A shower of rain was falling gently, yet fast, on the late flowers and russet autumn shrubs2, when the garden wicket was heard to swing open, and Shirley's well-known form passed the window. On her entrance her feelings were evinced in her own peculiar3 fashion. When deeply moved by serious fears or joys she was not garrulous4. The strong emotion was rarely suffered to influence her tongue, and even her eye refused it more than a furtive5 and fitful conquest. She took Caroline in her arms, gave her one look, one kiss, then said, "You are better."
And a minute after, "I see you are safe now; but take care. God grant your health may be called on to sustain no more shocks!"
She proceeded to talk fluently about the journey. In the midst of vivacious6 discourse7 her eye still wandered to Caroline. There spoke9 in its light a deep solicitude10, some trouble, and some amaze.
"When will my governess return to me?" she asked.
"May I tell her all?" demanded Caroline of her mother. Leave being signified by a gesture, Shirley was presently enlightened on what had happened in her absence.
"Very good," was the cool comment—"very good! But it is no news to me."
"What! did you know?"
"I guessed long since the whole business. I have heard393 somewhat of Mrs. Pryor's history—not from herself, but from others. With every detail of Mr. James Helstone's career and character I was acquainted. An afternoon's sitting and conversation with Miss Mann had rendered me familiar therewith; also he is one of Mrs. Yorke's warning examples—one of the blood-red lights she hangs out to scare young ladies from matrimony. I believe I should have been sceptical about the truth of the portrait traced by such fingers—both these ladies take a dark pleasure in offering to view the dark side of life—but I questioned Mr. Yorke on the subject, and he said, 'Shirley, my woman, if you want to know aught about yond' James Helstone, I can only say he was a man-tiger. He was handsome, dissolute, soft, treacherous13, courteous14, cruel——' Don't cry, Cary; we'll say no more about it."
"I am not crying, Shirley; or if I am, it is nothing. Go on; you are no friend if you withhold15 from me the truth. I hate that false plan of disguising, mutilating the truth."
"Fortunately I have said pretty nearly all that I have to say, except that your uncle himself confirmed Mr. Yorke's words; for he too scorns a lie, and deals in none of those conventional subterfuges16 that are shabbier than lies."
"But papa is dead; they should let him alone now."
"They should; and we will let him alone. Cry away, Cary; it will do you good. It is wrong to check natural tears. Besides, I choose to please myself by sharing an idea that at this moment beams in your mother's eye while she looks at you. Every drop blots17 out a sin. Weep! your tears have the virtue18 which the rivers of Damascus lacked. Like Jordan, they can cleanse19 a leprous memory."
"Madam," she continued, addressing Mrs. Pryor, "did you think I could be daily in the habit of seeing you and your daughter together—marking your marvellous similarity in many points, observing (pardon me) your irrepressible emotions in the presence and still more in the absence of your child—and not form my own conjectures20? I formed them, and they are literally21 correct. I shall begin to think myself shrewd."
"Nothing. I had no warrant to breathe a word on the subject. My business it was not; I abstained23 from making it such."
394"You guessed so deep a secret, and did not hint that you guessed it?"
"Is that so difficult?"
"It is not like you."
"How do you know?"
"I may be communicative, yet know where to stop. In showing my treasure I may withhold a gem25 or two—a curious, unbought graven stone—an amulet26 of whose mystic glitter I rarely permit even myself a glimpse. Good-day."
Caroline thus seemed to get a view of Shirley's character under a novel aspect. Ere long the prospect27 was renewed; it opened upon her.
No sooner had she regained sufficient strength to bear a change of scene—the excitement of a little society—than Miss Keeldar sued daily for her presence at Fieldhead. Whether Shirley had become wearied of her honoured relatives is not known. She did not say she was; but she claimed and retained Caroline with an eagerness which proved that an addition to that worshipful company was not unwelcome.
The Sympsons were church people. Of course the rector's niece was received by them with courtesy. Mr. Sympson proved to be a man of spotless respectability, worrying temper, pious29 principles, and worldly views; his lady was a very good woman—patient, kind, well-bred. She had been brought up on a narrow system of views, starved on a few prejudices—a mere30 handful of bitter herbs; a few preferences, soaked till their natural flavour was extracted, and with no seasoning31 added in the cooking; some excellent principles, made up in a stiff raised crust of bigotry32 difficult to digest. Far too submissive was she to complain of this diet or to ask for a crumb33 beyond it.
