"I am perfectly well; I have not an ailment."
And health, indeed, she must have had, to be able to bear the exposure to the weather she now encountered. Wet or fair, calm or storm, she took her daily ride over Stilbro' Moor, Tartar keeping up at her side, with his wolf-like gallop, long and untiring.
Twice, three times, the eyes of gossips--those eyes which are everywhere, in the closet and on the hill-top--noticed that instead of turning on Rushedge, the top ridge of Stilbro' Moor, she rode forwards all the way to the town. Scouts were not wanting to mark her destination there. It was ascertained that she alighted at the door of one Mr. Pearson Hall, a solicitor, related to the vicar of Nunnely. This gentleman and his ancestors had been the agents of the Keeldar family for generations back. Some people affirmed that Miss Keeldar was become involved in business speculations connected with Hollow's Mill--that she had lost money, and was constrained to mortgage her land. Others conjectured that she was going to be married, and that the settlements were preparing.
* * * * *

 "I am perfectly well; I have no ailment."
And health, indeed, she must have had, to withstand the weather she now encountered. Wet or fair, calm or storm, she took her daily ride over Stilbro' Moor, Tartar untiring at her side.
The eyes of gossips - those eyes which are everywhere - noticed two or three times that instead of turning back from the top of Stilbro' Moor, she rode forwards all the way to the town. She was seen to alight at the door of a solicitor. Some people affirmed that Miss Keeldar was involved in business speculations connected with Hollow's Mill - that she had lost money, and was forced to mortgage her land. Others guessed that she was going to be married, and that settlements were being prepared.


Mr. Moore and Henry Sympson were together in the schoolroom. The tutor was waiting for a lesson which the pupil seemed busy in preparing.
"Henry, make haste. The afternoon is getting on."
"Is it, sir?"
"Certainly. Are you nearly ready with that lesson?"
"No."
"Not _nearly_ ready?"
"I have not construed a line."

Mr. Moore and Henry Sympson were together in the schoolroom.
"Henry, make haste. Are you nearly ready with that lesson?"
"No. I have not construed a line."


Mr. Moore looked up. The boy's tone was rather peculiar.
"The task presents no difficulties, Henry; or, if it does, bring them to me. We will work together."
"Mr. Moore, I can do no work."
"My boy, you are ill."
"Sir, I am not worse in bodily health than usual, but my heart is full."
"Shut the book. Come hither, Harry. Come to the fireside."

Mr. Moore looked up. The boy's tone was rather peculiar.
"If the task presents difficulties, Henry, bring them to me. We will work together."
"Mr. Moore, I can do no work."
"My boy, you are ill."
"No, sir, but my heart is full."
"Shut the book. Come here, Harry, to the fireside."


Harry limped forward. His tutor placed him in a chair; his lips were quivering, his eyes brimming. He laid his crutch on the floor, bent down his head, and wept.
"This distress is not occasioned by physical pain, you say, Harry? You have a grief; tell it me."
"Sir, I have such a grief as I never had before. I wish it could be relieved in some way; I can hardly bear it."
"Who knows but, if we talk it over, we may relieve it? What is the cause? Whom does it concern?"

Harry limped forward. His tutor placed him in a chair; his lips were quivering, his eyes brimming. He bent down his head, and wept.
"Harry? You have a grief; tell it me."
"Sir, I have such a grief as I never had before: I can hardly bear it."
"Well, let us talk it over. What is the cause?"


"The cause, sir, is Shirley; it concerns Shirley."
"Does it? You think her changed?"
"All who know her think her changed--you too, Mr. Moore."
"Not seriously--no. I see no alteration but such as a favourable turn might repair in a few weeks; besides, her own word must go for something: she says she is well."
"There it is, sir. As long as she maintained she was well, I believed her. When I was sad out of her sight, I soon recovered spirits in her presence. Now----"

"The cause, sir, is Shirley. Everyone thinks her changed - you too, Mr. Moore."
"Not seriously, no. Besides, she says she is well."
"There it is, sir. As long as she said she was well, I believed her. But now-"


"Well, Harry, now. Has she said anything to you? You and she were together in the garden two hours this morning. I saw her talking, and you listening. Now, my dear Harry, if Miss Keeldar has said she is ill, and enjoined you to keep her secret, do not obey her. For her life's sake, avow everything. Speak, my boy."
"_She_ say she is ill! I believe, sir, if she were dying, she would smile, and aver, 'Nothing ails me.'"

"Has she said anything to you? You and she were together in the garden for two hours this morning. My dear Harry, if Miss Keeldar has said she is ill, and enjoined you to keep her secret, do not obey her. For her life's sake, speak, my boy.


"What have you learned then? What new circumstance?"
"I have learned that she has just made her will."
"Made her will?"
The tutor and pupil were silent.
"She told you that?" asked Moore, when some minutes had elapsed.
"She told me quite cheerfully, not as an ominous circumstance, which I felt it to be. She said I was the only person besides her solicitor, Pearson Hall, and Mr. Helstone and Mr. Yorke, who knew anything about it; and to me, she intimated, she wished specially to explain its provisions."
"Go on, Harry."

What have you learned?"
"I have learned that she has just made her will."
"Made her will?"
The tutor and pupil were silent.
"She told you that?" asked Moore, after some minutes.
"She told me quite cheerfully. She said I was the only person besides her solicitor, and Mr. Helstone and Mr. Yorke, who knew anything about it; and she wished specially to explain its provisions to me."
"Go on, Harry."


"'Because,' she said, looking down on me with her beautiful eyes--oh! they _are_ beautiful, Mr. Moore! I love them! I love her! She is my star! Heaven must not claim her! She is lovely in this world, and fitted for this world. Shirley is not an angel; she is a woman, and she shall live with men. Seraphs shall not have her! Mr. Moore, if one of the 'sons of God,' with wings wide and bright as the sky, blue and sounding as the sea, having seen that she was fair, descended to claim her, his claim should be withstood--withstood by me--boy and cripple as I am."

"'Because,' she said, looking down on me with her beautiful eyes - oh! they are beautiful, Mr. Moore! I love them! I love her! She is my star! Heaven must not claim her!"


"Henry Sympson, go on, when I tell you."


"'Because,' she said, 'if I made no will, and died before you, Harry, all my property would go to you; and I do not intend that it should be so, though your father would like it. But you,' she said, 'will have his whole estate, which is large--larger than Fieldhead. Your sisters will have nothing; so I have left them some money, though I do not love them, both together, half so much as I love one lock of your fair hair.' She said these words, and she called me her 'darling,' and let me kiss her. She went on to tell me that she had left Caroline Helstone some money too; that this manor house, with its furniture and books, she had bequeathed to me, as she did not choose to take the old family place from her own blood; and that all the rest of her property, amounting to about twelve thousand pounds, exclusive of the legacies to my sisters and Miss Helstone, she had willed, not to me, seeing I was already rich, but to a good man, who would make the best use of it that any human being could do--a man, she said, that was both gentle and brave, strong and merciful--a man that might not profess to be pious, but she knew he had the secret of religion pure and undefiled before God. The spirit of love and peace was with him. He visited the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and kept himself unspotted from the world. Then she asked, 'Do you approve what I have done, Harry?' I could not answer. My tears choked me, as they do now."

"'Because,' she said, 'if I made no will, and died before you, Harry, all my property would go to you; and I do not intend that it should be so. You,' she said, 'will have your father's whole estate, which is larger than Fieldhead. Your sisters will have nothing; so I have left them some money, though I do not love them half so much as I love one lock of your fair hair.' She called me her 'darling,' and let me kiss her. She went on to tell me that she had left Caroline Helstone some money too; that this manor house she had bequeathed to me; and that all the rest of her property, amounting to about twelve thousand pounds, she had willed to a good man, who would make the best use of it - a man, she said, that was both gentle and brave, strong and merciful - a man that might not claim to be pious, but who had the spirit of love and peace with him. He visited the fatherless and widows, and kept himself unspotted from the world. Then she asked, 'Do you approve, Harry?' I could not answer. My tears choked me, as they do now."


