I Say No

The merciless man said he thought it was the situation of the house.

'Miss Ladd took the place in the spring,' he continued; 'and only discovered the one objection to it some months afterward. We are in the highest part of the valley here—but, you see, it's a valley surrounded by hills; and on three sides the hills are near us. All very well in winter; but in summer I have heard of girls in this school so out of health in the relaxing atmosphere that they have been sent home again.'

Francine suddenly showed an interest in what he was saying. If he had cared to observe her closely, he might have noticed it.

'Do you mean that the girls were really ill?' she asked.

'No. They slept badly—lost appetite—started at trifling noises. In short, their nerves were out of order.'

'Did they get well again at home, in another air?'

'Not a doubt of it,' he answered, beginning to get weary of the subject. 'May I look at your books?'

Francine's interest in the influence of different atmospheres on health was not exhausted yet. 'Do you know where the girls lived when they were at home?' she inquired.

'I know where one of them lived. She was the best pupil I ever had—and I remember she lived in Yorkshire.' He was so weary of the idle curiosity—as it appeared to him—which persisted in asking trifling questions, that he left his seat, and crossed the room. 'May I look at your books?' he repeated.

'Oh, yes!'

The conversation was suspended for a while. The lady thought, 'I should like to box his ears!' The gentleman thought, 'She's only an inquisitive fool after all!' His examination of her books confirmed him in the delusion that there was really nothing in Francine's character which rendered it necessary to caution Emily against the advances of her new friend. Turning away from the book-case, he made the first excuse that occurred to him for putting an end to the interview.

'I must beg you to let me return to my duties, Miss de Sor. I have to correct the young ladies' drawings, before they begin again to-morrow.'

Francine's wounded vanity made a last expiring attempt to steal the heart of Emily's lover.

'You remind me that I have a favor to ask,' she said. 'I don't attend the other classes—but I should so like to join your class! May I?' She looked up at him with a languishing appearance of entreaty which sorely tried Alban's capacity to keep his face in serious order. He acknowledged the compliment paid to him in studiously commonplace terms, and got a little nearer to the open window. Francine's obstinacy was not conquered yet.

'My education has been sadly neglected,' she continued; 'but I have had some little instruction in drawing. You will not find me so ignorant as some of the other girls.' She waited a little, anticipating a few complimentary words. Alban waited also—in silence. 'I shall look forward with pleasure to my lessons under such an artist as yourself,' she went on, and waited again, and was disappointed again. 'Perhaps,' she resumed, 'I may become your favorite pupil—Who knows?'

'Who indeed!'

It was not much to say, when he spoke at last—but it was enough to encourage Francine. She called him 'dear Mr. Morris'; she pleaded for permission to take her first lesson immediately; she clasped her hands—'Please say Yes!'

'I can't say Yes, till you have complied with the rules.'

'Are they your rules?'

Her eyes expressed the readiest submission—in that case. He entirely failed to see it: he said they were Miss Ladd's rules—and wished her good-evening.

She watched him, walking away down the terrace. How was he paid? Did he receive a yearly salary, or did he get a little extra money for each new pupil who took drawing lessons? In this last case, Francine saw her opportunity of being even with him 'You brute! Catch me attending your class!'

CHAPTER XXXIII. RECOLLECTIONS OF ST. DOMINGO.

The night was oppressively hot. Finding it impossible to sleep, Francine lay quietly in her bed, thinking. The subject of her reflections was a person who occupied the humble position of her new servant.

Mrs. Ellmother looked wretchedly ill. Mrs. Ellmother had told Emily that her object, in returning to domestic service, was to try if change would relieve her from the oppression of her own thoughts. Mrs. Ellmother believed in vulgar superstitions which declared Friday to be an unlucky day; and which recommended throwing a pinch over your left shoulder, if you happened to spill the salt.

In themselves, these were trifling recollections. But they assumed a certain importance, derived from the associations which they called forth.

They reminded Francine, by some mental process which she was at a loss to trace, of Sappho the slave, and of her life at St. Domingo.

She struck a light, and unlocked her writing desk. From one of the drawers she took out an old household account-book.

The first page contained some entries, relating to domestic expenses, in her own handwriting. They recalled one of her efforts to occupy her idle time, by relieving her mother of the cares of housekeeping. For a day or two, she had persevered—and then she had ceased to feel any interest in her new employment. The remainder of the book was completely filled up, in a beautifully clear handwriting, beginning on the second page. A title had been found for the manuscript by Francine. She had written at the top of the page: Sappho's Nonsense.

After reading the first few sentences she rapidly turned over the leaves, and stopped at a blank space near the end of the book. Here again she had added a title. This time it implied a compliment to the writer: the page was