 CHAPTER 35 Wherein matters make some progress, but not much. He had laid out a dexterously concerted scheme for his private amusement, but older and wiser schemers than he are often doomed to see their finest spun projects swept to annihilation by the sudden broom of fate that fell housewife whose red arm none can control. In the present instance this broom was manufactured out of the tough fibers of Moore's own stubborn purpose, bound tight with his will. He was now resuming his strength and making strange head against Mrs. Horsefall. Each morning he amazed that matron with a fresh astonishment. First, he discharged her from her valet duties, he would dress himself. Then he refused the coffee she brought him. He would breakfast with the family. Lastly he forbade her his chamber. On the same day, amidst the outcries of all the women in the place, he put his head out of doors. The morning after he followed Mr. York to his counting-house and requested an envoy to fetch a chase from the Red House Inn. He was resolved, he said, to return home to the hollow that very afternoon. Mr. York, instead of opposing, aided and abetted him. The chase was sent for, though Mr. York declared the step would be his death. It came. Moore, little disposed to speak, made his purse do-doody for his tongue. He expressed his gratitude to the servants and to Mrs. Horsefall by the chink of his coin. The latter personage approved and understood this language perfectly. It made amends for all previous consummacy. She and her patient parted the best friends in the world. The kitchen visited and soothed. Moore betook himself to the parlor. He had Mrs. York to appease, not quite so easy a task as the pacification of her house-maids. There she sat, plunged in sullen dudgeon, the gloomiest speculations on the depths of man's ingratitude observing her thoughts. He drew near and bent over her. She was obliged to look up, if it were only to bid him avante. There was beauty still in his pale-waisted features. There was earnestness and a sort of sweetness, for he was smiling in his hollow eyes. Good-bye, he said, and as he spoke the smile glittered and melted. He had no iron mastery of his sensations now. A trifling emotion made itself apparent in his present weak state. And what are you going to leave us for? she asked. We will keep you and do anything in the world for you, if you will only stay till you are stronger. Good-bye, he again said, and added, you have been a mother to me. Give your willful son one embrace. Like a foreigner, as he was, he offered her first one cheek, then the other. She kissed him. What a trouble! what a burden I have been to you! he muttered. You are the worst trouble now, headstrong youth, was the answer. I wonder who is to nurse you at Hollows Cottage. Your sister Hortons knows no more about such matters than a child. Thank God, for I have had nursing enough to last me my life. Here the little girls came in. They cried, rose quiet, but grave. Moore took them out into the hall to soothe, pet, and kiss them. He knew it was not in their mother's nature to bear to see any living thing caressed but herself. She would have felt annoyed had he fondled a kitten in her presence. The boys were standing about the chase as Moore entered it. But for them he had no farewell. To Mr. York he only said, You have a good riddance of me. That was an unlucky shot for you, York. It turned Briar Mains into a hospital. Come and see me at the cottage soon. He drew up the glass. The chase rolled away. In half an hour he alighted at his own, guarding Wicket. Having paid the driver and dismissed the vehicle, he leaned on that Wicket an instant, at once to rest and to muse. Six months ago I passed out of this gate, said he, a proud, angry, disappointed man. I come back sadder and wiser, weakly enough, but not worried. A cold, gray, yet quiet world lies around. A world where, if I hope little, I fear nothing. All slavish terrors of embarrassment have left me. Let the worst come. I can work, as Joe Scott does, for an honorable living. In such doom I get see some hardship, but no degradation. Formerly pecuniary ruin was equivalent in my eyes to personal dishonor. It is not so now. I know the difference. Ruin is an evil, but one for which I am prepared. The day of whose coming I know, for I have calculated. I can yet put it off six months. Not an hour longer, if things by that time alter, which is not probable. If fetters which now seem indesolable, should be loosened from our trade, of all things the most unlikely to happen, I might conquer in this long struggle yet. I might. Good God, what might I not do? But the thought is a brief madness. Let me see things with sane eyes. Ruin will come. Lay her axe to my fortune's roots, and hew them down. I shall snatch a sapling. I shall cross the sea, and plant it in American woods. Louie will go with me. Will none but Louie go? I cannot tell. I have no right to ask. He entered the house. It was afternoon, twilight get out of doors, starless and moonless twilight, for, though keenly freezing with a dry, black frost, heaven were a mask of clouds congealed and fast locked. The mildam, too, was frozen. The hullow was very still. In doors it was already dark. Sarah had lit a good fire in the parlor. She was preparing tea in the kitchen. Hortense, said more, as his sister bustled up to help him off with his cloak, I am pleased to come home. This did not feel the peculiar novelty of this expression coming from her brother, who had never before called the cottage his home, and to whom its narrow limits had always here to foreseemed rather restrictive than protective. Still, whatever contributed to his happiness pleased her, and she expressed herself to that effect. He sat down, but soon rose again. He went to the window. He came back to the fire. Hortense. Montfury, this little parlor looks very clean and pleasant, unusually bright somehow. It is true, brother, I have had the whole house thoroughly and scrupulously cleaned in your absence. Sister, I think on this first day of my return home you want to have a friend or so to tea, if it were only to