I Say No

'You spoke impulsively,' Mrs. Delvin interposed; 'that was all. My one desire before we part—how can I expect you to remain here, after what has happened?—is to tell you the truth. I have no interested object in view; for all hope of your marriage with my brother is now at an end. May I ask if you have heard that he and your father were strangers, when they met at the inn?'

'Yes; I know that.'

'If there had been any conversation between them, when they retired to rest, they might have mentioned their names. But your father was preoccupied; and my brother, after a long day's walk, was so tired that he fell asleep as soon as his head was on the pillow. He only woke when the morning dawned. What he saw when he looked toward the opposite bed might have struck with terror the boldest man that ever lived. His first impulse was naturally to alarm the house. When he got on his feet, he saw his own razor—a blood-stained razor on the bed by the side of the corpse. At that discovery, he lost all control over himself. In a panic of terror, he snatched up his knapsack, unfastened the yard door, and fled from the house. Knowing him, as you and I know him, can we wonder at it? Many a man has been hanged for murder, on circumstantial evidence less direct than the evidence against poor Miles. His horror of his own recollections was so overpowering that he forbade me even to mention the inn at Zeeland in my letters, while he was abroad. 'Never tell me (he wrote) who that wretched murdered stranger was, if I only heard of his name, I believe it would haunt me to my dying day. I ought not to trouble you with these details—and yet, I am surely not without excuse. In the absence of any proof, I cannot expect you to believe as I do in my brother's innocence. But I may at least hope to show you that there is some reason for doubt. Will you give him the benefit of that doubt?'

'Willingly!' Emily replied. 'Am I right in supposing that you don't despair of proving his innocence, even yet'?'

'I don't quite despair. But my hopes have grown fainter and fainter, as the years have gone on. There is a person associated with his escape from Zeeland; a person named Jethro—'

'You mean Miss Jethro!'

'Yes. Do you know her?'

'I know her—and my father knew her. I have found a letter, addressed to him, which I have no doubt was written by Miss Jethro. It is barely possible that you may understand what it means. Pray look at it.'

'I am quite unable to help you,' Mrs. Delvin answered, after reading the letter. 'All I know of Miss Jethro is that, but for her interposition, my brother might have fallen into the hands of the police. She saved him.'

'Knowing him, of course?'

'That is the remarkable part of it: they were perfect strangers to each other.'

'But she must have had some motive.'

'There is the foundation of my hope for Miles. Miss Jethro declared, when I wrote and put the question to her, that the one motive by which she was actuated was the motive of mercy. I don't believe her. To my mind, it is in the last degree improbable that she would consent to protect a stranger from discovery, who owned to her (as my brother did) that he was a fugitive suspected of murder. She knows something, I am firmly convinced, of that dreadful event at Zeeland—and she has some reason for keeping it secret. Have you any influence over her?'

'Tell me where I can find her.'

'I can't tell you. She has removed from the address at which my brother saw her last. He has made every possible inquiry—without result.'

As she replied in those discouraging terms, the curtains which divided Mrs. Delvin's bedroom from her sitting- room were drawn aside. An elderly woman-servant approached her mistress's couch.

'Mr. Mirabel is awake, ma'am. He is very low; I can hardly feel his pulse. Shall I give him some more brandy?'

Mrs. Delvin held out her hand to Emily. 'Come to me to-morrow morning,' she said—and signed to the servant to wheel her couch into the next room. As the curtain closed over them, Emily heard Mirabel's voice. 'Where am I?' he said faintly. 'Is it all a dream?'

The prospect of his recovery the next morning was gloomy indeed. He had sunk into a state of deplorable weakness, in mind as well as in body. The little memory of events that he still preserved was regarded by him as the memory of a dream. He alluded to Emily, and to his meeting with her unexpectedly. But from that point his recollection failed him. They had talked of something interesting, he said—but he was unable to remember what it was. And they had waited together at a railway station—but for what purpose he could not tell. He sighed and wondered when Emily would marry him—and so fell asleep again, weaker than ever.

Not having any confidence in the doctor at Belford, Mrs. Delvin had sent an urgent message to a physician at Edinburgh, famous for his skill in treating diseases of the nervous system. 'I cannot expect him to reach this remote place, without some delay,' she said; 'I must bear my suspense as well as I can.'

'You shall not bear it alone,' Emily answered. 'I will wait with you till the doctor comes.'

Mrs. Delvin lifted her frail wasted hands to Emily's face, drew it a little nearer—and kissed her.

CHAPTER LXIV. ON THE WAY TO LONDON.

The parting words had been spoken. Emily and her companion were on their way to London.

For some little time, they traveled in silence—alone in the railway carriage. After submitting as long as she could to lay an embargo on the use of her tongue, Mrs. Ellmother started the conversation by means of a question: 'Do you think Mr. Mirabel will get over it, miss?'

'It's useless to ask me,' Emily said. 'Even the great man from Edinburgh is not able to decide yet, whether he will recover or not.'

'You have taken me into your confidence, Miss Emily, as you promised—and I have got something in my mind in consequence. May I mention it without giving offense?'