Mirabel left Francine to enter the lodge by herself. His mind wasdisturbed: he felt the importance of gaining time for reflectionbefore he and Emily met again.

The keeper's garden was at the back of the lodge. Passing throughthe wicket-gate, he found a little summer-house at a turn in thepath. Nobody was there: he went in and sat down.

At intervals, he had even yet encouraged himself to underrate thetrue importance of the feeling which Emily had awakened in him.There was an end to all self-deception now. After what Francinehad said to him, this shallow and frivolous man no longerresisted the all-absorbing influence of love. He shrank under theone terrible question that forced itself on his mind:--Had thatjealous girl spoken the truth?

In what process of investigation could he trust, to set thisanxiety at rest? To apply openly to Emily would be to take aliberty, which Emily was the last person in the world to permit.In his recent intercourse with her he had felt more strongly thanever the importance of speaking with reserve. He had beenscrupulously careful to take no unfair advantage of hisopportunity, when he had removed her from the meeting, and whenthey had walked together, with hardly a creature to observe them,in the lonely outskirts of the town. Emily's gaiety and goodhumor had not led him astray: he knew that these were bad signs,viewed in the interests of love. His one hope of touching herdeeper sympathies was to wait for the help that might yet comefrom time and chance. With a bitter sigh, he resigned himself tothe necessity of being as agreeable and amusing as ever: it wasjust possible that he might lure her into alluding to AlbanMorris, 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 astranger, the dog showed his teeth and growled.

Mirabel shrank back against the wall behind him, trembling inevery limb. His eyes stared in terror as the dog came nearer:barking in high triumph over the discovery of a frightened manwhom he could bully. Mirabel called out for help. A laborer atwork in the garden ran to the place--and stopped with a broadgrin of amusement at seeing a grown man terrified by a barkingdog. "Well," he said to himself, after Mirabel had passed outunder protection, "there goes a coward if ever there was oneyet!"

Mirabel waited a minute behind the lodge to recover himself. Hehad been so completely unnerved that his hair was wet withperspiration. While he used his handkerchief, he shuddered atother recollections than the recollection of the dog. "After thatnight at the inn," he thought, "the least thing frightens me!"

He was received by the young ladies with cries of derisivewelcome. "Oh, for shame! for shame! here are the potatoes alreadycut, and nobody to fry them!"

Mirabel assumed the mask of cheerfulness--with the desperateresolution of an actor, amusing his audience at a time ofdomestic distress. He astonished the keeper's wife by showin gthat he really knew how to use her frying-pan. Cecilia's omeletwas tough--but the young ladies ate it. Emily's mayonnaise saucewas almost as liquid as water--they swallowed it nevertheless bythe help of spoons. The potatoes followed, crisp and dry anddelicious--and Mirabel became more popular than ever. "He is theonly one of us," Cecilia sadly acknowledged, "who knows how tocook."

When they all left the lodge for a stroll in the park, Francineattached herself to Cecilia and Miss Plym. She resigned Mirabelto Emily--in the happy belief that she had paved the way for amisunderstanding between them.

The merriment at the luncheon table had revived Emily's goodspirits. She had a light-hearted remembrance of the failure ofher sauce. Mirabel saw her smiling to herself. "May I ask whatamuses 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 toMonksmoor, we should never have seen the famous Mr. Mirabel witha frying pan in his hand, and never have tasted the only gooddish at our luncheon."

Mirabel tried vainly to adopt his companion's easy tone. Now thathe was alone with her, the doubts that Francine had aroused shookthe prudent resolution at which he had arrived in the garden. Heran 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, "Ishould have gone back to my parsonage--but for You."

She declined to understand him seriously. "Then the affairs ofyour 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 heartto 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 nolonger resist the conclusion that Francine had told him thetruth.

"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 acask in the cellar, and a few spare sixpences in my pocket. Thepublic spirit of my parishioners asks for nothing but money andbeer. Before I went to that wearisome meeting, I told myhousekeeper that I was going to make a speech about reform. Shedidn't know what I meant. I explained that reform might increasethe number of British citizens who had the right of voting atelections for parliament. She brightened up directly. 'Ah,' shesaid, '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 all for reform.' On my way out of the house, I tried the manwho works in my garden on the same subject. He didn't look at thematter from the housekeeper's sanguine point of view. 'I don'tdeny that parliament once gave me a good dinner for nothing atthe 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 inreform.' There are specimens of the state of public spirit in ourvillage!" He paused. Emily was listening--but he had notsucceeded in choosing a subject that amused her. He tried a topicmore nearly connected with his own interests; the topic of thefuture. "Our good friend has asked me to prolong my visit, afterSunday's duties are over," he said. "I hope I shall find youhere, next week?"

"Will the affairs of your parish allow you to come back?" Emilyasked mischievously.

"The affairs of my parish--if you force me to confess it--wereonly an excuse."

"An excuse for what?"

"An excuse for keeping away from Monksmoor--in the interests ofmy own tranquillity. The experiment has failed. While you arehere, I can't keep away."

She still declined to understand him seriously. "Must I tell youin plain words that flattery is thrown away on me?" she said.

"Flattery is not offered to you," he answered gravely. "I begyour pardon for having led to the mistake by talking of myself."Having appealed to her indulgence by that act of submission, heventured on another distant allusion to the man whom he hated andfeared. "Shall I meet any friends of yours," he resumed, "when Ireturn 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 joinedhis daughter and her two friends. He advanced to meet Emily.

"I have some news for you that you little expect," he said. "Atelegram has just arrived from Netherwoods. Mr. Alban Morris hasgot leave of absence, and is coming here to-morrow."