The inmates of Netherwoods rose early, and went to bed early. When Alban and Mrs. Ellmother arrived at the back door of the house, they found it locked.
The only light visible, along the whole length of the building, glimmered through the Venetian blind of the window-entrance to Francine’s sitting-room. Alban proposed to get admission to the house by that way. In her horror of again encountering Francine, Mrs. Ellmother positively refused to follow him when he turned away from the door. “They can’t be all asleep yet,” she said—and rang the bell.
One person was still out of bed—and that person was the mistress of the house. They recognized her voice in the customary question: “Who’s there?” The door having been opened, good Miss Ladd looked backward and forward between Alban and Mrs. Ellmother, with the bewildered air of a lady who doubted the evidence of her own eyes. The next moment, her sense of humor overpowered her. She burst out laughing.
“Close the door, Mr. Morris,” she said, “and be so good as to tell me what this means. Have you been giving a lesson in drawing by starlight?”
Mrs. Ellmother moved, so that the light of the lamp in Miss Ladd’s hand fell on her face. “I am faint and giddy,” she said; “let me go to my bed.”
Miss Ladd instantly followed her. “Pray forgive me! I didn’t see you were ill, when I spoke,” she gently explained. “What can I do for you?”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am. I want nothing but peace and quiet. I wish you good-night.”
Alban followed Miss Ladd to her study, on the front side of the house. He had just mentioned the circumstances under which he and Mrs. Ellmother had met, when they were interrupted by a tap at the door. Francine had got back to her room unperceived, by way of the French window. She now presented herself, with an elaborate apology, and with the nearest approach to a penitent expression of which her face was capable.
“I am ashamed, Miss Ladd, to intrude on you at this time of night. My only excuse is, that I am anxious about Mrs. Ellmother. I heard you just now in the hall. If she is really ill, I am the unfortunate cause of it.”
“In what way, Miss de Sor?”
“I am sorry to say I frightened her—while we were talking in my room—quite unintentionally. She rushed to the door and ran out. I supposed she had gone to her bedroom; I had no idea she was in the grounds.”
In this false statement there was mingled a grain of truth. It was true that Francine believed Mrs. Ellmother to have taken refuge in her room—for she had examined the room. Finding it empty, and failing to discover the fugitive in other parts of the house, she had become alarmed, and had tried the grounds next—with the formidable result which has been already related. Concealing this circumstance, she had lied in such a skillfully artless manner that Alban (having no suspicion of what had really happened to sharpen his wits) was as completely deceived as Miss Ladd. Proceeding to further explanation—and remembering that she was in Alban’s presence—Francine was careful to keep herself within the strict limit of truth. Confessing that she had frightened her servant by a description of sorcery, as it was practiced among the slaves on her father’s estate, she only lied again, in declaring that Mrs. Ellmother had supposed she was in earnest, when she was guilty of no more serious offense than playing a practical joke.
In this case, Alban was necessarily in a position to detect the falsehood. But it was so evidently in Francine’s interests to present her conduct in the most favorable light, that the discovery failed to excite his suspicion. He waited in silence, while Miss Ladd administered a severe reproof. Francine having left the room, as penitently as she had entered it (with her handkerchief over her tearless eyes), he was at liberty, with certain reserves, to return to what had passed between Mrs. Ellmother and himself.
“The fright which the poor old woman has suffered,” he said, “has led to one good result. I have found her ready at last to acknowledge that she is ill, and inclined to believe that the change to Netherwoods has had something to do with it. I have advised her to take the course which you suggested, by leaving this house. Is it possible to dispense with the usual delay, when she gives notice to leave Miss de Sor’s service?”
“She need feel no anxiety, poor soul, on that account,” Miss Ladd replied. “In any case, I had arranged that a week’s notice on either side should be enough. As it is, I will speak to Francine myself. The least she can do, to express her regret, is to place no difficulties in Mrs. Ellmother’s way.”
The next day was Sunday.
Miss Ladd broke through her rule of attending to secular affairs on week days only; and, after consulting with Mrs. Ellmother, arranged with Francine that her servant should be at liberty to leave Netherwoods (health permitting) on the next day. But one difficulty remained. Mrs. Ellmother was in no condition to take the long journey to her birthplace in Cumberland; and her own lodgings in London had been let.
Under these circumstances, what was the best arrangement that could be made for her? Miss Ladd wisely and kindly wrote to Emily on the subject, and asked for a speedy reply.
Later in the day, Alban was sent for to see Mrs. Ellmother. He found her anxiously waiting to hear what had passed, on the previous night, between Miss Ladd and himself. “Were you careful, sir, to say nothing about Miss Emily?”
