If Miss de Sor continued to be Mr. Wyvil’s guest, there seemed to be no other choice before Mirabel than to leave Monksmoor—and to trust to a favorable reply to his sister’s invitation for the free enjoyment of Emily’s society under another roof. Try as he might, he could arrive at no more satisfactory conclusion than this. In his preoccupied state, time passed quickly. Nearly an hour had elapsed before he rose to return to the house.
Entering the hall, he was startled by a cry of terror in a woman’s voice, coming from the upper regions. At the same time Mr. Wyvil, passing along the bedroom corridor after leaving the music-room, was confronted by his daughter, hurrying out of Emily’s bedchamber in such a state of alarm that she could hardly speak.
“Gone!” she cried, the moment she saw her father.
Mr. Wyvil took her in his arms and tried to compose her. “Who has gone?” he asked.
“Emily! Oh, papa, Emily has left us! She has heard dreadful news—she told me so herself.”
“What news? How did she hear it?”
“I don’t know how she heard it. I went back to the drawing-room to show her my roses—”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes! She frightened me—she seemed quite wild. She said, ‘Let me be by myself; I shall have to go home.’ She kissed me—and ran up to her room. Oh, I am such a fool! Anybody else would have taken care not to lose sight of her.”
“How long did you leave her by herself?”