I Say No

'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.