CHAPTER XXIX.
LOUIS MOORE.
Louis Moore was used to a quiet life. Being a quiet man, he endured itbetter than most men would. Having a large world of his own in his ownhead and heart, he tolerated confinement to a small, still corner of thereal world very patiently.
How hushed is Fieldhead this evening! All but Moore--Miss Keeldar, thewhole family of the Sympsons, even Henry--are gone to Nunnely. SirPhilip would have them come; he wished to make them acquainted with hismother and sisters, who are now at the priory. Kind gentleman as thebaronet is, he asked the tutor too; but the tutor would much sooner havemade an appointment with the ghost of the Earl of Huntingdon to meethim, and a shadowy ring of his merry men, under the canopy of thethickest, blackest, oldest oak in Nunnely Forest. Yes, he would ratherhave appointed tryst with a phantom abbess, or mist-pale nun, among thewet and weedy relics of that ruined sanctuary of theirs, mouldering inthe core of the wood. Louis Moore longs to have something near himto-night; but not the boy-baronet, nor his benevolent but stern mother,nor his patrician sisters, nor one soul of the Sympsons.
This night is not calm; the equinox still struggles in its storms. Thewild rains of the day are abated; the great single cloud disparts androlls away from heaven, not passing and leaving a sea all sapphire, buttossed buoyant before a continued, long-sounding, high-rushing moonlighttempest. The moon reigns glorious, glad of the gale, as glad as if shegave herself to his fierce caress with love. No Endymion will watch forhis goddess to-night. There are no flocks out on the mountains; and itis well, for to-night she welcomes AEolus.
Moore, sitting in the schoolroom, heard the storm roar round the othergable and along the hall-front. This end was sheltered. He wanted noshelter; he desired no subdued sounds or screened position.
"All the parlours are empty," said he. "I am sick at heart of thiscell."
He left it, and went where the casements, larger and freer than thebranch-screened lattice of his own apartment, admitted unimpeded thedark-blue, the silver-fleeced, the stirring and sweeping vision of theautumn night-sky. He carried no candle; unneeded was lamp or fire. Thebroad and clear though cloud-crossed and fluctuating beam of the moonshone on every floor and wall.
Moore wanders through all the rooms. He seems following a phantom fromparlour to parlour. In the oak room he stops. This is not chill, andpolished, and fireless like the _salon_. The hearth is hot and ruddy;the cinders tinkle in the intense heat of their clear glow; near the rugis a little work-table, a desk upon it, a chair near it.
Does the vision Moore has tracked occupy that chair? You would think so,could you see him standing before it. There is as much interest now inhis eye, and as much significance in his face, as if in this householdsolitude he had found a living companion, and was going to speak to it.
He makes discoveries. A bag--a small satin bag--hangs on the chair-back.The desk is open, the keys are in the lock. A pretty seal, a silver pen,a crimson berry or two of ripe fruit on a green leaf, a small, clean,delicate glove--these trifles at once decorate and disarrange the standthey strew. Order forbids details in a picture--she puts them tidilyaway; but details give charm.
Moore spoke.
"Her mark," he said. "Here she has been--careless, attractivething!--called away in haste, doubtless, and forgetting to return andput all to rights. Why does she leave fascination in her footprints?Whence did she acquire the gift to be heedless and never offend? Thereis always something to chide in her, and the reprimand never settles indispleasure on the heart, but, for her lover or her husband, when it hadtrickled a while in words, would naturally melt from his lips in a kiss.Better pass half an hour in remonstrating with her than a day inadmiring or praising any other woman alive. Am I muttering?soliloquizing? Stop that."
He did stop it. He stood thinking, and then he made an arrangement forhis evening's comfort.
He dropped the curtains over the broad window and regal moon. He shutout sovereign and court and starry armies; he added fuel to the hot butfast-wasting fire; he lit a candle, of which there were a pair on thetable; he placed another chair opposite that near the workstand; andthen he sat down. His next movement was to take from his pocket a small,thick book of blank paper, to produce a pencil, and to begin to write ina cramp, compact hand. Come near, by all means, reader. Do not be shy.Stoop over his shoulder fearlessly, and read as he scribbles.
