Shirley

by Charlotte Bronte

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  PHOEBE.

  Shirley probably got on pleasantly with Sir Philip that evening, for thenext morning she came down in one of her best moods.

  "Who will take a walk with me?" she asked, after breakfast. "Isabellaand Gertrude, will you?"

  So rare was such an invitation from Miss Keeldar to her female cousinsthat they hesitated before they accepted it. Their mamma, however,signifying acquiescence in the project, they fetched their bonnets, andthe trio set out.

  It did not suit these three young persons to be thrown much together.Miss Keeldar liked the society of few ladies; indeed, she had a cordialpleasure in that of none except Mrs. Pryor and Caroline Helstone. Shewas civil, kind, attentive even to her cousins; but still she usuallyhad little to say to them. In the sunny mood of this particular morning,she contrived to entertain even the Misses Sympson. Without deviatingfrom her wonted rule of discussing with them only ordinary themes, sheimparted to these themes an extraordinary interest; the sparkle of herspirit glanced along her phrases.

  What made her so joyous? All the cause must have been in herself. Theday was not bright. It was dim--a pale, waning autumn day. The walksthrough the dun woods were damp; the atmosphere was heavy, the skyovercast; and yet it seemed that in Shirley's heart lived all the lightand azure of Italy, as all its fervour laughed in her gray English eye.

  Some directions necessary to be given to her foreman, John, delayed herbehind her cousins as they neared Fieldhead on their return. Perhaps aninterval of twenty minutes elapsed between her separation from them andher re-entrance into the house. In the meantime she had spoken to John,and then she had lingered in the lane at the gate. A summons toluncheon called her in. She excused herself from the meal, and wentupstairs.

  "Is not Shirley coming to luncheon?" asked Isabella. "She said she washungry."

  An hour after, as she did not quit her chamber, one of her cousins wentto seek her there. She was found sitting at the foot of the bed, herhead resting on her hand; she looked quite pale, very thoughtful, almostsad.

  "You are not ill?" was the question put.

  "A little sick," replied Miss Keeldar.

  Certainly she was not a little changed from what she had been two hoursbefore.

  This change, accounted for only by those three words, explained nootherwise; this change--whencesoever springing, effected in a brief tenminutes--passed like no light summer cloud. She talked when she joinedher friends at dinner, talked as usual. She remained with them duringthe evening. When again questioned respecting her health, she declaredherself perfectly recovered. It had been a mere passing faintness, amomentary sensation, not worth a thought; yet it was felt there was adifference in Shirley.

  The next day--the day, the week, the fortnight after--this new andpeculiar shadow lingered on the countenance, in the manner of MissKeeldar. A strange quietude settled over her look, her movements, hervery voice. The alteration was not so marked as to court or permitfrequent questioning, yet it _was_ there, and it would not pass away. Ithung over her like a cloud which no breeze could stir or disperse. Soonit became evident that to notice this change was to annoy her. First sheshrank from remark; and, if persisted in, she, with her own peculiar_hauteur_, repelled it. "Was she ill?" The reply came with decision.

  "I _am not_."

  "Did anything weigh on her mind? Had anything happened to affect herspirits?"

  She scornfully ridiculed the idea. "What did they mean by spirits? Shehad no spirits, black or white, blue or gray, to affect."

  "Something must be the matter--she was so altered."

  "She supposed she had a right to alter at her ease. She knew she wasplainer. If it suited her to grow ugly, why need others fret themselveson the subject?"

  "There must be a cause for the change. What was it?"

  She peremptorily requested to be let alone.

  Then she would make every effort to appear quite gay, and she seemedindignant at herself that she could not perfectly succeed. Briefself-spurning epithets burst from her lips when alone. "Fool! coward!"she would term herself. "Poltroon!" she would say, "if you must tremble,tremble in secret! Quail where no eye sees you!"

  "How dare you," she would ask herself--"how dare you show your weaknessand betray your imbecile anxieties? Shake them off; rise above them. Ifyou cannot do this, hide them."

  And to hide them she did her best. She once more became resolutelylively in company. When weary of effort and forced to relax, she soughtsolitude--not the solitude of her chamber (she refused to mope, shut upbetween four walls), but that wilder solitude which lies out of doors,and which she could chase, mounted on Zoe, her mare. She took long ridesof half a day. Her uncle disapproved, but he dared not remonstrate. Itwas never pleasant to face Shirley's anger, even when she was healthyand gay; but now that her face showed thin, and her large eye lookedhollow, there was something in the darkening of that face and kindlingof that eye which touched as well as alarmed.

  To all comparative strangers who, unconscious of the alterations in herspirits, commented on the alteration in her looks, she had one reply,--

  "I am perfectly well; I have not an ailment."

