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

on the mantelpiece fell full on her face. All its paleness, all its change, all its forlorn meaning were clearly revealed. Robert had good eyes, and might have seen it if he would; whether he did see it, nothing indicated.

“Good night!” she said, shaking like a leaf, offering her thin hand hastily, anxious to part from him quickly.

“You are going home?” he asked, not touching her hand.

“Yes.”

“Is Fanny come for you?”

“Yes.”

“I may as well accompany you a step of the way; not up to the rectory, though, lest my old friend Helstone should shoot me from the window.”

He laughed, and took his hat. Caroline spoke of unnecessary trouble; he told her to put on her bonnet and shawl. She was quickly ready, and they were soon both in the open air. Moore drew her hand under his arm, just in his old manner⁠—that manner which she ever felt to be so kind.

“You may run on, Fanny,” he said to the housemaid; “we shall overtake you.” And when the girl had got a little in advance, he enclosed Caroline’s hand in his, and said he was glad to find she was a familiar guest at Fieldhead. He hoped her intimacy with Miss Keeldar would continue; such society would be both pleasant and improving.

Caroline replied that she liked Shirley.

“And there is no doubt the liking is mutual,” said Moore. “If she professes friendship, be certain she is sincere. She cannot feign; she scorns hypocrisy. And, Caroline, are we never to see you at Hollow’s Cottage again?”

“I suppose not, unless my uncle should change his mind.”

“Are you much alone now?”

“Yes, a good deal. I have little pleasure in any society but Miss Keeldar’s.”

“Have you been quite well lately?”

“Quite.”

“You must take care of yourself. Be sure not to neglect exercise. Do you know I fancied you somewhat altered⁠—a little fallen away, and pale. Is your uncle kind to you?”

“Yes; he is just as he always is.”

“Not too tender, that is to say⁠—not too protective and attentive. And what ails you, then? Tell me, Lina.”

“Nothing, Robert.” But her voice faltered.

“That is to say, nothing that you will tell me. I am not to be taken into confidence. Separation is then quite to estrange us, is it?”

“I do not know. Sometimes I almost fear it is.”

“But it ought not to have that effect. ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o’ lang syne?’ ”

“Robert, I don’t forget.”

“It is two months, I should think, Caroline, since you were at the cottage.”

“Since I was within it⁠—yes.”

“Have you ever passed that way in your walk?”

“I have come to the top of the fields sometimes of an evening and looked down. Once I saw Hortense in the garden watering her flowers, and I know at what time you light your lamp in the countinghouse. I have waited for it to shine out now and then, and I have seen you bend between it and the window. I knew it was you; I could almost trace the outline of your form.”

“I wonder I never encountered you. I occasionally walk to the top of the Hollow’s fields after sunset.”

“I know you do. I had almost spoken to you one night, you passed so near me.”

“Did I? I passed near you, and did not see you! Was I alone?”

“I saw you twice, and neither time were you alone.”

“Who was my companion? Probably nothing but Joe Scott, or my own shadow by moonlight.”

“No; neither Joe Scott nor your shadow, Robert. The first time you were with Mr. Yorke; and the second time what you call your shadow was a shape with a white forehead and dark curls, and a sparkling necklace round its neck. But I only just got a glimpse of you and that fairy shadow; I did not wait to hear you converse.”

“It appears you walk invisible. I noticed a ring on your hand this evening; can it be the ring of Gyges? Henceforth, when sitting in the countinghouse by myself, perhaps at dead of night, I shall permit myself to imagine that Caroline may be leaning over my shoulder reading with me from the same book, or sitting at my side engaged in her own particular task, and now and then raising her unseen eyes to my face to read there my thoughts.”

“You need fear no such infliction. I do not come near you; I only stand afar off, watching what may become of you.”

“When I walk out along the hedgerows in the evening after the mill is shut, or at night when I take the watchman’s place, I shall fancy the flutter of every little bird over its nest, the rustle of every leaf, a movement made by you; tree-shadows will take your shape; in the white sprays of hawthorn I shall imagine glimpses of you. Lina, you will haunt me.”

“I will never be where you would not wish me to be, nor see nor hear what you would wish unseen and unheard.”

“I shall see you in my very mill in broad daylight. Indeed, I have seen you there once. But a week ago I was standing at the top of one of my long rooms; girls were working at the other end, and amongst half a dozen of them, moving to and fro, I seemed to see a figure resembling yours. It was some effect of doubtful light or shade, or of dazzling sunbeam. I walked up to this group. What I sought had glided away; I found myself between two buxom lasses in pinafores.”

“I shall not follow you into your mill, Robert, unless you call me there.”

“Nor is that the only occasion on which imagination has played me a trick. One night, when I came home late from market, I walked into the cottage parlour thinking to find Hortense; but instead of her I thought I found you. There was no candle in the room; my sister had taken the light upstairs with her. The window-blind was not drawn, and broad moonbeams poured through the panes. There you were, Lina,