I SAY NO

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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."

CHAPTER XL.

CONSULTING.

Out of the music room, and away from his violin, the sound side
of Mr. Wyvil's character was free to assert itself. In his public
and in his private capacity, he was an eminently sensible man.

As a member of parliament, he set an example which might have
been followed with advantage by many of his colleagues. In the
first place he abstained from hastening the downfall of
representative institutions by asking questions and making
speeches. In the second place, he was able to distinguish between
the duty that he owed to his party, and the duty that he owed to
his country. When the Legislature acted politically--that is to
say, when it dealt with foreign complications, or electoral
reforms--he followed his leader. When the Legislature acted
socially--that is to say, for the good of the people--he followed
his conscience. On the last occasion when the great Russian
bugbear provoked a division, he voted submissively with his
Conservative allies. But, when the question of opening museums
and picture galleries on Sundays arrayed the two parties in
hostile camps, he broke into open mutiny, and went over to the
Liberals. He consented to help in preventing an extension of the
franchise; but he refused to be concerned in obstructing the
repeal of taxes on knowledge. "I am doubtful in the first case,"
he said, "but I am sure in the second." He was asked for an
explanation: "Doubtful of what? and sure of what?" To the
astonishment of his leader, he answered: "The benefit to the
people." The same sound sense appeared in the transactions of his
private life. Lazy and dishonest servants found that the gentlest
of masters had a side to his character which took them by
surprise. And, on certain occasions in the experience of Cecilia
and her sister, the most indulgent of fathers proved to be as
capable of saying No, as the sternest tyrant who ever ruled a
fireside.

Called into council by his daughter and his guest, Mr. Wyvil
assisted them by advice which was equally wise and kind--but
which afterward proved, under the perverse influence of
circumstances, to be advice that he had better not have given.

The letter to Emily which Cecilia had recommended to her father's
consideration, had come from Netherwoods, and had been written by
Alban Morris.

He assured Emily that he had only decided on writing to her,
after some hesitation, in the hope of serving interests which he
did not himself understand, but which might prove to be interests
worthy of consideration, nevertheless. Having stated his motive
in these terms, he proceeded to relate what had passed between
Miss Jethro and himself. On the subject of Francine, Alban only
ventured to add that she had not produced a favorable impression
on him, and that he could not think her
likely, on further experience, to prove a desirable friend.

On the last leaf were added some lines, which Emily was at no
loss how to answer. She had folded back the page, so that no eyes
but her own should see how the poor drawing-master finished his
letter: "I wish you all possible happiness, my dear, among your
new friends; but don't forget the old friend who thinks of you,
and dreams of you, and longs to see you again. The little world I
live in is a dreary world, Emily, in your absence. Will you write
to me now and then, and encourage me to hope?"

Mr. Wyvil smiled, as he looked at the folded page, which hid the
signature.

"I suppose I may take it for granted," he said slyly, "that this
gentleman really has your interests at heart? May I know who he
is?"

Emily answered the last question readily enough. Mr. Wyvil went
on with his inquiries. "About the mysterious lady, with the
strange name," he proceeded--"do you know anything of her?"

Emily related what she knew; without revealing the true reason
for Miss Jethro's departure from Netherwoods. In after years, it
was one of her most treasured remembrances, that she had kept
secret the melancholy confession which had startled her, on the
last night of her life at school.

Mr. Wyvil looked at Alban's letter again. "Do you know how Miss
Jethro became acquainted with Mr. Mirabel?" he asked.

"I didn't even know that they were acquainted."

"Do you think it likely--if Mr. Morris had been talking to you
instead of writing to you--that he might have said more than he
has said in his letter?"

Cecilia had hitherto remained a model of discretion. Seeing Emily
hesitate, temptation overcame her. "Not a doubt of it, papa!" she
declared confidently.

"Is Cecilia right?" Mr. Wyvil inquired.

Reminded in this way of her influence over Alban, Emily could
only make one honest reply. She admitted that Cecilia was right.

Mr. Wyvil thereupon advised her not to express any opinion, until
she was in a better position to judge for herself. "When you
write to Mr. Morris," he continued, "say that you will wait to
tell him what you think of Miss Jethro, until you see him again."

"I have no prospect at present of seeing him again," Emily said.

"You can see Mr. Morris whenever it suits him to come here," Mr.
Wyvil replied. "I will write and ask him to visit us, and you can
inclose the invitation in your letter."

"Oh, Mr. Wyvil, how good of you!"

"Oh, papa, the very thing I was going to ask you to do!"

The excellent master of Monksmoor looked unaffectedly surprised.
"What are you two young ladies making a fuss about?" he said.
"Mr. Morris is a gentleman by profession; and--may I venture to
say it, Miss Emily?--a valued friend of yours as well. Who has a
better claim to be one of my guests?"

