I SAY NO

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Francine started to her feet to follow them. The lower order of
the audience, eager for amusement, put their own humorous
construction on the young lady's action. They roared with
laughter. "Let the parson and his sweetheart be," they called
out; "two's company, miss, and three isn't." Mr. Wyvil interposed
his authority and rebuked them. A lady seated behind Francine
interfered to good purpose by giving her a chair, which placed
her out of sight of the audience. Order was restored--and the
proceedings were resumed.

On the conclusion of the meeting, Mirabel and Emily were found
waiting for their friends at the door. Mr. Wyvil innocently added
fuel to the fire that was burning in Francine. He insisted that
Mirabel should return to Monksmoor, and offered him a seat in the
carriage at Emily's side.

Later in the evening, when they all met at dinner, there appeared
a change in Miss de Sor which surprised everybody but Mirabel.
She was gay and good-humored, and especially amiable and
attentive to Emily--who sat opposite to her at the table. "What
did you and Mr. Mirabel talk about while you were away from us?"
she asked innocently. "Politics?"

Emily readily adopted Francine's friendly tone. "Would you have
talked politics, in my place?" she asked gayly.

"In your place, I should have had the most delightful of
companions," Francine rejoined; "I wish I had been overcome by
the heat too!"

Mirabel--attentively observing her--acknowledged the compliment
by a bow, and left Emily to continue the conversation. In perfect
good faith she owned to having led Mirabel to talk of himself.
She had heard from Cecilia that his early life had been devoted
to various occupations, and she was interested in knowing how
circumstances had led him into devoting himself to the Church.
Francine listened with the outward appearance of implicit belief,
and with the inward conviction that Emily was deliberately
deceiving her. When the little narrative was at an end, she was
more agreeable than ever. She admired Emily's dress, and she
rivaled Cecilia in enjoyment of the good things on the table; she
entertained Mirabel with humorous anecdotes of the priests at St.
Domingo, and was so interested in the manufacture of violins,
ancient and modern, that Mr. Wyvil promised to show her his
famous collection of instruments, after dinner. Her overflowing
amiability included even poor Miss Darnaway and the absent
brothers and sisters. She heard with flattering sympathy, how
they had been ill and had got well again; what amusing tricks
they played, what alarming accidents happened to them, a nd how
remarkably clever they were--"including, I do assure you, dear
Miss de Sor, the baby only ten months old." When the ladies rose
to retire, Francine was, socially speaking, the heroine of the
evening.

While the violins were in course of exhibition, Mirabel found an
opportunity of speaking to Emily, unobserved.

"Have you said, or done, anything to offend Miss de Sor?" he
asked.

"Nothing whatever!" Emily declared, startled by the question.
"What makes you think I have offended her?"

"I have been trying to find a reason for the change in her,"
Mirabel answered--"especially the change toward yourself."

"Well?"

"Well--she means mischief."

"Mischief of what sort?"

"Of a sort which may expose her to discovery--unless she disarms
suspicion at the outset. That is (as I believe) exactly what she
has been doing this evening. I needn't warn you to be on your
guard."

All the next day Emily was on the watch for events--and nothing
happened. Not the slightest appearance of jealousy betrayed
itself in Francine. She made no attempt to attract to herself the
attentions of Mirabel; and she showed no hostility to Emily,
either by word, look, or manner.

. . . . . . . .

The day after, an event occurred at Netherwoods. Alban Morris
received an anonymous letter, addressed to him in these terms:

"A certain young lady, in whom you are supposed to be interested,
is forgetting you in your absence. If you are not mean enough to
allow yourself to be supplanted by another man, join the party at
Monksmoor before it is too late."

CHAPTER XLII.

COOKING.

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 Emil y'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."

CHAPTER XLIII.

SOUNDING.

Mirabel left Francine to enter the lodge by herself. His mind was
disturbed: he felt the importance of gaining time for reflection
before he and Emily met again.

The keeper's garden was at the back of the lodge. Passing through
the wicket-gate, he found a little summer-house at a turn in the
path. Nobody was there: he went in and sat down.

At intervals, he had even yet encouraged himself to underrate the
true importance of the feeling which Emily had awakened in him.
There was an end to all self-deception now. After what Francine
had said to him, this shallow and frivolous man no longer
resisted the all-absorbing influence of love. He shrank under the
one terrible question that forced itself on his mind:--Had that
jealous girl spoken the truth?

In what process of investigation could he trust, to set this
anxiety at rest? To apply openly to Emily would be to take a
liberty, which Emily was the last person in the world to permit.
In his recent intercourse with her he had felt more strongly than
ever the importance of speaking with reserve. He had been
scrupulously careful to take no unfair advantage of his
opportunity, when he had removed her from the meeting, and when
they had walked together, with hardly a creature to observe them,
in the lonely outskirts of the town. Emily's gaiety and good
humor had not led him astray: he knew that these were bad signs,
viewed in the interests of love. His one hope of touching her
deeper sympathies was to wait for the help that might yet come
from time and chance. With a bitter sigh, he resigned himself to
the necessity of being as agreeable and amusing as ever: it was
just possible that he might lure her into alluding to Alban
Morris, if he began innocently by making her laugh.

As he rose to return to the lodge, the keeper's little terrier,
prowling about the garden, looked into the summer-house. Seeing a
stranger, the dog showed his teeth and growled.

