Shirley

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  UNCLE AND NIECE.

  The die was cast. Sir Philip Nunnely knew it; Shirley knew it; Mr.Sympson knew it. That evening, when all the Fieldhead family dined atNunnely Priory, decided the business.

  Two or three things conduced to bring the baronet to a point. He hadobserved that Miss Keeldar looked pensive and delicate. This new phasein her demeanour smote him on his weak or poetic side. A spontaneoussonnet brewed in his brain; and while it was still working there, one ofhis sisters persuaded his lady-love to sit down to the piano and sing aballad--one of Sir Philip's own ballads. It was the least elaborate, theleast affected--out of all comparison the best of his numerous efforts.

  It chanced that Shirley, the moment before, had been gazing from awindow down on the park. She had seen that stormy moonlight which "leProfesseur Louis" was perhaps at the same instant contemplating from herown oak-parlour lattice; she had seen the isolated trees of thedomain--broad, strong, spreading oaks, and high-towering heroicbeeches--wrestling with the gale. Her ear had caught the full roar ofthe forest lower down; the swift rushing of clouds, the moon, to theeye, hasting swifter still, had crossed her vision. She turned fromsight and sound--touched, if not rapt; wakened, if not inspired.

  She sang, as requested. There was much about love in theballad--faithful love that refused to abandon its object; love thatdisaster could not shake; love that in calamity waxed fonder, in povertyclung closer. The words were set to a fine old air; in themselves theywere simple and sweet. Perhaps, when read, they wanted force; when_well_ sung, they wanted nothing. Shirley sang them well. She breathedinto the feeling softness; she poured round the passion force. Her voicewas fine that evening, its expression dramatic. She impressed all, andcharmed one.

  On leaving the instrument she went to the fire, and sat down on aseat--semi-stool, semi-cushion. The ladies were round her; none of themspoke. The Misses Sympson and the Misses Nunnely looked upon her asquiet poultry might look on an egret, an ibis, or any other strangefowl. What made her sing so? _They_ never sang so. Was it _proper_ tosing with such expression, with such originality--so unlike aschool-girl? Decidedly not. It was strange, it was unusual. What was_strange_ must be _wrong_; what was _unusual_ must be _improper_.Shirley was judged.

  Moreover, old Lady Nunnely eyed her stonily from her great chair by thefireside. Her gaze said, "This woman is not of mine or my daughters'kind. I object to her as my son's wife."

  Her son, catching the look, read its meaning. He grew alarmed. What heso wished to win there was danger he might lose. He must make haste.

  The room they were in had once been a picture-gallery. Sir Philip'sfather--Sir Monckton--had converted it into a saloon; but still it had ashadowy, long-withdrawing look. A deep recess with a window--a recessthat held one couch, one table, and a fairy cabinet--formed a roomwithin a room. Two persons standing there might interchange a dialogue,and, so it were neither long nor loud, none be the wiser.

  Sir Philip induced two of his sisters to perpetrate a duet. He gaveoccupation to the Misses Sympson. The elder ladies were conversingtogether. He was pleased to remark that meantime Shirley rose to look atthe pictures. He had a tale to tell about one ancestress, whose darkbeauty seemed as that of a flower of the south. He joined her, and beganto tell it.

  There were mementoes of the same lady in the cabinet adorning therecess; and while Shirley was stooping to examine the missal and therosary on the inlaid shelf, and while the Misses Nunnely indulged in aprolonged screech, guiltless of expression, pure of originality,perfectly conventional and absolutely unmeaning, Sir Philip stooped too,and whispered a few hurried sentences. At first Miss Keeldar was struckso still you might have fancied that whisper a charm which had changedher to a statue; but she presently looked up and answered. They parted.Miss Keeldar returned to the fire, and resumed her seat. The baronetgazed after her, then went and stood behind his sisters. Mr.Sympson--Mr. Sympson only--had marked the pantomime.

  That gentleman drew his own conclusions. Had he been as acute as he wasmeddling, as profound as he was prying, he might have found that in SirPhilip's face whereby to correct his inference. Ever shallow, hasty, andpositive, he went home quite cock-a-hoop.

