Careful to perform his promise to Mirabel, without delay, the doctorcalled on Emily early in the morning--before the hour at which heusually entered his consulting-room.
"Well? What's the matter with the pretty young mistress?" he asked,in his most abrupt manner, when Mrs. Ellmother opened the door. "Is itlove? or jealousy? or a new dress with a wrinkle in it?"
"You will hear about it, sir, from Miss Emily herself. I am forbidden tosay anything."
"But you mean to say something--for all that?"
"Don't joke, Doctor Allday! The state of things here is a great deal tooserious for joking. Make up your mind to be surprised--I say no more."
Before the doctor could ask what this meant, Emily opened the parlordoor. "Come in!" she said, impatiently.
Doctor Allday's first greeting was strictly professional. "My dearchild, I never expected this," he began. "You are looking wretchedlyill." He attempted to feel her pulse. She drew her hand away from him.
"It's my mind that's ill," she answered. "Feeling my pulse won't cureme of anxiety and distress. I want advice; I want help. Dear old doctor,you have always been a good friend to me--be a better friend than evernow."
"What can I do?"
"Promise you will keep secret what I am going to say to you--and listen,pray listen patiently, till I have done."
Doctor Allday promised, and listened. He had been, in some degree atleast, prepared for a surprise--but the disclosure which now burst onhim was more than his equanimity could sustain. He looked at Emily insilent dismay. She had surprised and shocked him, not only by what shesaid, but by what she unconsciously suggested. Was it possible thatMirabel's personal appearance had produced on her the same impressionwhich was present in his own mind? His first impulse, when he wascomposed enough to speak, urged him to put the question cautiously.
"If you happened to meet with the suspected man," he said, "have you anymeans of identifying him?"
"None whatever, doctor. If you would only think it over--"
He stopped her there; convinced of the danger of encouraging her, andresolved to act on his conviction.
"I have enough to occupy me in my profession," he said. "Ask your otherfriend to think it over."
"What other friend?"
"Mr. Alban Morris."
The moment he pronounced the name, he saw that he had touched on somepainful association. "Has Mr. Morris refused to help you?" he inquired.
"I have not asked him to help me."
"Why?"
There was no choice (with such a man as Doctor Allday) between offendinghim or answering him. Emily adopted the last alternative. On thisoccasion she had no reason to complain of his silence.
"Your view of Mr. Morris's conduct surprises me," he replied--"surprisesme more than I can say," he added; remembering that he too was guiltyof having kept her in ignorance of the truth, out of regard--mistakenregard, as it now seemed to be--for her peace of mind.
"Be good to me, and pass it over if I am wrong," Emily said: "I can'tdispute with you; I can only tell you what I feel. You have always beenso kind to me--may I count on your kindness still?"
Doctor Allday relapsed into silence.
"May I at least ask," she went on, "if you know anything of persons--"She paused, discouraged by the cold expression of inquiry in the oldman's eyes as he looked at her.
"What persons?" he said.
"Persons whom I suspect."
"Name them."
Emily named the landlady of the inn at Zeeland: she could now place theright interpretation on Mrs. Rook's conduct, when the locket had beenput into her hand at Netherwoods. Doctor Allday answered shortly andstiffly: he had never even seen Mrs. Rook. Emily mentioned Miss Jethronext--and saw at once that she had interested him.
"What do you suspect Miss Jethro of doing?" he asked.
"I suspect her of knowing more of my father's death than she is willingto acknowledge," Emily replied.
The doctor's manner altered for the better. "I agree with you," he saidfrankly. "But I have some knowledge of that lady. I warn you not towaste time and trouble in trying to discover the weak side of MissJethro."
"That was not my experience of her at school," Emily rejoined. "At thesame time I don't know what may have happened since those days. I mayperhaps have lost the place I once held in her regard."
"How?"
"Through my aunt."
"Through your aunt?"
"I hope and trust I am wrong," Emily continued; "but I fear my aunt hadsomething to do with Miss Jethro's dismissal from the school--and inthat case Miss Jethro may have found it out." Her eyes, resting onthe doctor, suddenly brightened. "You know something about it!" sheexclaimed.
He considered a little--whether he should or should not tell her of theletter addressed by Miss Ladd to Miss Letitia, which he had found at thecottage.
"If I could satisfy you that your fears are well founded," he asked,"would the discovery keep you away from Miss Jethro?"
"I should be ashamed to speak to her--even if we met."
"Very well. I can tell you positively, that your aunt was the person whoturned Miss Jethro out of the school. When I get home, I will send you aletter that proves it."
Emily's head sank on her breast. "Why do I only hear of this now?" shesaid.
"Because I had no reason for letting you know of it, before to-day. IfI have done nothing else, I have at least succeeded in keeping you andMiss Jethro apart."
Emily looked at him in alarm. He went on without appearing to noticethat he had startled her. "I wish to God I could as easily put a stop tothe mad project which you are contemplating."
"The mad project?" Emily repeated. "Oh, Doctor Allday. Do you cruellyleave me to myself, at the time of all others, when I am most in need ofyour sympathy?"
That appeal moved him. He spoke more gently; he pitied, while hecondemned her.
"My poor dear child, I should be cruel indeed, if I encouraged you. Youare giving yourself up to an enterprise, so shockingly unsuited to ayoung girl like you, that I declare I contemplate it with horror. Think,I entreat you, think; and let me hear that you have yielded--not to mypoor entreaties--but to your own better sense!" His voice faltered; hiseyes moistened. "I shall make a fool of myself," he burst out furiously,"if I stay here any longer. Good-by."
He left her.
She walked to the window, and looked out at the fair morning. No one tofeel for her--no one to understand her--nothing nearer that could speakto poor mortality of hope and encouragement than the bright heaven, sofar away! She turned from the window. "The sun shines on the murderer,"she thought, "as it shines on me."
She sat down at the table, and tried to quiet her mind; to thinksteadily to some good purpose. Of the few friends that she possessed,every one had declared that she was in the wrong. Had _they_ lost theone loved being of all beings on earth, and lost him by the hand of ahomicide--and that homicide free? All that was faithful, all that wasdevoted in the girl's nature, held her to her desperate resolution aswith a hand of iron. If she shrank at that miserable moment, it was notfrom her design--it was from the sense of her own helplessness. "Oh, ifI had been a man!" she said to herself. "Oh, if I could find a friend!"