  And health, indeed, she must have had, to be able to bear the exposureto the weather she now encountered. Wet or fair, calm or storm, she tookher daily ride over Stilbro' Moor, Tartar keeping up at her side, withhis wolf-like gallop, long and untiring.

  Twice, three times, the eyes of gossips--those eyes which areeverywhere, in the closet and on the hill-top--noticed that instead ofturning on Rushedge, the top ridge of Stilbro' Moor, she rode forwardsall the way to the town. Scouts were not wanting to mark her destinationthere. It was ascertained that she alighted at the door of one Mr.Pearson Hall, a solicitor, related to the vicar of Nunnely. Thisgentleman and his ancestors had been the agents of the Keeldar familyfor generations back. Some people affirmed that Miss Keeldar was becomeinvolved in business speculations connected with Hollow's Mill--that shehad lost money, and was constrained to mortgage her land. Othersconjectured that she was going to be married, and that the settlementswere preparing.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Moore and Henry Sympson were together in the schoolroom. The tutorwas waiting for a lesson which the pupil seemed busy in preparing.

  "Henry, make haste. The afternoon is getting on."

  "Is it, sir?"

  "Certainly. Are you nearly ready with that lesson?"

  "No."

  "Not _nearly_ ready?"

  "I have not construed a line."

  Mr. Moore looked up. The boy's tone was rather peculiar.

  "The task presents no difficulties, Henry; or, if it does, bring them tome. We will work together."

  "Mr. Moore, I can do no work."

  "My boy, you are ill."

  "Sir, I am not worse in bodily health than usual, but my heart is full."

  "Shut the book. Come hither, Harry. Come to the fireside."

  Harry limped forward. His tutor placed him in a chair; his lips werequivering, his eyes brimming. He laid his crutch on the floor, bent downhis head, and wept.

  "This distress is not occasioned by physical pain, you say, Harry? Youhave a grief; tell it me."

  "Sir, I have such a grief as I never had before. I wish it could berelieved in some way; I can hardly bear it."

  "Who knows but, if we talk it over, we may relieve it? What is thecause? Whom does it concern?"

  "The cause, sir, is Shirley; it concerns Shirley."

  "Does it? You think her changed?"

  "All who know her think her changed--you too, Mr. Moore."

  "Not seriously--no. I see no alteration but such as a favourable turnmight repair in a few weeks; besides, her own word must go forsomething: she says she is well."

  "There it is, sir. As long as she maintained she was well, I believedher. When I was sad out of her sight, I soon recovered spirits in herpresence. Now----"

  "Well, Harry, now. Has she said anything to you? You a
nd she weretogether in the garden two hours this morning. I saw her talking, andyou listening. Now, my dear Harry, if Miss Keeldar has said she is ill,and enjoined you to keep her secret, do not obey her. For her life'ssake, avow everything. Speak, my boy."

  "_She_ say she is ill! I believe, sir, if she were dying, she wouldsmile, and aver, 'Nothing ails me.'"

  "What have you learned then? What new circumstance?"

  "I have learned that she has just made her will."

  "Made her will?"

  The tutor and pupil were silent.

  "She told you that?" asked Moore, when some minutes had elapsed.

  "She told me quite cheerfully, not as an ominous circumstance, which Ifelt it to be. She said I was the only person besides her solicitor,Pearson Hall, and Mr. Helstone and Mr. Yorke, who knew anything aboutit; and to me, she intimated, she wished specially to explain itsprovisions."

  "Go on, Harry."

  "'Because,' she said, looking down on me with her beautiful eyes--oh!they _are_ beautiful, Mr. Moore! I love them! I love her! She is mystar! Heaven must not claim her! She is lovely in this world, and fittedfor this world. Shirley is not an angel; she is a woman, and she shalllive with men. Seraphs shall not have her! Mr. Moore, if one of the'sons of God,' with wings wide and bright as the sky, blue and soundingas the sea, having seen that she was fair, descended to claim her, hisclaim should be withstood--withstood by me--boy and cripple as I am."

  "Henry Sympson, go on, when I tell you."

