupted her. “No,” he said; “I can’t honestly claim to do that. And—may I venture to remind you?—you know why.”
She started. Her eyes rested on him with a momentary expression of reproach.
“Is it quite fair,” she asked, “in my situation, to say that?”
“Would it have been quite fair,” he rejoined, “to allow you to deceive yourself? Should I deserve to be taken into your confidence, if I encouraged you to trust me, under false pretenses? Not a word more of those hopes on which the happiness of my life depends shall pass my lips, unless you permit it. In my devotion to your interests, I promise to forget myself. My motives may be misinterpreted; my position may be misunderstood. Ignorant people may take me for that other happier man, who is an object of interest to you—”
“Stop, Mr. Mirabel! The person to whom you refer has no such claim on me as you suppose.”
“Dare I say how happy I am to hear it? Will you forgive me?”
“I will forgive you if you say no more.”
Their eyes met. Completely overcome by the new hope that she had inspired, Mirabel was unable to answer her. His sensitive nerves trembled under emotion, like the nerves of a woman; his delicate complexion faded away slowly into whiteness. Emily was alarmed—he seemed to be on the point of fainting. She ran to the window to open it more widely.
“Pray don’t trouble yourself,” he said, “I am easily agitated by any sudden sensation—and I am a little overcome at this moment by my own happiness.”
“Let me give you a glass of wine.”
“Thank you—I don’t need it indeed.”
“You really feel better?”
“I feel quite well again—and eager to hear how I can serve you.”
“It’s a long story, Mr. Mirabel—and a dreadful story.”
“Dreadful?”
“Yes! Let me tell you first how you can serve me. I am in search of a man who has done me the cruelest wrong that one human creature can inflict on another. But the chances are all against me—I am only a woman; and I don’t know how to take even the first step toward discovery.”
“You will know, when I guide you.”
He reminded her tenderly of what she might expect from him, and was rewarded by a grateful look. Seeing nothing, suspecting nothing, they advanced together nearer and nearer to the end.
“Once or twice,” Emily continued, “I spoke to you of my poor father, when we were at Monksmoor—and I must speak of him again. You could have no interest in inquiring about a stranger—and you cannot have heard how he died.”
“Pardon me, I heard from Mr. Wyvil how he died.”
“You heard what I had told Mr. Wyvil,” Emily said: “I was wrong.”
“Wrong!” Mirabel exclaimed, in a tone of courteous surprise. “Was it not a sudden death?”
“It was a sudden death.”
“Caused by disease of the heart?”
“Caused by no disease. I have been deceived about my father’s death—and I have only discovered it a few days since.”
At the impending moment of the frightful shock which she was innocently about to inflict on him, she stopped—doubtful whether it would be best to relate how the discovery had been made, or to pass at once to the result. Mirabel supposed that she had paused to control her agitation. He was so immeasurably far away from the faintest suspicion of what was coming that he exerted his ingenuity, in the hope of sparing her.
“I can anticipate the rest,” he said. “Your sad loss has been caused by some fatal accident. Let us change the subject; tell me more of that man whom I must help you to find. It will only distress you to dwell on your father’s death.”
“Distress me?” she repeated. “His death maddens me!”
“Oh, don’t say that!”
“Hear me! hear me! My father died murdered, at Zeeland—and the man you must help me to find is the wretch who killed him.”
She started to her feet with a cry of terror. Mirabel dropped from his chair senseless to the floor.
CHAPTER LIV. THE END OF THE FAINTING FIT.
Emily recovered her presence of mind. She opened the door, so as to make a draught of air in the room, and called for water. Returning to Mirabel, she loosened his cravat. Mrs. Ellmother came in, just in time to prevent her from committing a common error in the treatment of fainting persons, by raising Mirabel’s head. The current of air, and the sprinkling of water over his face, soon produced their customary effect. “He’ll come round, directly,” Mrs. Ellmother remarked. “Your aunt was sometimes taken with these swoons, miss; and I know something about them. He looks a poor weak creature, in spite of his big beard. Has anything frightened him?”
