I SAY NO

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After observing him attentively, while he was speaking to her,
Emily owned, with her customary frankness, that she had noticed
something in his manner which left her not quite at her ease.

"I wonder," she said, "if there is any foundation for a doubt
that has troubled me?" To his unutterable relief, she at once
explained what the doubt was. "I am afraid I offended you, in
replying to your letter about Miss Jethro."

In this case, Alban could enjoy the luxury of speaking
unreservedly. He confessed that Emily's letter had disappointed
him.

"I expected you to answer me with less reserve," he replied; "and
I began to think I had acted rashly in writing to you at all.
When there is a better opportunity, I may have a word to say--"
He was apparently interrupted by something that he saw in the
conservatory. Looking that way, Emily perceived that Mirabel was
the object which had attracted Alban's attention. The vile
anonymous letter was in his mind again. Without a preliminary
word to prepare Emily, he suddenly changed the subject. "How do
you like the clergyman?" he asked.

"Very much indeed," she replied, without the slightest
embarrassment. "Mr. Mirabel is clever and agreeable--and not at
all spoiled by his success. I am sure," she said innocently, "you
will like him too."

Alban's face answered her unmistakably in the negative sense--but
Emily's attention was drawn the other way by Francine. She joined
them at the moment, on the lookout for any signs of an
encouraging result which her treachery might already have
produced. Alban had been inclined to suspect her when he had
received the letter. He rose and bowed as she approached.
Something--he was unable to r ealize what it was--told him, in
the moment when they looked at each other, that his suspicion had
hit the mark.

In the conservatory the ever-amiable Mirabel had left his friends
for a while in search of flowers for Cecilia. She turned to her
father when they were alone, and asked him which of the gentlemen
was to take her in to dinner--Mr. Mirabel or Mr. Morris?

"Mr. Morris, of course," he answered. "He is the new guest--and
he turns out to be more than the equal, socially-speaking, of our
other friend. When I showed him his room, I asked if he was
related to a man who bore the same name--a fellow student of
mine, years and years ago, at college. He is my friend's younger
son; one of a ruined family--but persons of high distinction in
their day."

Mirabel returned with the flowers, just as dinner was announced.

"You are to take Emily to-day," Cecilia said to him, leading the
way out of the conservatory. As they entered the drawing-room,
Alban was just offering his arm to Emily. "Papa gives you to me,
Mr. Morris," Cecilia explained pleasantly. Alban hesitated,
apparently not understanding the allusion. Mirabel interfered
with his best grace: "Mr. Wyvil offers you the honor of taking
his daughter to the dining-room." Alban's face darkened
ominously, as the elegant little clergyman gave his arm to Emily,
and followed Mr. Wyvil and Francine out of the room. Cecilia
looked at her silent and surly companion, and almost envied her
lazy sister, dining--under cover of a convenient headache--in her
own room.

Having already made up his mind that Alban Morris required
careful handling, Mirabel waited a little before he led the
conversation as usual. Between the soup and the fish, he made an
interesting confession, addressed to Emily in the strictest
confidence.

"I have taken a fancy to your friend Mr. Morris," he said. "First
impressions, in my case, decide everything; I like people or
dislike them on impulse. That man appeals to my sympathies. Is he
a good talker?"

"I should say Yes," Emily answered prettily, "if _you_ were not
present."

Mirabel was not to be beaten, even by a woman, in the art of
paying compliments. He looked admiringly at Alban (sitting
opposite to him), and said: "Let us listen."

This flattering suggestion not only pleased Emily--it artfully
served Mirabel's purpose. That is to say, it secured him an
opportunity for observation of what was going on at the other
side of the table.

