Time at Monksmoor had advanced to the half hour before dinner, on Saturday evening.
Cecilia and Francine, Mr. Wyvil and Mirabel, were loitering in the conservatory. In the drawing-room, Emily had been considerately left alone with Alban. He had missed the early train from Netherwoods; but he had arrived in time to dress for dinner, and to offer the necessary explanations.
If it had been possible for Alban to allude to the anonymous letter, he might have owned that his first impulse had led him to destroy it, and to assert his confidence in Emily by refusing Mr. Wyvil’s invitation. But try as he might to forget them, the base words that he had read remained in his memory. Irritating him at the outset, they had ended in rousing his jealousy. Under that delusive influence, he persuaded himself that he had acted, in the first instance, without due consideration. It was surely his interest—it might even be his duty—to go to Mr. Wyvil’s house, and judge for himself. After some last wretched moments of hesitation, he had decided on effecting a compromise with his own better sense, by consulting Miss Ladd. That excellent lady did exactly what he had expected her to do. She made arrangements which granted him leave of absence, from the Saturday to the Tuesday following. The excuse which had served him, in telegraphing to Mr. Wyvil, must now be repeated, in accounting for his unexpected appearance to Emily. “I found a person to take charge of my class,” he said; “and I gladly availed myself of the opportunity of seeing you again.”
After observing him attentively, while he was speaking to her, Emily owned, with her customary frankness, that she had noticed something in his manner which left her not quite at her ease.
“I wonder,” she said, “if there is any foundation for a doubt that has troubled me?” To his unutterable relief, she at once explained what the doubt was. “I am afraid I offended you, in replying to your letter about Miss Jethro.”
In this case, Alban could enjoy the luxury of speaking unreservedly. He confessed that Emily’s letter had disappointed him.
“I expected you to answer me with less reserve,” he replied; “and I began to think I had acted rashly in writing to you at all. When there is a better opportunity, I may have a word to say—” He was apparently interrupted by something that he saw in the conservatory. Looking that way, Emily perceived that Mirabel was the object which had attracted Alban’s attention. The vile anonymous letter was in his mind again. Without a preliminary word to prepare Emily, he suddenly changed the subject. “How do you like the clergyman?” he asked.
“Very much indeed,” she replied, without the slightest embarrassment. “Mr. Mirabel is clever and agreeable—and not at all spoiled by his success. I am sure,” she said innocently, “you will like him too.”
Alban’s face answered her unmistakably in the negative sense—but Emily’s attention was drawn the other way by Francine. She joined them at the moment, on the lookout for any signs of an encouraging result which her treachery might already have produced. Alban had been inclined to suspect her when he had received the letter. He rose and bowed as she approached. Something—he was unable to realize what it was—told him, in the moment when they looked at each other, that his suspicion had hit the mark.
In the conservatory the ever-amiable Mirabel had left his friends for a while in search of flowers for Cecilia. She turned to her father when they were alone, and asked him which of the gentlemen was to take her in to dinner—Mr. Mirabel or Mr. Morris?
“Mr. Morris, of course,” he answered. “He is the new guest—and he turns out to be more than the equal, socially-speaking, of our other friend. When I showed him his room, I asked if he was related to a man who bore the same name—a fellow student of mine, years and years ago, at college. He is my friend’s younger son; one of a ruined family—but persons of high distinction in their day.”
Mirabel returned with the flowers, just as dinner was announced.
“You are to take Emily to-day,” Cecilia said to him, leading the way out of the conservatory. As they entered the drawing-room, Alban was just offering his arm to Emily. “Papa gives you to me, Mr. Morris,” Cecilia explained pleasantly. Alban hesitated, apparently not understanding the allusion. Mirabel interfered with his best grace: “Mr. Wyvil offers you the honor of taking his daughter to the dining-room.” Alban’s face darkened ominously, as the elegant little clergyman gave his arm to Emily, and followed Mr. Wyvil and Francine out of the room. Cecilia looked at her silent and surly companion, and almost envied her lazy sister, dining—under cover of a convenient headache—in her own room.
Having already made up his mind that Alban Morris required careful handling, Mirabel waited a little before he led the conversation as usual. Between the soup and the fish, he made an interesting confession, addressed to Emily in the strictest confidence.
“I have taken a fancy to your friend Mr. Morris,” he said. “First impressions, in my case, decide everything; I like people or dislike them on impulse. That man appeals to my sympathies. Is he a good talker?”