The daughters were an example to their sex. They were tall, with a Roman nose apiece. They had been educated faultlessly. All they did was well done. History and the most solid books had cultivated their minds. Principles and opinions they possessed34 which could not be mended. More exactly-regulated lives, feelings, manners, habits, it would have been difficult to find anywhere. They knew by heart a certain young-ladies'-schoolroom code of laws on language, demeanour, etc.; themselves never deviated35 from its curious little pragmatical provisions, and they regarded with secret whispered horror all deviations36 in others. The395 Abomination of Desolation was no mystery to them; they had discovered that unutterable Thing in the characteristic others call Originality37. Quick were they to recognize the signs of this evil; and wherever they saw its trace—whether in look, word, or deed; whether they read it in the fresh, vigorous style of a book, or listened to it in interesting, unhackneyed, pure, expressive38 language—they shuddered39, they recoiled40. Danger was above their heads, peril about their steps. What was this strange thing? Being unintelligible41 it must be bad. Let it be denounced and chained up.
Henry Sympson, the only son and youngest child of the family, was a boy of fifteen. He generally kept with his tutor. When he left him, he sought his cousin Shirley. This boy differed from his sisters. He was little, lame42, and pale; his large eyes shone somewhat languidly in a wan8 orbit. They were, indeed, usually rather dim, but they were capable of illumination. At times they could not only shine, but blaze. Inward emotion could likewise give colour to his cheek and decision to his crippled movements. Henry's mother loved him; she thought his peculiarities44 were a mark of election. He was not like other children, she allowed. She believed him regenerate—a new Samuel—called of God from his birth. He was to be a clergyman. Mr. and the Misses Sympson, not understanding the youth, let him much alone. Shirley made him her pet, and he made Shirley his playmate.
In the midst of this family circle, or rather outside it, moved the tutor—the satellite.
Yes, Louis Moore was a satellite of the house of Sympson—connected, yet apart; ever attendant, ever distant. Each member of that correct family treated him with proper dignity. The father was austerely46 civil, sometimes irritable47; the mother, being a kind woman, was attentive48, but formal; the daughters saw in him an abstraction, not a man. It seemed, by their manner, that their brother's tutor did not live for them. They were learned; so was he—but not for them. They were accomplished49; he had talents too, imperceptible to their senses. The most spirited sketch50 from his fingers was a blank to their eyes; the most original observation from his lips fell unheard on their ears. Nothing could exceed the propriety51 of their behaviour.
I should have said nothing could have equalled it; but I remember a fact which strangely astonished Caroline396 Helstone. It was—to discover that her cousin had absolutely no sympathizing friend at Fieldhead; that to Miss Keeldar he was as much a mere teacher, as little a gentleman, as little a man, as to the estimable Misses Sympson.
What had befallen the kind-hearted Shirley that she should be so indifferent to the dreary52 position of a fellow-creature thus isolated53 under her roof? She was not, perhaps, haughty54 to him, but she never noticed him—she let him alone. He came and went, spoke or was silent, and she rarely recognized his existence.
As to Louis Moore himself, he had the air of a man used to this life, and who had made up his mind to bear it for a time. His faculties55 seemed walled up in him, and were unmurmuring in their captivity56. He never laughed; he seldom smiled; he was uncomplaining. He fulfilled the round of his duties scrupulously57. His pupil loved him; he asked nothing more than civility from the rest of the world. It even appeared that he would accept nothing more—in that abode58 at least; for when his cousin Caroline made gentle overtures59 of friendship, he did not encourage them—he rather avoided than sought her. One living thing alone, besides his pale, crippled scholar, he fondled in the house, and that was the ruffianly Tartar, who, sullen60 and impracticable to others, acquired a singular partiality for him—a partiality so marked that sometimes, when Moore, summoned to a meal, entered the room and sat down unwelcomed, Tartar would rise from his lair61 at Shirley's feet and betake himself to the taciturn tutor. Once—but once—she noticed the desertion, and holding out her white hand, and speaking softly, tried to coax62 him back. Tartar looked, slavered, and sighed, as his manner was, but yet disregarded the invitation, and coolly settled himself on his haunches at Louis Moore's side. That gentleman drew the dog's big, black-muzzled head on to his knee, patted him, and smiled one little smile to himself.