  "'Because,' she said, 'if I made no will, and died before you, Harry,all my property would go to you; and I do not intend that it should beso, though your father would like it. But you,' she said, 'will have hiswhole estate, which is large--larger than Fieldhead. Your sisters willhave nothing; so I have left them some money, though I do not love them,both together, half so much as I love one lock of your fair hair.' Shesaid these words, and she called me her 'darling,' and let me kiss her.She went on to tell me that she had left Caroline Helstone some moneytoo; that this manor house, with its furniture and books, she hadbequeathed to me, as she did not choose to take the old family placefrom her own blood; and that all the rest of her property, amounting toabout twelve thousand pounds, exclusive of the legacies to my sistersand Miss Helstone, she had willed, not to me, seeing I was already rich,but to a good man, who would make the best use of it that any humanbeing could do--a man, she said, that was both gentle and brave, strongand merciful--a man that might not profess to be pious, but she knew hehad the secret of religion pure and undefiled before God. The spirit oflove and peace was with him. He visited the fatherless and widows intheir affliction, and kept himself unspotted from the world. Then sheasked, 'Do you approve what I have done, Harry?' I could not answer. Mytears choked me, as they do now."

  Mr. Moore allowed his pupil a moment to contend with and master hisemotion. He then demanded, "What else did she say?"

  "When I had signified my full consent to the conditions of her will, shetold me I was a generous boy, and she was proud of me. 'And now,' sheadded, 'in case anything should happen, you will know what to say toMalice when she comes whispering hard things in your ear, insinuatingthat Shirley has wronged you, that she did not love you. You will knowthat I _did_ love you, Harry; that no sister could have loved youbetter--my own treasure.' Mr. Moore, sir, when I remember her voice, andrecall her look, my heart beats as if it would break its strings. She_may_ go to heaven before me--if God commands it, she _must_; but therest of my life--and my life will not be long, I am glad of thatnow--shall be a straight, quick, thoughtful journey in the path her stephas pressed. I thought to enter the vault of the Keeldars before her.Should it be otherwise, lay my coffin by Shirley's side."

  Moore answered him with a weighty calm, that offered a strange contrastto the boy's perturbed enthusiasm.

  "You are wrong, both of you--you harm each other. If youth once fallsunder the influence of a shadowy terror, it imagines there will never befull sunlight again; its first calamity it fancies will last a lifetime.What more did she say? Anything more?"

  "We settled one or two family points between ourselves."

  "I should rather like to know what----"

  "But, Mr. Moore, you smile. _I_ could not smile to see Shirley in such amood."

  "My boy, I am neither nervous, nor poetic, nor inexperienced. I seethings as they are; you don't as yet. Tell me these family points."

  "Only, sir, she asked me whether I considered myself most of a Keeldaror a Sympson; and I answered I was Keeldar to the core of the heart andto the marrow of the bones. She said she was glad of it; for, besidesher, I was the only Keeldar left in England. And then we agreed on somematters."

  "Well?"

  "Well, sir, that if I lived to inherit my father's estate, and herhouse, I was to take the name of Keeldar, and to make Fieldhead myresidence. Henry Shirley Keeldar I said I would be called; and I will.Her name and her manor house are ages old, and Sympson and Sympson Groveare of yesterday."

  "Come, you are neither of you going to heaven yet. I have the best hopesof you both, with your proud distinctions--a pair of half-fledgedeaglets. Now, what is your inference from all you have told me? Put itinto words."

  "That Shirley thinks she is going to die."

  "She referred to her health?"

  "Not once; but I assure you she is wasting. Her hands are grown quitethin, and so is her cheek."

  "Does she ever complain to your mother or sisters?"

  "Never. She laughs at them when they question her. Mr. Moore, she is astrange being, so fair and girlish--not a man-like woman at all, not anAmazon, and yet lifting her head above both help and sympathy."

  "Do you know where she is now, Henry? Is she in the house, or ridingout?"

  "Surely not out, sir. It rains fast."

  "True; which, however, is no guarantee that she is not at this momentcantering over Rushedge. Of late she has never permitted weather to be ahindrance to her rides."

  "You remember, Mr. Moore, how wet and stormy it was last Wednesday--sowild, indeed, that she would not permit Zoe to be saddled? Yet the blastshe thought too tempestuous for her mare she herself faced on foot; thatafternoon she walked nearly as far as Nunnely. I asked her, when shecame in, if she was not afraid of taking cold. 'Not I,' she said. 'Itwould be too much good luck for me. I don't know, Harry, but the bestthing that could happen to me would be to take a good cold and fever,and so pass off like other Christians.' She is reckless, you see, sir."

  "Reckless indeed! Go and find out where she is, and if you can get anopportunity of speaking to her without attracting attention, request herto come here a minute."

  "Yes, sir."

  He snatched his crutch, and started up to go.

  "Harry!"

  He returned.

  "Do not deliver the message formally. Word it as, in former days, youwould have worded an ordinary summons to the schoolroom."

  "I see, sir. She will be more likely to obey."

  "And, Harry----"

  "Sir?"

  "I will call you when I want you. Till then, you are dispensed fromlessons."

  He departed. Mr. Moore, left alone, rose from his desk.