see how fresh and spruce you have made the little place. True, brother, if it were not late I might send for Miss Mann. So you might. But it really is too late to disturb that good lady, and the evening is much too cold for her to come out. How thoughtful in you, dear Gerard! We must put it off till another day. I want someone to-day, dear sister, some quiet guest, who would tire neither of us. Miss Aenly? An excellent person, they say, but she lives too far off. Tell Harry Scott to step up to the rectory with a request, from you, that Carol and Halston should come and spend the evening with you. Would it not be better tomorrow, dear brother? I should like her to see the place as it is just now. Its brilliant cleanliness and perfect neatness are so much to your credit. This might benefit her in the way of example. It might and must, she ought to come. He went into the kitchen. Sarah delayed tea half an hour. He then commissioned her to dispatch Harry Scott to the rectory, giving her a twisted note hastily scribbled in pencil by himself, and addressed Miss Halston. Scarcely had Sarah time to get impatient under the fear of damage to her toast already prepared, when the messenger returned, and with him the invited guest. She entered through the kitchen, quietly tripped up Sarah's stairs to take off her bonnet and furs, and came down as quietly, with her beautiful curls nicely smoothed, her graceful marino dress, and delicate collar all trim and spotless, her gay little work bag in her hands. She lingered to exchange a few kindly words with Sarah, and to look at the new tortoise shell kitten basking on the kitchen hearth, and to speak to the canary bird, which a sudden blaze from the fire had startled on its perch. And then she betook herself to the parlor. The gentle salutation, the friendly welcome, were interchanged in such tranquil sort as befitted Cousin's meeting. A sense of pleasure, subtle and quiet as a perfume, diffused itself through the room. The newly kindled lamp, burnt up bright, the tray and the singing urn were brought in. I am pleased to come home, repeated Mr. Moore. They assembled round the table. Horton's chiefly talked. She congratulated Caroline on the evident improvement in her health. Her collar and her plump cheeks were returning, she remarked. It was true. There was an obvious change in Miss Halston. All about her seemed elastic. Depression, fear, forlorness were withdrawn. No longer crushed and saddened and slow and drooping, she looked like one who had tasted the cordial of heartsies, and been lifted on the wing of hope. After tea, Horton's went upstairs. She had not rummaged her drawers for a month past, and the impulse to perform that operation was now become resistless. Having her absence, the talk passed into Caroline's hands. She took it up with ease. She fell into her best tone of conversation. A pleasing facility and elegance of language gave fresh charm to familiar topics. A new music in the always soft voice gently surprised and pleasingly captivated the listener. Unwanted shades and lights of expression elevated the young countenance with character and kindled it with animation. Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings, said more after earnestly gazing at her for some minutes. Do I? I sent for you this evening that I might be cheered, but you cheer me more than I had calculated. I am glad of that, and I really cheer you. You look brightly. Move buoyantly, speak musically. It is pleasant to be here again. Truly it is pleasant, I feel it so, and to see health on your cheek, and hope in your eye, is pleasant, Carrie. But what is this hope, and what is the source of this sunshine I perceive about you? For one thing, I am happy in my ma. I love her so much, and she loves me. Long and tenderly she nursed me. Now, when her care has made me well, I can occupy myself for and with her all the day. I say it is my turn to attend to her, and I do attend to her. I am her waiting woman, as well as her child. I like. You would laugh if you knew what pleasure I have in making dresses and sewing for her. She looks so nice now, Robert. I will not let her be old-fashioned. And then she is charming to talk to, full of wisdom, ripe in judgment, rich in information, exhaust less in stores her observant faculties have quietly amassed. Every day that I live with her, I like her better. I esteem her more highly. I love her more tenderly. That for one thing, then, Carrie, you talk in such a way about ma ma. It is enough to make one jealous of the old lady. She is not old, Robert. Of the young lady, then. She does not pretend to be young. Well, of the matron. But you said ma ma's affection was one thing that made you happy, now for the other thing. I am glad you are better. What besides? I am glad we are friends. You and I? Yes. I once thought we never should be. Carrie, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself that is not to my credit, and consequently will not please you. Ah, don't. I cannot bear to think ill of you. And I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I deserve. Well, but I have no your thing, indeed. I believe I know all about it. You do not. I believe I do. Whom does it concern besides me? She colored, she hesitated, she was silent. Speak, Carrie, whom does it concern? She tried to utter a name and could not. Tell me, there is none present but ourselves. Be frank. But if I guess wrong? I will forgive, whisper, Carrie. He bent his ear to her lips, still she would not, or could not, speak clearly to the point. Seeing that more waited and was resolved to hear something, she at last said, Miss Kilder spent a day at the rectory about a week since. The evening came on very wintry, and we persuaded her to stay all night. And you and she curled your hair together. How do you know that? And then you chatted, and she told you it was not at curling hair time, so you are not as wise as you think, and besides, she didn't tell me. You slept together afterwards. We occupied the same room and bed. We did not sleep much. We talked the whole night through. Albie swore new did, and then it all came out. Ton P., 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 starch 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. Not friends as we have been, but you hardly expect I should tell you. Yes, yes, Carrie, you will tell me. You said we were friends, and friends should always confide in each other. But are you sure you won't repeat it? Quite sure. Not to Louie. Not even to Louie? What does Louie care for young lady's 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 cherry in showing her feelings, but when they rush out, river-like and past 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 Nunley. 