Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (122 page)

“Robert’s brother, indeed!” was the exclamation, uttered in a tone like the accents of scorn; and with a movement of proud impatience Shirley snatched a rose from a branch peeping through the open lattice.

“Yes,” repeated Caroline, with mild firmness, “Robert’s brother. He
is
thus closely related to Gérard Moore of the Hollow, though nature has not given him features so handsome or an air so noble as his kinsman; but his blood is as good, and he is as much a gentleman were he free.”

“Wise, humble, pious Caroline!” exclaimed Shirley ironically. “Men and angels, hear her! We should not despise plain features, nor a laborious yet honest occupation, should we? Look at the subject of your panegyric. He is there in the garden,” she continued, pointing through an aperture in the clustering creepers; and by that aperture Louis Moore was visible, coming slowly down the walk.

“He is not ugly, Shirley,” pleaded Caroline; “he is not ignoble. He is sad; silence seals his mind. But I believe him to be intelligent; and be certain, if he had not something very commendable in his disposition, Mr. Hall would never seek his society as he does.”

Shirley laughed; she laughed again, each time with a slightly sarcastic sound. “Well, well,” was her comment. “On the plea of the man being Cyril Hall’s friend and Robert Moore’s brother, we’ll just tolerate his existence; won’t we, Cary? You believe him to be intelligent, do you? Not quite an idiot — eh? Something commendable in his disposition! —
id est
, not an absolute ruffian. Good! Your representations have weight with me; and to prove that they have, should he come this way I will speak to him.”

He approached the summer-house. Unconscious that it was tenanted, he sat down on the step. Tartar, now his customary companion, had followed him, and he couched across his feet.

“Old boy!” said Louis, pulling his tawny ear, or rather the mutilated remains of that organ, torn and chewed in a hundred battles, “the autumn sun shines as pleasantly on us as on the fairest and richest. This garden is none of ours, but we enjoy its greenness and perfume, don’t we?”

He sat silent, still caressing Tartar, who slobbered with exceeding affection. A faint twittering commenced among the trees round. Something fluttered down as light as leaves. They were little birds, which, lighting on the sward at shy distance, hopped as if expectant.

“The small brown elves actually remember that I fed them the other day,” again soliloquized Louis. “They want some more biscuit. To-day I forgot to save a fragment. Eager little sprites, I have not a crumb for you.”

He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out empty.

“A want easily supplied,” whispered the listening Miss Keeldar.

She took from her reticule a morsel of sweet-cake; for that repository was never destitute of something available to throw to the chickens, young ducks, or sparrows. She crumbled it, and bending over his shoulder, put the crumbs into his hand.

“There,” said she — “there is a providence for the improvident.”

“This September afternoon is pleasant,” observed Louis Moore, as, not at all discomposed, he calmly cast the crumbs on to the grass.

“Even for you?”

“As pleasant for me as for any monarch.”

“You take a sort of harsh, solitary triumph in drawing pleasure out of the elements and the inanimate and lower animate creation.”

“Solitary, but not harsh. With animals I feel I am Adam’s son, the heir of him to whom dominion was given over ‘every living thing that moveth upon the earth.’ Your dog likes and follows me. When I go into that yard, the pigeons from your dovecot flutter at my feet. Your mare in the stable knows me as well as it knows you, and obeys me better.”

“And my roses smell sweet to you, and my trees give you shade.”

“And,” continued Louis, “no caprice can withdraw these pleasures from me; they are
mine
.”

He walked off. Tartar followed him, as if in duty and affection bound, and Shirley remained standing on the summer-house step. Caroline saw her face as she looked after the rude tutor. It was pale, as if her pride bled inwardly.

“You see,” remarked Caroline apologetically, “his feelings are so often hurt it makes him morose.”

“You see,” retorted Shirley, with ire, “he is a topic on which you and I shall quarrel if we discuss it often; so drop it henceforward and for ever.”

“I suppose he has more than once behaved in this way,” thought Caroline to herself, “and that renders Shirley so distant to him. Yet I wonder she cannot make allowance for character and circumstances. I wonder the general modesty, manliness, sincerity of his nature do not plead with her in his behalf. She is not often so inconsiderate, so irritable.”

The verbal testimony of two friends of Caroline’s to her cousin’s character augmented her favourable opinion of him. William Farren, whose cottage he had visited in company with Mr. Hall, pronounced him a “real gentleman;” there was not such another in Briarfield. He — William — “could do aught for that man. And then to see how t’ bairns liked him, and how t’ wife took to him first minute she saw him. He never went into a house but t’ childer wor about him directly. Them little things wor like as if they’d a keener sense nor grown-up folks i’ finding our folk’s natures.”

Mr. Hall, in answer to a question of Miss Helstone’s as to what he thought of Louis Moore, replied promptly that he was the best fellow he had met with since he left Cambridge.

“But he is so grave,” objected Caroline.

“Grave! the finest company in the world! Full of odd, quiet, out-of-the-way humour. Never enjoyed an excursion so much in my life as the one I took with him to the Lakes. His understanding and tastes are so superior, it does a man good to be within their influence; and as to his temper and nature, I call them fine.”

