I SAY NO

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Innocent alike of all knowledge of the serious reason for fear
which did really exist, Mrs. Ellmother and Alban felt,
nevertheless, the same vague distrust of an intimacy between the
two girls. Idle, vain, malicious, false--to know that Francine's
character presented these faults, without any discoverable merits
to set against them, was surely enough to justify a gloomy view
of the prospect, if she succeeded in winning the position of
Emily's friend. Alban reasoned it out logically in this
way--without satisfying himself, and without accounting for the
remembrance that haunted him of Mrs. Ellmother's farewell look.
"A commonplace man would say we are both in a morbid state of
mind," he thought; "and sometimes commonplace men turn out to be
right."

He was too deeply preoccupied to notice that he had advanced
perilously near Francine's window. She suddenly stepped out of
her room, and spoke to him.

"Do you happen to know, Mr. Morris, why Mrs. Ellmother has gone
away without bidding me good-by?"

"She was probably afraid, Miss de Sor, that you might make her
the victim of another joke."

Francine eyed him steadily. "Have you any particular reason for
speaking to me in that way?"

"I am not aware that I have answered you rudely--if that is what
you mean."

"That is _not_ what I mean. You seem to have taken a dislike to
me. I should be glad to know why."

"I dislike cruelty--and you have behaved cruelly to Mrs.
Ellmother "

"Meaning to be cruel?" Francine inquired.

"You know as well as I do, Miss de Sor, that I can't answer that
question."

Francine looked at him again "Am I to understand that we are
enemies?" she asked.

"You are to understand," he replied, "that a person whom Miss
Ladd employs to help her in teaching, cannot always presume to
express his sentiments in speaking to the young ladies."

"If that means anything, Mr. Morris, it means that we are
enemies."

"It means, Miss de Sor, that I am the drawing-master at this
school, and that I am called to my class."

Francine returned to her room, relieved of the only doubt that
had troubled her. Plainly no suspicion that she had overheard
what passed between Mrs. Ellmother and himself existed in Alban's
mind. As to the use to be made of her discovery, she felt no
difficulty in deciding to wait, and be guided by events. Her
curiosity and her self-esteem had been alike gratified--she had
got the better of Mrs. Ellmother at last, and with that triumph
she was content. While Emily remained her friend, it would be an
act of useless cruelty to disclose the terrible truth. There had
certainly been a coolness between them at Brighton. But
Francine--still influenced by the magnetic attraction which drew
her to Emily--did not conceal from herself that she had offered
the provocation, and had been therefore the person to blame. "I
can set all that right," she thought, "when we meet at Monksmoor
Park." She opened her desk and wrote the shortest and sweetest of
letters to Cecilia. "I am entirely at the disposal of my charming
friend, on any convenient day--may I add, my dear, the sooner the
better?"

CHAPTER XXXVII.

"THE LADY WANTS YOU, SIR."

The pupils of the drawing-class put away their pencils and
color-boxes in high good humor: the teacher's vigilant eye for
faults had failed him for the first time in their experience. Not
one of them had been reproved; they had chattered and giggled and
drawn caricatures on the margin of the paper, as freely as if the
master had left the room. Alban's wandering attention was indeed
beyond the reach of control. His interview with Francine had
doubled his sense of responsibility toward Emily--while he was
further than ever from seeing how he could interfere, to any
useful purpose, in his present position, and with his reasons for
writing under reserve.

One of the servants addressed him as he was leaving the
schoolroom. The landlady's boy was waiting in the hall, with a
message from his lodgings.

"Now then! what is it?" he asked, irritably.

"The lady wants you, sir." With this mysterious answer, the boy
presented a visiting card. The name inscribed on it was--"Miss
Jethro."

She had arrived by the train, and she was then waiting at Alban's
lodgings. "Say I will be with her directly." Having given the
message, he stood for a while, with his hat in his
hand--literally lost in astonishment. It was simply impossible to
guess at Miss Jethro's object: and yet, with the usual perversity
of human nature, he was still wondering what she could possibly
want with him, up to the final moment when he opened the door of
his sitting-room.

She rose and bowed with the same grace of movement, and the same
well-bred composure of manner, which Doctor Allday had noticed
when she entered his consulting-room. Her dark melancholy eyes
rested on Alban with a look of gentle interest. A faint flush of
color animated for a moment the faded beauty of her face--passed
away again--and left it paler than before.

"I cannot conceal from myself," she began, "that I am intruding
on you under embarrassing circumstances."

"May I ask, Miss Jethro, to what circumstances you allude?"