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 has at once fond and proud. I'll shock her no more, Carrie, 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, surely incapable of love, that she will never marry. I imagine her jealous of compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power, of sharing her property. Surely has hurt your amor propura. She did hurt it, though I had not an emotion of tenderness, not a spark of passion for her. But 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 Kildar in my life, though she has fine lips, scarlet and round, as ripe as 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 blender once, and we will hear no more about it. And shall we think no more about it, Carrie? Shall we not despise him in our hearts, gentle but just, compassionate but upright? Never. We will remember that with what measure we meet 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 more soothingly. I have no intention, because I have no right to perturb your minds now. Nor for the months to come, don't look as if you would leave me. We will make no more agitating illusions. We will resume our gossip. Do not tremble, look at me in the face. See what a poor 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 more. 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, past 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 rung 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 chitter. I pinched her fingers when she tried to put me off with guibes 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 condescends, 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-glaim. 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 around her, but her own mistress she is not. So you exalted at recognizing a fellow slave in one so fair and imperial. I did. Remembered, 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 two, 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, Kerry. Guess it. Is it any one in this neighborhood? Yes, in Briarfield Parish. Then it is some person unworthy of her. I don't know a soul in Briarfield Parish who are equal. Guess. Impossible. I suppose she is under a delusion and will plunge into some absurdity after all. Caroline smiles. Do you approve the choice? Asked more. 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 Mama, I suppose. And I quite approve, and Mama was charmed. Mama, charmed. Miss Briar, it can't be romantic, then. It is romantic, but it is also right. Tell me, Kerry. 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 thought 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 laylet needs de la Saint-Vierge, rosé celeste, reinde Agnes. Trois-jevois, méchants dieures, is not that the jargon? I'll 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, Depends upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the happiness of Miss Kilder's life. I'll guess once, and no more. It is old Hellstone. She's going to be your aunt. I'll tell my uncle. I'll tell Shirley. Bride Caroline laughing gleefully. Guess again, Robert, your blunders are charming. It is the parson, Hall. Indeed, no. He is mine, if you please. Yours. I, the whole generation of women in Breyerfield, seem to have made an idol of that priest. I wonder why. He is bald, sand-blind, grey-haired. Fanny will be here to fetch me, before you have sawed the riddle, if you don't make haste. I'll guess no more. I am tired, and then I don't care. Miss Kilder may marry Le Grand Turk for me. Must I whisper? That you must, and quickly. Here comes Hortense. Come near a little nearer my own line-ah. 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, Kerry? 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. Oh, Kerry, I have no love to give. Here at the goddess of beauty to Wumi, 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. 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. End of Chapter 35. End of Section 55. Recording by Katie Riley. December 2009. Chapter 36 of Shirley. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by A. Janelle Risa. Shirley, by Charlotte Bronte, Chapter 36, Part 1. Written in the School Room. Louis Moore's doubts respecting the immediate evacuation of Fieldhead by Mr. Simpson turned out to be perfectly well-founded. The very next day after the grand quarrel about Sir Philip Nunley, a sort of reconciliation was patched up between Uncle and Neath. Shirley, who could never find it in her heart to be or seem inhospitable except in the single instance of Mr. Dunn, 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. Simpson 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. Simpson had so conducted himself towards Mr. Louis that that gentleman, patient of labour or suffering but intolerant of course 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. Simpson'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 Kedler'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 manners as careless as those of a little child, that thoughtlessness of its own life or death trusts all responsibility to its parents. He and William Farron, though whose medium he made inquires 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 proof 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 of hers was not a clear case of hydrophobia, there was no such disease. But to this evidence Lewis 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 Simpsons were now really departing. It was incumbent on them to be home by Christmas. Their packages were preparing, they were to leave in a few days. During winter evening, during the last week of their stay, Lewis Moore again took out his little blank book, and discourse with it as follows. She is lovelier than ever. Since that little cloud was dispelled, all the temporary waste in whaneness 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 guilt volume, I found it to contain a section 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 not withstanding 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 the 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 Kedler. 