Mirabel left Francine to enter the lodge by herself. His mind was
disturbed: he felt the importance of gaining time for reflection before
he and Emily met again.
The keeper’s garden was at the back of the lodge. Passing through the
wicket-gate, he found a little summer-house at a turn in the path.
Nobody was there: he went in and sat down.
At intervals, he had even yet encouraged himself to underrate the true
importance of the feeling which Emily had awakened in him. There was an
end to all self-deception now. After what Francine had said to him, this
shallow and frivolous man no longer resisted the all-absorbing influence
of love. He shrank under the one terrible question that forced itself on
his mind:--Had that jealous girl spoken the truth?
In what process of investigation could he trust, to set this anxiety at
rest? To apply openly to Emily would be to take a liberty, which Emily
was the last person in the world to permit. In his recent intercourse
with her he had felt more strongly than ever the importance of speaking
with reserve. He had been scrupulously careful to take no unfair
advantage of his opportunity, when he had removed her from the meeting,
and when they had walked together, with hardly a creature to observe
them, in the lonely outskirts of the town. Emily’s gaiety and good humor
had not led him astray: he knew that these were bad signs, viewed in the
interests of love. His one hope of touching her deeper sympathies was
to wait for the help that might yet come from time and chance. With a
bitter sigh, he resigned himself to the necessity of being as agreeable
and amusing as ever: it was just possible that he might lure her into
alluding to Alban Morris, if he began innocently by making her laugh.
As he rose to return to the lodge, the keeper’s little terrier, prowling
about the garden, looked into the summer-house. Seeing a stranger, the
dog showed his teeth and growled.
Mirabel shrank back against the wall behind him, trembling in every
limb. His eyes stared in terror as the dog came nearer: barking in high
triumph over the discovery of a frightened man whom he could bully.
Mirabel called out for help. A laborer at work in the garden ran to the
place--and stopped with a broad grin of amusement at seeing a grown man
terrified by a barking dog. “Well,” he said to himself, after Mirabel
had passed out under protection, “there goes a coward if ever there was
one yet!”
Mirabel waited a minute behind the lodge to recover himself. He had been
so completely unnerved that his hair was wet with perspiration. While
he used his handkerchief, he shuddered at other recollections than the
recollection of the dog. “After that night at the inn,” he thought, “the
least thing frightens me!”
He was received by the young ladies with cries of derisive welcome. “Oh,
for shame! for shame! here are the potatoes already cut, and nobody to
fry them!”
Mirabel assumed the mask of cheerfulness--with the desperate resolution
of an actor, amusing his audience at a time of domestic distress. He
astonished the keeper’s wife by showing that he really knew how to use
her frying-pan. Cecilia’s omelet was tough--but the young ladies ate it.
Emily’s mayonnaise sauce was almost as liquid as water--they swallowed
it nevertheless by the help of spoons. The potatoes followed, crisp and
dry and delicious--and Mirabel became more popular than ever. “He is the
only one of us,” Cecilia sadly acknowledged, “who knows how to cook.”
When they all left the lodge for a stroll in the park, Francine attached
herself to Cecilia and Miss Plym. She resigned Mirabel to Emily--in the
happy belief that she had paved the way for a misunderstanding between
them.
The merriment at the luncheon table had revived Emily’s good spirits.
She had a light-hearted remembrance of the failure of her sauce. Mirabel
saw her smiling to herself. “May I ask what amuses you?” he said.
“I was thinking of the debt of gratitude that we owe to Mr. Wyvil,” she
replied. “If he had not persuaded you to return to Monksmoor, we should
never have seen the famous Mr. Mirabel with a frying pan in his hand,
and never have tasted the only good dish at our luncheon.”
Mirabel tried vainly to adopt his companion’s easy tone. Now that he was
alone with her, the doubts that Francine had aroused shook the prudent
resolution at which he had arrived in the garden. He ran the risk, and
told Emily plainly why he had returned to Mr. Wyvil’s house.
“Although I am sensible of our host’s kindness,” he answered, “I should
have gone back to my parsonage--but for You.”
She declined to understand him seriously. “Then the affairs of your
parish are neglected--and I am to blame!” she said.
“Am I the first man who has neglected his duties for your sake?” he
asked. “I wonder whether the masters at school had the heart to report
you when you neglected your lessons?”
She thought of Alban--and betrayed herself by a heightened color. The
moment after, she changed the subject. Mirabel could no longer resist
the conclusion that Francine had told him the truth.
“When do you leave us,” she inquired.
“To-morrow is Saturday--I must go back as usual.”
“And how will your deserted parish receive you?”
He made a desperate effort to be as amusing as usual.
“I am sure of preserving my popularity,” he said, “while I have a cask
in the cellar, and a few spare sixpences in my pocket. The public spirit
of my parishioners asks for nothing but money and beer. Before I went to
that wearisome meeting, I told my housekeeper that I was going to make
a speech about reform. She didn’t know what I meant. I explained that
reform might increase the number of British citizens who had the right
of voting at elections for parliament. She brightened up directly. ‘Ah,’
she said, ‘I’ve heard my husband talk about elections. The more there
are of them (_he_ says) the more money he’ll get for his vote. I’m all
for reform.’ On my way out of the house, I tried the man who works in
my garden on the same subject. He didn’t look at the matter from the
housekeeper’s sanguine point of view. ‘I don’t deny that parliament once
gave me a good dinner for nothing at the public-house,’ he admitted.
‘But that was years ago--and (you’ll excuse me, sir) I hear nothing of
another dinner to come. It’s a matter of opinion, of course. I don’t
myself believe in reform.’ There are specimens of the state of public
spirit in our village!” He paused. Emily was listening--but he had not
succeeded in choosing a subject that amused her. He tried a topic more
nearly connected with his own interests; the topic of the future. “Our
good friend has asked me to prolong my visit, after Sunday’s duties are
over,” he said. “I hope I shall find you here, next week?”
“Will the affairs of your parish allow you to come back?” Emily asked
mischievously.
“The affairs of my parish--if you force me to confess it--were only an
excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“An excuse for keeping away from Monksmoor--in the interests of my own
tranquillity. The experiment has failed. While you are here, I can’t
keep away.”
She still declined to understand him seriously. “Must I tell you in
plain words that flattery is thrown away on me?” she said.
“Flattery is not offered to you,” he answered gravely. “I beg your
pardon for having led to the mistake by talking of myself.” Having
appealed to her indulgence by that act of submission, he ventured on
another distant allusion to the man whom he hated and feared. “Shall I
meet any friends of yours,” he resumed, “when I return on Monday?”
“What do you mean?”
“I only meant to ask if Mr. Wyvil expects any new guests?”
As he put the question, Cecilia’s voice was heard behind them, calling
to Emily. They both turned round. Mr. Wyvil had joined his daughter and
her two friends. He advanced to meet Emily.
“I have some news for you that you little expect,” he said. “A telegram
has just arrived from Netherwoods. Mr. Alban Morris has got leave of
absence, and is coming here to-morrow.”