Emily little knew how correctly that chance guess had hit on the truth!
“Nothing can possibly have frightened him,” she replied; “I am afraid he is in bad health. He turned suddenly pale while we were talking; and I thought he was going to be taken ill; he made light of it, and seemed to recover. Unfortunately, I was right; it was the threatening of a fainting fit—he dropped on the floor a minute afterward.”
A sigh fluttered over Mirabel’s lips. His eyes opened, looked at Mrs. Ellmother in vacant terror, and closed again. Emily whispered to her to leave the room. The old woman smiled satirically as she opened the door—then looked back, with a sudden change of humor. To see the kind young mistress bending over the feeble little clergyman set her—by some strange association of ideas—thinking of Alban Morris. “Ah,” she muttered to herself, on her way out, “I call him a Man!”
There was wine in the sideboard—the wine which Emily had once already offered in vain. Mirabel drank it eagerly, this time. He looked round the room, as if he wished to be sure that they were alone. “Have I fallen to a low place in your estimation?” he asked, smiling faintly. “I am afraid you will think poorly enough of your new ally, after this?”
“I only think you should take more care of your health,” Emily replied, with sincere interest in his recovery. “Let me leave you to rest on the sofa.”
He refused to remain at the cottage—he asked, with a sudden change to fretfulness, if she would let her servant get him a cab. She ventured to doubt whether he was quite strong enough yet to go away by himself. He reiterated, piteously reiterated, his request. A passing cab was stopped directly. Emily accompanied him to the gate. “I know what to do,” he said, in a hurried absent way. “Rest and a little tonic medicine will soon set me right.” The clammy coldness of his skin made Emily shudder, as they shook hands. “You won’t think the worse of me for this?” he asked.
“How can you imagine such a thing!” she answered warmly.
“Will you see me, if I come to-morrow?”
“I shall be anxious to see you.”
So they parted. Emily returned to the house, pitying him with all her heart.
BOOK THE SIXTH—HERE AND THERE.
CHAPTER LV. MIRABEL SEES HIS WAY.
Reaching the hotel at which he was accustomed to stay when he was in London, Mirabel locked the door of his room. He looked at the houses on the opposite side of the street. His mind was in such a state of morbid distrust that he lowered the blind over the window. In solitude and obscurity, the miserable wretch sat down in a corner, and covered his face with his hands, and tried to realize what had happened to him.
Nothing had been said at the fatal interview with Emily, which could have given him the slightest warning of what was to come. Her father’s name—absolutely unknown to him when he fled from the inn—had only been communicated to the public by the newspaper reports of the adjourned inquest. At the time when those reports appeared, he was in hiding, under circumstances which prevented him from seeing a newspaper. While the murder was still a subject of conversation, he was in France—far out of the track of English travelers—and he remained on the continent until the summer of eighteen hundred and eighty-one. No exercise of discretion, on his part, could have extricated him from the terrible position in which he was now placed. He stood pledged to Emily to discover the man suspected of the murder of her father; and that man was—himself!
What refuge was left open to him?
If he took to flight, his sudden disappearance would be a suspicious circumstance in itself, and would therefore provoke inquiries which might lead to serious results. Supposing that he overlooked the risk thus presented, would he be capable of enduring a separation from Emily, which might be a separation for life? Even in the first horror of discovering his situation, her influence remained unshaken—the animating spirit of the one manly capacity for resistance which raised him above the reach of his own fears. The only prospect before him which he felt himself to be incapable of contemplating, was the prospect of leaving Emily.
Having arrived at this conclusion, his fears urged him to think of providing for his own safety.
The first precaution to adopt was to separate Emily from friends whose advice might be hostile to his interests—perhaps even subversive of his security. To effect this design, he had need of an ally whom he could trust. That ally was at his disposal, far away in the north.