"It is nine o'clock; the carriage will not return before eleven, I amcertain. Freedom is mine till then; till then I may occupy her room, sitopposite her chair, rest my elbow on her table, have her littlemementoes about me.
"I used rather to like Solitude--to fancy her a somewhat quiet andserious, yet fair nymph; an Oread, descending to me from lonemountain-passes, something of the blue mist of hills in her array and oftheir chill breeze in her breath, but much also of their solemn beautyin her mien. I once could court her serenely, and imagine my hearteasier when I held her to it--all mute, but majestic.
"Since that day I called S. to me in the schoolroom, and she came andsat so near my side; since she opened the trouble of her mind to me,asked my protection, appealed to my strength--since that hour I abhorSolitude. Cold abstraction, fleshless skeleton, daughter, mother, andmate of Death!
"It is pleasant to write about what is near and dear as the core of myheart. None can deprive me of this little book, and through this pencilI can say to it what I will--say what I dare utter to nothingliving--say what I dare not _think_ aloud.
"We have scarcely encountered each other since that evening. Once, whenI was alone in the drawing-room, seeking a book of Henry's, she entered,dressed for a concert at Stilbro'. Shyness--_her_ shyness, notmine--drew a silver veil between us. Much cant have I heard and readabout 'maiden modesty,' but, properly used, and not hackneyed, the wordsare good and appropriate words. As she passed to the window, aftertacitly but gracefully recognizing me, I could call her nothing in myown mind save 'stainless virgin.' To my perception, a delicatesplendour robed her, and the modesty of girlhood was her halo. I may bethe most fatuous, as I am one of the plainest, of men, but in truth thatshyness of hers touched me exquisitely; it flattered my finestsensations. I looked a stupid block, I dare say. I was alive with a lifeof Paradise, as she turned _her_ glance from _my_ glance, and softlyaverted her head to hide the suffusion of her cheek.
"I know this is the talk of a dreamer--of a rapt, romantic lunatic. I_do_ dream. I _will_ dream now and then; and if she has inspired romanceinto my prosaic composition, how can I help it?
"What a child she is sometimes! What an unsophisticated, untaught thing!I see her now looking up into my face, and entreating me to prevent themfrom smothering her, and to be sure and give her a strong narcotic. Isee her confessing that she was not so self-sufficing, so independent ofsympathy, as people thought. I see the secret tear drop quietly from hereyelash. She said I thought her childish, and I did. She imagined Idespised her. Despised her! It was unutterably sweet to feel myself atonce near her and above her--to be conscious of a natural right andpower to sustain her, as a husband should sustain his wife.
"I worship her perfections; but it is her faults, or at least herfoibles, that bring her near to me, that nestle her to my heart, thatfold her about with my love, and that for a most selfish butdeeply-natural reason. These faults are the steps by which I mount toascendency over her. If she rose a trimmed, artificial mound, withoutinequality, what vantage would she offer the foot? It is the naturalhill, with its mossy breaks and hollows, whose slope invites ascent,whose summit it is pleasure to gain.
"To leave metaphor. It delights my eye to look on her. She suits me. IfI were a king and she the housemaid that swept my palace-stairs, acrossall that space between us my eye would recognize her qualities; a truepulse would beat for her in my heart, though an unspanned gulf madeacquaintance impossible. If I were a gentleman, and she waited on me asa servant, I could not help liking that Shirley. Take from her hereducation; take her ornaments, her sumptuous dress, all extrinsicadvantages; take all grace, but
such as the symmetry of her form rendersinevitable; present her to me at a cottage door, in a stuff gown; lether offer me there a draught of water, with that smile, with that warmgood-will with which she now dispenses manorial hospitality--I shouldlike her. I should wish to stay an hour; I should linger to talk withthat rustic. I should not feel as I _now_ do; I should find in hernothing divine; but whenever I met the young peasant, it would be withpleasure; whenever I left her, it would be with regret.
