Shirley (71 page)

"For your part, you have your brother Robert."

"For any right-hand defections, there is the Rev. Matthewson Helstone, M.A., to lean upon; for any

left-hand fallings-off there is Hiram Yorke, Esq. Both elders pay you homage."

"I never saw Mrs. Yorke so motherly to any young man as she is to you. I don't know how you have

won her heart, but she is more tender to you than she is to her own sons. You have, besides, your sister Hortense."

"It appears we are both well provided."

"It appears so."

"How thankful we ought to be!"

"Yes."

"How contented!"

"Yes."

"For my part, I am almost contented just now, and very thankful. Gratitude is a divine emotion. It

fills the heart, but not to bursting; it warms it, but not to fever. I like to taste leisurely of bliss.

Devoured in haste, I do not know its flavour."

Still leaning on the back of Miss Keeldar's chair, Moore watched the rapid motion of her fingers,

as the green and purple garland grew beneath them. After a prolonged pause, he again asked, "Is the shadow
quite
gone?"

"Wholly. As I
was
two hours since, and as I
am
now, are two different states of existence. I believe, Mr. Moore, griefs and fears nursed in silence grow like Titan infants."

"You will cherish such feelings no more in silence?"

"Not if I dare speak."

"In using the word '
dare
,' to whom do you allude?"

"To you."

"How is it applicable to me?"

"On account of your austerity and shyness."

"Why am I austere and shy?"

"Because you are proud."

"Why am I proud?"

"I should like to know. Will you be good enough to tell me?"

"Perhaps, because I am poor, for one reason. Poverty and pride often go together."

"That is such a nice reason. I should be charmed to discover another that would pair with it. Mate

that turtle, Mr. Moore."

"Immediately. What do you think of marrying to sober Poverty many-tinted Caprice?"

"Are you capricious?"

"
You
are."

"A libel. I am steady as a rock, fixed as the polar star."

"I look out at some early hour of the day, and see a fine, perfect rainbow, bright with promise, gloriously spanning the beclouded welkin of life. An hour afterwards I look again: half the arch is gone, and the rest is faded. Still later, the stern sky denies that it ever wore so benign a symbol of hope."

"Well, Mr. Moore, you should contend against these changeful humours. They are your besetting sin. One never knows where to have you."

"Miss Keeldar, I had once, for two years, a pupil who grew very dear to me. Henry is dear, but she

was dearer. Henry never gives me trouble; she—well, she did. I think she vexed me twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four——"

"She was never with you above three hours, or at the most six at a time."

"She sometimes spilled the draught from my cup, and stole the food from my plate; and when she

had kept me unfed for a day (and that did not suit me, for I am a man accustomed to take my meals

with reasonable relish, and to ascribe due importance to the rational enjoyment of creature comforts)

——"

"I know you do. I can tell what sort of dinners you like best—perfectly well. I know precisely the

dishes you prefer——"

"She robbed these dishes of flavour, and made a fool of me besides. I like to sleep well. In my quiet days, when I was my own man, I never quarrelled with the night for being long, nor cursed my bed

for its thorns. She changed all this."

"Mr. Moore——"

"And having taken from me peace of mind and ease of life, she took from me herself—quite coolly, just as if, when she was gone, the world would be all the same to me. I knew I should see her

again at some time. At the end of two years, it fell out that we encountered again under her own roof,

where she was mistress. How do you think she bore herself towards me, Miss Keeldar?"

"Like one who had profited well by lessons learned from yourself."

"She received me haughtily. She meted out a wide space between us, and kept me aloof by the reserved gesture, the rare and alienated glance, the word calmly civil."

"She was an excellent pupil! Having seen you distant, she at once learned to withdraw. Pray, sir, admire in her
hauteur
a careful improvement on your own coolness."

"Conscience, and honour, and the most despotic necessity dragged me apart from her, and kept me

sundered with ponderous fetters. She was free: she might have been clement."

"Never free to compromise her self-respect, to seek where she had been shunned."

"Then she was inconsistent; she tantalized as before. When I thought I had made up my mind to seeing in her only a lofty stranger, she would suddenly show me such a glimpse of loving simplicity

—she would warm me with such a beam of reviving sympathy, she would gladden an hour with converse so gentle, gay, and kindly—that I could no more shut my heart on her image than I could

close that door against her presence. Explain why she distressed me so."

"She could not bear to be quite outcast; and then she would sometimes get a notion into her head,

on a cold, wet day, that the schoolroom was no cheerful place, and feel it incumbent on her to go and

see if you and Henry kept up a good fire; and once there, she liked to stay."

"But she should not be changeful. If she came at all, she should come oftener."

"There is such a thing as intrusion."

"To-morrow you will not be as you are to-day."

"I don't know. Will you?"

"I am not mad, most noble Berenice! We may give one day to dreaming, but the next we must awake; and I shall awake to purpose the morning you are married to Sir Philip Nunnely. The fire shines on you and me, and shows us very clearly in the glass, Miss Keeldar; and I have been gazing

on the picture all the time I have been talking. Look up! What a difference between your head and mine! I look old for thirty!"

"You are so grave; you have such a square brow; and your face is sallow. I never regard you as a

young man, nor as Robert's junior."

"Don't you? I thought not. Imagine Robert's clear-cut, handsome face looking over my shoulder.