Alban's instincts as a gentleman had led him to control his
irritation and to regret that he had suffered it to appear.
Anxious to please, he presented himself at his best. Gentle
Cecilia forgave and forgot the angry look which had startled her.
Mr. Wyvil was delighted with the son of his old friend. Emily
felt secretly proud of the good opinions which her admirer was
gathering; and Francine saw with pleasure that he was asserting
his claim to Emily's preference, in the way of all others which
would be most likely to discourage his rival. These various
impressions--produced while Alban's enemy was ominously
silent--began to suffer an imperceptible change, from the moment
when Mirabel decided that his time had come to take the lead. A
remark made by Alban offered him the chance for which he had been
on the watch. He agreed with the remark; he enlarged on the
remark; he was brilliant and familiar, and instructive and
amusing--and still it was all due to the remark. Alban's temper
was once more severely tried. Mirabel's mischievous object had
not escaped his penetration. He did his best to put obstacles in
the adversary's way--and was baffled, time after time, with the
readiest ingenuity. If he interrupted--the sweet-tempered
clergyman submitted, and went on. If he differed--modest Mr.
Mirabel said, in the most amiable manner, "I daresay I am wrong,"
and handled the topic from his opponent's point of view. Never
had such a perfect Christian sat before at Mr. Wyvil's table: not
a hard word, not an impatient look, escaped him. The longer Alban
resisted, the more surely he lost ground in the general
estimation. Cecilia was disappointed; Emily was grieved; Mr.
Wyvil's favorable opinion began to waver; Francine was disgusted.
When dinner was over, and the carriage was waiting to take the
shepherd back to his flock by moonlight, Mirabel's triumph was
complete. He had made Alban the innocent means of publicly
exhibiting his perfect temper and perfect politeness, under their
best and brightest aspect.

So that day ended. Sunday promised to pass quietly, in the
absence of Mirabel. The morning came--and it seemed doubtful
whether the promise would be fulfilled.

Francine had passed an uneasy night. No such encouraging result
as she had anticipated had hitherto followed the appearance of
Alban Morris at Monksmoor. He had clumsily allowed Mirabel to
improve his position--while he had himself lost ground--in
Emily's estimation. If this first disastrous consequence of the
meeting between the two men was permitted to repeat itself on
future occasions, Emily and Mirabel would be brought more closely
together, and Alban himself would be the unhappy cause of it.
Francine rose, on the Sunday morning, before the table was laid
for breakfast--resolved to try the effect of a timely word of
advice.

Her bedroom was situated in the front of the house. The man she
was looking for presently passed within her range of view from
the window, on his way to take a morning walk in the park. She
followed him immediately.

"Good-morning, Mr. Morris."

He raised his hat and bowed--without speaking, and without
looking at her.

"We resemble each other in one particular," she proceeded,
graciously; "we both like to breathe the fresh air before
breakfast."

He said exactly what common politeness obliged him to say, and no
more--he said, "Yes."

Some girls might have been discouraged. Francine went on.

"It is no fault of mine, Mr. Morris, that we have not been better
friends. For some reason, into which I don't presume to inquire,
you seem to distrust me. I really don't know what I have done to
deserve it."

"Are you sure of that?" he asked--eying her suddenly and
searchingly as he spoke.

Her hard face settled into a rigid look; her eyes met his eyes
with a stony defiant stare. Now, for the first time, she knew
that he suspected her of having written the anonymous letter.
Every evil quality in her nature steadily defied him. A hardened
old woman could not have sustained the shock of discovery with a
more devilish composure than this girl displayed. "Perhaps you
will explain yourself," she said.

"I _have_ explained myself," he answered.

"Then I must be content," she rejoined, "to remain in the dark. I
had intended, out of my regard for Emily, to suggest that you
might--with advantage to yourself, and to interests that are very
dear to you--be more careful in your behavior to Mr. Mirabel. Are
you disposed to listen to me?"

"Do you wish me to answer that question plainly, Miss de Sor?"

"I insist on your answering it plainly."

"Then I am _not_ disposed to listen to you."

"May I know why? or am I to be left in the dark again?"

"You are to be left, if you please, to your own ingenuity."

Francine looked at him, with a malignant smile. "One of these
days, Mr. Morris--I will deserve your confidence in my
ingenuity." She said it, and went back to the house.

This was the only element of disturbance that troubled the
perfect tranquillity of the day. What Francine had proposed to
do, with the one idea of making Alban serve her purpose, was
accomplished a few hours later by Emily's influence for good over
the man who loved her.

They passed the afternoon together uninterruptedly in the distant
solitudes of the park. In the course of conversation Emily found
an opportunity of discreetly alluding to Mirabel. "You mustn't be
jealous of our clever little friend," she said; "I like him, and
admire him; but--"

"But you don't love him?"

She smiled at the eager way in which Alban put the question.

"There is no fear of that," she answered brightly.

"Not even if you discovered that he loves you?"

"Not even then. Are you content at last? Promise me not to be
rude to Mr. Mirabel again."

"For his sake?"

"No--for my sake. I don't like to see you place yourself at a
disadvantage toward another man; I don't like you to disappoint
me."

The happiness of hearing her say those words transfigured
him--the manly beauty of his earlier and happier years seemed to
have returned to Alban. He took her hand--he was too agitated to
speak.

