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.”