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  CHAPTER XXXVIII. DANCING.

  The windows of the long drawing-room at Monksmoor are all thrown opento the conservatory. Distant masses of plants and flowers, mingled inever-varying forms of beauty, are touched by the melancholy luster ofthe rising moon. Nearer to the house, the restful shadows are disturbedat intervals, where streams of light fall over them aslant from thelamps in the room. The fountain is playing. In rivalry with its lightermusic, 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 theirhair. Francine rivals them by means of a gorgeous contrast of color, anddeclares that she is rich with the bright emphasis of diamonds and thesoft persuasion of pearls.

  Miss Plym (from the rectory) is fat and fair and prosperous: sheoverflows with good spirits; she has a waist which defies tight-lacing,and she dances joyously on large flat feet. Miss Darnaway (officer'sdaughter with small means) is the exact opposite of Miss Plym. She isthin and tall and faded--poor soul. Destiny has made it her hard lotin life to fill the place of head-nursemaid at home. In her pensivemoments, she thinks of the little brothers and sisters, whose patientservant she is, and wonders who comforts them in their tumbles and tellsthem stories at bedtime, while she is holiday-making at the pleasantcountry house.

  Tender-hearted Cecilia, remembering how few pleasures this young friendhas, and knowing how well she dances, never allows her to be withouta partner. There are three invaluable young gentlemen present, who areexcellent dancers. Members of different families, they are neverthelessfearfully and wonderfully like each other. They present the same rosycomplexions and straw-colored mustachios, the same plump cheeks, vacanteyes and low forehead; and they utter, with the same stolid gravity,the same imbecile small talk. On sofas facing each other sit the tworemaining guests, who have not joined the elders at the card-tablein another room. They are both men. One of them is drowsy andmiddle-aged--happy in the possession of large landed property: happierstill in a capacity for drinking Mr. Wyvil's famous port-wine withoutgouty results.

  The other gentleman--ah, who is the other? He is the confidentialadviser and bosom friend of every young lady in the house. Is itnecessary to name the Reverend Miles Mirabel?

  There he sits enthroned, with room for a fair admirer on either side ofhim--the clerical sultan of a platonic harem. His persuasive ministryis felt as well as heard: he has an innocent habit of fondlingyoung persons. One of his arms is even long enough to embrace thecircumference of Miss Plym--while the other clasps the rigid silkenwaist of Francine. "I do it everywhere else," he says innocently, "whynot here?" Why not indeed--with that delicate complexion and thosebeautiful blue eyes; with the glorious golden hair that rests onhis shoulders, and the glossy beard that flows over his breast?Familiarities, forbidden to mere men, become privileges andcondescensions when an angel enters society--and more especially whenthat angel has enough of mortality in him to be amusing. Mr. Mirabel,on his social side, is an irresistible companion. He is cheerfulnessitself; he takes a favorable view of everything; his sweet temper neverdiffers with anybody. "In my humble way," he confesses, "I like to makethe world about me brighter." Laughter (harmlessly produced, observe!)is the element in which he lives and breathes. Miss Darnaway's seriousface puts him out; he has laid a bet with Emily--not in money, not evenin gloves, only in flowers--that he will make Miss Darnaway laugh; andhe has won the wager. Emily's flowers are in his button-hole, peepingthrough the curly interstices of his beard. "Must you leave me?" he askstenderly, when there is a dancing man at liberty, and it is Francine'sturn to claim him. She leaves her seat not very willingly. For a while,the place is vacant; Miss Plym seizes the opportunity of consulting theladies' 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 eachother what he thinks of them, when they retire for the night; and he iscareful on these occasions to say something that will bear repetition.

  "I see in Miss de Sor," he declares, "the resolution of a man, temperedby the sweetness of a woman. When that interesting creature marries,her husband will be--shall I use the vulgar word?--henpecked. Dear MissPlym, he will enjoy it; and he will be quite right too; and, if I amasked to the wedding, I shall say, with heartfelt sincerity, Enviableman!"

  In the height of her admiration for Mr. Mirabel's wonderful eye forcharacter, Miss Plym is called away to the piano. Cecilia succeeds toher friend's place--and has her waist taken in charge as a matter ofcourse.

  "How do you like Miss Plym?" she asks directly.

  Mr. Mirabel smiles, and shows the prettiest little pearly teeth. "I wasjust thinking of her," he confesses pleasantly; "Miss Plym is so niceand plump, so comforting and domestic--such a perfect clergyman'sdaughter. You love her, don't you? Is she engaged to be married? In thatcase--between ourselves, dear Miss Wyvil, a clergyman is obliged to becautious--I may own that I love her too."

  Delicious titillations of flattered self-esteem betray themselvesin Cecilia's lovely complexion. She is the chosen confidante of thisirresistible 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 theright places; and simple Cecilia distrusts herself and her grammar.

  At that moment of embarrassment, a friend leaves the dance, and helpsCecilia out of the difficulty.

  Emily approaches the sofa-throne, breathless--followed by her partner,entreating her to give him "one turn more." She is not to be tempted;she means to rest. Cecilia sees an act of mercy, suggested by thepresence of the disengaged young man. She seizes his arm, and hurrieshim off to poor Miss Darnaway; sitting forlorn in a corner, and thinkingof the nursery at home. In the meanwhile a circumstance occurs. Mr.Mirabel's all-embracing arm shows itself in a new character, when Emilysits by his side.