Mirabel shrank back against the wall behind him, trembling in
every limb. His eyes stared in terror as the dog came nearer:
barking in high triumph over the discovery of a frightened man
whom he could bully. Mirabel called out for help. A laborer at
work in the garden ran to the place--and stopped with a broad
grin of amusement at seeing a grown man terrified by a barking
dog. "Well," he said to himself, after Mirabel had passed out
under protection, "there goes a coward if ever there was one
yet!"

Mirabel waited a minute behind the lodge to recover himself. He
had been so completely unnerved that his hair was wet with
perspiration. While he used his handkerchief, he shuddered at
other recollections than the recollection of the dog. "After that
night at the inn," he thought, "the least thing frightens me!"

He was received by the young ladies with cries of derisive
welcome. "Oh, for shame! for shame! here are the potatoes already
cut, and nobody to fry them!"

Mirabel assumed the mask of cheerfulness--with the desperate
resolution of an actor, amusing his audience at a time of
domestic distress. He astonished the keeper's wife by showin g
that he really knew how to use her frying-pan. Cecilia's omelet
was tough--but the young ladies ate it. Emily's mayonnaise sauce
was almost as liquid as water--they swallowed it nevertheless by
the help of spoons. The potatoes followed, crisp and dry and
delicious--and Mirabel became more popular than ever. "He is the
only one of us," Cecilia sadly acknowledged, "who knows how to
cook."

When they all left the lodge for a stroll in the park, Francine
attached herself to Cecilia and Miss Plym. She resigned Mirabel
to Emily--in the happy belief that she had paved the way for a
misunderstanding between them.

The merriment at the luncheon table had revived Emily's good
spirits. She had a light-hearted remembrance of the failure of
her sauce. Mirabel saw her smiling to herself. "May I ask what
amuses you?" he said.

"I was thinking of the debt of gratitude that we owe to Mr.
Wyvil," she replied. "If he had not persuaded you to return to
Monksmoor, we should never have seen the famous Mr. Mirabel with
a frying pan in his hand, and never have tasted the only good
dish at our luncheon."

Mirabel tried vainly to adopt his companion's easy tone. Now that
he was alone with her, the doubts that Francine had aroused shook
the prudent resolution at which he had arrived in the garden. He
ran the risk, and told Emily plainly why he had returned to Mr.
Wyvil's house.

"Although I am sensible of our host's kindness," he answered, "I
should have gone back to my parsonage--but for You."

She declined to understand him seriously. "Then the affairs of
your parish are neglected--and I am to blame!" she said.

"Am I the first man who has neglected his duties for your sake?"
he asked. "I wonder whether the masters at school had the heart
to report you when you neglected your lessons?"

She thought of Alban--and betrayed herself by a heightened color.
The moment after, she changed the subject. Mirabel could no
longer resist the conclusion that Francine had told him the
truth.

"When do you leave us," she inquired.

"To-morrow is Saturday--I must go back as usual."

"And how will your deserted parish receive you?"

He made a desperate effort to be as amusing as usual.

"I am sure of preserving my popularity," he said, "while I have a
cask in the cellar, and a few spare sixpences in my pocket. The
public spirit of my parishioners asks for nothing but money and
beer. Before I went to that wearisome meeting, I told my
housekeeper that I was going to make a speech about reform. She
didn't know what I meant. I explained that reform might increase
the number of British citizens who had the right of voting at
elections for parliament. She brightened up directly. 'Ah,' she
said, 'I've heard my husband talk about elections. The more there
are of them (_he_ says) the more money he'll get for his vote.
I'm all for reform.' On my way out of the house, I tried the man
who works in my garden on the same subject. He didn't look at the
matter from the housekeeper's sanguine point of view. 'I don't
deny that parliament once gave me a good dinner for nothing at
the public-house,' he admitted. 'But that was years ago--and
(you'll excuse me, sir) I hear nothing of another dinner to come.
It's a matter of opinion, of course. I don't myself believe in
reform.' There are specimens of the state of public spirit in our
village!" He paused. Emily was listening--but he had not
succeeded in choosing a subject that amused her. He tried a topic
more nearly connected with his own interests; the topic of the
future. "Our good friend has asked me to prolong my visit, after
Sunday's duties are over," he said. "I hope I shall find you
here, next week?"

"Will the affairs of your parish allow you to come back?" Emily
asked mischievously.

"The affairs of my parish--if you force me to confess it--were
only an excuse."

"An excuse for what?"

"An excuse for keeping away from Monksmoor--in the interests of
my own tranquillity. The experiment has failed. While you are
here, I can't keep away."

She still declined to understand him seriously. "Must I tell you
in plain words that flattery is thrown away on me?" she said.

"Flattery is not offered to you," he answered gravely. "I beg
your pardon for having led to the mistake by talking of myself."
Having appealed to her indulgence by that act of submission, he
ventured on another distant allusion to the man whom he hated and
feared. "Shall I meet any friends of yours," he resumed, "when I
return on Monday?"

"What do you mean?"

"I only meant to ask if Mr. Wyvil expects any new guests?"

As he put the question, Cecilia's voice was heard behind them,
calling to Emily. They both turned round. Mr. Wyvil had joined
his daughter and her two friends. He advanced to meet Emily.

"I have some news for you that you little expect," he said. "A
telegram has just arrived from Netherwoods. Mr. Alban Morris has
got leave of absence, and is coming here to-morrow."

CHAPTER XLIV.

COMPETING.

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," be said; "and I gladly availed myself of the
opportunity of seeing you again."

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