“I was especially careful; I never alluded to her in any way.”
“Has Miss de Sor spoken to you?”
“I have not given her the opportunity.”
“She’s an obstinate one—she might try.”
“If she does, she shall hear my opinion of her in plain words.” The talk between them turned next on Alban’s discovery of the secret, of which Mrs. Ellmother had believed herself to be the sole depositary since Miss Letitia’s death. Without alarming her by any needless allusion to Doctor Allday or to Miss Jethro, he answered her inquiries (so far as he was himself concerned) without reserve. Her curiosity once satisfied, she showed no disposition to pursue the topic. She pointed to Miss Ladd’s cat, fast asleep by the side of an empty saucer.
“Is it a sin, Mr. Morris, to wish I was Tom?Hedoesn’t trouble himself about his life that is past or his life that is to come. If I could only empty my saucer and go to sleep, I shouldn’t be thinking of the number of people in this world, like myself, who would be better out of it than in it. Miss Ladd has got me my liberty tomorrow; and I don’t even know where to go, when I leave this place.”
“Suppose you follow Tom’s example?” Alban suggested. “Enjoy to-day (in that comfortable chair) and let to-morrow take care of itself.”
To-morrow arrived, and justified Alban’s system of philosophy. Emily answered Miss Ladd’s letter, to excellent purpose, by telegraph.
“I leave London to-day with Cecilia” (the message announced) “for Monksmoor Park, Hants. Will Mrs. Ellmother take care of the cottage in my absence? I shall be away for a month, at least. All is prepared for her if she consents.”
Mrs. Ellmother gladly accepted this proposal. In the interval of Emily’s absence, she could easily arrange to return to her own lodgings. With words of sincere gratitude she took leave of Miss Ladd; but no persuasion would induce her to say good-by to Francine. “Do me one more kindness, ma’am; don’t tell Miss de Sor when I go away.” Ignorant of the provocation which had produced this unforgiving temper of mind, Miss Ladd gently remonstrated. “Miss de Sor received my reproof in a penitent spirit; she expresses sincere sorrow for having thoughtlessly frightened you. Both yesterday and to-day she has made kind inquiries after your health. Come! come! don’t bear malice—wish her good-by.” Mrs. Ellmother’s answer was characteristic. “I’ll say good-by by telegraph, when I get to London.”
Her last words were addressed to Alban. “If you can find a way of doing it, sir, keep those two apart.”
“Do you mean Emily and Miss de Sor?
“Yes.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is that quite reasonable, Mrs. Ellmother?”
“I daresay not. I only know that Iamafraid.”
The pony chaise took her away. Alban’s class was not yet ready for him. He waited on the terrace.
Innocent alike of all knowledge of the serious reason for fear which did really exist, Mrs. Ellmother and Alban felt, nevertheless, the same vague distrust of an intimacy between the two girls. Idle, vain, malicious, false—to know that Francine’s character presented these faults, without any discoverable merits to set against them, was surely enough to justify a gloomy view of the prospect, if she succeeded in winning the position of Emily’s friend. Alban reasoned it out logically in this way—without satisfying himself, and without accounting for the remembrance that haunted him of Mrs. Ellmother’s farewell look. “A commonplace man would say we are both in a morbid state of mind,” he thought; “and sometimes commonplace men turn out to be right.”
He was too deeply preoccupied to notice that he had advanced perilously near Francine’s window. She suddenly stepped out of her room, and spoke to him.
“Do you happen to know, Mr. Morris, why Mrs. Ellmother has gone away without bidding me good-by?”
“She was probably afraid, Miss de Sor, that you might make her the victim of another joke.”
Francine eyed him steadily. “Have you any particular reason for speaking to me in that way?”
“I am not aware that I have answered you rudely—if that is what you mean.”
“That isnotwhat I mean. You seem to have taken a dislike to me. I should be glad to know why.”
“I dislike cruelty—and you have behaved cruelly to Mrs. Ellmother.”
“Meaning to be cruel?” Francine inquired.
“You know as well as I do, Miss de Sor, that I can’t answer that question.”
Francine looked at him again “Am I to understand that we are enemies?” she asked.
“You are to understand,” he replied, “that a person whom Miss Ladd employs to help her in teaching, cannot always presume to express his sentiments in speaking to the young ladies.”
“If that means anything, Mr. Morris, it means that we are enemies.”
“It means, Miss de Sor, that I am the drawing-master at this school, and that I am called to my class.”