  "I can be very cool and very supercilious with Henry," he said. "I canseem to make light of his apprehensions, and look down _du haut de magrandeur_ on his youthful ardour. To _him_ I can speak as if, in myeyes, they were both children. Let me see if I can keep up the same rolewith her. I have known the moment when I seemed about to forget it, whenConfusion and Submission seemed about to crush me with their softtyranny, when my tongue faltered, and I have almost let the mantle drop,and stood in her presence, not master--no--but something else. I trust Ishall never so play the fool. It is well for a Sir Philip Nunnely toredden when he meets her eye. He may permit himself the indulgence ofsubmission. He may even, without disgrace, suffer his hand to tremblewhen it touches hers; but if one of her farmers were to show himselfsusceptible and sentimental, he would merely prove his need of a straitwaistcoat. So far I have
always done very well. She has sat near me, andI have not shaken--more than my desk. I have encountered her looks andsmiles like--why, like a tutor, as I am. Her hand I never yettouched--never underwent that test. Her farmer or her footman I amnot--no serf nor servant of hers have I ever been; but I am poor, and itbehoves me to look to my self-respect--not to compromise an inch of it.What did she mean by that allusion to the cold people who petrify fleshto marble? It pleased me--I hardly know why; I would not permit myselfto inquire. I never do indulge in scrutiny either of her language orcountenance; for if I did, I should sometimes forget common sense andbelieve in romance. A strange, secret ecstasy steals through my veins atmoments. I'll not encourage--I'll not remember it. I am resolved, aslong as may be, to retain the right to say with Paul, 'I am not mad, butspeak forth the words of truth and soberness.'"

  He paused, listening.

  "Will she come, or will she not come?" he inquired. "How will she takethe message? Naively or disdainfully? Like a child or like a queen? Bothcharacters are in her nature.

  "If she comes, what shall I say to her? How account, firstly, for thefreedom of the request? Shall I apologize to her? I could in allhumility; but would an apology tend to place us in the positions weought relatively to occupy in this matter? I _must_ keep up theprofessor, otherwise---- I hear a door."

  He waited. Many minutes passed.

  "She will refuse me. Henry is entreating her to come; she declines. Mypetition is presumption in her eyes. Let her _only_ come, I can teachher to the contrary. I would rather she were a little perverse; it willsteel me. I prefer her cuirassed in pride, armed with a taunt. Her scornstartles me from my dreams; I stand up myself. A sarcasm from her eyesor lips puts strength into every nerve and sinew I have. Some stepapproaches, and not Henry's."

  The door unclosed; Miss Keeldar came in. The message, it appeared, hadfound her at her needle; she brought her work in her hand. That day shehad not been riding out; she had evidently passed it quietly. She woreher neat indoor dress and silk apron. This was no Thalestris from thefields, but a quiet domestic character from the fireside. Mr. Moore hadher at advantage. He should have addressed her at once in solemnaccents, and with rigid mien. Perhaps he would, had she looked saucy;but her air never showed less of _cranerie_. A soft kind of youthfulshyness depressed her eyelid and mantled on her cheek. The tutor stoodsilent.

  She made a full stop between the door and his desk.

  "Did you want me, sir?" she asked.

  "I ventured, Miss Keeldar, to send for you--that is, to ask an interviewof a few minutes."

  She waited; she plied her needle.

  "Well, sir" (not lifting her eyes), "what about?"

  "Be seated first. The subject I would broach is one of some moment.Perhaps I have hardly a right to approach it. It is possible I ought toframe an apology; it is possible no apology can excuse me. The liberty Ihave taken arises from a conversation with Henry. The boy is unhappyabout your health; all your friends are unhappy on that subject. It isof your health I would speak."

  "I am quite well," she said briefly.

  "Yet changed."

  "That matters to none but myself. We all change."

  "Will you sit down? Formerly, Miss Keeldar, I had some influence withyou: have I any now? May I feel that what I am saying is not accountedpositive presumption?"

  "Let me read some French, Mr. Moore, or I will even take a spell at theLatin grammar, and let us proclaim a truce to all sanitary discussions."

  "No, no. It is time there were discussions."

  "Discuss away, then, but do not choose me for your text. I am a healthysubject."

  "Do you not think it wrong to affirm and reaffirm what is substantiallyuntrue?"

  "I say I am well. I have neither cough, pain, nor fever."

  "Is there no equivocation in that assertion? Is it the direct truth?"

  "The direct truth."

  Louis Moore looked at her earnestly.

  "I can myself," he said, "trace no indications of actual disease. Butwhy, then, are you altered?"

  "_Am_ I altered?"

