Left by herself, Miss de Sor turned back again by way of thetrees.

So far, her interview with the drawing-master had helped to passthe time. Some girls might have found it no easy task to arriveat a true view of the character of Alban Morris. Francine'sessentially superficial observation set him down as "a littlemad," and left him there, judged and dismissed to her own entiresatisfaction.

Arriving at the lawn, she discovered Emily pacing backward andforward, with her head down and her hands behind her, deep inthought. Francine's high opinion of herself would have carriedher past any of the other girls, unless they had made specialadvances to her. She stopped and looked at Emily.

It is the sad fate of little women in general to grow too fat andto be born with short legs. Emily's slim finely-strung figurespoke for itself as to the first of these misfortunes, andasserted its happy freedom from the second, if she only walkedacross a room. Nature had built her, from head to foot, on askeleton-scaffolding in perfect proportion. Tall or short matterslittle to the result, in women who possess the first and foremostadvantage of beginning well in their bones. When they live to oldage, they often astonish thoughtless men, who walk behind them inthe street. "I give you my honor, she was as easy and upright asa young girl; and when you got in front of her and looked--whitehair, and seventy years of age."

Francine approached Emily, moved by a rare impulse in hernature--the impulse to be sociable. "You look out of spirits,"she began. "Surely you don't regret leaving school?"

In her present mood, Emily took the opportunity (in the popularphrase) of snubbing Francine. "You have guessed wrong; I doregret," she answered. "I have found in Cecilia my dearest friendat school. And school brought with it the change in my life whichhas helped me to bear the loss of my father. If you must knowwhat I was thinking of just now, I was thinking or my aunt. Shehas not answered my last letter--and I'm beginning to be afraidshe is ill."

"I'm very sorry," said Francine.

"Why? You don't know my aunt; and you have only known me sinceyesterday afternoon. Why are you sorry?"

Francine remained silent. Without realizing it, she was beginningto feel the dominant influence that Emily exercised over theweaker natures that came in contact with her. To find herselfirresistibly attracted by a stranger at a new school--anunfortunate little creature, whose destiny was to earn her ownliving--filled the narrow mind of Miss de Sor with perplexity.Having waited in vain for a reply, Emily turned away, and resumedthe train of thought which her schoolfellow had interrupted.

By an association of ideas, of which she was not herself aware,she now passed from thinking of her aunt to thinking of MissJethro. The interview of the previous night had dwelt on her mindat intervals, in the hours of the new day.

Acting on instinct rather than on reason, she had kept thatremarkable incident in her school life a secret from every one.No discoveries had been made by other persons. In speaking to herstaff of teachers, Miss Ladd had alluded to the affair in themost cautious terms. "Circumstances of a private nature haveobliged the lady to retire from my school. When we meet after theholidays, another teacher will be in her place." There, MissLadd's explanation had begun and ended. Inquiries addressed tothe servants had led to no result. Miss Jethro's luggage was tobe forwarded to the London terminus of the railway--and MissJethro herself had baffled investigation by leaving the school onfoot. Emily's interest in the lost teacher was not the transitoryinterest of curiosity; her father's mysterious friend was aperson whom she honestly desired to see again. Perplexed by thedifficulty of finding a means of tracing Miss Jethro, she reachedthe shady limit of the trees, and turned to walk back again.Approaching the place at which she and Francine had met, an ideaoccurred to her. It was just possible that Miss Jethro might notbe unknown to her aunt.

Still meditating on the cold reception that she had encountered,and still feeling the influence which mastered her in spite ofherself, Francine interpreted Emily's return as an impliedexpression of regret. She advanced with a constrained smile, andspoke first.

"How are the young ladies getting on in the schoolroom?" sheasked, by way of renewing the conversation.

Emily's face assumed a look of surprise which said plainly, Can'tyou take a hint and leave me to myself?