“I should say Yes,” Emily answered prettily, “ifyouwere not present.”
Mirabel was not to be beaten, even by a woman, in the art of paying compliments. He looked admiringly at Alban (sitting opposite to him), and said: “Let us listen.”
This flattering suggestion not only pleased Emily—it artfully served Mirabel’s purpose. That is to say, it secured him an opportunity for observation of what was going on at the other side of the table.
Alban’s instincts as a gentleman had led him to control his irritation and to regret that he had suffered it to appear. Anxious to please, he presented himself at his best. Gentle Cecilia forgave and forgot the angry look which had startled her. Mr. Wyvil was delighted with the son of his old friend. Emily felt secretly proud of the good opinions which her admirer was gathering; and Francine saw with pleasure that he was asserting his claim to Emily’s preference, in the way of all others which would be most likely to discourage his rival. These various impressions—produced while Alban’s enemy was ominously silent—began to suffer an imperceptible change, from the moment when Mirabel decided that his time had come to take the lead. A remark made by Alban offered him the chance for which he had been on the watch. He agreed with the remark; he enlarged on the remark; he was brilliant and familiar, and instructive and amusing—and still it was all due to the remark. Alban’s temper was once more severely tried. Mirabel’s mischievous object had not escaped his penetration. He did his best to put obstacles in the adversary’s way—and was baffled, time after time, with the readiest ingenuity. If he interrupted—the sweet-tempered clergyman submitted, and went on. If he differed—modest Mr. Mirabel said, in the most amiable manner, “I daresay I am wrong,” and handled the topic from his opponent’s point of view. Never had such a perfect Christian sat before at Mr. Wyvil’s table: not a hard word, not an impatient look, escaped him. The longer Alban resisted, the more surely he lost ground in the general estimation. Cecilia was disappointed; Emily was grieved; Mr. Wyvil’s favorable opinion began to waver; Francine was disgusted. When dinner was over, and the carriage was waiting to take the shepherd back to his flock by moonlight, Mirabel’s triumph was complete. He had made Alban the innocent means of publicly exhibiting his perfect temper and perfect politeness, under their best and brightest aspect.
So that day ended. Sunday promised to pass quietly, in the absence of Mirabel. The morning came—and it seemed doubtful whether the promise would be fulfilled.
Francine had passed an uneasy night. No such encouraging result as she had anticipated had hitherto followed the appearance of Alban Morris at Monksmoor. He had clumsily allowed Mirabel to improve his position—while he had himself lost ground—in Emily’s estimation. If this first disastrous consequence of the meeting between the two men was permitted to repeat itself on future occasions, Emily and Mirabel would be brought more closely together, and Alban himself would be the unhappy cause of it. Francine rose, on the Sunday morning, before the table was laid for breakfast—resolved to try the effect of a timely word of advice.
Her bedroom was situated in the front of the house. The man she was looking for presently passed within her range of view from the window, on his way to take a morning walk in the park. She followed him immediately.
“Good-morning, Mr. Morris.”
He raised his hat and bowed—without speaking, and without looking at her.
“We resemble each other in one particular,” she proceeded, graciously; “we both like to breathe the fresh air before breakfast.”
He said exactly what common politeness obliged him to say, and no more—he said, “Yes.”
Some girls might have been discouraged. Francine went on.
“It is no fault of mine, Mr. Morris, that we have not been better friends. For some reason, into which I don’t presume to inquire, you seem to distrust me. I really don’t know what I have done to deserve it.”
“Are you sure of that?” he asked—eying her suddenly and searchingly as he spoke.
Her hard face settled into a rigid look; her eyes met his eyes with a stony defiant stare. Now, for the first time, she knew that he suspected her of having written the anonymous letter. Every evil quality in her nature steadily defied him. A hardened old woman could not have sustained the shock of discovery with a more devilish composure than this girl displayed. “Perhaps you will explain yourself,” she said.
“Ihaveexplained myself,” he answered.
“Then I must be content,” she rejoined, “to remain in the dark. I had intended, out of my regard for Emily, to suggest that you might—with advantage to yourself, and to interests that are very dear to you—be more careful in your behavior to Mr. Mirabel. Are you disposed to listen to me?”
“Do you wish me to answer that question plainly, Miss de Sor?”
“I insist on your answering it plainly.”
“Then I amnotdisposed to listen to you.”
“May I know why? or am I to be left in the dark again?”
“You are to be left, if you please, to your own ingenuity.”