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 now have 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. When I say were I her equal I could find 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 with 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. Then 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 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. Really hot as the sun above the line, rage destructive as the tropic storm, the climb 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 ebullation 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've never 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 is the rock the salt tide daily washes. My design this morning was to take of her near scrutiny, to read a line in the page of her heart before I left 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 Kedler. Yes, I rather think my uncle's attention to go is a settled one now. He leaves you dissatisfied? He's 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. Simpson honestly wished you well. All he is done, or intended to do, he believed to be for the best. You are kind to undertake the defense 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 which 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 Simpson 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 wand. You too 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 striped bosom. The buffalo would feel your rifle shot and with lowered horns and hump pay homage at your feet. And any Indian tribe of black feet or flatheads would afford us a bride perhaps. No, 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 Kedler? Have you been with me in spirit when I did not see you? Have you entered into my daydreams and beheld my brain laboring at its scheme of a future? She had separated a slip of paper for lighting papers, 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 could 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 log house and she will 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 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 grateful in the sense of half-painful, half-pleasing shame. Soon she controlled her emotion and took all her feelings under command. There is 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 class the volume. I have advanced to a certain distance. As far as the true and sovereign and undergraded nature of my kind permits. Now here I stand rooted. My heart may break if it is baffled. Let it break. It shall never dishonor me. It shall never dishonor my sisterhood in me. Even before degradation, death before treachery, I from 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 sacred. There's 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 oreds are peculiar. They come upon you with 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 language flush of evening, the peace of the moon, the changefulness of clouds. I want and will have something different. This elfish splendor looks chill to my vision, and feels frozen to my touch. I am not a poet. You, Miss Kedler, have sometimes in your laughing satire called me a material philosopher, and implied that I live sufficiently for this substantial. Certain 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 feign have the germ of those sweet natural powers which nothing acquired can rival, any temper fate wills. I can imagine 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. She willed it, Monsignor, and she would will it, 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 the love spark illicit. 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 Kedler. Advertise, and be sure you add when you describe the qualification. 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 like 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? Mary? 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, derersion, 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 Kedler? How will you manage to marry, I wonder? I shall manage it with ease and speed when I find the proper person, except Celebesi, 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. Celebesi 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 unlooked 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 a gold-bearing garden. You have not the courage to confront the sleepless dragon. You have not the craft to borrow the aid of Atlas. You look hot and haughty. And you, far haughtier. Ours is the monstrous pride which counterfeits humility. I am a dependent. 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 daily wait, talk, and when impulse urged, I would act. I am never in a hurry. I never was in a hurry my whole life. Hasty people drink the nectar of existence, scalding hot. I taste it, cool as dew. I proceeded. Apparently, Miss Kedler, you are as little likely to marry as myself. I know you have refused three. Nay, four. Advantageous offers, and I believe a fifth. If you rejected Sir Philip Nunley, I put this question suddenly and promptly. Did you think I should take him? I thought you might. On what grounds, may I ask? Conformity of rank, age, pleasing contrast of temper, for he is mild and amiable, harmony of intellectual tastes. A beautiful sentence. Let us take it to pieces. Conformity of rank. He is quite above me. Compare my grains with his palace, if you please. I am disdained by his kith and kin. We were born in the same year, consequently, he is still a boy, while I am a woman, ten years his senior, to all intents and purposes. Contrast of temper. Mild and