"You forget, Mr. Morris, that I left Miss Ladd's school, in a
manner which justified doubt of me in the minds of strangers."

"Speaking as one of those strangers," Alban replied, "I cannot
feel that I had any right to form an opinion, on a matter which
only concerned Miss Ladd and yourself."

Miss Jethro bowed gravely. "You encourage me to hope," she said.
"I think you will place a favorable construction on my visit when
I mention my motive. I ask you to receive me, in the interests of
Miss Emily Brown."

Stating her purpose in calling on him in those plain terms, she
added to the amazement which Alban already felt, by handing to
him--as if she was presenting an introduction--a letter marked,
"Private," addressed to her by Doctor Allday.

"I may tell you," she premised, "that I had no idea of troubling
you, until Doctor Allday suggested it. I wrote to him in the
first instance; and there is his reply. Pray read it."

The letter was dated, "Penzance"; and the doctor wrote, as he
spoke, without ceremony.

"MADAM--Your letter has been forwarded to me. I am spending my
autumn holiday in the far West of Cornwall. However, if I had
been at home, it would have made no difference. I should have
begged leave to decline holding any further conversation with
you, on the subject of Miss Emily Brown, for the following
reasons:

"In the first place, though I cannot doubt your sincere interest
in the young lady's welfare, I don't like your mysterious way of
showing it. In the second place, when I called at your address in
London, after you had left my house, I found that you had taken
to flight. I place my own interpretation on this circumstance;
but as it is not founded on any knowledge of facts, I merely
allude to it, and say no more."

Arrived at that point, Alban offered to return the letter. "Do
you really mean me to go on reading it?" he asked.

"Yes," she said quietly.

Alban returned to the letter.

"In the third place, I have good reason to believe that you
entered Miss Ladd's school as a teacher, under false pretenses.
After that discovery, I tell you plainly I hesitate to attach
credit to any statement that you may wish to make. At the same
time, I must not permit my prejudices (as you will probably call
them) to stand in the way of Miss Emily's interests--supposing
them to be really depending on any interference of yours. Miss
Ladd's drawing-master, Mr. Alban Morris, is even more devoted to
Miss Emily's service than I am. Whatever you might have said to
me, you can say to him--with this possible advantage, that _he_
may believe you."

There the letter ended. Alban handed it back in silence.

Miss Jethro pointed to the words, "Mr. Alban Morris is even more
devoted to Miss EmilyÕs service than I am."

"Is that true?" she asked.

"Quite true."

"I don't complain, Mr. Morris, of the hard things said of me in
that letter; you are at liberty to suppose, if you like, that I
deserve them. Attribute it to pride, or attribute it to
reluctance to make needless demands on your time--I shall not
attempt to defend myself. I leave you to decide whether the woman
who has shown you that letter--having something important to say
to you--is a person who is mean enough to say it under false
pretenses."

"Tell me what I can do for you, Miss Jethro: and be assured,
beforehand, that I don't doubt your sincerity."

"My purpose in coming here," she answered, "is to induce you to
use your influence over Miss Emily Brown--"

"With what object?" Alban asked, interrupting her.

"My object is her own good. Some years since, I happened to
become acquainted with a person who has attained some celebrity
as a preacher. You have perhaps heard of Mr. Miles Mirabel?"

"I have heard of him."

"I have been in correspondence with him," Miss Jethro proceeded.
"He tells me he has been introduced to a young lady, who was
formerly one of Miss Ladd's pupils, and who is the daughter of
Mr. Wyvil, of Monksmoor Park. He has called on Mr. Wyvil; and he
has since received an invitation to stay at Mr. Wyvil's house.
The day fixed for the visit is Monday, the fifth of next month."

Alban listened--at a loss to know what interest he was supposed
to have in being made acquainted with Mr. Mirabel's engagements.
Miss Jethro's next words enlightened him.

"You are perhaps aware," she resumed, "that Miss Emily Brown is
Miss Wyvil's intimate friend. She will be one of the guests at
Monksmoor Park. If there are any obstacles which you can place in
her way--if there is any influence which you can exert, without
exciting suspicion of your motive--prevent her, I entreat you,
from accepting Miss Wyvil's invitation, until Mr. Mirabel's visit
has come to an end."

"Is there anything against Mr. Mirabel?" he asked.

"I say nothing against him."

"Is Miss Emily acquainted with him?"

"No."

"Is he a person with whom it would be disagreeable to her to
associate?"

"Quite the contrary."

"And yet you expect me to prevent them from meeting! Be
reasonable, Miss Jethro."