Francine looked at him, with a malignant smile. “One of these days, Mr. Morris—I will deserve your confidence in my ingenuity.” She said it, and went back to the house.
This was the only element of disturbance that troubled the perfect tranquillity of the day. What Francine had proposed to do, with the one idea of making Alban serve her purpose, was accomplished a few hours later by Emily’s influence for good over the man who loved her.
They passed the afternoon together uninterruptedly in the distant solitudes of the park. In the course of conversation Emily found an opportunity of discreetly alluding to Mirabel. “You mustn’t be jealous of our clever little friend,” she said; “I like him, and admire him; but—”
“But you don’t love him?”
She smiled at the eager way in which Alban put the question.
“There is no fear of that,” she answered brightly.
“Not even if you discovered that he loves you?”
“Not even then. Are you content at last? Promise me not to be rude to Mr. Mirabel again.”
“For his sake?”
“No—for my sake. I don’t like to see you place yourself at a disadvantage toward another man; I don’t like you to disappoint me.”
The happiness of hearing her say those words transfigured him—the manly beauty of his earlier and happier years seemed to have returned to Alban. He took her hand—he was too agitated to speak.
“You are forgetting Mr. Mirabel,” she reminded him gently.
“I will be all that is civil and kind to Mr. Mirabel; I will like him and admire him as you do. Oh, Emily, are you a little, only a very little, fond of me?”
“I don’t quite know.”
“May I try to find out?”
“How?” she asked.
Her fair cheek was very near to him. The softly-rising color on it said, Answer me here—and he answered.
On Monday, Mirabel made his appearance—and the demon of discord returned with him.
Alban had employed the earlier part of the day in making a sketch in the park—intended as a little present for Emily. Presenting himself in the drawing-room, when his work was completed, he found Cecilia and Francine alone. He asked where Emily was.
The question had been addressed to Cecilia. Francine answered it.
“Emily mustn’t be disturbed,” she said.
“Why not?”
“She is with Mr. Mirabel in the rose garden. I saw them talking together—evidently feeling the deepest interest in what they were saying to each other. Don’t interrupt them—you will only be in the way.”
Cecilia at once protested against this last assertion. “She is trying to make mischief, Mr. Morris—don’t believe her. I am sure they will be glad to see you, if you join them in the garden.”
Francine rose, and left the room. She turned, and looked at Alban as she opened the door. “Try it,” she said—“and you will find I am right.”
“Francine sometimes talks in a very ill-natured way,” Cecilia gently remarked. “Do you think she means it, Mr. Morris?’
“I had better not offer an opinion,” Alban replied.
“Why?”
“I can’t speak impartially; I dislike Miss de Sor.”
There was a pause. Alban’s sense of self-respect forbade him to try the experiment which Francine had maliciously suggested. His thoughts—less easy to restrain—wandered in the direction of the garden. The attempt to make him jealous had failed; but he was conscious, at the same time, that Emily had disappointed him. After what they had said to each other in the park, she ought to have remembered that women are at the mercy of appearances. If Mirabel had something of importance to say to her, she might have avoided exposing herself to Francine’s spiteful misconstruction: it would have been easy to arrange with Cecilia that a third person should be present at the interview.
While he was absorbed in these reflections, Cecilia—embarrassed by the silence—was trying to find a topic of conversation. Alban roughly pushed his sketch-book away from him, on the table. Was he displeased with Emily? The same question had occurred to Cecilia at the time of the correspondence, on the subject of Miss Jethro. To recall those letters led her, by natural sequence, to another effort of memory. She was reminded of the person who had been the cause of the correspondence: her interest was revived in the mystery of Miss Jethro.
“Has Emily told you that I have seen your letter?” she asked.
He roused himself with a start. “I beg your pardon. What letter are you thinking of?”
“I was thinking of the letter which mentions Miss Jethro’s strange visit. Emily was so puzzled and so surprised that she showed it to me—and we both consulted my father. Have you spoken to Emily about Miss Jethro?”
“I have tried—but she seemed to be unwilling to pursue the subject.”
“Have you made any discoveries since you wrote to Emily?”
“No. The mystery is as impenetrable as ever.”
As he replied in those terms, Mirabel entered the conservatory from the garden, evidently on his way to the drawing-room.
To see the man, whose introduction to Emily it had been Miss Jethro’s mysterious object to prevent—at the very moment when he had been speaking of Miss Jethro herself—was, not only a temptation of curiosity, but a direct incentive (in Emily’s own interests) to make an effort at discovery. Alban pursued the conversation with Cecilia, in a tone which was loud enough to be heard in the conservatory.
