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.
"I took my usual seat at the desk, quite in my usual way. I am blessed
in that power to cover all inward ebullition with outward calm. No one
who looks at my slow face can guess the vortex sometimes whirling in my
heart, and engulfing thought and wrecking prudence. Pleasant is it to
have the gift to proceed peacefully and powerfully in your course
without alarming by one eccentric movement. It was not my present
intention to utter one word of love to her, or to reveal one glimpse of
the fire in which I wasted. Presumptuous I never have been; presumptuous
I never will be. Rather than even _seem_ selfish and interested, I would
resolutely rise, gird my loins, part and leave her, and seek, on the
other side of the globe, a new life, cold and barren as the rock the
salt tide daily washes. My design this morning was to take of her a near
scrutiny--to read a line in the page of her heart. Before I left I
determined to know _what_ I was leaving.
"I had some quills to make into pens. Most men's hands would have
trembled when their hearts were so stirred; mine went to work steadily,
and my voice, when I called it into exercise, was firm.
"'This day week you will be alone at Fieldhead, Miss Keeldar.'
"'Yes: I rather think my uncle's intention to go is a settled one now.'
"'He leaves you dissatisfied.'
"'He is not pleased with me.'
"'He departs as he came--no better for his journey. This is mortifying.'
"'I trust the failure of his plans will take from him all inclination to
lay new ones.'
"'In his way Mr. Sympson honestly wished you well. All he has done or
intended to do he believed to be for the best.'
"'You are kind to undertake the defence of a man who has permitted
himself to treat you with so much insolence.'
"'I never feel shocked at, or bear malice for, what is spoken in
character; and most perfectly in character was that vulgar and violent
onset against me, when he had quitted you worsted.'
"'You cease now to be Henry's tutor?'
"'I shall be parted from Henry for a while (if he and I live we shall
meet again somehow, for we love each other) and be ousted from the bosom
of the Sympson family for ever. Happily this change does not leave me
stranded; it but hurries into premature execution designs long formed.'
"'No change finds you off your guard. I was sure, in your calm way, you
would be prepared for sudden mutation. I always think you stand in the
world like a solitary but watchful, thoughtful archer in a wood. And the
quiver on your shoulder holds more arrows than one; your bow is provided
with a second string. Such too is your brother's wont. You two might go
forth homeless hunters to the loneliest western wilds; all would be well
with you. The hewn tree would make you a hut, the cleared forest yield
you fields from its stripped bosom, the buffalo would feel your
rifle-shot, and with lowered horns and hump pay homage at your feet.'
"'And any Indian tribe of Blackfeet or Flatheads would afford us a
bride, perhaps?'
"'No' (hesitating), 'I think not. The savage is sordid. I think--that
is, I _hope_--you would neither of you share your hearth with that to
which you could not give your heart.'
"'What suggested the wild West to your mind, Miss Keeldar? Have you been
with me in spirit when I did not see you? Have you entered into my
day-dreams, and beheld my brain labouring at its scheme of a future?'
"She had separated a slip of paper for lighting tapers--a spill, as it
is called--into fragments. She threw morsel by morsel into the fire, and
stood pensively watching them consume. She did not speak.
"'How did you learn what you seem to know about my intentions?'
"'I know nothing. I am only discovering them now. I spoke at hazard.'
"'Your hazard sounds like divination. A tutor I will never be again;
never take a pupil after Henry and yourself; not again will I sit
habitually at another man's table--no more be the appendage of a family.
I am now a man of thirty; I have never been free since I was a boy of
ten. I have such a thirst for freedom, such a deep passion to know her
and call her mine, such a day-desire and night-longing to win her and
possess her, I will not refuse to cross the Atlantic for her sake; her I
will follow deep into virgin woods. Mine it shall not be to accept a
savage girl as a slave--she could not be a wife. I know no white woman
whom I love that would accompany me; but I am certain Liberty will await
me, sitting under a pine. When I call her she will come to my loghouse,
and she shall fill my arms.'
"She could not hear me speak so unmoved, and she _was_ moved. It was
right--I meant to move her. She could not answer me, nor could she look
at me. I should have been sorry if she could have done either. Her cheek
glowed as if a crimson flower through whose petals the sun shone had
cast its light upon it. On the white lid and dark lashes of her downcast
eye trembled all that is graceful in the sense of half-painful,
half-pleasing shame.
