CHAPTER LIII. THE FRIEND IS FOUND.
Mrs. Ellmother looked into the parlor. "I told you Mr. Mirabel wouldcall again," she announced. "Here he is."
"Has he asked to see me?"
"He leaves it entirely to you."
For a moment, and a moment only, Emily was undecided. "Show him in," shesaid.
Mirabel's embarrassment was visible the moment he entered the room.For the first time in his life--in the presence of a woman--thepopular preacher was shy. He who had taken hundreds of fair hands withsympathetic pressure--he who had offered fluent consolation, abroad andat home, to beauty in distress--was conscious of a rising color, and wasabsolutely at a loss for words when Emily received him. And yet, thoughhe appeared at disadvantage--and, worse still, though he was aware ofit himself--there was nothing contemptible in his look and manner. Hissilence and confusion revealed a change in him which inspired respect.Love had developed this spoiled darling of foolish congregations, thiseffeminate pet of drawing-rooms and boudoirs, into the likeness of aMan--and no woman, in Emily's position, could have failed to see that itwas love which she herself had inspired.
Equally ill at ease, they both took refuge in the commonplace phrasessuggested by the occasion. These exhausted there was a pause. Mirabelalluded to Cecilia, as a means of continuing the conversation.
"Have you seen Miss Wyvil?" he inquired.
"She was here last night; and I expect to see her again to-day beforeshe returns to Monksmoor with her father. Do you go back with them?"
"Yes--if _you_ do."
"I remain in London."
"Then I remain in London, too."
The strong feeling that was in him had forced its way to expressionat last. In happier days--when she had persistently refused to let himspeak to her seriously--she would have been ready with a light-heartedreply. She was silent now. Mirabel pleaded with her not to misunderstandhim, by an honest confession of his motives which presented him under anew aspect. The easy plausible man, who had hardly ever seemed to be inearnest before--meant, seriously meant, what he said now.
"May I try to explain myself?" he asked.
"Certainly, if you wish it."
"Pray, don't suppose me capable," Mirabel said earnestly, "of presumingto pay you an idle compliment. I cannot think of you, alone and introuble, without feeling anxiety which can only be relieved in oneway--I must be near enough to hear of you, day by day. Not by repeatingthis visit! Unless you wish it, I will not again cross the thresholdof your door. Mrs. Ellmother will tell me if your mind is more at ease;Mrs. Ellmother will tell me if there is any new trial of your fortitude.She needn't even mention that I have been speaking to her at thedoor; and she may be sure, and you may be sure, that I shall ask noinquisitive questions. I can feel for you in your misfortune, withoutwishing to know what that misfortune is. If I can ever be of thesmallest use, think of me as your other servant. Say to Mrs. Ellmother,'I want him'--and say no more."
Where is the woman who could have resisted such devotion asthis--inspired, truly inspired, by herself? Emily's eyes softened as sheanswered him.
"You little know how your kindness touches me," she said.
"Don't speak of my kindness until you have put me to the proof," heinterposed. "Can a friend (such a friend as I am, I mean) be of anyuse?"
"Of the greatest use if I could feel justified in trying you."
"I entreat you to try me!"
"But, Mr. Mirabel, you don't know what I am thinking of."
"I don't want to know."
"I may be wrong. My friends all say I _am_ wrong."
"I don't care what your friends say; I don't care about any earthlything but your tranquillity. Does your dog ask whether you are right orwrong? I am your dog. I think of You, and I think of nothing else."
She looked back through the experience of the last few days. MissLadd--Mrs. Ellmother--Doctor Allday: not one of them had felt for her,not one of them had spoken to her, as this man had felt and had spoken.She remembered the dreadful sense of solitude and helplessness whichhad wrung her heart, in the interval before Mirabel came in. Her fatherhimself could hardly have been kinder to her than this friend of a fewweeks only. She looked at him through her tears; she could say nothingthat was eloquent, nothing even that was adequate. "You are very good tome," was her only acknowledgment of all that he had offered. How poor itseemed to be! and yet how much it meant!
