The windows of the long drawing-room at Monksmoor are all thrownopen to the conservatory. Distant masses of plants and flowers,mingled in ever-varying forms of beauty, are touched by themelancholy luster of the rising moon. Nearer to the house, therestful shadows are disturbed at intervals, where streams oflight fall over them aslant from the lamps in the room. Thefountain is playing. In rivalry with its lighter music, thenightingales are singing their song of ecstasy. Sometimes, thelaughter of girls is heard--and, sometimes, the melody of awaltz. The younger guests at Monksmoor are dancing.

Emily and Cecilia are dressed alike in white, with flowers intheir hair. Francine rivals them by means of a gorgeous contrastof color, and declares that she is rich with the bright emphasisof diamonds and the soft persuasion of pearls.

Miss Plym (from the rectory) is fat and fair and prosperous: sheoverflows with good spirits; she has a waist which defiestight-lacing, and she dances joyously on large flat feet. MissDarnaway (officer's daughter with small means) is the exactopposite 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 ofhead-nursemaid at home. In her pensive moments, she thinks of thelittle brothers and sisters, whose patient servant she is, andwonders who comforts them in their tumbles and tells them storiesat bedtime, while she is holiday-making at the pleasant countryhouse.

Tender-hearted Cecilia, remembering how few pleasures this youngfriend has, and knowing how well she dances, never allows her tobe without a partner. There are three invaluable young gentlemenpresent, who are excellent dancers. Members of differentfamilies, they are nevertheless fearfully and wonderfully likeeach other. They present the same rosy complexions andstraw-colored mustachios, the same plump cheeks, vacant eyes andlow forehead; and they utter, with the same stolid gravity, thesame imbecile small talk. On sofas facing each other sit the tworemaining guests, who have not joined the elders at thecard-table in another room. They are both men. One of them isdrowsy and middle-aged--happy in the possession of large landedproperty: happier still in a capacity for drinking Mr. Wyvil'sfamous port-wine without gouty results.

The other gentleman--ah, who is the other? He is the confidentialadviser and bosom friend of every young lady in the house. Is itnecessary to name the Reverend Miles Mirabel?

There he sits enthroned, with room for a fair admirer on eitherside of him--the clerical sultan of a platonic harem. Hispersuasive ministry is felt as well as heard: he has an innocenthabit of fondling young persons. One of his arms is even longenough to embrace the circumference of Miss Plym--while the otherclasps the rigid silken waist of Francine. "I do it everywhereelse," he says innocently, "why not here?" Why not indeed--withthat delicate complexion and those beautiful blue eyes; with theglorious golden hair that rests on his shoulders, and the glossybeard that flows over his breast? Familiarities, forbidden tomere men, become privileges and condescensions when an angelenters society--and more especially when that angel has enough ofmortality in him to be amusing. Mr. Mirabel, on his social side,is an irresistible companion. He is cheerfulness itself; he takesa favorable view of everything; his sweet temper never differswith anybody. "In my humble way," he confesses, "I like to makethe world about me brighter." Laughter (harmlessly produced,observe!) is the element in which he lives and breathes. MissDarnaway's serious face puts him out; he has laid a bet withEmily--not in money, not even in gloves, only in flowers--that hewill make Miss Darnaway laugh; and he has won the wager. Emily'sflowers are in his button-hole, peeping through the curlyinterstices of his beard. "Must you leave me?" he asks tenderly,when there is a dancing man at liberty, and it is Francine's turnto claim him. She leaves her seat not very willingly. For awhile, the place is vacant; Miss Plym seizes the opportunity ofconsulting 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 charmingreply. His large experience of young ladies warns him that theywill tell each other what he thinks of them, when they retire forthe night; and he is careful on these occasions to say somethingthat 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 interestingcreature marries, her husband will be--shall I use the vulgarword?--henpecked. Dear Miss Plym, he will enjoy it; and he willbe quite right too; and, if I am asked to the wedding, I shallsay, with heartfelt sincerity, Enviable man!"

In the height of her admiration for Mr. Mirabel's wonderful eyefor character, Miss Plym is called away to the piano. Ceciliasucceeds to her friend's place--and has her waist taken in chargeas 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 Plymis so nice and plump, so comforting and domestic--such a perfectclergyman's daughter. You love her, don't you? Is she engaged tobe married? In that case--between ourselves, dear Miss Wyvil, aclergyman is obliged to be cautious--I may own that I love hertoo."

Delicious titillations of flattered self-esteem betray themselvesin Cecilia's lovely complexion. She is the chosen confidante ofthis irresistible man; and she would like to express her sense ofobligation. But Mr. Mirabel is a master in the art of putting theright words in the right places; and simple Cecilia distrustsherself and her grammar.

At that moment of embarrassment, a friend leaves the dance, andhelps Cecilia out of the difficulty.

Emily approaches the sofa-throne, breathless--followed by herpartner, entreating her to give him "one turn more." She is notto be tempted; she means to rest. Cecilia sees an act of mercy,suggested by the presence of the disengaged young man. She seizeshis arm, and hurries him off to poor Miss Darnaway; sittingforlorn in a corner, and thinking of the nursery at home. In themeanwhile a circumstance occurs. Mr. Mirabel's all-embracing armshows itself in a new character, when Emily sits by his side.