Francine returned to her room, relieved of the only doubt that had troubled her. Plainly no suspicion that she had overheard what passed between Mrs. Ellmother and himself existed in Alban’s mind. As to the use to be made of her discovery, she felt no difficulty in deciding to wait, and be guided by events. Her curiosity and her self-esteem had been alike gratified—she had got the better of Mrs. Ellmother at last, and with that triumph she was content. While Emily remained her friend, it would be an act of useless cruelty to disclose the terrible truth. There had certainly been a coolness between them at Brighton. But Francine—still influenced by the magnetic attraction which drew her to Emily—did not conceal from herself that she had offered the provocation, and had been therefore the person to blame. “I can set all that right,” she thought, “when we meet at Monksmoor Park.” She opened her desk and wrote the shortest and sweetest of letters to Cecilia. “I am entirely at the disposal of my charming friend, on any convenient day—may I add, my dear, the sooner the better?”
The pupils of the drawing-class put away their pencils and color-boxes in high good humor: the teacher’s vigilant eye for faults had failed him for the first time in their experience. Not one of them had been reproved; they had chattered and giggled and drawn caricatures on the margin of the paper, as freely as if the master had left the room. Alban’s wandering attention was indeed beyond the reach of control. His interview with Francine had doubled his sense of responsibility toward Emily—while he was further than ever from seeing how he could interfere, to any useful purpose, in his present position, and with his reasons for writing under reserve.
One of the servants addressed him as he was leaving the schoolroom. The landlady’s boy was waiting in the hall, with a message from his lodgings.
“Now then! what is it?” he asked, irritably.
“The lady wants you, sir.” With this mysterious answer, the boy presented a visiting card. The name inscribed on it was—“Miss Jethro.”
She had arrived by the train, and she was then waiting at Alban’s lodgings. “Say I will be with her directly.” Having given the message, he stood for a while, with his hat in his hand—literally lost in astonishment. It was simply impossible to guess at Miss Jethro’s object: and yet, with the usual perversity of human nature, he was still wondering what she could possibly want with him, up to the final moment when he opened the door of his sitting-room.
She rose and bowed with the same grace of movement, and the same well-bred composure of manner, which Doctor Allday had noticed when she entered his consulting-room. Her dark melancholy eyes rested on Alban with a look of gentle interest. A faint flush of color animated for a moment the faded beauty of her face—passed away again—and left it paler than before.
“I cannot conceal from myself,” she began, “that I am intruding on you under embarrassing circumstances.”
“May I ask, Miss Jethro, to what circumstances you allude?”
“You forget, Mr. Morris, that I left Miss Ladd’s school, in a manner which justified doubt of me in the minds of strangers.”
“Speaking as one of those strangers,” Alban replied, “I cannot feel that I had any right to form an opinion, on a matter which only concerned Miss Ladd and yourself.”
Miss Jethro bowed gravely. “You encourage me to hope,” she said. “I think you will place a favorable construction on my visit when I mention my motive. I ask you to receive me, in the interests of Miss Emily Brown.”
Stating her purpose in calling on him in those plain terms, she added to the amazement which Alban already felt, by handing to him—as if she was presenting an introduction—a letter marked, “Private,” addressed to her by Doctor Allday.
“I may tell you,” she premised, “that I had no idea of troubling you, until Doctor Allday suggested it. I wrote to him in the first instance; and there is his reply. Pray read it.”
The letter was dated, “Penzance”; and the doctor wrote, as he spoke, without ceremony.
“MADAM—Your letter has been forwarded to me. I am spending my autumn holiday in the far West of Cornwall. However, if I had been at home, it would have made no difference. I should have begged leave to decline holding any further conversation with you, on the subject of Miss Emily Brown, for the following reasons:
“In the first place, though I cannot doubt your sincere interest in the young lady’s welfare, I don’t like your mysterious way of showing it. In the second place, when I called at your address in London, after you had left my house, I found that you had taken to flight. I place my own interpretation on this circumstance; but as it is not founded on any knowledge of facts, I merely allude to it, and say no more.”
Arrived at that point, Alban offered to return the letter. “Do you really mean me to go on reading it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
Alban returned to the letter.
“In the third place, I have good reason to believe that you entered Miss Ladd’s school as a teacher, under false pretenses. After that discovery, I tell you plainly I hesitate to attach credit to any statement that you may wish to make. At the same time, I must not permit my prejudices (as you will probably call them) to stand in the way of Miss Emily’s interests—supposing them to be really depending on any interference of yours. Miss Ladd’s drawing-master, Mr. Alban Morris, is even more devoted to Miss Emily’s service than I am. Whatever you might have said to me, you can say to him—with this possible advantage, thathemay believe you.”