“The one chance of getting any information that I can see,” he proceeded, “is to speak to Mr. Mirabel.”
“I shall be only too glad, if I can be of any service to Miss Wyvil and Mr. Morris.”
With those obliging words, Mirabel made a dramatic entry, and looked at Cecilia with his irresistible smile. Startled by his sudden appearance, she unconsciously assisted Alban’s design. Her silence gave him the opportunity of speaking in her place.
“We were talking,” he said quietly to Mirabel, “of a lady with whom you are acquainted.”
“Indeed! May I ask the lady’s name?”
“Miss Jethro.”
Mirabel sustained the shock with extraordinary self-possession—so far as any betrayal by sudden movement was concerned. But his color told the truth: it faded to paleness—it revealed, even to Cecilia’s eyes, a man overpowered by fright.
Alban offered him a chair. He refused to take it by a gesture. Alban tried an apology next. “I am afraid I have ignorantly revived some painful associations. Pray excuse me.”
The apology roused Mirabel: he felt the necessity of offering some explanation. In timid animals, the one defensive capacity which is always ready for action is cunning. Mirabel was too wily to dispute the inference—the inevitable inference—which any one must have drawn, after seeing the effect on him that the name of Miss Jethro had produced. He admitted that “painful associations” had been revived, and deplored the “nervous sensibility” which had permitted it to be seen.
“No blame can possibly attach toyou, my dear sir,” he continued, in his most amiable manner. “Will it be indiscreet, on my part, if I ask how you first became acquainted with Miss Jethro?”
“I first became acquainted with her at Miss Ladd’s school,” Alban answered. “She was, for a short time only, one of the teachers; and she left her situation rather suddenly.” He paused—but Mirabel made no remark. “After an interval of a few months,” he resumed, “I saw Miss Jethro again. She called on me at my lodgings, near Netherwoods.”
“Merely to renew your former acquaintance?”
Mirabel made that inquiry with an eager anxiety for the reply which he was quite unable to conceal. Had he any reason to dread what Miss Jethro might have it in her power to say of him to another person? Alban was in no way pledged to secrecy, and he was determined to leave no means untried of throwing light on Miss Jethro’s mysterious warning. He repeated the plain narrative of the interview, which he had communicated by letter to Emily. Mirabel listened without making any remark.
“After what I have told you, can you give me no explanation?” Alban asked.
“I am quite unable, Mr. Morris, to help you.”
Was he lying? or speaking, the truth? The impression produced on Alban was that he had spoken the truth.
Women are never so ready as men to resign themselves to the disappointment of their hopes. Cecilia, silently listening up to this time, now ventured to speak—animated by her sisterly interest in Emily.
“Can you not tell us,” she said to Mirabel, “why Miss Jethro tried to prevent Emily Brown from meeting you here?”
“I know no more of her motive than you do,” Mirabel replied.
Alban interposed. “Miss Jethro left me,” he said, “with the intention—quite openly expressed—of trying to prevent you from accepting Mr. Wyvil’s invitation. Did she make the attempt?”
Mirabel admitted that she had made the attempt. “But,” he added, “without mentioning Miss Emily’s name. I was asked to postpone my visit, as a favor to herself, because she had her own reasons for wishing it. I hadmyreasons” (he bowed with gallantry to Cecilia) “for being eager to have the honor of knowing Mr. Wyvil and his daughter; and I refused.”
Once more, the doubt arose: was he lying? or speaking the truth? And, once more, Alban could not resist the conclusion that he was speaking the truth.
“There is one thing I should like to know,” Mirabel continued, after some hesitation. “Has Miss Emily been informed of this strange affair?”
“Certainly!”
Mirabel seemed to be disposed to continue his inquiries—and suddenly changed his mind. Was he beginning to doubt if Alban had spoken without concealment, in describing Miss Jethro’s visit? Was he still afraid of what Miss Jethro might have said of him? In any case, he changed the subject, and made an excuse for leaving the room.
“I am forgetting my errand,” he said to Alban. “Miss Emily was anxious to know if you had finished your sketch. I must tell her that you have returned.”
He bowed and withdrew.
Alban rose to follow him—and checked himself.
“No,” he thought, “I trust Emily!” He sat down again by Cecilia’s side.
Mirabel had indeed returned to the rose garden. He found Emily employed as he had left her, in making a crown of roses, to be worn by Cecilia in the evening. But, in one other respect, there was a change. Francine was present.