  "We will try. We will seek a proof."

  "How?"

  "I ask, in the first place, do you sleep as you used to?"

  "I do not; but it is not because I am ill."

  "Have you the appetite you once had?"

  "No; but it is not because I am ill."

  "You remember this little ring fastened to my watch-chain? It was mymother's, and is too small to pass the joint of my little finger. Youhave many a time sportively purloined it. It fitted your fore-finger.Try now."

  She permitted the test. The ring dropped from the wasted little hand.Louis picked it up, and reattached it to the chain. An uneasy flushcoloured his brow. Shirley again said, "It is not because I am ill."

  "Not only have you lost sleep, appetite, and flesh," proceeded Moore,"but your spirits are always at ebb. Besides, there is a nervous alarmin your eye, a nervous disquiet in your manner. These peculiarities werenot formerly yours."

  "Mr. Moore, we will pause here. You have exactly hit it. I am nervous.Now, talk of something else. What wet weather we have--steady, pouringrain!"

  "_You_ nervous? Yes; and if Miss Keeldar is nervous, it is not without acause. Let me reach it. Let me look nearer. The ailment is not physical.I have suspected that. It came in one moment. I know the day. I noticedthe change. Your pain is mental."

  "Not at all. It is nothing so dignified--merely nervous. Oh! dismiss thetopic."

  "When it is exhausted; not till then. Nervous alarms should always becommunicated, that they may be dissipated. I wish I had the gift ofpersuasion, and could incline you to speak willingly. I believeconfession, in your case, would be half equivalent to cure."

  "No," said Shirley abruptly. "I wish that were at all probable; but I amafraid it is not."

  She suspended her work a moment. She was now seated. Resting her elbowon the table, she leaned her head on her hand. Mr. Moore looked as if hefelt he had at last gained some footing in this difficult path. She wasserious, and in her wish was implied an important admission; after thatshe could no longer affirm that _nothing_ ailed her.

  The tutor allowed her some minutes for repose and reflection ere hereturned to the charge. Once his lips moved to speak, but he thoughtbetter of it, and prolonged the pause. Shirley lifted her eye to his.Had he betrayed injudicious emotion, perhaps obstinate persistence insilence would have been the result; but he looked calm, strong,trustworthy.

  "I had better tell _you_ than my aunt," she said, "or than my cousins,or my uncle. They would all make such a bustle, and it is that verybustle I dread--the alarm, the flurry, the _eclat_. In short, I neverliked to be the centre of a small domestic whirlpool. You can bear alittle shock--eh?"

  "A great one, if necessary."

  Not a muscle of the man's frame moved, and yet his large heart beat fastin his deep chest. What was she going to tell him? Was irremediablemischief done?

  "Had I thought it right to go to you, I would never have made a secretof the matter one moment," she continued. "I would have told you atonce, and asked advice."

  "Why was it not right to come to me?"

  "It might be _right_--I do not mean that; but I could not do it. Iseemed to have no title to trouble you. The mishap concerned me only. Iwanted to keep it to myself, and people will not let me. I tell you, Ihate to be an object of worrying attention, or a theme for villagegossip. Besides, it may pass away without result--God knows!"

  Moore, though tortured with suspense, did not demand a quickexplanation. He suffered neither gesture, glance, nor word to betrayimpatience. His tranquillity tranquillized Shirley; his confidencereassured her.

  "Great effects may spring from trivial causes," she remarked, as sheloosened a bracelet from her wrist. Then, unfastening her sleeve, andpartially turning it up, "Look here, Mr. Moore."

  She showed a mark in her white arm--rather a deep though healed-upindentation--something between a burn and a cut.

  "I would not
show that to any one in Briarfield but you, because you cantake it quietly."

  "Certainly there is nothing in the little mark to shock. Its historywill explain."

  "Small as it is, it has taken my sleep away, and made me nervous, thin,and foolish; because, on account of that little mark, I am obliged tolook forward to a possibility that has its terrors."

  The sleeve was readjusted, the bracelet replaced.

  "Do you know that you try me?" he said, smiling. "I am a patient sort ofman, but my pulse is quickening."

  "Whatever happens, you will befriend me, Mr. Moore? You will give me thebenefit of your self-possession, and not leave me at the mercy ofagitated cowards?"

  "I make no promise now. Tell me the tale, and then exact what pledge youwill."

  "It is a very short tale. I took a walk with Isabella and Gertrude oneday, about three weeks ago. They reached home before me; I stayed behindto speak to John. After leaving him, I pleased myself with lingering inthe lane, where all was very still and shady. I was tired of chatteringto the girls, and in no hurry to rejoin them. As I stood leaning againstthe gate-pillar, thinking some very happy thoughts about my futurelife--for that morning I imagined that events were beginning to turn asI had long wished them to turn----"

  "Ah! Nunnely had been with her the evening before!" thought Mooreparenthetically.