There the letter ended. Alban handed it back in silence.
Miss Jethro pointed to the words, “Mr. Alban Morris is even more devoted to Miss Emily’s service than I am.”
“Is that true?” she asked.
“Quite true.”
“I don’t complain, Mr. Morris, of the hard things said of me in that letter; you are at liberty to suppose, if you like, that I deserve them. Attribute it to pride, or attribute it to reluctance to make needless demands on your time—I shall not attempt to defend myself. I leave you to decide whether the woman who has shown you that letter—having something important to say to you—is a person who is mean enough to say it under false pretenses.”
“Tell me what I can do for you, Miss Jethro: and be assured, beforehand, that I don’t doubt your sincerity.”
“My purpose in coming here,” she answered, “is to induce you to use your influence over Miss Emily Brown—”
“With what object?” Alban asked, interrupting her.
“My object is her own good. Some years since, I happened to become acquainted with a person who has attained some celebrity as a preacher. You have perhaps heard of Mr. Miles Mirabel?”
“I have heard of him.”
“I have been in correspondence with him,” Miss Jethro proceeded. “He tells me he has been introduced to a young lady, who was formerly one of Miss Ladd’s pupils, and who is the daughter of Mr. Wyvil, of Monksmoor Park. He has called on Mr. Wyvil; and he has since received an invitation to stay at Mr. Wyvil’s house. The day fixed for the visit is Monday, the fifth of next month.”
Alban listened—at a loss to know what interest he was supposed to have in being made acquainted with Mr. Mirabel’s engagements. Miss Jethro’s next words enlightened him.
“You are perhaps aware,” she resumed, “that Miss Emily Brown is Miss Wyvil’s intimate friend. She will be one of the guests at Monksmoor Park. If there are any obstacles which you can place in her way—if there is any influence which you can exert, without exciting suspicion of your motive—prevent her, I entreat you, from accepting Miss Wyvil’s invitation, until Mr. Mirabel’s visit has come to an end.”
“Is there anything against Mr. Mirabel?” he asked.
“I say nothing against him.”
“Is Miss Emily acquainted with him?”
“No.”
“Is he a person with whom it would be disagreeable to her to associate?”
“Quite the contrary.”
“And yet you expect me to prevent them from meeting! Be reasonable, Miss Jethro.”
“I can only be in earnest, Mr. Morris—more truly, more deeply in earnest than you can suppose. I declare to you that I am speaking in Miss Emily’s interests. Do you still refuse to exert yourself for her sake?”
“I am spared the pain of refusal,” Alban answered. “The time for interference has gone by. She is, at this moment, on her way to Monksmoor Park.”
Miss Jethro attempted to rise—and dropped back into her chair. “Water!” she said faintly. After drinking from the glass to the last drop, she began to revive. Her little traveling-bag was on the floor at her side. She took out a railway guide, and tried to consult it. Her fingers trembled incessantly; she was unable to find the page to which she wished to refer. “Help me,” she said, “I must leave this place—by the first train that passes.”
“To see Emily?” Alban asked.
“Quite useless! You have said it yourself—the time for interference has gone by. Look at the guide.”
“What place shall I look for?”
“Look for Vale Regis.”
Alban found the place. The train was due in ten minutes. “Surely you are not fit to travel so soon?” he suggested.
“Fit or not, I must see Mr. Mirabel—I must make the effort to keep them apart by appealing tohim.”
“With any hope of success?”
“With no hope—and with no interest in the man himself. Still I must try.”
“Out of anxiety for Emily’s welfare?”
“Out of anxiety for more than that.”
“For what?”
“If you can’t guess, I daren’t tell you.”
That strange reply startled Alban. Before he could ask what it meant, Miss Jethro had left him.
In the emergencies of life, a person readier of resource than Alban Morris it would not have been easy to discover. The extraordinary interview that had now come to an end had found its limits. Bewildered and helpless, he stood at the window of his room, and asked himself (as if he had been the weakest man living), “What shall I do?”
The windows of the long drawing-room at Monksmoor are all thrown open to the conservatory. Distant masses of plants and flowers, mingled in ever-varying forms of beauty, are touched by the melancholy luster of the rising moon. Nearer to the house, the restful shadows are disturbed at intervals, where streams of light fall over them aslant from the lamps in the room. The fountain is playing. In rivalry with its lighter music, the nightingales are singing their song of ecstasy. Sometimes, the laughter of girls is heard—and, sometimes, the melody of a waltz. The younger guests at Monksmoor are dancing.
