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  CHAPTER XLII. COOKING.

  The day after the political meeting was a day of departures, at thepleasant country house.

  Miss Darnaway was recalled to the nursery at home. The old squire whodid justice to Mr. Wyvil's port-wine went away next, having guests toentertain at his own house. A far more serious loss followed. The threedancing men had engagements which drew them to new spheres of activityin other drawing-rooms. They said, with the same dreary grace of manner,"Very sorry to go"; they drove to the railway, arrayed in the sameperfect traveling suits of neutral tint; and they had but one differenceof opinion among them--each firmly believed that he was smoking the bestcigar to be got in London.

  The morning after these departures would have been a dull morningindeed, but for the presence of Mirabel.

  When breakfast was over, the invalid Miss Julia established herself onthe 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 happysuggestions. "We are thrown on our own resources," he said. "Let usdistinguish ourselves by inventing some entirely new amusement for theday. You young ladies shall sit in council--and I will be secretary."He turned to Cecilia. "The meeting waits to hear the mistress of thehouse."

  Modest Cecilia appealed to her school friends for help; addressingherself in the first instance (by the secretary's advice) to Francine,as the eldest. They all noticed another change in this variable youngperson. She was silent and subdued; and she said wearily, "I don't carewhat we do--shall we go out riding?"

  The unanswerable objection to riding as a form of amusement, was that ithad been more than once tried already. Something clever and surprisingwas anticipated from Emily when it came to her turn. She, too,disappointed expectation. "Let us sit under the trees," was all that shecould suggest, "and ask Mr. Mirabel to tell us a story."

  Mirabel laid down his pen and took it on himself to reject thisproposal. "Remember," he remonstrated, "that I have an interest in thediversions 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 thesecretary."

  Cecilia blushed and looked uneasy. "I think I have got an idea," sheannounced, after some hesitation. "May I propose that we all go to thekeeper's lodge?" There her courage failed her, and she hesitated again.

  Mirabel gravely registered the proposal, as far as it went. "What are weto do when we get to the keeper's lodge?" he inquired.

  "We are to ask the keeper's wife," Cecilia proceeded, "to lend us herkitchen."

  "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 answeredsoftly, "Cook our own luncheon."

  Here was an entirely new amusement, in the most attractive sense ofthe words! Here was charming Cecilia's interest in the pleasures of thetable so happily inspired, that the grateful meeting offered its tributeof applause--even including Francine. The members of the council wereyoung; their daring digestions contemplated without fear the prospectof eating their own amateur cookery. The one question that troubled themnow 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 tofollow the omelet with a mayonnaise."

  "There are clergymen in the Church of England who are even clever enoughto fry potatoes," Mirabel announced--"and I am one of them. What shallwe have next? A pudding? Miss de Sor, can you make a pudding?"

  Francine exhibited another new side to her character--a diffident andhumble 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 wideenough even to include Francine. "You shall wash the lettuce, my dear,and stone the olives for Emily's mayonnaise. Don't be discouraged! Youshall have a companion; we will send to the rectory for Miss Plym--thevery person to chop parsley and shallot for my omelet. Oh, Emily, whata 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 mannot to have coveted. "I declare," cried Cecilia, completely losing herhead, "I'm so excited, I don't know what to do with myself!"

  Emily's intimate knowledge of her friend applied the right remedy. "Youdon't know what to do with yourself?" she repeated. "Have you no senseof duty? Give the cook your orders."

  Cecilia instantly recovered her presence of mind. She sat down at thewriting-table, and made out a list of eatable productions in the animaland vegetable world, in which every other word was underlined two orthree times over. Her serious face was a sight to see, when she rang forthe 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 headeda 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 andEmily were together, far behind; they were the only two members ofthe company whose minds were not occupied in one way or another by thekitchen.

  "This child's play of ours doesn't seem to interest you," Mirabelremarked.

  "I am thinking," Emily answered, "of what you said to me aboutFrancine."

  "I can say something more," he rejoined. "When I noticed the change inher at dinner, I told you she meant mischief. There is another changeto-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 _him_ to remind herthat she had, no matter how innocently, exposed herself to the jealoushatred of Francine. "Time will tell us, what we don't know now," hereplied evasively.

  "You seem to have faith in time, Mr. Mirabel."

  "The greatest faith. Time is the inveterate enemy of deceit. Sooner orlater, every hidden thing is a thing doomed to discovery."

  "Without exception?"

  "Yes," he answered positively, "without exception."