An acute observer might have remarked, in the course of the same evening, that after Tartar had resumed his allegiance to Shirley, and was once more couched near her footstool, the audacious tutor by one word and gesture fascinated him again. He pricked63 up his ears at the word; he started erect64 at the gesture, and came, with head lovingly depressed65, to receive the expected caress66. As it was given, the significant smile again rippled43 across Moore's quiet face.
397
"Shirley," said Caroline one day, as they two were sitting alone in the summer-house, "did you know that my cousin Louis was tutor in your uncle's family before the Sympsons came down here?"
Shirley's reply was not so prompt as her responses usually were, but at last she answered, "Yes—of course; I knew it well."
"I thought you must have been aware of the circumstance."
"Well! what then?"
"It puzzles me to guess how it chanced that you never mentioned it to me."
"Why should it puzzle you?"
"It seems odd. I cannot account for it. You talk a great deal—you talk freely. How was that circumstance never touched on?"
"Because it never was," and Shirley laughed.
"You are a singular being!" observed her friend. "I thought I knew you quite well; I begin to find myself mistaken. You were silent as the grave about Mrs. Pryor, and now again here is another secret. But why you made it a secret is the mystery to me."
"I never made it a secret; I had no reason for so doing. If you had asked me who Henry's tutor was, I would have told you. Besides, I thought you knew."
"I am puzzled about more things than one in this matter. You don't like poor Louis. Why? Are you impatient at what you perhaps consider his servile position? Do you wish that Robert's brother were more highly placed?"
"Robert's brother, indeed!" was the exclamation67, uttered in a tone like the accents of scorn; and with a movement of proud impatience68 Shirley snatched a rose from a branch peeping through the open lattice.
"Yes," repeated Caroline, with mild firmness, "Robert's brother. He is thus closely related to Gérard Moore of the Hollow, though nature has not given him features so handsome or an air so noble as his kinsman69; but his blood is as good, and he is as much a gentleman were he free."
"Wise, humble70, pious Caroline!" exclaimed Shirley ironically. "Men and angels, hear her! We should not despise plain features, nor a laborious71 yet honest occupation, should we? Look at the subject of your panegyric72. He is there in the garden," she continued, pointing through an aperture398 in the clustering creepers; and by that aperture73 Louis Moore was visible, coming slowly down the walk.
"He is not ugly, Shirley," pleaded Caroline; "he is not ignoble74. He is sad; silence seals his mind. But I believe him to be intelligent; and be certain, if he had not something very commendable75 in his disposition76, Mr. Hall would never seek his society as he does."
Shirley laughed; she laughed again, each time with a slightly sarcastic77 sound. "Well, well," was her comment. "On the plea of the man being Cyril Hall's friend and Robert Moore's brother, we'll just tolerate his existence; won't we, Cary? You believe him to be intelligent, do you? Not quite an idiot—eh? Something commendable in his disposition!—id est, not an absolute ruffian. Good! Your representations have weight with me; and to prove that they have, should he come this way I will speak to him."
He approached the summer-house. Unconscious that it was tenanted, he sat down on the step. Tartar, now his customary companion, had followed him, and he couched across his feet.
"Old boy!" said Louis, pulling his tawny78 ear, or rather the mutilated remains79 of that organ, torn and chewed in a hundred battles, "the autumn sun shines as pleasantly on us as on the fairest and richest. This garden is none of ours, but we enjoy its greenness and perfume, don't we?"
He sat silent, still caressing80 Tartar, who slobbered with exceeding affection. A faint twittering commenced among the trees round. Something fluttered down as light as leaves. They were little birds, which, lighting81 on the sward at shy distance, hopped82 as if expectant.
"The small brown elves actually remember that I fed them the other day," again soliloquized Louis. "They want some more biscuit. To-day I forgot to save a fragment. Eager little sprites, I have not a crumb for you."
