By an association of ideas, of which she was not herself aware, shenow passed from thinking of her aunt to thinking of Miss Jethro. Theinterview of the previous night had dwelt on her mind at intervals, inthe hours of the new day.
Acting on instinct rather than on reason, she had kept that remarkableincident in her school life a secret from every one. No discoveries hadbeen made by other persons. In speaking to her staff of teachers,Miss Ladd had alluded to the affair in the most cautious terms."Circumstances of a private nature have obliged the lady to retire frommy school. When we meet after the holidays, another teacher will bein her place." There, Miss Ladd's explanation had begun and ended.Inquiries addressed to the servants had led to no result. Miss Jethro'sluggage was to be forwarded to the London terminus of the railway--andMiss Jethro herself had baffled investigation by leaving the schoolon foot. Emily's interest in the lost teacher was not the transitoryinterest of curiosity; her father's mysterious friend was a personwhom she honestly desired to see again. Perplexed by the difficulty offinding a means of tracing Miss Jethro, she reached the shady limit ofthe trees, and turned to walk back again. Approaching the place at whichshe and Francine had met, an idea occurred to her. It was just possiblethat Miss Jethro might not be unknown to her aunt.
Still meditating on the cold reception that she had encountered, andstill feeling the influence which mastered her in spite of herself,Francine interpreted Emily's return as an implied expression of regret.She advanced with a constrained smile, and spoke first.
"How are the young ladies getting on in the schoolroom?" she asked, byway of renewing the conversation.
Emily's face assumed a look of surprise which said plainly, Can't youtake a hint and leave me to myself?
Francine was constitutionally impenetrable to reproof of this sort; herthick skin was not even tickled. "Why are you not helping them," shewent on; "you who have the clearest head among us and take the lead ineverything?"
It may be a humiliating confession to make, yet it is surely true thatwe are all accessible to flattery. Different tastes appreciate differentmethods of burning incense--but the perfume is more or less agreeable toall varieties of noses. Francine's method had its tranquilizing effecton Emily. She answered indulgently, "Miss de Sor, I have nothing to dowith it."
"Nothing to do with it? No prizes to win before you leave school?"
"I won all the prizes years ago."
"But there are recitations. Surely you recite?"
Harmless words in themselves, pursuing the same smooth course offlattery as before--but with what a different result! Emily's facereddened with anger the moment they were spoken. Having alreadyirritated Alban Morris, unlucky Francine, by a second mischievousinterposition of accident, had succeeded in making Emily smart next."Who has told you," she burst out; "I insist on knowing!"
"Nobody has told me anything!" Francine declared piteously.
"Nobody has told you how I have been insulted?"
"No, indeed! Oh, Miss Brown, who could insult _you?_"
In a man, the sense of injury does sometimes submit to the discipline ofsilence. In a woman--never. Suddenly reminded of her past wrongs (bythe pardonable error of a polite schoolfellow), Emily committed thestartling inconsistency of appealing to the sympathies of Francine!
"Would you believe it? I have been forbidden to recite--I, the head girlof the school. Oh, not to-day! It happened a month ago--when we were allin consultation, making our arrangements. Miss Ladd asked me if I haddecided on a piece to recite. I said, 'I have not only decided, I havelearned the piece.' 'And what may it be?' 'The dagger-scene in Macbeth.'There was a howl--I can call it by no other name--a howl of indignation.A man's soliloquy, and, worse still, a murdering man's soliloquy,recited by one of Miss Ladd's young ladies, before an audience ofparents and guardians! That was the tone they took with me. I was asfirm as a rock. The dagger-scene or nothing. The result is--nothing! Aninsult to Shakespeare, and an insult to Me. I felt it--I feel it still.I was prepared for any sacrifice in the cause of the drama. If Miss Laddhad met me in a proper spirit, do you know what I would have done?I would have played Macbeth in costume. Just hear me, and judge foryourself. I begin with a dreadful vacancy in my eyes, and a hollowmoaning in my voice: 'Is this a dagger that I see before me--?'"
Reciting with her face toward the trees, Emily started, dropped thecharacter of Macbeth, and instantly became herself again: herself, witha rising color and an angry brightening of the eyes. "Excuse me, I can'ttrust my memory: I must get the play." With that abrupt apology, shewalked away rapidly in the direction of the house.
In some surprise, Francine turned, and looked at the trees. Shediscovered--in full retreat, on his side--the eccentric drawing-master,Alban Morris.
Did he, too, admire the dagger-scene? And was he modestly desirous ofhearing it recited, without showing himself? In that case, why shouldEmily (whose besetting weakness was certainly not want of confidence inher own resources) leave the garden the moment she caught sight of him?Francine consulted her instincts. She had just arrived at a conclusionwhich expressed itself outwardly by a malicious smile, when gentleCecilia appeared on the lawn--a lovable object in a broad straw hatand a white dress, with a nosegay in her bosom--smiling, and fanningherself.
"It's so hot in the schoolroom," she said, "and some of the girls, poorthings, are so ill-tempered at rehearsal--I have made my escape. I hopeyou got your breakfast, Miss de Sor. What have you been doing here, allby yourself?"
"I have been making an interesting discovery," Francine replied.
"An interesting discovery in our garden? What _can_ it be?"
"The drawing-master, my dear, is in love with Emily. Perhaps she doesn'tcare about him. Or, perhaps, I have been an innocent obstacle in the wayof an appointment between them."
