Shirley
They assembled round the table. Hortense chiefly talked. She
congratulated Caroline on the evident improvement in her health. Her
colour and her plump cheeks were returning, she remarked. It was true.
There was an obvious change in Miss Helstone. All about her seemed
elastic; depression, fear, forlornness, were withdrawn. No longer
crushed, and saddened, and slow, and drooping, she looked like one who
had tasted the cordial of heart's ease, and been lifted on the wing of
hope.
After tea Hortense went upstairs. She had not rummaged her drawers for a
month past, and the impulse to perform that operation was now become
resistless. During her absence the talk passed into Caroline's hands.
She took it up with ease; she fell into her best tone of conversation. A
pleasing facility and elegance of language gave fresh charm to familiar
topics; a new music in the always soft voice gently surprised and
pleasingly captivated the listener; unwonted shades and lights of
expression elevated the young countenance with character, and kindled it
with animation.
"Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings," said Moore, after
earnestly gazing at her for some minutes.
"Do I?"
"I sent for you this evening that I might be cheered; but you cheer me
more than I had calculated."
"I am glad of that. And I _really_ cheer you?"
"You look brightly, move buoyantly, speak musically."
"It is pleasant to be here again."
"Truly it is pleasant; I feel it so. And to see health on your cheek and
hope in your eye is pleasant, Cary; but what is this hope, and what is
the source of this sunshine I perceive about you?"
"For one thing, I am happy in mamma. I love her so much, and she loves
me. Long and tenderly she nursed me. Now, when her care has made me
well, I can occupy myself for and with her all the day. I say it is my
turn to attend to her; and I _do_ attend to her. I am her waiting-woman
as well as her child. I like--you would laugh if you knew what pleasure
I have in making dresses and sewing for her. She looks so nice now,
Robert; I will not let her be old-fashioned. And then, she is charming
to talk to--full of wisdom, ripe in judgment, rich in information,
exhaustless in stores her observant faculties have quietly amassed.
Every day that I live with her I like her better, I esteem her more
highly, I love her more tenderly."
"_That_ for one thing, then, Cary. You talk in such a way about 'mamma'
it is enough to make one jealous of the old lady."
"She is not old, Robert."
"Of the young lady, then."
"She does not pretend to be young."
"Well, of the matron. But you said 'mamma's' affection was _one_ thing
that made you happy; now for the other thing."
"I am glad you are better."
"What besides?"
"I am glad we are friends."
"You and I?"
"Yes. I once thought we never should be."
"Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself that is not to
my credit, and consequently will not please you."
"Ah, don't! I cannot bear to think ill of you."
"And I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I deserve."
"Well, but I half know your 'thing;' indeed, I believe I know all about
it."
"You do not."
"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."