Mr. Moore allowed his pupil a moment to contend with and master his emotion. He then demanded, "What else did she say?"
"When I had signified my full consent to the conditions of her will, she told me I was a generous boy, and she was proud of me. 'And now,' she added, 'in case anything should happen, you will know what to say to Malice when she comes whispering hard things in your ear, insinuating that Shirley has wronged you, that she did not love you. You will know that I _did_ love you, Harry; that no sister could have loved you better--my own treasure.' Mr. Moore, sir, when I remember her voice, and recall her look, my heart beats as if it would break its strings. She _may_ go to heaven before me--if God commands it, she _must_; but the rest of my life--and my life will not be long, I am glad of that now--shall be a straight, quick, thoughtful journey in the path her step has pressed. I thought to enter the vault of the Keeldars before her. Should it be otherwise, lay my coffin by Shirley's side."
Moore answered him with a weighty calm, that offered a strange contrast to the boy's perturbed enthusiasm.

Mr. Moore allowed his pupil a moment to master his emotion. He then demanded, "What else did she say?"
"When I approved her will, she told me I was a generous boy, and she was proud of me. 'And now,' she added, 'in case anything should happen, you will know what to say to Malice when it insinuates that Shirley has wronged you, that she did not love you. You will know that I did love you, Harry; no sister could have loved you better.' Mr. Moore, sir, when I remember her voice, my heart beats as if it would break. She may go to heaven before me; but the rest of my life - and my life will not be long, I am glad of that now - shall be a straight journey in her footsteps. I thought to enter the vault of the Keeldars before her. Otherwise, lay my coffin by her side."
Moore answered him with a weighty calm.


"You are wrong, both of you--you harm each other. If youth once falls under the influence of a shadowy terror, it imagines there will never be full sunlight again; its first calamity it fancies will last a lifetime. What more did she say? Anything more?"
"We settled one or two family points between ourselves."
"I should rather like to know what----"
"But, Mr. Moore, you smile. _I_ could not smile to see Shirley in such a mood."

"You are wrong, both of you - you harm each other in imagining calamity."
"But, Mr. Moore, you smile."


"My boy, I am neither nervous, nor poetic, nor inexperienced. I see things as they are; you don't as yet. Tell me these family points."
"Only, sir, she asked me whether I considered myself most of a Keeldar or a Sympson; and I answered I was Keeldar to the core of the heart and to the marrow of the bones. She said she was glad of it; for, besides her, I was the only Keeldar left in England. And then we agreed on some matters."
"Well?"
"Well, sir, that if I lived to inherit my father's estate, and her house, I was to take the name of Keeldar, and to make Fieldhead my residence. Henry Shirley Keeldar I said I would be called; and I will. Her name and her manor house are ages old, and Sympson and Sympson Grove are of yesterday."

"My boy, I am neither nervous, nor poetic, nor inexperienced. I see things as they are.


"Come, you are neither of you going to heaven yet. I have the best hopes of you both, with your proud distinctions--a pair of half-fledged eaglets. Now, what is your inference from all you have told me? Put it into words."
"That Shirley thinks she is going to die."
"She referred to her health?"
"Not once; but I assure you she is wasting. Her hands are grown quite thin, and so is her cheek."
"Does she ever complain to your mother or sisters?"

Come, you are neither of you going to heaven yet. I have the best hopes of you both - a pair of half-fledged eaglets. Now, what is your inference from all you have told me?"
"That Shirley thinks she is going to die."
"She referred to her health?"
"Not once; she never complains to anyone; but she is grown quite thin."


"Never. She laughs at them when they question her. Mr. Moore, she is a strange being, so fair and girlish--not a man-like woman at all, not an Amazon, and yet lifting her head above both help and sympathy."
"Do you know where she is now, Henry? Is she in the house, or riding out?"
"Surely not out, sir. It rains fast."
"True; which, however, is no guarantee that she is not at this moment cantering over Rushedge. Of late she has never permitted weather to be a hindrance to her rides."

"Do you know where she is now, Henry? Is she riding out?"
"Surely not, sir. It rains fast."
"That is no guarantee that she is not cantering over Rushedge. Lately she has never permitted the weather to stop her rides."


"You remember, Mr. Moore, how wet and stormy it was last Wednesday--so wild, indeed, that she would not permit Zo to be saddled? Yet the blast she thought too tempestuous for her mare she herself faced on foot; that afternoon she walked nearly as far as Nunnely. I asked her, when she came in, if she was not afraid of taking cold. 'Not I,' she said. 'It would be too much good luck for me. I don't know, Harry, but the best thing that could happen to me would be to take a good cold and fever, and so pass off like other Christians.' She is reckless, you see, sir."
"Reckless indeed! Go and find out where she is, and if you can get an opportunity of speaking to her without attracting attention, request her to come here a minute."
"Yes, sir."

"You remember, Mr. Moore, how wet and stormy it was last Wednesday - so wild, indeed, that she would not permit Zo to be saddled? Yet she herself faced the blast on foot; that afternoon she walked nearly as far as Nunnely. I asked her, when she came in, if she was not afraid of taking cold. 'Not I,' she said. 'It would be too much good luck for me. The best thing that could happen to me would be to take a good cold and fever, and so pass away like other Christians.' She is reckless, you see, sir."
"Reckless indeed! Go and find out where she is, and request her to come here."
"Yes, sir."


He snatched his crutch, and started up to go.
"Harry!"
He returned.
"Do not deliver the message formally. Word it as, in former days, you would have worded an ordinary summons to the schoolroom."
"I see, sir. She will be more likely to obey."
"And, Harry----"
"Sir?"

He started up.
"Harry! Do not deliver the message formally. Make it sound like an ordinary summons to the schoolroom. And, Harry-"
"Sir?"


"I will call you when I want you. Till then, you are dispensed from lessons."
He departed. Mr. Moore, left alone, rose from his desk.

"Till I call you, you are excused from lessons."
Henry departed. Mr. Moore, left alone, rose from his desk.


"I can be very cool and very supercilious with Henry," he said. "I can seem to make light of his apprehensions, and look down _du haut de ma grandeur_ on his youthful ardour. To _him_ I can speak as if, in my eyes, they were both children. Let me see if I can keep up the same rle with her. I have known the moment when I seemed about to forget it, when Confusion and Submission seemed about to crush me with their soft tyranny, when my tongue faltered, and I have almost let the mantle drop, and stood in her presence, not master--no--but something else. I trust I shall never so play the fool. It is well for a Sir Philip Nunnely to redden when he meets her eye. He may permit himself the indulgence of submission. He may even, without disgrace, suffer his hand to tremble when it touches hers; but if one of her farmers were to show himself susceptible and sentimental, he would merely prove his need of a strait waistcoat. So far I have always done very well.

"I can be very cool with Henry," he said. "I can seem to make light of his apprehensions, and speak as if, in my eyes, they were both children. Let me see if I can keep up the same role with her. At times I have seemed about to forget it, when my tongue faltered, and I stood in her presence, not master - no - but something else. I trust I shall never so play the fool. A Philip Nunnely may redden when he meets her eye, and let his hand tremble when it touches hers; but I will not. So far I have done very well.