“Excuse me for sending you on a needless errand,” Emily said to Mirabel; “Miss de Sor tells me Mr. Morris has finished his sketch. She left him in the drawing-room—why didn’t you bring him here?”
“He was talking with Miss Wyvil.”
Mirabel answered absently—with his eyes on Francine. He gave her one of those significant looks, which says to a third person, “Why are you here?” Francine’s jealousy declined to understand him. He tried a broader hint, in words.
“Are you going to walk in the garden?” he said.
Francine was impenetrable. “No,” she answered, “I am going to stay here with Emily.”
Mirabel had no choice but to yield. Imperative anxieties forced him to say, in Francine’s presence, what he had hoped to say to Emily privately.
“When I joined Miss Wyvil and Mr. Morris,” he began, “what do you think they were doing? They were talking of—Miss Jethro.”
Emily dropped the rose-crown on her lap. It was easy to see that she had been disagreeably surprised.
“Mr. Morris has told me the curious story of Miss Jethro’s visit,” Mirabel continued; “but I am in some doubt whether he has spoken to me without reserve. Perhaps he expressed himself more freely when he spoke toyou. Miss Jethro may have said something to him which tended to lower me in your estimation?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Mirabel—so far as I know. If I had heard anything of the kind, I should have thought it my duty to tell you. Will it relieve your anxiety, if I go at once to Mr. Morris, and ask him plainly whether he has concealed anything from you or from me?”
Mirabel gratefully kissed her hand. “Your kindness overpowers me,” he said—speaking, for once, with true emotion.
Emily immediately returned to the house. As soon as she was out of sight, Francine approached Mirabel, trembling with suppressed rage.
Miss de Sor began cautiously with an apology. “Excuse me, Mr. Mirabel, for reminding you of my presence.”
Mr. Mirabel made no reply.
“I beg to say,” Francine proceeded, “that I didn’t intentionally see you kiss Emily’s hand.”
Mirabel stood, looking at the roses which Emily had left on her chair, as completely absorbed in his own thoughts as if he had been alone in the garden.
“Am I not even worth notice?” Francine asked. “Ah, I know to whom I am indebted for your neglect!” She took him familiarly by the arm, and burst into a harsh laugh. “Tell me now, in confidence—do you think Emily is fond of you?”
The impression left by Emily’s kindness was still fresh in Mirabel’s memory: he was in no humor to submit to the jealous resentment of a woman whom he regarded with perfect indifference. Through the varnish of politeness which overlaid his manner, there rose to the surface the underlying insolence, hidden, on all ordinary occasions, from all human eyes. He answered Francine—mercilessly answered her—at last.
“It is the dearest hope of my life that she may be fond of me,” he said.
Francine dropped his arm “And fortune favors your hopes,” she added, with an ironical assumption of interest in Mirabel’s prospects. “When Mr. Morris leaves us to-morrow, he removes the only obstacle you have to fear. Am I right?”
“No; you are wrong.”
“In what way, if you please?”
“In this way. I don’t regard Mr. Morris as an obstacle. Emily is too delicate and too kind to hurt his feelings—she is not in love with him. There is no absorbing interest in her mind to divert her thoughts from me. She is idle and happy; she thoroughly enjoys her visit to this house, and I am associated with her enjoyment. There is my chance—!”
He suddenly stopped. Listening to him thus far, unnaturally calm and cold, Francine now showed that she felt the lash of his contempt. A hideous smile passed slowly over her white face. It threatened the vengeance which knows no fear, no pity, no remorse—the vengeance of a jealous woman. Hysterical anger, furious language, Mirabel was prepared for. The smile frightened him.
“Well?” she said scornfully, “why don’t you go on?”
A bolder man might still have maintained the audacious position which he had assumed. Mirabel’s faint heart shrank from it. He was eager to shelter himself under the first excuse that he could find. His ingenuity, paralyzed by his fears, was unable to invent anything new. He feebly availed himself of the commonplace trick of evasion which he had read of in novels, and seen in action on the stage.
“Is it possible,” he asked, with an overacted assumption of surprise, “that you think I am in earnest?”
In the case of any other person, Francine would have instantly seen through that flimsy pretense. But the love which accepts the meanest crumbs of comfort that can be thrown to it—which fawns and grovels and deliberately deceives itself, in its own intensely selfish interests—was the love that burned in Francine’s breast. The wretched girl believed Mirabel with such an ecstatic sense of belief that she trembled in every limb, and dropped into the nearest chair.