It becomes, for the first time, an irresolute arm. It advances alittle--and hesitates. Emily at once administers an unexpectedcheck; she insists on preserving a free waist, in her ownoutspoken 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 firsttime in his life, the reverend and ready-witted man of the worldis at a loss for an answer. Why?

For this simple reason. He too has felt the magnetic attractionof the irresistible little creature whom every one likes. MissJethro has been doubly defeated. She has failed to keep themapart; and her unexplained misgivings have not been justified byevents: Emily and Mr. Mirabel are good friends already. Thebrilliant clergyman is poor; his interests in life point to amarriage for money; he has fascinated the heiresses of two richfathers, Mr. Tyvil and Mr. de Sor--and yet he is conscious of aninfluence (an alien influence, without a balance at its bankers),which has, in some mysterious way, got between him and hisinterests.

On Emily's side, the attraction felt is of another naturealtogether. Among the merry young people at Monksmoor she is herold happy self again; and she finds in Mr. Mirabel the mostagreeable and amusing man whom she has ever met. After thosedismal night watches by the bed of her dying aunt, and the drearyweeks of solitude that followed, to live in this new world ofluxury and gayety is like escaping from the darkness of night,and basking in the fall brightn ess of day. Cecilia declares thatshe looks, once more, like the joyous queen of the bedroom, inthe bygone time at school; and Francine (profaning Shakespearewithout knowing it), says, "Emily is herself again!"

"Now that your arm is in its right place, reverend sir," shegayly resumes, "I may admit that there are exceptions to allrules. My waist is at your disposal, in a case of necessity--thatis to say, in a case of waltzing."

"The one case of all others," Mirabel answers, with the engagingfrankness that has won him so many friends, "which can neverhappen in my unhappy experience. Waltzing, I blush to own it,means picking me up off the floor, and putting smelling salts tomy nostrils. In other words, dear Miss Emily, it is the room thatwaltzes--not I. I can't look at those whirling couples there,with a steady head. Even the exquisite figure of our younghostess, when it describes flying circles, turns me giddy."

Hearing this allusion to Cecilia, Emily drops to the level of theother girls. She too pays her homage to the Pope of private life."You promised me your unbiased opinion of Cecilia," she remindshim; "and you haven't given it yet."

The ladies' friend gently remonstrates. "Miss Wyvil's beautydazzles me. How can I give an unbiased opinion? Besides, I am notthinking of her; I can only think of you."

Emily lifts her eyes, half merrily, half tenderly, and looks athim over the top of her fan. It is her first effort atflirtation. She is tempted to engage in the most interesting ofall games to a girl--the game which plays at making love. Whathas Cecilia told her, in those bedroom gossipings, dear to thehearts of the two friends? Cecilia has whispered, "Mr. Mirabeladmires your figure; he calls you 'the Venus of Milo, in a stateof perfect abridgment.'" Where is the daughter of Eve, who wouldnot have been flattered by that pretty compliment--who would nothave talked soft nonsense in return? "You can only think of Me,"Emily repeats coquettishly. "Have you said that to the last younglady who occupied my place, and will you say it again to the nextwho follows me?"

"Not to one of them! Mere compliments are for the others--not foryou."

"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 bein earnest; not a vestige is left of the easy gayety of hismanner. His face shows an expression of anxiety which she hasnever 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 bemistaken. Emily turns away from him, and notices Francine. Shehas left the dance, and is looking with marked attention at Emilyand Mirabel. "I want to speak to you," she says, and beckonsimpatiently to Emily.

Mirabel whispers, "Don't go!"

Emily rises nevertheless--ready to avail herself of the firstexcuse for leaving him. Francine meets her half way, and takesher roughly by the arm.

"What is it?" Emily asks.

"Suppose you leave off flirting with Mr. Mirabel, and makeyourself of some use."

"In what way?"

"Use your ears--and look at that girl."

She points disdainfully to innocent Miss Plym. The rector'sdaughter possesses all the virtues, with one exception--thevirtue of having an ear for music. When she sings, she is out oftune; and, when she plays, she murders time.

"Who can dance to such music as that?" says Francine. "Finish thewaltz for her."

Emily naturally hesitates. "How can I take her place, unless sheasks me?"

Francine laughs scornfully. "Say at once, you want to go back toMr. 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 breaksinto good humor. "Come along, you little spit-fire; I'll manageit for you."

She leads Emily to the piano, and stops Miss Plym without a wordof apology: "It's your turn to dance now. Here's Miss Brownwaiting to relieve you."

Cecilia has not been unobservant, in her own quiet way, of whathas been going on. Waiting until Francine and Miss Plym are outof hearing, she bends over Emily, and says, "My dear, I really dothink Francine is in love with Mr. Mirabel."

"After having only been a week in the same house with him!" Emilyexclaims.

"At any rate," said Cecilia, more smartly than usual, "she isjealous of _you_."