Shirley
hen treading a hot girdle. He was for ever looking out of the window and
listening for chariot-wheels. Bluebeard's wife--Sisera's mother--were
nothing to him. He waited when the matter should be opened in form, when
himself should be consulted, when lawyers should be summoned, when
settlement discussions and all the delicious worldly fuss should
pompously begin.
At last there came a letter. He himself handed it to Miss Keeldar out of
the bag. He knew the handwriting; he knew the crest on the seal. He did
not see it opened and read, for Shirley took it to her own room; nor did
he see it answered, for she wrote her reply shut up, and was very long
about it--the best part of a day. He questioned her whether it was
answered; she responded, "Yes."
Again he waited--waited in silence, absolutely not daring to speak, kept
mute by something in Shirley's face--a very awful something--inscrutable
to him as the writing on the wall to Belshazzar. He was moved more than
once to call Daniel, in the person of Louis Moore, and to ask an
interpretation; but his dignity forbade the familiarity. Daniel himself,
perhaps, had his own private difficulties connected with that baffling
bit of translation; he looked like a student for whom grammars are blank
and dictionaries dumb.
* * * * *
Mr. Sympson had been out, to while away an anxious hour in the society
of his friends at De Walden Hall. He returned a little sooner than was
expected. His family and Miss Keeldar were assembled in the oak parlour.
Addressing the latter, he requested her to step with him into another
room. He wished to have with her a "_strictly_ private interview."
She rose, asking no questions and professing no surprise.
"Very well, sir," she said, in the tone of a determined person who is
informed that the dentist is come to extract that large double tooth of
his, from which he has suffered such a purgatory this month past. She
left her sewing and her thimble in the window-seat, and followed her
uncle where he led.
Shut into the drawing-room, the pair took seats, each in an arm-chair,
placed opposite, a few yards between them.
"I have been to De Walden Hall," said Mr. Sympson. He paused. Miss
Keeldar's eyes were on the pretty white-and-green carpet. _That_
information required no response. She gave none.
"I have learned," he went on slowly--"I have learned a circumstance
which surprises me."
Resting her cheek on her forefinger, she waited to be told _what_
circumstance.
"It seems that Nunnely Priory is shut up--that the family are gone back
to their place in ----shire. It seems that the baronet--that the
baronet--that Sir Philip himself has accompanied his mother and
sisters."
"Indeed!" said Shirley.
"May I ask if you share the amazement with which I received this news?"
"No, sir."
"_Is_ it news to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I mean--I mean," pursued Mr. Sympson, now fidgeting in his chair,
quitting his hitherto brief and tolerably clear phraseology, and
returning to his customary wordy, confused, irritable style--"I mean to
have a _thorough_ explanation. I will _not_ be put off. I--I--shall
_insist_ on being heard, and on--on having my own way. My questions
_must_ be answered. I will have clear, satisfactory replies. I am not to
be trifled with. (Silence.)
"It is a strange and an extraordinary thing--a very singular--a most odd
thing! I thought all was right, knew no other; and there--the family are
gone!"
"I suppose, sir, they had a right to go."
"_Sir Philip is gone!_" (with emphasis).
Shirley raised her brows. "_Bon voyage!_" said she.
"This will not do; this must be altered, ma'am."
He drew his chair forward; he pushed it back; he looked perfectly
incensed, and perfectly helpless.
"Come, come now, uncle," expostulated Shirley, "do not begin to fret and
fume, or we shall make no sense of the business. Ask me what you want to
know. I am as willing to come to an explanation as you. I promise you
truthful replies."
"I want--I demand to know, Miss Keeldar, whether Sir Philip has made you
an offer?"
"He has."
"You avow it?"
"I avow it. But now, go on. Consider that point settled."
"He made you an offer that night we dined at the priory?"
"It is enough to say that he made it. Go on."
"He proposed in the recess--in the room that used to be a
picture-gallery--that Sir Monckton converted into it saloon?"
No answer.
"You were both examining a cabinet. I saw it all. My sagacity was not at
fault--it never is. Subsequently you received a letter from him. On what
subject--of what nature were the contents?"
"No matter."
"Ma'am, is that the way in which you speak to me?"
Shirley's foot tapped quick on the carpet.
"There you sit, silent and sullen--_you_ who promised truthful replies."
"Sir, I have answered you thus far. Proceed."
"I should like to see that letter."
"You _cannot_ see it."
"I _must_ and _shall_, ma'am; I am your guardian."
"Having ceased to be a ward, I have no guardian."
"Ungrateful being! Reared by me as my own daughter----"
"Once more, uncle, have the kindness to keep to the point. Let us both
remain cool. For my part, I do not wish to get into a passion; but, you
know, once drive me beyond certain bounds, I care little what I say--I
am not then soon checked. Listen! You have asked me whether Sir Philip
made me an offer. That question is answered. What do you wish to know
next?"
"I desire to know whether you accepted or refused him, and know it I
will."
"Certainly, you ought to know it. I refused him."
"Refused him! You--_you_, Shirley Keeldar, _refused_ Sir Philip
Nunnely?"
"I did."
The poor gentleman bounced from his chair, and first rushed and then
trotted through the room.
"There it is! There it is! There it is!"