He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out empty.
"A want easily supplied," whispered the listening Miss Keeldar.
She took from her reticule a morsel83 of sweet-cake; for that repository was never destitute84 of something available to throw to the chickens, young ducks, or sparrows. She crumbled85 it, and bending over his shoulder, put the crumbs86 into his hand.
399"This September afternoon is pleasant," observed Louis Moore, as, not at all discomposed, he calmly cast the crumbs on to the grass.
"Even for you?"
"You take a sort of harsh, solitary90 triumph in drawing pleasure out of the elements and the inanimate and lower animate91 creation."
"Solitary, but not harsh. With animals I feel I am Adam's son, the heir of him to whom dominion92 was given over 'every living thing that moveth upon the earth.' Your dog likes and follows me. When I go into that yard, the pigeons from your dovecot flutter at my feet. Your mare93 in the stable knows me as well as it knows you, and obeys me better."
"And my roses smell sweet to you, and my trees give you shade."
"And," continued Louis, "no caprice can withdraw these pleasures from me; they are mine."
He walked off. Tartar followed him, as if in duty and affection bound, and Shirley remained standing45 on the summer-house step. Caroline saw her face as she looked after the rude tutor. It was pale, as if her pride bled inwardly.
"You see," remarked Caroline apologetically, "his feelings are so often hurt it makes him morose94."
"You see," retorted Shirley, with ire, "he is a topic on which you and I shall quarrel if we discuss it often; so drop it henceforward and for ever."
"I suppose he has more than once behaved in this way," thought Caroline to herself, "and that renders Shirley so distant to him. Yet I wonder she cannot make allowance for character and circumstances. I wonder the general modesty95, manliness96, sincerity97 of his nature do not plead with her in his behalf. She is not often so inconsiderate, so irritable."
The verbal testimony98 of two friends of Caroline's to her cousin's character augmented99 her favourable100 opinion of him. William Farren, whose cottage he had visited in company with Mr. Hall, pronounced him a "real gentleman;" there was not such another in Briarfield. He—William—"could do aught for that man. And then to see how t' bairns liked him, and how t' wife took to him400 first minute she saw him. He never went into a house but t' childer wor about him directly. Them little things wor like as if they'd a keener sense nor grown-up folks i' finding our folk's natures."
Mr. Hall, in answer to a question of Miss Helstone's as to what he thought of Louis Moore, replied promptly101 that he was the best fellow he had met with since he left Cambridge.
"But he is so grave," objected Caroline.
"Grave! the finest company in the world! Full of odd, quiet, out-of-the-way humour. Never enjoyed an excursion so much in my life as the one I took with him to the Lakes. His understanding and tastes are so superior, it does a man good to be within their influence; and as to his temper and nature, I call them fine."
"At Fieldhead he looks gloomy, and, I believe, has the character of being misanthropical102."
"Oh! I fancy he is rather out of place there—in a false position. The Sympsons are most estimable people, but not the folks to comprehend him. They think a great deal about form and ceremony, which are quite out of Louis's way."
"I don't think Miss Keeldar likes him."
"She doesn't know him—she doesn't know him; otherwise she has sense enough to do justice to his merits."
"Well, I suppose she doesn't know him," mused103 Caroline to herself, and by this hypothesis she endeavoured to account for what seemed else unaccountable. But such simple solution of the difficulty was not left her long. She was obliged to refuse Miss Keeldar even this negative excuse for her prejudice.
One day she chanced to be in the schoolroom with Henry Sympson, whose amiable104 and affectionate disposition had quickly recommended him to her regard. The boy was busied about some mechanical contrivance; his lameness105 made him fond of sedentary occupation. He began to ransack106 his tutor's desk for a piece of wax or twine107 necessary to his work. Moore happened to be absent. Mr. Hall, indeed, had called for him to take a long walk. Henry could not immediately find the object of his search. He rummaged108 compartment109 after compartment; and at last, opening an inner drawer, he came upon—not a ball of cord or a lump of beeswax, but a little bundle of small marble-coloured cahiers, tied with tape. Henry looked at them.401 "What rubbish Mr. Moore stores up in his desk!" he said. "I hope he won't keep my old exercises so carefully."
