“‘I never feel shocked at, or bear malice for, what is spoken in character; and most perfectly in character was that vulgar and violent onset against me, when he had quitted you worsted.’
“‘You cease now to be Henry’s tutor?’
“‘I shall be parted from Henry for a while (if he and I live we shall meet again somehow, for we love each other) and be ousted from the bosom of the Sympson family for ever. Happily this change does not leave me stranded; it but hurries into premature execution designs long formed.’
“‘No change finds you off your guard. I was sure, in your calm way, you would be prepared for sudden mutation. I always think you stand in the world like a solitary but watchful, thoughtful archer in a wood. And the quiver on your shoulder holds more arrows than one; your bow is provided with a second string. Such too is your brother’s wont. You two might go forth homeless hunters to the loneliest western wilds; all would be well with you. The hewn tree would make you a hut, the cleared forest yield you fields from its stripped bosom, the buffalo would feel your rifle-shot, and with lowered horns and hump pay homage at your feet.’
“‘And any Indian tribe of Blackfeet or Flatheads would afford us a bride, perhaps?’
“‘No’ (hesitating), ‘I think not. The savage is sordid. I think — that is, I hope — you would neither of you share your hearth with that to which you could not give your heart.’
“‘What suggested the wild West to your mind, Miss Keeldar? Have you been with me in spirit when I did not see you? Have you entered into my day-dreams, and beheld my brain labouring at its scheme of a future?’
“She had separated a slip of paper for lighting tapers — a spill, as it is called — into fragments. She threw morsel by morsel into the fire, and stood pensively watching them consume. She did not speak.
“‘How did you learn what you seem to know about my intentions?’
“‘I know nothing. I am only discovering them now. I spoke at hazard.’
“‘Your hazard sounds like divination. A tutor I will never be again; never take a pupil after Henry and yourself; not again will I sit habitually at another man’s table — no more be the appendage of a family. I am now a man of thirty; I have never been free since I was a boy of ten. I have such a thirst for freedom, such a deep passion to know her and call her mine, such a day-desire and night-longing to win her and possess her, I will not refuse to cross the Atlantic for her sake; her I will follow deep into virgin woods. Mine it shall not be to accept a savage girl as a slave — she could not be a wife. I know no white woman whom I love that would accompany me; but I am certain Liberty will await me, sitting under a pine. When I call her she will come to my loghouse, and she shall fill my arms.’
“She could not hear me speak so unmoved, and she was moved. It was right — I meant to move her. She could not answer me, nor could she look at me. I should have been sorry if she could have done either. Her cheek glowed as if a crimson flower through whose petals the sun shone had cast its light upon it. On the white lid and dark lashes of her downcast eye trembled all that is graceful in the sense of half-painful, half-pleasing shame.
“Soon she controlled her emotion, and took all her feelings under command. I saw she had felt insurrection, and was waking to empire. She sat down. There was that in her face which I could read. It said, I see the line which is my limit; nothing shall make me pass it. I feel — I know how far I may reveal my feelings, and when I must clasp the volume. I have advanced to a certain distance, as far as the true and sovereign and undegraded nature of my kind permits; now here I stand rooted. My heart may break if it is baffled; let it break. It shall never dishonour me; it shall never dishonour my sisterhood in me. Suffering before degradation! death before treachery!
“I, for my part, said, ‘If she were poor, I would be at her feet; if she were lowly, I would take her in my arms. Her gold and her station are two griffins that guard her on each side. Love looks and longs, and dares not; Passion hovers round, and is kept at bay; Truth and Devotion are scared. There is nothing to lose in winning her, no sacrifice to make. It is all clear gain, and therefore unimaginably difficult.’
“Difficult or not, something must be done, something must be said. I could not, and would not, sit silent with all that beauty modestly mute in my presence. I spoke thus, and still I spoke with calm. Quiet as my words were, I could hear they fell in a tone distinct, round, and deep.
