Shirley
"And who, pray, is the Abraham, the hero of a patriarch who has achieved
such a conquest?"
"You still speak scornfully, and cynically, and sorely; but I will make
you change your note before I have done with you."
"We will see that. Can she marry this Cupidon?"
"Cupidon! he is just about as much a Cupidon as you are a Cyclops."
"Can she marry him?"
"You will see."
"I want to know his name, Cary."
"Guess it."
"Is it any one in this neighbourhood?"
"Yes, in Briarfield parish."
"Then it is some person unworthy of her. I don't know a soul in
Briarfield parish her equal."
"Guess."
"Impossible. I suppose she is under a delusion, and will plunge into
some absurdity, after all."
Caroline smiled.
"Do _you_ approve the choice?" asked Moore.
"Quite, _quite_."
"Then I _am_ puzzled; for the head which owns this bounteous fall of
hazel curls is an excellent little thinking machine, most accurate in
its working. It boasts a correct, steady judgment, inherited from
'mamma,' I suppose."
"And I _quite_ approve, and mamma was charmed."
"'Mamma' charmed--Mrs. Pryor! It can't be romantic, then?"
"It _is_ romantic, but it is also right."
"Tell me, Cary--tell me out of pity; I am too weak to be tantalized."
"You shall be tantalized--it will do you no harm; you are not so weak as
you pretend."
"I have twice this evening had some thoughts of falling on the floor at
your feet."
"You had better not. I shall decline to help you up."
"And worshipping you downright. My mother was a Roman Catholic. You look
like the loveliest of her pictures of the Virgin. I think I will embrace
her faith and kneel and adore."
"Robert, Robert, sit still; don't be absurd. I will go to Hortense if
you commit extravagances."
"You have stolen my senses. Just now nothing will come into my mind but
_les litanies de la sainte Vièrge. Rose céleste, reine des anges_!"
"_Tour d'ivoire, maison d'or_--is not that the jargon? Well, sit down
quietly, and guess your riddle."
"But 'mamma' charmed--there's the puzzle."
"I'll tell you what mamma said when I told her. 'Depend upon it, my
dear, such a choice will make the happiness of Miss Keeldar's life.'"
"I'll guess once, and no more. It is old Helstone. She is going to be
your aunt."
"I'll tell my uncle; I'll tell Shirley!" cried Caroline, laughing
gleefully. "Guess again, Robert; your blunders are charming."
"It is the parson--Hall."
"Indeed, no; he is mine, if you please."
"Yours! Ay, the whole generation of women in Briarfield seem to have
made an idol of that priest. I wonder why; he is bald, sand-blind,
gray-haired."
"Fanny will be here to fetch me before you have solved the riddle, if
you don't make haste."
"I'll guess no more--I am tired; and then I don't care. Miss Keeldar may
marry _le grand Turc_ for me."
"Must I whisper?"
"That you must, and quickly. Here comes Hortense; come near, a little
nearer, my own Lina. I care for the whisper more than the words."
She whispered. Robert gave a start, a flash of the eye, a brief laugh.
Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed behind, with information that
Fanny was come. The hour of converse was over.
Robert found a moment to exchange a few more whispered sentences. He was
waiting at the foot of the staircase as Caroline descended after putting
on her shawl.
"Must I call Shirley a noble creature now?" he asked.
"If you wish to speak the truth, certainly."
"Must I forgive her?"
"Forgive her? Naughty Robert! Was she in the wrong, or were you?"
"Must I at length love her downright, Cary?"
Caroline looked keenly up, and made a movement towards him, something
between the loving and the petulant.
"Only give the word, and I'll try to obey you."
"Indeed, you must not love her; the bare idea is perverse."
"But then she is handsome, peculiarly handsome. Hers is a beauty that
grows on you. You think her but graceful when you first see her; you
discover her to be beautiful when you have known her for a year."
"It is not you who are to say these things. Now, Robert, be good."
"O Cary, I have no love to give. Were the goddess of beauty to woo me, I
could not meet her advances. There is no heart which I can call mine in
this breast."
"So much the better; you are a great deal safer without. Good-night."
"Why must you always go, Lina, at the very instant when I most want you
to stay?"
"Because you most wish to retain when you are most certain to lose."
"Listen; one other word. Take care of your own heart--do you hear me?"
"There is no danger."
"I am not convinced of that. The Platonic parson, for instance."
"Who--Malone?"
"Cyril Hall. I owe more than one twinge of jealousy to that quarter."
"As to you, you have been flirting with Miss Mann. She showed me the
other day a plant you had given her.--Fanny, I am ready."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
WRITTEN IN THE SCHOOLROOM.
Louis Moore's doubts respecting the immediate evacuation of Fieldhead by
Mr. Sympson turned out to be perfectly well founded. The very next day
after the grand quarrel about Sir Philip Nunnely a sort of
reconciliation was patched up between uncle and niece. Shirley, who
could never find it in her heart to be or to seem inhospitable (except
in the single instance of Mr. Donne), begged the whole party to stay a
little longer. She begged in such earnest it was evident she wished it
for some reason. They took her at her word. Indeed, the uncle could not
bring himself to leave her quite unwatched--at full liberty to marry
Robert Moore as soon as that gentleman should be able (Mr. Sympson
piously prayed this might never be the case) to reassert his supposed
pretensions to her hand. They all stayed.