"I can only be in earnest, Mr. Morris--more truly, more deeply in
earnest than you can suppose. I declare to you that I am speaking
in Miss Emily's interests. Do you still refuse to exert yourself
for her sake?"

"I am spared the pain of refusal," Alban answered. "The time for
interference has gone by. She is, at this moment, on her way to
Monksmoor Park."

Miss Jethro attempted to rise--and dropped back into her chair.
"Water!" she said faintly. After drinking from the glass to the
last drop, she began to revive. Her little traveling-bag was on
the floor at her side. She took out a railway guide, and tried to
consult it. Her fingers trembled incessantly; she was unable to
find the page to which she wished to refer. "Help me," she said,
"I must leave this place--by the first train that passes."

"To see Emily?" Alban asked.

"Quite useless! You have said it yourself--the time for
interference has gone by. Look at the guide."

"What place shall I look for?"

"Look for Vale Regis."

Alban found the place. The train was due in ten minutes. "Surely
you are not fit to travel so soon?" he suggested.

"Fit or not, I must see Mr. Mirabel--I must make the effort to
keep them apart by appealing to _him_."

"With any hope of success?"

"With no hope--and with no interest in the man himself. Still I
must try."

"Out of anxiety for Emily's welfare?"

"Out of anxiety for more than that."

"For what?"

"If you can't guess, I daren't tell you."

That strange reply startled Alban. Before he could ask what it
meant, Miss Jethro had left him.

In the emergencies of life, a person readier of resource than
Alban Morris it would not have been easy to discover. The
extraordinary interview that had now come to an end had found its
limits. Bewildered and helpless, he stood at the window of his
room, and asked himself (as if he had been the weakest man
living), "What shal l I do?"

BOOK THE FOURTH--THE COUNTRY HOUSE.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

DANCING.

The windows of the long drawing-room at Monksmoor are all thrown
open to the conservatory. Distant masses of plants and flowers,
mingled in ever-varying forms of beauty, are touched by the
melancholy luster of the rising moon. Nearer to the house, the
restful shadows are disturbed at intervals, where streams of
light fall over them aslant from the lamps in the room. The
fountain is playing. In rivalry with its lighter music, the
nightingales are singing their song of ecstasy. Sometimes, the
laughter of girls is heard--and, sometimes, the melody of a
waltz. The younger guests at Monksmoor are dancing.

Emily and Cecilia are dressed alike in white, with flowers in
their hair. Francine rivals them by means of a gorgeous contrast
of color, and declares that she is rich with the bright emphasis
of diamonds and the soft persuasion of pearls.

Miss Plym (from the rectory) is fat and fair and prosperous: she
overflows with good spirits; she has a waist which defies
tight-lacing, and she dances joyously on large flat feet. Miss
Darnaway (officer's daughter with small means) is the exact
opposite of Miss Plym. She is thin and tall and faded--poor soul.
Destiny has made it her hard lot in life to fill the place of
head-nursemaid at home. In her pensive moments, she thinks of the
little brothers and sisters, whose patient servant she is, and
wonders who comforts them in their tumbles and tells them stories
at bedtime, while she is holiday-making at the pleasant country
house.

Tender-hearted Cecilia, remembering how few pleasures this young
friend has, and knowing how well she dances, never allows her to
be without a partner. There are three invaluable young gentlemen
present, who are excellent dancers. Members of different
families, they are nevertheless fearfully and wonderfully like
each other. They present the same rosy complexions and
straw-colored mustachios, the same plump cheeks, vacant eyes and
low forehead; and they utter, with the same stolid gravity, the
same imbecile small talk. On sofas facing each other sit the two
remaining guests, who have not joined the elders at the
card-table in another room. They are both men. One of them is
drowsy and middle-aged--happy in the possession of large landed
property: happier still in a capacity for drinking Mr. Wyvil's
famous port-wine without gouty results.

The other gentleman--ah, who is the other? He is the confidential
adviser and bosom friend of every young lady in the house. Is it
necessary to name the Reverend Miles Mirabel?