Francine was constitutionally impenetrable to reproof of thissort; her thick skin was not even tickled. "Why are you nothelping them," she went on; "you who have the clearest head amongus and take the lead in everything?"

It may be a humiliating confession to make, yet it is surely truethat we are all accessible to flattery. Different tastesappreciate different methods of burning incense--but the perfumeis more or less agreeable to all varieties of noses. Francine'smethod had its tranquilizing effect on Emily. She answeredindulgently, "Miss de Sor, I have nothing to do with it."

"Nothing to do with it? No prizes to win before you leaveschool?"

"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'sface reddened with anger the moment they were spoken. Havingalready irritated Alban Morris, unlucky Francine, by a secondmischievous interposition of accident, had succeeded in makingEmily smart next. "Who has told you," she burst out; "I insist onknowing!"

"Nobod y 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 thediscipline of silence. In a woman--never. Suddenly reminded ofher past wrongs (by the pardonable error of a politeschoolfellow), Emily committed the startling inconsistency ofappealing to the sympathies of Francine!

"Would you believe it? I have been forbidden to recite--I, thehead girl of the school. Oh, not to-day! It happened a monthago--when we were all in consultation, making our arrangements.Miss Ladd asked me if I had decided on a piece to recite. I said,'I have not only decided, I have learned the piece.' 'And whatmay it be?' 'The dagger-scene in Macbeth.' There was a howl--Ican call it by no other name--a howl of indignation. A man'ssoliloquy, and, worse still, a murdering man's soliloquy, recitedby one of Miss Ladd's young ladies, before an audience of parentsand guardians! That was the tone they took with me. I was as firmas a rock. The dagger-scene or nothing. The result is--nothing!An insult to Shakespeare, and an insult to Me. I felt it--I feelit still. I was prepared for any sacrifice in the cause of thedrama. If Miss Ladd had met me in a proper spirit, do you knowwhat I would have done? I would have played Macbeth in costume.Just hear me, and judge for yourself. I begin with a dreadfulvacancy in my eyes, and a hollow moaning in my voice: 'Is this adagger that I see before me--?'"

Reciting with her face toward the trees, Emily started, droppedthe character of Macbeth, and instantly became herself again:herself, with a rising color and an angry brightening of theeyes. "Excuse me, I can't trust my memory: I must get the play."With that abrupt apology, she walked away rapidly in thedirection of the house.

In some surprise, Francine turned, and looked at the trees. Shediscovered--in full retreat, on his side--the eccentricdrawing-master, Alban Morris.

Did he, too, admire the dagger-scene? And was he modestlydesirous of hearing it recited, without showing himself? In thatcase, why should Emily (whose besetting weakness was certainlynot want of confidence in her own resources) leave the garden themoment she caught sight of him? Francine consulted her instincts.She had just arrived at a conclusion which expressed itselfoutwardly by a malicious smile, when gentle Cecilia appeared onthe lawn--a lovable object in a broad straw hat and a whitedress, with a nosegay in her bosom--smiling, and fanning herself.

"It's so hot in the schoolroom," she said, "and some of thegirls, poor things, are so ill-tempered at rehearsal--I have mademy escape. I hope you got your breakfast, Miss de Sor. What haveyou been doing here, all by 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 shedoesn't care about him. Or, perhaps, I have been an innocentobstacle in the way of 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 wasinclined to be coquettish, even when there was no man present tofascinate. "We are not allowed to talk about love in thisschool," she said--and hid her face behind her fan. "Besides, ifit came to Miss Ladd's ears, poor Mr. Morris might lose hissituation."

"But isn't it true?" asked Francine.

"It may be true, my dear; but nobody knows. Emily hasn't breatheda word about it to any of us. And Mr. Morris keeps his ownsecret. Now and then we catch him looking at her--and we draw ourown 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 lifebefore her--and regretting, I am afraid, that she ever confidedher hopes and wishes to me. Did she tell you last night what herprospects are when she leaves school?"

