I Say No. Wilkie Collins
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idols; he will keep you writing for him, without mercy, from morning to night; and when he does let you go, old Miss Redwood will find she can’t sleep, and will send for the pretty young lady-secretary to read to her. My husband I am sure you will like. He is a respectable man, and bears the highest character. Next to the idols, he’s the most hideous object in the house. If you are good enough to encourage him, I don’t say that he won’t amuse you; he will tell you, for instance, he never in his life hated any human being as he hates his wife. By the way, I must not forget—in the interests of truth, you know—to mention one drawback that does exist in our domestic circle. One of these days we shall have our brains blown out or our throats cut. Sir Jervis’s mother left him ten thousand pounds’ worth of precious stones all contained in a little cabinet with drawers. He won’t let the banker take care of his jewels; he won’t sell them; he won’t even wear one of the rings on his finger, or one of the pins at his breast. He keeps his cabinet on his dressing-room table; and he says, ‘I like to gloat over my jewels, every night, before I go to bed.’ Ten thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and what not—at the mercy of the first robber who happens to hear of them. Oh, my dear, he would have no choice, I do assure you, but to use his pistols. We shouldn’t quietly submit to be robbed. Sir Jervis inherits the spirit of his ancestors. My husband has the temper of a game cock. I myself, in defense of the property of my employers, am capable of becoming a perfect fiend. And we none of us understand the use of firearms!”
While she was in full enjoyment of this last aggravation of the horrors of the prospect, Emily tried another change of position—and, this time, with success. Greedy admiration suddenly opened Mrs. Rook’s little eyes to their utmost width. “My heart alive, miss, what do I see at your watch-chain? How they sparkle! Might I ask for a closer view?”
Emily’s fingers trembled; but she succeeded in detaching the locket from the chain. Alban handed it to Mrs. Rook.
She began by admiring the diamonds—with a certain reserve. “Nothing like so large as Sir Jervis’s diamonds; but choice specimens no doubt. Might I ask what the value—?”
She stopped. The inscription had attracted her notice: she began to read it aloud: “In loving memory of my father. Died—”
Her face instantly became rigid. The next words were suspended on her lips.
Alban seized the chance of making her betray herself—under pretense of helping her. “Perhaps you find the figures not easy to read,” he said. “The date is ‘thirtieth September, eighteen hundred and seventy-seven’—nearly four years since.”
Not a word, not a movement, escaped Mrs. Rook. She held the locket before her as she had held it from the first. Alban looked at Emily. Her eyes were riveted on the housekeeper: she was barely capable of preserving the appearance of composure. Seeing the necessity of acting for her, he at once said the words which she was unable to say for herself.
“Perhaps, Mrs. Rook, you would like to look at the portrait?” he suggested. “Shall I open the locket for you?”
Without speaking, without looking up, she handed the locket to Alban.
He opened it, and offered it to her. She neither accepted nor refused it: her hands remained hanging over the arms of the chair. He put the locket on her lap.
The portrait produced no marked effect on Mrs. Rook. Had the date prepared her to see it? She sat looking at it—still without moving: still without saying a word. Alban had no mercy on her. “That is the portrait of Miss Emily’s father,” he said. “Does it represent the same Mr. Brown whom you had in your mind when you asked me if Miss Emily’s father was still living?”
That question roused her. She looked up, on the instant; she answered loudly and insolently: “No!”
“And yet,” Alban persisted, “you broke down in reading the inscription: and considering what talkative woman you are, the portrait has had a strange effect on you—to say the least of it.”
She eyed him steadily while he was speaking—and turned to Emily when he had done. “You mentioned the heat just now, miss. The heat has overcome me; I shall soon get right again.”
The insolent futility of that excuse irritated Emily into answering her. “You will get right again perhaps all the sooner,” she said, “if we trouble you with no more questions, and leave you to recover by yourself.”
The first change of expression which relaxed the iron tensity of the housekeeper’s face showed itself when she heard that reply. At last there was a feeling in Mrs. Rook which openly declared itself—a feeling of impatience to see Alban and Emily leave the room.
They left her, without a word more.
CHAPTER X. GUESSES AT THE TRUTH.
“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