Miss De Sor and Miss Wyvil were still sitting together under the trees,
talking of the murder at the inn.
“And is that really all you can tell me?” said Francine.
“That is all,” Cecilia answered.
“Is there no love in it?”
“None that I know of.”
“It’s the most uninteresting murder that ever was committed. What shall
we do with ourselves? I’m tired of being here in the garden. When do the
performances in the schoolroom begin?”
“Not for two hours yet.”
Francine yawned. “And what part do you take in it?” she asked.
“No part, my dear. I tried once--only to sing a simple little song. When
I found myself standing before all the company and saw rows of ladies
and gentlemen waiting for me to begin, I was so frightened that Miss
Ladd had to make an apology for me. I didn’t get over it for the rest of
the day. For the first time in my life, I had no appetite for my dinner.
Horrible!” said Cecilia, shuddering over the remembrance of it. “I do
assure you, I thought I was going to die.”
Perfectly unimpressed by this harrowing narrative, Francine turned
her head lazily toward the house. The door was thrown open at the same
moment. A lithe little person rapidly descended the steps that led to
the lawn.
“It’s Emily come back again,” said Francine.
“And she seems to be rather in a hurry,” Cecilia remarked.
Francine’s satirical smile showed itself for a moment. Did this
appearance of hurry in Emily’s movements denote impatience to resume the
recital of “the dagger-scene”? She had no book in her hand; she never
even looked toward Francine. Sorrow became plainly visible in her face
as she approached the two girls.
Cecilia rose in alarm. She had been the first person to whom Emily had
confided her domestic anxieties. “Bad news from your aunt?” she asked.
“No, my dear; no news at all.” Emily put her arms tenderly round her
friend’s neck. “The time has come, Cecilia,” she said. “We must wish
each other good-by.”
“Is Mrs. Rook here already?”
“It’s _you_, dear, who are going,” Emily answered sadly. “They have sent
the governess to fetch you. Miss Ladd is too busy in the schoolroom to
see her--and she has told me all about it. Don’t be alarmed. There is no
bad news from home. Your plans are altered; that’s all.”
“Altered?” Cecilia repeated. “In what way?”
“In a very agreeable way--you are going to travel. Your father wishes
you to be in London, in time for the evening mail to France.”
Cecilia guessed what had happened. “My sister is not getting well,” she
said, “and the doctors are sending her to the Continent.”
“To the baths at St. Moritz,” Emily added. “There is only one difficulty
in the way; and you can remove it. Your sister has the good old
governess to take care of her, and the courier to relieve her of all
trouble on the journey. They were to have started yesterday. You know
how fond Julia is of you. At the last moment, she won’t hear of going
away, unless you go too. The rooms are waiting at St. Moritz; and your
father is annoyed (the governess says) by the delay that has taken place
already.”
She paused. Cecilia was silent. “Surely you don’t hesitate?” Emily said.
“I am too happy to go wherever Julia goes,” Cecilia answered warmly; “I
was thinking of you, dear.” Her tender nature, shrinking from the hard
necessities of life, shrank from the cruelly-close prospect of parting.
“I thought we were to have had some hours together yet,” she said. “Why
are we hurried in this way? There is no second train to London, from our
station, till late in the afternoon.”
“There is the express,” Emily reminded her; “and there is time to catch
it, if you drive at once to the town.” She took Cecilia’s hand and
pressed it to her bosom. “Thank you again and again, dear, for all you
have done for me. Whether we meet again or not, as long as I live I
shall love you. Don’t cry!” She made a faint attempt to resume her
customary gayety, for Cecilia’s sake. “Try to be as hard-hearted as I
am. Think of your sister--don’t think of me. Only kiss me.”
Cecilia’s tears fell fast. “Oh, my love, I am so anxious about you! I am
so afraid that you will not be happy with that selfish old man--in that
dreary house. Give it up, Emily! I have got plenty of money for both
of us; come abroad with me. Why not? You always got on well with Julia,
when you came to see us in the holidays. Oh, my darling! my darling!
What shall I do without you?”
All that longed for love in Emily’s nature had clung round her
school-friend since her father’s death. Turning deadly pale under the
struggle to control herself, she made the effort--and bore the pain of
it without letting a cry or a tear escape her. “Our ways in life lie far
apart,” she said gently. “There is the hope of meeting again, dear--if
there is nothing more.”