amiable is he, I, what? Tell me. Sister of the spotted, bright, quick, fiery leopard. And you would mate me with a kid, the millennium being yet millions of centuries from mankind, being yet indeed an archangel high in the seventh heaven, uncommission to descend? Barbarian, harmony of intellectual tastes, he's fond of poetry and I hate it, do you? That is news. I absolutely shudder at the sight of meter or at the sound of rhyme, whenever I am at priory or Sir Philip Fieldhead. Harmony indeed. When did I whip up syllable sonnets or string stanzas, fragile as fragments of glass? And when did I betray a belief that those penny beads were genuine brilliance? You might have the satisfaction of leading him to a higher standard of improving his tastes. Leading, improving, leading and improving, teaching and teetering, bearing and forebearing, pa. My husband is not to be my baby. I am not to set him his daily lesson and see that he learns it and give him a sugar plum if he is good and a patient, pensive, pathetic lecture if he is bad. But it is like a tutor to talk of the satisfaction of teaching. I suppose you think at the finest employment in the world I don't, I reject it, improving a husband? No, I shall insist upon my husband improving me or else we part. God knows it is needed. What do you mean by that, Mr. Moore? What I say? Improvement is imperatively needed. If you were a woman you would school Monsignor, Votre, Mary, charmingly it would just suit you. Schooling is your vocation. May I ask whether in your present just and gentle mood you mean to taunt me with being a tutor? Yes, bitterly and with anything else you please any defect of which you are painfully conscious, with being poor for instance? Of course, that will sting you, you are sore about your poverty, you brood over that, with having nothing but a very plain person to offer the woman who may master my heart. Exactly, you have a habit of calling yourself plain, you are sensitive about the cut of your features because they are not quite on an Apollo pattern. You abuse them more than is needful in the faint hope that others may say a word in their behalf which won't happen. Your face is nothing to boast of certainly, not a pretty line nor a pretty tint to be found therein. Compare it with your own. It looks like a god of Egypt, a great sandbird stonehead, or rather I will compare it to nothing so lofty, it looks like a tartar. You are my Mastiff's cousin, I think you as much like him as a man can be like a dog. Tartar is your dear companion. In summer when you rise early and run out into the fields to wet your feet with the dew and freshen your cheek and uncurl your hair with the breeze, you always call him to follow you. You call him sometimes with a whistle that you learned from me. In the solitude of your wood, when you think nobody but Tartar is listening, you whistle the very tunes you imitated from my lips, or sing the very songs you have caught up by my ear from my voice. I do not ask whence flows the feeling which you pour into these songs, for I know it flows out of your heart, Miss Kedler. In the winter evenings, Tartar lies at your feet. You suffer him to rest his head on your perfumed lap. You let him couch on the borders of your satin raiment. His rough hide is familiar with the contract of your hand. I once saw you kiss him on that snow-white beauty spot which stars his broad forehead. It is dangerous to say I'm like Tartar. It suggests to me a claim to be treated like Tartar. Perhaps, sir, you can extort as much from your penniless and friendless young orphan girl when you find her. Oh, could I find her such as I image her? Something to tame first, and teach afterwards, to break in, and then to fondle, to lift the destitute proud thing out of poverty, to establish power over, and then to be indulgent to the capricious moons that never were influenced and never indulged before, to see her alternately irritated and subdued about twelve times in the twenty-four hours, and perhaps, eventually, when her training was accomplished, to behold her the exemplary and patient mother of about a dozen children, only now and then lending little Louis a cordial cuff by a way of paying the interest of the vast debt she owes his father. Oh, I went on. My orphan girl would give me many a kiss. She would watch on the threshold for my coming home of an evening. She would run into my arms. She'd keep my hearth as bright as she would make it warm. God bless the sweet idea. Find her, I must. Her eyes emitted an eager flash. Her lips opened but she reclosed them and impetuously turned away. Tell me where she is, Miss Kedver. Another movement, all haughtiness and fire and impulse. I must know. You can tell me. You shall tell me. I never will. She turned to leave me. Could I now let her part as she had always parted from me? I had come too near the end not to drive home to it. All the encumbrance of doubt. All the rubbish of indecision must be removed at once. And the plain truth must be ascertained. She must take her part and tell me what it was. I must take mine and adhere to it. A minute, madam, I said, keeping my hand on the door handle before I opened it. We have had a long conversation this morning, but the last word has not been spoken yet. It is yours to speak it. May I pass? No. I guard the door. I would almost rather die than let you leave me just now, without speaking the word I demand. What dare you expect me to say? What I am dying and perishing to hear. But I must and will hear what you dare not now suppress. Mr. Moore, I hardly know what you mean. You are not like yourself. I suppose I hardly was like my usual self, for I scared her. That I could see. It was right. She must be scared to be one. You do know what I mean, and for the first time I stand before you myself. I have flung off the tutor and beg to introduce you to the man. And remember, he is a gentleman. She trembled. She put her hand to mine as if to remove it from the lock. She might as well have tried to loosen by her soft touch, metal welded to metal. She felt she was powerless and receded, and again she trembled. What