Cecilia had breakfasted to her heart's content on her favoritedish--buttered eggs. She was in such good spirits that she was inclinedto be coquettish, even when there was no man present to fascinate. "Weare not allowed to talk about love in this school," she said--and hidher face behind her fan. "Besides, if it came to Miss Ladd's ears, poorMr. Morris might lose his situation."
"But isn't it true?" asked Francine.
"It may be true, my dear; but nobody knows. Emily hasn't breathed a wordabout it to any of us. And Mr. Morris keeps his own secret. Now and thenwe catch him looking at her--and we draw our own conclusions."
"Did you meet Emily on your way here?"
"Yes, and she passed without speaking to me."
"Thinking perhaps of Mr. Morris."
Cecilia shook her head. "Thinking, Francine, of the new life beforeher--and regretting, I am afraid, that she ever confided her hopes andwishes to me. Did she tell you last night what her prospects are whenshe leaves school?"
"She told me you had been very kind in helping her. I daresay I shouldhave heard more, if I had not fallen asleep. What is she going to do?"
"To live in a dull house, far away in the north," Cecilia answered;"with only old people in it. She will have to write and translate for agreat scholar, who is studying mysterious inscriptions--hieroglyphics,I think they are called--found among the ruins of Central America. It'sreally no laughing matter, Francine! Emily made a joke of it, too. 'I'lltake anything but a situation as a governess,' she said; 'the childrenwho have Me to teach them would be to be pitied indeed!' She begged andprayed me to help her to get an honest living. What could I do? I couldonly write home to papa. He is a member of Parliament: and everybodywho wants a place seems to think he is bound to find it for them. As ithappened, he had heard from an old friend of his (a certain Sir JervisRedwood), who was in search of a secretary. Being in favor of lettingthe women compete for employment with the men, Sir Jervis was willing totry, what he calls, 'a female.' Isn't that a horrid way of speaking ofus? and Miss Ladd says it's ungrammatical, besides. Papa had writtenback to say he knew of no lady whom he could recommend. When he got myletter speaking of Emily, he kindly wrote again. In the interval, SirJervis had rec
eived two applications for the vacant place. They wereboth from old ladies--and he declined to employ them."
"Because they were old," Francine suggested maliciously.
"You shall hear him give his own reasons, my dear. Papa sent me anextract from his letter. It made me rather angry; and (perhaps for thatreason) I think I can repeat it word for word:--'We are four old peoplein this house, and we don't want a fifth. Let us have a young oneto cheer us. If your daughter's friend likes the terms, and is notencumbered with a sweetheart, I will send for her when the school breaksup at midsummer.' Coarse and selfish--isn't it? However, Emily didn'tagree with me, when I showed her the extract. She accepted the place,very much to her aunt's surprise and regret, when that excellent personheard of it. Now that the time has come (though Emily won't acknowledgeit), I believe she secretly shrinks, poor dear, from the prospect."
"Very likely," Francine agreed--without even a pretense of sympathy."But tell me, who are the four old people?"
"First, Sir Jervis himself--seventy, last birthday. Next, his unmarriedsister--nearly eighty. Next, his man-servant, Mr. Rook--well past sixty.And last, his man-servant's wife, who considers herself young, beingonly a little over forty. That is the household. Mrs. Rook is comingto-day to attend Emily on the journey to the North; and I am not at allsure that Emily will like her."
"A disagreeable woman, I suppose?"
"No--not exactly that. Rather odd and flighty. The fact is, Mrs. Rookhas had her troubles; and perhaps they have a little unsettled her. Sheand her husband used to keep the village inn, close to our park: we knowall about them at home. I am sure I pity these poor people. What are youlooking at, Francine?"
Feeling no sort of interest in Mr. and Mrs. Rook, Francine was studyingher schoolfellow's lovely face in search of defects. She had alreadydiscovered that Cecilia's eyes were placed too widely apart, and thather chin wanted size and character.
"I was admiring your complexion, dear," she answered coolly. "Well, andwhy do you pity the Rooks?"
Simple Cecilia smiled, and went on with her story.
"They are obliged to go out to service in their old age, through amisfortune for which they are in no way to blame. Their customersdeserted the inn, and Mr. Rook became bankrupt. The inn got what theycall a bad name--in a very dreadful way. There was a murder committed inthe house."
"A murder?" cried Francine. "Oh, this is exciting! You provoking girl,why didn't you tell me about it before?"
"I didn't think of it," said Cecilia placidly.
"Do go on! Were you at home when it happened?"
"I was here, at school."
"You saw the newspapers, I suppose?"
"Miss Ladd doesn't allow us to read newspapers. I did hear of it,however, in letters from home. Not that there was much in the letters.They said it was too horrible to be described. The poor murderedgentleman--"
Francine was unaffectedly shocked. "A gentleman!" she exclaimed. "Howdreadful!"
"The poor man was a stranger in our part of the country," Ceciliaresumed; "and the police were puzzled about the motive for a murder. Hispocketbook was missing; but his watch and his rings were found on thebody. I remember the initials on his linen because they were the sameas my mother's initial before she was married--'J. B.' Really, Francine,that's all I know about it."
"Surely you know whether the murderer was discovered?"
"Oh, yes--of course I know that! The government offered a reward; andclever people were sent from London to help the county police. Nothingcame of it. The murderer has never been discovered, from that time tothis."
"When did it happen?"
"It happened in the autumn."
"The autumn of last year?"
"No! no! Nearly four years since."
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