She has sat near me, and I have not shaken--more than my desk. I have encountered her looks and smiles like--why, like a tutor, as I am. Her hand I never yet touched--never underwent that test. Her farmer or her footman I am not--no serf nor servant of hers have I ever been; but I am poor, and it behoves me to look to my self-respect--not to compromise an inch of it. What did she mean by that allusion to the cold people who petrify flesh to marble? It pleased me--I hardly know why; I would not permit myself to inquire. I never do indulge in scrutiny either of her language or countenance; for if I did, I should sometimes forget common sense and believe in romance. A strange, secret ecstasy steals through my veins at moments. I'll not encourage--I'll not remember it. I am resolved, as long as may be, to retain the right to say with Paul, 'I am not mad, but speak forth the words of truth and soberness.'"

She has sat near me, and I have not shaken. I have encountered her looks and smiles like a tutor. I am poor, and must not compromise an inch of my self-respect. What did she mean by that allusion to cold people who turn flesh to marble? It pleased me - I hardly know why. A strange, secret ecstasy steals through my veins at moments, but I'll not encourage it. I shall stay sober."


He paused, listening.
"Will she come, or will she not come?" he inquired. "How will she take the message? Navely or disdainfully? Like a child or like a queen? Both characters are in her nature.

He paused, listening.
"Will she come, or not?


"If she comes, what shall I say to her? How account, firstly, for the freedom of the request? Shall I apologize to her? I could in all humility; but would an apology tend to place us in the positions we ought relatively to occupy in this matter? I _must_ keep up the professor, otherwise---- I hear a door."
He waited. Many minutes passed.

If she comes, what shall I say to her? How shall I explain the request? Shall I apologize to her? I must keep up the role of professor, otherwise - I hear a door."
He waited. Many minutes passed.


"She will refuse me. Henry is entreating her to come; she declines. My petition is presumption in her eyes. Let her _only_ come, I can teach her to the contrary. I would rather she were a little perverse; it will steel me. I prefer her cuirassed in pride, armed with a taunt. Her scorn startles me from my dreams; I stand up myself. A sarcasm from her eyes or lips puts strength into every nerve and sinew I have. Some step approaches, and not Henry's."

"Henry is entreating her to come; she declines. My request is presumptuous in her eyes. I would prefer her proud; it will steel me. Her scorn startles me from my dreams; her sarcastic look puts strength into every nerve I have. A step approaches."


The door unclosed; Miss Keeldar came in. The message, it appeared, had found her at her needle; she brought her work in her hand. That day she had not been riding out; she had evidently passed it quietly. She wore her neat indoor dress and silk apron. This was no Thalestris from the fields, but a quiet domestic character from the fireside. Mr. Moore had her at advantage. He should have addressed her at once in solemn accents, and with rigid mien. Perhaps he would, had she looked saucy; but her air never showed less of _crnerie_. A soft kind of youthful shyness depressed her eyelid and mantled on her cheek. The tutor stood silent.

The door unclosed; Miss Keeldar came in. She carried her needlework and wore her neat indoor dress and silk apron, a quiet domestic character from the fireside.
Mr. Moore had the advantage. He should have addressed her at once in solemn accents. Perhaps he would have, had she been saucy; but she looked down with youthful shyness. The tutor stood silent.


She made a full stop between the door and his desk.
"Did you want me, sir?" she asked.
"I ventured, Miss Keeldar, to send for you--that is, to ask an interview of a few minutes."
She waited; she plied her needle.
"Well, sir" (not lifting her eyes), "what about?"

"Did you want me, sir?" she asked.
"I ventured, Miss Keeldar, to ask an interview of a few minutes."
"Well, sir" (not lifting her eyes), "what about?"


"Be seated first. The subject I would broach is one of some moment. Perhaps I have hardly a right to approach it. It is possible I ought to frame an apology; it is possible no apology can excuse me. The liberty I have taken arises from a conversation with Henry. The boy is unhappy about your health; all your friends are unhappy on that subject. It is of your health I would speak."
"I am quite well," she said briefly.
"Yet changed."

"Be seated. The subject I would broach is one of some moment. Perhaps I have hardly a right to approach it. The liberty I have taken arises from a conversation with Henry. The boy is unhappy about your health. It is of your health I would speak."
"I am quite well," she said briefly.
"Yet changed."


"That matters to none but myself. We all change."
"Will you sit down? Formerly, Miss Keeldar, I had some influence with you: have I any now? May I feel that what I am saying is not accounted positive presumption?"
"Let me read some French, Mr. Moore, or I will even take a spell at the Latin grammar, and let us proclaim a truce to all sanitary discussions."
"No, no. It is time there were discussions."
"Discuss away, then, but do not choose me for your text. I am a healthy subject."

"That matters to none but myself. We all change."
"Will you sit down? Formerly, Miss Keeldar, I had some influence with you: have I any now?"
"Let me read some French, Mr. Moore, and proclaim a truce to all discussions of health."
"No, no. It is time there were discussions."
"Discuss away, then, but do not choose me for your text. I am healthy.


"Do you not think it wrong to affirm and reaffirm what is substantially untrue?"
"I say I am well. I have neither cough, pain, nor fever."
"Is there no equivocation in that assertion? Is it the direct truth?"
"The direct truth."
Louis Moore looked at her earnestly.
"I can myself," he said, "trace no indications of actual disease. But why, then, are you altered?"
"_Am_ I altered?"

I have neither cough, pain, nor fever."
"Is that the truth?" Louis Moore looked at her earnestly. "Why, then, are you altered?"
"Am I altered?"


"We will try. We will seek a proof."
"How?"
"I ask, in the first place, do you sleep as you used to?"
"I do not; but it is not because I am ill."
"Have you the appetite you once had?"
"No; but it is not because I am ill."

"Let us see. In the first place, do you sleep as you used to?"
"I do not; but not because I am ill."
"Have you the appetite you once had?"
"No; but not because I am ill."


"You remember this little ring fastened to my watch-chain? It was my mother's, and is too small to pass the joint of my little finger. You have many a time sportively purloined it. It fitted your fore-finger. Try now."
She permitted the test. The ring dropped from the wasted little hand. Louis picked it up, and reattached it to the chain. An uneasy flush coloured his brow. Shirley again said, "It is not because I am ill."

"You remember this little ring fastened to my watch-chain? It was my mother's, and you have many a time playfully tried it on. It fitted your fore-finger. Try now."
She tried. The ring dropped from the wasted little hand. Louis picked it up; an uneasy flush coloured his brow.
Shirley again said, "It is not because I am ill."


"Not only have you lost sleep, appetite, and flesh," proceeded Moore, "but your spirits are always at ebb. Besides, there is a nervous alarm in your eye, a nervous disquiet in your manner. These peculiarities were not formerly yours."
"Mr. Moore, we will pause here. You have exactly hit it. I am nervous. Now, talk of something else. What wet weather we have--steady, pouring rain!"

"Not only have you lost sleep, appetite, and flesh," proceeded Moore, "but your spirits are low. There is a nervous disquiet in your manner, which was not there before."
"Mr. Moore, you have exactly hit it. I am nervous. Now, talk of something else. What wet weather we have!"


"_You_ nervous? Yes; and if Miss Keeldar is nervous, it is not without a cause. Let me reach it. Let me look nearer. The ailment is not physical. I have suspected that. It came in one moment. I know the day. I noticed the change. Your pain is mental."

"If you are nervous, it is not without a cause. But the ailment is not physical. It came in one moment. I noticed the change. Your pain is mental.


"Not at all. It is nothing so dignified--merely nervous. Oh! dismiss the topic."
"When it is exhausted; not till then. Nervous alarms should always be communicated, that they may be dissipated. I wish I had the gift of persuasion, and could incline you to speak willingly. I believe confession, in your case, would be half equivalent to cure."
"No," said Shirley abruptly. "I wish that were at all probable; but I am afraid it is not."