“Iwas in earnest,” she said faintly. “Didn’t you see it?”
He was perfectly shameless; he denied that he had seen it, in the most positive manner. “Upon my honor, I thought you were mystifying me, and I humored the joke.”
She sighed, and looking at him with an expression of tender reproach. “I wonder whether I can believe you,” she said softly.
“Indeed you may believe me!” he assured her.
She hesitated—for the pleasure of hesitating. “I don’t know. Emily is very much admired by some men. Why not by you?”
“For the best of reasons,” he answered “She is poor, and I am poor. Those are facts which speak for themselves.”
“Yes—but Emily is bent on attracting you. She would marry you to-morrow, if you asked her. Don’t attempt to deny it! Besides, you kissed her hand.”
“Oh, Miss de Sor!”
“Don’t call me ‘Miss de Sor’! Call me Francine. I want to know why you kissed her hand.”
He humored her with inexhaustible servility. “Allow me to kissyourhand, Francine!—and let me explain that kissing a lady’s hand is only a form of thanking her for her kindness. You must own that Emily—”
She interrupted him for the third time. “Emily?” she repeated. “Are you as familiar as that already? Does she call you ‘Miles,’ when you are by yourselves? Is there any effort at fascination which this charming creature has left untried? She told you no doubt what a lonely life she leads in her poor little home?”
Even Mirabel felt that he must not permit this to pass.
“She has said nothing to me about herself,” he answered. “What I know of her, I know from Mr. Wyvil.”
“Oh, indeed! You asked Mr. Wyvil about her family, of course? What did he say?”
“He said she lost her mother when she was a child—and he told me her father had died suddenly, a few years since, of heart complaint.”
“Well, and what else?—Never mind now! Here is somebody coming.”
The person was only one of the servants. Mirabel felt grateful to the man for interrupting them. Animated by sentiments of a precisely opposite nature, Francine spoke to him sharply.
“What do you want here?”
“A message, miss.”
“From whom?”
“From Miss Brown.”
“For me?”
“No, miss.” He turned to Mirabel. “Miss Brown wishes to speak to you, sir, if you are not engaged.”
Francine controlled herself until the man was out of hearing.
“Upon my word, this is too shameless!” she declared indignantly. “Emily can’t leave you with me for five minutes, without wanting to see you again. If you go to her after all that you have said to me,” she cried, threatening Mirabel with her outstretched hand, “you are the meanest of men!”
Hewasthe meanest of men—he carried out his cowardly submission to the last extremity.
“Only say what you wish me to do,” he replied.
Even Francine expected some little resistance from a creature bearing the outward appearance of a man. “Oh, do you really mean it?” she asked “I want you to disappoint Emily. Will you stay here, and let me make your excuses?”
“I will do anything to please you.”
Francine gave him a farewell look. Her admiration made a desperate effort to express itself appropriately in words. “You are not a man,” she said, “you are an angel!”
Left by himself, Mirabel sat down to rest. He reviewed his own conduct with perfect complacency. “Not one man in a hundred could have managed that she-devil as I have done,” he thought. “How shall I explain matters to Emily?”
Considering this question, he looked by chance at the unfinished crown of roses. “The very thing to help me!” he said—and took out his pocketbook, and wrote these lines on a blank page: “I have had a scene of jealousy with Miss de Sor, which is beyond all description. To spareyoua similar infliction, I have done violence to my own feelings. Instead of instantly obeying the message which you have so kindly sent to me, I remain here for a little while—entirely for your sake.”
Having torn out the page, and twisted it up among the roses, so that only a corner of the paper appeared in view, Mirabel called to a lad who was at work in the garden, and gave him his directions, accompanied by a shilling. “Take those flowers to the servants’ hall, and tell one of the maids to put them in Miss Brown’s room. Stop! Which is the way to the fruit garden?”
The lad gave the necessary directions. Mirabel walked away slowly, with his hands in his pockets. His nerves had been shaken; he thought a little fruit might refresh him.
In the meanwhile Emily had been true to her promise to relieve Mirabel’s anxieties, on the subject of Miss Jethro. Entering the drawing-room in search of Alban, she found him talking with Cecilia, and heard her own name mentioned as she opened the door.
“Here she is at last!” Cecilia exclaimed. “What in the world has kept you all this time in the rose garden?”
