The windows of the long drawing-room at Monksmoor are all thrown open to the conservatory.Distant masses of plants and flowers,mingled in ever-varying forms of beauty,are touched by the melancholy luster of the rising moon.Nearer to the house,the restful shadows are disturbed at intervals,where streams of light fall over them aslant from the lamps in the room.The fountain is playing.In rivalry with its lighter music,the nightingales are singing their song of ecstasy.Sometimes,the laughter of girls is heard--and,sometimes,the melody of a waltz.The younger guests at Monksmoor are dancing.
Emily and Cecilia are dressed alike in white,with flowers in their hair.Francine rivals them by means of a gorgeous contrast of color,and declares that she is rich with the bright emphasis of diamonds and the soft persuasion of pearls.
Miss Plym (from the rectory)is fat and fair and prosperous:she overflows with good spirits;she has a waist which defies tight-lacing,and she dances joyously on large flat feet.Miss Darnaway (officer's daughter with small means)is the exact opposite 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 of head-nursemaid at home.In her pensive moments,she thinks of the little brothers and sisters,whose patient servant she is,and wonders who comforts them in their tumbles and tells them stories at bedtime,while she is holiday-making at the pleasant country house.
Tender-hearted Cecilia,remembering how few pleasures this young friend has,and knowing how well she dances,never allows her to be without a partner.There are three invaluable young gentlemen present,who are excellent dancers.Members of different families,they are nevertheless fearfully and wonderfully like each other.They present the same rosy complexions and straw-colored mustachios,the same plump cheeks,vacant eyes and low forehead;and they utter,with the same stolid gravity,the same imbecile small talk.On sofas facing each other sit the two remaining guests,who have not joined the elders at the card-table in another room.They are both men.One of them is drowsy and middle-aged--happy in the possession of large landed property:happier still in a capacity for drinking Mr.Wyvil's famous port-wine without gouty results.
The other gentleman--ah,who is the other?He is the confidential adviser and bosom friend of every young lady in the house.Is it necessary to name the Reverend Miles Mirabel?
There he sits enthroned,with room for a fair admirer on either side of him--the clerical sultan of a platonic harem.His persuasive ministry is felt as well as heard:he has an innocent habit of fondling young persons.One of his arms is even long enough to embrace the circumference of Miss Plym--while the other clasps the rigid silken waist of Francine."I do it everywhere else,"he says innocently,"why not here?"Why not indeed--with that delicate complexion and those beautiful blue eyes;with the glorious golden hair that rests on his shoulders,and the glossy beard that flows over his breast?Familiarities,forbidden to mere men,become privileges and condescensions when an angel enters society--and more especially when that angel has enough of mortality in him to be amusing.Mr.Mirabel,on his social side,is an irresistible companion.He is cheerfulness itself;he takes a favorable view of everything;his sweet temper never differs with anybody."In my humble way,"he confesses,"I like to make the world about me brighter."Laughter (harmlessly produced,observe!)is the element in which he lives and breathes.Miss Darnaway's serious face puts him out;he has laid a bet with Emily--not in money,not even in gloves,only in flowers--that he will make Miss Darnaway laugh;and he has won the wager.Emily's flowers are in his button-hole,peeping through the curly interstices of his beard."Must you leave me?"he asks tenderly,when there is a dancing man at liberty,and it is Francine's turn to claim him.She leaves her seat not very willingly.For a while,the place is vacant;Miss Plym seizes the opportunity of consulting 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 charming reply.His large experience of young ladies warns him that they will tell each other what he thinks of them,when they retire for the night;and he is careful on these occasions to say something that 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 interesting creature marries,her husband will be--shall I use the vulgar word?--henpecked.Dear Miss Plym,he will enjoy it;and he will be quite right too;and,if I am asked to the wedding,I shall say,with heartfelt sincerity,Enviable man!"In the height of her admiration for Mr.Mirabel's wonderful eye for character,Miss Plym is called away to the piano.Cecilia succeeds to her friend's place--and has her waist taken in charge as 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 Plym is so nice and plump,so comforting and domestic--such a perfect clergyman's daughter.You love her,don't you?Is she engaged to be married?In that case--between ourselves,dear Miss Wyvil,a clergyman is obliged to be cautious--I may own that I love her too."Delicious titillations of flattered self-esteem betray themselves in Cecilia's lovely complexion.She is the chosen confidante of this irresistible man;and she would like to express her sense of obligation.But Mr.Mirabel is a master in the art of putting the right words in the right places;and simple Cecilia distrusts herself and her grammar.
At that moment of embarrassment,a friend leaves the dance,and helps Cecilia out of the difficulty.