I wish you would speak willingly. I believe confession would be half a cure."
"No," said Shirley abruptly. "I am afraid it would not."


She suspended her work a moment. She was now seated. Resting her elbow on the table, she leaned her head on her hand. Mr. Moore looked as if he felt he had at last gained some footing in this difficult path. She was serious, and in her wish was implied an important admission; after that she could no longer affirm that _nothing_ ailed her.
The tutor allowed her some minutes for repose and reflection ere he returned to the charge. Once his lips moved to speak, but he thought better of it, and prolonged the pause. Shirley lifted her eye to his. Had he betrayed injudicious emotion, perhaps obstinate persistence in silence would have been the result; but he looked calm, strong, trustworthy.

She was now seated. Resting her elbow on the table, she leaned her head on her hand. Mr. Moore felt he had at last gained some footing in this difficult path. She was serious, and could no longer affirm that nothing ailed her.
He allowed her some minutes for reflection. Once his lips moved to speak, but he thought better of it. Shirley lifted her eye to his; he looked calm, strong, trustworthy.


"I had better tell _you_ than my aunt," she said, "or than my cousins, or my uncle. They would all make such a bustle, and it is that very bustle I dread--the alarm, the flurry, the _clat_. In short, I never liked to be the centre of a small domestic whirlpool. You can bear a little shock--eh?"
"A great one, if necessary."
Not a muscle of the man's frame moved, and yet his large heart beat fast in his deep chest. What was she going to tell him? Was irremediable mischief done?
"Had I thought it right to go to you, I would never have made a secret of the matter one moment," she continued. "I would have told you at once, and asked advice."

"I had better tell you than my aunt," she said, "or my cousins, or my uncle. They would all make such a bustle, and I dread that. You can bear a little shock?"
"A great one, if necessary."
Not a muscle of the man's frame moved, and yet his large heart beat fast in his deep chest. What was she going to tell him?
"Had I thought it right to go to you," she said, "I would have told you at once, and asked advice."


"Why was it not right to come to me?"
"It might be _right_--I do not mean that; but I could not do it. I seemed to have no title to trouble you. The mishap concerned me only. I wanted to keep it to myself, and people will not let me. I tell you, I hate to be an object of worrying attention, or a theme for village gossip. Besides, it may pass away without result--God knows!"
Moore, though tortured with suspense, did not demand a quick explanation. He suffered neither gesture, glance, nor word to betray impatience. His tranquillity tranquillized Shirley; his confidence reassured her.

"Why was it not right to come to me?"
"It might be right; but I could not do it. The mishap concerned me only. I wanted to keep it to myself. I tell you, I hate to be an object of worrying attention. Besides, it may pass away without result - God knows!"
Moore, though tortured with suspense, betrayed no impatience. His tranquillity tranquillized Shirley; his confidence reassured her.


"Great effects may spring from trivial causes," she remarked, as she loosened a bracelet from her wrist. Then, unfastening her sleeve, and partially turning it up, "Look here, Mr. Moore."
She showed a mark in her white arm--rather a deep though healed-up indentation--something between a burn and a cut.
"I would not show that to any one in Briarfield but you, because you can take it quietly."
"Certainly there is nothing in the little mark to shock. Its history will explain."
"Small as it is, it has taken my sleep away, and made me nervous, thin, and foolish; because, on account of that little mark, I am obliged to look forward to a possibility that has its terrors."
The sleeve was readjusted, the bracelet replaced.

"Great effects may spring from trivial causes," she remarked, as she loosened a bracelet from her wrist, unfastened her sleeve, and turned it up. "Look here, Mr. Moore."
She showed a mark in her white arm - a deep though healed indentation - something between a burn and a cut.
"Small as that mark is, it has taken my sleep away, and made me nervous, thin, and foolish; because of it, I am obliged to look forward to a terrifying possibility."
The sleeve was readjusted, the bracelet replaced.


"Do you know that you try me?" he said, smiling. "I am a patient sort of man, but my pulse is quickening."
"Whatever happens, you will befriend me, Mr. Moore? You will give me the benefit of your self-possession, and not leave me at the mercy of agitated cowards?"
"I make no promise now. Tell me the tale, and then exact what pledge you will."

"I am a patient man," he said, smiling, "but my pulse is quickening. Tell me the tale."


"It is a very short tale. I took a walk with Isabella and Gertrude one day, about three weeks ago. They reached home before me; I stayed behind to speak to John. After leaving him, I pleased myself with lingering in the lane, where all was very still and shady. I was tired of chattering to the girls, and in no hurry to rejoin them. As I stood leaning against the gate-pillar, thinking some very happy thoughts about my future life--for that morning I imagined that events were beginning to turn as I had long wished them to turn----"
"Ah! Nunnely had been with her the evening before!" thought Moore parenthetically.

"It is a very short tale. I took a walk with Isabella and Gertrude, about three weeks ago. They reached home before me; I stayed behind to speak to John. Then I lingered in the lane, for I was in no hurry to rejoin the girls. As I stood leaning against the gate-pillar, thinking some very happy thoughts about my future - for that morning I imagined that events were beginning to turn as I had long wished them to turn-"
"Ah! Nunnely had been with her the evening before!" thought Moore.


"I heard a panting sound; a dog came running up the lane. I know most of the dogs in this neighbourhood. It was Phbe, one of Mr. Sam Wynne's pointers. The poor creature ran with her head down, her tongue hanging out; she looked as if bruised and beaten all over. I called her. I meant to coax her into the house and give her some water and dinner. I felt sure she had been ill-used. Mr. Sam often flogs his pointers cruelly. She was too flurried to know me; and when I attempted to pat her head, she turned and snatched at my arm. She bit it so as to draw blood, then ran panting on.

"I heard a panting sound; a dog came running up the lane. It was Phbe, one of Mr. Sam Wynne's pointers. The poor creature ran with her head down, her tongue hanging out; she looked as if bruised and beaten. Mr. Sam often flogs his pointers cruelly. I called her. I meant to coax her into the house and give her some dinner. But when I attempted to pat her head, she turned and snatched at my arm, and bit it so as to draw blood, then ran panting on.


Directly after, Mr. Wynne's keeper came up, carrying a gun. He asked if I had seen a dog. I told him I had seen Phbe.
"'You had better chain up Tartar, ma'am,' he said, 'and tell your people to keep within the house. I am after Phbe to shoot her, and the groom is gone another way. She is raging mad.'"
Mr. Moore leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Miss Keeldar resumed her square of silk canvas, and continued the creation of a wreath of Parmese violets.
"And you told no one, sought no help, no cure? You would not come to me?"

Directly after, Mr. Wynne's keeper came up, carrying a gun. He asked if I had seen a dog. I told him I had seen Phbe.
"'You had better chain up Tartar, ma'am,' he said, 'and keep within the house. I am after Phbe to shoot her. She is raging mad with rabies.'"
Mr. Moore leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "And you told no one, sought no help? You would not come to me?"


"I got as far as the schoolroom door; there my courage failed. I preferred to cushion the matter."
"Why? What can I demand better in this world than to be of use to you?"
"I had no claim."
"Monstrous! And you did nothing?"

"I got as far as the schoolroom door; there my courage failed."
"Why? What can I demand better in this world than to be of use to you?"
"I had no claim."
"Monstrous! And you did nothing?"


"Yes. I walked straight into the laundry, where they are ironing most of the week, now that I have so many guests in the house. While the maid was busy crimping or starching, I took an Italian iron from the fire, and applied the light scarlet glowing tip to my arm. I bored it well in. It cauterized the little wound. Then I went upstairs."
"I dare say you never once groaned?"
"I am sure I don't know. I was very miserable--not firm or tranquil at all, I think. There was no calm in my mind."