  It becomes, for the first time, an irresolute arm. It advances alittle--and hesitates. Emily at once administers an unexpected check;she insists on preserving a free waist, in her own outspoken language."No, Mr. Mirabel, keep that for the others. You can't imagine howridiculous you and the young ladies look, and how absurdly unaware ofit you all seem to be." For the first time in his life, the reverend andready-witted man of the world is at a loss for an answer. Why?

  For this simple reason. He too has felt the magnetic attraction of theirresistible little creature whom every one likes. Miss Jethro has beendoubly defeated. She has failed to keep them apart; and her unexplainedmisgivings have not been justified by events: Emily and Mr. Mirabel aregood friends already. The brilliant clergyman is poor; his interests inlife point to a marriage for money; he has fascinated the heiresses oftwo rich fathers, Mr. Tyvil and Mr. de Sor--and yet he is conscious ofan influence (an alien influence, without a balance at its bankers),which has, in some mysterious way, got between him and his interests.

  On Emily's side, the attraction felt is of another nature altogether.Among the merry young people at Monksmoor she is her old happy selfagain; and she finds in Mr. Mirabel the most agreeable and amusing manwhom she has ever met. After those dismal night watches by the bed ofher dying aunt, and the dreary weeks of solitude that followed, tolive in this new world of luxury and gayety is like escaping from thedarkness of night, and basking in the fall brightn ess of day. Ceciliadeclares that she looks, once more, like the joyous queen of thebedroom, in the bygone time at school; and Francine (profaningShakespeare without knowing it), says, "Emily is herself again!"

  "Now that your arm is in its right place, reverend sir," she gaylyresumes, "I may admit that there are exceptions to all rules. My waistis at your disposal, in a case of necessity--that is to say, in a caseof waltzing."

  "The one case of all others," Mirabel answers, with the engagingfrankness that has won him so many friends, "which can never happen inmy unhappy exper
ience. Waltzing, I blush to own it, means picking meup off the floor, and putting smelling salts to my nostrils. In otherwords, dear Miss Emily, it is the room that waltzes--not I. I can't lookat those whirling couples there, with a steady head. Even the exquisitefigure of our young hostess, when it describes flying circles, turns megiddy."

  Hearing this allusion to Cecilia, Emily drops to the level of theother girls. She too pays her homage to the Pope of private life. "Youpromised me your unbiased opinion of Cecilia," she reminds him; "and youhaven't given it yet."

  The ladies' friend gently remonstrates. "Miss Wyvil's beauty dazzles me.How can I give an unbiased opinion? Besides, I am not thinking of her; Ican only think of you."

  Emily lifts her eyes, half merrily, half tenderly, and looks at him overthe top of her fan. It is her first effort at flirtation. She is temptedto engage in the most interesting of all games to a girl--the gamewhich plays at making love. What has Cecilia told her, in thosebedroom gossipings, dear to the hearts of the two friends? Cecilia haswhispered, "Mr. Mirabel admires your figure; he calls you 'the Venus ofMilo, in a state of perfect abridgment.'" Where is the daughter of Eve,who would not have been flattered by that pretty compliment--who wouldnot have talked soft nonsense in return? "You can only think of Me,"Emily repeats coquettishly. "Have you said that to the last young ladywho occupied my place, and will you say it again to the next who followsme?"

  "Not to one of them! Mere compliments are for the others--not for you."

  "What is for me, Mr. Mirabel?"

  "What I have just offered you--a confession of the truth."

  Emily is startled by the tone in which he replies. He seems to be inearnest; not a vestige is left of the easy gayety of his manner. Hisface shows an expression of anxiety which she has never seen in it yet."Do you believe me?" he asks in a whisper.

  She tries to change the subject.

  "When am I to hear you preach, Mr. Mirabel?"

  He persists. "When you believe me," he says.

  His eyes add an emphasis to that reply which is not to be mistaken.Emily turns away from him, and notices Francine. She has left the dance,and is looking with marked attention at Emily and Mirabel. "I want tospeak to you," she says, and beckons impatiently to Emily.

  Mirabel whispers, "Don't go!"

  Emily rises nevertheless--ready to avail herself of the first excuse forleaving him. Francine meets her half way, and takes her roughly by thearm.

  "What is it?" Emily asks.

  "Suppose you leave off flirting with Mr. Mirabel, and make yourself ofsome use."

  "In what way?"

  "Use your ears--and look at that girl."

  She points disdainfully to innocent Miss Plym. The rector's daughterpossesses all the virtues, with one exception--the virtue of having anear for music. When she sings, she is out of tune; and, when she plays,she murders time.

  "Who can dance to such music as that?" says Francine. "Finish the waltzfor her."

  Emily naturally hesitates. "How can I take her place, unless she asksme?"

  Francine laughs scornfully. "Say at once, you want to go back to Mr.Mirabel."

  "Do you think I should have got up, when you beckoned to me," Emilyrejoins, "if I had not wanted to get away from Mr. Mirabel?"

  Instead of resenting this sharp retort, Francine suddenly breaks intogood humor. "Come along, you little spit-fire; I'll manage it for you."

  She leads Emily to the piano, and stops Miss Plym without a word ofapology: "It's your turn to dance now. Here's Miss Brown waiting torelieve you."

  Cecilia has not been unobservant, in her own quiet way, of what has beengoing on. Waiting until Francine and Miss Plym are out of hearing, shebends over Emily, and says, "My dear, I really do think Francine is inlove with Mr. Mirabel."

  "After having only been a week in the same house with him!" Emilyexclaims.

  "At any rate," said Cecilia, more smartly than usual, "she is jealous of_you_."