Shirley
madman. Two months ago I could have sworn he had the game all in his own
hands; and there he runs the country, and quarters himself up in London
for weeks together, and by the time he comes back he'll find himself
checkmated. Louis, 'there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken
at the flood, leads on to fortune, but, once let slip, never returns
again.' I'd write to Robert, if I were you, and remind him of that."
"Robert had views on Miss Keeldar?" inquired Louis, as if the idea was
new to him.
"Views I suggested to him myself, and views he might have realized, for
she liked him."
"As a neighbour?"
"As more than that. I have seen her change countenance and colour at the
mere mention of his name. Write to the lad, I say, and tell him to come
home. He is a finer gentleman than this bit of a baronet, after all."
"Does it not strike you, Mr. Yorke, that for a mere penniless adventurer
to aspire to a rich woman's hand is presumptuous--contemptible?"
"Oh, if you are for high notions and double-refined sentiment, I've
naught to say. I'm a plain, practical man myself, and if Robert is
willing to give up that royal prize to a lad-rival--a puling slip of
aristocracy--I am quite agreeable. At _his_ age, in _his_ place, with
_his_ inducements, I would have acted differently. Neither baronet, nor
duke, nor prince should have snatched my sweetheart from me without a
struggle. But you tutors are such solemn chaps; it is almost like
speaking to a parson to consult with you."
* * * * *
Flattered and fawned upon as Shirley was just now, it appeared she was
not absolutely spoiled--that her better nature did not quite leave her.
Universal report had indeed ceased to couple her name with that of
Moore, and this silence seemed sanctioned by her own apparent oblivion
of the absentee; but that she had not _quite_ forgotten him--that she
still regarded him, if not with love, yet with interest--seemed proved
by the increased attention which at this juncture of affairs a sudden
attack of illness induced her to show that tutor-brother of Robert's, to
whom she habitually bore herself with strange alternations of cool
reserve and docile respect--now sweeping past him in all the dignity of
the moneyed heiress and prospective Lady Nunnely, and anon accosting him
as abashed school-girls are wont to accost their stern professors;
bridling her neck of ivory and curling her lip of carmine, if he
encountered her glance, one minute, and the next submitting to the grave
rebuke of his eye with as much contrition as if he had the power to
inflict penalties in case of contumacy.
Louis Moore had perhaps caught the fever, which for a few days laid him
low, in one of the poor cottages of the district, which he, his lame
pupil, and Mr. Hall were in the habit of visiting together. At any rate
he sickened, and after opposing to the malady a taciturn resistance for
a day or two, was obliged to keep his chamber.
He lay tossing on his thorny bed one evening, Henry, who would not quit
him, watching faithfully beside him, when a tap--too light to be that of
Mrs. Gill or the housemaid--summoned young Sympson to the door.
"How is Mr. Moore to-night?" asked a low voice from the dark gallery.
"Come in and see him yourself."
"Is he asleep?"
"I wish he could sleep. Come and speak to him, Shirley."
"He would not like it."
But the speaker stepped in, and Henry, seeing her hesitate on the
threshold, took her hand and drew her to the couch.
The shaded light showed Miss Keeldar's form but imperfectly; yet it
revealed her in elegant attire. There was a party assembled below,
including Sir Philip Nunnely; the ladies were now in the drawing-room,
and their hostess had stolen from them to visit Henry's tutor. Her pure
white dress, her fair arms and neck, the trembling chainlet of gold
circling her throat and quivering on her breast, glistened strangely
amid the obscurity of the sickroom. Her mien was chastened and pensive.
She spoke gently.
"Mr. Moore, how are you to-night?"
"I have not been very ill, and am now better."
"I heard that you complained of thirst. I have brought you some grapes;
can you taste one?"
"No; but I thank you for remembering me."
"Just one."
From the rich cluster that filled a small basket held in her hand she
severed a berry and offered it to his lips. He shook his head, and
turned aside his flushed face.
"But what, then, can I bring you instead? You have no wish for fruit;
yet I see that your lips are parched. What beverage do you prefer?"
"Mrs. Gill supplies me with toast-and-water. I like it best."
Silence fell for some minutes.
"Do you suffer?--have you pain?"
"Very little."
"What made you ill?"
Silence.
"I wonder what caused this fever? To what do you attribute it?"
"Miasma, perhaps--malaria. This is autumn, a season fertile in fevers."
"I hear you often visit the sick in Briarfield, and Nunnely too, with
Mr. Hall. You should be on your guard; temerity is not wise."
"That reminds me, Miss Keeldar, that perhaps you had better not enter
this chamber or come near this couch. I do not believe my illness is
infectious. I scarcely fear"--with a sort of smile--"_you_ will take it;
but why should you run even the shadow of a risk? Leave me."
"Patience, I will go soon; but I should like to do something for you
before I depart--any little service----"
"They will miss you below."
"No; the gentlemen are still at table."
"They will not linger long. Sir Philip Nunnely is no wine-bibber, and I
hear him just now pass from the dining-room to the drawing-room."
"It is a servant."
"It is Sir Philip; I know his step."
"Your hearing is acute."