"Yes. I walked straight into the laundry, where they were ironing. While the maid was busy, I took an iron from the fire, and applied the glowing tip to my arm. I bored it well in. It cauterized the little wound. Then I went upstairs."
"I dare say you never once groaned?"
"I am sure I don't know. I was very miserable. There was no calm in my mind."


"There was calm in your person. I remember listening the whole time we sat at luncheon, to hear if you moved in the room above. All was quiet."
"I was sitting at the foot of the bed, wishing Phbe had not bitten me."
"And alone. You like solitude."
"Pardon me."
"You disdain sympathy."
"Do I, Mr. Moore?"
"With your powerful mind you must feel independent of help, of advice, of society."

"There was calm in your person. I remember listening the whole time we sat at luncheon, to hear if you moved in the room above. All was quiet."
"I was sitting at the foot of the bed, wishing Phbe had not bitten me."
"And alone. You like solitude, and disdain sympathy. You must feel independent of help, of advice."


"So be it, since it pleases you."
She smiled. She pursued her embroidery carefully and quickly, but her eyelash twinkled, and then it glittered, and then a drop fell.
Mr. Moore leaned forward on his desk, moved his chair, altered his attitude.
"If it is not so," he asked, with a peculiar, mellow change in his voice, "how is it, then?"
"I don't know."
"You do know, but you won't speak. All must be locked up in yourself."
"Because it is not worth sharing."

"So be it, since it pleases you." She smiled and bent to her embroidery, but her eyelash glittered, and a drop fell.
Mr. Moore leaned forward on his desk.
"If it is not so," he asked, with a peculiar, mellow change in his voice, "how is it, then?"
"I don't know."
"You do know, but you won't speak. All must be locked up in yourself


"Because nobody can give the high price you require for your confidence. Nobody is rich enough to purchase it. Nobody has the honour, the intellect, the power you demand in your adviser. There is not a shoulder in England on which you would rest your hand for support, far less a bosom which you would permit to pillow your head. Of course you must live alone."
"I _can_ live alone, if need be. But the question is not how to live, but how to die alone. That strikes me in a more grisly light."
"You apprehend the effects of the virus? You anticipate an indefinitely threatening, dreadful doom?"

, because nobody can give the high price you require for your confidence. Nobody has the honour, the intellect, the power you demand in your adviser. There is not a shoulder in England on which you would rest your hand for support. Of course you must live alone."
"I can live alone, if need be. But the question is not how to live, but how to die alone. That strikes me in a more grisly light."
"You fear the effects of the virus? You anticipate a dreadful doom?


She bowed.
"You are very nervous and womanish."
"You complimented me two minutes since on my powerful mind."
"You are very womanish. If the whole affair were coolly examined and discussed, I feel assured it would turn out that there is no danger of your dying at all."
"Amen! I am very willing to live, if it please God. I have felt life sweet."
"How can it be otherwise than sweet with your endowments and nature? Do you truly expect that you will be seized with hydrophobia, and die raving mad?"

You are very nervous and womanish."
"You complimented me two minutes since on my powerful mind."
"If the affair were coolly examined, I feel sure it would turn out that there is no danger at all. Do you truly expect that you will be seized with hydrophobia, and die raving mad?"


"I _expect_ it, and have _feared_ it. Just now I fear nothing."
"Nor do I, on your account. I doubt whether the smallest particle of virus mingled with your blood; and if it did, let me assure you that, young, healthy, faultlessly sound as you are, no harm will ensue. For the rest, I shall inquire whether the dog was really mad. I hold she was not mad."
"Tell nobody that she bit me."

"I expect it, and have feared it. Just now I fear nothing."
"Nor do I. I doubt whether the smallest particle of virus mingled with your blood; and if it did, let me assure you that, young and healthy as you are, no harm will ensue. For the rest, I shall inquire whether the dog was really mad. I expect she was not."
"Tell nobody that she bit me," Shirley begged.


"Why should I, when I believe the bite innocuous as a cut of this penknife? Make yourself easy. _I_ am easy, though I value your life as much as I do my own chance of happiness in eternity. Look up."
"Why, Mr. Moore?"
"I wish to see if you are cheered. Put your work down; raise your head."
"There----"

"Make yourself easy. I am easy, though I value your life as much as I do my own soul. Look up - I wish to see if you are cheered. Put your work down; raise your head.


"Look at me. Thank you. And is the cloud broken?"
"I fear nothing."
"Is your mind restored to its own natural sunny clime?"
"I am very content; but I want your promise."
"Dictate."

Thank you. Is the cloud broken?"
"I fear nothing."
"Is your mind restored to its natural sunniness?"
"Yes; but I want your promise," she said.


"You know, in case the worst I _have_ feared should happen, they will smother me. You need not smile. They will; they always do. My uncle will be full of horror, weakness, precipitation; and that is the only expedient which will suggest itself to him. Nobody in the house will be self-possessed but you. Now promise to befriend me--to keep Mr. Sympson away from me, not to let Henry come near, lest I should hurt him. Mind--_mind_ that you take care of yourself too. But I shall not injure you; I know I shall not. Lock the chamber door against the surgeons; turn them out if they get in. Let neither the young nor the old MacTurk lay a finger on me; nor Mr. Greaves, their colleague; and lastly, if I give trouble, with your own hand administer to me a strong narcotic--such a sure dose of laudanum as shall leave no mistake.

"If the worst should happen, my uncle will be full of horror and weakness. Nobody in the house will be self-possessed but you. Now promise to befriend me - to keep Mr. Sympson away from me, not to let Henry come near, lest I should hurt him. Mind - mind that you take care of yourself too. But I shall not injure you; I know I shall not. Lock the chamber door against the surgeons; let them not lay a finger on me; and lastly, if I give trouble, with your own hand administer to me such a sure dose of laudanum as shall leave no mistake.


_Promise to do this._"
Moore left his desk, and permitted himself the recreation of one or two turns through the room. Stopping behind Shirley's chair, he bent over her, and said, in a low, emphatic voice, "I promise all you ask--without comment, without reservation."

Promise to do this."
Moore left his desk, and walked around the room. Stopping behind Shirley's chair, he bent over her, and said, in a low, emphatic voice, "I promise all you ask, without reservation."


"If female help is needed, call in my housekeeper, Mrs. Gill. Let her lay me out if I die. She is attached to me. She wronged me again and again, and again and again I forgave her. She now loves me, and would not defraud me of a pin. Confidence has made her honest; forbearance has made her kind-hearted. At this day I can trust both her integrity, her courage, and her affection. Call her; but keep my good aunt and my timid cousins away. Once more, promise."
"I promise."

"If female help is needed, call in my housekeeper, Mrs. Gill. Let her lay me out if I die. She is attached to me, and I can trust her integrity and courage. But keep my good aunt and my timid cousins away. Once more, promise."
"I promise."


"That is good in you," she said, looking up at him as he bent over her, and smiling.
"Is it good? Does it comfort?"
"Very much."
"I will be with you--I and Mrs. Gill only--in any, in every extremity where calm and fidelity are needed. No rash or coward hand shall meddle."
"Yet you think me childish?"
"I do."
"Ah! you despise me."

"That is good in you," she said, looking up at him, and smiling.
"Does it comfort you?"
"Very much. Do you think me childish?"
"I do."
"Ah!


"Do we despise children?"
"In fact, I am neither so strong, nor have I such pride in my strength, as people think, Mr. Moore; nor am I so regardless of sympathy. But when I have any grief, I fear to impart it to those I love, lest it should pain them; and to those whom I view with indifference I cannot condescend to complain. After all, you should not taunt me with being childish, for if you were as unhappy as I have been for the last three weeks, you too would want some friend."
"We all want a friend, do we not?"
"All of us that have anything good in our natures."
"Well, you have Caroline Helstone."
"Yes. And you have Mr. Hall."

