A shower of rain was falling gently, yet fast, on the late flowers and russet autumn , when the garden wicket was heard to swing open, and Shirley's well-known form passed the window. On her entrance her feelings were evinced in her own fashion. When deeply moved by serious fears or joys she was not . The strong emotion was rarely suffered to influence her tongue, and even her eye refused it more than a and fitful conquest. She took Caroline in her arms, gave her one look, one kiss, then said, "You are better."
And a minute after, "I see you are safe now; but take care. God grant your health may be called on to sustain no more shocks!"
She proceeded to talk fluently about the journey. In the midst of her eye still wandered to Caroline. There in its light a deep , some trouble, and some amaze.
"She may be better," it said, "but how weak she still is! What she has come through!"
Suddenly her glance to Mrs. Pryor. It pierced her through.
"When will my governess return to me?" she asked.
"May I tell her all?" demanded Caroline of her mother. Leave being signified by a gesture, Shirley was presently enlightened on what had happened in her absence.
"Very good," was the cool comment—"very good! But it is no news to me."
"What! did you know?"
"I guessed long since the whole business. I have heard393 somewhat of Mrs. Pryor's history—not from herself, but from others. With every detail of Mr. James Helstone's career and character I was acquainted. An afternoon's sitting and conversation with Miss Mann had rendered me familiar therewith; also he is one of Mrs. Yorke's warning examples—one of the blood-red lights she hangs out to scare young ladies from matrimony. I believe I should have been sceptical about the truth of the portrait traced by such fingers—both these ladies take a dark pleasure in offering to view the dark side of life—but I questioned Mr. Yorke on the subject, and he said, 'Shirley, my woman, if you want to know aught about yond' James Helstone, I can only say he was a man-tiger. He was handsome, dissolute, soft, , , cruel——' Don't cry, Cary; we'll say no more about it."
"I am not crying, Shirley; or if I am, it is nothing. Go on; you are no friend if you from me the truth. I hate that false plan of disguising, mutilating the truth."
"Fortunately I have said pretty nearly all that I have to say, except that your uncle himself confirmed Mr. Yorke's words; for he too scorns a lie, and deals in none of those conventional that are shabbier than lies."
"But papa is dead; they should let him alone now."
"They should; and we will let him alone. Cry away, Cary; it will do you good. It is wrong to check natural tears. Besides, I choose to please myself by sharing an idea that at this moment beams in your mother's eye while she looks at you. Every drop out a sin. Weep! your tears have the which the rivers of Damascus lacked. Like Jordan, they can a leprous memory."
"Madam," she continued, addressing Mrs. Pryor, "did you think I could be daily in the habit of seeing you and your daughter together—marking your marvellous similarity in many points, observing (pardon me) your irrepressible emotions in the presence and still more in the absence of your child—and not form my own ? I formed them, and they are correct. I shall begin to think myself shrewd."
"And you said nothing?" observed Caroline, who soon the quiet control of her feelings.
"Nothing. I had no warrant to breathe a word on the subject. My business it was not; I from making it such."
394"You guessed so deep a secret, and did not hint that you guessed it?"
"Is that so difficult?"
"It is not like you."
"How do you know?"
"You are not reserved; you are communicative."
"I may be communicative, yet know where to stop. In showing my treasure I may withhold a or two—a curious, unbought graven stone—an of whose mystic glitter I rarely permit even myself a glimpse. Good-day."
Caroline thus seemed to get a view of Shirley's character under a novel aspect. Ere long the was renewed; it opened upon her.
No sooner had she regained sufficient strength to bear a change of scene—the excitement of a little society—than Miss Keeldar sued daily for her presence at Fieldhead. Whether Shirley had become wearied of her honoured relatives is not known. She did not say she was; but she claimed and retained Caroline with an eagerness which proved that an addition to that worshipful company was not unwelcome.
The Sympsons were church people. Of course the rector's niece was received by them with courtesy. Mr. Sympson proved to be a man of spotless respectability, worrying temper, principles, and worldly views; his lady was a very good woman—patient, kind, well-bred. She had been brought up on a narrow system of views, starved on a few prejudices—a handful of bitter herbs; a few preferences, soaked till their natural flavour was extracted, and with no added in the cooking; some excellent principles, made up in a stiff raised crust of difficult to digest. Far too submissive was she to complain of this diet or to ask for a beyond it.
The daughters were an example to their sex. They were tall, with a Roman nose apiece. They had been educated faultlessly. All they did was well done. History and the most solid books had cultivated their minds. Principles and opinions they which could not be mended. More exactly-regulated lives, feelings, manners, habits, it would have been difficult to find anywhere. They knew by heart a certain young-ladies'-schoolroom code of laws on language, demeanour, etc.; themselves never from its curious little pragmatical provisions, and they regarded with secret whispered horror all in others. The395 Abomination of Desolation was no mystery to them; they had discovered that unutterable Thing in the characteristic others call . Quick were they to recognize the signs of this evil; and wherever they saw its trace—whether in look, word, or deed; whether they read it in the fresh, vigorous style of a book, or listened to it in interesting, unhackneyed, pure, language—they , they . Danger was above their heads, peril about their steps. What was this strange thing? Being it must be bad. Let it be denounced and chained up.