  "I heard a panting sound; a dog came running up the lane. I know most ofthe dogs in this neighbourhood. It was Phoebe, one of Mr. Sam Wynne'spointers. The poor creature ran with her head down, her tongue hangingout; she looked as if bruised and beaten all over. I called her. I meantto coax her into the house and give her some water and dinner. I feltsure she had been ill-used. Mr. Sam often flogs his pointers cruelly.She was too flurried to know me; and when I attempted to pat her head,she turned and snatched at my arm. She bit it so as to draw blood, thenran panting on. Directly after, Mr. Wynne's keeper came up, carrying agun. He asked if I had seen a dog. I told him I had seen Phoebe.

  "'You had better chain up Tartar, ma'am,' he said, 'and tell your peopleto keep within the house. I am after Phoebe to shoot her, and the groomis gone another way. She is raging mad.'"

  Mr. Moore leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.Miss Keeldar resumed her square of silk canvas, and continued thecreation of a wreath of Parmese violets.

  "And you told no one, sought no help, no cure? You would not come tome?"

  "I got as far as the schoolroom door; there my courage failed. Ipreferred to cushion the matter."

  "Why? What can I demand better in this world than to be of use to you?"

  "I had no claim."

  "Monstrous! And you did nothing?"

  "Yes. I walked straight into the laundry, where they are ironing most ofthe week, now that I have so many guests in the house. While the maidwas busy crimping or starching, I took an Italian iron from the fire,and applied the light scarlet glowing tip to my arm. I bored it wellin. It cauterized the little wound. Then I went upstairs."

  "I dare say you never once groaned?"

  "I am sure I don't know. I was very miserable--not firm or tranquil atall, I think. There was no calm in my mind."

  "There was calm in your person. I remember listening the whole time wesat at luncheon, to hear if you moved in the room above. All was quiet."

  "I was sitting at the foot of the bed, wishing Phoebe had not bittenme."

  "And alone. You like solitude."

  "Pardon me."

  "You disdain sympathy."

  "Do I, Mr. Moore?"

  "With your powerful mind you must feel independent of help, of advice,of society."

  "So be it, since it pleases you."

  She smiled. She pursued her embroidery carefully and quickly, but hereyelash twinkled, and then it glittered, and then a drop fell.

  Mr. Moore leaned forward on his desk, moved his chair, altered hisattitude.

  "If it is not so," he asked, with a peculiar, mellow change in hisvoice, "how is it, then?"

  "I don't know."

  "You do know, but you won't speak. All must be locked up in yourself."

  "Because it is not worth sharing."

  "Because nobody can give the high price you require for your confidence.Nobody is rich enough to purchase it. Nobody has the honour, theintellect, the power you demand in your adviser. There is not a shoulderin England on which you would rest your hand for support, far less abosom which you would permit to pillow your head. Of course you mustlive alone."

  "I _can_ live alone, if need be. But the question is not how to live,but how to die alone. That strikes me in a more grisly light."

  "You apprehend the effects of the virus? You anticipate an indefinitelythreatening, dreadful doom?"

  She bowed.

  "You are very nervous and womanish."

  "You complimented me two minutes since on my powerful mind."

  "You are very womanish. If the whole affair were coolly examined anddiscussed, I feel assured it would turn out that there is no danger ofyour dying at all."

  "Amen! I am very willing to live, if it please God. I have felt lifesweet."

  "How can it be otherwise than sweet with your endowments and nature? Doyou truly expect that you will be seized with hydrophobia, and dieraving mad?"

  "I _expect_ it, and have _feared_ it. Just now I fear nothing."

  "Nor do I, on your account. I doubt whether the smallest particle ofvirus mingled with your blood; and if it did, let me assure you that,young, healthy, faultlessly sound as you are, no harm will ensue. Forthe rest, I shall inquire whether the dog was really mad. I hold she wasnot mad."

  "Tell nobody that she bit me."

  "Why should I, when I believe the bite innocuous as a cut of thispenknife? Make yourself easy. _I_ am easy, though I value your life asmuch as I do my own chance of happiness in eternity. Look up."

  "Why, Mr. Moore?"

  "I wish to see if you are cheered. Put your work down; raise your head."

  "There----"

  "Look at me. Thank you. And is the cloud broken?"

  "I fear nothing."

  "Is your mind restored to its own natural sunny clime?"

  "I am very content; but I want your promise."

  "Dictate."