At the time when Francine’s jealousy began to interfere with all freedom of intercourse between Emily and himself at Monksmoor, he had contemplated making arrangements which might enable them to meet at the house of his invalid sister, Mrs. Delvin. He had spoken of her, and of the bodily affliction which confined her to her room, in terms which had already interested Emily. In the present emergency, he decided on returning to the subject, and on hastening the meeting between the two women which he had first suggested at Mr. Wyvil’s country seat.
No time was to be lost in carrying out this intention. He wrote to Mrs. Delvin by that day’s post; confiding to her, in the first place, the critical position in which he now found himself. This done, he proceeded as follows:
“To your sound judgment, dearest Agatha, it may appear that I am making myself needlessly uneasy about the future. Two persons only know that I am the man who escaped from the inn at Zeeland. You are one of them, and Miss Jethro is the other. On you I can absolutely rely; and, after my experience of her, I ought to feel sure of Miss Jethro. I admit this; but I cannot get over my distrust of Emily’s friends. I fear the cunning old doctor; I doubt Mr. Wyvil; I hate Alban Morris.
“Do me a favor, my dear. Invite Emily to be your guest, and so separate her from these friends. The old servant who attends on her will be included in the invitation, of course. Mrs. Ellmother is, as I believe, devoted to the interests of Mr. Alban Morris: she will be well out of the way of doing mischief, while we have her safe in your northern solitude.
“There is no fear that Emily will refuse your invitation.
“In the first place, she is already interested in you. In the second place, I shall consider the small proprieties of social life; and, instead of traveling with her to your house, I shall follow by a later train. In the third place, I am now the chosen adviser in whom she trusts; and what I tell her to do, she will do. It pains me, really and truly pains me, to be compelled to deceive her—but the other alternative is to reveal myself as the wretch of whom she is in search. Was there ever such a situation? And, oh, Agatha, I am so fond of her! If I fail to persuade her to be my wife, I don’t care what becomes of me. I used to think disgrace, and death on the scaffold, the most frightful prospect that a man can contemplate. In my present frame of mind, a life without Emily may just as well end in that way as in any other. When we are together in your old sea-beaten tower, do your best, my dear, to incline the heart of this sweet girl toward me. If she remains in London, how do I know that Mr. Morris may not recover the place he has lost in her good opinion? The bare idea of it turns me cold.
“There is one more point on which I must touch, before I can finish my letter.
“When you last wrote, you told me that Sir Jervis Redwood was not expected to live much longer, and that the establishment would be broken up after his death. Can you find out for me what will become, under the circumstances, of Mr. and Mrs. Rook? So far as I am concerned, I don’t doubt that the alteration in my personal appearance, which has protected me for years past, may be trusted to preserve me from recognition by these two people. But it is of the utmost importance, remembering the project to which Emily has devoted herself, that she should not meet with Mrs. Rook. They have been already in correspondence; and Mrs. Rook has expressed an intention (if the opportunity offers itself) of calling at the cottage. Another reason, and a pressing reason, for removing Emily from London! We can easily keep the Rooks out of your house; but I own I should feel more at my ease, if I heard that they had left Northumberland.”
With that confession, Mrs. Delvin’s brother closed his letter.
CHAPTER LVI. ALBAN SEES HIS WAY.
During the first days of Mirabel’s sojourn at his hotel in London, events were in progress at Netherwoods, affecting the interests of the man who was the especial object of his distrust. Not long after Miss Ladd had returned to her school, she heard of an artist who was capable of filling the place to be vacated by Alban Morris. It was then the twenty-third of the month. In four days more the new master would be ready to enter on his duties; and Alban would be at liberty.
On the twenty-fourth, Alban received a telegram which startled him. The person sending the message was Mrs. Ellmother; and the words were: “Meet me at your railway station to-day, at two o’clock.”
He found the old woman in the waiting-room; and he met with a rough reception.
“Minutes are precious, Mr. Morris,” she said; “you are two minutes late. The next train to London stops here in half an hour—and I must go back by it.”