“‘Still, I know I shall be strangely placed with that mountain nymph Liberty. She is, I suspect, akin to that Solitude which I once wooed, and from which I now seek a divorce. These Oreads are peculiar. They come upon you with an unearthly charm, like some starlight evening; they inspire a wild but not warm delight; their beauty is the beauty of spirits; their grace is not the grace of life, but of seasons or scenes in nature. Theirs is the dewy bloom of morning, the languid flush of evening, the peace of the moon, the changefulness of clouds. I want and will have something different. This elfish splendour looks chill to my vision, and feels frozen to my touch. I am not a poet; I cannot live with abstractions. You, Miss Keeldar, have sometimes, in your laughing satire, called me a material philosopher, and implied that I live sufficiently for the substantial. Certainly I feel material from head to foot; and glorious as Nature is, and deeply as I worship her with the solid powers of a solid heart, I would rather behold her through the soft human eyes of a loved and lovely wife than through the wild orbs of the highest goddess of Olympus.’
“‘Juno could not cook a buffalo steak as you like it,’ said she.
“‘She could not; but I will tell you who could — some young, penniless, friendless orphan girl. I wish I could find such a one — pretty enough for me to love, with something of the mind and heart suited to my taste; not uneducated — honest and modest. I care nothing for attainments, but I would fain have the germ of those sweet natural powers which nothing acquired can rival; any temper Fate wills — I can manage the hottest. To such a creature as this I should like to be first tutor and then husband. I would teach her my language, my habits and my principles, and then I would reward her with my love.’
“‘Reward her, lord of the creation — reward her!’” ejaculated she, with a curled lip.
“‘And be repaid a thousandfold.’
“‘If she willed it, monseigneur.’
“‘And she should will it.’
“‘You have stipulated for any temper Fate wills. Compulsion is flint and a blow to the metal of some souls.’
“‘And love the spark it elicits.’
“‘Who cares for the love that is but a spark — seen, flown upward, and gone?’
“‘I must find my orphan girl. Tell me how, Miss Keeldar.’
“‘Advertise; and be sure you add, when you describe the qualifications, she must be a good plain cook.’
“‘I must find her; and when I do find her I shall marry her.’
“‘Not you!’ and her voice took a sudden accent of peculiar scorn.
“I liked this. I had roused her from the pensive mood in which I had first found her. I would stir her further.
“‘Why doubt it?’
“‘You marry!’
“‘Yes, of course; nothing more evident than that I can and shall.’
“‘The contrary is evident, Mr. Moore.’
“She charmed me in this mood — waxing disdainful, half insulting; pride, temper, derision, blent in her large fine eye, that had just now the look of a merlin’s.
“‘Favour me with your reasons for such an opinion, Miss Keeldar.’
“‘How will you manage to marry, I wonder?’
“‘I shall manage it with ease and speed when I find the proper person.’
“‘Accept celibacy!’ (and she made a gesture with her hand as if she gave me something) ‘take it as your doom!’
“‘No; you cannot give what I already have. Celibacy has been mine for thirty years. If you wish to offer me a gift, a parting present, a keepsake, you must change the boo
n.’
“‘Take worse, then!’
“‘How — what?’
“I now felt, and looked, and spoke eagerly. I was unwise to quit my sheet-anchor of calm even for an instant; it deprived me of an advantage and transferred it to her. The little spark of temper dissolved in sarcasm, and eddied over her countenance in the ripples of a mocking smile.
“‘Take a wife that has paid you court to save your modesty, and thrust herself upon you to spare your scruples.’
“‘Only show me where.’
“‘Any stout widow that has had a few husbands already, and can manage these things.’
“‘She must not be rich, then. Oh these riches!’
“‘Never would you have gathered the produce of the gold-bearing garden. You have not courage to confront the sleepless dragon; you have not craft to borrow the aid of Atlas.’
“‘You look hot and haughty.’
“‘And you far haughtier. Yours is the monstrous pride which counterfeits humility.’
“‘I am a dependant; I know my place.’