"What is it?"
"Old copy-books."
He threw the bundle to Caroline. The packet looked so neat externally her curiosity was excited to see its contents.
"If they are only copy-books, I suppose I may open them?"
"Oh yes, quite freely. Mr. Moore's desk is half mine—for he lets me keep all sorts of things in it—and I give you leave."
On scrutiny111 they proved to be French compositions, written in a hand peculiar but compact, and exquisitely112 clean and clear. The writing was recognizable. She scarcely needed the further evidence of the name signed at the close of each theme to tell her whose they were. Yet that name astonished her—"Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove113, ——shire" (a southern county), and a date four years back.
She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, meditating114 over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a confidence.
"They are Shirley's, you see," said Henry carelessly.
"Did you give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with Mrs. Pryor, I suppose?"
"She wrote them in my schoolroom at Sympson Grove, when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her French; it is his native language."
"I know. Was she a good pupil, Henry?"
"She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have in the room. She made lesson-time charming. She learned fast—you could hardly tell when or how. French was nothing to her. She spoke it quick, quick—as quick as Mr. Moore himself."
"Was she obedient? Did she give trouble?"
"She gave plenty of trouble, in a way. She was giddy, but I liked her. I'm desperately115 fond of Shirley."
"Desperately fond—you small simpleton! You don't know what you say."
"I am desperately fond of her. She is the light of my eyes. I said so to Mr. Moore last night."
"He would reprove you for speaking with exaggeration."
"He didn't. He never reproves and reproves, as girls' governesses do. He was reading, and he only smiled into402 his book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than that, she was less than he took her to be; for I was but a dim-eyed, short-sighted little chap. I'm afraid I am a poor unfortunate, Miss Caroline Helstone. I am a cripple, you know."
"Never mind, Henry, you are a very nice little fellow; and if God has not given you health and strength, He has given you a good disposition and an excellent heart and brain."
"I shall be despised. I sometimes think both Shirley and you despise me."
"Listen, Henry. Generally, I don't like schoolboys. I have a great horror of them. They seem to me little ruffians, who take an unnatural116 delight in killing117 and tormenting118 birds, and insects, and kittens, and whatever is weaker than themselves. But you are so different I am quite fond of you. You have almost as much sense as a man (far more, God wot," she muttered to herself, "than many men); you are fond of reading, and you can talk sensibly about what you read."
"I am fond of reading. I know I have sense, and I know I have feeling."
Miss Keeldar here entered.
"Henry," she said, "I have brought your lunch here. I shall prepare it for you myself."
She placed on the table a glass of new milk, a plate of something which looked not unlike leather, and a utensil119 which resembled a toasting-fork.
"What are you two about," she continued, "ransacking120 Mr. Moore's desk?"
"Looking at your old copy-books," returned Caroline.
"My old copy-books?"
"French exercise-books. Look here! They must be held precious; they are kept carefully."
She showed the bundle. Shirley snatched it up. "Did not know one was in existence," she said. "I thought the whole lot had long since lit the kitchen fire, or curled the maid's hair at Sympson Grove.—What made you keep them, Henry?"
"It is not my doing. I should not have thought of it. It never entered my head to suppose copy-books of value. Mr. Moore put them by in the inner drawer of his desk. Perhaps he forgot them."
"C'est cela. He forgot them, no doubt," echoed Shirley.403 "They are extremely well written," she observed complacently121.
"What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, in those days! I remember you so well. A slim, light creature whom, though you were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with your long, countless122 curls on your shoulders, and your streaming sash. You used to make Mr. Moore lively—that is, at first. I believe you grieved him after a while."
Shirley turned the closely-written pages and said nothing. Presently she observed, "That was written one winter afternoon. It was a description of a snow scene."
"I remember," said Henry. "Mr. Moore, when he read it, cried, 'Voilà le Français gagné!' He said it was well done. Afterwards you made him draw, in sepia, the landscape you described."
"You have not forgotten, then, Hal?"
"Not at all. We were all scolded that day for not coming down to tea when called. I can remember my tutor sitting at his easel, and you standing behind him, holding the candle, and watching him draw the snowy cliff, the pine, the deer couched under it, and the half-moon hung above."
