Somewhat to her surprise, Sir Philip followed her advice to the letter, and actually, towards the close of September, arrived at the priory.
He soon made a call at Fieldhead, and his first visit was not his last. He said — when he had achieved the round of the neighbourhood — that under no roof had he found such pleasant shelter as beneath the massive oak beams of the gray manor-house of Briarfield; a cramped, modest dwelling enough compared with his own, but he liked it.
Presently it did not suffice to sit with Shirley in her panelled parlour, where others came and went, and where he could rarely find a quiet moment to show her the latest production of his fertile muse; he must have her out amongst the pleasant pastures, and lead her by the still waters. Tête-à-tête ramblings she shunned, so he made parties for her to his own grounds, his glorious forest; to remoter scenes — woods severed by the Wharfe, vales watered by the Aire.
Such assiduity covered Miss Keeldar with distinction. Her uncle’s prophetic soul anticipated a splendid future. He already scented the time afar off when, with nonchalant air, and left foot nursed on his right knee, he should be able to make dashingly-familiar allusion to his “nephew the baronet.” Now his niece dawned upon him no longer “a mad girl,” but a “most sensible woman.” He termed her, in confidential dialogues with Mrs. Sympson, “a truly superior person; peculiar, but very clever.” He treated her with exceeding deference; rose reverently to open and shut doors for her; reddened his face and gave himself headaches with stooping to pick up gloves, handkerchiefs, and other loose property, whereof Shirley usually held but insecure tenure. He would cut mysterious jokes about the superiority of woman’s wit over man’s wisdom; commence obscure apologies for the blundering mistake he had committed respecting the generalship, the tactics, of “a personage not a hundred miles from Fieldhead.” In short, he seemed elate as any “midden-cock on pattens.”
His niece viewed his manœuvres and received his innuendoes with phlegm; apparently she did not above half comprehend to what aim they tended. When plainly charged with being the preferred of the baronet, she said she believed he did like her, and for her part she liked him. She had never thought a man of rank — the only son of a proud, fond mother, the only brother of doting sisters — could have so much goodness, and, on the whole, so much sense.
Time proved, indeed, that Sir Philip liked her. Perhaps he had found in her that “curious charm” noticed by Mr. Hall. He sought her presence more and more, and at last with a frequency that attested it had become to him an indispensable stimulus. About this time strange feelings hovered round Fieldhead; restless hopes and haggard anxieties haunted some of its rooms. There was an unquiet wandering of some of the inmates among the still fields round the mansion; there was a sense of expectancy that kept the nerves strained.
One thing seemed clear: Sir Philip was not a man to be despised. He was amiable; if not highly intellectual, he was intelligent. Miss Keeldar could not affirm of him, what she had so bitterly affirmed of Sam Wynne, that his feelings were blunt, his tastes coarse, and his manners vulgar. There was sensibility in his nature; there was a very real, if not a very discriminating, love of the arts; there was the English gentleman in all his deportment. As to his lineage and wealth, both were, of course, far beyond her claims.
His appearance had at first elicited some laughing though not ill-natured remarks from the merry Shirley. It was boyish. His features were plain and slight, his hair sandy, his stature insignificant. But she soon checked her sarcasm on this point; she would even fire up if any one else made uncomplimentary allusion thereto. He had “a pleasing countenance,” she affirmed; “and there was that in his heart which was better than three Roman noses, than the locks of Absalom or the proportions of Saul.” A spare and rare shaft she still reserved for his unfortunate poetic propensity; but even here she would tolerate no irony save her own.
In short, matters had reached a point which seemed fully to warrant an observation made about this time by Mr. Yorke to the tutor, Louis.
“Yond’ brother Robert of yours seems to me to be either a fool or a madman. Two months ago I could have sworn he had the game all in his own hands; and there he runs the country, and quarters himself up in London for weeks together, and by the time he comes back he’ll find himself checkmated. Louis, ‘there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, but, once let slip, never returns again.’ I’d write to Robert, if I were you, and remind him of that.”
“Robert had views on Miss Keeldar?” inquired Louis, as if the idea was new to him.
“Views I suggested to him myself, and views he might have realized, for she liked him.”
“As a neighbour?”
“As more than that. I have seen her change countenance and colour at the mere mention of his name. Write to the lad, I say, and tell him to come home. He is a finer gentleman than this bit of a baronet, after all.”
“Does it not strike you, Mr. Yorke, that for a mere penniless adventurer to aspire to a rich woman’s hand is presumptuous — contemptible?”
“Oh, if you are for high notions and double-refined sentiment, I’ve naught to say. I’m a plain, practical man myself, and if Robert is willing to give up that royal prize to a lad-rival — a puling slip of aristocracy — I am quite agreeable. At his age, in his place, with his inducements, I would have acted differently. Neither baronet, nor duke, nor prince should have snatched my sweetheart from me without a struggle. But you tutors are such solemn chaps; it is almost like speaking to a parson to consult with you.”