"You are forgetting Mr. Mirabel," she reminded him gently.

"I will be all that is civil and kind to Mr. Mirabel; I will like
him and admire him as you do. Oh, Emily, are you a little, only a
very little, fond of me?"

"I don't quite know."

"May I try to find out?"

"How?" she asked.

Her fair cheek was very near to him. The softly-rising color on
it said, Answer me here--and he answered.

CHAPTER XLV.

MISCHIEF--MAKING.

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.

CHAPTER XLVI.

PRETENDING.

Miss de Sor began cautiously with an apology. "Excuse me, Mr.
Mirabel, for reminding you of my presence."

Mr. Mirabel made no reply.

"I beg to say," Francine proceeded, "that I didn't intentionally
see you kiss Emily's hand."

Mirabel stood, looking at the roses which Emily had left on her
chair, as completely absorbed in his own thoughts as if he had
been alone in the garden.

"Am I not even worth notice?" Francine asked. "Ah, I know to whom
I am indebted for your neglect!" She took him familiarly by the
arm, and burst into a harsh laugh. "Tell me now, in
confidence--do you think Emily is fond of you?"

The impression left by Emily's kindness was still fresh in
Mirabel's memory: he was in no humor to submit to the jealous
resentment of a woman whom he regarded with perfect indifference.
Through the varnish of politeness which overlaid his manner,
there rose to the surface the underlying insolence, hidden, on
all ordinary occasions, from all human eyes. He answered
Francine--mercilessly answered her--at last.

"It is the dearest hope of my life that she may be fond of me,"
he said.

Francine dropped his arm "And fortune favors your hopes," she
added, with an ironical assumption of interest in Mirabel's
prospects. "When Mr. Morris leaves us to-morrow, he removes the
only obstacle you have to fear. Am I right?"

"No; you are wrong."

"In what way, if you please?"

"In this way. I don't regard Mr. Morris as an obstacle. Emily is
too delicate and too kind to hurt his feelings--she is not in
love with him. There is no absorbing interest in her mind to
divert her thoughts from me. She is idle and happy; she
thoroughly enjoys her visit to this house, and I am associated
with her enjoyment. There is my chance--!"

He suddenly stopped. Listening to him thus far, unnaturally calm
and cold, Francine now showed that she felt the lash of his
contempt. A hideous smile passed slowly over her white face. It
threatened the vengeance which knows no fear, no pity, no
remorse--the vengeance of a jealous woman. Hysterical anger,
furious language, Mirabel was prepared for. The smile frightened
him.

"Well?" she said scornfully, "why don't you go on?"

A bolder man might still have maintained the audacious position
which he had assumed. Mirabel's faint heart shrank from it. He
was eager to shelter himself under the first excuse that he could
find. His ingenuity, paralyzed by his fears, was unable to invent
anything new. He feebly availed himself of the commonplace trick
of evasion which he had read of in novels, and seen in action on
the stage.

"Is it possible," he asked, with an overacted assumption of
surprise, "that you think I am in earnest?"

In the case of any other person, Francine would have instantly
seen through that flimsy pretense. But the love which accepts the
meanest crumbs of comfort that can be thrown to it--which fawns
and grovels and deliberately deceives itself, in its own
intensely selfish interests--was the love that burned in
Francine's breast. The wretched girl believed Mirabel with such
an ecstatic sense of belief that she trembled in every limb, and
dropped into the nearest chair.

"_I_ was in earnest," she said faintly. "Didn't you see it?"

He was perfectly shameless; he denied that he had seen it, in the
most positive manner. "Upon my honor, I thought you were
mystifying me, and I humored the joke."

She sighed, and looking at him with an expression of tender
reproach. "I wonder whether I can believe you," she said softly.

"Indeed you may believe me!" he assured her.

She hesitated--for the pleasure of hesitating. "I don't know.
Emily is very much admired by some men. Why not by you?"

"For the best of reasons," he answered "She is poor, and I am
poor. Those are facts which speak for themselves."

"Yes--but Emily is bent on attracting you. She would marry you
to-morrow, if you asked her. Don't attempt to deny it! Besides,
you kissed her hand."

"Oh, Miss de Sor!"

"Don't call me 'Miss de Sor'! Call me Francine. I want to know
why you kissed her hand."

He humored her with inexhaustible servility. "Allow me to kiss
_your_ hand, Francine!--and let me explain that kissing a lady's
hand is only a form of thanking her for her kindness. You must
own that Emily--"

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