I am not so strong as people think, Mr. Moore; nor am I so regardless of sympathy. But when I have any grief, I fear to impart it to those I love. You should not taunt me with being childish, for if you were as unhappy as I have been for the last three weeks, you too would want some friend."
"We all want a friend, do we not? You have Caroline Helstone."
"And you have Mr. Hall."


"Yes. Mrs. Pryor is a wise, good woman. She can counsel you when you need counsel."
"For your part, you have your brother Robert."
"For any right-hand defections, there is the Rev. Matthewson Helstone, M.A., to lean upon; for any left-hand fallings-off there is Hiram Yorke, Esq. Both elders pay you homage."
"I never saw Mrs. Yorke so motherly to any young man as she is to you. I don't know how you have won her heart, but she is more tender to you than she is to her own sons. You have, besides, your sister Hortense."
"It appears we are both well provided."

"Yes. Mrs. Pryor is a wise, good woman. She can counsel you when you need counsel."
"For your part, you have your brother Robert, and your sister Hortense."
"It appears we are both well provided."


"It appears so."
"How thankful we ought to be!"
"Yes."
"How contented!"
"Yes."
"For my part, I am almost contented just now, and very thankful. Gratitude is a divine emotion. It fills the heart, but not to bursting; it warms it, but not to fever. I like to taste leisurely of bliss. Devoured in haste, I do not know its flavour."

"It appears so."
"How thankful and contented we ought to be!" commented Moore.
"Yes."
"For my part, I am almost contented just now, and very thankful."


Still leaning on the back of Miss Keeldar's chair, Moore watched the rapid motion of her fingers, as the green and purple garland grew beneath them. After a prolonged pause, he again asked, "Is the shadow _quite_ gone?"
"Wholly. As I _was_ two hours since, and as I _am_ now, are two different states of existence. I believe, Mr. Moore, griefs and fears nursed in silence grow like Titan infants."
"You will cherish such feelings no more in silence?"
"Not if I dare speak."
"In using the word '_dare_,' to whom do you allude?"
"To you."
"How is it applicable to me?"

Still leaning on the back of Miss Keeldar's chair, Moore watched her sewing. After a pause, he asked, "Is the shadow quite gone?"
"Wholly. I believe, Mr. Moore, griefs and fears nursed in silence grow like Titan infants."
"You will cherish such feelings no more in silence?"
"Not if I dare speak to you.


"On account of your austerity and shyness."
"Why am I austere and shy?"
"Because you are proud."
"Why am I proud?"
"I should like to know. Will you be good enough to tell me?"
"Perhaps, because I am poor, for one reason. Poverty and pride often go together."

But you are austere and shy, because you are proud. Why are you proud?"
"Perhaps because I am poor, for one reason," said he. "Poverty and pride often go together."


"That is such a nice reason. I should be charmed to discover another that would pair with it. Mate that turtle, Mr. Moore."
"Immediately. What do you think of marrying to sober Poverty many-tinted Caprice?"
"Are you capricious?"
"_You_ are."
"A libel. I am steady as a rock, fixed as the polar star."

"That is such a nice reason. I should be charmed to discover another that would pair with it."
"What do you think of marrying sober Poverty to Caprice?"
"Are you capricious?"
"You are."
"A libel," responded she. "I am steady as a rock, fixed as the polar star."


"I look out at some early hour of the day, and see a fine, perfect rainbow, bright with promise, gloriously spanning the beclouded welkin of life. An hour afterwards I look again: half the arch is gone, and the rest is faded. Still later, the stern sky denies that it ever wore so benign a symbol of hope."
"Well, Mr. Moore, you should contend against these changeful humours. They are your besetting sin. One never knows where to have you."
"Miss Keeldar, I had once, for two years, a pupil who grew very dear to me. Henry is dear, but she was dearer. Henry never gives me trouble; she--well, she did. I think she vexed me twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four----"

"In the morning I look out and see a fine, perfect rainbow, bright with promise. Yet it is broken and faded within an hour. Later still, the stern sky denies that it ever wore so benign a symbol of hope."
"Well, Mr. Moore, you should contend against these changeful moods. They are your besetting sin."
"Miss Keeldar, I had once, for two years, a pupil who grew very dear to me. Henry is dear, but she was dearer, although she vexed me twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four-"


"She was never with you above three hours, or at the most six at a time."
"She sometimes spilled the draught from my cup, and stole the food from my plate; and when she had kept me unfed for a day (and that did not suit me, for I am a man accustomed to take my meals with reasonable relish, and to ascribe due importance to the rational enjoyment of creature comforts)----"
"I know you do. I can tell what sort of dinners you like best--perfectly well. I know precisely the dishes you prefer----"
"She robbed these dishes of flavour, and made a fool of me besides. I like to sleep well. In my quiet days, when I was my own man, I never quarrelled with the night for being long, nor cursed my bed for its thorns. She changed all this."
"Mr. Moore----"

"She was never with you more than three hours at a time."
"She sometimes stole the food from my plate; and when she had kept me unfed for a day, she robbed these dishes of flavour, and made a fool of me besides. I used to sleep well. She changed all this."
"Mr. Moore-"


"And having taken from me peace of mind and ease of life, she took from me herself--quite coolly, just as if, when she was gone, the world would be all the same to me. I knew I should see her again at some time. At the end of two years, it fell out that we encountered again under her own roof, where she was mistress. How do you think she bore herself towards me, Miss Keeldar?"
"Like one who had profited well by lessons learned from yourself."
"She received me haughtily. She meted out a wide space between us, and kept me aloof by the reserved gesture, the rare and alienated glance, the word calmly civil."
"She was an excellent pupil! Having seen you distant, she at once learned to withdraw. Pray, sir, admire in her _hauteur_ a careful improvement on your own coolness."

"And having taken from me peace of mind, she took from me herself - quite coolly, just as if the world would be all the same to me without her. After two years, we met again under her own roof. How do you think she behaved towards me, Miss Keeldar?"
"Like one who had learned well from you."
"She received me haughtily. She kept me aloof by the reserved gesture, the rare and alienated glance, the word calmly civil."
"She was an excellent pupil! Having seen you distant, she at once learned to withdraw."


"Conscience, and honour, and the most despotic necessity dragged me apart from her, and kept me sundered with ponderous fetters. She was free: she might have been clement."
"Never free to compromise her self-respect, to seek where she had been shunned."
"Then she was inconsistent; she tantalized as before. When I thought I had made up my mind to seeing in her only a lofty stranger, she would suddenly show me such a glimpse of loving simplicity--she would warm me with such a beam of reviving sympathy, she would gladden an hour with converse so gentle, gay, and kindly--that I could no more shut my heart on her image than I could close that door against her presence. Explain why she distressed me so."
"She could not bear to be quite outcast; and then she would sometimes get a notion into her head, on a cold, wet day, that the schoolroom was no cheerful place, and feel it incumbent on her to go and see if you and Henry kept up a good fire; and once there, she liked to stay."
"But she should not be changeful. If she came at all, she should come oftener."
"There is such a thing as intrusion."

"Conscience and honour dragged me apart from her with ponderous fetters. She was free: she might have been merciful."
"Never free to seek where she had been shunned."
"Then she was inconsistent; she tantalized. She would suddenly show me such a glimpse of loving simplicity - she would speak so gently, so kindly - that I could not shut her image out of my heart. Explain why she distressed me so."
"She could not bear to be quite outcast," said Shirley; "and on a cold day she would sometimes feel she ought to go and see if you and Henry had a good fire in the schoolroom; and once there, she liked to stay."


