I Say No

'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—'

She interrupted him for the third time. 'Emily?' she repeated. 'Are you as familiar as that already? Does she call you 'Miles,' when you are by yourselves? Is there any effort at fascination which this charming creature has left untried? She told you no doubt what a lonely life she leads in her poor little home?'

Even Mirabel felt that he must not permit this to pass.

'She has said nothing to me about herself,' he answered. 'What I know of her, I know from Mr. Wyvil.'

'Oh, indeed! You asked Mr. Wyvil about her family, of course? What did he say?'

'He said she lost her mother when she was a child—and he told me her father had died suddenly, a few years since, of heart complaint.'

'Well, and what else?—Never mind now! Here is somebody coming.'

The person was only one of the servants. Mirabel felt grateful to the man for interrupting them. Animated by sentiments of a precisely opposite nature, Francine spoke to him sharply.

'What do you want here?'

'A message, miss.'

'From whom?'

'From Miss Brown.'

'For me?'

'No, miss.' He turned to Mirabel. 'Miss Brown wishes to speak to you, sir, if you are not engaged.'

Francine controlled herself until the man was out of hearing.

'Upon my word, this is too shameless!' she declared indignantly. 'Emily can't leave you with me for five minutes, without wanting to see you again. If you go to her after all that you have said to me,' she cried, threatening Mirabel with her outstretched hand, 'you are the meanest of men!'

He was the meanest of men—he carried out his cowardly submission to the last extremity.

'Only say what you wish me to do,' he replied.

Even Francine expected some little resistance from a creature bearing the outward appearance of a man. 'Oh, do you really mean it?' she asked 'I want you to disappoint Emily. Will you stay here, and let me make your excuses?'

'I will do anything to please you.'

Francine gave him a farewell look. Her admiration made a desperate effort to express itself appropriately in words. 'You are not a man,' she said, 'you are an angel!'

Left by himself, Mirabel sat down to rest. He reviewed his own conduct with perfect complacency. 'Not one man in a hundred could have managed that she-devil as I have done,' he thought. 'How shall I explain matters to Emily?'

Considering this question, he looked by chance at the unfinished crown of roses. 'The very thing to help me!' he said—and took out his pocketbook, and wrote these lines on a blank page: 'I have had a scene of jealousy with Miss de Sor, which is beyond all description. To spare you a similar infliction, I have done violence to my own feelings. Instead of instantly obeying the message which you have so kindly sent to me, I remain here for a little while—entirely for your sake.'

Having torn out the page, and twisted it up among the roses, so that only a corner of the paper appeared in view, Mirabel called to a lad who was at work in the garden, and gave him his directions, accompanied by a shilling. 'Take those flowers to the servants' hall, and tell one of the maids to put them in Miss Brown's room. Stop! Which is the way to the fruit garden?'

The lad gave the necessary directions. Mirabel walked away slowly, with his hands in his pockets. His nerves had been shaken; he thought a little fruit might refresh him.

CHAPTER XLVII. DEBATING.

In the meanwhile Emily had been true to her promise to relieve Mirabel's anxieties, on the subject of Miss Jethro. Entering the drawing-room in search of Alban, she found him talking with Cecilia, and heard her own name mentioned as she opened the door.

'Here she is at last!' Cecilia exclaimed. 'What in the world has kept you all this time in the rose garden?'

'Has Mr. Mirabel been more interesting than usual?' Alban asked gayly. Whatever sense of annoyance he might have felt in Emily's absence, was forgotten the moment she appeared; all traces of trouble in his face vanished when they looked at each other.

'You shall judge for yourself,' Emily replied with a smile. 'Mr. Mirabel has been speaking to me of a relative who is very dear to him—his sister.'

Cecilia was surprised. 'Why has he never spoken to us of his sister?' she asked.

'It's a sad subject to speak of, my dear. His sister lives a life of suffering—she has been for years a prisoner in her room. He writes to her constantly. His letters from Monksmoor have interested her, poor soul. It seems he said something about me—and she has sent a kind message, inviting me to visit her one of these days. Do you understand it now, Cecilia?'