CHAPTER XXXIX. FEIGNING.
The next morning, Mr. Mirabel took two members of the circle atMonksmoor by surprise. One of them was Emily; and one of them was themaster of the house.
Seeing Emily alone in the garden before breakfast, he left his roomand joined her. "Let me say one word," he pleaded, "before we go tobreakfast. I am grieved to think that I was so unfortunate as to offendyou, 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 whichwas one of the secrets of his popularity among women. "I really fearedthat I had spoken thoughtlessly. It is a terrible confession for aclergyman to make--but it is not the less true that I am one of the mostindiscreet men living. It is my rock ahead in life that I say the firstthing which comes uppermost, without stopping to think. Being well awareof my own defects, I naturally distrust myself."
"Even in the pulpit?" Emily inquired.
He laughed with the readiest appreciation of the satire--although it wasdirected against himself.
"I like that question," he said; "it tells me we are as good friendsagain as ever. The fact is, the sight of the congregation, when I getinto the pulpit, has the same effect upon me that the sight of thefootlights has on an actor. All oratory (though my clerical brethren areshy 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 hearme preach?"
"Indeed, I did."
"How very kind of you. I don't think myself the sermon is worth thesacrifice. (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 Iofficiate for a man with a rich wife who likes the climate of Italy. Mycongregation works in the fields all the week, and naturally enoughgoes to sleep in church on Sunday. I have had to counteract that. Not bypreaching! I wouldn't puzzle the poor people with my eloquence for theworld. No, no: I tell them little stories out of the Bible--in a niceeasy gossiping way. A quarter of an hour is my limit of time; and, Iam proud to say, some of them (mostly the women) do to a certain extentkeep awake. If you and the other ladies decide to honor me, it isneedless to say you shall have one of my grand efforts. What will bethe effect on my unfortunate flock remains to be seen. I will havethe 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 isanother 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'stalk. In speaking seriously to her on the previous night, he hadcommitted the mistake of speaking too soon. To amend this false step,and to recover his position in Emily's estimation, had been hisobject in view--and it had been successfully accomplished. At thebreakfast-table that morning, the companionable clergyman was moreamusing than ever.
The meal being over, the company dispersed as usual--with the oneexception of Mirabel. Without any apparent reason, he kept his place atthe table. Mr. Wyvil, the most courteous and considerate of men, felt itan attention due to his guest not to leave the room first. All that hecould venture to do was to give a little hint. "Have you any plans forthe 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. Yourcharming daughter tells me you play on the violin."
Modest Mr. Wyvil looked confused. "I hope you have not been annoyed," hesaid; "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 theviolin 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 littleencouragement. His daughters and his friends were careful--over-careful,as he thought--of intruding on him in his hours of practice. And, sad tosay, his daughters and his friends were, from a musical point of view,perfectly right.
Literature has hardly paid sufficient attention to a social phenomenonof a singularly perplexing kind. We hear enough, and more than enough,of persons who successfully cultivate the Arts--of the remarkable mannerin which fitness for their vocation shows itself in early life, ofthe obstacles which family prejudice places in their way, and of theunremitting devotion which has led to the achievement of gloriousresults.
But how many writers have noticed those other incomprehensible persons,members of families innocent for generations past of practicing Art orcaring for Art, who have notwithstanding displayed from their earliestyears the irresistible desire to cultivate poetry, painting, or music;who have surmounted obstacles, and endured disappointments, in thesingle-hearted resolution to devote their lives to an intellectualpursuit--being absolutely without the capacity which proves thevocation, and justifies the sacrifice. Here is Nature, "unerringNature," presented in flat contradiction with herself. Here are menbent on performing feats of running, without having legs; and women,hopelessly barren, living in constant expectation of large families tothe end of their days. The musician is not to be found more completelydeprived than Mr. Wyvil of natural capacity for playing on aninstrument--and, for twenty years past, it had been the pride anddelight of his heart to let no day of his life go by without practicingon the violin.
"I am sure I must be tiring you," he said politely--after having playedwithout mercy for an hour and more.
No: the insatiable amateur had his own purpose to gain, and was notexhausted yet. Mr. Wyvil got up to look for some more music. In thatinterval desultory conversation naturally took place. Mirabel contrivedto 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 fondof her. She leads a solitary life at home, poor thing; and I am honestlyglad to see her spirits reviving in my house."
"An only child?" Mirabel asked.
In the necessary explanation that followed, Emily's isolated positionin the world was revealed in few words. But one more discovery--the mostimportant of all--remained to be made. Had she used a figure of speechin saying that she was as poor as Mirabel himself? or had she told himthe shocking truth? He put the question with perfect delicacy---but withunerring directness as well.
Mr. Wyvil, quoting his daughter's authority, described Emily's income asfalling short even of two hundred a year. Having made that dishearteningreply, he opened another music book. "You know this sonata, of course?"he said. The next moment, the violin was under his chin and theperformance began.
While Mirabel was, to all appearance, listening with the utmostattention, he was actually endeavoring to reconcile himself to a serioussacrifice of his own inclinations. If he remained much longer in thesame house with Emily, the impression that she had produced on him wouldbe certainly strengthened--and he would be guilty of the folly of makingan offer of marriage to a woman who was as poor as himself. The oneremedy that could be trusted to preserve him from such infatuation asthis, was absence. At the end of the week, he had arranged to return toVale Regis for his Sunday duty; engaging to join his friends again atMonksmoor on the Monday following. That rash promise, there could be nofurther 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 theroom.
Cecilia's maid was charged with a neat little three-cornered notefrom her young lady, to be presented to her master. Wondering whyhis daughter should write to him, Mr. Wyvil opened the note, and wasinformed 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 shallbe 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 themusic. "A little domestic matter to attend to," he said. "But we willfinish the sonata first."