"To-morrow you will not be as you are to-day."
"I don't know. Will you?"
"I am not mad, most noble Berenice! We may give one day to dreaming, but the next we must awake; and I shall awake to purpose the morning you are married to Sir Philip Nunnely. The fire shines on you and me, and shows us very clearly in the glass, Miss Keeldar; and I have been gazing on the picture all the time I have been talking. Look up! What a difference between your head and mine! I look old for thirty!"

"Tomorrow you will not be as you are today. We may give one day to dreaming, but the next we must awake; and I shall awake to purpose the morning you are married to Sir Philip Nunnely. I see us very clearly in the mirror, Miss Keeldar; and I have been gazing on the picture all the time I have been talking. What a difference between your head and mine! I look old for thirty!"


"You are so grave; you have such a square brow; and your face is sallow. I never regard you as a young man, nor as Robert's junior."
"Don't you? I thought not. Imagine Robert's clear-cut, handsome face looking over my shoulder. Does not the apparition make vividly manifest the obtuse mould of my heavy traits? There!" (he started), "I have been expecting that wire to vibrate this last half-hour."
The dinner-bell rang, and Shirley rose.

"You are so grave, I never regard you as a young man, nor as Robert's junior."
"I thought not." He started as the dinner-bell rang; and Shirley rose.


"Mr. Moore," she said, as she gathered up her silks, "have you heard from your brother lately? Do you know what he means by staying in town so long? Does he talk of returning?"
"He talks of returning; but what has caused his long absence I cannot tell. To speak the truth, I thought none in Yorkshire knew better than yourself why he was reluctant to come home."
A crimson shadow passed across Miss Keeldar's cheek.
"Write to him and urge him to come," she said. "I know there has been no impolicy in protracting his absence thus far. It is good to let the mill stand, while trade is so bad; but he must not abandon the county."

"Mr. Moore," she said, as she gathered up her silks, "have you heard from your brother lately? Do you know why he stays in town so long? Does he talk of returning?"
"He talks of returning; but what has caused his long absence I cannot tell. To speak the truth, I thought none knew better than yourself why he was reluctant to come home."
A crimson shadow passed across Miss Keeldar's cheek.
"Write to him and urge him to come," she said. "He must not abandon the county."


"I am aware," said Louis, "that he had an interview with you the evening before he left, and I saw him quit Fieldhead afterwards. I read his countenance, or _tried_ to read it. He turned from me. I divined that he would be long away. Some fine, slight fingers have a wondrous knack at pulverizing a man's brittle pride. I suppose Robert put too much trust in his manly beauty and native gentlemanhood. Those are better off who, being destitute of advantage, cannot cherish delusion. But I will write, and say you advise his return."
"Do not say _I_ advise his return, but that his return is advisable."
The second bell rang, and Miss Keeldar obeyed its call.

"I am aware," said Louis, "that he had an interview with you the evening before he left. He turned from me afterwards, and I guessed that he would be long away. I suppose Robert put too much trust in his manly beauty and gentlemanhood. But I will write, and say you advise his return."
"Do not say I advise his return, but that his return is advisable."
The bell rang again, and Miss Keeldar obeyed its call.


Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as much on the state of things within as on the state of things without and around us. I make this trite remark, because I happen to know that Messrs. Helstone and Moore trotted forth from the mill-yard gates, at the head of their very small company, in the best possible spirits. When a ray from a lantern (the three pedestrians of the party carried each one) fell on Mr. Moore's face, you could see an unusual, because a lively, spark dancing in his eyes, and a new-found vivacity mantling on his dark physiognomy; and when the rector's visage was illuminated, his hard features were revealed all agrin and ashine with glee. Yet a drizzling night, a somewhat perilous expedition, you would think were not circumstances calculated to enliven those exposed to the wet and engaged in the adventure. If any member or members of the crew who had been at work on Stilbro' Moor had caught a view of this party, they would have had great pleasure in shooting either of the leaders from behind a wall: and the leaders knew this; and the fact is, being both men of steely nerves and steady-beating hearts, were elate with the knowledge.
I am aware, reader, and you need not remind me, that it is a dreadful thing for a parson to be warlike; I am aware that he should be a man of peace. I have some faint outline of an idea of what a clergyman's mission is amongst mankind, and I remember distinctly whose servant he is, whose message he delivers, whose example he should follow; yet, with all this, if you are a parson-hater, you need not expect me to go along with you every step of your dismal, downward-tending, unchristian road; you need not expect me to join in your deep anathemas, at once so narrow and so sweeping, in your poisonous rancour, so intense and so absurd, against "the cloth;" to lift up my eyes and hands with a Supplehough, or to inflate my lungs with a Barraclough, in horror and denunciation of the diabolical rector of Briarfield.

Messrs. Helstone and Moore trotted forth from the mill-yard gates, at the head of their small company, in the best possible spirits. The lantern showed a lively spark dancing in Moore's eyes; while the rector's face was shining with glee. If any the crew who had been at work on Stilbro' Moor had seen them, they would have had great pleasure in shooting either of them from behind a wall. The leaders knew this; and being men of steely nerves and steady hearts, were elated with the knowledge.
I am aware, reader, that it is a dreadful thing for a parson to be warlike; I am aware that he should be a man of peace: yet I cannot lift up my eyes and hands in horror to denounce the diabolical rector of Briarfield.


He was not diabolical at all. The evil simply was--he had missed his vocation. He should have been a soldier, and circumstances had made him a priest. For the rest, he was a conscientious, hard-headed, hard-handed, brave, stern, implacable, faithful little man; a man almost without sympathy, ungentle, prejudiced, and rigid, but a man true to principle, honourable, sagacious, and sincere. It seems to me, reader, that you cannot always cut out men to fit their profession, and that you ought not to curse them because their profession sometimes hangs on them ungracefully. Nor will I curse Helstone, clerical Cossack as he was. Yet he _was_ cursed, and by many of his own parishioners, as by others he was adored--which is the frequent fate of men who show partiality in friendship and bitterness in enmity, who are equally attached to principles and adherent to prejudices.

He was not diabolical at all. He had simply missed his vocation. He should have been a soldier, and circumstances had made him a priest. He was a conscientious, hard-headed, brave, stern, implacable, faithful little man; almost without sympathy, prejudiced, and rigid, but a man true to principle, intelligent, and sincere. I will not curse Helstone, clerical Cossack as he was.


Helstone and Moore being both in excellent spirits, and united for the present in one cause, you would expect that, as they rode side by side, they would converse amicably. Oh no! These two men, of hard, bilious natures both, rarely came into contact but they chafed each other's moods. Their frequent bone of contention was the war. Helstone was a high Tory (there were Tories in those days), and Moore was a bitter Whig--a Whig, at least, as far as opposition to the war-party was concerned, that being the question which affected his own interest; and only on that question did he profess any British politics at all. He liked to infuriate Helstone by declaring his belief in the invincibility of Bonaparte, by taunting England and Europe with the impotence of their efforts to withstand him, and by coolly advancing the opinion that it was as well to yield to him soon as late, since he must in the end crush every antagonist, and reign supreme.
Helstone could not bear these sentiments. It was only on the consideration of Moore being a sort of outcast and alien, and having but half measure of British blood to temper the foreign gall which corroded his veins, that he brought himself to listen to them without indulging the wish he felt to cane the speaker. Another thing, too, somewhat allayed his disgust--namely, a fellow-feeling for the dogged tone with which these opinions were asserted, and a respect for the consistency of Moore's crabbed contumacy.

