CHAPTER VII.
EARLY the next morning Miss Garth and Norah met in the garden and spoke
together privately. The only noticeable result of the interview, when
they presented themselves at the breakfast-table, appeared in the
marked silence which they both maintained on the topic of the theatrical
performance. Mrs. Vanstone was entirely indebted to her husband and
to her youngest daughter for all that she heard of the evening's
entertainment. The governess and the elder daughter had evidently
determined on letting the subject drop.
After breakfast was over Magdalen proved to be missing, when the ladies
assembled as usual in the morning-room. Her habits were so little
regular that Mrs. Vanstone felt neither surprise nor uneasiness at her
absence. Miss Garth and Norah looked at one another significantly, and waited in silence. Two hours passed—and there were no signs of Magdalen. Norah rose, as the clock struck twelve, and quietly left the room to look for her.
She was not upstairs dusting her jewelry and disarranging her dresses. She was not in the conservatory, not in the flower-garden; not in the kitchen teasing the cook; not in the yard playing with the dogs. Had she, by any chance, gone out with her father? Mr. Vanstone had announced his intention, at the breakfast-table, of paying a morning visit to his old ally, Mr. Clare, and of rousing the philosopher's sarcastic indignation by an account of the dramatic performance. None of the other ladies at Combe-Raven ever ventured themselves inside the cottage. But Magdalen was reckless enough for anything—and Magdalen might have gone there. As the idea occurred to her, Norah entered the shrubbery.
At the second turning, where the path among the trees wound away out
of sight of the house, she came suddenly face to face with Magdalen and
Frank: they were sauntering toward her, arm in arm, their heads close
together, their conversation apparently proceeding in whispers. They
looked suspiciously handsome and happy. At the sight of Norah both
started, and both stopped. Frank confusedly raised his hat, and turned
back in the direction of his father's cottage. Magdalen advanced to meet
her sister, carelessly swinging her closed parasol from side to side, carelessly humming an air from the overture which had preceded the rising of the curtain on the previous night.
"Luncheon-time already!" she said, looking at her watch. "Surely not?"
"Have you and Mr. Francis Clare been alone in the shrubbery since ten
o'clock?" asked Norah.
"Mr. Francis Clare! How ridiculously formal you are. Why don't you
call him Frank?"
"I asked you a question, Magdalen."
"Dear me, how black you look this morning! I'm in disgrace, I suppose. Haven't you forgiven me yet for my acting last night? I couldn't help it, love; I should have made nothing of Julia, if I hadn't taken you for my model. It's quite a question of Art. In your place, I should have felt flattered by the selection."
"In your place, Magdalen, I should have thought twice before I
mimicked my sister to an audience of strangers."
"That's exactly why I did it—an audience of strangers. How were they
to know? Come! come! don't be angry. You are eight years older than I
am—you ought to set me an example of good-humor."
"I will set you an example of plain-speaking. I am more sorry than I can
say, Magdalen, to meet you as I met you here just now!"
"What next, I wonder? You meet me in the shrubbery at home, talking over
the private theatricals with my old playfellow, whom I knew when I was
no taller than this parasol. And that is a glaring impropriety, is it? 'Honi soit qui mal y pense.' You wanted an answer a minute ago—there it is for you, my dear, in the choicest Norman-French."
"I am in earnest about this, Magdalen—"
"Not a doubt of it. Nobody can accuse you of ever making jokes."
"I am seriously sorry—"
"Oh, dear!"
"It is quite useless to interrupt me. I have it on my conscience to tell
you—and I will tell you—that I am sorry to see how this intimacy is
growing. I am sorry to see a secret understanding established already
between you and Mr. Francis Clare."
"Poor Frank! How you do hate him, to be sure. What on earth has he done
to offend you?"