Henry Sympson, the only son and youngest child of the family, was a boy of fifteen. He generally kept with his tutor. When he left him, he sought his cousin Shirley. This boy differed from his sisters. He was little, , and pale; his large eyes shone somewhat languidly in a orbit. They were, indeed, usually rather dim, but they were capable of illumination. At times they could not only shine, but blaze. Inward emotion could likewise give colour to his cheek and decision to his crippled movements. Henry's mother loved him; she thought his were a mark of election. He was not like other children, she allowed. She believed him regenerate—a new Samuel—called of God from his birth. He was to be a clergyman. Mr. and the Misses Sympson, not understanding the youth, let him much alone. Shirley made him her pet, and he made Shirley his playmate.
In the midst of this family circle, or rather outside it, moved the tutor—the satellite.
Yes, Louis Moore was a satellite of the house of Sympson—connected, yet apart; ever attendant, ever distant. Each member of that correct family treated him with proper dignity. The father was civil, sometimes ; the mother, being a kind woman, was , but formal; the daughters saw in him an abstraction, not a man. It seemed, by their manner, that their brother's tutor did not live for them. They were learned; so was he—but not for them. They were ; he had talents too, imperceptible to their senses. The most spirited from his fingers was a blank to their eyes; the most original observation from his lips fell unheard on their ears. Nothing could exceed the of their behaviour.
I should have said nothing could have equalled it; but I remember a fact which strangely astonished Caroline396 Helstone. It was—to discover that her cousin had absolutely no sympathizing friend at Fieldhead; that to Miss Keeldar he was as much a mere teacher, as little a gentleman, as little a man, as to the estimable Misses Sympson.
What had befallen the kind-hearted Shirley that she should be so indifferent to the position of a fellow-creature thus under her roof? She was not, perhaps, to him, but she never noticed him—she let him alone. He came and went, spoke or was silent, and she rarely recognized his existence.
As to Louis Moore himself, he had the air of a man used to this life, and who had made up his mind to bear it for a time. His seemed walled up in him, and were unmurmuring in their . He never laughed; he seldom smiled; he was uncomplaining. He fulfilled the round of his duties . His pupil loved him; he asked nothing more than civility from the rest of the world. It even appeared that he would accept nothing more—in that at least; for when his cousin Caroline made gentle of friendship, he did not encourage them—he rather avoided than sought her. One living thing alone, besides his pale, crippled scholar, he fondled in the house, and that was the ruffianly Tartar, who, and impracticable to others, acquired a singular partiality for him—a partiality so marked that sometimes, when Moore, summoned to a meal, entered the room and sat down unwelcomed, Tartar would rise from his at Shirley's feet and betake himself to the taciturn tutor. Once—but once—she noticed the desertion, and holding out her white hand, and speaking softly, tried to him back. Tartar looked, slavered, and sighed, as his manner was, but yet disregarded the invitation, and coolly settled himself on his haunches at Louis Moore's side. That gentleman drew the dog's big, black-muzzled head on to his knee, patted him, and smiled one little smile to himself.
An acute observer might have remarked, in the course of the same evening, that after Tartar had resumed his allegiance to Shirley, and was once more couched near her footstool, the audacious tutor by one word and gesture fascinated him again. He up his ears at the word; he started at the gesture, and came, with head lovingly , to receive the expected . As it was given, the significant smile again across Moore's quiet face.
397
"Shirley," said Caroline one day, as they two were sitting alone in the summer-house, "did you know that my cousin Louis was tutor in your uncle's family before the Sympsons came down here?"
Shirley's reply was not so prompt as her responses usually were, but at last she answered, "Yes—of course; I knew it well."
"I thought you must have been aware of the circumstance."
"Well! what then?"
"It puzzles me to guess how it chanced that you never mentioned it to me."
"Why should it puzzle you?"
"It seems odd. I cannot account for it. You talk a great deal—you talk freely. How was that circumstance never touched on?"
"Because it never was," and Shirley laughed.
"You are a singular being!" observed her friend. "I thought I knew you quite well; I begin to find myself mistaken. You were silent as the grave about Mrs. Pryor, and now again here is another secret. But why you made it a secret is the mystery to me."
"I never made it a secret; I had no reason for so doing. If you had asked me who Henry's tutor was, I would have told you. Besides, I thought you knew."
"I am puzzled about more things than one in this matter. You don't like poor Louis. Why? Are you impatient at what you perhaps consider his servile position? Do you wish that Robert's brother were more highly placed?"
"Robert's brother, indeed!" was the , uttered in a tone like the accents of scorn; and with a movement of proud Shirley snatched a rose from a branch peeping through the open lattice.
