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--if _you_ make 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.