  "You know, in case the worst I _have_ feared should happen, they willsmother me. You need not smile. They will; they always do. My uncle willbe full of horror, weakness, precipitation; and that is the onlyexpedient which will suggest itself to him. Nobody in the house will beself-possessed but you. Now promise to befriend me--to keep Mr. Sympsonaway from me, not to let Henry come near, lest I should hurt him.Mind--_mind_ that you take care of yourself too. But I shall not injureyou; I know I shall not. Lock the chamber door against the surgeons;turn them out if they get in. Let neither the young nor the old MacTurklay a finger on me; nor Mr. Greaves, their colleague; and lastly, if Igive trouble, with your own hand administer to me a strongnarcotic--such a sure dose of laudanum as shall leave no mistake._Promise to do this._"

  Moore left his desk, and permitted himself the recreation of one or twoturns through the room. Stopping behind Shirley's chair, he bent overher, and said, in a low, emphatic voice, "I promise all you ask--withoutcomment, without reservation."

  "If female help is needed, call in my housekeeper, Mrs. Gill. Let herlay me out if I die. She is attached to me. She wronged me again andagain, and again and again I forgave her. She now loves me, and wouldnot defraud me of a pin. Confidence has made her honest; forbearance hasmade her kind-hearted. At this day I can trust both her integrity, hercourage, and her affection. Call her; but keep my good aunt and my timidcousins away. Once more, promise."

  "I promise."

  "That is good in you," she said, looking up at him as he bent over her,and smiling.

  "Is it good? Does it comfort?"

  "Very much."

  "I will be with you--I and Mrs. Gill only--in any, in every extremitywhere calm and fidelity are needed. No rash or coward hand shallmeddle."

&n
bsp; "Yet you think me childish?"

  "I do."

  "Ah! you despise me."

  "Do we despise children?"

  "In fact, I am neither so strong, nor have I such pride in my strength,as people think, Mr. Moore; nor am I so regardless of sympathy. But whenI have any grief, I fear to impart it to those I love, lest it shouldpain them; and to those whom I view with indifference I cannotcondescend to complain. After all, you should not taunt me with beingchildish, for if you were as unhappy as I have been for the last threeweeks, you too would want some friend."

  "We all want a friend, do we not?"

  "All of us that have anything good in our natures."

  "Well, you have Caroline Helstone."

  "Yes. And you have Mr. Hall."

  "Yes. Mrs. Pryor is a wise, good woman. She can counsel you when youneed counsel."

  "For your part, you have your brother Robert."

  "For any right-hand defections, there is the Rev. Matthewson Helstone,M.A., to lean upon; for any left-hand fallings-off there is Hiram Yorke,Esq. Both elders pay you homage."

  "I never saw Mrs. Yorke so motherly to any young man as she is to you. Idon't know how you have won her heart, but she is more tender to youthan she is to her own sons. You have, besides, your sister Hortense."

  "It appears we are both well provided."

  "It appears so."

  "How thankful we ought to be!"

  "Yes."

  "How contented!"

  "Yes."

  "For my part, I am almost contented just now, and very thankful.Gratitude is a divine emotion. It fills the heart, but not to bursting;it warms it, but not to fever. I like to taste leisurely of bliss.Devoured in haste, I do not know its flavour."

  Still leaning on the back of Miss Keeldar's chair, Moore watched therapid motion of her fingers, as the green and purple garland grewbeneath them. After a prolonged pause, he again asked, "Is the shadow_quite_ gone?"

  "Wholly. As I _was_ two hours since, and as I _am_ now, are twodifferent states of existence. I believe, Mr. Moore, griefs and fearsnursed in silence grow like Titan infants."

  "You will cherish such feelings no more in silence?"

  "Not if I dare speak."

  "In using the word '_dare_,' to whom do you allude?"

  "To you."

  "How is it applicable to me?"

  "On account of your austerity and shyness."

  "Why am I austere and shy?"

  "Because you are proud."

  "Why am I proud?"

  "I should like to know. Will you be good enough to tell me?"

  "Perhaps, because I am poor, for one reason. Poverty and pride often gotogether."

  "That is such a nice reason. I should be charmed to discover anotherthat would pair with it. Mate that turtle, Mr. Moore."

  "Immediately. What do you think of marrying to sober Poverty many-tintedCaprice?"

  "Are you capricious?"

  "_You_ are."

  "A libel. I am steady as a rock, fixed as the polar star."

  "I look out at some early hour of the day, and see a fine, perfectrainbow, bright with promise, gloriously spanning the beclouded welkinof life. An hour afterwards I look again: half the arch is gone, and therest is faded. Still later, the stern sky denies that it ever wore sobenign a symbol of hope."

