I Say No

Her last words were addressed to Alban. 'If you can find a way of doing it, sir, keep those two apart.'

'Do you mean Emily and Miss de Sor?

'Yes.'

'What are you afraid of?'

'I don't know.'

'Is that quite reasonable, Mrs. Ellmother?'

'I daresay not. I only know that I am afraid.'

The pony chaise took her away. Alban's class was not yet ready for him. He waited on the terrace.

Innocent alike of all knowledge of the serious reason for fear which did really exist, Mrs. Ellmother and Alban felt, nevertheless, the same vague distrust of an intimacy between the two girls. Idle, vain, malicious, false—to know that Francine's character presented these faults, without any discoverable merits to set against them, was surely enough to justify a gloomy view of the prospect, if she succeeded in winning the position of Emily's friend. Alban reasoned it out logically in this way—without satisfying himself, and without accounting for the remembrance that haunted him of Mrs. Ellmother's farewell look. 'A commonplace man would say we are both in a morbid state of mind,' he thought; 'and sometimes commonplace men turn out to be right.'

He was too deeply preoccupied to notice that he had advanced perilously near Francine's window. She suddenly stepped out of her room, and spoke to him.

'Do you happen to know, Mr. Morris, why Mrs. Ellmother has gone away without bidding me good-by?'

'She was probably afraid, Miss de Sor, that you might make her the victim of another joke.'

Francine eyed him steadily. 'Have you any particular reason for speaking to me in that way?'

'I am not aware that I have answered you rudely—if that is what you mean.'

'That is not what I mean. You seem to have taken a dislike to me. I should be glad to know why.'

'I dislike cruelty—and you have behaved cruelly to Mrs. Ellmother.'

'Meaning to be cruel?' Francine inquired.

'You know as well as I do, Miss de Sor, that I can't answer that question.'

Francine looked at him again 'Am I to understand that we are enemies?' she asked.

'You are to understand,' he replied, 'that a person whom Miss Ladd employs to help her in teaching, cannot always presume to express his sentiments in speaking to the young ladies.'

'If that means anything, Mr. Morris, it means that we are enemies.'

'It means, Miss de Sor, that I am the drawing-master at this school, and that I am called to my class.'

Francine returned to her room, relieved of the only doubt that had troubled her. Plainly no suspicion that she had overheard what passed between Mrs. Ellmother and himself existed in Alban's mind. As to the use to be made of her discovery, she felt no difficulty in deciding to wait, and be guided by events. Her curiosity and her self-esteem had been alike gratified—she had got the better of Mrs. Ellmother at last, and with that triumph she was content. While Emily remained her friend, it would be an act of useless cruelty to disclose the terrible truth. There had certainly been a coolness between them at Brighton. But Francine—still influenced by the magnetic attraction which drew her to Emily—did not conceal from herself that she had offered the provocation, and had been therefore the person to blame. 'I can set all that right,' she thought, 'when we meet at Monksmoor Park.' She opened her desk and wrote the shortest and sweetest of letters to Cecilia. 'I am entirely at the disposal of my charming friend, on any convenient day—may I add, my dear, the sooner the better?'

CHAPTER XXXVII. 'THE LADY WANTS YOU, SIR.'

The pupils of the drawing-class put away their pencils and color-boxes in high good humor: the teacher's vigilant eye for faults had failed him for the first time in their experience. Not one of them had been reproved; they had chattered and giggled and drawn caricatures on the margin of the paper, as freely as if the master had left the room. Alban's wandering attention was indeed beyond the reach of control. His interview with Francine had doubled his sense of responsibility toward Emily—while he was further than ever from seeing how he could interfere, to any useful purpose, in his present position, and with his reasons for writing under reserve.

One of the servants addressed him as he was leaving the schoolroom. The landlady's boy was waiting in the hall, with a message from his lodgings.

'Now then! what is it?' he asked, irritably.

'The lady wants you, sir.' With this mysterious answer, the boy presented a visiting card. The name inscribed on it was—'Miss Jethro.'

She had arrived by the train, and she was then waiting at Alban's lodgings. 'Say I will be with her directly.' Having given the message, he stood for a while, with his hat in his hand—literally lost in astonishment. It was simply impossible to guess at Miss Jethro's object: and yet, with the usual perversity of human nature, he was still wondering what she could possibly want with him, up to the final moment when he opened the door of his sitting- room.

She rose and bowed with the same grace of movement, and the same well-bred composure of manner, which Doctor Allday had noticed when she entered his consulting-room. Her dark melancholy eyes rested on Alban with a look of gentle interest. A faint flush of color animated for a moment the faded beauty of her face—passed away again—and left it paler than before.

'I cannot conceal from myself,' she began, 'that I am intruding on you under embarrassing circumstances.'

'May I ask, Miss Jethro, to what circumstances you allude?'