Part 22 (1/2)

Early in the new week, Emily had accepted Sir Jervis's proposal, and had so interested the bookseller to whom she had been directed to apply, that he took it on himself to modify the arbitrary instructions of his employer.

”The old gentleman has no mercy on himself, and no mercy on others,”

he explained, ”where his literary labors are concerned. You must spare yourself, Miss Emily. It is not only absurd, it's cruel, to expect you to ransack old newspapers for discoveries in Yucatan, from the time when Stephens published his 'Travels in Central America'--nearly forty years since! Begin with back numbers published within a few years--say five years from the present date--and let us see what your search over that interval will bring forth.”

Accepting this friendly advice, Emily began with the newspaper-volume dating from New Year's Day, 1876.

The first hour of her search strengthened the sincere sense of grat.i.tude with which she remembered the bookseller's kindness. To keep her attention steadily fixed on the one subject that interested her employer, and to resist the temptation to read those miscellaneous items of news which especially interest women, put her patience and resolution to a merciless test. Happily for herself, her neighbors on either side were no idlers. To see them so absorbed over their work that they never once looked at her, after the first moment when she took her place between them, was to find exactly the example of which she stood most in need. As the hours wore on, she pursued her weary way, down one column and up another, resigned at least (if not quite reconciled yet) to her task. Her labors ended, for the day, with such encouragement as she might derive from the conviction of having, thus far, honestly pursued a useless search.

News was waiting for her when she reached home, which raised her sinking spirits.

On leaving the cottage that morning she had given certain instructions, relating to the modest stranger who had taken charge of her correspondence--in case of his paying a second visit, during her absence at the Museum. The first words spoken by the servant, on opening the door, informed her that the unknown gentleman had called again. This time he had boldly left his card. There was the welcome name that she had expected to see--Alban Morris.

CHAPTER XXII. ALBAN MORRIS.

Having looked at the card, Emily put her first question to the servant.

”Did you tell Mr. Morris what your orders were?” she asked.

”Yes, miss; I said I was to have shown him in, if you had been at home.

Perhaps I did wrong; I told him what you told me when you went out this morning--I said you had gone to read at the Museum.”

”What makes you think you did wrong?”

”Well, miss, he didn't say anything, but he looked upset.”

”Do you mean that he looked angry?”

The servant shook her head. ”Not exactly angry--puzzled and put out.”

”Did he leave any message?”

”He said he would call later, if you would be so good as to receive him.”

In half an hour more, Alban and Emily were together again. The light fell full on her face as she rose to receive him.

”Oh, how you have suffered!”

The words escaped him before he could restrain himself. He looked at her with the tender sympathy, so precious to women, which she had not seen in the face of any human creature since the loss of her aunt. Even the good doctor's efforts to console her had been efforts of professional routine--the inevitable result of his life-long familiarity with sorrow and death. While Alban's eyes rested on her, Emily felt her tears rising. In the fear that he might misinterpret her reception of him, she made an effort to speak with some appearance of composure.

”I lead a lonely life,” she said; ”and I can well understand that my face shows it. You are one of my very few friends, Mr. Morris”--the tears rose again; it discouraged her to see him standing irresolute, with his hat in his hand, fearful of intruding on her. ”Indeed, indeed, you are welcome,” she said, very earnestly.

In those sad days her heart was easily touched. She gave him her hand for the second time. He held it gently for a moment. Every day since they had parted she had been in his thoughts; she had become dearer to him than ever. He was too deeply affected to trust himself to answer.

That silence pleaded for him as nothing had pleaded for him yet. In her secret self she remembered with wonder how she had received his confession in the school garden. It was a little hard on him, surely, to have forbidden him even to hope.

Conscious of her own weakness--even while giving way to it--she felt the necessity of turning his attention from herself. In some confusion, she pointed to a chair at her side, and spoke of his first visit, when he had left her letters at the door. Having confided to him all that she had discovered, and all that she had guessed, on that occasion, it was by an easy transition that she alluded next to the motive for his journey to the North.

”I thought it might be suspicion of Mrs. Rook,” she said. ”Was I mistaken?”