The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [1474]
"I suppose you have received my letter?" she resumed.
"I have come here to thank you for your letter."
"It was my duty to tell you of Sir Jervis's illness; I deserve no thanks."
"You have written to me so kindly," Alban reminded her; "you have referred to our difference of opinion, the last time I was here, so gently and so forgivingly--"
"If I had written a little later," she interposed, "the tone of my letter might have been less agreeable to you. I happened to send it to the post, before I received a visit from a friend of yours--a friend who had something to say to me after consulting with you."
"Do you mean Doctor Allday?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"What you wished him to say. He did his best; he was as obstinate and unfeeling as you could possibly wish him to be; but he was too late. I have written to Mrs. Rook, and I have received a reply." She spoke sadly, not angrily--and pointed to the letter lying on her desk.
Alban understood: he looked at her in despair. "Is that wretched woman doomed to set us at variance every time we meet!" he exclaimed.
Emily silently held out the letter.
He refused to take it. "The wrong you have done me is not to be set right in that way," he said. "You believe the doctor's visit was arranged between us. I never knew that he intended to call on you; I had no interest in sending him here--and I must not interfere again between you and Mrs. Rook."
"I don't understand you."
"You will understand me when I tell you how my conversation with Doctor Allday ended. I have done with interference; I have done with advice. Whatever my doubts may be, all further effort on my part to justify them--all further inquiries, no matter in what direction--are at an end: I made the sacrifice, for your sake. No! I must repeat what you said to me just now; I deserve no thanks. What I have done, has been done in deference to Doctor Allday--against my own convictions; in spite of my own fears. Ridiculous convictions! ridiculous fears! Men with morbid minds are their own tormentors. It doesn't matter how I suffer, so long as you are at ease. I shall never thwart you or vex you again. Have you a better opinion of me now?"
She made the best of all answers--she gave him her hand.
"May I kiss it?" he asked, as timidly as if he had been a boy addressing his first sweetheart.
She was half inclined to laugh, and half inclined to cry. "Yes, if you like," she said softly.
"Will you let me come and see you again?"
"Gladly--when I return to London."
"You are going away?"
"I am going to Brighton this afternoon, to stay with Miss Ladd."
It was hard to lose her, on the happy day when they understood each other at last. An expression of disappointment passed over his face. He rose, and walked restlessly to the window. "Miss Ladd?" he repeated, turning to Emily as if an idea had struck him. "Did I hear, at the school, that Miss de Sor was to spend the holidays under the care of Miss Ladd?"
"Yes."
"The same young lady," he went on, "who paid you a visit yesterday morning?"
"The same."
That haunting distrust of the future, which he had first betrayed and then affected to ridicule, exercised its depressing influence over his better sense. He was unreasonable enough to feel doubtful of Francine, simply because she was a stranger.
"Miss de Sor is a new friend of yours," he said. "Do you like her?"
It was not an easy question to answer--without entering into particulars which Emily's delicacy of feeling warned her to avoid. "I must know a little more of Miss de Sor," she said, "before I can decide."
Alban's misgivings were naturally encouraged by this evasive reply. He began to regret having left the cottage, on the previous day, when he had heard that Emily was engaged. He might have sent in his card, and might have been admitted. It was an opportunity lost of observing Francine.