CHAPTER XLIII. SOUNDING.
Mirabel left Francine to enter the lodge by herself. His mind wasdisturbed: he felt the importance of gaining time for reflection beforehe and Emily met again.
The keeper's garden was at the back of the lodge. Passing through thewicket-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 trueimportance of the feeling which Emily had awakened in him. There was anend to all self-deception now. After what Francine had said to him, thisshallow and frivolous man no longer resisted the all-absorbing influenceof love. He shrank under the one terrible question that forced itself onhis mind:--Had that jealous girl spoken the truth?
In what process of investigation could he trust, to set this anxiety atrest? To apply openly to Emily would be to take a liberty, which Emilywas the last person in the world to permit. In his recent intercoursewith her he had felt more strongly than ever the importance of speakingwith reserve. He had been scrupulously careful to take no unfairadvantage of his opportunity, when he had removed her from the meeting,and when they had walked together, with hardly a creature to observethem, in the lonely outskirts of the town. Emily's gaiety and good humorhad not led him astray: he knew that these were bad signs, viewed in theinterests of love. His one hope of touching her deeper sympathies wasto wait for the help that might yet come from time and chance. With abitter sigh, he resigned himself to the necessity of being as agreeableand amusing as ever: it was just possible that he might lure her intoalluding to Alban Morris, if he began innocently by making her laugh.
As he rose to return to the lodge, the keeper's little terrier, prowlingabout the garden, looked into the summer-house. Seeing a stranger, thedog showed his teeth and growled.
Mirabel shrank back against the wall behind him, trembling in everylimb. His eyes stared in terror as the dog came nearer: barking in hightriumph 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 theplace--and stopped with a broad grin of amusement at seeing a grown manterrified by a barking dog. "Well," he said to himself, after Mirabelhad passed out under protection, "there goes a coward if ever there wasone yet!"
Mirabel waited a minute behind the lodge to recover himself. He had beenso completely unnerved that his hair was wet with perspiration. Whilehe used his handkerchief, he shuddered at other recollections than therecollection of the dog. "After that night at the inn," he thought, "theleast 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 tofry them!"
Mirabel assumed the mask of cheerfulness--with the desperate resolutionof an actor, amusing his audience at a time of domestic distress. Heastonished the keeper's wife by showing that he really knew how to useher frying-pan. Cecilia's omelet was tough--but the young ladies ate it.Emily's mayonnaise sauce was almost as liquid as water--they swallowedit nevertheless by the help of spoons. The potatoes followed, crisp anddry and delicious--and Mirabel became more popular than ever. "He is theonly one of us," Cecilia sadly acknowledged, "who knows how to cook."
When they all left the lodge for a stroll in the park, Francine attachedherself to Cecilia and Miss Plym. She resigned Mirabel to Emily--in thehappy belief that she had paved the way for a misunderstanding betweenthem.
The merriment at the luncheon table had revived Emily's good spirits.She had a light-hearted remembrance of the failure of her sauce. Mirabelsaw 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," shereplied. "If he had not persuaded you to return to Monksmoor, we shouldnever 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 wasalone with her, the doubts that Francine had aroused shook the prudentresolution at which he had arrived in the garden. He ran the risk, andtold Emily plainly why he had returned to Mr. Wyvil's house.
"Although I am sensible of our host's kindness," he answered, "I shouldhave gone back to my parsonage--but for You."
She declined to understand him seriously. "Then the affairs of yourparish are neglected--and I am to blame!" she said.
"Am I the first man who has neglected his duties for your sake?" heasked. "I wonder whether the masters at school had the heart to reportyou when you neglected your lessons?"
She thought of Alban--and betrayed herself by a heightened color. Themoment after, she changed the subject. Mirabel could no longer resistthe 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 caskin the cellar, and a few spare sixpences in my pocket. The public spiritof my parishioners asks for nothing but money and beer. Before I went tothat wearisome meeting, I told my housekeeper that I was going to makea speech about reform. She didn't know what I meant. I explained thatreform might increase the number of British citizens who had the rightof voting at elections for parliament. She brightened up directly. 'Ah,'she said, 'I've heard my husband talk about elections. The more thereare of them (_he_ says) the more money he'll get for his vote. I'm allfor reform.' On my way out of the house, I tried the man who works inmy garden on the same subject. He didn't look at the matter from thehousekeeper's sanguine point of view. 'I don't deny that parliament oncegave 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 ofanother dinner to come. It's a matter of opinion, of course. I don'tmyself believe in reform.' There are specimens of the state of publicspirit in our village!" He paused. Emily was listening--but he had notsucceeded in choosing a subject that amused her. He tried a topic morenearly connected with his own interests; the topic of the future. "Ourgood friend has asked me to prolong my visit, after Sunday's duties areover," he said. "I hope I shall find you here, next week?"
"Will the affairs of your parish allow you to come back?" Emily askedmischievously.
"The affairs of my parish--if you force me to confess it--were only anexcuse."
"An excuse for what?"
"An excuse for keeping away from Monksmoor--in the interests of my owntranquillity. The experiment has failed. While you are here, I can'tkeep away."
She still declined to understand him seriously. "Must I tell you inplain words that flattery is thrown away on me?" she said.
"Flattery is not offered to you," he answered gravely. "I beg yourpardon for having led to the mistake by talking of myself." Havingappealed to her indulgence by that act of submission, he ventured onanother distant allusion to the man whom he hated and feared. "Shall Imeet 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, callingto Emily. They both turned round. Mr. Wyvil had joined his daughter andher two friends. He advanced to meet Emily.
"I have some news for you that you little expect," he said. "A telegramhas just arrived from Netherwoods. Mr. Alban Morris has got leave ofabsence, and is coming here to-morrow."
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