“At Fieldhead he looks gloomy, and, I believe, has the character of being misanthropical.”

“Oh! I fancy he is rather out of place there — in a false position. The Sympsons are most estimable people, but not the folks to comprehend him. They think a great deal about form and ceremony, which are quite out of Louis’s way.”

“I don’t think Miss Keeldar likes him.”

“She doesn’t know him — she doesn’t know him; otherwise she has sense enough to do justice to his merits.”

“Well, I suppose she doesn’t know him,” mused Caroline to herself, and by this hypothesis she endeavoured to account for what seemed else unaccountable. But such simple solution of the difficulty was not left her long. She was obliged to refuse Miss Keeldar even this negative excuse for her prejudice.

One day she chanced to be in the schoolroom with Henry Sympson, whose amiable and affectionate disposition had quickly recommended him to her regard. The boy was busied about some mechanical contrivance; his lameness made him fond of sedentary occupation. He began to ransack his tutor’s desk for a piece of wax or twine necessary to his work. Moore happened to be absent. Mr. Hall, indeed, had called for him to take a long walk. Henry could not immediately find the object of his search. He rummaged compartment after compartment; and at last, opening an inner drawer, he came upon — not a ball of cord or a lump of beeswax, but a little bundle of small marble-coloured cahiers, tied with tape. Henry looked at them. “What rubbish Mr. Moore stores up in his desk!” he said. “I hope he won’t keep my old exercises so carefully.”

“What is it?”

“Old copy-books.”

He threw the bundle to Caroline. The packet looked so neat externally her curiosity was excited to see its contents.

“If they are only copy-books, I suppose I may open them?”

“Oh yes, quite freely. Mr. Moore’s desk is half mine — for he lets me keep all sorts of things in it — and I give you leave.”

On scrutiny they proved to be French compositions, written in a hand peculiar but compact, and exquisitely clean and clear. The writing was recognizable. She scarcely needed the further evidence of the name signed at the close of each theme to tell her whose they were. Yet that name astonished her — “Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove, —
 
— shire” (a southern county), and a date four years back.

She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, meditating over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a confidence.

“They are Shirley’s, you see,” said Henry carelessly.

“Did
you
give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with Mrs. Pryor, I suppose?”

“She wrote them in my schoolroom at Sympson Grove, when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her French; it is his native language.”

“I know. Was she a good pupil, Henry?”

“She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have in the room. She made lesson-time charming. She learned fast — you could hardly tell when or how. French was nothing to her. She spoke it quick, quick — as quick as Mr. Moore himself.”

“Was she obedient? Did she give trouble?”

“She gave plenty of trouble, in a way. She was giddy, but I liked her. I’m desperately fond of Shirley.”

“
Desperately
fond — you small simpleton! You don’t know what you say.”

“I
am desperately
fond of her. She is the light of my eyes. I said so to Mr. Moore last night.”

“He would reprove you for speaking with exaggeration.”

“He didn’t. He never reproves and reproves, as girls’ governesses do. He was reading, and he only smiled into his book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than that, she was less than he took her to be; for I was but a dim-eyed, short-sighted little chap. I’m afraid I am a poor unfortunate, Miss Caroline Helstone. I am a cripple, you know.”

“Never mind, Henry, you are a very nice little fellow; and if God has not given you health and strength, He has given you a good disposition and an excellent heart and brain.”

“I shall be despised. I sometimes think both Shirley and you despise me.”

“Listen, Henry. Generally, I don’t like schoolboys. I have a great horror of them. They seem to me little ruffians, who take an unnatural delight in killing and tormenting birds, and insects, and kittens, and whatever is weaker than themselves. But you are so different I am quite fond of you. You have almost as much sense as a man (far more, God wot,” she muttered to herself, “than many men); you are fond of reading, and you can talk sensibly about what you read.”

“I
am
fond of reading. I know I have sense, and I know I have feeling.”

Miss Keeldar here entered.

“Henry,” she said, “I have brought your lunch here. I shall prepare it for you myself.”

She placed on the table a glass of new milk, a plate of something which looked not unlike leather, and a utensil which resembled a toasting-fork.

“What are you two about,” she continued, “ransacking Mr. Moore’s desk?”

“Looking at your old copy-books,” returned Caroline.

“My old copy-books?”

“French exercise-books. Look here! They must be held precious; they are kept carefully.”

She showed the bundle. Shirley snatched it up. “Did not know one was in existence,” she said. “I thought the whole lot had long since lit the kitchen fire, or curled the maid’s hair at Sympson Grove. — What made you keep them, Henry?”

“It is not my doing. I should not have thought of it. It never entered my head to suppose copy-books of value. Mr. Moore put them by in the inner drawer of his desk. Perhaps he forgot them.”

“C’est cela. He forgot them, no doubt,” echoed Shirley. “They are extremely well written,” she observed complacently.

“What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, in those days! I remember you so well. A slim, light creature whom, though you were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with your long, countless curls on your shoulders, and your streaming sash. You used to make Mr. Moore lively — that is, at first. I believe you grieved him after a while.”