resignation, and was rewarded by tender encouragement expressed in a look.
'Do you see that?' Cecilia whispered. 'He knows how rich she is—I wonder whether he will marry her.'
Emily smiled. 'I doubt it, while he is in this house,' she said. 'You are as rich as Francine—and don't forget that you have other attractions as well.'
Cecilia shook her head. 'Mr. Mirabel is very nice,' she admitted; 'but I wouldn't marry him. Would you?'
Emily secretly compared Alban with Mirabel. 'Not for the world!' she answered.
The next day was the day of Mirabel's departure. His admirers among the ladies followed him out to the door, at which Mr. Wyvil's carriage was waiting. Francine threw a nosegay after the departing guest as he got in. 'Mind you come back to us on Monday!' she said. Mirabel bowed and thanked her; but his last look was for Emily, standing apart from the others at the top of the steps. Francine said nothing; her lips closed convulsively—she turned suddenly pale.
CHAPTER XLI. SPEECHIFYING.
On the Monday, a plowboy from Vale Regis arrived at Monksmoor.
In respect of himself, he was a person beneath notice. In respect of his errand, he was sufficiently important to cast a gloom over the household. The faithless Mirabel had broken his engagement, and the plowboy was the herald of misfortune who brought his apology. To his great disappointment (he wrote) he was detained by the affairs of his parish. He could only trust to Mr. Wyvil's indulgence to excuse him, and to communicate his sincere sense of regret (on scented note paper) to the ladies.
Everybody believed in the affairs of the parish—with the exception of Francine. 'Mr. Mirabel has made the best excuse he could think of for shortening his visit; and I don't wonder at it,' she said, looking significantly at Emily.
Emily was playing with one of the dogs; exercising him in the tricks which he had learned. She balanced a morsel of sugar on his nose—and had no attention to spare for Francine.
Cecilia, as the mistress of the house, felt it her duty to interfere. 'That is a strange remark to make,' she answered. 'Do you mean to say that we have driven Mr. Mirabel away from us?'
'I accuse nobody,' Francine began with spiteful candor.
'Now she's going to accuse everybody!' Emily interposed, addressing herself facetiously to the dog.
'But when girls are bent on fascinating men, whether they like it or not,' Francine proceeded, 'men have only one alternative—they must keep out of the way.' She looked again at Emily, more pointedly than ever.
Even gentle Cecilia resented this. 'Whom do you refer to?' she said sharply.
'My dear!' Emily remonstrated, 'need you ask?' She glanced at Francine as she spoke, and then gave the dog his signal. He tossed up the sugar, and caught it in his mouth. His audience applauded him—and so, for that time, the skirmish ended.
Among the letters of the next morning's delivery, arrived Alban's reply. Emily's anticipations proved to be correct. The drawing-master's du ties would not permit him to leave Netherwoods; and he, like Mirabel, sent his apologies. His short letter to Emily contained no further allusion to Miss Jethro; it began and ended on the first page.
Had he been disappointed by the tone of reserve in which Emily had written to him, under Mr. Wyvil's advice? Or (as Cecilia suggested) had his detention at the school so bitterly disappointed him that he was too disheartened to write at any length? Emily made no attempt to arrive at a conclusion, either one way or the other. She seemed to be in depressed spirits; and she spoke superstitiously, for the first time in Cecilia's experience of her.
'I don't like this reappearance of Miss Jethro,' she said. 'If the mystery about that woman is ever cleared up, it will bring trouble and sorrow to me—and I believe, in his own secret heart, Alban Morris thinks so too.'
'Write, and ask him,' Cecilia suggested.
'He is so kind and so unwilling to distress me,' Emily answered, 'that he wouldn't acknowledge it, even if I am right.'
In the middle of the week, the course of private life at Monksmoor suffered an interruption—due to the parliamentary position of the master of the house.
The insatiable appetite for making and hearing speeches, which represents one of the marked peculiarities of the English race (including their cousins in the United States), had seized on Mr. Wyvil's constituents. There was to be a political meeting at the market hall, in the neighboring town; and the member was expected to make an oration, passing in review contemporary events at home and abroad. 'Pray don't think of accompanying me,' the good man said to his guests. 'The hall is badly ventilated, and the speeches, including my own, will not be worth hearing.'
This humane warning was ungratefully disregarded. The gentlemen were all interested in 'the objects of the meeting'; and the ladies were firm in the resolution not to be left at home by themselves. They dressed with a view to the large assembly of spectators before whom they were about to appear; and they outtalked the men on political subjects, all the way to the town.
The most delightful of surprises was in store for them, when they reached the market hall. Among the crowd of ordinary gentlemen, waiting under the portico until the proceedings began, appeared one person of distinction, whose title was 'Reverend,' and whose name was Mirabel.
Francine was the first to discover him. She darted up the steps and held out her hand.
'This
She held fast by Mirabel, and kept a jealous watch on him. Was it only her fancy? or did she detect a new charm in his smile when he spoke to Emily?
Before it was possible to decide, the time for the meeting had arrived. Mr. Wyvil's friends were of course