Does not the apparition make vividly manifest the obtuse mould of my heavy traits? There!" (he started), "I have been expecting that wire to vibrate this last half-hour."

The dinner-bell rang, and Shirley rose.

"Mr. Moore," she said, as she gathered up her silks, "have you heard from your brother lately? Do you know what he means by staying in town so long? Does he talk of returning?"

"He talks of returning; but what has caused his long absence I cannot tell. To speak the truth, I thought none in Yorkshire knew better than yourself why he was reluctant to come home."

A crimson shadow passed across Miss Keeldar's cheek.

"Write to him and urge him to come," she said. "I know there has been no impolicy in protracting his absence thus far. It is good to let the mill stand, while trade is so bad; but he must not abandon the county."

"I am aware," said Louis, "that he had an interview with you the evening before he left, and I saw him quit Fieldhead afterwards. I read his countenance, or
tried
to read it. He turned from me. I divined that he would be long away. Some fine, slight fingers have a wondrous knack at pulverizing a man's

brittle pride. I suppose Robert put too much trust in his manly beauty and native gentlemanhood.

Those are better off who, being destitute of advantage, cannot cherish delusion. But I will write, and

say you advise his return."

"Do not say
I
advise his return, but that his return is advisable."

The second bell rang, and Miss Keeldar obeyed its call.

29

Chapter

LOUIS MOORE.

Louis Moore was used to a quiet life. Being a quiet man, he endured it better than most men would.

Having a large world of his own in his own head and heart, he tolerated confinement to a small, still

corner of the real world very patiently.

How hushed is Fieldhead this evening! All but Moore—Miss Keeldar, the whole family of the

Sympsons, even Henry—are gone to Nunnely. Sir Philip would have them come; he wished to make

them acquainted with his mother and sisters, who are now at the priory. Kind gentleman as the baronet

is, he asked the tutor too; but the tutor would much sooner have made an appointment with the ghost

of the Earl of Huntingdon to meet him, and a shadowy ring of his merry men, under the canopy of the

thickest, blackest, oldest oak in Nunnely Forest. Yes, he would rather have appointed tryst with a phantom abbess, or mist-pale nun, among the wet and weedy relics of that ruined sanctuary of theirs,

mouldering in the core of the wood. Louis Moore longs to have something near him to-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. The wild rains of the day are abated; the great single cloud disparts and rolls away from heaven, not passing and leaving a sea all sapphire,

but tossed buoyant before a continued, long-sounding, high-rushing moonlight tempest. The moon reigns glorious, glad of the gale, as glad as if she gave herself to his fierce caress with love. No Endymion will watch for his goddess to-night. There are no flocks out on the mountains; and it is well, for to-night she welcomes Æolus.

Moore, sitting in the schoolroom, heard the storm roar round the other gable and along the hall-

front. This end was sheltered. He wanted no shelter; he desired no subdued sounds or screened position.

"All the parlours are empty," said he. "I am sick at heart of this cell."

He left it, and went where the casements, larger and freer than the branch-screened lattice of his own apartment, admitted unimpeded the dark-blue, the silver-fleeced, the stirring and sweeping vision

of the autumn night-sky. He carried no candle; unneeded was lamp or fire. The broad and clear though cloud-crossed and fluctuating beam of the moon shone on every floor and wall.

Moore wanders through all the rooms. He seems following a phantom from parlour to parlour. In

the oak room he stops. This is not chill, and polished, and fireless like the
salon
. The hearth is hot and ruddy; the cinders tinkle in the intense heat of their clear glow; near the rug is 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 in his eye, and as much significance in his face, as if in this household solitude 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 stand they strew. Order

forbids details in a picture—she puts them tidily away; but details give charm.

Moore spoke.

"Her mark," he said. "Here she has been—careless, attractive thing!—called away in haste, doubtless, and forgetting to return and put all to rights. Why does she leave fascination in her footprints? Whence did she acquire the gift to be heedless and never offend? There is always something to chide in her, and the reprimand never settles in displeasure on the heart, but, for her lover or her husband, when it had trickled 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 in admiring 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 for his evening's comfort.

He dropped the curtains over the broad window and regal moon. He shut out sovereign and court

and starry armies; he added fuel to the hot but fast-wasting fire; he lit a candle, of which there were a pair on the table; he placed another chair opposite that near the workstand; and then 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 in a 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 am certain. Freedom is mine till then; till then I may occupy her room, sit opposite her chair, rest my elbow on her table, have her little mementoes about me.

"I used rather to like Solitude—to fancy her a somewhat quiet and serious, yet fair nymph; an Oread, descending to me from lone mountain-passes, something of the blue mist of hills in her array

and of their chill breeze in her breath, but much also of their solemn beauty in her mien. I once could

court her serenely, and imagine my heart easier when I held her to it—all mute, but majestic.

"Since that day I called S. to me in the schoolroom, and she came and sat 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 abhor Solitude. Cold abstraction, fleshless skeleton, daughter, mother, and mate of Death!

"It is pleasant to write about what is near and dear as the core of my heart. None can deprive me of this little book, and through this pencil I can say to it what I will—say what I dare utter to nothing living—say what I dare not
think
aloud.

"We have scarcely encountered each other since that evening. Once, when I was alone in the drawing-room, seeking a book of Henry's, she entered, dressed for a concert at Stilbro'. Shyness