There he sits enthroned, with room for a fair admirer on either
side of him--the clerical sultan of a platonic harem. His
persuasive ministry is felt as well as heard: he has an innocent
habit of fondling young persons. One of his arms is even long
enough to embrace the circumference of Miss Plym--while the other
clasps the rigid silken waist of Francine. "I do it everywhere
else," he says innocently, "why not here?" Why not indeed--with
that delicate complexion and those beautiful blue eyes; with the
glorious golden hair that rests on his shoulders, and the glossy
beard that flows over his breast? Familiarities, forbidden to
mere men, become privileges and condescensions when an angel
enters society--and more especially when that angel has enough of
mortality in him to be amusing. Mr. Mirabel, on his social side,
is an irresistible companion. He is cheerfulness itself; he takes
a favorable view of everything; his sweet temper never differs
with anybody. "In my humble way," he confesses, "I like to make
the world about me brighter." Laughter (harmlessly produced,
observe!) is the element in which he lives and breathes. Miss
Darnaway's serious face puts him out; he has laid a bet with
Emily--not in money, not even in gloves, only in flowers--that he
will make Miss Darnaway laugh; and he has won the wager. Emily's
flowers are in his button-hole, peeping through the curly
interstices of his beard. "Must you leave me?" he asks tenderly,
when there is a dancing man at liberty, and it is Francine's turn
to claim him. She leaves her seat not very willingly. For a
while, the place is vacant; Miss Plym seizes the opportunity of
consulting the ladies' bosom friend.

"Dear Mr. Mirabel, do tell me what you think of Miss de Sor?"

Dear Mr. Mirabel bursts into enthusiasm and makes a charming
reply. His large experience of young ladies warns him that they
will tell each other what he thinks of them, when they retire for
the night; and he is careful on these occasions to say something
that will bear repetition.

"I see in Miss de Sor," he declares, "the resolution of a man,
tempered by the sweetness of a woman. When that interesting
creature marries, her husband will be--shall I use the vulgar
word?--henpecked. Dear Miss Plym, he will enjoy it; and he will
be quite right too; and, if I am asked to the wedding, I shall
say, with heartfelt sincerity, Enviable man!"

In the height of her admiration for Mr. Mirabel's wonderful eye
for character, Miss Plym is called away to the piano. Cecilia
succeeds to her friend's place--and has her waist taken in charge
as a matter of course.

"How do you like Miss Plym?" she asks directly.

Mr. Mirabel smiles, and shows the prettiest little pearly teeth.
"I was just thinking of her," he confesses pleasantly; "Miss Plym
is so nice and plump, so comforting and domestic--such a perfect
clergyman's daughter. You love her, don't you? Is she engaged to
be married? In that case--between ourselves, dear Miss Wyvil, a
clergyman is obliged to be cautious--I may own that I love her
too."

Delicious titillations of flattered self-esteem betray themselves
in Cecilia's lovely complexion. She is the chosen confidante of
this irresistible man; and she would like to express her sense of
obligation. But Mr. Mirabel is a master in the art of putting the
right words in the right places; and simple Cecilia distrusts
herself and her grammar.

At that moment of embarrassment, a friend leaves the dance, and
helps Cecilia out of the difficulty.

Emily approaches the sofa-throne, breathless--followed by her
partner, entreating her to give him "one turn more." She is not
to be tempted; she means to rest. Cecilia sees an act of mercy,
suggested by the presence of the disengaged young man. She seizes
his arm, and hurries him off to poor Miss Darnaway; sitting
forlorn in a corner, and thinking of the nursery at home. In the
meanwhile a circumstance occurs. Mr. Mirabel's all-embracing arm
shows itself in a new character, when Emily sits by his side.

It becomes, for the first time, an irresolute arm. It advances a
little--and hesitates. Emily at once administers an unexpected
check; she insists on preserving a free waist, in her own
outspoken language. "No, Mr. Mirabel, keep that for the others.
You can't imagine how ridiculous you and the young ladies look,
and how absurdly unaware of it you all seem to be." For the first
time in his life, the reverend and ready-witted man of the world
is at a loss for an answer. Why?

For this simple reason. He too has felt the magnetic attraction
of the irresistible little creature whom every one likes. Miss
Jethro has been doubly defeated. She has failed to keep them
apart; and her unexplained misgivings have not been justified by
events: Emily and Mr. Mirabel are good friends already. The
brilliant clergyman is poor; his interests in life point to a
marriage for money; he has fascinated the heiresses of two rich
fathers, Mr. Tyvil and Mr. de Sor--and yet he is conscious of an
influence (an alien influence, without a balance at its bankers),
which has, in some mysterious way, got between him and his
interests.

On Emily's side, the attraction felt is of another nature
altogether. Among the merry young people at Monksmoor she is her
old happy self again; and she finds in Mr. Mirabel the most
agreeable and amusing man whom she has ever met. After those
dismal night watches by the bed of her dying aunt, and the dreary
weeks of solitude that followed, to live in this new world of
luxury and gayety is like escaping from the darkness of night,
and basking in the fall brightn ess of day. Cecilia declares that
she looks, once more, like the joyous queen of the bedroom, in
the bygone time at school; and Francine (profaning Shakespeare
without knowing it), says, "Emily is herself again!"

