Out of the music room, and away from his violin, the sound side of Mr. Wyvil’s character was free to assert itself. In his public and in his private capacity, he was an eminently sensible man.
As a member of parliament, he set an example which might have been followed with advantage by many of his colleagues. In the first place he abstained from hastening the downfall of representative institutions by asking questions and making speeches. In the second place, he was able to distinguish between the duty that he owed to his party, and the duty that he owed to his country. When the Legislature acted politically—that is to say, when it dealt with foreign complications, or electoral reforms—he followed his leader. When the Legislature acted socially—that is to say, for the good of the people—he followed his conscience. On the last occasion when the great Russian bugbear provoked a division, he voted submissively with his Conservative allies. But, when the question of opening museums and picture galleries on Sundays arrayed the two parties in hostile camps, he broke into open mutiny, and went over to the Liberals. He consented to help in preventing an extension of the franchise; but he refused to be concerned in obstructing the repeal of taxes on knowledge. “I am doubtful in the first case,” he said, “but I am sure in the second.” He was asked for an explanation: “Doubtful of what? and sure of what?” To the astonishment of his leader, he answered: “The benefit to the people.” The same sound sense appeared in the transactions of his private life. Lazy and dishonest servants found that the gentlest of masters had a side to his character which took them by surprise. And, on certain occasions in the experience of Cecilia and her sister, the most indulgent of fathers proved to be as capable of saying No, as the sternest tyrant who ever ruled a fireside.
Called into council by his daughter and his guest, Mr. Wyvil assisted them by advice which was equally wise and kind—but which afterward proved, under the perverse influence of circumstances, to be advice that he had better not have given.
The letter to Emily which Cecilia had recommended to her father’s consideration, had come from Netherwoods, and had been written by Alban Morris.
He assured Emily that he had only decided on writing to her, after some hesitation, in the hope of serving interests which he did not himself understand, but which might prove to be interests worthy of consideration, nevertheless. Having stated his motive in these terms, he proceeded to relate what had passed between Miss Jethro and himself. On the subject of Francine, Alban only ventured to add that she had not produced a favorable impression on him, and that he could not think her likely, on further experience, to prove a desirable friend.
On the last leaf were added some lines, which Emily was at no loss how to answer. She had folded back the page, so that no eyes but her own should see how the poor drawing-master finished his letter: “I wish you all possible happiness, my dear, among your new friends; but don’t forget the old friend who thinks of you, and dreams of you, and longs to see you again. The little world I live in is a dreary world, Emily, in your absence. Will you write to me now and then, and encourage me to hope?”
Mr. Wyvil smiled, as he looked at the folded page, which hid the signature.
“I suppose I may take it for granted,” he said slyly, “that this gentleman really has your interests at heart? May I know who he is?”
Emily answered the last question readily enough. Mr. Wyvil went on with his inquiries. “About the mysterious lady, with the strange name,” he proceeded—“do you know anything of her?”
Emily related what she knew; without revealing the true reason for Miss Jethro’s departure from Netherwoods. In after years, it was one of her most treasured remembrances, that she had kept secret the melancholy confession which had startled her, on the last night of her life at school.
Mr. Wyvil looked at Alban’s letter again. “Do you know how Miss Jethro became acquainted with Mr. Mirabel?” he asked.
“I didn’t even know that they were acquainted.”
“Do you think it likely—if Mr. Morris had been talking to you instead of writing to you—that he might have said more than he has said in his letter?”
Cecilia had hitherto remained a model of discretion. Seeing Emily hesitate, temptation overcame her. “Not a doubt of it, papa!” she declared confidently.
“Is Cecilia right?” Mr. Wyvil inquired.
Reminded in this way of her influence over Alban, Emily could only make one honest reply. She admitted that Cecilia was right.
Mr. Wyvil thereupon advised her not to express any opinion, until she was in a better position to judge for herself. “When you write to Mr. Morris,” he continued, “say that you will wait to tell him what you think of Miss Jethro, until you see him again.”
“I have no prospect at present of seeing him again,” Emily said.
“You can see Mr. Morris whenever it suits him to come here,” Mr. Wyvil replied. “I will write and ask him to visit us, and you can inclose the invitation in your letter.”
“Oh, Mr. Wyvil, how good of you!”
“Oh, papa, the very thing I was going to ask you to do!”
