curiosity of Francine.
'Do you think you and that young lady are likely to get on well together?' she asked.
'I have told you already, Miss Emily, I want to get away from my own home and my own thoughts; I don't care where I go, so long as I do that.' Having answered in those words, Mrs. Ellmother opened the door, and waited a while, thinking. 'I wonder whether the dead know what is going on in the world they have left?' she said, looking at Emily. 'If they do, there's one among them knows my thoughts, and feels for me. Good-by, miss—and don't think worse of me than I deserve.'
Emily went back to the parlor. The only resource left was to plead with Francine for mercy to Mrs. Ellmother.
'Do you really mean to give it up?' she asked.
'To give up—what? 'Pumping,' as that obstinate old creature calls it?'
Emily persisted. 'Don't worry the poor old soul! However strangely she may have left my aunt and me her motives are kind and good—I am sure of that. Will you let her keep her harmless little secret?'
'Oh, of course!'
'I don't believe you, Francine!'
'Don't you? I am like Cecilia—I am getting hungry. Shall we have some lunch?'
'You hard-hearted creature!'
'Does that mean—no luncheon until I have owned the truth? Suppose
'For the last time, Francine—I know no more of it than you do. If you persist in taking your own view, you as good as tell me I lie; and you will oblige me to leave the room.'
Even Francine's obstinacy was compelled to give way, so far as appearances went. Still possessed by the delusion that Emily was deceiving her, she was now animated by a stronger motive than mere curiosity. Her sense of her own importance imperatively urged her to prove that she was not a person who could be deceived with impunity.
'I beg your pardon,' she said with humility. 'But I must positively have it out with Mrs. Ellmother. She has been more than a match for me—my turn next. I mean to get the better of her; and I shall succeed.'
'I have already told you, Francine—you will fail.'
'My dear, I am a dunce, and I don't deny it. But let me tell you one thing. I haven't lived all my life in the West Indies, among black servants, without learning something.'
'What do you mean?'
'More, my clever friend, than you are likely to guess. In the meantime, don't forget the duties of hospitality. Ring the bell for luncheon.'
CHAPTER XXX. LADY DORIS.
The arrival of Miss Ladd, some time before she had been expected, interrupted the two girls at a critical moment. She had hurried over her business in London, eager to pass the rest of the day with her favorite pupil. Emily's affectionate welcome was, in some degree at least, inspired by a sensation of relief. To feel herself in the embrace of the warm-hearted schoolmistress was like finding a refuge from Francine.
When the hour of departure arrived, Miss Ladd invited Emily to Brighton for the second time. 'On the last occasion, my dear, you wrote me an excuse; I won't be treated in that way again. If you can't return with us now, come to-morrow.' She added in a whisper, 'Otherwise, I shall think you include
There was no resisting this. It was arranged that Emily should go to Brighton on the next day.
Left by herself, her thoughts might have reverted to Mrs. Ellmother's doubtful prospects, and to Francine's strange allusion to her life in the West Indies, but for the arrival of two letters by the afternoon post. The handwriting on one of them was unknown to her. She opened that one first. It was an answer to the letter of apology which she had persisted in writing to Mrs. Rook. Happily for herself, Alban's influence had not been without its effect, after his departure. She had written kindly—but she had written briefly at the same time.
Mrs. Rook's reply presented a nicely compounded mixture of gratitude and grief. The gratitude was addressed to Emily as a matter of course. The grief related to her 'excellent master.' Sir Jervis's strength had suddenly failed. His medical attendant, being summoned, had expressed no surprise. 'My patient is over seventy years of age,' the doctor remarked. 'He will sit up late at night, writing his book; and he refuses to take exercise, till headache and giddiness force him to try the fresh air. As the necessary result, he has broken down at last. It may end in paralysis, or it may end in death.' Reporting this expression of medical opinion, Mrs. Rook's letter glided imperceptibly from respectful sympathy to modest regard for her own interests in the future. It might be the sad fate of her husband and herself to be thrown on the world again. If necessity brought them to London, would 'kind Miss Emily grant her the honor of an interview, and favor a poor unlucky woman with a word of advice?'
'She may pervert your letter to some use of her own, which you may have reason to regret.' Did Emily remember Alban's warning words? No: she accepted Mrs. Rook's reply as a gratifying tribute to the justice of her own opinions.
Having proposed to write to Alban, feeling penitently that she had been in the wrong, she was now readier than ever to send him a letter, feeling compassionately that she had been in the right. Besides, it was due to the faithful friend, who was still working for her in the reading room, that he should be informed of Sir Jervis's illness. Whether the old man lived or whether he died, his literary labors were fatally interrupted in either case; and one of the consequences would be the termination of her employment at the Museum. Although the second of the two letters which she had received was addressed to her in Cecilia's handwriting, Emily waited to read it until she had first written to Alban. 'He will come to-morrow,' she thought; 'and we shall both make apologies. I shall regret that I was angry with him and he will regret that he was mistaken in his judgment of Mrs. Rook. We shall be as good friends again as ever.'