Emily and Cecilia are dressed alike in white, with flowers in their hair. Francine rivals them by means of a gorgeous contrast of color, and declares that she is rich with the bright emphasis of diamonds and the soft persuasion of pearls.
Miss Plym (from the rectory) is fat and fair and prosperous: she overflows with good spirits; she has a waist which defies tight-lacing, and she dances joyously on large flat feet. Miss Darnaway (officer’s daughter with small means) is the exact opposite of Miss Plym. She is thin and tall and faded—poor soul. Destiny has made it her hard lot in life to fill the place of head-nursemaid at home. In her pensive moments, she thinks of the little brothers and sisters, whose patient servant she is, and wonders who comforts them in their tumbles and tells them stories at bedtime, while she is holiday-making at the pleasant country house.
Tender-hearted Cecilia, remembering how few pleasures this young friend has, and knowing how well she dances, never allows her to be without a partner. There are three invaluable young gentlemen present, who are excellent dancers. Members of different families, they are nevertheless fearfully and wonderfully like each other. They present the same rosy complexions and straw-colored mustachios, the same plump cheeks, vacant eyes and low forehead; and they utter, with the same stolid gravity, the same imbecile small talk. On sofas facing each other sit the two remaining guests, who have not joined the elders at the card-table in another room. They are both men. One of them is drowsy and middle-aged—happy in the possession of large landed property: happier still in a capacity for drinking Mr. Wyvil’s famous port-wine without gouty results.
The other gentleman—ah, who is the other? He is the confidential adviser and bosom friend of every young lady in the house. Is it necessary to name the Reverend Miles Mirabel?
There he sits enthroned, with room for a fair admirer on either side of him—the clerical sultan of a platonic harem. His persuasive ministry is felt as well as heard: he has an innocent habit of fondling young persons. One of his arms is even long enough to embrace the circumference of Miss Plym—while the other clasps the rigid silken waist of Francine. “I do it everywhere else,” he says innocently, “why not here?” Why not indeed—with that delicate complexion and those beautiful blue eyes; with the glorious golden hair that rests on his shoulders, and the glossy beard that flows over his breast? Familiarities, forbidden to mere men, become privileges and condescensions when an angel enters society—and more especially when that angel has enough of mortality in him to be amusing. Mr. Mirabel, on his social side, is an irresistible companion. He is cheerfulness itself; he takes a favorable view of everything; his sweet temper never differs with anybody. “In my humble way,” he confesses, “I like to make the world about me brighter.” Laughter (harmlessly produced, observe!) is the element in which he lives and breathes. Miss Darnaway’s serious face puts him out; he has laid a bet with Emily—not in money, not even in gloves, only in flowers—that he will make Miss Darnaway laugh; and he has won the wager. Emily’s flowers are in his button-hole, peeping through the curly interstices of his beard. “Must you leave me?” he asks tenderly, when there is a dancing man at liberty, and it is Francine’s turn to claim him. She leaves her seat not very willingly. For a while, the place is vacant; Miss Plym seizes the opportunity of consulting the ladies’ bosom friend.
“Dear Mr. Mirabel, do tell me what you think of Miss de Sor?”
Dear Mr. Mirabel bursts into enthusiasm and makes a charming reply. His large experience of young ladies warns him that they will tell each other what he thinks of them, when they retire for the night; and he is careful on these occasions to say something that will bear repetition.
“I see in Miss de Sor,” he declares, “the resolution of a man, tempered by the sweetness of a woman. When that interesting creature marries, her husband will be—shall I use the vulgar word?—henpecked. Dear Miss Plym, he will enjoy it; and he will be quite right too; and, if I am asked to the wedding, I shall say, with heartfelt sincerity, Enviable man!”
In the height of her admiration for Mr. Mirabel’s wonderful eye for character, Miss Plym is called away to the piano. Cecilia succeeds to her friend’s place—and has her waist taken in charge as a matter of course.
“How do you like Miss Plym?” she asks directly.
Mr. Mirabel smiles, and shows the prettiest little pearly teeth. “I was just thinking of her,” he confesses pleasantly; “Miss Plym is so nice and plump, so comforting and domestic—such a perfect clergyman’s daughter. You love her, don’t you? Is she engaged to be married? In that case—between ourselves, dear Miss Wyvil, a clergyman is obliged to be cautious—I may own that I love her too.”
Delicious titillations of flattered self-esteem betray themselves in Cecilia’s lovely complexion. She is the chosen confidante of this irresistible man; and she would like to express her sense of obligation. But Mr. Mirabel is a master in the art of putting the right words in the right places; and simple Cecilia distrusts herself and her grammar.