The excellent master of Monksmoor looked unaffectedly surprised. “What are you two young ladies making a fuss about?” he said. “Mr. Morris is a gentleman by profession; and—may I venture to say it, Miss Emily?—a valued friend of yours as well. Who has a better claim to be one of my guests?”
Cecilia stopped her father as he was about to leave the room. “I suppose we mustn’t ask Mr. Mirabel what he knows of Miss Jethro?” she said.
“My dear, what can you be thinking of? What right have we to question Mr. Mirabel about Miss Jethro?”
“It’s so very unsatisfactory, papa. There must be some reason why Emily and Mr. Mirabel ought not to meet—or why should Miss Jethro have been so very earnest about it?”
“Miss Jethro doesn’t intend us to know why, Cecilia. It will perhaps come out in time. Wait for time.”
Left together, the girls discussed the course which Alban would probably take, on receiving Mr. Wyvil’s invitation.
“He will only be too glad,” Cecilia asserted, “to have the opportunity of seeing you again.”
“I doubt whether he will care about seeing me again, among strangers,” Emily replied. “And you forget that there are obstacles in his way. How is he to leave his class?”
“Quite easily! His class doesn’t meet on the Saturday half-holiday. He can be here, if he starts early, in time for luncheon; and he can stay till Monday or Tuesday.”
“Who is to take his place at the school?”
“Miss Ladd, to be sure—ifyoumake a point of it. Write to her, as well as to Mr. Morris.”
The letters being written—and the order having been given to prepare a room for the expected guest—Emily and Cecilia returned to the drawing-room. They found the elders of the party variously engaged—the men with newspapers, and the ladies with work. Entering the conservatory next, they discovered Cecilia’s sister languishing among the flowers in an easy chair. Constitutional laziness, in some young ladies, assumes an invalid character, and presents the interesting spectacle of perpetual convalescence. The doctor declared that the baths at St. Moritz had cured Miss Julia. Miss Julia declined to agree with the doctor.
“Come into the garden with Emily and me,” Cecilia said.
“Emily and you don’t know what it is to be ill,” Julia answered.
The two girls left her, and joined the young people who were amusing themselves in the garden. Francine had taken possession of Mirabel, and had condemned him to hard labor in swinging her. He made an attempt to get away when Emily and Cecilia approached, and was peremptorily recalled to his duty. “Higher!” cried Miss de Sor, in her hardest tones of authority. “I want to swing higher than anybody else!” Mirabel submitted with gentleman-like resignation, and was rewarded by tender encouragement expressed in a look.
“Do you see that?” Cecilia whispered. “He knows how rich she is—I wonder whether he will marry her.”
Emily smiled. “I doubt it, while he is in this house,” she said. “You are as rich as Francine—and don’t forget that you have other attractions as well.”
Cecilia shook her head. “Mr. Mirabel is very nice,” she admitted; “but I wouldn’t marry him. Would you?”
Emily secretly compared Alban with Mirabel. “Not for the world!” she answered.
The next day was the day of Mirabel’s departure. His admirers among the ladies followed him out to the door, at which Mr. Wyvil’s carriage was waiting. Francine threw a nosegay after the departing guest as he got in. “Mind you come back to us on Monday!” she said. Mirabel bowed and thanked her; but his last look was for Emily, standing apart from the others at the top of the steps. Francine said nothing; her lips closed convulsively—she turned suddenly pale.
On the Monday, a plowboy from Vale Regis arrived at Monksmoor.
In respect of himself, he was a person beneath notice. In respect of his errand, he was sufficiently important to cast a gloom over the household. The faithless Mirabel had broken his engagement, and the plowboy was the herald of misfortune who brought his apology. To his great disappointment (he wrote) he was detained by the affairs of his parish. He could only trust to Mr. Wyvil’s indulgence to excuse him, and to communicate his sincere sense of regret (on scented note paper) to the ladies.
Everybody believed in the affairs of the parish—with the exception of Francine. “Mr. Mirabel has made the best excuse he could think of for shortening his visit; and I don’t wonder at it,” she said, looking significantly at Emily.
Emily was playing with one of the dogs; exercising him in the tricks which he had learned. She balanced a morsel of sugar on his nose—and had no attention to spare for Francine.
