I Say No | Page 9

the bed, and, turning away, mastered the emotion that shook her.
"How hot the night is!" she said: and sighed, and resumed the subject with a steady countenance. "I am not surprised that your father never mentioned me--to you." She spoke quietly, but her face was paler than ever. She sat down again on the bed. "Is there anything I can do for you," she asked, "before I go away? Oh, I only mean some trifling service that would lay you under no obligation, and would not oblige you to keep up your acquaintance with me."
Her eyes--the dim black eyes that must once have been irresistibly beautiful--looked at Emily so sadly that the generous girl reproached herself for having doubted her father's friend. "Are you thinking of him," she said gently, "when you ask if you can be of service to me?"
Miss Jethro made no direct reply. "You were fond of your father?" she added, in a whisper. "You told your schoolfellow that your heart still aches when you speak of him."
"I only told her the truth," Emily answered simply.
Miss Jethro shuddered--on that hot night!--shuddered as if a chill had struck her.
Emily held out her hand; the kind feeling that had been roused in her glittered prettily in her eyes. "I am afraid I have not done you justice," she said. "Will you forgive me and shake hands?"
Miss Jethro rose, and drew back. "Look at the light!" she exclaimed.
The candle was all burned out. Emily still offered her hand--and still Miss Jethro refused to see it.
"There is just light enough left," she said, "to show me my way to the door. Good-night--and good-by."
Emily caught at her dress, and stopped her. "Why won't you shake hands with me?" she asked.
The wick of the candle fell over in the socket, and left them in the dark. Emily resolutely held the teacher's dress. With or without light, she was still bent on making Miss Jethro explain herself.
They had throughout spoken in guarded tones, fearing to disturb the sleeping girls. The sudden darkness had its inevitable effect. Their voices sank to whispers now. "My father's friend," Emily pleaded, "is surely my friend?"
"Drop the subject."
"Why?"
"You can never be my friend."
"Why not?"
"Let me go!"
Emily's sense of self-respect forbade her to persist any longer. "I beg your pardon for having kept you here against your will," she said--and dropped her hold on the dress.
Miss Jethro instantly yielded on her side. "I am sorry to have been obstinate," she answered. "If you do despise me, it is after all no more than I have deserved." Her hot breath beat on Emily's face: the unhappy woman must have bent over the bed as she made her confession. "I am not a fit person for you to associate with."
"I don't believe it!"
Miss Jethro sighed bitterly. "Young and warm hearted--I was once like you!" She controlled that outburst of despair. Her next words were spoken in steadier tones. "You will have it--you shall have it!" she said. "Some one (in this house or out of it; I don't know which) has betrayed me to the mistress of the school. A wretch in my situation suspects everybody, and worse still, does it without reason or excuse. I heard you girls talking when you ought to have been asleep. You all dislike me. How did I know it mightn't be one of you? Absurd, to a person with a well-balanced mind! I went halfway up the stairs, and felt ashamed of myself, and went back to my room. If I could only have got some rest! Ah, well, it was not to be done. My own vile suspicions kept me awake; I left my bed again. You know what I heard on the other side of that door, and why I was interested in hearing it. Your father never told me he had a daughter. 'Miss Brown,' at this school, was any 'Miss Brown,' to me. I had no idea of who you really were until to-night. I'm wandering. What does all this matter to you? Miss Ladd has been merciful; she lets me go without exposing me. You can guess what has happened. No? Not even yet? Is it innocence or kindness that makes you so slow to understand? My dear, I have obtained admission to this respectable house by means of false references, and I have been discovered. Now you know why you must not be the friend of such a woman as I am! Once more, good-night--and good-by."
Emily shrank from that miserable farewell.
"Bid me good-night," she said, "but don't bid me good-by. Let me see you again."
"Never!"
The sound of the softly-closed door was just audible in the darkness. She had spoken--she had gone--never to be seen by Emily again.
Miserable, interesting, unfathomable creature--the problem that night of Emily's waking thoughts: the phantom