Shirley, Charlotte Brontë [free children's ebooks online .txt] 📗

“We are aware that mermaids do not exist; why speak of them as if they did? How can you find interest in speaking of a nonentity?”

“I don’t know,” said Shirley.

“My dear, I think there is an arrival. I heard a step in the lane while you were talking; and is not that the garden-gate which creaks?”

Shirley stepped to the window.

“Yes, there is someone,” said she, turning quietly away; and as she resumed her seat a sensitive flush animated her face, while a trembling ray at once kindled and softened her eye. She raised her hand to her chin, cast her gaze down, and seemed to think as she waited.

The servant announced Mr. Moore, and Shirley turned round when Mr. Moore appeared at the door. His figure seemed very tall as he entered, and stood in contrast with the three ladies, none of whom could boast a stature much beyond the average. He was looking well, better than he had been known to look for the past twelve months. A sort of renewed youth glowed in his eye and colour, and an invigorated hope and settled purpose sustained his bearing. Firmness his countenance still indicated, but not austerity. It looked as cheerful as it was earnest.

“I am just returned from Stilbro’,” he said to Miss Keeldar, as he greeted her; “and I thought I would call to impart to you the result of my mission.”

“You did right not to keep me in suspense,” she said, “and your visit is well timed. Sit down. We have not finished tea. Are you English enough to relish tea, or do you faithfully adhere to coffee?”

Moore accepted tea.

“I am learning to be a naturalized Englishman,” said he; “my foreign habits are leaving me one by one.”

And now he paid his respects to Mrs. Pryor, and paid them well, with a grave modesty that became his age compared with hers. Then he looked at Caroline⁠—not, however, for the first time: his glance had fallen upon her before. He bent towards her as she sat, gave her his hand, and asked her how she was. The light from the window did not fall upon Miss Helstone; her back was turned towards it. A quiet though rather low reply, a still demeanour, and the friendly protection of early twilight kept out of view each traitorous symptom. None could affirm that she had trembled or blushed, that her heart had quaked or her nerves thrilled; none could prove emotion; a greeting showing less effusion was never interchanged. Moore took the empty chair near her, opposite Miss Keeldar. He had placed himself well. His neighbour, screened by the very closeness of his vicinage from his scrutiny, and sheltered further by the dusk which deepened each moment, soon regained not merely seeming but real mastery of the feelings which had started into insurrection at the first announcement of his name.

He addressed his conversation to Miss Keeldar.

“I went to the barracks,” he said, “and had an interview with Colonel Ryde. He approved my plans, and promised the aid I wanted. Indeed, he offered a more numerous force than I require⁠—half a dozen will suffice. I don’t intend to be swamped by redcoats. They are needed for appearance rather than anything else. My main reliance is on my own civilians.”

“And on their captain,” interposed Shirley.

“What, Captain Keeldar?” inquired Moore, slightly smiling, and not lifting his eyes. The tone of raillery in which he said this was very respectful and suppressed.

“No,” returned Shirley, answering the smile; “Captain Gérard Moore, who trusts much to the prowess of his own right arm, I believe.”

“Furnished with his countinghouse ruler,” added Moore. Resuming his usual gravity, he went on: “I received by this evening’s post a note from the Home Secretary in answer to mine. It appears they are uneasy at the state of matters here in the north; they especially condemn the supineness and pusillanimity of the mill-owners. They say, as I have always said, that inaction, under present circumstances, is criminal, and that cowardice is cruelty, since both can only encourage disorder, and lead finally to sanguinary outbreaks. There is the note⁠—I brought it for your perusal; and there is a batch of newspapers, containing further accounts of proceedings in Nottingham, Manchester, and elsewhere.”

He produced letters and journals, and laid them before Miss Keeldar. While she perused them he took his tea quietly; but though his tongue was still, his observant faculties seemed by no means off duty. Mrs. Pryor, sitting in the background, did not come within the range of his glance, but the two younger ladies had the full benefit thereof.

Miss Keeldar, placed directly opposite, was seen without effort. She was the object his eyes, when lifted, naturally met first; and as what remained of daylight⁠—the gilding of the west⁠—was upon her, her shape rose in relief from the dark panelling behind. Shirley’s clear cheek was tinted yet with the colour which had risen into it a few minutes since. The dark lashes of her eyes looking down as she read, the dusk yet delicate line of her eyebrows, the almost sable gloss of her curls, made her heightened complexion look fine as the bloom of a red wild flower by contrast. There was natural grace in her attitude, and there was artistic effect in the ample and shining folds of her silk dress⁠—an attire simply fashioned, but almost splendid from the shifting brightness of its dye, warp and woof being of tints deep and changing as the hue on a pheasant’s neck. A glancing bracelet on her arm produced the contrast of gold and ivory. There was something brilliant in the whole picture. It is to be supposed that Moore thought so, as his eye dwelt long on it, but he seldom permitted his feelings or his opinions to exhibit themselves in his face. His temperament boasted a certain amount of phlegm, and he preferred an undemonstrative, not ungentle, but serious aspect to any other.

He could not, by looking straight before him, see Caroline, as she was