"It is never dull, and the sense seems sharpened at present. Sir Philip
was here to tea last night. I heard you sing to him some song which he
had brought you. I heard him, when he took his departure at eleven
o'clock, call you out on to the pavement, to look at the evening star."
"You must be nervously sensitive."
"I heard him kiss your hand."
"Impossible!"
"No: my chamber is over the hall, the window just above the front door;
the sash was a little raised, for I felt feverish. You stood ten minutes
with him on the steps. I heard your discourse, every word, and I heard
the salute.--Henry, give me some water."
"Let me give it him."
But he half rose to take the glass from young Sympson, and declined her
attendance.
"And can I do nothing?"
"Nothing; for you cannot guarantee me a night's peaceful rest, and it is
all I at present want."
"You do not sleep well?"
"Sleep has left me."
"Yet you said you were not very ill?"
"I am often sleepless when in high health."
"If I had power, I would lap you in the most placid slumber--quite deep
and hushed, without a dream."
"Blank annihilation! I do not ask that."
"With dreams of all you most desire."
"Monstrous delusions! The sleep would be delirium, the waking death."
"Your wishes are not so chimerical; you are no visionary."
"Miss Keeldar, I suppose you think so; but my character is not, perhaps,
quite as legible to you as a page of the last new novel might be."
"That is possible. But this sleep--I _should_ like to woo it to your
pillow, to win for you its favour. If I took a book and sat down and
read some pages? I can well spare half an hour."
"Thank you, but I will not detain you."
"I would read softly."
"It would not do. I am too feverish and excitable to bear a soft,
cooing, vibrating voice close at my ear. You had better leave me."
"Well, I will go."
"And no good-night?"
"Yes, sir, yes. Mr. Moore, good-night." (Exit Shirley.)
"Henry, my boy, go to bed now; it is time you had some repose."
"Sir, it would please me to watch at your bedside all night."
"Nothing less called for. I am getting better. There, go."
"Give me your blessing, sir."
"God bless you, my best pupil!"
"You never call me your dearest pupil!"
"No, nor ever shall."
* * * * *
Possibly Miss Keeldar resented her former teacher's rejection of her
courtesy. It is certain she did not repeat the offer of it. Often as her
light step traversed the gallery in the course of a day, it did not
again pause at his door; nor did her "cooing, vibrating voice" disturb a
second time the hush of the sickroom. A sickroom, indeed, it soon ceased
to be; Mr. Moore's good constitution quickly triumphed over his
indisposition. In a few days he shook it off, and resumed his duties as
tutor.
That "auld lang syne" had still its authority both with preceptor and
scholar was proved by the manner in which he sometimes promptly passed
the distance she usually maintained between them, and put down her high
reserve with a firm, quiet hand.
One afternoon the Sympson family were gone out to take a carriage
airing. Shirley, never sorry to snatch a reprieve from their society,
had remained behind, detained by business, as she said. The business--a
little letter-writing--was soon dispatched after the yard gates had
closed on the carriage; Miss Keeldar betook herself to the garden.
It was a peaceful autumn day. The gilding of the Indian summer mellowed
the pastures far and wide. The russet woods stood ripe to be stripped,
but were yet full of leaf. The purple of heath-bloom, faded but not
withered, tinged the hills. The beck wandered down to the Hollow,
through a silent district; no wind followed its course or haunted its
woody borders. Fieldhead gardens bore the seal of gentle decay. On the
walks, swept that morning, yellow leaves had fluttered down again. Its
time of flowers, and even of fruits, was over; but a scantling of
apples enriched the trees. Only a blossom here and there expanded pale
and delicate amidst a knot of faded leaves.
These single flowers--the last of their race--Shirley culled as she
wandered thoughtfully amongst the beds. She was fastening into her
girdle a hueless and scentless nosegay, when Henry Sympson called to her
as he came limping from the house.
"Shirley, Mr. Moore would be glad to see you in the schoolroom and to
hear you read a little French, if you have no more urgent occupation."
The messenger delivered his commission very simply, as if it were a mere
matter of course.
"Did Mr. Moore tell you to say that?"
"Certainly; why not? And now, do come, and let us once more be as we
were at Sympson Grove. We used to have pleasant school-hours in those
days."
Miss Keeldar perhaps thought that circumstances were changed since then;
however, she made no remark, but after a little reflection quietly
followed Henry.
Entering the schoolroom, she inclined her head with a decent obeisance,
as had been her wont in former times. She removed her bonnet, and hung
it up beside Henry's cap. Louis Moore sat at his desk, turning the
leaves of a book, open before him, and marking passages with his pencil.
He just moved, in acknowledgment of her curtsy, but did not rise.
"You proposed to read to me a few nights ago," said he. "I could not
hear you then. My attention is now at your service. A little renewed
practice in French may not be unprofitable. Your accent, I have
observed, begins to rust."
"What book shall I take?"
"Here are the posthumous works of St. Pierre. Read a few pages of the
'Fragments de l'Amazone.'"
She accepted the chair which he had placed in readiness near his own;
the volume lay on his desk--there was but one between them; her sweeping
curls dropped so low as to hide the page from him.
"Put back your hair," he said.
For one moment Shirley looked not quite certain whether she would obey
the request or disregard it. A flicker of her eye beamed furtive on the
professor's face. Perhaps if he had been looking at her harshly or