Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (140 page)

“I believe I do.”

“Whom does it concern besides me?”

She coloured; she hesitated; she was silent.

“Speak, Cary! Whom does it concern?”

She tried to utter a name, and could not.

“Tell me; there is none present but ourselves. Be frank.”

“But if I guess wrong?”

“I will forgive. Whisper, Cary.”

He bent his ear to her lips. Still she would not, or could not, speak clearly to the point. Seeing that Moore waited and was resolved to hear something, she at last said, “Miss Keeldar spent a day at the rectory about a week since. The evening came on very wintry, and we persuaded her to stay all night.”

“And you and she curled your hair together?”

“How do you know that?”

“And then you chattered, and she told you —
 
— “

“It was not at curling-hair time, so you are not as wise as you think; and, besides, she didn’t tell me.”

“You slept together afterwards?”

“We occupied the same room and bed. We did not sleep much; we talked the whole night through.”

“I’ll be sworn you did! And then it all came out —
tant pis
. I would rather you had heard it from myself.”

“You are quite wrong. She did not tell me what you suspect — she is not the person to proclaim such things; but yet I inferred something from parts of her discourse. I gathered more from rumour, and I made out the rest by instinct.”

“But if she did not tell you that I wanted to marry her for the sake of her money, and that she refused me indignantly and scornfully (you need neither start nor blush; nor yet need you prick your trembling fingers with your needle. That is the plain truth, whether you like it or not) — if such was not the subject of her august confidences, on what point did they turn? You say you talked the whole night through; what about?”

“About things we never thoroughly discussed before, intimate friends as we have been; but you hardly expect I should tell you?”

“Yes, yes, Cary; you will tell me. You said we were friends, and friends should always confide in each other.”

“But you are sure you won’t repeat it?”

“Quite sure.”

“Not to Louis?”

“Not even to Louis. What does Louis care for young ladies’ secrets?”

“Robert, Shirley is a curious, magnanimous being.”

“I dare say. I can imagine there are both odd points and grand points about her.”

“I have found her chary in showing her feelings; but when they rush out, river-like, and pass full and powerful before you — almost without leave from her — you gaze, wonder; you admire, and — I think — love her.”

“You saw this spectacle?”

“Yes; at dead of night, when all the house was silent, and starlight and the cold reflection from the snow glimmered in our chamber, then I saw Shirley’s heart.”

“Her heart’s core? Do you think she showed you that?”

“Her heart’s core.”

“And how was it?”

“Like a shrine, for it was holy; like snow, for it was pure; like flame, for it was warm; like death, for it was strong.”

“Can she love? tell me that.”

“What think you?”

“She has loved none that have loved her yet.”

“Who are those that have loved her?”

He named a list of gentlemen, closing with Sir Philip Nunnely.

“She has loved none of these.”

“Yet some of them were worthy of a woman’s affection.”

“Of some women’s, but not of Shirley’s.”

“Is she better than others of her sex?”

“She is peculiar, and more dangerous to take as a wife — rashly.”

“I can imagine that.”

“She spoke of you —
 
— “

“Oh, she did! I thought you denied it.”

“She did not speak in the way you fancy; but I asked her, and I would make her tell me what she thought of you, or rather how she felt towards you. I wanted to know; I had long wanted to know.”

“So had I; but let us hear. She thinks meanly, she feels contemptuously, doubtless?”

“She thinks of you almost as highly as a woman can think of a man. You know she can be eloquent. I yet feel in fancy the glow of the language in which her opinion was conveyed.”

“But how does she feel?”

“Till you shocked her (she said you had shocked her, but she would not tell me how) she felt as a sister feels towards a brother of whom she is at once fond and proud.”

“I’ll shock her no more, Cary, for the shock rebounded on myself till I staggered again. But that comparison about sister and brother is all nonsense. She is too rich and proud to entertain fraternal sentiments for me.”

“You don’t know her, Robert; and, somehow, I fancy now (I had other ideas formerly) that you cannot know her. You and she are not so constructed as to be able thoroughly to understand each other.”

“It may be so. I esteem her, I admire her; and yet my impressions concerning her are harsh — perhaps uncharitable. I believe, for instance, that she is incapable of love —
 
— “

“Shirley incapable of love!”

“That she will never marry. I imagine her jealous of compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power, of sharing her property.”

“Shirley has hurt your
amour propre
.”