Flattered and fawned upon as Shirley was just now, it appeared she was not absolutely spoiled — that her better nature did not quite leave her. Universal report had indeed ceased to couple her name with that of Moore, and this silence seemed sanctioned by her own apparent oblivion of the absentee; but that she had not quite forgotten him — that she still regarded him, if not with love, yet with interest — seemed proved by the increased attention which at this juncture of affairs a sudden attack of illness induced her to show that tutor-brother of Robert’s, to whom she habitually bore herself with strange alternations of cool reserve and docile respect — now sweeping past him in all the dignity of the moneyed heiress and prospective Lady Nunnely, and anon accosting him as abashed school-girls are wont to accost their stern professors; bridling her neck of ivory and curling her lip of carmine, if he encountered her glance, one minute, and the next submitting to the grave rebuke of his eye with as much contrition as if he had the power to inflict penalties in case of contumacy.
Louis Moore had perhaps caught the fever, which for a few days laid him low, in one of the poor cottages of the district, which he, his lame pupil, and Mr. Hall were in the habit of visiting together. At any rate he sickened, and after opposing to the malady a taciturn resistance for a day or two, was obliged to keep his chamber.
He lay tossing on his thorny bed one evening, Henry, who would not quit him, watching faithfully beside him, when a tap — too light to be that of Mrs. Gill or the housemaid — summoned young Sympson to the door.
“How is Mr. Moore to-night?” asked a low voice from the dark gallery.
“Come in and see him yourself.”
“Is he asleep?”
“I wish he could sleep. Come and speak to him, Shirley.”
“He would not like it.”
But the speaker stepped in, and Henry, seeing her hesitate on the threshold, took her hand and drew her to the couch.
The shaded light showed Miss Keeldar’s form but imperfectly; yet it revealed her in elegant attire. There was a party assembled below, including Sir Philip Nunnely; the ladies were now in the drawing-room, and their hostess had stolen from them to visit Henry’s tutor. Her pure white dress, her fair arms and neck, the trembling chainlet of gold circling her throat and quivering on her breast, glistened strangely amid the obscurity of the sickroom. Her mien was chastened and pensive. She spoke gently.
“Mr. Moore, how are you to-night?”
“I have not been very ill, and am now better.”
“I heard that you complained of thirst. I have brought you some grapes; can you taste one?”
“No; but I thank you for remembering me.”
“Just one.”
From the rich cluster that filled a small basket held in her hand she severed a berry and offered it to his lips. He shook his head, and turned aside his flushed face.
“But what, then, can I bring you instead? You have no wish for fruit; yet I see that your lips are parched. What beverage do you prefer?”
“Mrs. Gill supplies me with toast-and-water. I like it best.”
Silence fell for some minutes.
“Do you suffer? — have you pain?”
“Very little.”
“What made you ill?”
Silence.
“I wonder what caused this fever? To what do you attribute it?”
“Miasma, perhaps — malaria. This is autumn, a season fertile in fevers.”
“I hear you often visit the sick in Briarfield, and Nunnely too, with Mr. Hall. You should be on your guard; temerity is not wise.”
“That reminds me, Miss Keeldar, that perhaps you had better not enter this chamber or come near this couch. I do not believe my illness is infectious. I scarcely fear” — with a sort of smile — “you will take it; but why should you run even the shadow of a risk? Leave me.”
“Patience, I will go soon; but I should like to do something for you before I depart — any little service — — “
“They will miss you below.”
“No; the gentlemen are still at table.”
“They will not linger long. Sir Philip Nunnely is no wine-bibber, and I hear him just now pass from the dining-room to the drawing-room.”
“It is a servant.”
“It is Sir Philip; I know his step.”
“Your hearing is acute.”
“It is never dull, and the sense seems sharpened at present. Sir Philip was here to tea last night. I heard you sing to him some song which he had brought you. I heard him, when he took his departure at eleven o’clock, call you out on to the pavement, to look at the evening star.”
“You must be nervously sensitive.”
“I heard him kiss your hand.”
“Impossible!”
“No: my chamber is over the hall, the window just above the front door; the sash was a little raised, for I felt feverish. You stood ten minutes with him on the steps. I heard your discourse, every word, and I heard the salute. — Henry, give me some water.”
“Let me give it him.”
But he half rose to take the glass from young Sympson, and declined her attendance.
“And can I do nothing?”
“Nothing; for you cannot guarantee me a night’s peaceful rest, and it is all I at present want.”
“You do not sleep well?”
“Sleep has left me.”
“Yet you said you were not very ill?”
“I am often sleepless when in high health.”
“If I had power, I would lap you in the most placid slumber — quite deep and hushed, without a dream.”
“Blank annihilation! I do not ask that.”
“With dreams of all you most desire.”
“Monstrous delusions! The sleep would be delirium, the waking death.”
“Your wishes are not so chimerical; you are no visionary.”
“Miss Keeldar, I suppose you think so; but my character is not, perhaps, quite as legible to you as a page of the last new novel might be.”
“That is possible. But this sleep — I should like to woo it to your pillow, to win for you its favour. If I took a book and sat down and read some pages? I can well spare half an hour.”
“Thank you, but I will not detain you.”
“I would read softly.”