change I underwent I cannot explain. But out of her emotion passed into me a new spirit. I was neither crushed nor elated by her lands and gold. I thought not of them, cared not for them. They were nothing, dross, that could not dismay me. I saw only herself, her young beautiful form, the grace, the majesty, the modesty of her girlhood. My pupil, I said. My master was the low answer. I have a thing to tell you. She waited, the declined brow and ringlet stroked. I have to tell you that for four years you have been growing in your tutor's heart, and that you are rooted then now. I have to declare that you have bewitched me, in spite of sense and experience, and difference of station and estate. You have so looked and spoken and moved, so shown me your faults and your virtues, beauties rather. They are hardly so stern as virtues, that I love you, love you with my life and strength. It is out now. She sought what to say, but could not find a word. She tried to rally, but vainly. I passionately repeated that I loved her. Well, Mr. Moore, what then? was the answer I got, uttered in a tone that would have been petulant if it had not faltered. Have you nothing to say to me? Have you no love for me? A little bit. I am not to be tortured. I will not even play at present. I don't want to play. I want to go. I wonder you dare speak of going at this moment. You go? What? You want to lay your hand to lay it on your toilet and pierce it with your pins? From my presence you do not stir, out of my reach you do not stray, till I receive a hostage. Pledge for pledge, your heart for mine. The thing you want is mislaid, lost some time since. Let me go and seek it. Declare that it is where your keys often are, in my possession. You want to know, and where are my keys, Mr. Moore? Indeed and truly I have lost them again, and Mrs. Gill want some money and I have none except this sixpence. She took the coin out of her apron pocket and showed it in her palm. I could have trifled with her, but it would not do, life and death were at stake, mastering it once the sixpence and the hand that held it, I demanded. Am I to die without you, or am I to live for you? Do as you please, far be it from me to dictate your choice. You shall tell me with your own lips whether you doom me to exile or call me to hope. Go, I can bear to be left. As I too can bear to leave you, but reply surely my pupil, my sovereign reply. Die without me if you will, live for me if you dare. I am not afraid of you, my Leopardus. I dare live for you and with you, from this hour to my death, now that I have you. You are mine. I will never let you go. Wherever my home may be I have chosen my wife. If I stay in England, in England you will stay. If I cross the Atlantic you will cross it also. Our lives are riveted, our lots intertwined. And are we then equal, sir? Are we equal at last? You are younger, frailer, feebler, more ignorant than I. Will you be good to me, and never tyrannies? Will you let me breathe and not bewilder me? You must not smile at present the world swims and changes around me. The sun is a dizzying scarlet blaze, the sky a violet vortex whirling over me. I am a strong man, but I staggered as I spoke. All creation was exaggerated, colour grew more vivid, motion more rapid, life itself more vital. I hardly saw her for a moment, but I heard her voice, hideously sweet. She would not subdue one of her charms in compassion. Perhaps she did not know what I felt. You name me Leopardus, remember? The Leopardus is tameless, said she. Tame or fierce, wild or subdued, you are mine. I am glad I know my keeper and am used to him. Only his voice will I follow, only his hand shall manage me. Only at his feet will I repose. I took her back to her seat, and sat down by her side. I wanted to hear her speak again. I could never have enough of her voice and her words. How much do you love me? I asked. Ah, you know, I will not gratify you, I will not flatter. I don't know half enough my heart craves to be fed, if you knew how hungry and ferocious it is you would hasten to stay it with a kind word or two. Poor Tar-Tar, said she, touching and patting my hand. Poor fellow, stalwart friend, Shirley's pet and favourite, lie down. And I will not lie down till I am fed with one sweet word. And at last she gave it. Dear Lewis, be faithful to me. Never leave me. I don't care for life unless I may pass it at your side. Something more. She gave me a change. It was not her way to offer the same dish twice. Sir, she said, starting up, at your peril you ever again name such sordid things as money or poverty or inequality. It will be absolutely dangerous to torment me with these maddening scruples. I defy you to do it. My face grew hot. I did once more wish I were not so poor or she not so rich. We saw the transient misery, and then indeed she caressed me. Blend with torment, I experienced rapture. Mr. Moore, said she, looking up with sweet open earnest countenance. Teach me and help me to be good. I do not ask you to take off my shoulders all the cares and duties of property, but I ask you to share the burden, and to show me how to sustain my part well. Your judgment is well balanced, your heart is kind, your principles are sound, I know you are wise, I feel you are benevolent, I believe you are conscientious. Be my companion through life, be my guide where I am ignorant, be my master where I am faulty, be my friend always. So help me God, I will. Yet again a passage from the blank book, if you like reader, if you don't like it, pass it over. The Simpsons are gone, but not before discovery and explanation. My manner must have betrayed something, or my looks. I was quiet, but I forgot to be guarded sometimes. I stayed longer in the room than usual. I could not bear to be out of her present. I returned to it, and basked in it, like Tartar in the sun. She left the oak parlor instinctively I rose, and left it too. She shied me for this procedure more than once. I did it with a vague, blundering idea of getting a word with her in the hall or elsewhere. Yesterday towards dusk I had her to myself for five minutes, by the hall fire we