"Soon she controlled her emotion, and took all her feelings under
command. I saw she had felt insurrection, and was waking to empire. She
sat down. There was that in her face which I could read. It said, I see
the line which is my limit; nothing shall make me pass it. I feel--I
know how far I may reveal my feelings, and when I must clasp the volume.
I have advanced to a certain distance, as far as the true and sovereign
and undegraded nature of my kind permits; now here I stand rooted. My
heart may break if it is baffled; let it break. It shall never dishonour
me; it shall never dishonour my sisterhood in me. Suffering before
degradation! death before treachery!
"I, for my part, said, 'If she were poor, I would be at her feet; if she
were lowly, I would take her in my arms. Her gold and her station are
two griffins that guard her on each side. Love looks and longs, and
dares not; Passion hovers round, and is kept at bay; Truth and Devotion
are scared. There is nothing to lose in winning her, no sacrifice to
make. It is all clear gain, and therefore unimaginably difficult.'
"Difficult or not, something must be done, something must be said. I
could not, and would not, sit silent with all that beauty modestly mute
in my presence. I spoke thus, and still I spoke with calm. Quiet as my
words were, I could hear they fell in a tone distinct, round, and deep.
"'Still, I know I shall be strangely placed with that mountain nymph
Liberty. She is, I suspect, akin to that Solitude which I once wooed,
and from which I now seek a divorce. These Oreads are peculiar. They
come upon you with an unearthly charm, like some starlight evening; they
inspire a wild but not warm delight; their beauty is the beauty of
spirits; their grace is not the grace of life, but of seasons or scenes
in nature. Theirs is the dewy bloom of morning, the languid flush of
evening, the peace of the moon, the changefulness of clouds. I want and
will have something different. This elfish splendour looks chill to my
vision, and feels frozen to my touch. I am not a poet; I cannot live
with abstractions. You, Miss Keeldar, have sometimes, in your laughing
satire, called me a material philosopher, and implied that I live
sufficiently for the substantial. Certainly I feel material from head to
foot; and glorious as Nature is, and deeply as I worship her with the
solid powers of a solid heart, I would rather behold her through the
soft human eyes of a loved and lovely wife than through the wild orbs of
the highest goddess of Olympus.'
"'Juno could not cook a buffalo steak as you like it,' said she.
"'She could not; but I will tell you who could--some young, penniless,
friendless orphan girl. I wish I could find such a one--pretty enough
for me to love, with something of the mind and heart suited to my taste;
not uneducated--honest and modest. I care nothing for attainments, but I
would fain have the germ of those sweet natural powers which nothing
acquired can rival; any temper Fate wills--I can manage the hottest. To
such a creature as this I should like to be first tutor and then
husband. I would teach her my language, my habits and my principles, and
then I would reward her with my love.'
"'_Reward_ her, lord of the creation--_reward_ her!'" ejaculated she,
with a curled lip.
"'And be repaid a thousandfold.'
"'If she willed it, monseigneur.'
"'And she _should_ will it.'
"'You have stipulated for any temper Fate wills. Compulsion is flint and
a blow to the metal of some souls.'
"'And love the spark it elicits.'
"'Who cares for the love that is but a spark--seen, flown upward, and
gone?'
"'I must find my orphan girl. Tell me how, Miss Keeldar.'
"'Advertise; and be sure you add, when you describe the qualifications,
she must be a good plain cook.'
"'I must find her; and when I do find her I shall marry her.'
"'Not you!' and her voice took a sudden accent of peculiar scorn.
"I liked this. I had roused her from the pensive mood in which I had
first found her. I would stir her further.
"'Why doubt it?'
"'_You_ marry!'
"'Yes, of course; nothing more evident than that I can and shall.'
"'The contrary is evident, Mr. Moore.'
"She charmed me in this mood--waxing disdainful, half insulting; pride,
temper, derision, blent in her large fine eye, that had just now the
look of a merlin's.
"'Favour me with your reasons for such an opinion, Miss Keeldar.'
"'How will _you_ manage to marry, I wonder?'
"'I shall manage it with ease and speed when I find the proper person.'
"'Accept celibacy!' (and she made a gesture with her hand as if she gave
me something) 'take it as your doom!'
