Mrs. Ellmother--left in charge of Emily's place of abode, andfeeling sensible of her lonely position from time to time--hadjust thought of trying the cheering influence of a cup of tea,when she heard a cab draw up at the cottage gate. A violent ringat the bell followed. She opened the door--and found Emily on thesteps. One look at that dear and familiar face was enough for theold servant.

"God help us," she cried, "what's wrong now?"

Without a word of reply, Emily led the way into the bedchamberwhich had been the scene of Miss Letitia's death. Mrs. Ellmotherhesitated on the threshold.

"Why do you bring me in here?" she asked.

"Why did you try to keep me out?" Emily answered.

"When did I try to keep you out, miss?"

"When I came home from school, to nurse my aunt. Ah, you remembernow! Is it true--I ask you here, where your old mistress died--isit true that my aunt deceived me about my father's death? Andthat you knew it?"

There was dead silence. Mrs. Ellmother trembled horribly--herlips dropped apart--her eyes wandered round the room with a stareof idiotic terror. "Is it her ghost tells you that?" shewhispered. "Where is her ghost? The room whirls round and round,miss--and the air sings in my ears."

Emily sprang forward to support her. She staggered to a chair,and lifted her great bony hands in wild entreaty. "Don't frightenme," she said. "Stand back."

Emily obeyed her. She dashed the cold sweat off her forehead."You were talking about your father's death just now," she burstout, in desperate defiant tones. "Well! we know it and we aresorry for it--your father died suddenly."

"My father died murdered in the inn at Zeeland! All the long wayto London, I have tried to doubt it. Oh, me, I know it now!"

Answering in those words, she looked toward the bed. Harrowingremembrances of her aunt's delirious self-betrayal made the roomunendurable to her. She ran out. The parlor door was open.Entering the room, she passed by a portrait of her father, whichher aunt had hung on the wall over the fireplace. She threwherself on the sofa and burst into a passionate fit of crying."Oh, my father--my dear, gentle, loving father; my first, best,truest friend--murdered! murdered! Oh, God, where was yourjustice, where was your mercy, when he died that dreadful death?"

A hand was laid on her shoulder; a voice said to her, "Hush, mychild! God knows best."

Emily looked up, and saw that Mrs. Ellmother had followed her."You poor old soul," she said, suddenly remembering; "Ifrightened you in the other room."

"I have got over it, my dear. I am old; and I have lived a hardlife. A hard life schools a person. I make no complaints." Shestopped, and began to shudder again. "Will you believe me if Itell you something?" she asked. "I warned my self-willedmistress. Standing by your father's coffin, I warned her. Hidethe truth as you may (I said), a time will come when our childwill know what you are keeping from her now. One or both of usmay live to see it. I am the one who has lived; no refuge in thegrave for me. I want to hear about it--there's no fear offrightening or hurting me now. I want to hear how you found itout. Was it by accident, my dear? or did a person tell you?"

Emily's mind was far away from Mrs. Ellmother. She rose from thesofa, with her hands held fast over her aching heart.

"The one duty of my life," she said--"I am thinking of the oneduty of my life. Look! I am calm now; I am resigned to my hardlot. Never, never again, can the dear memory of my father be whatit was! From this time, it is the horrid memory of a crime. Thecrime has gone unpunished; the man has escaped others. He shallnot escape Me." She paused, and looked at Mrs. Ellmotherabsently. "What did you say just now? You want to hear how I knowwhat I know? Naturally! naturally! Sit down here--sit down, myold friend, on the sofa with me--and take your mind back toNetherwoods. Alban Morris--"

Mrs. Ellmother recoiled from Emily in dismay. "Don't tell me _he_had anything to do with it! The kindest of men; the best of men!"

"The man of all men living who least deserves your good opinionor mine," Emily answered sternly.

"You!" Mrs. Ellmother exclaimed, "_you_ say that!"

"I say it. He--who won on me to like him--he was in theconspiracy to deceive me; and you know it! He heard me talk ofthe newspaper story of the murder of my father--I say, he heardme talk of it composedly, talk of it carelessly, in the innocentbelief that it was the murder of a stranger--and he never openedhis lips to prevent that horrid profanation! He never even said,speak of something else; I won't hear you! No more of him! Godforbid I should ever see him again. No! Do what I told you. Carryyour mind back to Netherwoods. One night you let Francine de Sorfrighten you. You ran away from her into the garden. Keep quiet!At your age, must I set you an example of self-control?

"I want to know, Miss Emily, where Francinede Sor is now?"

