I Say No | Page 9

only tell you what I know from
my aunt. He died of heart-complaint."
Miss Jethro started.

Emily looked at her for the first time, with eyes that betrayed a feeling
of distrust. "What have I said to startle you?" she asked.
"Nothing! I am nervous in stormy weather--don't notice me." She went
on abruptly with her inquiries. "Will you tell me the date of your
father's death?"
"The date was the thirtieth of September, nearly four years since."
She waited, after that reply.
Miss Jethro was silent.
"And this," Emily continued, "is the thirtieth of June, eighteen hundred
and eighty-one. You can now judge for yourself. Did you know my
father?"
Miss Jethro answered mechanically, using the same words.
"I did know your father."
Emily's feeling of distrust was not set at rest. "I never heard him speak
of you," she said.
In her younger days the teacher must have been a handsome woman.
Her grandly-formed features still suggested the idea of imperial
beauty--perhaps Jewish in its origin. When Emily said, "I never heard
him speak of you," the color flew into her pallid cheeks: her dim eyes
became alive again with a momentary light. She left her seat on 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