Alban returned to Netherwoods--to continue his services, until another
master could be found to take his place.
By a later train Miss Ladd followed him. Emily was too well aware of the
importance of the mistress’s presence to the well-being of the school,
to permit her to remain at the cottage. It was understood that they were
to correspond, and that Emily’s room was waiting for her at Netherwoods,
whenever she felt inclined to occupy it.
Mrs. Ellmother made the tea, that evening, earlier than usual. Being
alone again with Emily, it struck her that she might take advantage of
her position to say a word in Alban’s favor. She had chosen her time
unfortunately. The moment she pronounced the name, Emily checked her by
a look, and spoke of another person--that person being Miss Jethro.
Mrs. Ellmother at once entered her protest, in her own downright way.
“Whatever you do,” she said, “don’t go back to that! What does Miss
Jethro matter to you?”
“I am more interested in her than you suppose--I happen to know why she
left the school.”
“Begging your pardon, miss, that’s quite impossible!”
“She left the school,” Emily persisted, “for a serious reason. Miss Ladd
discovered that she had used false references.”
“Good Lord! who told you that?”
“You see I know it. I asked Miss Ladd how she got her information. She
was bound by a promise never to mention the person’s name. I didn’t say
it to her--but I may say it to you. I am afraid I have an idea of who
the person was.”
“No,” Mrs. Ellmother obstinately asserted, “you can’t possibly know who
it was! How should you know?”
“Do you wish me to repeat what I heard in that room opposite, when my
aunt was dying?”
“Drop it, Miss Emily! For God’s sake, drop it!”
“I can’t drop it. It’s dreadful to me to have suspicions of my aunt--and
no better reason for them than what she said in a state of delirium.
Tell me, if you love me, was it her wandering fancy? or was it the
truth?”
“As I hope to be saved, Miss Emily, I can only guess as you do--I don’t
rightly know. My mistress trusted me half way, as it were. I’m afraid I
have a rough tongue of my own sometimes. I offended her--and from that
time she kept her own counsel. What she did, she did in the dark, so far
as I was concerned.”
“How did you offend her?”
“I shall be obliged to speak of your father if I tell you how?”
“Speak of him.”
“_He_ was not to blame--mind that!” Mrs. Ellmother said earnestly. “If I
wasn’t certain of what I say now you wouldn’t get a word out of me. Good
harmless man--there’s no denying it--he _was_ in love with Miss Jethro!
What’s the matter?”
Emily was thinking of her memorable conversation with the disgraced
teacher on her last night at school. “Nothing” she answered. “Go on.”
“If he had not tried to keep it secret from us,” Mrs. Ellmother resumed,
“your aunt might never have taken it into her head that he was entangled
in a love affair of the shameful sort. I don’t deny that I helped her in
her inquiries; but it was only because I felt sure from the first that
the more she discovered the more certainly my master’s innocence would
show itself. He used to go away and visit Miss Jethro privately. In the
time when your aunt trusted me, we never could find out where. She
made that discovery afterward for herself (I can’t tell you how long
afterward); and she spent money in employing mean wretches to pry into
Miss Jethro’s past life. She had (if you will excuse me for saying it)
an old maid’s hatred of the handsome young woman, who lured your father
away from home, and set up a secret (in a manner of speaking) between
her brother and herself. I won’t tell you how we looked at letters and
other things which he forgot to leave under lock and key. I will only
say there was one bit, in a journal he kept, which made me ashamed of
myself. I read it out to Miss Letitia; and I told her in so many words,
not to count any more on me. No; I haven’t got a copy of the words--I
can remember them without a copy. ‘Even if my religion did not forbid
me to peril my soul by leading a life of sin with this woman whom I
love’--that was how it began--‘the thought of my daughter would keep
me pure. No conduct of mine shall ever make me unworthy of my child’s
affection and respect.’ There! I’m making you cry; I won’t stay here any
longer. All that I had to say has been said. Nobody but Miss Ladd knows
for certain whether your aunt was innocent or guilty in the matter
of Miss Jethro’s disgrace. Please to excuse me; my work’s waiting
downstairs.”
From time to time, as she pursued her domestic labors, Mrs. Ellmother
thought of Mirabel. Hours on hours had passed--and the doctor had not
appeared. Was he too busy to spare even a few minutes of his time? Or
had the handsome little gentleman, after promising so fairly, failed to
perform his errand? This last doubt wronged Mirabel. He had engaged to
return to the doctor’s house; and he kept his word.
Doctor Allday was at home again, and was seeing patients. Introduced
in his turn, Mirabel had no reason to complain of his reception. At the
same time, after he had stated the object of his visit, something odd
began to show itself in the doctor’s manner.
He looked at Mirabel with an appearance of uneasy curiosity; and he
contrived an excuse for altering the visitor’s position in the room, so
that the light fell full on Mirabel’s face.
“I fancy I must have seen you,” the doctor said, “at some former time.”
“I am ashamed to say I don’t remember it,” Mirabel answered.
“Ah, very likely I’m wrong! I’ll call on Miss Emily, sir, you may depend
on it.”
Left in his consulting-room, Doctor Allday failed to ring the bell which
summoned the next patient who was waiting for him. He took his diary
from the table drawer, and turned to the daily entries for the past
month of July.
Arriving at the fifteenth day of the month, he glanced at the first
lines of writing: “A visit from a mysterious lady, calling herself Miss
Jethro. Our conference led to some very unexpected results.”
No: that was not what he was in search of. He looked a little lower
down: and read on regularly, from that point, as follows:
“Called on Miss Emily, in great anxiety about the discoveries which
she might make among her aunt’s papers. Papers all destroyed, thank
God--except the Handbill, offering a reward for discovery of the
murderer, which she found in the scrap-book. Gave her back the Handbill.
Emily much surprised that the wretch should have escaped, with such
a careful description of him circulated everywhere. She read the
description aloud to me, in her nice clear voice: ‘Supposed age between
twenty-five and thirty years. A well-made man of small stature. Fair
complexion, delicate features, clear blue eyes. Hair light, and
cut rather short. Clean shaven, with the exception of narrow
half-whiskers’--and so on. Emily at a loss to understand how the
fugitive could disguise himself. Reminded her that he could effectually
disguise his head and face (with time to help him) by letting his hair
grow long, and cultivating his beard. Emily not convinced, even by this
self-evident view of the case. Changed the subject.”
The doctor put away his diary, and rang the bell.
“Curious,” he thought. “That dandified little clergyman has certainly
reminded me of my discussion with Emily, more than two months since. Was
it his flowing hair, I wonder? or his splendid beard? Good God! suppose
it should turn out--?”
He was interrupted by the appearance of his patient. Other ailing people
followed. Doctor Allday’s mind was professionally occupied for the rest
of the evening.