  He was not a man that kept secrets well. When elate on a subject, hecould not avoid talking about it. The next morning, having occasion toemploy his son's tutor as his secretary, he must needs announce to him,in mouthing accents, and with much flimsy pomp of manner, that he hadbetter hold himself prepared for a return to the south at an early day,as the important business which had detained him (Mr. Sympson) so longin Yorkshire was now on the eve of fortunate completion. His anxious andlaborious efforts were likely, at last, to be crowned with the happiestsuccess. A truly eligible addition was about to be made to the familyconnections.

  "In Sir Philip Nunnely?" Louis Moore conjectured.

  Whereupon Mr. Sympson treated himself simultaneously to a pinch of snuffand a chuckling laugh, checked only by a sudden choke of dignity, and anorder to the tutor to proceed with business.

  For a day or two Mr. Sympson continued as bland as oil, but also heseemed to sit on pins, and his gait, when he walked, emulated that of ahen treading a hot girdle. He was for ever looking out of the window andlistening for chariot-wheels. Bluebeard's wife--Sisera's mother--werenothing to him. He waited when the matter should be opened in form, whenhimself should be consulted, when lawyers should be summoned, whensettlement discussions and all the delicious worldly fuss shouldpompously begin.

  At last there came a letter. He himself handed it to Miss Keeldar out ofthe bag. He knew the handwriting; he knew the crest on the seal. He didnot see it opened and read, for Shirley took it to her own room; nor didhe see it answered, for she wrote her reply shut up, and was very longabout it--the best part of a day. He questioned her whether it wasanswered; she responded, "Yes."

  Again he waited--waited in silence, absolutely not daring to speak, keptmute by something in Shirley's face--a very awful something--inscrutableto him as the writing on the wall to Belshazzar. He was moved more thanonce to call Daniel, in the person of Louis Moore, and to ask aninterpretation; but his dignity forbade the familiarity. Daniel himself,perhaps, had his own private difficulties connected with that bafflingbit of translation; he looked like a student for whom grammars are blankand dictionaries dumb.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Sympson had been out, to while away an anxious hour in the societyof his friends at De Walden Hall. He returned a little sooner than wasexpected. His family and Miss Keeldar were assembled in the oak parlour.Addressing the latter, he requested her to step with him into anotherroom. He wished to have with her a "_strictly_ private interview."

  She rose, asking no questions and professing no surprise.

  "Very well, sir," she said, in the tone of a determined person who isinformed that the dentist is come to extract that large double tooth ofhis, from which he has suffered such a purgatory this month past. Sheleft her sewing and her thimble in the window-seat, and followed heruncle where he led.

  Shut into the drawing-room, the pair took seats, each in an arm-chair,placed opposite, a few yards between them.

  "I have been to De Walden Hall," said Mr. Sympson. He paused. MissKeeldar's eyes were on the pretty white-and-green carpet. _That_information required no response. She gave none.

  "I have learned," he went on slowly--"I have learned a circumstancewhich surprises me."

  Resting her cheek on her forefinger, she waited to be told _what_circumstance.

  "It seems that Nunnely Priory is shut up--that the family are gone backto their place in ----shire. It seems that the baronet--that thebaronet--that Sir Philip himself has accompanied his mother andsisters."

  "Indeed!" said Shirley.

  "May I ask if you share the amazement with which I received this news?"

  "No, sir."

  "_Is_ it news to you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I mean--I mean," pursued Mr. Sympson, now fi
dgeting in his chair,quitting his hitherto brief and tolerably clear phraseology, andreturning to his customary wordy, confused, irritable style--"I mean tohave a _thorough_ explanation. I will _not_ be put off. I--I--shall_insist_ on being heard, and on--on having my own way. My questions_must_ be answered. I will have clear, satisfactory replies. I am not tobe trifled with. (Silence.)

  "It is a strange and an extraordinary thing--a very singular--a most oddthing! I thought all was right, knew no other; and there--the family aregone!"

  "I suppose, sir, they had a right to go."

  "_Sir Philip is gone!_" (with emphasis).