At that moment of embarrassment, a friend leaves the dance, and helps Cecilia out of the difficulty.
Emily approaches the sofa-throne, breathless—followed by her partner, entreating her to give him “one turn more.” She is not to be tempted; she means to rest. Cecilia sees an act of mercy, suggested by the presence of the disengaged young man. She seizes his arm, and hurries him off to poor Miss Darnaway; sitting forlorn in a corner, and thinking of the nursery at home. In the meanwhile a circumstance occurs. Mr. Mirabel’s all-embracing arm shows itself in a new character, when Emily sits by his side.
It becomes, for the first time, an irresolute arm. It advances a little—and hesitates. Emily at once administers an unexpected check; she insists on preserving a free waist, in her own outspoken language. “No, Mr. Mirabel, keep that for the others. You can’t imagine how ridiculous you and the young ladies look, and how absurdly unaware of it you all seem to be.” For the first time in his life, the reverend and ready-witted man of the world is at a loss for an answer. Why?
For this simple reason. He too has felt the magnetic attraction of the irresistible little creature whom every one likes. Miss Jethro has been doubly defeated. She has failed to keep them apart; and her unexplained misgivings have not been justified by events: Emily and Mr. Mirabel are good friends already. The brilliant clergyman is poor; his interests in life point to a marriage for money; he has fascinated the heiresses of two rich fathers, Mr. Tyvil and Mr. de Sor—and yet he is conscious of an influence (an alien influence, without a balance at its bankers), which has, in some mysterious way, got between him and his interests.
On Emily’s side, the attraction felt is of another nature altogether. Among the merry young people at Monksmoor she is her old happy self again; and she finds in Mr. Mirabel the most agreeable and amusing man whom she has ever met. After those dismal night watches by the bed of her dying aunt, and the dreary weeks of solitude that followed, to live in this new world of luxury and gayety is like escaping from the darkness of night, and basking in the fall brightn ess of day. Cecilia declares that she looks, once more, like the joyous queen of the bedroom, in the bygone time at school; and Francine (profaning Shakespeare without knowing it), says, “Emily is herself again!”
“Now that your arm is in its right place, reverend sir,” she gayly resumes, “I may admit that there are exceptions to all rules. My waist is at your disposal, in a case of necessity—that is to say, in a case of waltzing.”
“The one case of all others,” Mirabel answers, with the engaging frankness that has won him so many friends, “which can never happen in my unhappy experience. Waltzing, I blush to own it, means picking me up off the floor, and putting smelling salts to my nostrils. In other words, dear Miss Emily, it is the room that waltzes—not I. I can’t look at those whirling couples there, with a steady head. Even the exquisite figure of our young hostess, when it describes flying circles, turns me giddy.”
Hearing this allusion to Cecilia, Emily drops to the level of the other girls. She too pays her homage to the Pope of private life. “You promised me your unbiased opinion of Cecilia,” she reminds him; “and you haven’t given it yet.”
The ladies’ friend gently remonstrates. “Miss Wyvil’s beauty dazzles me. How can I give an unbiased opinion? Besides, I am not thinking of her; I can only think of you.”
Emily lifts her eyes, half merrily, half tenderly, and looks at him over the top of her fan. It is her first effort at flirtation. She is tempted to engage in the most interesting of all games to a girl—the game which plays at making love. What has Cecilia told her, in those bedroom gossipings, dear to the hearts of the two friends? Cecilia has whispered, “Mr. Mirabel admires your figure; he calls you ‘the Venus of Milo, in a state of perfect abridgment.’” Where is the daughter of Eve, who would not have been flattered by that pretty compliment—who would not have talked soft nonsense in return? “You can only think of Me,” Emily repeats coquettishly. “Have you said that to the last young lady who occupied my place, and will you say it again to the next who follows me?”
“Not to one of them! Mere compliments are for the others—not for you.”
“What is for me, Mr. Mirabel?”
“What I have just offered you—a confession of the truth.”
Emily is startled by the tone in which he replies. He seems to be in earnest; not a vestige is left of the easy gayety of his manner. His face shows an expression of anxiety which she has never seen in it yet. “Do you believe me?” he asks in a whisper.
She tries to change the subject.
“When am I to hear you preach, Mr. Mirabel?”
He persists. “When you believe me,” he says.
His eyes add an emphasis to that reply which is not to be mistaken. Emily turns away from him, and notices Francine. She has left the dance, and is looking with marked attention at Emily and Mirabel. “I want to speak to you,” she says, and beckons impatiently to Emily.