“‘I am a woman; I know mine.’
“‘I am poor; I must be proud.’
“‘I have received ordinances, and own obligations stringent as yours.’
“We had reached a critical point now, and we halted and looked at each other. She would not give in, I felt. Beyond this I neither felt nor saw. A few moments yet were mine. The end was coming — I heard its rush — but not come. I would dally, wait, talk, and when impulse urged I would act. I am never in a hurry; I never was in a hurry in my whole life. Hasty people drink the nectar of existence scalding hot; I taste it cool as dew. I proceeded: ‘Apparently, Miss Keeldar, you are as little likely to marry as myself. I know you have refused three — nay, four — advantageous offers, and, I believe, a fifth. Have you rejected Sir Philip Nunnely?’
“I put this question suddenly and promptly.
“‘Did you think I should take him?’
“‘I thought you might.’
“‘On what grounds, may I ask?’
“‘Conformity of rank, age, pleasing contrast of temper — for he is mild and amiable — harmony of intellectual tastes.’
“‘A beautiful sentence! Let us take it to pieces. “Conformity of rank.” He is quite above me. Compare my grange with his palace, if you please. I am disdained by his kith and kin. “Suitability of age.” We were born in the same year; consequently he is still a boy, while I am a woman — ten years his senior to all intents and purposes. “Contrast of temper.” Mild and amiable, is he; I — what? Tell me.’
“‘Sister of the spotted, bright, quick, fiery leopard.’
“‘And you would mate me with a kid — the millennium being yet millions of centuries from mankind; being yet, indeed, an archangel high in the seventh heaven, uncommissioned to descend? Unjust barbarian! “Harmony of intellectual tastes.” He is fond of poetry, and I hate it — — ‘
“‘Do you? That is news.’
“‘I absolutely shudder at the sight of metre or at the sound of rhyme whenever I am at the priory or Sir Philip at Fieldhead. Harmony, indeed! When did I whip up syllabub sonnets or string stanzas fragile as fragments of glass? and when did I betray a belief that those penny-beads were genuine brilliants?’
“‘You might have the satisfaction of leading him to a higher standard, of improving his tastes.’
“‘Leading and improving! teaching and tutoring! bearing and forbearing! Pah! my husband is not to be my baby. I am not to set him his daily lesson and see that he learns it, and give him a sugar-plum if he is good, and a patient, pensive, pathetic lecture if he is bad. But it is like a tutor to talk of the “satisfaction of teaching.” I suppose you think it the finest employment in the world. I don’t. I reject it. Improving a husband! No. I shall insist upon my husband improving me, or else we part.’
“‘God knows it is needed!’
“‘What do you mean by that, Mr. Moore?’
“‘What I say. Improvement is imperatively needed.’
“‘If you were a woman you would school monsieur, votre mari, charmingly. It would just suit you; schooling is your vocation.’
“‘May I ask whether, in your present just and gentle mood, you mean to taunt me with being a tutor?’
“‘Yes, bitterly; and with anything else you please — any defect of which you are painfully conscious.’
“‘With being poor, for instance?’
“‘Of course; that will sting you. You are sore about your poverty; you brood over that.’
“‘With having nothing but a very plain person to offer the woman who may master my heart?’
“‘Exactly. You have a habit of calling yourself plain. You are sensitive about the cut of your features because they are not quite on an Apollo pattern. You abase them more than is needful, in the faint hope that others may say a word in their behalf — which won’t happen. Your face is nothing to boast of, certainly — not a pretty line nor a pretty tint to be found therein.’
“‘Compare it with your own.’
“‘It looks like a god of Egypt — a great sand-buried stone head; or rather I will compare it to nothing so lofty. It looks like Tartar. You are my mastiff’s cousin. I think you as much like him as a man can be like a dog.’
