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 to _you_, 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
had _my_ reasons” (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
to _you_. 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.