He rose--saying considerately that he would leave her to recoverherself, and would wait to hear if he was wanted.
"No," she said; "I must not let you go. In common gratitude I oughtto decide before you leave me, and I do decide to take you into myconfidence." She hesitated; her color rose a little. "I know howunselfishly you offer me your help," she resumed; "I know you speak tome as a brother might speak to a sister--"
He gently interrupted her. "No," he said; "I can't honestly claim to dothat. And--may I venture to remind you?--you know why."
She started. Her eyes rested on him with a momentary expression ofreproach.
"Is it quite fair," she asked, "in my situation, to say that?"
"Would it have been quite fair," he rejoined, "to allow you to deceiveyourself? Should I deserve to be taken into your confidence, if Iencouraged you to trust me, under false pretenses? Not a word more ofthose hopes on which the happiness of my life depends shall pass mylips, unless you permit it. In my devotion to your interests, I promiseto forget myself. My motives may be misinterpreted; my position may bemisunderstood. Ignorant people may take me for that other happier man,who is an object of interest to you--"
"Stop, Mr. Mirabel! The person to whom you refer has no such claim on meas you suppose."
"Dare I say how happy I am to hear it? Will you forgive me?"
"I will forgive you if you say no more."
Their eyes met. Completely overcome by the new hope that she hadinspired, Mirabel was unable to answer her. His sensitive nervestrembled under emotion, like the nerves of a woman; his delicatecomplexion faded away slowly into whiteness. Emily was alarmed--heseemed to be on the point of fainting. She ran to the window to open itmore widely.
"Pray don't trouble yourself," he said, "I am easily agitated by anysudden sensation--and I am a little overcome at this moment by my ownhappiness."
"Let me give you a glass of wine."
"Thank you--I don't need it indeed."
"You really feel better?"
"I feel quite well again--and eager to hear how I can serve you."
"It's a long story, Mr. Mirabel--and a dreadful story."
"Dreadful?"
"Yes! Let me tell you first how you can serve me. I am in search ofa man who has done me the cruelest wrong that one human creature caninflict on another. But the chances are all against me--I am onlya woman; and I don't know how to take even the first step towarddiscovery."
"You will know, when I guide you."
He reminded her tenderly of what she might expect from him, and wasrewarded by a grateful look. Seeing nothing, suspecting nothing, theyadvanced together nearer and nearer to the end.
"Once or twice," Emily continued, "I spoke to you of my poor father,when we were at Monksmoor--and I must speak of him again. You could haveno interest in inquiring about a stranger--and you cannot have heard howhe died."
"Pardon me, I heard from Mr. Wyvil how he died."
"You heard what I had told Mr. Wyvil," Emily said: "I was wrong."
"Wrong!" Mirabel exclaimed, in a tone of courteous surprise. "Was it nota sudden death?"
"It _was_ a sudden death."
"Caused by disease of the heart?"
"Caused by no disease. I have been deceived about my father's death--andI have only discovered it a few days since."
At the impending moment of the frightful shock which she was innocentlyabout to inflict on him, she stopped--doubtful whether it would be bestto relate how the discovery had been made, or to pass at once to theresult. Mirabel supposed that she had paused to control her agitation.He was so immeasu
rably far away from the faintest suspicion of what wascoming that he exerted his ingenuity, in the hope of sparing her.
"I can anticipate the rest," he said. "Your sad loss has been caused bysome fatal accident. Let us change the subject; tell me more of that manwhom I must help you to find. It will only distress you to dwell on yourfather's death."
"Distress me?" she repeated. "His death maddens me!"
"Oh, don't say that!"
"Hear me! hear me! My father died murdered, at Zeeland--and the man youmust help me to find is the wretch who killed him."
She started to her feet with a cry of terror. Mirabel dropped from hischair senseless to the floor.