Cecilia stopped her father as he was about to leave the room. "I
suppose we mustn't ask Mr. Mirabel what he knows of Miss Jethro?"
she said.

"My dear, what can you be thinking of? What right have we to
question Mr. Mirabel about Miss Jethro?"

"It's so very unsatisfactory, papa. There must be some reason why
Emily and Mr. Mirabel ought not to meet--or why should Miss
Jethro have been so very earnest about it?"

"Miss Jethro doesn't intend us to know why, Cecilia. It will
perhaps come out in time. Wait for time."

Left together, the girls discussed the course which Alban would
probably take, on receiving Mr. Wyvil's invitation.

"He will only be too glad," Cecilia asserted, "to have the
opportunity of seeing you again."

"I doubt whether he will care about seeing me again, among
strangers," Emily replied. "And you forget that there are
obstacles in his way. How is he to leave his class?"

"Quite easily! His class doesn't meet on the Saturday
half-holiday. He can be here, if he starts early, in time for
luncheon; and he can stay till Monday or Tuesday."

"Who is to take his place at the school?"

"Miss Ladd, to be sure--if _you_ make a point of it. Write to
her, as well as to Mr. Morris."

The letters being written--and the order having been given to
prepare a room for the expected guest--Emily and Cecilia returned
to the drawing-room. They found the elders of the party variously
engaged--the men with newspapers, and the ladies with work.
Entering the conservatory next, they discovered Cecilia's sister
languishing among the flowers in an easy chair. Constitutional
laziness, in some young ladies, assumes an invalid character, and
presents the interesting spectacle of perpetual convalescence.
The doctor declared that the baths at St. Moritz had cured Miss
Julia. Miss Julia declined to agree with the doctor.

"Come into the garden with Emily and me," Cecilia said.

"Emily and you don't know what it is to be ill," Julia answered.

The two girls left her, and joined the young people who were
amusing themselves in the garden. Francine had taken possession
of Mirabel, and had condemned him to hard labor in swinging her.
He made an attempt to get away when Emily and Cecilia approached,
and was peremptorily recalled to his duty. "Higher!" cried Miss
de Sor, in her hardest tones of authority. "I want to swing
higher than anybody else!" Mirabel submitted with gentleman-like
resignation, and was rewarded by tender encouragement expressed
in a look.

"Do you see that?" Cecilia whispered. "He knows how rich she
is--I wonder whether he will marry her."

Emily smiled. "I doubt it, while he is in this house," she said.
"You are as rich as Francine--and don't forget that you have
other attractions as well."

Cecilia shook her head. "Mr. Mirabel is very nice," she admitted;
"but I wouldn't marry him. Would you?"

Emily secretly compared Alban with Mirabel. "Not for the world!"
she answered.

The next day was the day of Mirabel's departure. His admirers
among the ladies followed him out to the door, at which Mr.
Wyvil's carriage was waiting. Francine threw a nosegay after the
departing guest as he got in. "Mind you come back to us on
Monday!" she said. Mirabel bowed and thanked her; but his last
look was for Emily, standing apart from the others at the top of
the steps. Francine said nothing; her lips closed
convulsively--she turned suddenly pale.

CHAPTER XLI.

SPEECHIFYING.

On the Monday, a plowboy from Vale Regis arrived at Monksmoor.

In respect of himself, he was a person beneath notice. In respect
of his errand, he was sufficiently important to cast a gloom over
the household. The faithless Mirabel had broken his engagement,
and the plowboy was the herald of misfortune who brought his
apology. To his great disappointment (he wrote) he was detained
by the affairs of his parish. He could only trust to Mr. Wyvil's
indulgence to excuse him, and to communicate his sincere sense of
regret (on scented note paper) to the ladies.

Everybody believed in the affairs of the parish--with the
exception of Francine. "Mr. Mirabel has made the best excuse he
could think of for shortening his visit; and I don't wonder at
it," she said, looking significantly at Emily.

Emily was playing with one of the dogs; exercising him in the
tricks which he had learned. She balanced a morsel of sugar on
his nose--and had no attention to spare for Francine.

Cecilia, as the mistress of the house, felt it her duty to
interfere. "That is a strange remark to make," she answered. "Do
you mean to say that we have driven Mr. Mirabel away from us?"

"I accuse nobody," Francine began with spiteful candor.

"Now she's going to accuse everybody!" Emily interposed,
addressing herself facetiously to the dog.

"But when girls are bent on fascinating men, whether they like it
or not," Francine proceeded, "men have only one alternative--they
must keep out of the way." She looked again at Emily, more
pointedly than ever.

Even gentle Cecilia resented this. "Whom do you refer to?" she
said sharply.

"My dear!" Emily remonstrated, "need you ask?" She glanced at
Francine as she spoke, and then gave the dog his signal. He
tossed up the sugar, and caught it in his mouth. His audience
applauded him--and so, for that time, the skirmish ended.