“Has Mr. Mirabel been more interesting than usual?” Alban asked gayly. Whatever sense of annoyance he might have felt in Emily’s absence, was forgotten the moment she appeared; all traces of trouble in his face vanished when they looked at each other.
“You shall judge for yourself,” Emily replied with a smile. “Mr. Mirabel has been speaking to me of a relative who is very dear to him—his sister.”
Cecilia was surprised. “Why has he never spoken tousof his sister?” she asked.
“It’s a sad subject to speak of, my dear. His sister lives a life of suffering—she has been for years a prisoner in her room. He writes to her constantly. His letters from Monksmoor have interested her, poor soul. It seems he said something about me—and she has sent a kind message, inviting me to visit her one of these days. Do you understand it now, Cecilia?”
“Of course I do! Tell me—is Mr. Mirabel’s sister older or younger than he is?”
“Older.”
“Is she married?”
“She is a widow.”
“Does she live with her brother?” Alban asked.
“Oh, no! She has her own house—far away in Northumberland.”
“Is she near Sir Jervis Redwood?”
“I fancy not. Her house is on the coast.”
“Any children?” Cecilia inquired.
“No; she is quite alone. Now, Cecilia, I have told you all I know—and I have something to say to Mr. Morris. No, you needn’t leave us; it’s a subject in which you are interested. A subject,” she repeated, turning to Alban, “which you may have noticed is not very agreeable to me.”
“Miss Jethro?” Alban guessed.
“Yes; Miss Jethro.”
Cecilia’s curiosity instantly asserted itself.
“Wehave tried to get Mr. Mirabel to enlighten us, and tried in vain,” she said. “You are a favorite. Have you succeeded?”
“I have made no attempt to succeed,” Emily replied. “My only object is to relieve Mr. Mirabel’s anxiety, if I can—with your help, Mr. Morris.”
“In what way can I help you?”
“You mustn’t be angry.”
“Do I look angry?”
“You look serious. It is a very simple thing. Mr. Mirabel is afraid that Miss Jethro may have said something disagreeable about him, which you might hesitate to repeat. Is he making himself uneasy without any reason?”
“Without the slightest reason. I have concealed nothing from Mr. Mirabel.”
“Thank you for the explanation.” She turned to Cecilia. “May I send one of the servants with a message? I may as well put an end to Mr. Mirabel’s suspense.”
The man was summoned, and was dispatched with the message. Emily would have done well, after this, if she had abstained from speaking further of Miss Jethro. But Mirabel’s doubts had, unhappily, inspired a similar feeling of uncertainty in her own mind. She was now disposed to attribute the tone of mystery in Alban’s unlucky letter to some possible concealment suggested by regard for herself. “I wonder whetherIhave any reason to feel uneasy?” she said—half in jest, half in earnest.
“Uneasy about what?” Alban inquired.
“About Miss Jethro, of course! Has she said anything of me which your kindness has concealed?”
Alban seemed to be a little hurt by the doubt which her question implied. “Was that your motive,” he asked, “for answering my letter as cautiously as if you had been writing to a stranger?”
“Indeed you are quite wrong!” Emily earnestly assured him. “I was perplexed and startled—and I took Mr. Wyvil’s advice, before I wrote to you. Shall we drop the subject?”
Alban would have willingly dropped the subject—but for that unfortunate allusion to Mr. Wyvil. Emily had unconsciously touched him on a sore place. He had already heard from Cecilia of the consultation over his letter, and had disapproved of it. “I think you were wrong to trouble Mr. Wyvil,” he said.
The altered tone of his voice suggested to Emily that he would have spoken more severely, if Cecilia had not been in the room. She thought him needlessly ready to complain of a harmless proceeding—and she too returned to the subject, after having proposed to drop it not a minute since!
“You didn’t tell me I was to keep your letter a secret,” she replied.
Cecilia made matters worse—with the best intentions. “I’m sure, Mr. Morris, my father was only too glad to give Emily his advice.”
Alban remained silent—ungraciously silent as Emily thought, after Mr. Wyvil’s kindness to him.
“The thing to regret,” she remarked, “is that Mr. Morris allowed Miss Jethro to leave him without explaining herself. In his place, I should have insisted on knowing why she wanted to prevent me from meeting Mr. Mirabel in this house.”
Cecilia made another unlucky attempt at judicious interference. This time, she tried a gentle remonstrance.
“Remember, Emily, how Mr. Morris was situated. He could hardly be rude to a lady. And I daresay Miss Jethro had good reasons for not wishing to explain herself.”
