Shirley
Moore accepted tea.
"I am learning to be a naturalized Englishman," said he; "my foreign
habits are leaving me one by one."
And now he paid his respects to Mrs. Pryor, and paid them well, with a
grave modesty that became his age compared with hers. Then he looked at
Caroline--not, however, for the first time: his glance had fallen upon
her before. He bent towards her as she sat, gave her his hand, and asked
her how she was. The light from the window did not fall upon Miss
Helstone; her back was turned towards it. A quiet though rather low
reply, a still demeanour, and the friendly protection of early twilight
kept out of view each traitorous symptom. None could affirm that she had
trembled or blushed, that her heart had quaked or her nerves thrilled;
none could prove emotion; a greeting showing less effusion was never
interchanged. Moore took the empty chair near her, opposite Miss
Keeldar. He had placed himself well. His neighbour, screened by the very
closeness of his vicinage from his scrutiny, and sheltered further by
the dusk which deepened each moment, soon regained not merely _seeming_
but _real_ mastery of the feelings which had started into insurrection
at the first announcement of his name.
He addressed his conversation to Miss Keeldar.
"I went to the barracks," he said, "and had an interview with Colonel
Ryde. He approved my plans, and promised the aid I wanted. Indeed, he
offered a more numerous force than I require--half a dozen will suffice.
I don't intend to be swamped by redcoats. They are needed for appearance
rather than anything else. My main reliance is on my own civilians."
"And on their captain," interposed Shirley.
"What, Captain Keeldar?" inquired Moore, slightly smiling, and not
lifting his eyes. The tone of raillery in which he said this was very
respectful and suppressed.
"No," returned Shirley, answering the smile; "Captain Gérard Moore, who
trusts much to the prowess of his own right arm, I believe."
"Furnished with his counting-house ruler," added Moore. Resuming his
usual gravity, he went on: "I received by this evening's post a note
from the Home Secretary in answer to mine. It appears they are uneasy at
the state of matters here in the north; they especially condemn the
supineness and pusillanimity of the mill-owners. They say, as I have
always said, that inaction, under present circumstances, is criminal,
and that cowardice is cruelty, since both can only encourage disorder,
and lead finally to sanguinary outbreaks. There is the note--I brought
it for your perusal; and there is a batch of newspapers, containing
further accounts of proceedings in Nottingham, Manchester, and
elsewhere."
He produced letters and journals, and laid them before Miss Keeldar.
While she perused them he took his tea quietly; but though his tongue
was still, his observant faculties seemed by no means off duty. Mrs.
Pryor, sitting in the background, did not come within the range of his
glance, but the two younger ladies had the full benefit thereof.
Miss Keeldar, placed directly opposite, was seen without effort. She was
the object his eyes, when lifted, naturally met first; and as what
remained of daylight--the gilding of the west--was upon her, her shape
rose in relief from the dark panelling behind. Shirley's clear cheek was
tinted yet with the colour which had risen into it a few minutes since.
The dark lashes of her eyes looking down as she read, the dusk yet
delicate line of her eyebrows, the almost sable gloss of her curls, made
her heightened complexion look fine as the bloom of a red wild flower by
contrast. There was natural grace in her attitude, and there was
artistic effect in the ample and shining folds of her silk dress--an
attire simply fashioned, but almost splendid from the shifting
brightness of its dye, warp and woof being of tints deep and changing as
the hue on a pheasant's neck. A glancing bracelet on her arm produced
the contrast of gold and ivory. There was something brilliant in the
whole picture. It is to be supposed that Moore thought so, as his eye
dwelt long on it, but he seldom permitted his feelings or his opinions
to exhibit themselves in his face. His temperament boasted a certain
amount of phlegm, and he preferred an undemonstrative, not ungentle, but
serious aspect to any other.
He could not, by looking straight before him, see Caroline, as she was
close at his side. It was necessary, therefore, to manœuvre a little to
get her well within the range of his observation. He leaned back in his
chair, and looked down on her. In Miss Helstone neither he nor any one
else could discover brilliancy. Sitting in the shade, without flowers
or ornaments, her attire the modest muslin dress, colourless but for its
narrow stripe of pale azure, her complexion unflushed, unexcited, the
very brownness of her hair and eyes invisible by this faint light, she
was, compared with the heiress, as a graceful pencil sketch compared
with a vivid painting. Since Robert had seen her last a great change had
been wrought in her. Whether he perceived it might not be ascertained.
He said nothing to that effect.
"How is Hortense?" asked Caroline softly.
"Very well; but she complains of being unemployed. She misses you."
"Tell her that I miss her, and that I write and read a portion of French
every day."
"She will ask if you sent your love; she is always particular on that
point. You know she likes attention."
"My best love--my very best. And say to her that whenever she has time
to write me a little note I shall be glad to hear from her."
"What if I forget? I am not the surest messenger of compliments."
"No, don't forget, Robert. It is no compliment; it is in good earnest."
"And must, therefore, be delivered punctually."
"If you please."