“‘Tartar is your dear companion. In summer, when you rise early, and run out into the fields to wet your feet with the dew, and freshen your cheek and uncurl your hair with the breeze, you always call him to follow you. You call him sometimes with a whistle that you learned from me. In the solitude of your wood, when you think nobody but Tartar is listening, you whistle the very tunes you imitated from my lips, or sing the very songs you have caught up by ear from my voice. I do not ask whence flows the feeling which you pour into these songs, for I know it flows out of your heart, Miss Keeldar. In the winter evenings Tartar lies at your feet. You suffer him to rest his head on your perfumed lap; you let him couch on the borders of your satin raiment. His rough hide is familiar with the contact of your hand. I once saw you kiss him on that snow-white beauty spot which stars his broad forehead. It is dangerous to say I am like Tartar; it suggests to me a claim to be treated like Tartar.’
“‘Perhaps, sir, you can extort as much from your penniless and friendless young orphan girl, when you find her.’
“‘Oh could I find her such as I image her! Something to tame first, and teach afterwards; to break in, and then to fondle. To lift the destitute proud thing out of poverty; to establish power over and then to be indulgent to the capricious moods that never were influenced and never indulged before; to see her alternately irritated and subdued about twelve times in the twenty-four hours; and perhaps, eventually, when her training was accomplished, to behold her the exemplary and patient mother of about a dozen children, only now and then lending little Louis a cordial cuff by way of paying the interest of the vast debt she owes his father. Oh’ (I went on), ‘my orphan girl would give me many a kiss; she would watch on the threshold for my coming home of an evening; she would run into my arms; she would keep my hearth as bright as she would make it warm. God bless the sweet idea! Find her I must.’
“Her eyes emitted an eager flash, her lips opened; but she reclosed them, and impetuously turned away.
“‘Tell me, tell me where she is, Miss Keeldar!’
“Another movement, all haughtiness and fire and impulse.
“‘I must know. You can tell me; you shall tell me.’
“‘I never will.’
“She turned to leave me. Could I now let her part as she had always parted from me? No. I had gone too far not to finish; I had come too near the end not to drive home to it. All the encumbrance of doubt, all the rubbish of indecision, must be removed at once, and the plain truth must be ascertained. She must take her part, and tell me what it was; I must take mine and adhere to it.
“‘A minute, madam,’ I said, keeping my hand on the door-handle before I opened it. ‘We have had a long conversation this mor
ning, but the last word has not been spoken yet. It is yours to speak it.’
“‘May I pass?’
“‘No; I guard the door. I would almost rather die than let you leave me just now, without speaking the word I demand.’
“‘What dare you expect me to say?’
“‘What I am dying and perishing to hear; what I must and will hear; what you dare not now suppress.’
“‘Mr. Moore, I hardly know what you mean. You are not like yourself.’
“I suppose I hardly was like my usual self, for I scared her — that I could see. It was right: she must be scared to be won.
“‘You do know what I mean, and for the first time I stand before you myself. I have flung off the tutor, and beg to introduce you to the man. And remember, he is a gentleman.’
“She trembled. She put her hand to mine as if to remove it from the lock. She might as well have tried to loosen, by her soft touch, metal welded to metal. She felt she was powerless, and receded; and again she trembled.
“What change I underwent I cannot explain, but out of her emotion passed into me a new spirit. I neither was crushed nor elated by her lands and gold; I thought not of them, cared not for them. They were nothing — dross that could not dismay me. I saw only herself — her young beautiful form, the grace, the majesty, the modesty of her girlhood.
“‘My pupil,’ I said.
“‘My master,’ was the low answer.
“‘I have a thing to tell you.’
“She waited with declined brow and ringlets drooped.
“‘I have to tell you that for four years you have been growing into your tutor’s heart, and that you are rooted there now. I have to declare that you have bewitched me, in spite of sense, and experience, and difference of station and estate. You have so looked, and spoken, and moved; so shown me your faults and your virtues — beauties rather, they are hardly so stern as virtues — that I love you — love you with my life and strength. It is out now.’
“She sought what to say, but could not find a word. She tried to rally, but vainly. I passionately repeated that I loved her.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 119