Cecilia, as the mistress of the house, felt it her duty to interfere. “That is a strange remark to make,” she answered. “Do you mean to say that we have driven Mr. Mirabel away from us?”
“I accuse nobody,” Francine began with spiteful candor.
“Now she’s going to accuse everybody!” Emily interposed, addressing herself facetiously to the dog.
“But when girls are bent on fascinating men, whether they like it or not,” Francine proceeded, “men have only one alternative—they must keep out of the way.” She looked again at Emily, more pointedly than ever.
Even gentle Cecilia resented this. “Whom do you refer to?” she said sharply.
“My dear!” Emily remonstrated, “need you ask?” She glanced at Francine as she spoke, and then gave the dog his signal. He tossed up the sugar, and caught it in his mouth. His audience applauded him—and so, for that time, the skirmish ended.
Among the letters of the next morning’s delivery, arrived Alban’s reply. Emily’s anticipations proved to be correct. The drawing-master’s duties would not permit him to leave Netherwoods; and he, like Mirabel, sent his apologies. His short letter to Emily contained no further allusion to Miss Jethro; it began and ended on the first page.
Had he been disappointed by the tone of reserve in which Emily had written to him, under Mr. Wyvil’s advice? Or (as Cecilia suggested) had his detention at the school so bitterly disappointed him that he was too disheartened to write at any length? Emily made no attempt to arrive at a conclusion, either one way or the other. She seemed to be in depressed spirits; and she spoke superstitiously, for the first time in Cecilia’s experience of her.
“I don’t like this reappearance of Miss Jethro,” she said. “If the mystery about that woman is ever cleared up, it will bring trouble and sorrow to me—and I believe, in his own secret heart, Alban Morris thinks so too.”
“Write, and ask him,” Cecilia suggested.
“He is so kind and so unwilling to distress me,” Emily answered, “that he wouldn’t acknowledge it, even if I am right.”
In the middle of the week, the course of private life at Monksmoor suffered an interruption—due to the parliamentary position of the master of the house.
The insatiable appetite for making and hearing speeches, which represents one of the marked peculiarities of the English race (including their cousins in the United States), had seized on Mr. Wyvil’s constituents. There was to be a political meeting at the market hall, in the neighboring town; and the member was expected to make an oration, passing in review contemporary events at home and abroad. “Pray don’t think of accompanying me,” the good man said to his guests. “The hall is badly ventilated, and the speeches, including my own, will not be worth hearing.”
This humane warning was ungratefully disregarded. The gentlemen were all interested in “the objects of the meeting”; and the ladies were firm in the resolution not to be left at home by themselves. They dressed with a view to the large assembly of spectators before whom they were about to appear; and they outtalked the men on political subjects, all the way to the town.
The most delightful of surprises was in store for them, when they reached the market hall. Among the crowd of ordinary gentlemen, waiting under the portico until the proceedings began, appeared one person of distinction, whose title was “Reverend,” and whose name was Mirabel.
Francine was the first to discover him. She darted up the steps and held out her hand.
“Thisisa pleasure!” she cried. “Have you come here to see—” she was about to say Me, but, observing the strangers round her, altered the word to Us. “Please give me your arm,” she whispered, before her young friends had arrived within hearing. “I am so frightened in a crowd!”
She held fast by Mirabel, and kept a jealous watch on him. Was it only her fancy? or did she detect a new charm in his smile when he spoke to Emily?
Before it was possible to decide, the time for the meeting had arrived. Mr. Wyvil’s friends were of course accommodated with seats on the platform. Francine, still insisting on her claim to Mirabel’s arm, got a chair next to him. As she seated herself, she left him free for a moment. In that moment, the infatuated man took an empty chair on the other side of him, and placed it for Emily. He communicated to that hated rival the information which he ought to have reserved for Francine. “The committee insist,” he said, “on my proposing one of the Resolutions. I promise not to bore you; mine shall be the shortest speech delivered at the meeting.”
The proceedings began.
Among the earlier speakers not one was inspired by a feeling of mercy for the audience. The chairman reveled in words. The mover and seconder of the first Resolution (not having so much as the ghost of an idea to trouble either of them), poured out language in flowing and overflowing streams, like water from a perpetual spring. The heat exhaled by the crowded audience was already becoming insufferable. Cries of “Sit down!” assailed the orator of the moment. The chairman was obliged to interfere. A man at the back of the hall roared out, “Ventilation!” and broke a window with his stick. He was rewarded with three rounds of cheers; and was ironically invited to mount the platform and take the chair.