Francine opened the drawing-room door and heard Cecilia’s last words.
“Miss Jethro again!” she exclaimed.
“Where is Mr. Mirabel?” Emily asked. “I sent him a message.”
“He regrets to say he is otherwise engaged for the present,” Francine replied with spiteful politeness. “Don’t let me interrupt the conversation. Who is this Miss Jethro, whose name is on everybody’s lips?”
Alban could keep silent no longer. “We have done with the subject,” he said sharply.
“Because I am here?”
“Because we have said more than enough about Miss Jethro already.”
“Speak for yourself, Mr. Morris,” Emily answered, resenting the masterful tone which Alban’s interference had assumed. “I have not done with Miss Jethro yet, I can assure you.”
“My dear, you don’t know where she lives,” Cecilia reminded her.
“Leave me to discover it!” Emily answered hotly. “Perhaps Mr. Mirabel knows. I shall ask Mr. Mirabel.”
“I thought you would find a reason for returning to Mr. Mirabel,” Francine remarked.
Before Emily could reply, one of the maids entered the room with a wreath of roses in her hand.
“Mr. Mirabel sends you these flowers, miss,” the woman said, addressing Emily. “The boy told me they were to be taken to your room. I thought it was a mistake, and I have brought them to you here.”
Francine, who happened to be nearest to the door, took the roses from the girl on pretense of handing them to Emily. Her jealous vigilance detected the one visible morsel of Mirabel’s letter, twisted up with the flowers. Had Emily entrapped him into a secret correspondence with her? “A scrap of waste paper among your roses,” she said, crumpling it up in her hand as if she meant to throw it away.
But Emily was too quick for her. She caught Francine by the wrist. “Waste paper or not,” she said; “it was among my flowers and it belongs to me.”
Francine gave up the letter, with a look which might have startled Emily if she had noticed it. She handed the roses to Cecilia. “I was making a wreath for you to wear this evening, my dear—and I left it in the garden. It’s not quite finished yet.”
Cecilia was delighted. “How lovely it is!” she exclaimed. “And how very kind of you! I’ll finish it myself.” She turned away to the conservatory.
“I had no idea I was interfering with a letter,” said Francine; watching Emily with fiercely-attentive eyes, while she smoothed out the crumpled paper.
Having read what Mirabel had written to her, Emily looked up, and saw that Alban was on the point of following Cecilia into the conservatory. He had noticed something in Francine’s face which he was at a loss to understand, but which made her presence in the room absolutely hateful to him. Emily followed and spoke to him.
“I am going back to the rose garden,” she said.
“For any particular purpose?” Alban inquired
“For a purpose which, I am afraid, you won’t approve of. I mean to ask Mr. Mirabel if he knows Miss Jethro’s address.”
“I hope he is as ignorant of it as I am,” Alban answered gravely.
“Are we going to quarrel over Miss Jethro, as we once quarreled over Mrs. Rook?” Emily asked—with the readiest recovery of her good humor. “Come! come! I am sure you are as anxious, in your own private mind, to have this matter cleared up as I am.”
“With one difference—that I think of consequences, and you don’t.” He said it, in his gentlest and kindest manner, and stepped into the conservatory.
“Never mind the consequences,” she called after him, “if we can only get at the truth. I hate being deceived!”
“There is no person living who has better reason than you have to say that.”
Emily looked round with a start. Alban was out of hearing. It was Francine who had answered her.
“What do you mean?” she said.
Francine hesitated. A ghastly paleness overspread her face.
“Are you ill?” Emily asked.
“No—I am thinking.”
After waiting for a moment in silence, Emily moved away toward the door of the drawing-room. Francine suddenly held up her hand.
“Stop!” she cried.
Emily stood still.
“My mind is made up,” Francine said.
“Made up—to what?”
“You asked what I meant, just now.”
“I did.”
“Well, my mind is made up to answer you. Miss Emily Brown, you are leading a sadly frivolous life in this house. I am going to give you something more serious to think about than your flirtation with Mr. Mirabel. Oh, don’t be impatient! I am coming to the point. Without knowing it yourself, you have been the victim of deception for years past—cruel deception—wicked deception that puts on the mask of mercy.”
“Are you alluding to Miss Jethro?” Emily asked, in astonishment. “I thought you were strangers to each other. Just now, you wanted to know who she was.”
“I know nothing about her. I care nothing about her. I am not thinking of Miss Jethro.”
“Who are you thinking of?”
“I am thinking,” Francine answered, “of your dead father.”