"'No; you cannot give what I already have. Celibacy has been mine for
thirty years. If you wish to offer me a gift, a parting present, a
keepsake, you must change the boon.'
"'Take worse, then!'
"'How--what?'
"I now felt, and looked, and spoke eagerly. I was unwise to quit my
sheet-anchor of calm even for an instant; it deprived me of an advantage
and transferred it to her. The little spark of temper dissolved in
sarcasm, and eddied over her countenance in the ripples of a mocking
smile.
"'Take a wife that has paid you court to save your modesty, and thrust
herself upon you to spare your scruples.'
"'Only show me where.'
"'Any stout widow that has had a few husbands already, and can manage
these things.'
"'She must not be rich, then. Oh these riches!'
"'Never would you have gathered the produce of the gold-bearing garden.
You have not courage to confront the sleepless dragon; you have not
craft to borrow the aid of Atlas.'
"'You look hot and haughty.'
"'And you far haughtier. Yours is the monstrous pride which counterfeits
humility.'
"'I am a dependant; I know my place.'
"'I am a woman; I know mine.'
"'I am poor; I must be proud.'
"'I have received ordinances, and own obligations stringent as yours.'
"We had reached a critical point now, and we halted and looked at each
other. _She_ would not give in, I felt. Beyond this I neither felt nor
saw. A few moments yet were mine. The end was coming--I heard its
rush--but not come. I would dally, wait, talk, and when impulse urged I
would act. I am never in a hurry; I never was in a hurry in my whole
life. Hasty people drink the nectar of existence scalding hot; I taste
it cool as dew. I proceeded: 'Apparently, Miss Keeldar, you are as
little likely to marry as myself. I know you have refused three--nay,
four--advantageous offers, and, I believe, a fifth. Have you rejected
Sir Philip Nunnely?'
"I put this question suddenly and promptly.
"'Did you think I should take him?'
"'I thought you might.'
"'On what grounds, may I ask?'
"'Conformity of rank, age, pleasing contrast of temper--for _he_ is mild
and amiable--harmony of intellectual tastes.'
"'A beautiful sentence! Let us take it to pieces. "Conformity of rank."
He is quite above me. Compare my grange with his palace, if you please.
I am disdained by his kith and kin. "Suitability of age." We were born
in the same year; consequently he is still a boy, while I am a
woman--ten years his senior to all intents and purposes. "Contrast of
temper." Mild and amiable, is he; I--what? Tell me.'
"'Sister of the spotted, bright, quick, fiery leopard.'
"'And you would mate me with a kid--the millennium being yet millions of
centuries from mankind; being yet, indeed, an archangel high in the
seventh heaven, uncommissioned to descend? Unjust barbarian! "Harmony of
intellectual tastes." He is fond of poetry, and I hate it----'
"'Do you? That is news.'
"'I absolutely shudder at the sight of metre or at the sound of rhyme
whenever I am at the priory or Sir Philip at Fieldhead. Harmony,
indeed! When did I whip up syllabub sonnets or string stanzas fragile as
fragments of glass? and when did I betray a belief that those
penny-beads were genuine brilliants?'
"'You might have the satisfaction of leading him to a higher standard,
of improving his tastes.'
"'Leading and improving! teaching and tutoring! bearing and forbearing!
Pah! my husband is not to be my baby. I am not to set him his daily
lesson and see that he learns it, and give him a sugar-plum if he is
good, and a patient, pensive, pathetic lecture if he is bad. But it is
like a tutor to talk of the "satisfaction of teaching." I suppose _you_
think it the finest employment in the world. I don't. I reject it.
Improving a husband! No. I shall insist upon my husband improving me, or
else we part.'
"'God knows it is needed!'
"'What do you mean by that, Mr. Moore?'
"'What I say. Improvement is imperatively needed.'
"'If you were a woman you would school _monsieur, votre mari_,
charmingly. It would just suit you; schooling is your vocation.'
"'May I ask whether, in your present just and gentle mood, you mean to
taunt me with being a tutor?'
"'Yes, bitterly; and with anything else you please--any defect of which
you are painfully conscious.'
"'With being poor, for instance?'
"'Of course; that will sting you. You are sore about your poverty; you
brood over that.'
"'With having nothing but a very plain person to offer the woman who may
master my heart?'