Under these embarrassing circumstances, Mirabel rose to speak.
He secured silence, at the outset, by a humorous allusion to the prolix speaker who had preceded him. “Look at the clock, gentlemen,” he said; “and limit my speech to an interval of ten minutes.” The applause which followed was heard, through the broken window, in the street. The boys among the mob outside intercepted the flow of air by climbing on each other’s shoulders and looking in at the meeting, through the gaps left by the shattered glass. Having proposed his Resolution with discreet brevity of speech, Mirabel courted popularity on the plan adopted by the late Lord Palmerston in the House of Commons—he told stories, and made jokes, adapted to the intelligence of the dullest people who were listening to him. The charm of his voice and manner completed his success. Punctually at the tenth minute, he sat down amid cries of “Go on.” Francine was the first to take his hand, and to express admiration mutely by pressing it. He returned the pressure—but he looked at the wrong lady—the lady on the other side.
Although she made no complaint, he instantly saw that Emily was overcome by the heat. Her lips were white, and her eyes were closing. “Let me take you out,” he said, “or you will faint.”
Francine started to her feet to follow them. The lower order of the audience, eager for amusement, put their own humorous construction on the young lady’s action. They roared with laughter. “Let the parson and his sweetheart be,” they called out; “two’s company, miss, and three isn’t.” Mr. Wyvil interposed his authority and rebuked them. A lady seated behind Francine interfered to good purpose by giving her a chair, which placed her out of sight of the audience. Order was restored—and the proceedings were resumed.
On the conclusion of the meeting, Mirabel and Emily were found waiting for their friends at the door. Mr. Wyvil innocently added fuel to the fire that was burning in Francine. He insisted that Mirabel should return to Monksmoor, and offered him a seat in the carriage at Emily’s side.
Later in the evening, when they all met at dinner, there appeared a change in Miss de Sor which surprised everybody but Mirabel. She was gay and good-humored, and especially amiable and attentive to Emily—who sat opposite to her at the table. “What did you and Mr. Mirabel talk about while you were away from us?” she asked innocently. “Politics?”
Emily readily adopted Francine’s friendly tone. “Would you have talked politics, in my place?” she asked gayly.
“In your place, I should have had the most delightful of companions,” Francine rejoined; “I wish I had been overcome by the heat too!”
Mirabel—attentively observing her—acknowledged the compliment by a bow, and left Emily to continue the conversation. In perfect good faith she owned to having led Mirabel to talk of himself. She had heard from Cecilia that his early life had been devoted to various occupations, and she was interested in knowing how circumstances had led him into devoting himself to the Church. Francine listened with the outward appearance of implicit belief, and with the inward conviction that Emily was deliberately deceiving her. When the little narrative was at an end, she was more agreeable than ever. She admired Emily’s dress, and she rivaled Cecilia in enjoyment of the good things on the table; she entertained Mirabel with humorous anecdotes of the priests at St. Domingo, and was so interested in the manufacture of violins, ancient and modern, that Mr. Wyvil promised to show her his famous collection of instruments, after dinner. Her overflowing amiability included even poor Miss Darnaway and the absent brothers and sisters. She heard with flattering sympathy, how they had been ill and had got well again; what amusing tricks they played, what alarming accidents happened to them, and how remarkably clever they were—“including, I do assure you, dear Miss de Sor, the baby only ten months old.” When the ladies rose to retire, Francine was, socially speaking, the heroine of the evening.
While the violins were in course of exhibition, Mirabel found an opportunity of speaking to Emily, unobserved.
“Have you said, or done, anything to offend Miss de Sor?” he asked.
“Nothing whatever!” Emily declared, startled by the question. “What makes you think I have offended her?”
“I have been trying to find a reason for the change in her,” Mirabel answered—“especially the change toward yourself.”
“Well?”
“Well—she means mischief.”
“Mischief of what sort?”
“Of a sort which may expose her to discovery—unless she disarms suspicion at the outset. That is (as I believe) exactly what she has been doing this evening. I needn’t warn you to be on your guard.”