stood, side by side. She was railing at me, and I was enjoying the sound of her voice. The young ladies passed, and looked at us. We did not separate, ere long they repast, and again looked. Mrs. Simpson came. We did not move. Mr. Simpson opened the dining room door, surely flashed him back full payment for aspiring gays. She curled her lip and tossed her tresses. The glance she gave was at once explanatory and defiant. It said, I like Mr. Moore's society, and I dare you to find fault with my taste. I asked, do you mean him to understand how matters are? I do, said she, but I leave the development to chance. There will be a scene, I neither invite nor veered. Only he must be present, for I am inexpressibly tired of facing him souls. I don't like to see him in a rage. He then puts off all his fine propylies. It's what you would call common-plabar, divin, et en prume cha. His ideas are not clean, Mr. Moore. They want scouring with soft soap and fuller's earth. I think if he could add his imagination to the contents of Mrs. Gill's bucking-basket, and let her boil it in her copper with rain-water and bleaching powder, I hope you think me a tolerable laundress. It would do him incalculable good. This morning, fencing, I heard her descend somewhat early. I was down instantly. I had not been deceived. There she was, busy at work in the breakfast parlor, of which the housemaid was completing the arrangement and dusting. She had risen betimes to finish some keepsake she intended for Henry. I got only a cool reception, which I accepted till the girl was gone, taking my book to the window seat very quietly. Even when we were alone, I was slow to disturb her. To sit with her in sight was happiness, and the proper happiness for early morning, serene, incomplete, but progressive. Had I been obtrusive, I knew I should have encountered a rebuff. Not at home to suitors was written on her brow, therefore I read on, stole now and then a look, watched her countenance soften and open. And she felt I respected her mood, and enjoyed the gentle content of the moment, the distance between us shrank, and the light whorefrost thawed insensibly. Air an hour lapsed I was at her side, watching her sew, gathering her sweet smiles and her merry words, which fell for me abundantly. We sat as we had a right to sit, side by side, my arm rested on her chair. I was near enough to count the stitches of her work, and to discern the eye of her needle, the door suddenly opened. I believe if I had just then started from her, she would have despised me. Thanks to the phlegm of my nature, I rarely start. When I am well off, bian, comfortable, I am not soon stirred. Bian, I was tray bian, consequently immutably, no muscle moved. I hardly looked to the door. Good morning, uncle, addressing that personage who paused on the threshold in a state of petrification. Have you been long downstairs, Miss Kedler, and alone with Mr. Moore? Yes, a very long time. We both came down early. It was scarcely light. The proceeding is improper. It was at first I was rather cross and not civil, but you will perceive that we are now friends. I perceived more than you would wish me to perceive. Hardly, sir, said I, we have no disguises. Will you permit me to intimate that any further observations you have to make may as well be addressed to me? Henceforward I stand between Miss Kedler and all annoyance. You! What have you to do with Miss Kedler? To protect, watch over, serve her. You, sir? You, the tutor? Not one word of insult, sir, into poshi. Not one syllable of disrespect to Mr. Moore in this house. Do you take his part? His part? Yes. She turned to me with a sudden fawn movement, which I met by circling her with my arm. She and I both rose. Good GED was the cry from the morning gown standing, quivering at the door. GED, I think, must be the cognomen of Mr. Simpson Lars. When hard-pressed, he always invokes this idol. Come forward, uncle, you shall hear all. Tell him all, Lewis. I dare him to speak, the beggar, the knave, the specious hypocrite, the vile insinuating in famous menial. Stand apart from my niece, sir, let her go. She clung to me with energy. I am near my future husband, she said. Who dares touch him or me? Her husband? He raised and spread his hands. He dropped into a seat. A while ago you wanted much to know whom I meant to marry. My intention was then formed, but not mature for communication. Now it is ripe, sun-melode perfect. Take the crimson peach. Take Lewis more. But, savagely, you shall not have him. He shall not have you. I would die before I would have another. I would die if I might not have him. He uttered words with which this page shall never be polluted. She turned white as death. She shook all over. She lost her strength. I laid her down on the sofa, just looked to ascertain that she had not fainted, of which with a divine smile she assured me. I kissed her, and then, if I were to perish, I cannot give a clear account of what happened in the course of the next five minutes. She has since, through tears, laughter and trembling, told me that I turned terrible, and gave myself to the demon. She says I left her, made one bound across the room, that Mr. Simpson vanished through the door as if shot from a cannon. I also vanished, and she heard Mrs. Gill scream. Mrs. Gill was still screaming when I came to my senses. I was then in another apartment, the oak parlor, I think. I held Simpson before me, crushed into a chair, and my hand was on his cravat. His eyes rolled in his head, I was strangling him, I think. The housekeeper stood, wringing her hands, and treating me to desist. I desisted that moment, and felt at once as cool as stone, but I told Mrs. Gill to fetch the Red House in shades instantly, and informed Mr. Simpson he must depart from field-head the instant it came. Though half-brightened out of his wits, he declared he would not. Repeating the former order, I added a commission to fetch a constable. I said, you shall go, by fair means, or a fowl. He threatened prosecution. I cared for nothing. I had stood over him once before, not quite so fiercely as now, but full as austerely. It