I Say No

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER III. THE LATE MR. BROWN.

  The woman's lean, long-fingered hand pointed to the candle.

  "Don't put it out." Saying those words, she looked round the room, andsatisfied herself that the other girls were asleep.

  Emily laid down the extinguisher. "You mean to report us, of course,"she said. "I am the only one awake, Miss Jethro; lay the blame on me."

  "I have no intention of reporting you. But I have something to say."

  She paused, and pushed her thick black hair (already streaked with gray)back from her temples. Her eyes, large and dark and dim, rested onEmily with a sorrowful interest. "When your young friends wake to-morrowmorning," she went on, "you can tell them that the new teacher, whomnobody likes, has left the school."

  For once, even quick-witted Emily was bewildered. "Going away," shesaid, "when you have only been here since Easter!"

  Miss Jethro advanced, not noticing Emily's expression of surprise. "I amnot very strong at the best of times," she continued, "may I sit downon your bed?" Remarkable on other occasions for her cold composure, hervoice trembled as she made that request--a strange request surely, whenthere were chairs at her disposal.

  Emily made room for her with the dazed look of a girl in a dream. "Ibeg your pardon, Miss Jethro, one of the things I can't endure is beingpuzzled. If you don't mean to report us, why did you come in and catchme with the light?"

  Miss Jethro's explanation was far from relieving the perplexity whichher conduct had caused.

  "I have been mean enough," she answered, "to listen at the door, and Iheard you talking of your father. I want to hear more about him. That iswhy I came in."

  "You knew my father!" Emily exclaimed.

  "I believe I knew him. But his name is so common--there are so manythousands of 'James Browns' in England--that I am in fear of making amistake. I heard you say that he died nearly four years since. Can youmention any particulars which might help to enlighten me? If you think Iam taking a liberty--"

  Emily stopped her. "I would help you if I could," she said. "But I wasin poor health at the time; and I was staying with friends far away inScotland, to try change of air. The news of my father's death brought ona relapse. Weeks passed before I was strong enough to travel--weeks andweeks before I saw his grave! I can only tell you what I know from myaunt. He died of heart-complaint."

  Miss Jethro started.

  Emily looked at her for the first time, with eyes that betrayed afeeling of distrust. "What have I said to startle you?" she asked.

  "Nothing! I am nervous in stormy weather--don't notice me." She went onabruptly with her inquiries. "Will you tell me the date of your father'sdeath?"

  "The date was the thirtieth of September, nearly four years since."

  She waited, after that reply.

  Miss Jethro was silent.

  "And this," Emily continued, "is the thirtieth of June, eighteen hundredand eighty-one. You can now judge for yourself. Did you know my father?"

  Miss Jethro answered mechanically, using the same words.

  "I did know your father."

  Emily's feeling of distrust was not set at rest. "I never heard himspeak of you," she said.

  In her younger days the teacher must have been a handsome woman.Her grandly-formed features still suggested the idea of imperialbeauty--perhaps Jewish in its origin. When Emily said, "I never heardhim speak of you," the color flew into her pallid cheeks: her dim eyesbecame alive again with a momentary light. She left her seat on the bed,and, turning away, mastered the emotion that shook her.

  "How hot the night is!" she said: and sighed, and resumed the subjectwith a steady countenance. "I am not surprised that your father nevermentioned me--to _you_." She spoke quietly, but her face was paler thanever. She sat down again on the bed. "Is there anything I can do foryou," she asked, "before I go away? Oh, I only mean some triflingservice that would lay you under no obligation, and would not oblige youto keep up your acquaintance with me."

  Her eyes--the dim black eyes that must once have been irresistiblybeautiful--looked at Emily so sadly that the generous girl reproachedherself for having doubted her father's friend. "Are you thinking of_him_," she said gently, "when you ask if you can be of service to me?"

  Miss Jethro made no direct reply. "You were fond of your father?" sheadded, in a whisper. "You told your schoolfellow that your heart stillaches when you speak of him."

  "I only told her the truth," Emily answered simply.

  Miss Jethro shuddered--on that hot night!--shuddered as if a chill hadstruck her.

  Emily held out her hand; the kind feeling that had been roused inher glittered prettily in her eyes. "I am afraid I have not done youjustice," she said. "Will you forgive me and shake hands?"

  Miss Jethro rose, and drew back. "Look at the light!" she exclaimed.

  The candle was all burned out. Emily still offered her hand--and stillMiss Jethro refused to see it.

  "There is just light enough left," she said, "to show me my way to thedoor. Good-night--and good-by."

  Emily caught at her dress, and stopped her. "Why won't you shake handswith me?" she asked.

  The wick of the candle fell over in the socket, and left them in thedark. Emily resolutely held the teacher's dress. With or without light,she was still bent on making Miss Jethro explain herself.

  They had throughout spoken in guarded tones, fearing to disturb thesleeping girls. The sudden darkness had its inevitable effect. Theirvoices sank to whispers now. "My father's friend," Emily pleaded, "issurely my friend?"

  "Drop the subject."

  "Why?"

  "You can never be _my_ friend."

  "Why not?"

  "Let me go!"

  Emily's sense of self-respect forbade her to persist any longer. "I begyour pardon for having kept you here against your will," she said--anddropped her hold on the dress.

  Miss Jethro instantly yielded on her side. "I am sorry to have beenobstinate," she answered. "If you do despise me, it is after all no morethan I have deserved." Her hot breath beat on Emily's face: the unhappywoman must have bent over the bed as she made her confession. "I am nota fit person for you to associate with."

  "I don't believe it!"

  Miss Jethro sighed bitterly. "Young and warm hearted--I was once likeyou!" She controlled that outburst of despair. Her next words werespoken in steadier tones. "You _will_ have it--you _shall_ have it!"she said. "Some one (in this house or out of it; I don't know which)has betrayed me to the mistress of the school. A wretch in my situationsuspects everybody, and worse still, does it without reason or excuse.I heard you girls talking when you ought to have been asleep. You alldislike me. How did I know it mightn't be one of you? Absurd, to aperson with a well-balanced mind! I went halfway up the stairs, and feltashamed of myself, and went back to my room. If I could only have gotsome rest! Ah, well, it was not to be done. My own vile suspicions keptme awake; I left my bed again. You know what I heard on the other sideof that door, and why I was interested in hearing it. Your father nevertold me he had a daughter. 'Miss Brown,' at this school, was any 'MissBrown,' to me. I had no idea of who you really were until to-night.I'm wandering. What does all this matter to you? Miss Ladd has beenmerciful; she lets me go without exposing me. You can guess what hashappened. No? Not even yet? Is it innocence or kindness that makesyou so slow to understand? My dear, I have obtained admission tothis respectable house by means of false references, and I have beendiscovered. _Now_ you know why you must not be the friend of such awoman as I am! Once more, good-night--and good-by."

  Emily shrank from that miserable farewell.

  "Bid me good-night," she said, "but don't bid me good-by. Let me see youagain."

  "Never!"

  The sound of the softly-closed door was just audible in the darkness.She had spoken--she had gone--never to be seen by Emily again.

  Miserable, interesting, unfathomable creature--the problem that night ofEmily's waking thoughts: the phantom of her dreams. "Bad? or good?" sheasked h
erself. "False; for she listened at the door. True; for she toldme the tale of her own disgrace. A friend of my father; and she neverknew that he had a daughter. Refined, accomplished, lady-like; and shestoops to use a false reference. Who is to reconcile such contradictionsas these?"

  Dawn looked in at the window--dawn of the memorable day which was, forEmily, the beginning of a new life. The years were before her; and theyears in their course reveal baffling mysteries of life and death.