All the next day Emily was on the watch for events—and nothing happened. Not the slightest appearance of jealousy betrayed itself in Francine. She made no attempt to attract to herself the attentions of Mirabel; and she showed no hostility to Emily, either by word, look, or manner.
........
The day after, an event occurred at Netherwoods. Alban Morris received an anonymous letter, addressed to him in these terms:
“A certain young lady, in whom you are supposed to be interested, is forgetting you in your absence. If you are not mean enough to allow yourself to be supplanted by another man, join the party at Monksmoor before it is too late.”
The day after the political meeting was a day of departures, at the pleasant country house.
Miss Darnaway was recalled to the nursery at home. The old squire who did justice to Mr. Wyvil’s port-wine went away next, having guests to entertain at his own house. A far more serious loss followed. The three dancing men had engagements which drew them to new spheres of activity in other drawing-rooms. They said, with the same dreary grace of manner, “Very sorry to go”; they drove to the railway, arrayed in the same perfect traveling suits of neutral tint; and they had but one difference of opinion among them—each firmly believed that he was smoking the best cigar to be got in London.
The morning after these departures would have been a dull morning indeed, but for the presence of Mirabel.
When breakfast was over, the invalid Miss Julia established herself on the sofa with a novel. Her father retired to the other end of the house, and profaned the art of music on music’s most expressive instrument. Left with Emily, Cecilia, and Francine, Mirabel made one of his happy suggestions. “We are thrown on our own resources,” he said. “Let us distinguish ourselves by inventing some entirely new amusement for the day. You young ladies shall sit in council—and I will be secretary.” He turned to Cecilia. “The meeting waits to hear the mistress of the house.”
Modest Cecilia appealed to her school friends for help; addressing herself in the first instance (by the secretary’s advice) to Francine, as the eldest. They all noticed another change in this variable young person. She was silent and subdued; and she said wearily, “I don’t care what we do—shall we go out riding?”
The unanswerable objection to riding as a form of amusement, was that it had been more than once tried already. Something clever and surprising was anticipated from Emily when it came to her turn. She, too, disappointed expectation. “Let us sit under the trees,” was all that she could suggest, “and ask Mr. Mirabel to tell us a story.”
Mirabel laid down his pen and took it on himself to reject this proposal. “Remember,” he remonstrated, “that I have an interest in the diversions of the day. You can’t expect me to be amused by my own story. I appeal to Miss Wyvil to invent a pleasure which will include the secretary.”
Cecilia blushed and looked uneasy. “I think I have got an idea,” she announced, after some hesitation. “May I propose that we all go to the keeper’s lodge?” There her courage failed her, and she hesitated again.
Mirabel gravely registered the proposal, as far as it went. “What are we to do when we get to the keeper’s lodge?” he inquired.
“We are to ask the keeper’s wife,” Cecilia proceeded, “to lend us her kitchen.”
“To lend us her kitchen,” Mirabel repeated.
“And what are we to do in the kitchen?”
Cecilia looked down at her pretty hands crossed on her lap, and answered softly, “Cook our own luncheon.”
Here was an entirely new amusement, in the most attractive sense of the words! Here was charming Cecilia’s interest in the pleasures of the table so happily inspired, that the grateful meeting offered its tribute of applause—even including Francine. The members of the council were young; their daring digestions contemplated without fear the prospect of eating their own amateur cookery. The one question that troubled them now was what they were to cook.
“I can make an omelet,” Cecilia ventured to say.
“If there is any cold chicken to be had,” Emily added, “I undertake to follow the omelet with a mayonnaise.”
“There are clergymen in the Church of England who are even clever enough to fry potatoes,” Mirabel announced—“and I am one of them. What shall we have next? A pudding? Miss de Sor, can you make a pudding?”
Francine exhibited another new side to her character—a diffident and humble side. “I am ashamed to say I don’t know how to cook anything,” she confessed; “you had better leave me out of it.”
But Cecilia was now in her element. Her plan of operations was wide enough even to include Francine. “You shall wash the lettuce, my dear, and stone the olives for Emily’s mayonnaise. Don’t be discouraged! You shall have a companion; we will send to the rectory for Miss Plym—the very person to chop parsley and shallot for my omelet. Oh, Emily, what a morning we are going to have!” Her lovely blue eyes sparkled with joy; she gave Emily a kiss which Mirabel must have been more or less than man not to have coveted. “I declare,” cried Cecilia, completely losing her head, “I’m so excited, I don’t know what to do with myself!”
