Seeing Emily alone in the garden before breakfast, he left his room and joined her. “Let me say one word,” he pleaded, “before we go to breakfast. I am grieved to think that I was so unfortunate as to offend you, last night.”
Emily’s look of astonishment1 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 confession2 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 appreciation3 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 oratory4 (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 specimen5 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 dismal6 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 counteract7 that. Not by preaching! I wouldn’t puzzle the poor people with my eloquence8 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 remains9 to be seen. I will have the church brushed up, and luncheon10 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 amend11 this false step, and to recover his position in Emily’s estimation, had been his object in view—and it had been successfully accomplished12. At the breakfast-table that morning, the companionable clergyman was more amusing than ever.
The meal being over, the company dispersed13 as usual—with the one exception of Mirabel. Without any apparent reason, he kept his place at the table. Mr. Wyvil, the most courteous14 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 entirely15 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, positively16 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 intruding17 on him in his hours of practice. And, sad to say, his daughters and his friends were, from a musical point of view, perfectly18 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 remarkable19 manner in which fitness for their vocation20 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 irresistible21 desire to cultivate poetry, painting, or music; who have surmounted22 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 justifies23 the sacrifice. Here is Nature, “unerring Nature,” presented in flat contradiction with herself. Here are men bent24 on performing feats25 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 exhausted26 yet. Mr. Wyvil got up to look for some more music. In that interval27 desultory28 conversation naturally took place. Mirabel contrived29 to give it the necessary direction—the direction of Emily.
“The most delightful30 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 solitary31 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 isolated32 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 sonata33, 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 inclinations34. 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 folly35 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 motive36 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.”
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1
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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7
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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8
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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9
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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11
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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12
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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15
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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23
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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24
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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28
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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31
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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32
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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sonata
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| n.奏鸣曲 | |
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34
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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35
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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36
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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