"Yes," repeated Caroline, with mild firmness, "Robert's brother. He is thus closely related to Gérard Moore of the Hollow, though nature has not given him features so handsome or an air so noble as his ; but his blood is as good, and he is as much a gentleman were he free."
"Wise, , pious Caroline!" exclaimed Shirley ironically. "Men and angels, hear her! We should not despise plain features, nor a yet honest occupation, should we? Look at the subject of your . He is there in the garden," she continued, pointing through an aperture398 in the clustering creepers; and by that Louis Moore was visible, coming slowly down the walk.
"He is not ugly, Shirley," pleaded Caroline; "he is not . He is sad; silence seals his mind. But I believe him to be intelligent; and be certain, if he had not something very in his , Mr. Hall would never seek his society as he does."
Shirley laughed; she laughed again, each time with a slightly sound. "Well, well," was her comment. "On the plea of the man being Cyril Hall's friend and Robert Moore's brother, we'll just tolerate his existence; won't we, Cary? You believe him to be intelligent, do you? Not quite an idiot—eh? Something commendable in his disposition!—id est, not an absolute ruffian. Good! Your representations have weight with me; and to prove that they have, should he come this way I will speak to him."
He approached the summer-house. Unconscious that it was tenanted, he sat down on the step. Tartar, now his customary companion, had followed him, and he couched across his feet.
"Old boy!" said Louis, pulling his ear, or rather the mutilated of that organ, torn and chewed in a hundred battles, "the autumn sun shines as pleasantly on us as on the fairest and richest. This garden is none of ours, but we enjoy its greenness and perfume, don't we?"
He sat silent, still Tartar, who slobbered with exceeding affection. A faint twittering commenced among the trees round. Something fluttered down as light as leaves. They were little birds, which, on the sward at shy distance, as if expectant.
"The small brown elves actually remember that I fed them the other day," again soliloquized Louis. "They want some more biscuit. To-day I forgot to save a fragment. Eager little sprites, I have not a crumb for you."
He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out empty.
"A want easily supplied," whispered the listening Miss Keeldar.
She took from her reticule a of sweet-cake; for that repository was never of something available to throw to the chickens, young ducks, or sparrows. She it, and bending over his shoulder, put the into his hand.
"There," said she—"there is a for the ."
399"This September afternoon is pleasant," observed Louis Moore, as, not at all discomposed, he calmly cast the crumbs on to the grass.
"Even for you?"
"As pleasant for me as for any ."
"You take a sort of harsh, triumph in drawing pleasure out of the elements and the inanimate and lower creation."
"Solitary, but not harsh. With animals I feel I am Adam's son, the heir of him to whom was given over 'every living thing that moveth upon the earth.' Your dog likes and follows me. When I go into that yard, the pigeons from your dovecot flutter at my feet. Your in the stable knows me as well as it knows you, and obeys me better."
"And my roses smell sweet to you, and my trees give you shade."
"And," continued Louis, "no caprice can withdraw these pleasures from me; they are mine."
He walked off. Tartar followed him, as if in duty and affection bound, and Shirley remained on the summer-house step. Caroline saw her face as she looked after the rude tutor. It was pale, as if her pride bled inwardly.
"You see," remarked Caroline apologetically, "his feelings are so often hurt it makes him ."
"You see," retorted Shirley, with ire, "he is a topic on which you and I shall quarrel if we discuss it often; so drop it henceforward and for ever."
"I suppose he has more than once behaved in this way," thought Caroline to herself, "and that renders Shirley so distant to him. Yet I wonder she cannot make allowance for character and circumstances. I wonder the general , , of his nature do not plead with her in his behalf. She is not often so inconsiderate, so irritable."
The verbal of two friends of Caroline's to her cousin's character her opinion of him. William Farren, whose cottage he had visited in company with Mr. Hall, pronounced him a "real gentleman;" there was not such another in Briarfield. He—William—"could do aught for that man. And then to see how t' bairns liked him, and how t' wife took to him400 first minute she saw him. He never went into a house but t' childer wor about him directly. Them little things wor like as if they'd a keener sense nor grown-up folks i' finding our folk's natures."
Mr. Hall, in answer to a question of Miss Helstone's as to what he thought of Louis Moore, replied that he was the best fellow he had met with since he left Cambridge.
"But he is so grave," objected Caroline.
"Grave! the finest company in the world! Full of odd, quiet, out-of-the-way humour. Never enjoyed an excursion so much in my life as the one I took with him to the Lakes. His understanding and tastes are so superior, it does a man good to be within their influence; and as to his temper and nature, I call them fine."
"At Fieldhead he looks gloomy, and, I believe, has the character of being ."
"Oh! I fancy he is rather out of place there—in a false position. The Sympsons are most estimable people, but not the folks to comprehend him. They think a great deal about form and ceremony, which are quite out of Louis's way."
"I don't think Miss Keeldar likes him."
"She doesn't know him—she doesn't know him; otherwise she has sense enough to do justice to his merits."
"Well, I suppose she doesn't know him,"
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