Emily’s intimate knowledge of her friend applied the right remedy. “You don’t know what to do with yourself?” she repeated. “Have you no sense of duty? Give the cook your orders.”
Cecilia instantly recovered her presence of mind. She sat down at the writing-table, and made out a list of eatable productions in the animal and vegetable world, in which every other word was underlined two or three times over. Her serious face was a sight to see, when she rang for the cook, and the two held a privy council in a corner.
On the way to the keeper’s lodge, the young mistress of the house headed a procession of servants carrying the raw materials. Francine followed, held in custody by Miss Plym—who took her responsibilities seriously, and clamored for instruction in the art of chopping parsley. Mirabel and Emily were together, far behind; they were the only two members of the company whose minds were not occupied in one way or another by the kitchen.
“This child’s play of ours doesn’t seem to interest you,” Mirabel remarked.
“I am thinking,” Emily answered, “of what you said to me about Francine.”
“I can say something more,” he rejoined. “When I noticed the change in her at dinner, I told you she meant mischief. There is another change to-day, which suggests to my mind that the mischief is done.”
“And directed against me?” Emily asked.
Mirabel made no direct reply. It was impossible forhimto remind her that she had, no matter how innocently, exposed herself to the jealous hatred of Francine. “Time will tell us, what we don’t know now,” he replied evasively.
“You seem to have faith in time, Mr. Mirabel.”
“The greatest faith. Time is the inveterate enemy of deceit. Sooner or later, every hidden thing is a thing doomed to discovery.”
“Without exception?”
“Yes,” he answered positively, “without exception.”
At that moment Francine stopped and looked back at them. Did she think that Emily and Mirabel had been talking together long enough? Miss Plym—with the parsley still on her mind—-advanced to consult Emily’s experience. The two walked on together, leaving Mirabel to overtake Francine. He saw, in her first look at him, the effort that it cost her to suppress those emotions which the pride of women is most deeply interested in concealing. Before a word had passed, he regretted that Emily had left them together.
“I wish I had your cheerful disposition,” she began, abruptly. “I am out of spirits or out of temper—I don’t know which; and I don’t know why. Do you ever trouble yourself with thinking of the future?”
“As seldom as possible, Miss de Sor. In such a situation as mine, most people have prospects—I have none.”
He spoke gravely, conscious of not feeling at ease on his side. If he had been the most modest man that ever lived, he must have seen in Francine’s face that she loved him.
When they had first been presented to each other, she was still under the influence of the meanest instincts in her scheming and selfish nature. She had thought to herself, “With my money to help him, that man’s celebrity would do the rest; the best society in England would be glad to receive Mirabel’s wife.” As the days passed, strong feeling had taken the place of those contemptible aspirations: Mirabel had unconsciously inspired the one passion which was powerful enough to master Francine—sensual passion. Wild hopes rioted in her. Measureless desires which she had never felt before, united themselves with capacities for wickedness, which had been the horrid growth of a few nights—capacities which suggested even viler attempts to rid herself of a supposed rivalry than slandering Emily by means of an anonymous letter. Without waiting for it to be offered, she took Mirabel’s arm, and pressed it to her breast as they slowly walked on. The fear of discovery which had troubled her after she had sent her base letter to the post, vanished at that inspiriting moment. She bent her head near enough to him when he spoke to feel his breath on her face.
“There is a strange similarity,” she said softly, “between your position and mine. Is there anything cheering inmyprospects? I am far away from home—my father and mother wouldn’t care if they never saw me again. People talk about my money! What is the use of money to such a lonely wretch as I am? Suppose I write to London, and ask the lawyer if I may give it all away to some deserving person? Why not to you?”
“My dear Miss de Sor—!”
“Is there anything wrong, Mr. Mirabel, in wishing that I could make you a prosperous man?”
“You must not even talk of such a thing!”
“How proud you are!” she said submissively.
“Oh, I can’t bear to think of you in that miserable village—a position so unworthy of your talents and your claims! And you tell me I must not talk about it. Would you have said that to Emily, if she was as anxious as I am to see you in your right place in the world?”
“I should have answered her exactly as I have answered you.”
“She will never embarrass you, Mr. Mirabel, by being as sincere as I am. Emily can keep her own secrets.”