“It would not do. I am too feverish and excitable to bear a soft, cooing, vibrating voice close at my ear. You had better leave me.”
“Well, I will go.”
“And no good-night?”
“Yes, sir, yes. Mr. Moore, good-night.” (Exit Shirley.)
“Henry, my boy, go to bed now; it is time you had some repose.”
“Sir, it would please me to watch at your bedside all night.”
“Nothing less called for. I am getting better. There, go.”
“Give me your blessing, sir.”
“God bless you, my best pupil!”
“You never call me your dearest pupil!”
“No, nor ever shall.”
Possibly Miss Keeldar resented her former teacher’s rejection of her courtesy. It is certain she did not repeat the offer of it. Often as her light step traversed the gallery in the course of a day, it did not again pause at his door; nor did her “cooing, vibrating voice” disturb a second time the hush of the sickroom. A sickroom, indeed, it soon ceased to be; Mr. Moore’s good constitution quickly triumphed over his indisposition. In a few days he shook it off, and resumed his duties as tutor.
That “auld lang syne” had still its authority both with preceptor and scholar was proved by the manner in which he sometimes promptly passed the distance she usually maintained between them, and put down her high reserve with a firm, quiet hand.
One afternoon the Sympson family were gone out to take a carriage airing. Shirley, never sorry to snatch a reprieve from their society, had remained behind, detained by business, as she said. The business — a little letter-writing — was soon dispatched after the yard gates had closed on the carriage; Miss Keeldar betook herself to the garden.
It was a peaceful autumn day. The gilding of the Indian summer mellowed the pastures far and wide. The russet woods stood ripe to be stripped, but were yet full of leaf. The purple of heath-bloom, faded but not withered, tinged the hills. The beck wandered down to the Hollow, through a silent district; no wind followed its course or haunted its woody borders. Fieldhead gardens bore the seal of gentle decay. On the walks, swept that morning, yellow leaves had fluttered down again. Its time of flowers, and even of fruits, was over; but a scantling of apples enriched the trees. Only a blossom here and there expanded pale and delicate amidst a knot of faded leaves.
These single flowers — the last of their race — Shirley culled as she wandered thoughtfully amongst the beds. She was fastening into her girdle a hueless and scentless nosegay, when Henry Sympson called to her as he came limping from the house.
“Shirley, Mr. Moore would be glad to see you in the schoolroom and to hear you read a little French, if you have no more urgent occupation.”
The messenger delivered his commission very simply, as if it were a mere matter of course.
“Did Mr. Moore tell you to say that?”
“Certainly; why not? And now, do come, and let us once more be as we were at Sympson Grove. We used to have pleasant school-hours in those days.”
Miss Keeldar perhaps thought that circumstances were changed since then; however, she made no remark, but after a little reflection quietly followed Henry.
Entering the schoolroom, she inclined her head with a decent obeisance, as had been her wont in former times. She removed her bonnet, and hung it up beside Henry’s cap. Louis Moore sat at his desk, turning the leaves of a book, open before him, and marking passages with his pencil. He just moved, in acknowledgment of her curtsy, but did not rise.
“You proposed to read to me a few nights ago,” said he. “I could not hear you then. My attention is now at your service. A little renewed practice in French may not be unprofitable. Your accent, I have observed, begins to rust.”
“What book shall I take?”
“Here are the posthumous works of St. Pierre. Read a few pages of the ‘Fragments de l’Amazone.’”
She accepted the chair which he had placed in readiness near his own; the volume lay on his desk — there was but one between them; her sweeping curls dropped so low as to hide the page from him.
“Put back your hair,” he said.
For one moment Shirley looked not quite certain whether she would obey the request or disregard it. A flicker of her eye beamed furtive on the professor’s face. Perhaps if he had been looking at her harshly or timidly, or if one undecided line had marked his countenance, she would have rebelled, and the lesson had ended there and then; but he was only awaiting her compliance — as calm as marble, and as cool. She threw the veil of tresses behind her ear. It was well her face owned an agreeable outline, and that her cheek possessed the polish and the roundness of early youth, or, thus robbed of a softening shade, the contours might have lost their grace. But what mattered that in the present society? Neither Calypso nor Eucharis cared to fascinate Mentor.
She began to read. The language had become strange to her tongue; it faltered; the lecture flowed unevenly, impeded by hurried breath, broken by Anglicized tones. She stopped.
“I can’t do it. Read me a paragraph, if you please, Mr. Moore.”
What he read she repeated. She caught his accent in three minutes.
“Très bien,” was the approving comment at the close of the piece.
“C’est presque le Français rattrapé, n’est-ce pas?”
“You could not write French as you once could, I dare say?”
“Oh no! I should make strange work of my concords now.”
“You could not compose the devoir of ‘La Première Femme Savante’?”
“Do you still remember that rubbish?”
“Every line.”
“I doubt you.”
“I will engage to repeat it word for word.”
“You would stop short at the first line.”
“Challenge me to the experiment.”
“I challenge you.”
He proceeded to recite the following. He gave it in French, but we must translate, on pain of being unintelligible to some readers.
“And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.”
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 105