"'Exactly. You have a habit of calling yourself plain. You are sensitive
about the cut of your features because they are not quite on an Apollo
pattern. You abase them more than is needful, in the faint hope that
others may say a word in their behalf--which won't happen. Your face is
nothing to boast of, certainly--not a pretty line nor a pretty tint to
be found therein.'
"'Compare it with your own.'
"'It looks like a god of Egypt--a great sand-buried stone head; or
rather I will compare it to nothing so lofty. It looks like Tartar. You
are my mastiff's cousin. I think you as much like him as a man can be
like a dog.'
"'Tartar is your dear companion. In summer, when you rise early, and
run out into the fields to wet your feet with the dew, and freshen your
cheek and uncurl your hair with the breeze, you always call him to
follow you. You call him sometimes with a whistle that you learned from
me. In the solitude of your wood, when you think nobody but Tartar is
listening, you whistle the very tunes you imitated from my lips, or sing
the very songs you have caught up by ear from my voice. I do not ask
whence flows the feeling which you pour into these songs, for I know it
flows out of your heart, Miss Keeldar. In the winter evenings Tartar
lies at your feet. You suffer him to rest his head on your perfumed lap;
you let him couch on the borders of your satin raiment. His rough hide
is familiar with the contact of your hand. I once saw you kiss him on
that snow-white beauty spot which stars his broad forehead. It is
dangerous to say I am like Tartar; it suggests to me a claim to be
treated like Tartar.'
"'Perhaps, sir, you can extort as much from your penniless and
friendless young orphan girl, when you find her.'
"'Oh could I find her such as I image her! Something to tame first, and
teach afterwards; to break in, and then to fondle. To lift the destitute
proud thing out of poverty; to establish power over and then to be
indulgent to the capricious moods that never were influenced and never
indulged before; to see her alternately irritated and subdued about
twelve times in the twenty-four hours; and perhaps, eventually, when her
training was accomplished, to behold her the exemplary and patient
mother of about a dozen children, only now and then lending little Louis
a cordial cuff by way of paying the interest of the vast debt she owes
his father. Oh' (I went on), 'my orphan girl would give me many a kiss;
she would watch on the threshold for my coming home of an evening; she
would run into my arms; she would keep my hearth as bright as she would
make it warm. God bless the sweet idea! Find her I must.'
"Her eyes emitted an eager flash, her lips opened; but she reclosed
them, and impetuously turned away.
"'Tell me, tell me where she is, Miss Keeldar!'
"Another movement, all haughtiness and fire and impulse.
"'I must know. You _can_ tell me; you _shall_ tell me.'
"'I _never will_.'
"She turned to leave me. Could I now let her part as she had always
parted from me? No. I had gone too far not to finish; I had come too
near the end not to drive home to it. All the encumbrance of doubt, all
the rubbish of indecision, must be removed at once, and the plain truth
must be ascertained. She must take her part, and tell me what it was; I
must take mine and adhere to it.
"'A minute, madam,' I said, keeping my hand on the door-handle before I
opened it. 'We have had a long conversation this morning, but the last
word has not been spoken yet. It is yours to speak it.'
"'May I pass?'
"'No; I guard the door. I would almost rather die than let you leave me
just now, without speaking the word I demand.'
"'What dare you expect me to say?'
"'What I am dying and perishing to hear; what I _must_ and _will_ hear;
what you dare not now suppress.'
"'Mr. Moore, I hardly know what you mean. You are not like yourself.'
"I suppose I hardly was like my usual self, for I scared her--that I
could see. It was right: she must be scared to be won.
"'You _do_ know what I mean, and for the first time I stand before you
_myself_. I have flung off the tutor, and beg to introduce you to the
man. And remember, he is a gentleman.'
"She trembled. She put her hand to mine as if to remove it from the
lock. She might as well have tried to loosen, by her soft touch, metal
welded to metal. She felt she was powerless, and receded; and again she
trembled.
"What change I underwent I cannot explain, but out of her emotion passed
into me a new spirit. I neither was crushed nor elated by her lands and
gold; I thought not of them, cared not for them. They were
nothing--dross that could not dismay me. I saw only herself--her young
beautiful form, the grace, the majesty, the modesty of her girlhood.
"'My pupil,' I said.
"'My master,' was the low answer.
"'I have a thing to tell you.'