  Shirley raised her brows. "_Bon voyage!_" said she.

  "This will not do; this must be altered, ma'am."

  He drew his chair forward; he pushed it back; he looked perfectlyincensed, and perfectly helpless.

  "Come, come now, uncle," expostulated Shirley, "do not begin to fret andfume, or we shall make no sense of the business. Ask me what you want toknow. I am as willing to come to an explanation as you. I promise youtruthful replies."

  "I want--I demand to know, Miss Keeldar, whether Sir Philip has made youan offer?"

  "He has."

  "You avow it?"

  "I avow it. But now, go on. Consider that point settled."

  "He made you an offer that night we dined at the priory?"

  "It is enough to say that he made it. Go on."

  "He proposed in the recess--in the room that used to be apicture-gallery--that Sir Monckton converted into it saloon?"

  No answer.

  "You were both examining a cabinet. I saw it all. My sagacity was not atfault--it never is. Subsequently you received a letter from him. On whatsubject--of what nature were the contents?"

  "No matter."

  "Ma'am, is that the way in which you speak to me?"

  Shirley's foot tapped quick on the carpet.

  "There you sit, silent and sullen--_you_ who promised truthful replies."

  "Sir, I have answered you thus far. Proceed."

  "I should like to see that letter."

  "You _cannot_ see it."

  "I _must_ and _shall_, ma'am; I am your guardian."

  "Having ceased to be a ward, I have no guardian."

  "Ungrateful being! Reared by me as my own daughter----"

  "Once more, uncle, have the kindness to keep to the point. Let us bothremain cool. For my part, I do not wish to get into a passion; but, youknow, once drive me beyond certain bounds, I care little what I say--Iam not then soon checked. Listen! You have asked me whether Sir Philipmade me an offer. That question is answered. What do you wish to knownext?"

  "I desire to know whether you accepted or refused him, and know it Iwill."

  "Certainly, you ought to know it. I refused him."

  "Refused him! You--_you_, Shirley Keeldar, _refused_ Sir PhilipNunnely?"

  "I did."

  The poor gentleman bounced from his chair, and first rushed and thentrotted through the room.

  "There it is! There it is! There it is!"

  "Sincerely speaking, I am sorry, uncle, you are so disappointed."

  Concession, contrition, never do any good with some people. Instead ofsoftening and conciliating, they but embolden and harden them. Of thatnumber was Mr. Sympson.

  "_I_ disappointed? What is it to me? Have _I_ an interest in it? Youwould insinuate, perhaps, that I have motives?"

  "Most people have motives of some sort for their actions."

  "She accuses me to my face! I, that have been a parent to her, shecharges with bad motives!"

  "_Bad_ motives I did not say."

  "And now you prevaricate; you have no principles!"

  "Uncle, you tire me. I want to go away."

  "Go you shall not! I will be answered. What are your intentions, MissKeeldar?"

  "In what respect?"

  "In respect of matrimony?"

  "To be quiet, and to do just as I please."

  "Just as you please! The words are to the last degree indecorous."

  "Mr. Sympson, I advise you not to become insulting. You know I will notbear that."

  "You read French. Your mind is poisoned with French novels. You haveimbibed French principles."

  "The ground you are treading now returns a mighty hollow sound underyour feet. Beware!"

  "It will end in infamy, sooner or later. I have foreseen it all along."

  "Do you assert, sir, that something in which _I_ am concerned will endin infamy?"

  "That it will--that it will. You said just now you would act as youplease. You acknowledge no rules--no limitations."

  "Silly stuff, and vulgar as silly!"

  "Regardless of decorum, you are prepared to fly in the face ofpropriety."

  "You tire me, uncle."

  "What, madam--_what_ could be your reasons for refusing Sir Philip?"

  "At last there is another sensible question; I shall be glad to reply toit. Sir Philip is too young for me. I regard him as a boy. All hisrelations--his mother especially--would be annoyed if he married me.Such a step would embroil him with them. I am not his equal in theworld's estimation."

  "Is that all?"

  "Our dispositions are not compatible."