  "Well, Mr. Moore, you should contend against these changeful humours.They are your besetting sin. One never knows where to have you."

  "Miss Keeldar, I had once, for two years, a pupil who grew very dear tome. Henry is dear, but she was dearer. Henry never gives me trouble;she--well, she did. I think she vexed me twenty-three hours out of thetwenty-four----"

  "She was never with you above three hours, or at the most six at atime."

  "She sometimes spilled the draught from my cup, and stole the food frommy plate; and when she had kept me unfed for a day (and that did notsuit me, for I am a man accustomed to take my meals with reasonablerelish, and to ascribe due importance to the rational enjoyment ofcreature comforts)----"

  "I know you do. I can tell what sort of dinners you like best--perfectlywell. I know precisely the dishes you prefer----"

  "She robbed these dishes of flavour, and made a fool of me besides. Ilike to sleep well. In my quiet days, when I was my own man, I neverquarrelled with the night for being long, nor cursed my bed for itsthorns. She changed all this."

  "Mr. Moore----"

  "And having taken from me peace of mind and ease of life, she took fromme herself--quite coolly, just as if, when she was gone, the world wouldbe all the same to me. I knew I should see her again at some time. Atthe end of two years, it fell out that we encountered again under herown roof, where she was mistress. How do you think she bore herselftowards me, Miss Keeldar?"

  "Like one who had profited well by lessons learned from yourself."

  "She received me haughtily. She meted out a wide space between us, andkept me aloof by the reserved gesture, the rare and alienated glance,the word calmly civil."

  "She was an excellent pupil! Having seen you distant, she at oncelearned to withdraw. Pray, sir, admire in her _hauteur_ a carefulimprovement on your own coolness."

  "Conscience, and honour, and the most despotic necessity dragged meapart from her, and kept me sundered with ponderous fetters. She wasfree: she might have been clement."

  "Never free to compromise her self-respect, to seek where she had beenshunned."

  "Then she was inconsistent; she tantalized as before. When I thought Ihad made up my mind to seeing in her only a lofty stranger, she wouldsuddenly show me such a glimpse of loving simplicity--she would warm mewith such a beam of reviving sympathy, she would gladden an hour withconverse so gentle, gay, and kindly--that I could no more shut my hearton her image than I could close that door against her presence. Explainwhy she distressed me so."

  "She could not bear to be quite outcast; and then she would sometimesget a notion into her head, on a cold, wet day, that the schoolroom wasno cheerful place, and feel it incumbent on her to go and see if you andHenry kept up a good fire; and once there, she liked to stay."

  "But she should not be changeful. If she came at all, she should comeoftener."

  "There is such a thing as intrusion."

  "To-morrow you will not be as you are to-day."

  "I don't know. Will you?"

  "I am not mad, most noble Berenice! We may give one day to dreaming, butthe next we must awake; and I shall awake to purpose the morning you aremarried to Sir Philip Nunnely. The fire shines on you and me, and showsus very clearly in the glass, Miss Keeldar; and I have been gazing onthe picture all the time I have been talking. Look up! What a differencebetween your head and mine! I look old for thirty!"

  "You are so grave; you have such a square brow; and your face is sallow.I never regard you as a young man, nor as Robert's junior."

  "Don't you? I thought not. Imagine Robert's clear-cut, handsome facelooking over my shoulder. Does not the apparition make vividly manifestthe obtuse mould of my heavy traits? There!" (he started), "I have beenexpecting that wire to vibrate this last half-hour."

  The dinner-bell rang, and Shirley rose.

  "Mr. Moore," she said, as she gathered up her silks, "have you heardfrom your brother lately? Do you know what he means by staying in townso long? Does he talk of returning?"

  "He talks of returning; but what has caused his long absence I cannottell. To speak the truth, I thought none in Yorkshire knew better thanyourself why he was reluctant to come home."

  A crimson shadow passed across Miss Keeldar's cheek.

  "Write to him and urge him to come," she said. "I know there has been noimpolicy in protracting his absence thus far. It is good to let the millstand, while trade is so bad; but he must not abandon the county."

  "I am aware," said Louis, "that he had an interview with you the eveningbefore he left, and I saw him quit Fieldhead afterwards. I read hiscountenance, or _tried_ to read it. He turned from me. I divined that hewould be long away. Some fine,
slight fingers have a wondrous knack atpulverizing a man's brittle pride. I suppose Robert put too much trustin his manly beauty and native gentlemanhood. Those are better off who,being destitute of advantage, cannot cherish delusion. But I will write,and say you advise his return."

  "Do not say _I_ advise his return, but that his return is advisable."

  The second bell rang, and Miss Keeldar obeyed its call.