  At that moment Francine stopped and looked back at them. Did she thinkthat Emily and Mirabel had been talking together long enough? MissPlym--with the parsley still on her mind---advanced to consult Emily's experience. The two walked on together, leaving Mirabel to overtakeFrancine. He saw, in her first look at him, the effort that it costher to suppress those emotions which the pride of women is most deeplyinterested in concealing. Before a word had passed, he regretted thatEmily had left them together.

  "I wish I had your cheerful disposition," she began, abruptly. "I am outof spirits or out of temper--I don't know which; and I don't know why.Do you ever trouble yourself with thinking of the future?"

  "As seldom as possible, Miss de Sor. In such a situation as mine, mostpeople have prospects--I have none."

  He spoke gravely, conscious of not feeling at ease on his side. Ifhe had been the most modest man that ever lived, he must have seen inFrancine's face that she loved him.

  When they had first been presented to each other, she was still underthe influence of the meanest instincts in her scheming and selfishnature. She had thought to herself, "With my money to help him, thatman's celebrity would do the rest; the best society in England would beglad to receive Mirabel's wife." As the days passed, strong feelinghad taken the place of those contemptible aspirations: Mirabel hadunconsciously inspired the one passion which was powerful enough tomaster Francine--sensual passion. Wild hopes rioted in her. Measurelessdesires which she had never felt before, united themselves withcapacities for wickedness, which had been the horrid growth of a fewnights--capacities which suggested even viler attempts to rid herselfof a supposed rivalry than slandering Emily by means of an anonymousletter. Without waiting for it to be offered, she took Mirabel's arm,and pressed it to her breast as they slowly walked on. The fear ofdiscovery which had t
roubled her after she had sent her base letter tothe post, vanished at that inspiriting moment. She bent her head nearenough to him when he spoke to feel his breath on her face.

  "There is a strange similarity," she said softly, "between your positionand mine. Is there anything cheering in _my_ prospects? I am far awayfrom home--my father and mother wouldn't care if they never saw meagain. People talk about my money! What is the use of money to such alonely wretch as I am? Suppose I write to London, and ask the lawyer ifI may give it all away to some deserving person? Why not to you?"

  "My dear Miss de Sor--!"

  "Is there anything wrong, Mr. Mirabel, in wishing that I could make youa prosperous man?"

  "You must not even talk of such a thing!"

  "How proud you are!" she said submissively.

  "Oh, I can't bear to think of you in that miserable village--a positionso unworthy of your talents and your claims! And you tell me I must nottalk about it. Would you have said that to Emily, if she was as anxiousas I am to see you in your right place in the world?"

  "I should have answered her exactly as I have answered you."

  "She will never embarrass you, Mr. Mirabel, by being as sincere as I am.Emily can keep her own secrets."

  "Is she to blame for doing that?"

  "It depends on your feeling for her."

  "What feeling do you mean?"

  "Suppose you heard she was engaged to be married?" Francine suggested.

  Mirabel's manner--studiously cold and formal thus far--altered on asudden. He looked with unconcealed anxiety at Francine. "Do you say thatseriously?" he asked.

  "I said 'suppose.' I don't exactly know that she is engaged."

  "What _do_ you know?"

  "Oh, how interested you are in Emily! She is admired by some people. Areyou one of them?"

  Mirabel's experience of women warned him to try silence as a means ofprovoking her into speaking plainly. The experiment succeeded: Francinereturned to the question that he had put to her, and abruptly answeredit.

  "You may believe me or not, as you like--I know of a man who is in lovewith her. He has had his opportunities; and he has made good use ofthem. Would you like to know who he is?"

  "I should like to know anything which you may wish to tell me." He didhis best to make the reply in a tone of commonplace politeness--and hemight have succeeded in deceiving a man. The woman's quicker ear toldher that he was angry. Francine took the full advantage of that changein her favor.

  "I am afraid your good opinion of Emily will be shaken," she quietlyresumed, "when I tell you that she has encouraged a man who isonly drawing-master at a school. At the same time, a person in hercircumstances--I mean she has no money--ought not to be very hard toplease. Of course she has never spoken to you of Mr. Alban Morris?"

  "Not that I remember."

  Only four words--but they satisfied Francine.

  The one thing wanting to complete the obstacle which she had now placedin Emily's way, was that Alban Morris should enter on the scene. Hemight hesitate; but, if he was really fond of Emily, the anonymousletter would sooner or later bring him to Monksmoor. In the meantime,her object was gained. She dropped Mirabel's arm.

  "Here is the lodge," she said gayly--"I declare Cecilia has got an apronon already! Come, and cook."