CHAPTER XLIX. EMILY SUFFERS.
Mrs. Ellmother--left in charge of Emily's place of abode, and feelingsensible of her lonely position from time to time--had just thought oftrying the cheering influence of a cup of tea, when she heard a cab drawup at the cottage gate. A violent ring at the bell followed. She openedthe door--and found Emily on the steps. One look at that dear andfamiliar face was enough for the old servant.
"God help us," she cried, "what's wrong now?"
Without a word of reply, Emily led the way into the bedchamber which hadbeen the scene of Miss Letitia's death. Mrs. Ellmother hesitated on thethreshold.
"Why do you bring me in here?" she asked.
"Why did you try to keep me out?" Emily answered.
"When did I try to keep you out, miss?"
"When I came home from school, to nurse my aunt. Ah, you remember now!Is it true--I ask you here, where your old mistress died--is it truethat my aunt deceived me about my father's death? And that you knew it?"
There was dead silence. Mrs. Ellmother trembled horribly--her lipsdropped apart--her eyes wandered round the room with a stare of idioticterror. "Is it her ghost tells you that?" she whispered. "Where is herghost? The room whirls round and round, miss--and the air sings in myears."
Emily sprang forward to support her. She staggered to a chair, andlifted her great bony hands in wild entreaty. "Don't frighten me," shesaid. "Stand back."
Emily obeyed her. She dashed the cold sweat off her forehead. "You weretalking about your father's death just now," she burst out, in desperatedefiant tones. "Well! we know it and we are sorry for it--your fatherdied suddenly."
"My father died murdered in the inn at Zeeland! All the long way toLondon, I have tried to doubt it. Oh, me, I know it now!"
Answering in those words, she looked toward the bed. Harrowingremembrances of her aunt's delirious self-betrayal made the roomunendurable to her. She ran out. The parlor door was open. Entering theroom, she passed by a portrait of her father, which her aunt had hungon the wall over the fireplace. She threw herself on the sofa and burstinto a passionate fit of crying. "Oh, my father--my dear, gentle, lovingfather; my first, best, truest friend--murdered! murdered! Oh, God,where was your justice, where was your mercy, when he died that dreadfuldeath?"
A hand was laid on her shoulder; a voice said to her, "Hush, my child!God knows best."
Emily looked up, and saw that Mrs. Ellmother had followed her. "Youpoor old soul," she said, suddenly remembering; "I frightened you in theother room."
"I have got over it, my dear. I am old; and I have lived a hard life.A hard life schools a person. I make no complaints." She stopped, andbegan to shudder again. "Will you believe me if I tell you something?"she asked. "I warned my self-willed mistress. Standing by your father'scoffin, I warned her. Hide the truth as you may (I said), a time willcome when our child will know what you are keeping from her now. One orboth of us may live to see it. I am the one who has lived; no refugein the grave for me. I want to hear about it--there's no fear offrightening or hurting me now. I want to hear how you found it out. Wasit by accident, my dear? or did a person tell you?"
Emily's mind was far away from Mrs. Ellmother. She rose from the sofa,with her hands held fast over her aching heart.
"The one duty of my life," she said--"I am thinking of the one duty ofmy life. Look! I am calm now; I am resigned to my hard lot. Never, neveragain, can the dear memory of my father be what it was! From this time,it is the horrid memory of a crime. The crime has gone unpunished; theman has escaped others. He shall not escape Me." She paused, and lookedat Mrs. Ellmother absently. "What did you say just now? You want to hearhow I know what I know? Naturally! naturally! Sit down here--sitdown, my old friend, on the sofa with me--and take your mind back toNetherwoods. Alban Morris--"
Mrs. Ellmother recoiled from Emily in dismay. "Don't tell me _he_ hadanything to do with it! The kindest of men; the best of men!"
"The man of all men living who least deserves your good opinion ormine," Emily answered sternly.
"You!" Mrs. Ellmother exclaimed, "_you_ say that!"
"I say it. He--who won on me to like him--he was in the conspiracy todeceive me; and you know it! He heard me talk of the newspaper story ofthe murder of my father--I say, he heard me talk of it composedly, talkof it carelessly, in the innocent belief that it was the murder ofa stranger--and he never opened his lips to prevent that horridprofanation! He never even said, speak of something else; I won't hearyou! No more of him! God forbid I should ever see him again. No! Dowhat I told you. Carry your mind back to Netherwoods. One night you letFrancine de Sor frighten you. You ran away from her into the garden.Keep quiet! At your age, must I set you an example of self-control?
"I want to know, Miss Emily, where Francine de Sor is now?"