"She is at the house in the country, which I have left."

"Where does she go next, if you please? Back to Miss Ladd?"

"I suppose so. What interest have you in knowing where she goesnext?"

"I won't interrupt you, miss. It's true that I ran away into thegarden. I can guess who followed me. How did she find her way tome and Mr. Morris, in the dark?"

"The smell of tobacco guided her--she knew who smoked--she hadseen him talking to you, on that very day--she followed thescent--she heard what you two said to each other--and she hasrepeated it to me. Oh, my old friend, the malice of a revengefulgirl has enlightened me, when you, my nurse--and he, mylover--left me in the dark: it has told me how my father died!"

"That's said bitterly, miss!"

"Is it said truly?"

"No. It isn't said truly of myself. God knows you would neverhave been kept in the dark, if your aunt had listened to me. Ibegged and prayed--I went down on my knees to her--I warned her,as I told you just now. Must I tell _you_ what a headstrong womanMiss Letitia was? She insisted. She put the choice before me ofleaving her at once and forever--or giving in. I wouldn't havegiven in to any other creature on the face of this earth. I amobstinate, as you have often told me. Well, your aunt's obstinacybeat mine; I was too fond of her to say No. Besides, if you askme who was to blame in the first place, I tell you it wasn't youraunt; she was frightened into it."

"Who frightened her?"

"Your godfather--the great London surgeon--he who was visiting inour house at the time."

"Sir Richard?"

"Yes--Sir Richard. He said he wouldn't answer for theconsequences, in the delicate state of your health, if we toldyou the truth. Ah, he had it all his own way after that. He wentwith Miss Letitia to the inquest; he won over the coroner and thenewspaper men to his will; he kept your aunt's name out of thepapers; he took charge of the coffin; he hired the undertaker andhis men, strangers from London; he wrote the certificate--who buthe! Everybody was cap in hand to the famous man!"

"Surely, the servants and the neighbors asked questions?"

"Hundreds of questions! What did that matter to Sir Richard? Theywere like so many children, in _his_ hands. And, mind you, theluck helped him. To begin with, there was the common name. Whowas to pick out your poor father among the thousands of JamesBrowns? Then, again, the house and lands went to the male heir,as they called him--the man your father quarreled with in thebygone time. He brought his own establishment with him. Longbefore you got back from the friends you were staying with--don'tyou remember it?--we had cleared out of the house; we were milesand miles away; and the old servants were scattered abroad,finding new situations wherever they could. How could you suspectus? We had nothing to fear in that way; but my conscience prickedme. I made another attempt to prevail on Miss Letitia, when youhad recovered your health. I said, 'There's no fear of a relapsenow; break it to her gently, but tell her the truth.' No! Youraunt was too fond of you. She daunted me with dreadful fits ofcrying, when I tried to persuade her. And that wasn't the worstof it. She bade me remember what an excitable man your fatherwas--she reminded me that the misery of your mother's death laidhim low with brain fever--she said, 'Emily takes after herfather; I have heard you say it yourself; she has hisconstitution, and his sensitive nerves. Don't you know how sheloved him--how she talks of him to this day? Who can tell (if weare not careful) what dreadful mischief we may do?' That was howmy mistress worked on me. I got infected with her fears; it wasas if I had caught an infection of disease. Oh, my dear, blame meif it must be; but don't forget how I have suffered for it since!I was driven away from my dying mistress, in terror of what shemight say, while you were watching at her bedside. I have livedin fear of what you might ask me--and have longed to go back toyou--and have not had the courage to do it. Look at me now!"

The poor woman tried to take out her handkerchief; her quiveringhand helplessly entangled itself in her dress. "I can't even drymy eyes," she said faintly. "Try to forgive me, miss!"

Emily put her arms round the old nurse's neck. "It is _you_," shesaid sadly, "who must forgive me."

For a while they were silent. Through the window that was open tothe little garden, came the one sound that could be heard--thegentle trembling of leaves in the evening wind.

The silence was harshly broken by the bell at the cottage door.They both started.

Emily's heart beat fast. "Who can it be?" she said.

Mrs. Ellmother rose. "Shall I say you can't see anybody?" sheasked, before leaving the room.

"Yes! yes!"

Emily heard the door opened--heard low voices in the passage.There was a momentary interval. Then, Mrs. Ellmother returned.She said nothing. Emily spoke to her.

"Is it a visitor?"

"Yes."

"Have you said I can't see anybody?"

"I couldn't say it."

"Why not?"

"Don't be hard on him, my dear. It's Mr. Alban Morris."