"She waited with declined brow and ringlets drooped.
"'I have to tell you that for four years you have been growing into
your tutor's heart, and that you are rooted there now. I have to declare
that you have bewitched me, in spite of sense, and experience, and
difference of station and estate. You have so looked, and spoken, and
moved; so shown me your faults and your virtues--beauties rather, they
are hardly so stern as virtues--that I love you--love you with my life
and strength. It is out now.'
"She sought what to say, but could not find a word. She tried to rally,
but vainly. I passionately repeated that I loved her.
"'Well, Mr. Moore, what then?' was the answer I got, uttered in a tone
that would have been petulant if it had not faltered.
"'Have you nothing to say to me? Have you no love for me?'
"'A little bit.'
"'I am not to be tortured. I will not even play at present.'
"'I don't want to play; I want to go.'
"'I wonder you dare speak of going at this moment. _You_ go! What! with
my heart in your hand, to lay it on your toilet and pierce it with your
pins? From my presence you do not stir, out of my reach you do not
stray, till I receive a hostage--pledge for pledge--your heart for
mine.'
"'The thing you want is mislaid--lost some time since. Let me go and
seek it.'
"'Declare that it is where your keys often are--in my possession.'
"'You ought to know. And where are my keys, Mr. Moore? Indeed and truly
I have lost them again; and Mrs. Gill wants some money, and I have none,
except this sixpence.'
"She took the coin out of her apron pocket, and showed it in her palm. I
could have trifled with her, but it would not do; life and death were at
stake. Mastering at once the sixpence and the hand that held it, I
demanded, 'Am I to die without you, or am I to live for you?'
"'Do as you please. Far be it from me to dictate your choice.'
"'You shall tell me with your own lips whether you doom me to exile or
call me to hope.'
"'Go; I can bear to be left.'
"'Perhaps I too _can_ bear to leave you. But reply, Shirley, my pupil,
my sovereign--reply.'
"'Die without me if you will; live for me if you dare.'
"'I am not afraid of you, my leopardess. I _dare_ live for and with you,
from this hour till my death. Now, then, I have you. You are mine. I
will never let you go. Wherever my home be, I have chosen my wife. If I
stay in England, in England you will stay; if I cross the Atlantic, you
will cross it also. Our lives are riveted, our lots intertwined.'
"'And are we equal, then, sir? are we equal at last?'
"'You are younger, frailer, feebler, more ignorant than I.'
"'Will you be good to me, and never tyrannize?'
"'Will you let me breathe, and not bewilder me? You must not smile at
present. The world swims and changes round me. The sun is a dizzying
scarlet blaze, the sky a violet vortex whirling over me.'
"I am a strong man, but I staggered as I spoke. All creation was
exaggerated. Colour grew more vivid, motion more rapid, life itself more
vital. I hardly saw her for a moment, but I heard her voice--pitilessly
sweet. She would not subdue one of her charms in compassion. Perhaps she
did not know what I felt.
"'You name me leopardess. Remember, the leopardess is tameless,' said
she.
"'Tame or fierce, wild or subdued, you are _mine_.'
"'I am glad I know my keeper and am used to him. Only his voice will I
follow; only his hand shall manage me; only at his feet will I repose.'
"I took her back to her seat, and sat down by her side. I wanted to hear
her speak again. I could never have enough of her voice and her words.
"'How much do you love me?' I asked.
"'Ah! you know. I will not gratify you--I will not flatter.'
"'I don't know half enough; my heart craves to be fed. If you knew how
hungry and ferocious it is, you would hasten to stay it with a kind word
or two.'
"'Poor Tartar!' said she, touching and patting my hand--'poor fellow,
stalwart friend, Shirley's pet and favourite, lie down!'
"'But I will not lie down till I am fed with one sweet word.'
"And at last she gave it.
"'Dear Louis, be faithful to me; never leave me. I don't care for life
unless I may pass it at your side.'
"'Something more.'
"She gave me a change; it was not her way to offer the same dish twice.
"'Sir,' she said, starting up, 'at your peril you ever again name such
sordid things as money, or poverty, or inequality. It will be absolutely
dangerous to torment me with these maddening scruples. I defy you to do
it.'
"My face grew hot. I did once more wish I were not so poor or she were
not so rich. She saw the transient misery; and then, indeed, she
caressed me. Blent with torment, I experienced rapture.