“Is she to blame for doing that?”
“It depends on your feeling for her.”
“What feeling do you mean?”
“Suppose you heard she was engaged to be married?” Francine suggested.
Mirabel’s manner—studiously cold and formal thus far—altered on a sudden. He looked with unconcealed anxiety at Francine. “Do you say that seriously?” he asked.
“I said ‘suppose.’ I don’t exactly know that she is engaged.”
“Whatdoyou know?”
“Oh, how interested you are in Emily! She is admired by some people. Are you one of them?”
Mirabel’s experience of women warned him to try silence as a means of provoking her into speaking plainly. The experiment succeeded: Francine returned to the question that he had put to her, and abruptly answered it.
“You may believe me or not, as you like—I know of a man who is in love with her. He has had his opportunities; and he has made good use of them. Would you like to know who he is?”
“I should like to know anything which you may wish to tell me.” He did his best to make the reply in a tone of commonplace politeness—and he might have succeeded in deceiving a man. The woman’s quicker ear told her that he was angry. Francine took the full advantage of that change in her favor.
“I am afraid your good opinion of Emily will be shaken,” she quietly resumed, “when I tell you that she has encouraged a man who is only drawing-master at a school. At the same time, a person in her circumstances—I mean she has no money—ought not to be very hard to please. Of course she has never spoken to you of Mr. Alban Morris?”
“Not that I remember.”
Only four words—but they satisfied Francine.
The one thing wanting to complete the obstacle which she had now placed in Emily’s way, was that Alban Morris should enter on the scene. He might hesitate; but, if he was really fond of Emily, the anonymous letter would sooner or later bring him to Monksmoor. In the meantime, her object was gained. She dropped Mirabel’s arm.
“Here is the lodge,” she said gayly—“I declare Cecilia has got an apron on already! Come, and cook.”
Mirabel left Francine to enter the lodge by herself. His mind was disturbed: he felt the importance of gaining time for reflection before he and Emily met again.
The keeper’s garden was at the back of the lodge. Passing through the wicket-gate, he found a little summer-house at a turn in the path. Nobody was there: he went in and sat down.
At intervals, he had even yet encouraged himself to underrate the true importance of the feeling which Emily had awakened in him. There was an end to all self-deception now. After what Francine had said to him, this shallow and frivolous man no longer resisted the all-absorbing influence of love. He shrank under the one terrible question that forced itself on his mind:—Had that jealous girl spoken the truth?
In what process of investigation could he trust, to set this anxiety at rest? To apply openly to Emily would be to take a liberty, which Emily was the last person in the world to permit. In his recent intercourse with her he had felt more strongly than ever the importance of speaking with reserve. He had been scrupulously careful to take no unfair advantage of his opportunity, when he had removed her from the meeting, and when they had walked together, with hardly a creature to observe them, in the lonely outskirts of the town. Emily’s gaiety and good humor had not led him astray: he knew that these were bad signs, viewed in the interests of love. His one hope of touching her deeper sympathies was to wait for the help that might yet come from time and chance. With a bitter sigh, he resigned himself to the necessity of being as agreeable and amusing as ever: it was just possible that he might lure her into alluding to Alban Morris, if he began innocently by making her laugh.
As he rose to return to the lodge, the keeper’s little terrier, prowling about the garden, looked into the summer-house. Seeing a stranger, the dog showed his teeth and growled.
Mirabel shrank back against the wall behind him, trembling in every limb. His eyes stared in terror as the dog came nearer: barking in high triumph over the discovery of a frightened man whom he could bully. Mirabel called out for help. A laborer at work in the garden ran to the place—and stopped with a broad grin of amusement at seeing a grown man terrified by a barking dog. “Well,” he said to himself, after Mirabel had passed out under protection, “there goes a coward if ever there was one yet!”
Mirabel waited a minute behind the lodge to recover himself. He had been so completely unnerved that his hair was wet with perspiration. While he used his handkerchief, he shuddered at other recollections than the recollection of the dog. “After that night at the inn,” he thought, “the least thing frightens me!”
He was received by the young ladies with cries of derisive welcome. “Oh, for shame! for shame! here are the potatoes already cut, and nobody to fry them!”
