Part 51 (1/2)
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.