"Sincerely speaking, I am sorry, uncle, you are so disappointed."
Concession, contrition, never do any good with some people. Instead of
softening and conciliating, they but embolden and harden them. Of that
number was Mr. Sympson.
"_I_ disappointed? What is it to me? Have _I_ an interest in it? You
would insinuate, perhaps, that I have motives?"
"Most people have motives of some sort for their actions."
"She accuses me to my face! I, that have been a parent to her, she
charges with bad motives!"
"_Bad_ motives I did not say."
"And now you prevaricate; you have no principles!"
"Uncle, you tire me. I want to go away."
"Go you shall not! I will be answered. What are your intentions, Miss
Keeldar?"
"In what respect?"
"In respect of matrimony?"
"To be quiet, and to do just as I please."
"Just as you please! The words are to the last degree indecorous."
"Mr. Sympson, I advise you not to become insulting. You know I will not
bear that."
"You read French. Your mind is poisoned with French novels. You have
imbibed French principles."
"The ground you are treading now returns a mighty hollow sound under
your feet. Beware!"
"It will end in infamy, sooner or later. I have foreseen it all along."
"Do you assert, sir, that something in which _I_ am concerned will end
in infamy?"
"That it will--that it will. You said just now you would act as you
please. You acknowledge no rules--no limitations."
"Silly stuff, and vulgar as silly!"
"Regardless of decorum, you are prepared to fly in the face of
propriety."
"You tire me, uncle."
"What, madam--_what_ could be your reasons for refusing Sir Philip?"
"At last there is another sensible question; I shall be glad to reply to
it. Sir Philip is too young for me. I regard him as a boy. All his
relations--his mother especially--would be annoyed if he married me.
Such a step would embroil him with them. I am not his equal in the
world's estimation."
"Is that all?"
"Our dispositions are not compatible."
"Why, a more amiable gentleman never breathed."
"He is very amiable--very excellent--truly estimable; but _not my
master_--not in one point. I could not trust myself with his happiness.
I would not undertake the keeping of it for thousands. I will accept no
hand which cannot hold me in check."
"I thought you liked to do as you please. You are vastly inconsistent."
"When I promise to obey, it shall be under the conviction that I can
keep that promise. I could not obey a youth like Sir Philip. Besides, he
would never command me. He would expect me always to rule--to guide--and
I have no taste whatever for the office."
"_You_ no taste for swaggering, and subduing, and ordering, and ruling?"
"Not my husband; only my uncle."
"Where is the difference?"
"There _is_ a slight difference--that is certain. And I know full well
any man who wishes to live in decent comfort with me as a husband must
be able to control me."
"I wish you had a real tyrant."
"A tyrant would not hold me for a day, not for an hour. I would
rebel--break from him--defy him."
"Are you not enough to bewilder one's brain with your
self-contradiction?"
"It is evident I bewilder your brain."
"You talk of Sir Philip being young. He is two-and-twenty."
"My husband must be thirty, with the sense of forty."
"You had better pick out some old man--some white-headed or bald-headed
swain."
"No, thank you."
"You could lead some doting fool; you might pin him to your apron."
"I might do that with a boy; but it is not my vocation. Did I not say I
prefer a _master_--one in whose presence I shall feel obliged and
disposed to be good; one whose control my impatient temper must
acknowledge; a man whose approbation can reward, whose displeasure
punish me; a man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and very
possible to fear?"
"What is there to hinder you from doing all this with Sir Philip? He is
a baronet--a man of rank, property, connections far above yours. If you
talk of intellect, he is a poet--he writes verses; which you, I take it,
cannot do, with all your cleverness."
"Neither his title, wealth, pedigree, nor poetry avail to invest him
with the power I describe. These are feather-weights; they want ballast.
A measure of sound, solid, practical sense would have stood him in
better stead with me."
"You and Henry rave about poetry! You used to catch fire like tinder on
the subject when you were a girl."
"O uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this world, there is
nothing glorious in the world to come that is not poetry!"
"Marry a poet, then, in God's name!"
"Show him me, and I will."
"Sir Philip."
"Not at all. You are almost as good a poet as he."
"Madam, you are wandering from the point."
"Indeed, uncle, I wanted to do so, and I shall be glad to lead you away
with me. Do not let us get out of temper with each other; it is not
worth while."
"Out of temper, Miss Keeldar! I should be glad to know who is out of
temper."
"_I_ am not, yet."
"If you mean to insinuate that _I_ am, I consider that you are guilty of
impertinence."
"You will be soon, if you go on at that rate."
"There it is! With your pert tongue you would try the patience of a
Job."
"I know I should."
"No levity, miss! This is not a laughing matter. It is an affair I am
resolved to probe thoroughly, convinced that there is mischief at the
bottom. You described just now, with far too much freedom for your years
and sex, the sort of individual you would prefer as a husband. Pray, did
you paint from the life?"
Shirley opened her lips, but instead of speaking she only glowed
rose-red.
"I shall have an answer to that question," affirmed Mr. Sympson,
assuming vast courage and consequence on the strength of this symptom of
confusion.
"It was an historical picture, uncle, from several originals."
"Several originals! Bless my heart!"
"I have been in love several times."
"This is cynical."