"I have a plan that depends entirely on yourself,"Mirabel answered;"and I am afraid of being as indiscreet as usual,if Imention 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 ******* 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 ****** 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."