  "Why, a more amiable gentleman never breathed."

  "He is very amiable--very excellent--truly estimable; but _not mymaster_--not in one point. I could not trust myself with his happiness.I would not undertake the keeping of it for thousands. I will accept nohand which cannot hold me in check."

  "I thought you liked to do as you please. You are vastly inconsistent."

  "When I promise to obey, it shall be under the conviction that I cankeep that promise. I could not obey a youth like Sir Philip. Besides, hewould never command me. He would expect me always to rule--to guide--andI have no taste whatever for the office."

  "_You_ no taste for swaggering, and subduing, and ordering, and ruling?"

  "Not my husband; only my uncle."

  "Where is the difference?"

  "There _is_ a slight difference--that is certain. And I know full wellany man who wishes to live in decent comfort with me as a husband mustbe able to control me."

  "I wish you had a real tyrant."

  "A tyrant would not hold me for a day, not for an hour. I wouldrebel--break from him--defy him."

  "Are you not enough to bewilder one's brain with yourself-contradiction?"

  "It is evident I bewilder your brain."

  "You talk of Sir Philip being young. He is two-and-twenty."

  "My husband must be thirty, with the sense of forty."

  "You had better pick out some old man--some white-headed or bald-headedswain."

  "No, thank you."

  "You could lead some doting fool; you might pin him to your apron."

  "I might do that with a boy; but it is not my vocation. Did I not say Iprefer a _master_--one in whose presence I shall feel obliged anddisposed to be good; one whose control my impatient temper mustacknowledge; a man whose approbation can reward, whose displeasurepunish me; a man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and verypossible to fear?"

  "What is there to hinder you from doing all this with Sir Philip? He isa baronet--a man of rank, property, connections far above yours. If youtalk of intellect, he is a poet--he writes verses; which you, I take it,cannot do, with all your cleverness."

  "Neither his title, wealth, pedigree, nor poetry avail to invest himwith the power I describe. These are feather-weights; they want ballast.A measure of sound, solid, practical sense would have stood him inbetter stead with me."

  "You and Henry rave about poetry! You used to catch fire like tinder onthe subject when you were a girl."

  "O uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this world, there isnothing glorious in the world to come that is not poetry!"

  "Marry a poet, then, in God's name!"

  "Show him me, and I will."

  "Sir Philip."

  "Not at all. You are almost as good a poet as he."

  "Madam, you a
re wandering from the point."

  "Indeed, uncle, I wanted to do so, and I shall be glad to lead you awaywith me. Do not let us get out of temper with each other; it is notworth while."

  "Out of temper, Miss Keeldar! I should be glad to know who is out oftemper."

  "_I_ am not, yet."

  "If you mean to insinuate that _I_ am, I consider that you are guilty ofimpertinence."

  "You will be soon, if you go on at that rate."

  "There it is! With your pert tongue you would try the patience of aJob."

  "I know I should."

  "No levity, miss! This is not a laughing matter. It is an affair I amresolved to probe thoroughly, convinced that there is mischief at thebottom. You described just now, with far too much freedom for your yearsand sex, the sort of individual you would prefer as a husband. Pray, didyou paint from the life?"

  Shirley opened her lips, but instead of speaking she only glowedrose-red.

  "I shall have an answer to that question," affirmed Mr. Sympson,assuming vast courage and consequence on the strength of this symptom ofconfusion.

  "It was an historical picture, uncle, from several originals."

  "Several originals! Bless my heart!"

  "I have been in love several times."

  "This is cynical."

  "With heroes of many nations."

  "What next----"

  "And philosophers."

  "She is mad----"

  "Don't ring the bell, uncle; you will alarm my aunt."

  "Your poor dear aunt, what a niece has she!"

  "Once I loved Socrates."

  "Pooh! no trifling, ma'am."

  "I admired Themistocles, Leonidas, Epaminondas."

  "Miss Keeldar----"

  "To pass over a few centuries, Washington was a plain man, but I likedhim; but to speak of the actual present----"

  "Ah! the actual present."

  "To quit crude schoolgirl fancies, and come to realities."

