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