Among the letters of the next morning's delivery, arrived Alban's
reply. Emily's anticipations proved to be correct. The
drawing-master's du ties would not permit him to leave
Netherwoods; and he, like Mirabel, sent his apologies. His short
letter to Emily contained no further allusion to Miss Jethro; it
began and ended on the first page.

Had he been disappointed by the tone of reserve in which Emily
had written to him, under Mr. Wyvil's advice? Or (as Cecilia
suggested) had his detention at the school so bitterly
disappointed him that he was too disheartened to write at any
length? Emily made no attempt to arrive at a conclusion, either
one way or the other. She seemed to be in depressed spirits; and
she spoke superstitiously, for the first time in Cecilia's
experience of her.

"I don't like this reappearance of Miss Jethro," she said. "If
the mystery about that woman is ever cleared up, it will bring
trouble and sorrow to me--and I believe, in his own secret heart,
Alban Morris thinks so too."

"Write, and ask him," Cecilia suggested.

"He is so kind and so unwilling to distress me," Emily answered,
"that he wouldn't acknowledge it, even if I am right."

In the middle of the week, the course of private life at
Monksmoor suffered an interruption--due to the parliamentary
position of the master of the house.

The insatiable appetite for making and hearing speeches, which
represents one of the marked peculiarities of the English race
(including their cousins in the United States), had seized on Mr.
Wyvil's constituents. There was to be a political meeting at the
market hall, in the neighboring town; and the member was expected
to make an oration, passing in review contemporary events at home
and abroad. "Pray don't think of accompanying me," the good man
said to his guests. "The hall is badly ventilated, and the
speeches, including my own, will not be worth hearing."

This humane warning was ungratefully disregarded. The gentlemen
were all interested in "the objects of the meeting"; and the
ladies were firm in the resolution not to be left at home by
themselves. They dressed with a view to the large assembly of
spectators before whom they were about to appear; and they
outtalked the men on political subjects, all the way to the town.

The most delightful of surprises was in store for them, when they
reached the market hall. Among the crowd of ordinary gentlemen,
waiting under the portico until the proceedings began, appeared
one person of distinction, whose title was "Reverend," and whose
name was Mirabel.

Francine was the first to discover him. She darted up the steps
and held out her hand.

"This _is_ a pleasure!" she cried. "Have you come here to see--"
she was about to say Me, but, observing the strangers round her,
altered the word to Us. "Please give me your arm," she whispered,
before her young friends had arrived within hearing. "I am so
frightened in a crowd!"

She held fast by Mirabel, and kept a jealous watch on him. Was it
only her fancy? or did she detect a new charm in his smile when
he spoke to Emily?

Before it was possible to decide, the time for the meeting had
arrived. Mr. Wyvil's friends were of course accommodated with
seats on the platform. Francine, still insisting on her claim to
Mirabel's arm, got a chair next to him. As she seated herself,
she left him free for a moment. In that moment, the infatuated
man took an empty chair on the other side of him, and placed it
for Emily. He communicated to that hated rival the information
which he ought to have reserved for Francine. "The committee
insist," he said, "on my proposing one of the Resolutions. I
promise not to bore you; mine shall be the shortest speech
delivered at the meeting."

The proceedings began.

Among the earlier speakers not one was inspired by a feeling of
mercy for the audience. The chairman reveled in words. The mover
and seconder of the first Resolution (not having so much as the
ghost of an idea to trouble either of them), poured out language
in flowing and overflowing streams, like water from a perpetual
spring. The heat exhaled by the crowded audience was already
becoming insufferable. Cries of "Sit down!" assailed the orator
of the moment. The chairman was obliged to interfere. A man at
the back of the hall roared out, "Ventilation!" and broke a
window with his stick. He was rewarded with three rounds of
cheers; and was ironically invited to mount the platform and take
the chair.

Under these embarrassing circumstances, Mirabel rose to speak.

He secured silence, at the outset, by a humorous allusion to the
prolix speaker who had preceded him. "Look at the clock,
gentlemen," he said; "and limit my speech to an interval of ten
minutes." The applause which followed was heard, through the
broken window, in the street. The boys among the mob outside
intercepted the flow of air by climbing on each other's shoulders
and looking in at the meeting, through the gaps left by the
shattered glass. Having proposed his Resolution with discreet
brevity of speech, Mirabel courted popularity on the plan adopted
by the late Lord Palmerston in the House of Commons--he told
stories, and made jokes, adapted to the intelligence of the
dullest people who were listening to him. The charm of his voice
and manner completed his success. Punctually at the tenth minute,
he sat down amid cries of "Go on." Francine was the first to take
his hand, and to express admiration mutely by pressing it. He
returned the pressure--but he looked at the wrong lady--the lady
on the other side.

Although she made no complaint, he instantly saw that Emily was
overcome by the heat. Her lips were white, and her eyes were
closing. "Let me take you out," he said, "or you will faint."

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