"Ask him for it when he comes in."
"You should ask him, Shirley. You are shy of him now. You are grown a proud lady to him; I notice that."
"Shirley, you are a real enigma," whispered Caroline in her ear. "What queer discoveries I make day by day now!—I who thought I had your confidence. Inexplicable125 creature! even this boy reproves you."
"I have forgotten 'auld126 lang syne,' you see, Harry," said Miss Keeldar, answering young Sympson, and not heeding127 Caroline.
"Which you never should have done. You don't deserve to be a man's morning star if you have so short a memory."
"A man's morning star, indeed! and by 'a man' is meant your worshipful self, I suppose? Come, drink your new milk while it is warm."
"My poor lame darling!" murmured Shirley, in her softest voice, aiding him.
404"Whether do you like me or Mr. Sam Wynne best, Shirley?" inquired the boy, as she settled him in an arm-chair.
"O Harry, Sam Wynne is my aversion; you are my pet."
"Me or Mr. Malone?"
"You again, a thousand times."
"Yet they are great whiskered fellows, six feet high each."
"Whereas, as long as you live, Harry, you will never be anything more than a little pale lameter."
"Yes, I know."
"You need not be sorrowful. Have I not often told you who was almost as little, as pale, as suffering as you, and yet potent129 as a giant and brave as a lion?"
"Admiral Horatio?"
"Admiral Horatio, Viscount Nelson, and Duke of Bronte; great at heart as a Titan; gallant130 and heroic as all the world and age of chivalry131; leader of the might of England; commander of her strength on the deep; hurler of her thunder over the flood."
"A great man. But I am not warlike, Shirley; and yet my mind is so restless I burn day and night—for what I can hardly tell—to be—to do—to suffer, I think."
"Harry, it is your mind, which is stronger and older than your frame, that troubles you. It is a captive; it lies in physical bondage132. But it will work its own redemption yet. Study carefully not only books but the world. You love nature; love her without fear. Be patient—wait the course of time. You will not be a soldier or a sailor, Henry; but if you live you will be—listen to my prophecy—you will be an author, perhaps a poet."
"An author! It is a flash—a flash of light to me! I will—I will! I'll write a book that I may dedicate it to you."
"You will write it that you may give your soul its natural release. Bless me! what am I saying? more than I understand, I believe, or can make good. Here, Hal—here is your toasted oatcake; eat and live!"
"Willingly!" here cried a voice outside the open window. "I know that fragrance133 of meal bread. Miss Keeldar, may I come in and partake?"
"Mr. Hall"—it was Mr. Hall, and with him was Louis Moore, returned from their walk—"there is a proper luncheon134 laid out in the dining-room and there are proper people seated round it. You may join that society and405 share that fare if you please; but if your ill-regulated tastes lead you to prefer ill-regulated proceedings135, step in here, and do as we do."
"I approve the perfume, and therefore shall suffer myself to be led by the nose," returned Mr. Hall, who presently entered, accompanied by Louis Moore. That gentleman's eye fell on his desk, pillaged136.
"Burglars!" said he.—"Henry, you merit the ferule."
"Give it to Shirley and Caroline; they did it," was alleged137, with more attention to effect than truth.
"Traitor138 and false witness!" cried both the girls. "We never laid hands on a thing, except in the spirit of laudable inquiry139!"
"Exactly so," said Moore, with his rare smile. "And what have you ferreted out, in your 'spirit of laudable inquiry'?"
He perceived the inner drawer open.
"This is empty," said he. "Who has taken——"
"Here, here!" Caroline hastened to say, and she restored the little packet to its place. He shut it up; he locked it in with a small key attached to his watch-guard; he restored the other papers to order, closed the repository, and sat down without further remark.
"I thought you would have scolded much more, sir," said Henry. "The girls deserve reprimand."
"I leave them to their own consciences."
"It accuses them of crimes intended as well as perpetrated, sir. If I had not been here, they would have treated your portfolio as they have done your desk; but I told them it was padlocked."
"And will you have lunch with us?" here interposed Shirley, addressing Moore, and desirous, as it seemed, to turn the conversation.
"Certainly, if I may."
"You will be restricted to new milk and Yorkshire oatcake."