  "Realities! That is the test to which you shall be brought, ma'am."

  "To avow before what altar I now kneel--to reveal the present idol of mysoul----"

  "You will make haste about it, if you please. It is near luncheon time,and confess _you shall_."

  "Confess I must. My heart is full of the secret. It must be spoken. Ionly wish you were Mr. Helstone instead of Mr. Sympson; you wouldsympathize with me better."

  "Madam, it is a question of common sense and common prudence, not ofsympathy and sentiment, and so on. Did you say it was Mr. Helstone?"

  "Not precisely, but as near as may be; they are rather alike."

  "I will know the name; I will have particulars."

  "They positively _are_ rather alike. Their very faces are notdissimilar--a pair of human falcons--and dry, direct, decided both. Butmy hero is the mightier of the two. His mind has the clearness of thedeep sea, the patience of its rocks, the force of its billows."

  "Rant and fustian!"

  "I dare say he can be harsh as a saw-edge and gruff as a hungry raven."

  "Miss Keeldar, does the person reside in Briarfield? Answer me that."

  "Uncle, I am going to tell you; his name is trembling on my tongue."

  "Speak, girl!"

  "That was well said, uncle. 'Speak, girl!' It is quite tragic. Englandhas howled savagely against this man, uncle, and she will one day roarexultingly over him. He has been unscared by the howl, and he will beunelated by the shout."

  "I said she was mad. She is."

  "This country will change and change again in her demeanour to him; hewill never change in his duty to her. Come, cease to chafe, uncle, I'lltell you his name."

  "You shall tell me, or----"

  "Listen! Arthur Wellesley, Lord Wellington."

  Mr. Sympson rose up furious. He bounced out of the room, but immediatelybounced back again, shut the door, and resumed his seat.

  "Ma'am, you _shall_ tell me _this_. Will your principles permit you tomarry a man without money--a man below you?"

  "Never a man below me."

  (In a high voice.) "Will you, Miss Keeldar, marry a poor man?"

  "What right have you, Mr. Sympson, to ask me?"

  "I insist upon knowing."

  "You don't go the way to know."

  "My family respectability shall not be compromised."

  "A good resolution; keep it."

  "Madam, it is _you_ who shall keep it."

  "Impossible, sir, since I form no part of your family."

  "Do you disown us?"

  "I disdain your dictatorship."

  "Whom _will_ you marry, Miss Keeldar?"

  "Not Mr. Sam Wynne, because I scorn him; not Sir Philip Nunnely, becauseI _only_ esteem him."

  "Whom have you in your eye?"

  "Four rejected candidates."

  "Such obstinacy could not be unless you were under improper influence."

  "What do you mean? There are certain phrases potent to make my bloodboil. Improper influence! What old woman's cackle is that?"

  "Are you a young lady?"

  "I am a thousand times better: I am an honest woman, and as such I willbe treated."

  "Do you know" (leaning mysteriously forward, and speaking with ghastlysolemnity)--"do you know the whole neighbourhood teems with rumoursrespecting you and a bankrupt tenant of yours, the foreigner Moore?"

  "Does it?"

  "It does. Your name is in every mouth."

  "It honours the lips it crosses, and I wish to the gods it may purifythem."

  "Is it _that_ person who has power to influence you?"

  "Beyond any whose cause you have advocated."

  "Is it he you will marry?"

  "He is handsome, and manly, and commanding."

  "You declare it to my face! The Flemish knave! the low trader!"

  "He is talented, and venturous, and resolute. Prince is on his brow, andruler in his bearing."

  "She glories in it! She conceals nothing! No shame, no fear!"

  "When we speak the name of Moore, shame should be forgotten and feardiscarded. The Moores know only honour and courage."

  "I say she is mad."

  "You have taunted me till my blood is up; you have worried me till Iturn again."

  "That Moore is the brother of my son's tutor. Would you let the ushercall you sister?"

  Bright and broad shone Shirley's eye as she fixed it on her questionernow.

  "No, no; not for a province of possession, not for a century of life."

  "You cannot separate the husband from his family."

  "What then?"