“Good heavens, what brings you here? Is Emily—?”
“Emily is well enough in health—if that’s what you mean? As to why I come here, the reason is that it’s a deal easier for me (worse luck!) to take this journey than to write a letter. One good turn deserves another. I don’t forget how kind you were to me, away there at the school—and I can’t, and won’t, see what’s going on at the cottage, behind your back, without letting you know of it. Oh, you needn’t be alarmed about her! I’ve made an excuse to get away for a few hours—but I haven’t left her by herself. Miss Wyvil has come to London again; and Mr. Mirabel spends the best part of his time with her. Excuse me for a moment, will you? I’m so thirsty after the journey, I can hardly speak.”
She presented herself at the counter in the waiting-room. “I’ll trouble you, young woman, for a glass of ale.” She returned to Alban in a better humor. “It’s not bad stuff, that! When I have said my say, I’ll have a drop more—just to wash the taste of Mr. Mirabel out of my mouth. Wait a bit; I have something to ask you. How much longer are you obliged to stop here, teaching the girls to draw?”
“I leave Netherwoods in three days more,” Alban replied.
“That’s all right! You may be in time to bring Miss Emily to her senses, yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—if you don’t stop it—she will marry the parson.”
“I can’t believe it, Mrs. Ellmother! I won’t believe it!”
“Ah, it’s a comfort to him, poor fellow, to say that! Look here, Mr. Morris; this is how it stands. You’re in disgrace with Miss Emily—and he profits by it. I was fool enough to take a liking to Mr. Mirabel when I first opened the door to him; I know better now. He got on the blind side of me; and now he has got on the blind side of her. Shall I tell you how? By doing what you would have done if you had had the chance. He’s helping her—or pretending to help her, I don’t know which—to find the man who murdered poor Mr. Brown. After four years! And when all the police in England (with a reward to encourage them) did their best, and it came to nothing!”
“Never mind that!” Alban said impatiently. “I want to know how Mr. Mirabel is helping her?”
“That’s more than I can tell you. You don’t suppose they take me into their confidence? All I can do is to pick up a word, here and there, when fine weather tempts them out into the garden. She tells him to suspect Mrs. Rook, and to make inquiries after Miss Jethro. And he has his plans; and he writes them down, which is dead against his doing anything useful, in my opinion. I don’t hold with your scribblers. At the same time I wouldn’t count too positively, in your place, on his being likely to fail. That little Mirabel—if it wasn’t for his beard, I should believe he was a woman, and a sickly woman too; he fainted in our house the other day—that little Mirabel is in earnest. Rather than leave Miss Emily from Saturday to Monday, he has got a parson out of employment to do his Sunday work for him. And, what’s more, he has persuaded her (for some reasons of his own) to leave London next week.”
“Is she going back to Monksmoor?”
“Not she! Mr. Mirabel has got a sister, a widow lady; she’s a cripple, or something of the sort. Her name is Mrs. Delvin. She lives far away in the north country, by the sea; and Miss Emily is going to stay with her.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Sure? I’ve seen the letter.”
“Do you mean the letter of invitation?”
“Yes—I do. Miss Emily herself showed it to me. I’m to go with her—‘in attendance on my mistress,’ as the lady puts it. This I will say for Mrs. Delvin: her handwriting is a credit to the school that taught her; and the poor bedridden creature words her invitation so nicely, that I myself couldn’t have resisted it—and I’m a hard one, as you know. You don’t seem to heed me, Mr. Morris.”
“I beg your pardon, I was thinking.”
“Thinking of what—if I may make so bold?”
“Of going back to London with you, instead of waiting till the new master comes to take my place.”