"Now that your arm is in its right place, reverend sir," she
gayly resumes, "I may admit that there are exceptions to all
rules. My waist is at your disposal, in a case of necessity--that
is to say, in a case of waltzing."

"The one case of all others," Mirabel answers, with the engaging
frankness that has won him so many friends, "which can never
happen in my unhappy experience. Waltzing, I blush to own it,
means picking me up off the floor, and putting smelling salts to
my nostrils. In other words, dear Miss Emily, it is the room that
waltzes--not I. I can't look at those whirling couples there,
with a steady head. Even the exquisite figure of our young
hostess, when it describes flying circles, turns me giddy."

Hearing this allusion to Cecilia, Emily drops to the level of the
other girls. She too pays her homage to the Pope of private life.
"You promised me your unbiased opinion of Cecilia," she reminds
him; "and you haven't given it yet."

The ladies' friend gently remonstrates. "Miss Wyvil's beauty
dazzles me. How can I give an unbiased opinion? Besides, I am not
thinking of her; I can only think of you."

Emily lifts her eyes, half merrily, half tenderly, and looks at
him over the top of her fan. It is her first effort at
flirtation. She is tempted to engage in the most interesting of
all games to a girl--the game which plays at making love. What
has Cecilia told her, in those bedroom gossipings, dear to the
hearts of the two friends? Cecilia has whispered, "Mr. Mirabel
admires your figure; he calls you 'the Venus of Milo, in a state
of perfect abridgment.'" Where is the daughter of Eve, who would
not have been flattered by that pretty compliment--who would not
have talked soft nonsense in return? "You can only think of Me,"
Emily repeats coquettishly. "Have you said that to the last young
lady who occupied my place, and will you say it again to the next
who follows me?"

"Not to one of them! Mere compliments are for the others--not for
you."

"What is for me, Mr. Mirabel?"

"What I have just offered you--a confession of the truth."

Emily is startled by the tone in which he replies. He seems to be
in earnest; not a vestige is left of the easy gayety of his
manner. His face shows an expression of anxiety which she has
never seen in it yet. "Do you believe me?" he asks in a whisper.

She tries to change the subject.

"When am I to hear you preach, Mr. Mirabel?"

He persists. "When you believe me," he says.

His eyes add an emphasis to that reply which is not to be
mistaken. Emily turns away from him, and notices Francine. She
has left the dance, and is looking with marked attention at Emily
and Mirabel. "I want to speak to you," she says, and beckons
impatiently to Emily.

Mirabel whispers, "Don't go!"

Emily rises nevertheless--ready to avail herself of the first
excuse for leaving him. Francine meets her half way, and takes
her roughly by the arm.

"What is it?" Emily asks.

"Suppose you leave off flirting with Mr. Mirabel, and make
yourself of some use."

"In what way?"

"Use your ears--and look at that girl."

She points disdainfully to innocent Miss Plym. The rector's
daughter possesses all the virtues, with one exception--the
virtue of having an ear for music. When she sings, she is out of
tune; and, when she plays, she murders time.

"Who can dance to such music as that?" says Francine. "Finish the
waltz for her."

Emily naturally hesitates. "How can I take her place, unless she
asks me?"

Francine laughs scornfully. "Say at once, you want to go back to
Mr. Mirabel."

"Do you think I should have got up, when you beckoned to me,"
Emily rejoins, "if I had not wanted to get away from Mr.
Mirabel?"

Instead of resenting this sharp retort, Francine suddenly breaks
into good humor. "Come along, you little spit-fire; I'll manage
it for you."

She leads Emily to the piano, and stops Miss Plym without a word
of apology: "It's your turn to dance now. Here's Miss Brown
waiting to relieve you."

Cecilia has not been unobservant, in her own quiet way, of what
has been going on. Waiting until Francine and Miss Plym are out
of hearing, she bends over Emily, and says, "My dear, I really do
think Francine is in love with Mr. Mirabel."

"After having only been a week in the same house with him!" Emily
exclaims.

"At any rate," said Cecilia, more smartly than usual, "she is
jealous of _you_."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

FEIGNING.

The next morning, Mr. Mirabel took two members of the circle at
Monksmoor by surprise. One of them was Emily; and one of them was
the master of the house.

Seeing Emily alone in the garden before breakfast, he left his
room and joined her. "Let me say one word," he pleaded, "before
we go to breakfast. I am grieved to think that I was so
unfortunate as to offend you, last night."

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