In his first rage against all the house of Moore, Mr. Sympson had so
conducted himself towards Mr. Louis that that gentleman--patient of
labour or suffering, but intolerant of coarse insolence--had promptly
resigned his post, and could now be induced to resume and retain it only
till such time as the family should quit Yorkshire. Mrs. Sympson's
entreaties prevailed with him thus far; his own attachment to his pupil
constituted an additional motive for concession; and probably he had a
third motive, stronger than either of the other two. Probably he would
have found it very hard indeed to leave Fieldhead just now.
Things went on for some time pretty smoothly. Miss Keeldar's health was
re-established; her spirits resumed their flow. Moore had found means to
relieve her from every nervous apprehension; and, indeed, from the
moment of giving him her confidence, every fear seemed to have taken
wing. Her heart became as lightsome, her manner as careless, as those of
a little child, that, thoughtless of its own life or death, trusts all
responsibility to its parents. He and William Farren--through whose
medium he made inquiries concerning the state of Phœbe--agreed in
asserting that the dog was not mad, that it was only ill-usage which had
driven her from home; for it was proved that her master was in the
frequent habit of chastising her violently. Their assertion might or
might not be true. The groom and gamekeeper affirmed to the
contrary--both asserting that, if hers was not a clear case of
hydrophobia, there was no such disease. But to this evidence Louis Moore
turned an incredulous ear. He reported to Shirley only what was
encouraging. She believed him; and, right or wrong, it is certain that
in her case the bite proved innocuous.
November passed; December came. The Sympsons were now really departing.
It was incumbent on them to be at home by Christmas. Their packages were
preparing; they were to leave in a few days. One winter evening, during
the last week of their stay, Louis Moore again took out his little blank
book, and discoursed with it as follows:--
* * * * *
"She is lovelier than ever. Since that little cloud was dispelled all
the temporary waste and wanness have vanished. It was marvellous to see
how soon the magical energy of youth raised her elastic and revived her
blooming.
"After breakfast this morning, when I had seen her, and listened to her,
and, so to speak, felt her, in every sentient atom of my frame, I passed
from her sunny presence into the chill drawing-room. Taking up a little
gilt volume, I found it to contain a selection of lyrics. I read a poem
or two; whether the spell was in me or in the verse I know not, but my
heart filled genially, my pulse rose. I glowed, notwithstanding the
frost air. I, too, am young as yet. Though she said she never considered
me young, I am barely thirty. There are moments when life, for no other
reason than my own youth, beams with sweet hues upon me.
"It was time to go to the schoolroom. I went. That same schoolroom is
rather pleasant in a morning. The sun then shines through the low
lattice; the books are in order; there are no papers strewn about; the
fire is clear and clean; no cinders have fallen, no ashes accumulated. I
found Henry there, and he had brought with him Miss Keeldar. They were
together.
"I said she was lovelier than ever. She is. A fine rose, not deep but
delicate, opens on her cheek. Her eye, always dark, clear, and speaking,
utters now a language I cannot render; it is the utterance, seen not
heard, through which angels must have communed when there was 'silence
in heaven.' Her hair was always dusk as night and fine as silk, her neck
was always fair, flexible, polished; but both have now a new charm. The
tresses are soft as shadow, the shoulders they fall on wear a goddess
grace. Once I only _saw_ her beauty, now I _feel_ it.
"Henry was repeating his lesson to her before bringing it to me. One of
her hands was occupied with the book; he held the other. That boy gets
more than his share of privileges; he dares caress and is caressed. What
indulgence and compassion she shows him! Too much. If this went on,
Henry in a few years, when his soul was formed, would offer it on her
altar, as I have offered mine.
"I saw her eyelid flitter when I came in, but she did not look up; _now_
she hardly ever gives me a glance. She seems to grow silent too; to _me_
she rarely speaks, and when I am present, she says little to others. In
my gloomy moments I attribute this change to indifference, aversion,
what not? In my sunny intervals I give it another meaning. I say, were I
her equal, I could find in this shyness coyness, and in that coyness
love. As it is, dare I look for it? What could I do with it if found?
"This morning I dared at least contrive an hour's communion for her and
me; I dared not only _wish_ but _will_ an interview with her. I dared
summon solitude to guard us. Very decidedly I called Henry to the door.
Without hesitation I said, 'Go where you will, my boy; but, till I call
you, return not here.'
"Henry, I could see, did not like his dismissal. That boy is young, but
a thinker; his meditative eye shines on me strangely sometimes. He half
feels what links me to Shirley; he half guesses that there is a dearer
delight in the reserve with which I am treated than in all the
endearments he is allowed. The young, lame, half-grown lion would growl
at me now and then, because I have tamed his lioness and am her keeper,
did not the habit of discipline and the instinct of affection hold him
subdued. Go, Henry; you must learn to take your share of the bitter of
life with all of Adam's race that have gone before or will come after
you. Your destiny can be no exception to the common lot; be grateful
that your love is overlooked thus early, before it can claim any
affinity to passion. An hour's fret, a pang of envy, suffice to express
what you feel. Jealousy hot as the sun above the line, rage destructive
as the tropic storm, the clime of your sensations ignores--as yet.