"'Mr. Moore,' said she, looking up with a sweet, open, earnest
countenance, 'teach me and help me to be good. I do not ask you to take
off my shoulders all the cares and duties of property, but I ask you to
share the burden, and to show me how to sustain my part well. Your
judgment is well balanced, your heart is kind, your principles are
sound. I know you are wise; I feel you are benevolent; I believe you are
conscientious. Be my companion through life; be my guide where I am
ignorant; be my master where I am faulty; be my friend always!'
"'So help me God, I will!'"
* * * * *
Yet again a passage from the blank book if you like, reader; if you
don't like it, pass it over:--
"The Sympsons are gone, but not before discovery and explanation. My
manner must have betrayed something, or my looks. I was quiet, but I
forgot to be guarded sometimes. I stayed longer in the room than usual;
I could not bear to be out of her presence; I returned to it, and basked
in it, like Tartar in the sun. If she left the oak parlour,
instinctively I rose and left it too. She chid me for this procedure
more than once. I did it with a vague, blundering idea of getting a word
with her in the hall or elsewhere. Yesterday towards dusk I had her to
myself for five minutes by the hall fire. We stood side by side; she was
railing at me, and I was enjoying the sound of her voice. The young
ladies passed, and looked at us; we did not separate. Ere long they
repassed, and again looked. Mrs. Sympson came; we did not move. Mr.
Sympson opened the dining-room door. Shirley flashed him back full
payment for his spying gaze. She curled her lip and tossed her tresses.
The glance she gave was at once explanatory and defiant. It said: 'I
like Mr. Moore's society, and I dare you to find fault with my taste.'
"I asked, 'Do you mean him to understand how matters are?'
"'I do,' said she; 'but I leave the development to chance. There will be
a scene. I neither invite it nor fear it; only, you must be present, for
I am inexpressibly tired of facing him solus. I don't like to see him in
a rage. He then puts off all his fine proprieties and conventional
disguises, and the real human being below is what you would call
_commun, plat, bas--vilain et un peu méchant_. His ideas are not clean,
Mr. Moore; they want scouring with soft soap and fuller's earth. I
think, if he could add his imagination to the contents of Mrs. Gill's
bucking-basket, and let her boil it in her copper, with rain-water and
bleaching-powder (I hope you think me a tolerable laundress), it would
do him incalculable good.'
"This morning, fancying I heard her descend somewhat early, I was down
instantly. I had not been deceived. There she was, busy at work in the
breakfast-parlour, of which the housemaid was completing the arrangement
and dusting. She had risen betimes to finish some little keepsake she
intended for Henry. I got only a cool reception, which I accepted till
the girl was gone, taking my book to the window-seat very quietly. Even
when we were alone I was slow to disturb her. To sit with her in sight
was happiness, and the proper happiness, for early morning--serene,
incomplete, but progressive. Had I been obtrusive, I knew I should have
encountered rebuff. 'Not at home to suitors' was written on her brow.
Therefore I read on, stole now and then a look, watched her countenance
soften and open as she felt I respected her mood, and enjoyed the gentle
content of the moment.
"The distance between us shrank, and the light hoar-frost thawed
insensibly. Ere an hour elapsed I was at her side, watching her sew,
gathering her sweet smiles and her merry words, which fell for me
abundantly. We sat, as we had a right to sit, side by side; my arm
rested on her chair; I was near enough to count the stitches of her
work, and to discern the eye of her needle. The door suddenly opened.
"I believe, if I had just then started from her, she would have
despised me. Thanks to the phlegm of my nature, I rarely start. When I
am well-off, _bien_, comfortable, I am not soon stirred. _Bien_ I
was--_très bien_--consequently immutable. No muscle moved. I hardly
looked to the door.
"'Good-morning, uncle,' said she, addressing that personage, who paused
on the threshold in a state of petrifaction.
"'Have you been long downstairs, Miss Keeldar, and alone with Mr.
Moore?'
"'Yes, a very long time. We both came down early; it was scarcely
light.'
"'The proceeding is improper----'
"'It was at first, I was rather cross, and not civil; but you will
perceive that we are now friends.'
"'I perceive more than you would wish me to perceive.'