Mirabel whispers, “Don’t go!”
Emily rises nevertheless—ready to avail herself of the first excuse for leaving him. Francine meets her half way, and takes her roughly by the arm.
“What is it?” Emily asks.
“Suppose you leave off flirting with Mr. Mirabel, and make yourself of some use.”
“In what way?”
“Use your ears—and look at that girl.”
She points disdainfully to innocent Miss Plym. The rector’s daughter possesses all the virtues, with one exception—the virtue of having an ear for music. When she sings, she is out of tune; and, when she plays, she murders time.
“Who can dance to such music as that?” says Francine. “Finish the waltz for her.”
Emily naturally hesitates. “How can I take her place, unless she asks me?”
Francine laughs scornfully. “Say at once, you want to go back to Mr. Mirabel.”
“Do you think I should have got up, when you beckoned to me,” Emily rejoins, “if I had not wanted to get away from Mr. Mirabel?”
Instead of resenting this sharp retort, Francine suddenly breaks into good humor. “Come along, you little spit-fire; I’ll manage it for you.”
She leads Emily to the piano, and stops Miss Plym without a word of apology: “It’s your turn to dance now. Here’s Miss Brown waiting to relieve you.”
Cecilia has not been unobservant, in her own quiet way, of what has been going on. Waiting until Francine and Miss Plym are out of hearing, she bends over Emily, and says, “My dear, I really do think Francine is in love with Mr. Mirabel.”
“After having only been a week in the same house with him!” Emily exclaims.
“At any rate,” said Cecilia, more smartly than usual, “she is jealous ofyou.”
The next morning, Mr. Mirabel took two members of the circle at Monksmoor by surprise. One of them was Emily; and one of them was the master of the house.
Seeing Emily alone in the garden before breakfast, he left his room and joined her. “Let me say one word,” he pleaded, “before we go to breakfast. I am grieved to think that I was so unfortunate as to offend you, last night.”
Emily’s look of astonishment answered for her before she could speak. “What can I have said or done,” she asked, “to make you think that?”
“Now I breathe again!” he cried, with the boyish gayety of manner which was one of the secrets of his popularity among women. “I really feared that I had spoken thoughtlessly. It is a terrible confession for a clergyman to make—but it is not the less true that I am one of the most indiscreet men living. It is my rock ahead in life that I say the first thing which comes uppermost, without stopping to think. Being well aware of my own defects, I naturally distrust myself.”
“Even in the pulpit?” Emily inquired.
He laughed with the readiest appreciation of the satire—although it was directed against himself.
“I like that question,” he said; “it tells me we are as good friends again as ever. The fact is, the sight of the congregation, when I get into the pulpit, has the same effect upon me that the sight of the footlights has on an actor. All oratory (though my clerical brethren are shy of confessing it) is acting—without the scenery and the costumes. Did you really mean it, last night, when you said you would like to hear me preach?”
“Indeed, I did.”
“How very kind of you. I don’t think myself the sermon is worth the sacrifice. (There is another specimen of my indiscreet way of talking!) What I mean is, that you will have to get up early on Sunday morning, and drive twelve miles to the damp and dismal little village, in which I officiate for a man with a rich wife who likes the climate of Italy. My congregation works in the fields all the week, and naturally enough goes to sleep in church on Sunday. I have had to counteract that. Not by preaching! I wouldn’t puzzle the poor people with my eloquence for the world. No, no: I tell them little stories out of the Bible—in a nice easy gossiping way. A quarter of an hour is my limit of time; and, I am proud to say, some of them (mostly the women) do to a certain extent keep awake. If you and the other ladies decide to honor me, it is needless to say you shall have one of my grand efforts. What will be the effect on my unfortunate flock remains to be seen. I will have the church brushed up, and luncheon of course at the parsonage. Beans, bacon, and beer—I haven’t got anything else in the house. Are you rich? I hope not!”
“I suspect I am quite as poor as you are, Mr. Mirabel.”
“I am delighted to hear it. (More of my indiscretion!) Our poverty is another bond between us.”
Before he could enlarge on this text, the breakfast bell rang.
He gave Emily his arm, quite satisfied with the result of the morning’s talk. In speaking seriously to her on the previous night, he had committed the mistake of speaking too soon. To amend this false step, and to recover his position in Emily’s estimation, had been his object in view—and it had been successfully accomplished. At the breakfast-table that morning, the companionable clergyman was more amusing than ever.
