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 for _him_ to 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 in _my_ prospects? 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.”
“What _do_ you 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.”