“Don’t do that, sir! You would do harm instead of good, if you showed yourself at the cottage now. Besides, it would not be fair to Miss Ladd, to leave her before the other man takes your girls off your hands. Trust me to look after your interests; and don’t go near Miss Emily—don’t even write to her—unless you have got something to say about the murder, which she will be eager to hear. Make some discovery in that direction, Mr. Morris, while the parson is only trying to do it or pretending to do it—and I’ll answer for the result. Look at the clock! In ten minutes more the train will be here. My memory isn’t as good as it was; but I do think I have told you all I had to tell.”
“You are the best of good friends!” Alban said warmly.
“Never mind about that, sir. If you want to do a friendly thing in return, tell me if you know what has become of Miss de Sor.”
“She has returned to Netherwoods.”
“Aha! Miss Ladd is as good as her word. Would you mind writing to tell me of it, if Miss de Sor leaves the school again? Good Lord! there she is on the platform with bag and baggage. Don’t let her see me, Mr. Morris! If she comes in here, I shall set the marks of my ten finger-nails on that false face of hers, as sure as I am a Christian woman.”
Alban placed himself at the door, so as to hide Mrs. Ellmother. There indeed was Francine, accompanied by one of the teachers at the school. She took a seat on the bench outside the booking-office, in a state of sullen indifference—absorbed in herself—noticing nothing. Urged by ungovernable curiosity, Mrs. Ellmother stole on tiptoe to Alban’s side to look at her. To a person acquainted with the circumstances there could be no possible doubt of what had happened. Francine had failed to excuse herself, and had been dismissed from Miss Ladd’s house.
“I would have traveled to the world’s end,” Mrs. Ellmother said, “to see that!”
She returned to her place in the waiting-room, perfectly satisfied.
The teacher noticed Alban, on leaving the booking-office after taking the tickets. “I shall be glad,” she said, looking toward Francine, “when I have resigned the charge of that young lady to the person who is to receive her in London.”
“Is she to be sent back to her parents?” Alban asked.
“We don’t know yet. Miss Ladd will write to St. Domingo by the next mail. In the meantime, her father’s agent in London—the same person who pays her allowance—takes care of her until he hears from the West Indies.”
“Does she consent to this?”
“She doesn’t seem to care what becomes of her. Miss Ladd has given her every opportunity of explaining and excusing herself, and has produced no impression. You can see the state she is in. Our good mistress—always hopeful even in the worst cases, as you know—thinks she is feeling ashamed of herself, and is too proud and self-willed to own it. My own idea is, that some secret disappointment is weighing on her mind. Perhaps I am wrong.”
No. Miss Ladd was wrong; and the teacher was right.
The passion of revenge, being essentially selfish in its nature, is of all passions the narrowest in its range of view. In gratifying her jealous hatred of Emily, Francine had correctly foreseen consequences, as they might affect the other object of her enmity—Alban Morris. But she had failed to perceive the imminent danger of another result, which in a calmer frame of mind might not have escaped discovery. In triumphing over Emily and Alban, she had been the indirect means of inflicting on herself the bitterest of all disappointments—she had brought Emily and Mirabel together. The first forewarning of this catastrophe had reached her, on hearing that Mirabel would not return to Monksmoor. Her worst fears had been thereafter confirmed by a letter from Cecilia, which had followed her to Netherwoods. From that moment, she, who had made others wretched, paid the penalty in suffering as keen as any that she had inflicted. Completely prostrated; powerless, through ignorance of his address in London, to make a last appeal to Mirabel; she was literally, as had just been said, careless what became of her. When the train approached, she sprang to her feet—advanced to the edge of the platform—and suddenly drew back, shuddering. The teacher looked in terror at Alban. Had the desperate girl meditated throwing herself under the wheels of the engine? The thought had been in both their minds; but neither of them acknowledged it. Francine stepped quietly into the carriage, when the train drew up, and laid her head back in a corner, and closed her eyes. Mrs. Ellmother took her place in another compartment, and beckoned to Alban to speak to her at the window.
“Where can I see you, when you go to London?” she asked.
“At Doctor Allday’s house.”
“On what day?”
“On Tuesday next.”