Mirabel assumed the mask of cheerfulness—with the desperate resolution of an actor, amusing his audience at a time of domestic distress. He astonished the keeper’s wife by showing that he really knew how to use her frying-pan. Cecilia’s omelet was tough—but the young ladies ate it. Emily’s mayonnaise sauce was almost as liquid as water—they swallowed it nevertheless by the help of spoons. The potatoes followed, crisp and dry and delicious—and Mirabel became more popular than ever. “He is the only one of us,” Cecilia sadly acknowledged, “who knows how to cook.”
When they all left the lodge for a stroll in the park, Francine attached herself to Cecilia and Miss Plym. She resigned Mirabel to Emily—in the happy belief that she had paved the way for a misunderstanding between them.
The merriment at the luncheon table had revived Emily’s good spirits. She had a light-hearted remembrance of the failure of her sauce. Mirabel saw her smiling to herself. “May I ask what amuses you?” he said.
“I was thinking of the debt of gratitude that we owe to Mr. Wyvil,” she replied. “If he had not persuaded you to return to Monksmoor, we should never have seen the famous Mr. Mirabel with a frying pan in his hand, and never have tasted the only good dish at our luncheon.”
Mirabel tried vainly to adopt his companion’s easy tone. Now that he was alone with her, the doubts that Francine had aroused shook the prudent resolution at which he had arrived in the garden. He ran the risk, and told Emily plainly why he had returned to Mr. Wyvil’s house.
“Although I am sensible of our host’s kindness,” he answered, “I should have gone back to my parsonage—but for You.”
She declined to understand him seriously. “Then the affairs of your parish are neglected—and I am to blame!” she said.
“Am I the first man who has neglected his duties for your sake?” he asked. “I wonder whether the masters at school had the heart to report you when you neglected your lessons?”
She thought of Alban—and betrayed herself by a heightened color. The moment after, she changed the subject. Mirabel could no longer resist the conclusion that Francine had told him the truth.
“When do you leave us,” she inquired.
“To-morrow is Saturday—I must go back as usual.”
“And how will your deserted parish receive you?”
He made a desperate effort to be as amusing as usual.
“I am sure of preserving my popularity,” he said, “while I have a cask in the cellar, and a few spare sixpences in my pocket. The public spirit of my parishioners asks for nothing but money and beer. Before I went to that wearisome meeting, I told my housekeeper that I was going to make a speech about reform. She didn’t know what I meant. I explained that reform might increase the number of British citizens who had the right of voting at elections for parliament. She brightened up directly. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard my husband talk about elections. The more there are of them (hesays) the more money he’ll get for his vote. I’m all for reform.’ On my way out of the house, I tried the man who works in my garden on the same subject. He didn’t look at the matter from the housekeeper’s sanguine point of view. ‘I don’t deny that parliament once gave me a good dinner for nothing at the public-house,’ he admitted. ‘But that was years ago—and (you’ll excuse me, sir) I hear nothing of another dinner to come. It’s a matter of opinion, of course. I don’t myself believe in reform.’ There are specimens of the state of public spirit in our village!” He paused. Emily was listening—but he had not succeeded in choosing a subject that amused her. He tried a topic more nearly connected with his own interests; the topic of the future. “Our good friend has asked me to prolong my visit, after Sunday’s duties are over,” he said. “I hope I shall find you here, next week?”
“Will the affairs of your parish allow you to come back?” Emily asked mischievously.
“The affairs of my parish—if you force me to confess it—were only an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“An excuse for keeping away from Monksmoor—in the interests of my own tranquillity. The experiment has failed. While you are here, I can’t keep away.”
She still declined to understand him seriously. “Must I tell you in plain words that flattery is thrown away on me?” she said.
“Flattery is not offered to you,” he answered gravely. “I beg your pardon for having led to the mistake by talking of myself.” Having appealed to her indulgence by that act of submission, he ventured on another distant allusion to the man whom he hated and feared. “Shall I meet any friends of yours,” he resumed, “when I return on Monday?”
“What do you mean?”
“I only meant to ask if Mr. Wyvil expects any new guests?”
As he put the question, Cecilia’s voice was heard behind them, calling to Emily. They both turned round. Mr. Wyvil had joined his daughter and her two friends. He advanced to meet Emily.
“I have some news for you that you little expect,” he said. “A telegram has just arrived from Netherwoods. Mr. Alban Morris has got leave of absence, and is coming here to-morrow.”