  "Mr. Louis Moore's sister you will be."

  "Mr. Sympson, I am sick at heart with all this weak trash; I will bearno more. Your thoughts are not my thoughts, your aims are not my aims,your gods are not my gods. We do not view things in the same light; wedo not measure them by the same standard; we hardly speak in the sametongue. Let us part."

  "It is not," she resumed, much excited--"it is not that I hate you; youare a good sort of man. Perhaps you mean well in your way. But we cannotsuit; we are ever at variance. You annoy me with small meddling, withpetty tyranny; you exasperate my temper, and make and keep mepassionate. As to your small maxims, your narrow rules, your littleprejudices, aversions, dogmas, bundle them off. Mr. Sympson, go, offerthem a sacrifice to the deity you worship; I'll none of them. I wash myhands of the lot. I walk by another creed, light, faith, and hope thanyou."

  "Another creed! I believe she is an infidel."

  "An infidel to _your_ religion, an atheist to _your_ god."

  "_An--atheist!!!_"

  "Your god, sir, is the world. In my eyes you too, if not an infidel, arean idolater. I conceive that you ignorantly worship; in all things youappear to me too superstitious. Sir, your god, your great Bel, yourfish-tailed Dagon, rises before me as a demon. You, and such as you,have raised him to a throne, put on him a crown, given him a sceptre.Behold how hideously he governs! See him busied at the work he likesbest--making marriages. He binds the young to the
old, the strong to theimbecile. He stretches out the arm of Mezentius, and fetters the dead tothe living. In his realm there is hatred--secret hatred; there isdisgust--unspoken disgust; there is treachery--family treachery; thereis vice--deep, deadly domestic vice. In his dominions children growunloving between parents who have never loved; infants are nursed ondeception from their very birth; they are reared in an atmospherecorrupt with lies. Your god rules at the bridal of kings; look at yourroyal dynasties! Your deity is the deity of foreign aristocracies;analyze the blue blood of Spain! Your god is the Hymen of France; whatis French domestic life? All that surrounds him hastens to decay; alldeclines and degenerates under his sceptre. _Your_ god is a maskedDeath."

  "This language is terrible! My daughters and you must associate nolonger, Miss Keeldar; there is danger in such companionship. Had I knownyou a little earlier--but, extraordinary as I thought you, I could nothave believed----"

  "Now, sir, do you begin to be aware that it is useless to scheme for me;that in doing so you but sow the wind to reap the whirlwind? I sweepyour cobweb projects from my path, that I may pass on unsullied. I amanchored on a resolve you cannot shake. My heart, my conscience shalldispose of my hand--_they only_. Know this at last."

  Mr. Sympson was becoming a little bewildered.

  "Never heard such language!" he muttered again and again; "never was soaddressed in my life--never was so used!"

  "You are quite confused, sir. You had better withdraw, or I will."

  He rose hastily. "We must leave this place; they must pack up at once."

  "Do not hurry my aunt and cousins; give them time."

  "No more intercourse; she's not proper."

  He made his way to the door. He came back for his handkerchief. Hedropped his snuff-box, leaving the contents scattered on the carpet; hestumbled out. Tartar lay outside across the mat; Mr. Sympson almost fellover him. In the climax of his exasperation he hurled an oath at the dogand a coarse epithet at his mistress.

  "Poor Mr. Sympson! he is both feeble and vulgar," said Shirley toherself. "My head aches, and I am tired," she added; and leaning herhead upon a cushion, she softly subsided from excitement to repose. One,entering the room a quarter of an hour afterwards, found her asleep.When Shirley had been agitated, she generally took this naturalrefreshment; it would come at her call.

  The intruder paused in her unconscious presence, and said, "MissKeeldar."

  Perhaps his voice harmonized with some dream into which she was passing.It did not startle, it hardly roused her. Without opening her eyes, shebut turned her head a little, so that her cheek and profile, beforehidden by her arm, became visible. She looked rosy, happy, half smiling,but her eyelashes were wet. She had wept in slumber; or perhaps, beforedropping asleep, a few natural tears had fallen after she had heard thatepithet. No man--no woman--is always strong, always able to bear upagainst the unjust opinion, the vilifying word. Calumny, even from themouth of a fool, will sometimes cut into unguarded feelings. Shirleylooked like a child that had been naughty and punished, but was nowforgiven and at rest.