was one night when Burglars attempted the house at Simpson Grove, and in his wretched cowardice he would have given a vain alarm without daring to offer defense. I had then been obliged to protect his family and his abode by mastering himself, and I had succeeded. I now remained with him till the chase came. I marshaled him to it. He scolding all the way. He was terribly bewildered, as well as enraged. He would have resisted me, but he knew not how. He called for his wife and daughters to come. I said they should follow him as soon as they could prepare. The smoke, the fume, the fret of his demeanor was inexpressible, but it was a fury incapable of producing a deed that man properly handled must ever remain impotent. I know he will never touch me with the law. I know his wife, over whom he tyrannies and trifles guide him in matters of importance. I have long since earned her undying mother's gratitude by my devotion to her boy. In some of Henry's ailments I have nursed him better, she said, than any woman could nurse. She will never forget that. She and her daughters quitted me today, in mute wrath and consternation. But she respects me. When Henry clung to my neck as I lifted him into the carriage and placed him by her side, when I arranged her own wrapping to make her warm though she turned her head for me, I saw the tears start to her eyes. She will but the more zealously advocate my cause, because she has left me in anger. I am glad of this, not for my own sake, but for that of my life and my idol, my Shirley. Once again he writes a week after. I am now at Stillbro. I have taken up my temporary abode with a friend, a professional man in whose business I can be useful. Every day I ride over to Fieldhead. How long will it be before I can call that place my home and its mistress mine? I am not easy, not tranquil, I am tantalized, sometimes tortured. To see her now, one would think she had never pressed her cheek to my shoulder, or clung to me with tenderness or trust. I feel unsafe, she renders me miserable. I am shunned when I visit her. She withdraws from my reach. Once this day I lifted her face, resolved to get a full look down her deep, dark eyes. Difficult to describe what I read there. Pantheress! Beautiful force born, wily, tameless, peerless nature. She gnaws her chain, I see the white teeth working at the steel. She has dreams of her wild woods and pinings after virgin freedom. I wish Simpson would come again and oblige her again to entwine her arms about me. I wish there was danger she should lose me. As there is risk, I shall lose her. No, by no loss I do not fear, but long delay. It is now night, midnight. I have spent the afternoon and evening at Fieldhead. Some hours ago she passed me, coming down the oak staircase to the hall. She did not know I was standing in the twilight, near the staircase window looking at the frost-brite constellations. How closely she glided against the banisters, how shyly shone her large eyes upon me. How evanescent, fugitive, fitful she looked, slim and swift as a northern streamer. I followed her into the drawing room. Mrs. Pryor and Caroline Hellstone were both there. She had summoned them to bear her company awhile. In her white evening dress with her long hair flowing full and wavy, with her noiseless step, her pale cheek, her eye full of night and lightning, she looked I thought, sprite-life, a thing made of an element, the child of a breeze and a flame, the daughter of a ray and a raindrop, a thing never to be overtaken, arrested, fixed. I wished I could avoid following her with my gaze, as she moved here and there, but it was impossible. I talked with the other ladies as well as I could, but still I looked at her. She was very silent. I think she never spoke to me. Not even when she offered me tea. It happened that she was called out a minute by Mrs. Gill. I passed into the moonlit hall with the design of getting a word as she returned. Nor in this did I fail. Miss Kedler, stay one instant, said I, meeting her. Why, the hall is too cold. It is not cold for me at my side, it should not be cold for you. But I shiver. With fear, I believe. What makes you fear me? You are quiet and distant. Why? I may well fear what looks like a great dark goblin meeting me in the moonlight. Do not, do not pass. Stay with me awhile. Let us exchange a few quiet words. It is three days since I spoke to you alone. Such changes are cruel. I have no wish to be cruel, she responded softly enough. Indeed, there was softness in her whole deportment, in her face, in her voice. But there is also reserve and an air fleeting and vanishing, intangible. You certainly give me pain, said I. It is hardly a week since you called me your future husband and treated me as such. Now I am once more the tutor for you. I am addressed as Mr. Moore and Sir, your lips have forgotten Lewis. No, Lewis, no, it is an easy liquid name not soon forgotten. Be cordial to Lewis, then. Approach him. Let him approach. I am cordial, said she, hovering aloof like a white shadow. Your voice is very sweet and very low. I answered quietly, advancing. You seem subdued, but still startled. No, quite calm and afraid of nothing, she assured me. Of nothing but your vo-tru. I bent a knee to the flags at her feet. You see, I am in a new world, Mr. Moore. I don't know myself. I don't know you, but rise when you do so. I feel troubled and disturbed. I obeyed. It would not have suited me to attain that attitude long. I corded serenely in confidence for her, and not vainly she trusted and clung to me again. Now surely, I said, you can conceive I am far from happy in my present uncertain, unsettled state. Oh, yes, you are happy, she cried hastily. You don't know how happy you are. Any change will be for the worse. Happy or not. I cannot bear to go on so much longer. You are too generous to acquire it. Be reasonable, Lewis. Be patient. I like you because you are patient. Like me no longer, then. Love me instead. Fix our marriage day. Think of it tonight and decide. She breathed the murmur in articulate, yet expressive, darted or melted from my arms, and I lost her.