“What are we to do next? Oh, Mr. Morris, you must have seen all sorts of
people in your time--you know human nature, and I don’t. Help me with a
word of advice!”
Emily forgot that he was in love with her--forgot everything, but the
effect produced by the locket on Mrs. Rook, and the vaguely alarming
conclusion to which it pointed. In the fervor of her anxiety she took
Alban’s arm as familiarly as if he had been her brother. He was gentle,
he was considerate; he tried earnestly to compose her. “We can do
nothing to any good purpose,” he said, “unless we begin by thinking
quietly. Pardon me for saying so--you are needlessly exciting yourself.”
There was a reason for her excitement, of which he was necessarily
ignorant. Her memory of the night interview with Miss Jethro had
inevitably intensified the suspicion inspired by the conduct of Mrs.
Rook. In less than twenty-four hours, Emily had seen two women shrinking
from secret remembrances of her father--which might well be guilty
remembrances--innocently excited by herself! How had they injured him?
Of what infamy, on their parts, did his beloved and stainless memory
remind them? Who could fathom the mystery of it? “What does it mean?”
she cried, looking wildly in Alban’s compassionate face. “You _must_
have formed some idea of your own. What does it mean?”
“Come, and sit down, Miss Emily. We will try if we can find out what it
means, together.”
They returned to the shady solitude under the trees. Away, in front of
the house, the distant grating of carriage wheels told of the arrival of
Miss Ladd’s guests, and of the speedy beginning of the ceremonies of the
day.
“We must help each other,” Alban resumed.
“When we first spoke of Mrs. Rook, you mentioned Miss Cecilia Wyvil as
a person who knew something about her. Have you any objection to tell me
what you may have heard in that way?”
In complying with his request Emily necessarily repeated what Cecilia
had told Francine, when the two girls had met that morning in the
garden.
Alban now knew how Emily had obtained employment as Sir Jervis’s
secretary; how Mr. and Mrs. Rook had been previously known to Cecilia’s
father as respectable people keeping an inn in his own neighborhood;
and, finally, how they had been obliged to begin life again in domestic
service, because the terrible event of a murder had given the inn a bad
name, and had driven away the customers on whose encouragement their
business depended.
Listening in silence, Alban remained silent when Emily’s narrative had
come to an end.
“Have you nothing to say to me?” she asked.
“I am thinking over what I have just heard,” he answered.
Emily noticed a certain formality in his tone and manner, which
disagreeably surprised her. He seemed to have made his reply as a mere
concession to politeness, while he was thinking of something else which
really interested him.
“Have I disappointed you in any way?” she asked.
“On the contrary, you have interested me. I want to be quite sure that
I remember exactly what you have said. You mentioned, I think, that your
friendship with Miss Cecilia Wyvil began here, at the school?”
“Yes.”
“And in speaking of the murder at the village inn, you told me that the
crime was committed--I have forgotten how long ago?”
His manner still suggested that he was idly talking about what she
had told him, while some more important subject for reflection was in
possession of his mind.
“I don’t know that I said anything about the time that had passed since
the crime was committed,” she answered, sharply. “What does the murder
matter to _us?_ I think Cecilia told me it happened about four years
since. Excuse me for noticing it, Mr. Morris--you seem to have some
interests of your own to occupy your attention. Why couldn’t you say so
plainly when we came out here? I should not have asked you to help me,
in that case. Since my poor father’s death, I have been used to fight
through my troubles by myself.”
She rose, and looked at him proudly. The next moment her eyes filled
with tears.
In spite of her resistance, Alban took her hand. “Dear Miss Emily,” he
said, “you distress me: you have not done me justice. Your interests
only are in my mind.”
Answering her in those terms, he had not spoken as frankly as usual. He
had only told her a part of the truth.
Hearing that the woman whom they had just left had been landlady of an
inn, and that a murder had been committed under her roof, he was led to
ask himself if any explanation might be found, in these circumstances,
of the otherwise incomprehensible effect produced on Mrs. Rook by the
inscription on the locket.
In the pursuit of this inquiry there had arisen in his mind a monstrous
suspicion, which pointed to Mrs. Rook. It impelled him to ascertain
the date at which the murder had been committed, and (if the discovery
encouraged further investigation) to find out next the manner in which
Mr. Brown had died.
Thus far, what progress had he made? He had discovered that the date of
Mr. Brown’s death, inscribed on the locket, and the date of the crime
committed at the inn, approached each other nearly enough to justify
further investigation.
In the meantime, had he succeeded in keeping his object concealed
from Emily? He had perfectly succeeded. Hearing him declare that her
interests only had occupied his mind, the poor girl innocently entreated
him to forgive her little outbreak of temper. “If you have any more
questions to ask me, Mr. Morris, pray go on. I promise never to think
unjustly of you again.”
He went on with an uneasy conscience--for it seemed cruel to deceive
her, even in the interests of truth--but still he went on.
“Suppose we assume that this woman had injured your father in some
way,” he said. “Am I right in believing that it was in his character to
forgive injuries?”
“Entirely right.”
“In that case, his death may have left Mrs. Rook in a position to be
called to account, by those who owe a duty to his memory--I mean the
surviving members of his family.”
“There are but two of us, Mr. Morris. My aunt and myself.”
“There are his executors.”
“My aunt is his only executor.”
“Your father’s sister--I presume?”
“Yes.”
“He may have left instructions with her, which might be of the greatest
use to us.”
“I will write to-day, and find out,” Emily replied. “I had already
planned to consult my aunt,” she added, thinking again of Miss Jethro.
“If your aunt has not received any positive instructions,” Alban
continued, “she may remember some allusion to Mrs. Rook, on your
father’s part, at the time of his last illness--”
Emily stopped him. “You don’t know how my dear father died,” she said.
“He was struck down--apparently in perfect health--by disease of the
heart.”
“Struck down in his own house?”
“Yes--in his own house.”
Those words closed Alban’s lips. The investigation so carefully and so
delicately conducted had failed to serve any useful purpose. He had now
ascertained the manner of Mr. Brown’s death and the place of Mr. Brown’s
death--and he was as far from confirming his suspicions of Mrs. Rook as
ever.