The next morning, Mr. Mirabel took two members of the circle atMonksmoor by surprise. One of them was Emily; and one of them wasthe master of the house.

Seeing Emily alone in the garden before breakfast, he left hisroom and joined her. "Let me say one word," he pleaded, "beforewe go to breakfast. I am grieved to think that I was sounfortunate as to offend you, last night."

Emily's look of astonishment answered for her before she couldspeak. "What can I have said or done," she asked, "to make youthink that?"

"Now I breathe again!" he cried, with the boyish gayety of mannerwhich was one of the secrets of his popularity among women. "Ireally feared that I had spoken thoughtlessly. It is a terribleconfession for a clergyman to make--but it is not the less truethat I am one of the most indiscreet men living. It is my rockahead in life that I say the first thing which comes uppermost,without stopping to think. Being well aware of my own defects, Inaturally distrust myself."

"Even in the pulpit?" Emily inquired.

He laughed with the readiest appreciation of the satire--althoughit was directed against himself.

"I like that question," he said; "it tells me we are as goodfriends again as ever. The fact is, the sight of thecongregation, when I get into the pulpit, has the same effectupon me that the sight of the footlights has on an actor. Alloratory (though my clerical brethren are shy of confessing it) isacting--without the scenery and the costumes. Did you really meanit, 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 worththe sacrifice. (There is another specimen of my indiscreet way oftalking!) What I mean is, that you will have to get up early onSunday morning, and drive twelve miles to the damp and dismallittle village, in which I officiate for a man with a rich wifewho likes the climate of Italy. My congregation works in thefields all the week, and naturally enough goes to sleep in churchon Sunday. I have had to counteract that. Not by preaching! Iwouldn't puzzle the poor people with my eloquence for the world.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, I am proud to say, some of them (mostly the women) do to acertain extent keep awake. If you and the other ladies decide tohonor me, it is needless to say you shall have one of my grandefforts. What will be the effect on my unfortunate flock remainsto be seen. I will have the church brushed up, and luncheon ofcourse at the parsonage. Beans, bacon, and beer--I haven't gotanything 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!) Ourpoverty 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 themorning's talk. In speaking seriously to her on the previousnight, he had committed the mistake of speaking too soon. Toamend this false step, and to recover his position in Emily'sestimation, had been his object in view--and it had beensuccessfully 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 oneexception of Mirabel. Without any apparent reason, he kept hisplace at the table. Mr. Wyvil, the most courteous and considerateof men, feltit 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. "Haveyou any plans for the morning?" he asked.

"I have a plan that depends entirely on yourself," Mirabelanswered; "and I am afraid of being as indiscreet as usual, if Imention it. Your charming daughter tells me you play on theviolin."

Modest Mr. Wyvil looked confused. "I hope you have not beenannoyed," he said; "I practice in a distant room so that nobodymay hear me."

"My dear sir, I am eager to hear you! Music is my passion; andthe violin is my favorite instrument."

Mr. Wyvil led the way to his room, positively blushing withpleasure. Since the death of his wife he had been sadly in wantof a little encouragement. His daughters and his friends werecareful--over-careful, as he thought--of intruding on him in hishours of practice. And, sad to say, his daughters and his friendswere, from a musical point of view, perfectly right.

Literature has hardly paid sufficient attention to a socialphenomenon of a singularly perplexing kind. We hear enough, andmore than enough, of persons who successfully cultivate theArts--of the remarkable manner in which fitness for theirvocation shows itself in early life, of the obstacles whichfamily prejudice places in their way, and of the unremittingdevotion which has led to the achievement of glorious results.

But how many writers have noticed those other incomprehensiblepersons, members of families innocent for generations past ofpracticing Art or caring for Art, who have notwithstandingdisplayed from their earliest years the irresistible desire tocultivate poetry, painting, or music; who have surmountedobstacles, and endured disappointments, in the single-heartedresolution 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 aremen bent on performing feats of running, without having legs; andwomen, hopelessly barren, living in constant expectation of largefamilies to the end of their days. The musician is not to befound more completely deprived than Mr. Wyvil of natural capacityfor playing on an instrument--and, for twenty years past, it hadbeen the pride and delight of his heart to let no day of his lifego by without practicing on the violin.

"I am sure I must be tiring you," he said politely--after havingplayed without mercy for an hour and more.

No: the insatiable amateur had his own purpose to gain, and wasnot 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--thedirection of Emily.

"The most delightful girl I have met with for many a long yearpast!" Mr. Wyvil declared warmly. "I don't wonder at my daughterbeing so fond of her. She leads a solitary life at home, poorthing; and I am honestly glad to see her spirits reviving in myhouse."

"An only child?" Mirabel asked.

In the necessary explanation that followed, Emily's isolatedposition in the world was revealed in few words. But one morediscovery--the most important of all--remained to be made. Hadshe used a figure of speech in saying that she was as poor asMirabel himself? or had she told him the shocking truth? He putthe question with perfect delicacy---but with unerring directnessas well.

Mr. Wyvil, quoting his daughter's authority, described Emily'sincome as falling short even of two hundred a year. Having madethat disheartening reply, he opened another music book. "You knowthis sonata, of course?" he said. The next moment, the violin wasunder his chin and the performance began.

While Mirabel was, to all appearance, listening with the utmostattention, he was actually endeavoring to reconcile himself to aserious sacrifice of his own inclinations. If he remained muchlonger in the same house with Emily, the impression that she hadproduced on him would be certainly strengthened--and he would beguilty of the folly of making an offer of marriage to a woman whowas as poor as himself. The one remedy that could be trusted topreserve him from such infatuation as this, was absence. At theend of the week, he had arranged to return to Vale Regis for hisSunday duty; engaging to join his friends again at Monksmoor onthe 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 ofMr. Wyvil's bow was suspended by the appearance of a third personin the room.

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, andwas informed of Cecilia's motive in these words:

"DEAREST PAPA--I hear Mr. Mirabel is with you, and as this is asecret, I must write. Emily has received a very strange letterthis morning, which puzzles her and alarms me. When you are quiteat liberty, we shall be so much obliged if you will tell us howEmily ought to answer it."

Mr. Wyvil stopped Mirabel, on the point of trying to escape fromthe music. "A little domestic matter to attend to," he said. "Butwe will finish the sonata first."