"She is at the house in the country, which I have left."
"Where does she go next, if you please? Back to Miss Ladd?"
"I suppose so. What interest have you in knowing where she goes next?"
"I won't interrupt you, miss. It's true that I ran away into the garden.I can guess who followed me. How did she find her way to me and Mr.Morris, in the dark?"
"The smell of tobacco guided her--she knew who smoked--she had seen himtalking to you, on that very day--she followed the scent--she heard whatyou two said to each other--and she has repeated it to me. Oh, my oldfriend, the malice of a revengeful girl has enlightened me, when you,my nurse--and he, my lover--left me in the dark: it has told me how myfather died!"
"That's said bitterly, miss!"
"Is it said truly?"
"No. It isn't said truly of myself. God knows you would never havebeen kept in the dark, if your aunt had listened to me. I begged andprayed--I went down on my knees to her--I warned her, as I told you justnow. Must I tell _you_ what a headstrong woman Miss Letitia was? Sheinsisted. She put the choice before me of leaving her at once andforever--or giving in. I wouldn't have given in to any other creature onthe face of this earth. I am obstinate, as you have often told me.Well, your aunt's obstinacy beat mine; I was too fond of her to say No.Besides, if you ask me who was to blame in the first place, I tell youit wasn't your aunt; she was frightened into it."
"Who frightened her?"
"Your godfather--the great London surgeon--he who was visiting in ourhouse at the time."
"Sir Richard?"
"Yes--Sir Richard. He said he wouldn't answer for the consequences, inthe delicate state of your health, if we told you the truth. Ah, he hadit all his own way after that. He went with Miss Letitia to the inquest;he won over the coroner and the newspaper men to his will; he kept youraunt's name out of the papers; he took charge of the coffin; hehired the undertaker and his men, strangers from London; he wrote thecertificate--who but he! Everybody was cap in hand to the famous man!"
"Surely, the servants and the neighbors asked questions?"
"Hundreds of questions! What did that matter to Sir Richard? They werelike so many children, in _his_ hands. And, mind you, the luck helpedhim. To begin with, there was the common name. Who was to pick out yourpoor father among the thousands of James Browns? Then, again, the houseand lands went to the male heir, as they called him--the man your fatherquarreled with in the bygone time. He brought his own establishmentwith him. Long before you got back from the friends you were stayingwith--don't you remember it?--we had cleared out of the house; wewere miles and miles away; and the old servants were scattered abroad,finding new situations wherever they could. How could you suspect us?We had nothing to fear in that way; but my conscience pricked me. I madeanother attempt to prevail on Miss Letitia, when you had recoveredyour health. I said, 'There's no fear of a relapse now; break it to hergently, but tell her the truth.' No! Your aunt was too fond of you. Shedaunted me with dreadful fits of crying, when I tried to persuade her.And that wasn't the worst of it. She bade me remember what an excitableman your father was--she reminded me that the misery of your mother'sdeath laid him low with brain fever--she said, 'Emily tak
es after herfather; I have heard you say it yourself; she has his constitution, andhis sensitive nerves. Don't you know how she loved him--how she talksof him to this day? Who can tell (if we are not careful) what dreadfulmischief we may do?' That was how my mistress worked on me. I gotinfected with her fears; it was as if I had caught an infection ofdisease. Oh, my dear, blame me if it must be; but don't forget how Ihave suffered for it since! I was driven away from my dying mistress, interror of what she might say, while you were watching at her bedside. Ihave lived in fear of what you might ask me--and have longed to go backto you--and have not had the courage to do it. Look at me now!"
The poor woman tried to take out her handkerchief; her quivering handhelplessly entangled itself in her dress. "I can't even dry my eyes,"she said faintly. "Try to forgive me, miss!"
Emily put her arms round the old nurse's neck. "It is _you_," she saidsadly, "who must forgive me."
For a while they were silent. Through the window that was open tothe little garden, came the one sound that could be heard--the gentletrembling of leaves in the evening wind.
The silence was harshly broken by the bell at the cottage door. Theyboth started.
Emily's heart beat fast. "Who can it be?" she said.
Mrs. Ellmother rose. "Shall I say you can't see anybody?" she asked,before leaving the room.
"Yes! yes!"
Emily heard the door opened--heard low voices in the passage. There wasa momentary interval. Then, Mrs. Ellmother returned. She said nothing.Emily spoke to her.
"Is it a visitor?"
"Yes."
"Have you said I can't see anybody?"
"I couldn't say it."
"Why not?"
"Don't be hard on him, my dear. It's Mr. Alban Morris."
I Say No Page 52