“She did hurt it; though I had not an emotion of tenderness, nor a spark of passion for her.”

“Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want to marry her.”

“And very mean, my little pastor, my pretty priestess. I never wanted to kiss Miss Keeldar in my life, though she has fine lips, scarlet and round as ripe cherries; or, if I did wish it, it was the mere desire of the eye.”

“I doubt, now, whether you are speaking the truth. The grapes or the cherries are sour — ‘hung too high.’”

“She has a pretty figure, a pretty face, beautiful hair. I acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them, or only feel them in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was truly tempted by the mere gilding of the bait. Caroline, what a noble fellow your Robert is — great, good, disinterested, and then so pure!”

“But not perfect. He made a great blunder once, and we will hear no more about it.”

“And shall we think no more about it, Cary? Shall we not despise him in our heart — gentle but just, compassionate but upright?”

“Never! We will remember that with what measure we mete it shall be measured unto us, and so we will give no scorn, only affection.”

“Which won’t satisfy, I warn you of that. Something besides affection — something far stronger, sweeter, warmer — will be demanded one day. Is it there to give?”

Caroline was moved, much moved.

“Be calm, Lina,” said Moore soothingly. “I have no intention, because I have no right, to perturb your mind now, nor for months to come. Don’t look as if you would leave me. We will make no more agitating allusions; we will resume our gossip. Do not tremble; look me in the face. See what a poor, pale, grim phantom I am — more pitiable than formidable.”

She looked shyly. “There is something formidable still, pale as you are,” she said, as her eye fell under his.

“To return to Shirley,” pursued Moore: “is it your opinion that she is ever likely to marry?”

“She loves.”

“Platonically — theoretically — all humbug!”

“She loves what I call sincerely.”

“Did she say so?”

“I cannot affirm that she said so. No such confession as ‘I love this man or that’ passed her lips.”

“I thought not.”

“But the feeling made its way in spite of her, and I saw it. She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunderstood. Her voice alone was sufficient testimony. Having wrung from her an opinion on your character, I demanded a second opinion of — another person about whom I had my conjectures, though they were the most tangled and puzzled conjectures in the world. I would
make
her speak. I shook her, I chid her, I pinched her fingers when she tried to put me off with gibes and jests in her queer provoking way, and at last out it came. The voice, I say, was enough; hardly raised above a whisper, and yet such a soft vehemence in its tones. There was no confession, no confidence, in the matter. To these things she cannot condescend; but I am sure that man’s happiness is dear to her as her own life.”

“Who is it?”

“I charged her with the fact. She did not deny, she did not avow, but looked at me. I saw her eyes by the snow-gleam. It was quite enough. I triumphed over her mercilessly.”

“What right had
you
to triumph? Do you mean to say
you
are fancy free?”

“Whatever
I
am, Shirley is a bondswoman. Lioness, she has found her captor. Mistress she may be of all round her, but her own mistress she is not.”

“So you exulted at recognizing a fellow-slave in one so fair and imperial?”

“I did; Robert, you say right, in one so fair and imperial.”

“You confess it — a
fellow
-slave?”

“I confess nothing; but I say that haughty Shirley is no more free than was Hagar.”

“And who, pray, is the Abraham, the hero of a patriarch who has achieved such a conquest?”

“You still speak scornfully, and cynically, and sorely; but I will make you change your note before I have done with you.”

“We will see that. Can she marry this Cupidon?”

“Cupidon! he is just about as much a Cupidon as you are a Cyclops.”

“Can she marry him?”

“You will see.”

“I want to know his name, Cary.”

“Guess it.”

“Is it any one in this neighbourhood?”

“Yes, in Briarfield parish.”

“Then it is some person unworthy of her. I don’t know a soul in Briarfield parish her equal.”

“Guess.”

“Impossible. I suppose she is under a delusion, and will plunge into some absurdity, after all.”

Caroline smiled.

“Do
you
approve the choice?” asked Moore.

“Quite,
quite
.”

“Then I
am
puzzled; for the head which owns this bounteous fall of hazel curls is an excellent little thinking machine, most accurate in its working. It boasts a correct, steady judgment, inherited from ‘mamma,’ I suppose.”

“And I
quite
approve, and mamma was charmed.”

“‘Mamma’ charmed — Mrs. Pryor! It can’t be romantic, then?”

“It
is
romantic, but it is also right.”