"Come, then; by special dispensation we will allow him a few cracknels, but nothing less homely142."
The hostess rang the bell and gave her frugal143 orders, which were presently executed. She herself measured out406 the milk, and distributed the bread round the cosy144 circle now enclosing the bright little schoolroom fire. She then took the post of toaster-general; and kneeling on the rug, fork in hand, fulfilled her office with dexterity145. Mr. Hall, who relished146 any homely innovation on ordinary usages, and to whom the husky oatcake was from custom suave147 as manna, seemed in his best spirits. He talked and laughed gleefully—now with Caroline, whom he had fixed148 by his side, now with Shirley, and again with Louis Moore. And Louis met him in congenial spirit. He did not laugh much, but he uttered in the quietest tone the wittiest149 things. Gravely spoken sentences, marked by unexpected turns and a quite fresh flavour and poignancy150, fell easily from his lips. He proved himself to be—what Mr. Hall had said he was—excellent company. Caroline marvelled151 at his humour, but still more at his entire self-possession. Nobody there present seemed to impose on him a sensation of unpleasant restraint. Nobody seemed a bore—a check—a chill to him; and yet there was the cool and lofty Miss Keeldar kneeling before the fire, almost at his feet.
But Shirley was cool and lofty no longer, at least not at this moment. She appeared unconscious of the humility152 of her present position; or if conscious, it was only to taste a charm in its lowliness. It did not revolt her pride that the group to whom she voluntarily officiated as handmaid should include her cousin's tutor. It did not scare her that while she handed the bread and milk to the rest, she had to offer it to him also; and Moore took his portion from her hand as calmly as if he had been her equal.
"You are overheated now," he said, when she had retained the fork for some time; "let me relieve you."
And he took it from her with a sort of quiet authority, to which she submitted passively, neither resisting him nor thanking him.
"I should like to see your pictures, Louis," said Caroline, when the sumptuous153 luncheon was discussed.—"Would not you, Mr. Hall?"
"To please you, I should; but, for my own part, I have cut him as an artist. I had enough of him in that capacity in Cumberland and Westmoreland. Many a wetting we got amongst the mountains because he would persist in sitting on a camp-stool, catching154 effects of rain-clouds, gathering155 mists, fitful sunbeams, and what not."
407"Here is the portfolio," said Henry, bringing it in one hand and leaning on his crutch with the other.
Louis took it, but he still sat as if he wanted another to speak. It seemed as if he would not open it unless the proud Shirley deigned156 to show herself interested in the exhibition.
"You understand opening it," observed Louis, giving her the key. "You spoiled the lock for me once; try now."
He held it. She opened it, and, monopolizing157 the contents, had the first view of every sketch herself. She enjoyed the treat—if treat it were—in silence, without a single comment. Moore stood behind her chair and looked over her shoulder, and when she had done and the others were still gazing, he left his post and paced through the room.
A carriage was heard in the lane—the gate-bell rang. Shirley started.
"There are callers," she said, "and I shall be summoned to the room. A pretty figure—as they say—I am to receive company. I and Henry have been in the garden gathering fruit half the morning. Oh for rest under my own vine and my own fig-tree! Happy is the slave-wife of the Indian chief, in that she has no drawing-room duty to perform, but can sit at ease weaving mats, and stringing beads158, and peacefully flattening159 her pickaninny's head in an unmolested corner of her wigwam. I'll emigrate to the western woods."
Louis Moore laughed.
"To marry a White Cloud or a Big Buffalo160, and after wedlock161 to devote yourself to the tender task of digging your lord's maize-field while he smokes his pipe or drinks fire-water."
Shirley seemed about to reply, but here the schoolroom door unclosed, admitting Mr. Sympson. That personage stood aghast when he saw the group around the fire.
"I thought you alone, Miss Keeldar," he said. "I find quite a party."
And evidently from his shocked, scandalized air, had he not recognized in one of the party a clergyman, he would have delivered an extempore philippic on the extraordinary habits of his niece: respect for the cloth arrested him.
"I merely wished to announce," he proceeded coldly, "that the family from De Walden Hall, Mr., Mrs., the408 Misses, and Mr. Sam Wynne, are in the drawing-room." And he bowed and withdrew.