"Hortense will be ready to shed tears. She is tenderhearted on the
subject of her pupil; yet she reproaches you sometimes for obeying your
uncle's injunctions too literally. Affection, like love, will be unjust
now and then."
And Caroline made no answer to this observation; for indeed her heart
was troubled, and to her eyes she would have raised her handkerchief if
she had dared. If she had dared, too, she would have declared how the
very flowers in the garden of Hollow's Cottage were dear to her; how the
little parlour of that house was her earthly paradise; how she longed to
return to it, as much almost as the first woman, in her exile, must have
longed to revisit Eden. Not daring, however, to say these things, she
held her peace; she sat quiet at Robert's side, waiting for him to say
something more. It was long since this proximity had been hers--long
since his voice had addressed her; could she, with any show of
probability, even of possibility, have imagined that the meeting gave
him pleasure, to her it would have given deep bliss. Yet, even in doubt
that it pleased, in dread that it might annoy him, she received the
boon of the meeting as an imprisoned bird would the admission of
sunshine to its cage. It was of no use arguing, contending against the
sense of present happiness; to be near Robert was to be revived.
Miss Keeldar laid down the papers.
"And are you glad or sad for all these menacing tidings?" she inquired
of her tenant.
"Not precisely either; but I certainly am instructed. I see that our
only plan is to be firm. I see that efficient preparation and a resolute
attitude are the best means of averting bloodshed."
He then inquired if she had observed some particular paragraph, to which
she replied in the negative, and he rose to show it to her. He continued
the conversation standing before her. From the tenor of what he said, it
appeared evident that they both apprehended disturbances in the
neighbourhood of Briarfield, though in what form they expected them to
break out was not specified. Neither Caroline nor Mrs. Pryor asked
questions. The subject did not appear to be regarded as one ripe for
free discussion; therefore the lady and her tenant were suffered to keep
details to themselves, unimportuned by the curiosity of their listeners.
Miss Keeldar, in speaking to Mr. Moore, took a tone at once animated and
dignified, confidential and self-respecting. When, however, the candles
were brought in, and the fire was stirred up, and the fullness of light
thus produced rendered the expression of her countenance legible, you
could see that she was all interest, life, and earnestness. There was
nothing coquettish in her demeanour; whatever she felt for Moore she
felt it seriously. And serious, too, were his feelings, and settled were
his views, apparently, for he made no petty effort to attract, dazzle,
or impress. He contrived, notwithstanding, to command a little; because
the deeper voice, however mildly modulated, the somewhat harder mind,
now and then, though involuntarily and unintentionally, bore down by
some peremptory phrase or tone the mellow accents and susceptible, if
high, nature of Shirley. Miss Keeldar looked happy in conversing with
him, and her joy seemed twofold--a joy of the past and present, of
memory and of hope.
What I have just said are Caroline's ideas of the pair. She felt what
has just been described. In thus feeling she tried not to suffer, but
suffered sharply nevertheless. She suffered, indeed, miserably. A few
minutes before her famished heart had tasted a drop and crumb of
nourishment, that, if freely given, would have brought back abundance of
life where life was failing; but the generous feast was snatched from
her, spread before another, and she remained but a bystander at the
banquet.
The clock struck nine; it was Caroline's time for going home. She
gathered up her work, put the embroidery, the scissors, the thimble into
her bag. She bade Mrs. Pryor a quiet good-night, receiving from that
lady a warmer pressure of the hand than usual. She stepped up to Miss
Keeldar.
"Good-night, Shirley!"
Shirley started up. "What! so soon? Are you going already?"
"It is past nine."
"I never heard the clock. You will come again to-morrow, and you will be
happy to-night, will you not? Remember our plans."
"Yes," said Caroline; "I have not forgotten."
Her mind misgave her that neither those plans nor any other could
permanently restore her mental tranquillity. She turned to Robert, who
stood close behind her. As he looked up, the light of the candles on the
mantelpiece fell full on her face. All its paleness, all its change, all
its forlorn meaning were clearly revealed. Robert had good eyes, and
might have seen it if he would; whether he did see it, nothing
indicated.
"Good-night!" she said, shaking like a leaf, offering her thin hand
hastily, anxious to part from him quickly.
"You are going home?" he asked, not touching her hand.
"Yes."
"Is Fanny come for you?"
"Yes."
"I may as well accompany you a step of the way; not up to the rectory,
though, lest my old friend Helstone should shoot me from the window."
He laughed, and took his hat. Caroline spoke of unnecessary trouble; he
told her to put on her bonnet and shawl. She was quickly ready, and they
were soon both in the open air. Moore drew her hand under his arm, just
in his old manner--that manner which she ever felt to be so kind.
"You may run on, Fanny," he said to the housemaid; "we shall overtake
you." And when the girl had got a little in advance, he enclosed
Caroline's hand in his, and said he was glad to find she was a familiar
guest at Fieldhead. He hoped her intimacy with Miss Keeldar would
continue; such society would be both pleasant and improving.
Caroline replied that she liked Shirley.
"And there is no doubt the liking is mutual," said Moore. "If she
professes friendship, be certain she is sincere. She cannot feign; she