  "Miss Keeldar," again said the voice. This time it woke her. She lookedup, and saw at her side Louis Moore--not close at her side, butstanding, with arrested step, two or three yards from her.

  "O Mr. Moore!" she said. "I was afraid it was my uncle again: he and Ihave quarrelled."

  "Mr. Sympson should let you alone," was the reply. "Can he not see thatyou are as yet far from strong?"

  "I assure you he did not find me weak. I did not cry when he was here."

  "He is about to evacuate Fieldhead--so he says. He is now giving ordersto his family. He has been in the schoolroom issuing commands in amanner which, I suppose, was a continuation of that with which he hasharassed you."

  "Are you and Henry to go?"

  "I believe, as far as Henry is concerned, that was the tenor of hisscarcely intelligible directions; but he may change all to-morrow. He isjust in that mood when you cannot depend on his consistency for twoconsecutive hours. I doubt whether he will leave you for weeks yet. Tomyself he addressed some words which will require a little attention andcomment by-and-by, when I have time to bestow on them. At the moment hecame in I was busied with a note I had got from Mr. Yorke--so fullybusied that I cut short the interview with him somewhat abruptly. I lefthim raving. Here is the note. I wish you to see it. It refers to mybrother Robert." And he looked at Shirley.

  "I shall be glad to hear news of him. Is he coming home?"

  "He is come. He is in Yorkshire. Mr. Yorke went yesterday to Stilbro' tomeet him."

  "Mr. Moore, something is wrong----"

  "Did my voice tremble? He is now at Briarmains, and I am going to seehim."

  "What has occurred?"

  "If you turn so pale I shall be sorry I have spoken. It might have beenworse. Robert is not dead, but much hurt."

  "O sir, it is you who are pale. Sit down near me."

  "Read the note. Let me open it."

  Miss Keeldar read the note. It briefly signified that last night RobertMoore had been shot at from behind the wall of Milldean plantation, atthe foot of the Brow; that he was wounded severely, but it was hoped notfatally. Of the assassin, or assassins, nothing was known; they hadescaped. "No doubt," Mr. Yorke observed, "it was done in revenge. It wasa pity ill-will had ever been raised; but that could not be helped now."

  "He is my only brother," said Louis, as Shirley returned the note. "Icannot hear unmoved that ruffians have laid in wait for him, and shothim down, like some wild beast from behind a wall."

  "Be comforted; be hopeful. He will get better--I know he will."

  Shirley, solicitous to soothe, held her hand over Mr. Moore's as it layon the arm of the chair. She just touched it lightly, scarce palpably.

  "Well, give me your hand," he said. "It will be for the first time; itis in a moment of calamity. Give it me."

  Awaiting neither consent nor refusal, he took what he asked.

  "I am going to Briarmains now," he went on. "I want you to step over tothe rectory and tell Caroline Helstone what has happened. Will you dothis? She will hear it best from you."

  "Immediately," said Shirley, with docile promptitude. "Ought I to saythat there is no danger?"

  "Say so."

  "You will come back soon, and let me know more?"

  "I will either come or write."

  "Trust me for watching over Caroline. I will communicate with yoursister too; but doubtless she is already with Robert?"

  "Doubtless, or will be soon. Good-morning now."

  "You will bear up, come what may."

  "We shall see that."

  Shirley's fingers were obliged to withdraw from the tutor's. Louis wasobliged to relinquish that hand folded, clasped, hidden in his own.

  "I thought I should have had to support her," he said, as he walkedtowards Briarmains, "and it is she who has made me strong. That look ofpity, that gentle touch! No down was ever softer, no elixir more potent!It lay like a snowflake; it thrilled like lightning. A thousand times Ihave longed to possess that hand--to have it in mine. I _have_ possessedit; for five minutes I held it. Her fingers and mine can never bestrangers more. Having met once they must meet again."