The clasp of Cecilia’s arm tightened round her. She tried to release
herself; but her resolution had reached its limits. Her hands dropped,
trembling. She could still try to speak cheerfully, and that was all.
“There is not the least reason, Cecilia, to be anxious about my
prospects. I mean to be Sir Jervis Redwood’s favorite before I have been
a week in his service.”
She stopped, and pointed to the house. The governess was approaching
them. “One more kiss, darling. We shall not forget the happy hours we
have spent together; we shall constantly write to each other.” She broke
down at last. “Oh, Cecilia! Cecilia! leave me for God’s sake--I can’t
bear it any longer!”
The governess parted them. Emily dropped into the chair that her friend
had left. Even her hopeful nature sank under the burden of life at that
moment.
A hard voice, speaking close at her side, startled her.
“Would you rather be Me,” the voice asked, “without a creature to care
for you?”
Emily raised her head. Francine, the unnoticed witness of the parting
interview, was standing by her, idly picking the leaves from a rose
which had dropped out of Cecilia’s nosegay.
Had she felt her own isolated position? She had felt it resentfully.
Emily looked at her, with a heart softened by sorrow. There was no
answering kindness in the eyes of Miss de Sor--there was only a dogged
endurance, sad to see in a creature so young.
“You and Cecilia are going to write to each other,” she said. “I suppose
there is some comfort in that. When I left the island they were glad to
get rid of me. They said, ‘Telegraph when you are safe at Miss Ladd’s
school.’ You see, we are so rich, the expense of telegraphing to the
West Indies is nothing to us. Besides, a telegram has an advantage over
a letter--it doesn’t take long to read. I daresay I shall write home.
But they are in no hurry; and I am in no hurry. The school’s breaking
up; you are going your way, and I am going mine--and who cares what
becomes of me? Only an ugly old schoolmistress, who is paid for caring.
I wonder why I am saying all this? Because I like you? I don’t know that
I like you any better than you like me. When I wanted to be friends with
you, you treated me coolly; I don’t want to force myself on you. I don’t
particularly care about you. May I write to you from Brighton?”
Under all this bitterness--the first exhibition of Francine’s temper, at
its worst, which had taken place since she joined the school--Emily saw,
or thought she saw, distress that was too proud, or too shy, to show
itself. “How can you ask the question?” she answered cordially.
Francine was incapable of meeting the sympathy offered to her, even half
way. “Never mind how,” she said. “Yes or no is all I want from you.”
“Oh, Francine! Francine! what are you made of! Flesh and blood? or stone
and iron? Write to me of course--and I will write back again.”
“Thank you. Are you going to stay here under the trees?”
“Yes.”
“All by yourself?”
“All by myself.”
“With nothing to do?”
“I can think of Cecilia.”
Francine eyed her with steady attention for a moment.
“Didn’t you tell me last night that you were very poor?” she asked.
“I did.”
“So poor that you are obliged to earn your own living?”
“Yes.”
Francine looked at her again.
“I daresay you won’t believe me,” she said. “I wish I was you.”
She turned away irritably, and walked back to the house.
Were there really longings for kindness and love under the surface of
this girl’s perverse nature? Or was there nothing to be hoped from a
better knowledge of her?--In place of tender remembrances of Cecilia,
these were the perplexing and unwelcome thoughts which the more potent
personality of Francine forced upon Emily’s mind.
She rose impatiently, and looked at her watch. When would it be her turn
to leave the school, and begin the new life?
Still undecided what to do next, her interest was excited by the
appearance of one of the servants on the lawn. The woman approached her,
and presented a visiting-card; bearing on it the name of _Sir Jervis
Redwood_. Beneath the name, there was a line written in pencil: “Mrs.
Rook, to wait on Miss Emily Brown.” The way to the new life was open
before her at last!
Looking again at the commonplace announcement contained in the line of
writing, she was not quite satisfied. Was it claiming a deference toward
herself, to which she was not entitled, to expect a letter either from
Sir Jervis, or from Miss Redwood; giving her some information as to
the journey which she was about to undertake, and expressing with some
little politeness the wish to make her comfortable in her future home?
At any rate, her employer had done her one service: he had reminded her
that her station in life was not what it had been in the days when her
father was living, and when her aunt was in affluent circumstances.
She looked up from the card. The servant had gone. Alban Morris was
waiting at a little distance--waiting silently until she noticed him.