"The family from De Walden Hall! Couldn't be a worse set," murmured Shirley.
She sat still, looking a little contumacious162, and very much indisposed to stir. She was flushed with the fire. Her dark hair had been more than once dishevelled by the morning wind that day. Her attire163 was a light, neatly164 fitting, but amply flowing dress of muslin; the shawl she had worn in the garden was still draped in a careless fold round her. Indolent, wilful165, picturesque166, and singularly pretty was her aspect—prettier than usual, as if some soft inward emotion, stirred who knows how, had given new bloom and expression to her features.
"Shirley, Shirley, you ought to go," whispered Caroline.
"I wonder why?"
She lifted her eyes, and saw in the glass over the fireplace both Mr. Hall and Louis Moore gazing at her gravely.
"If," she said, with a yielding smile—"if a majority of the present company maintain that the De Walden Hall people have claims on my civility, I will subdue167 my inclinations168 to my duty. Let those who think I ought to go hold up their hands."
Again consulting the mirror, it reflected an unanimous vote against her.
"You must go," said Mr. Hall, "and behave courteously169 too. You owe many duties to society. It is not permitted you to please only yourself."
Caroline, approaching her, smoothed her wavy171 curls, gave to her attire a less artistic172 and more domestic grace, and Shirley was put out of the room, protesting still, by a pouting173 lip, against her dismissal.
"There is a curious charm about her," observed Mr. Hall, when she was gone. "And now," he added, "I must away; for Sweeting is off to see his mother, and there are two funerals."
"Henry, get your books; it is lesson-time," said Moore, sitting down to his desk.
"A curious charm!" repeated the pupil, when he and his master were left alone. "True. Is she not a kind of white witch?" he asked.
"Of whom are you speaking, sir?"
"Of my cousin Shirley."
"No irrelevant174 questions; study in silence."
Mr. Moore looked and spoke sternly—sourly. Henry knew this mood. It was a rare one with his tutor; but when it came he had an awe110 of it. He obeyed.
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1
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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2
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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3
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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10
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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12
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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13
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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14
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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15
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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16
subterfuges
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| n.（用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的）花招，遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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17
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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18
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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19
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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20
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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21
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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22
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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23
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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24
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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25
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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26
amulet
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| n.护身符 | |
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27
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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28
whet
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| v.磨快，刺激 | |
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29
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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30
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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31
seasoning
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| n.调味；调味料；增添趣味之物 | |
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32
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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33
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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34
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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35
deviated
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deviations
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| 背离，偏离( deviation的名词复数 )； 离经叛道的行为 | |
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37
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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38
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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39
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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40
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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41
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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42
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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43
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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45
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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46
austerely
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| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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47
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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48
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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49
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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50
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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51
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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52
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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53
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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54
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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55
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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56
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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57
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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58
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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59
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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60
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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61
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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62
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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63
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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64
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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65
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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66
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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67
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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68
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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69
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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70
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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71
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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72
panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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73
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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74
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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75
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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76
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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77
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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78
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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79
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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80
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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81
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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82
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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83
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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84
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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85
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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86
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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87
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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88
improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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89
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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90
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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91
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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92
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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93
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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94
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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95
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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96
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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97
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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98
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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99
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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100
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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101
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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102
misanthropical
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103
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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104
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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105
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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106
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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107
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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108
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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109
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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110
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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111
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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112
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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113
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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114
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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115
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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116
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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117
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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118
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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119
utensil
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| n.器皿，用具 | |
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120
ransacking
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的现在分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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121
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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122
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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123
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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124
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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125
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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126
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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127
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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128
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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131
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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132
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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133
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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134
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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135
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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138
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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139
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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140
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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141
yeast
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| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
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142
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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143
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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144
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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145
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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146
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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148
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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150
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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151
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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153
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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154
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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155
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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156
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
monopolizing
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| v.垄断( monopolize的现在分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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158
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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flattening
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| n. 修平 动词flatten的现在分词 | |
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160
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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161
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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162
contumacious
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| adj.拒不服从的，违抗的 | |
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163
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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164
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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165
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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166
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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167
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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168
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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169
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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170
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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172
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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173
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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174
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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