"'Hardly, sir,' said I; 'we have no disguises. Will you permit me to
intimate that any further observations you have to make may as well be
addressed to me? Henceforward I stand between Miss Keeldar and all
annoyance.'
"'_You!_ What have _you_ to do with Miss Keeldar?'
"'To protect, watch over, serve her.'
"'You, sir--you, the tutor?'
"'Not one word of insult, sir,' interposed she; 'not one syllable of
disrespect to Mr. Moore in this house.'
"'Do you take his part?'
"'_His_ part? oh yes!'
"She turned to me with a sudden fond movement, which I met by circling
her with my arm. She and I both rose.
"'Good Ged!' was the cry from the morning-gown standing quivering at the
door. _Ged_, I think, must be the cognomen of Mr. Sympson's Lares. When
hard pressed he always invokes this idol.
"'Come forward, uncle; you shall hear all.--Tell him all, Louis.'
"'I dare him to speak--the beggar! the knave! the specious hypocrite!
the vile, insinuating, infamous menial!--Stand apart from my niece, sir.
Let her go!'
"She clung to me with energy. 'I am near my future husband,' she said.
'Who dares touch him or me?'
"'Her husband!' He raised and spread his hands. He dropped into a seat.
"'A while ago you wanted much to know whom I meant to marry. My
intention was then formed, but not mature for communication. Now it is
ripe, sun-mellowed, perfect. Take the crimson peach--take Louis Moore!'
"'But' (savagely) 'you _shall not_ have him; he _shall not_ have you.'
"'I would die before I would have another. I would die if I might not
have him.'
"He uttered words with which this page shall never be polluted.
"She turned white as death; she shook all over; she lost her strength. I
laid her down on the sofa; just looked to ascertain that she had not
fainted--of which, with a divine smile, she assured me. I kissed her;
and then, if I were to perish, I cannot give a clear account of what
happened in the course of the next five minutes. She has since--through
tears, laughter, and trembling--told me that I turned terrible, and gave
myself to the demon. She says I left her, made one bound across the
room; that Mr. Sympson vanished through the door as if shot from a
cannon. I also vanished, and she heard Mrs. Gill scream.
"Mrs. Gill was still screaming when I came to my senses. I was then in
another apartment--the oak parlour, I think. I held Sympson before me
crushed into a chair, and my hand was on his cravat. His eyes rolled in
his head; I was strangling him, I think. The housekeeper stood wringing
her hands, entreating me to desist. I desisted that moment, and felt at
once as cool as stone. But I told Mrs. Gill to fetch the Red-House Inn
chaise instantly, and informed Mr. Sympson he must depart from Fieldhead
the instant it came. Though half frightened out of his wits, he declared
he would not. Repeating the former order, I added a commission to fetch
a constable. I said, 'You _shall_ go, by fair means or foul.'
"He threatened prosecution; I cared for nothing. I had stood over him
once before, not quite so fiercely as now, but full as austerely. It was
one night when burglars attempted the house at Sympson Grove, and in his
wretched cowardice he would have given a vain alarm, without daring to
offer defence. I had then been obliged to protect his family and his
abode by mastering himself--and I had succeeded. I now remained with him
till the chaise came. I marshalled him to it, he scolding all the way.
He was terribly bewildered, as well as enraged. He would have resisted
me, but knew not how. He called for his wife and daughters to come. I
said they should follow him as soon as they could prepare. The smoke,
the fume, the fret of his demeanour was inexpressible, but it was a fury
incapable of producing a deed. That man, properly handled, must ever
remain impotent. I know he will never touch me with the law. I know his
wife, over whom he tyrannizes in trifles, guides him in matters of
importance. I have long since earned her undying mother's gratitude by
my devotion to her boy. In some of Henry's ailments I have nursed
him--better, she said, than any woman could nurse. She will never forget
that. She and her daughters quitted me to-day, in mute wrath and
consternation; but she respects me. When Henry clung to my neck as I
lifted him into the carriage and placed him by her side, when I arranged
her own wrapping to make her warm, though she turned her head from me, I
saw the tears start to her eyes. She will but the more zealously
advocate my cause because she has left me in anger. I am glad of
this--not for my own sake, but for that of my life and idol--my
Shirley."
Once again he writes, a week after:--"I am now at Stilbro'. I have taken
up my temporary abode with a friend--a professional man, in whose
business I can be useful. Every day I ride over to Fieldhead. How long
will it be before I can call that place my home, and its mistress mine?