The meal being over, the company dispersed as usual—with the one exception of Mirabel. Without any apparent reason, he kept his place at the table. Mr. Wyvil, the most courteous and considerate of men, felt it an attention due to his guest not to leave the room first. All that he could venture to do was to give a little hint. “Have you any plans for the morning?” he asked.
“I have a plan that depends entirely on yourself,” Mirabel answered; “and I am afraid of being as indiscreet as usual, if I mention it. Your charming daughter tells me you play on the violin.”
Modest Mr. Wyvil looked confused. “I hope you have not been annoyed,” he said; “I practice in a distant room so that nobody may hear me.”
“My dear sir, I am eager to hear you! Music is my passion; and the violin is my favorite instrument.”
Mr. Wyvil led the way to his room, positively blushing with pleasure. Since the death of his wife he had been sadly in want of a little encouragement. His daughters and his friends were careful—over-careful, as he thought—of intruding on him in his hours of practice. And, sad to say, his daughters and his friends were, from a musical point of view, perfectly right.
Literature has hardly paid sufficient attention to a social phenomenon of a singularly perplexing kind. We hear enough, and more than enough, of persons who successfully cultivate the Arts—of the remarkable manner in which fitness for their vocation shows itself in early life, of the obstacles which family prejudice places in their way, and of the unremitting devotion which has led to the achievement of glorious results.
But how many writers have noticed those other incomprehensible persons, members of families innocent for generations past of practicing Art or caring for Art, who have notwithstanding displayed from their earliest years the irresistible desire to cultivate poetry, painting, or music; who have surmounted obstacles, and endured disappointments, in the single-hearted resolution to devote their lives to an intellectual pursuit—being absolutely without the capacity which proves the vocation, and justifies the sacrifice. Here is Nature, “unerring Nature,” presented in flat contradiction with herself. Here are men bent on performing feats of running, without having legs; and women, hopelessly barren, living in constant expectation of large families to the end of their days. The musician is not to be found more completely deprived than Mr. Wyvil of natural capacity for playing on an instrument—and, for twenty years past, it had been the pride and delight of his heart to let no day of his life go by without practicing on the violin.
“I am sure I must be tiring you,” he said politely—after having played without mercy for an hour and more.
No: the insatiable amateur had his own purpose to gain, and was not exhausted yet. Mr. Wyvil got up to look for some more music. In that interval desultory conversation naturally took place. Mirabel contrived to give it the necessary direction—the direction of Emily.
“The most delightful girl I have met with for many a long year past!” Mr. Wyvil declared warmly. “I don’t wonder at my daughter being so fond of her. She leads a solitary life at home, poor thing; and I am honestly glad to see her spirits reviving in my house.”
“An only child?” Mirabel asked.
In the necessary explanation that followed, Emily’s isolated position in the world was revealed in few words. But one more discovery—the most important of all—remained to be made. Had she used a figure of speech in saying that she was as poor as Mirabel himself? or had she told him the shocking truth? He put the question with perfect delicacy—-but with unerring directness as well.
Mr. Wyvil, quoting his daughter’s authority, described Emily’s income as falling short even of two hundred a year. Having made that disheartening reply, he opened another music book. “You know this sonata, of course?” he said. The next moment, the violin was under his chin and the performance began.
While Mirabel was, to all appearance, listening with the utmost attention, he was actually endeavoring to reconcile himself to a serious sacrifice of his own inclinations. If he remained much longer in the same house with Emily, the impression that she had produced on him would be certainly strengthened—and he would be guilty of the folly of making an offer of marriage to a woman who was as poor as himself. The one remedy that could be trusted to preserve him from such infatuation as this, was absence. At the end of the week, he had arranged to return to Vale Regis for his Sunday duty; engaging to join his friends again at Monksmoor on the Monday following. That rash promise, there could be no further doubt about it, must not be fulfilled.
He had arrived at this resolution, when the terrible activity of Mr. Wyvil’s bow was suspended by the appearance of a third person in the room.
Cecilia’s maid was charged with a neat little three-cornered note from her young lady, to be presented to her master. Wondering why his daughter should write to him, Mr. Wyvil opened the note, and was informed of Cecilia’s motive in these words:
“DEAREST PAPA—I hear Mr. Mirabel is with you, and as this is a secret, I must write. Emily has received a very strange letter this morning, which puzzles her and alarms me. When you are quite at liberty, we shall be so much obliged if you will tell us how Emily ought to answer it.”
Mr. Wyvil stopped Mirabel, on the point of trying to escape from the music. “A little domestic matter to attend to,” he said. “But we will finish the sonata first.”