"How culpably careless in her to leave her desk open, where I know shehas money! In the lock hang the keys of all her repositories, of hervery jewel-casket. There is a purse in that little satin bag; I see thetassel of silver beads hanging out. That spectacle would provoke mybrother Robert. All her little failings would, I know, be a source ofirritation to him. If they vex me it is a most pleasurable vexation. Idelight to find her at fault; and were I always resident with her, I amaware she would be no niggard in thus ministering to my enjoyment. Shewould just give me something to do, to rectify--a theme for my tutorlectures. I never lecture Henry, never feel disposed to do so. If hedoes wrong--and that is very seldom, dear, excellent lad!--a wordsuffices. Often I do no more than shake my head. But the moment her_minois mutin_ meets my eye, expostulatory words crowd to my lips. Froma taciturn man I believe she would transform me into a talker. Whencecomes the delight I take in that talk? It puzzles myself sometimes. Themore _crane, malin, taquin_ is her mood, consequently the cleareroccasion she gives me for disapprobation, the more I seek her, thebetter I like her. She is never wilder than when equipped in her habitand hat, never less manageable than when she and Zoe come in fiery froma race with the wind on the hills; and I confess it--to this mute page Imay confess it--I have waited an hour in the court for the chance ofwitnessing her return, and for the dearer chance of receiving her in myarms from the saddle. I have noticed (again it is to this page only Iwould make the remark) that she will never permit any man but myself torender her that assistance. I have seen her politely decline Sir PhilipNunnely's aid. She is always mighty gentle with her young baronet,mighty tender for his feelings, forsooth, and of his very thin-skinned_amour propre_. I have marked her haughtily reject Sam Wynne's. Now Iknow--my heart knows it, for it has felt it--that she resigns herself tome unreluctantly. Is she conscious how my strength rejoices to serveher? I myself am not her slave--I declare it--but my faculties gatherto her beauty, like the genii to the glisten of the lamp. All myknowledge, all my prudence, all my calm, and all my power stand in herpresence humbly waiting a task. How glad they are when a mandate comes!What joy they take in the toils she assigns! Does she know it?
"I have called her careless. It is remarkable that her carelessnessnever compromises her refinement. Indeed, through this very loophole ofcharacter, the reality, depth, genuineness of that refinement may beascertained. A whole garment sometimes covers meagreness andmalformation; through a rent sleeve a fair round arm may be revealed. Ihave seen and handled many of her possessions, because they arefrequently astray. I never saw anything that did not proclaim thelady--nothing sordid, nothing soiled. In one sense she is as scrupulousas, in another, she is unthinking. As a peasant girl, she would go evertrim and cleanly. Look at the pure kid of this little glove, at thefresh, unsullied satin of the bag.
"What a difference there is between S. and that pearl C. H.! Caroline, Ifancy, is the soul of conscientious punctuality and nice exactitude. Shewould precisely suit the domestic habits of a certain fastidious kinsmanof mine--so delicate, dexterous, quaint, quick, quiet--all done to aminute, all arranged to a strawbreadth. She would suit Robert. But whatcould _I_ do with anything so nearly faultless? _She_ is my equal, pooras myself. She is certainly pretty: a little Raffaelle headhers--Raffaelle in feature, quite English in expression, all insulargrace and purity; but where is there anything to alter, anything toendure, anything to reprimand, to be anxious about? There she is, a lilyof the valley, untinted, needing no tint. What change could improve her?What pencil dare to paint? _My_ sweetheart, if I ever have one, mustbear nearer affinity to the rose--a sweet, lively delight guarded withprickly peril. _My_ wife, if I ever marry, must stir my great frame witha sting now and then; she must furnish use to her husband's vast mass ofpatience. I was not made so enduring to be mated with a lamb; I shouldfind more congenial responsibility in the charge of a young lioness orleopardess. I like few things sweet but what are likewise pungent--fewthings bright but what are likewise hot. I like the summer day, whosesun makes fruit blush and corn blanch. Beauty is never so beautiful aswhen, if I tease it, it wreathes back on me with spirit. Fascination isnever so imperial as when, roused and half ireful, she threatenstransformation to fierceness. I fear I should tire of the mute,monotonous innocence of the lamb; I should ere long feel as burdensomethe nestling dove which never stirred in my bosom; but my patience wouldexult in stilling the flutterings and training the energies of therestless merlin. In managing the wild instincts of the scarce manageable_bete fauve_ my powers would revel.