I am not easy, not tranquil; I am tantalized, sometimes tortured. To see
her now, one would think she had never pressed her cheek to my shoulder,
or clung to me with tenderness or trust. I feel unsafe; she renders me
miserable. I am shunned when I visit her; she withdraws from my reach.
Once this day I lifted her face, resolved to get a full look down her
deep, dark eyes. Difficult to describe what I read there! Pantheress!
beautiful forest-born! wily, tameless, peerless nature! She gnaws her
chain; I see the white teeth working at the steel! She has dreams of her
wild woods and pinings after virgin freedom. I wish Sympson would come
again, and oblige her again to entwine her arms about me. I wish there
was danger she should lose me, as there is risk I shall lose her. No;
final loss I do not fear, but long delay----
"It is now night--midnight. I have spent the afternoon and evening at
Fieldhead. Some hours ago she passed me, coming down the oak staircase
to the hall. She did not know I was standing in the twilight, near the
staircase window, looking at the frost-bright constellations. How
closely she glided against the banisters! How shyly shone her large eyes
upon me! How evanescent, fugitive, fitful she looked--slim and swift as
a northern streamer!
"I followed her into the drawing-room. Mrs. Pryor and Caroline Helstone
were both there; she has summoned them to bear her company awhile. In
her white evening dress, with her long hair flowing full and wavy, with
her noiseless step, her pale cheek, her eye full of night and lightning,
she looked, I thought, spirit-like--a thing made of an element, the
child of a breeze and a flame, the daughter of ray and raindrop--a thing
never to be overtaken, arrested, fixed. I wished I could avoid following
her with my gaze as she moved here and there, but it was impossible. I
talked with the other ladies as well as I could, but still I looked at
her. She was very silent; I think she never spoke to me--not even when
she offered me tea. It happened that she was called out a minute by Mrs.
Gill. I passed into the moonlit hall, with the design of getting a word
as she returned; nor in this did I fail.
"'Miss Keeldar, stay one instant,' said I, meeting her.
"'Why? the hall is too cold.'
"'It is not cold for me; at my side it should not be cold for you.'
"'But I shiver.'
"'With fear, I believe. What makes you fear me? You are quiet and
distant. Why?'
"'I may well fear what looks like a great dark goblin meeting me in the
moonlight.'
"'_Do not--do not_ pass! Stay with me awhile. Let us exchange a few
quiet words. It is three days since I spoke to you alone. Such changes
are cruel.'
"'I have no wish to be cruel,' she responded, softly enough. Indeed
there was softness in her whole deportment--in her face, in her voice;
but there was also reserve, and an air fleeting, evanishing, intangible.
"'You certainly give me pain,' said I. 'It is hardly a week since you
called me your future husband and treated me as such. Now I am once more
the tutor for you. I am addressed as Mr. Moore and sir. Your lips have
forgotten Louis.'
"'No, Louis, no. It is an easy, liquid name--not soon forgotten.'
"'Be cordial to Louis, then; approach him--let him approach.'
"'I _am_ cordial,' said she, hovering aloof like a white shadow.
"'Your voice is very sweet and very low,' I answered, quietly advancing.
'You seem subdued, but still startled.'
"'No--quite calm, and afraid of nothing,' she assured me.
"'Of nothing but your votary.'
"I bent a knee to the flags at her feet.
"'You see I am in a new world, Mr. Moore. I don't know myself; I don't
know you. But rise. When you do so I feel troubled and disturbed.'
"I obeyed. It would not have suited me to retain that attitude long. I
courted serenity and confidence for her, and not vainly. She trusted and
clung to me again.
"'Now, Shirley,' I said, 'you can conceive I am far from happy in my
present uncertain, unsettled state.'
"'Oh yes, you _are_ happy!' she cried hastily. 'You don't know how happy
you are. Any change will be for the worse.'
"'Happy or not, I cannot bear to go on so much longer. You are too
generous to require it.'
"'Be reasonable, Louis; be patient! I like you because you are patient.'
"'Like me no longer, then; love me instead. Fix our marriage day; think
of it to-night, and decide.'
"She breathed a murmur, inarticulate yet expressive; darted, or melted,
from my arms--and I lost her."