"She told me you had been very kind in helping her. I daresay Ishould have heard more, if I had not fallen asleep. What is shegoing to do?"

"To live in a dull house, far away in the north," Ceciliaanswered; "with only old people in it. She will have to write andtranslate for a great scholar, who is studying mysteriousinscriptions--hieroglyphics, I think they are called--found amongthe ruins of Central America. It's really no laughing matter,Francine! Emily made a joke of it, too. 'I'll take anything but asituation as a governess,' she said; 'the children who have Me toteach them would be to be pitied indeed!' She begged and prayedme to help her to get an honest living. What could I do? I couldonly write home to papa. He is a member of Parliament: andeverybody who wants a place seems to think he is bound to find itfor them. As it happened, he had heard from an old friend of his(a certain Sir Jervis Redwood), who was in search of a secretary.Being in favor of letting the women compete for employment withthe men, Sir Jervis was willing to try, what he calls, 'afemale.' Isn't that a horrid way of speaking of us? and Miss Laddsays it's ungrammatical, besides. Papa had written back to say heknew of no lady whom he could recommend. When he got my letterspeaking of Emily, he kindly wrote again. In the interval, SirJervis had received two applications for the vacant place. Theywere both 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 mean extract from his letter. It made me rather angry; and (perhapsfor that reason) I think I can repeat it word for word:--'We arefour old people in this house, and we don't want a fifth. Let ushave a young one to cheer us. If your daughter's friend likes theterms, and is not encumbered with a sweetheart, I will send forher when the school breaks up at midsummer.' Coarse andselfish--isn't it? However, Emily didn't agree with me, when Ishowed her the extract. She accepted the place, very much to heraunt's surprise and regret, when that excellent person heard ofit. Now that the time has come (though Emily won't acknowledgeit), I believe she secretly shrinks, poor dear, from theprospect."

"Very likely," Francine agreed--without even a pretense ofsympathy. "But tell me, who are the four old people?"

"First, Sir Jervis himself--seventy, last birthday. Next, hisunmarried sister--nearly eighty. Next, his man-servant, Mr.Rook--well past sixty. And last, his man-servant's wife, whoconsiders herself young, being only a little over forty. That isthe household. Mrs. Rook is coming to-day to attend Emily on thejourney to the North; and I am not at all sure that Emily willlike her."

"A disagreeable woman, I suppose?"

"No--not exactly that. Rather odd and flighty. The fact is, Mrs.Rook has had her troubles; and perhaps they have a littleunsettled her. She and her husband used to keep the village inn,close to our park: we know all about them at home. I am sure Ipity these poor people. What are you looking at, Francine?"

Feeling no sort of interest in Mr. and Mrs. Rook, Francine wasstudying her schoolfellow's lovely face in search of defects. Shehad already discovered that Cecilia's eyes were placed too widelyapart, and that her chin wanted size and character.

"I was admiring your complexion, dear," she answered coolly."Well, and why 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, througha misfortune for which they are in no way to blame. Theircustomers deserted the inn, and Mr. Rook became bankrupt. The inngot what they call a bad name--in a very dreadful way. There wasa murder committed in the house."

"A murder?" cried Francine. "Oh, this is exciting! You provokinggirl, 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 w as 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 theletters. They said it was too horrible to be described. The poormurdered gentleman--"

Francine was unaffectedly shocked. "A gentleman!" she exclaimed."How dreadful!"

"The poor man was a stranger in our part of the country," Ceciliaresumed; "and the police were puzzled about the motive for amurder. His pocketbook was missing; but his watch and his ringswere found on the body. I remember the initials on his linenbecause they were the same as my mother's initial before she wasmarried--'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;and clever people were sent from London to help the countypolice. Nothing came of it. The murderer has never beendiscovered, from that time to this."

"When did it happen?"

"It happened in the autumn."

"The autumn of last year?"

"No! no! Nearly four years since."