"O my pupil! O Peri! too mutinous for heaven, too innocent for hell,never shall I do more than see, and worship, and wish for thee. Alas!knowing I could make thee happy, will it be my doom to see theepossessed by those who have not that power?
"However kindly the hand, if it is feeble, it cannot bend Shirley; andshe must be bent. It cannot curb her; and she must be curbed.
"Beware, Sir Philip Nunnely! I never see you walking or sitting at herside, and observe her lips compressed, or her brow knit, in resoluteendurance of some trait of your character which she neither admires norlikes, in determined toleration of some weakness she believes atoned forby a virtue, but which annoys her despite that belief; I never mark thegrave glow of her face, the unsmiling sparkle of her eye, the slightrecoil of her whole frame when you draw a little too near, and gaze alittle too expressively, and whisper a little too warmly--I neverwitness these things but I think of the fable of Semele reversed.
"It is not the daughter of Cadmus I see, nor do I realize her fatallonging to look on Jove in the majesty of his god-head. It is a priestof Juno that stands before me, watching late and lone at a shrine in anArgive temple. For years of solitary ministry he has lived on dreams.There is divine madness upon him. He loves the idol he serves, and praysday and night that his frenzy may be fed, and that the Ox-eyed may smileon her votary. She has heard; she will be propitious. All Argosslumbers. The doors of the temple are shut; the priest waits at thealtar.
"A shock of heaven and earth is felt--not by the slumbering city, onlyby that lonely watcher, brave and unshaken in his fanaticism. In themidst of silence, with no preluding sound, he is wrapped in suddenlight. Through the roof, through the rent, wide-yawning, vast,white-blazing blue of heaven above, pours a wondrous descent, dread asthe downrushing of stars. He has what he asked. Withdraw--forbear tolook--I am blinded. I hear in that fane an unspeakable sound. Would thatI could not hear it! I see an insufferable glory burning terriblybetween the pillars. Gods be merciful and quench it!
"A pious Argive enters to make an early offering in the cool dawn ofmorning. There was thunder in the night; the bolt fell here. The shrineis shivered, the marble pavement round split and blackened. Saturnia'sstatue rises chaste, grand, untouched; at her feet piled ashes lie pale.No priest remains; he who watched will be seen no more.
* * * * *
"There is the carriage! Let me lock up the desk and pocket the keys. Shewill be seeking them to-morrow; she will have to come to me. I hear her:'Mr. Moore, have you seen my keys?'
"So she will say, in her clear voice, speaking with reluctance, lookingashamed, conscious that this is the twentieth time of asking. I willtantalize her, keep her with me, expecting, doubting; and when I _do_restore them, it shall not be without a lecture. Here is the bag, too,and the purse; the glove--pen--seal. She shall wring them all out of meslowly and separately--only by confession, penitence, entreaty. I nevercan touch her hand, or a ringlet of her head, or a ribbon of her dress,but I will make privileges for myself
. Every feature of her face, herbright eyes, her lips, shall go through each change they know, for mypleasure--display each exquisite variety of glance and curve, todelight, thrill, perhaps more hopelessly to enchain me. If I must be herslave, I will not lose my freedom for nothing."
He locked the desk, pocketed all the property, and went.
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