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Shirley
“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.”
“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 anyone 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 Phoebe – 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 forever. 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 daydreams, 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?’