You would expect that Helstone and Moore, as they rode side by side in the same cause, would converse amicably. Oh no! These two hard-natured men always chafed each other. They argued frequently about the war. Helstone was a high Tory, and Moore was a bitter Whig - a Whig, at least, in opposing the war-party: that was the question which affected his business, and only on that question did he hold any political views at all. He liked to infuriate Helstone by declaring that Bonaparte was invincible, and by coolly suggesting that Britain might as well yield to him, since he must in the end crush every enemy, and reign supreme.
Helstone could not bear these opinions. It was only because Moore was a sort of half-British alien that he could listen to them without indulging his wish to cane the speaker. Another thing, too, allayed his disgust - a fellow-feeling and respect for Moore's stubbornness.


As the party turned into the Stilbro' road, they met what little wind there was; the rain dashed in their faces. Moore had been fretting his companion previously, and now, braced up by the raw breeze, and perhaps irritated by the sharp drizzle, he began to goad him.
"Does your Peninsular news please you still?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" was the surly demand of the rector.
"I mean, have you still faith in that Baal of a Lord Wellington?"
"And what do you mean now?"
"Do you still believe that this wooden-faced and pebble-hearted idol of England has power to send fire down from heaven to consume the French holocaust you want to offer up?"
"I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals into the sea the day it pleases him to lift his arm."

As the party turned into the Stilbro' road, the rain dashed in their faces. Moore, braced up by the raw breeze and sharp drizzle, began to goad his companion.
"Does your Peninsular news please you still?" he asked. "Have you still faith in that false god of a Lord Wellington?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you still believe that this wooden-faced, pebble-hearted idol has power to send fire down from heaven to consume the French?"
"I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals into the sea whenever he likes."


"But, my dear sir, you can't be serious in what you say. Bonaparte's marshals are great men, who act under the guidance of an omnipotent master-spirit. Your Wellington is the most humdrum of commonplace martinets, whose slow, mechanical movements are further cramped by an ignorant home government."
"Wellington is the soul of England. Wellington is the right champion of a good cause, the fit representative of a powerful, a resolute, a sensible, and an honest nation."
"Your good cause, as far as I understand it, is simply the restoration of that filthy, feeble Ferdinand to a throne which he disgraced. Your fit representative of an honest people is a dull-witted drover, acting for a duller-witted farmer; and against these are arrayed victorious supremacy and invincible genius."
"Against legitimacy is arrayed usurpation; against modest, single-minded, righteous, and brave resistance to encroachment is arrayed boastful, double-tongued, selfish, and treacherous ambition to possess. God defend the right!"
"God often defends the powerful."

"My dear sir, you can't be serious. Bonaparte's marshals are great men, under the guidance of a master-spirit. Your Wellington is the most commonplace of leaders, whose slow movements are further cramped by an ignorant government."
"Wellington is the soul of England. He is the right champion of a powerful, resolute, and honest nation."
"He is a dull-witted drover, acting for a duller-witted farmer; and arrayed against him is an invincible genius."
"A usurper. Against righteous, brave resistance is arrayed boastful, selfish, and treacherous ambition. God defend the right!" said Mr. Helstone.
"God often defends the powerful."


"What! I suppose the handful of Israelites standing dryshod on the Asiatic side of the Red Sea was more powerful than the host of the Egyptians drawn up on the African side? Were they more numerous? Were they better appointed? Were they more mighty, in a word--eh? Don't speak, or you'll tell a lie, Moore; you know you will. They were a poor, overwrought band of bondsmen. Tyrants had oppressed them through four hundred years; a feeble mixture of women and children diluted their thin ranks; their masters, who roared to follow them through the divided flood, were a set of pampered Ethiops, about as strong and brutal as the lions of Libya. They were armed, horsed, and charioted; the poor Hebrew wanderers were afoot. Few of them, it is likely, had better weapons than their shepherds' crooks or their masons' building-tools; their meek and mighty leader himself had only his rod.

"What! was the handful of Israelites standing beside the Red Sea more powerful than the host of Egyptians drawn up on the other side? Were they more numerous and mighty, eh? They were a poor band, with few better weapons than shepherds' crooks.


But bethink you, Robert Moore, right was with them; the God of battles was on their side. Crime and the lost archangel generalled the ranks of Pharaoh, and which triumphed? We know that well. 'The Lord saved Israel that day out of the hand of the Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea-shore'--yea, 'the depths covered them, they sank to the bottom as a stone.' The right hand of the Lord became glorious in power; the right hand of the Lord dashed in pieces the enemy!"
"You are all right; only you forget the true parallel. France is Israel, and Napoleon is Moses. Europe, with her old overgorged empires and rotten dynasties, is corrupt Egypt; gallant France is the Twelve Tribes, and her fresh and vigorous Usurper the Shepherd of Horeb."
"I scorn to answer you."
Moore accordingly answered himself--at least, he subjoined to what he had just said an additional observation in a lower voice.

But right was with them, Robert Moore; the God of battles was on their side. 'The Lord saved Israel that day, and left the Egyptians dead upon the sea-shore.' The hand of the Lord dashed the enemy in pieces!"
"You are right; only you forget the true parallel. France is Israel, and Napoleon is Moses. Europe, with her old overgorged empires and rotten dynasties, is corrupt Egypt."
"I scorn to answer you."
Moore accordingly answered himself. At least, he added in a lower voice:


"Oh, in Italy he was as great as any Moses! He was the right thing there, fit to head and organize measures for the regeneration of nations. It puzzles me to this day how the conqueror of Lodi should have condescended to become an emperor, a vulgar, a stupid humbug; and still more how a people who had once called themselves republicans should have sunk again to the grade of mere slaves. I despise France! If England had gone as far on the march of civilization as France did, she would hardly have retreated so shamelessly."
"You don't mean to say that besotted imperial France is any worse than bloody republican France?" demanded Helstone fiercely.
"I mean to say nothing, but I can think what I please, you know, Mr. Helstone, both about France and England; and about revolutions, and regicides, and restorations in general; and about the divine right of kings, which you often stickle for in your sermons, and the duty of non-resistance, and the sanity of war, and----"
Mr. Moore's sentence was here cut short by the rapid rolling up of a gig, and its sudden stoppage in the middle of the road. Both he and the rector had been too much occupied with their discourse to notice its approach till it was close upon them.

"It puzzles me how Napoleon should have condescended to become an emperor, a vulgar humbug; and still more how a people who had once called themselves republicans should have sunk again to the level of mere slaves. I despise France! I can think what I please, Mr. Helstone, both about France and England; and about revolutions, and regicides, and-"
His sentence was cut short by the rapid rolling up of a gig that stopped in the middle of the road.


"Nah, maister; did th' wagons hit home?" demanded a voice from the vehicle.
"Can that be Joe Scott?"
"Ay, ay!" returned another voice; for the gig contained two persons, as was seen by the glimmer of its lamp. The men with the lanterns had now fallen into the rear, or rather, the equestrians of the rescue-party had outridden the pedestrians. "Ay, Mr. Moore, it's Joe Scott. I'm bringing him back to you in a bonny pickle. I fand him on the top of the moor yonder, him and three others. What will you give me for restoring him to you?"

"Nah, maister; did th' wagons hit home?" demanded a voice.
"Is that Joe Scott?"
"Ay, ay!" returned another voice; for the gig contained two people. "Ay, Mr. Moore, it's Joe Scott. I'm bringing him back to you in a bonny pickle. I fand him on the top of the moor yonder, him and three others. What will you give me for restoring him to you?"


"Why, my thanks, I believe; for I could better have afforded to lose a better man. That is you, I suppose, Mr. Yorke, by your voice?"

"Why, my thanks. That is you, I suppose, Mr. Yorke, by your voice?"


"Ay, lad, it's me. I was coming home from Stilbro' market, and just as I got to the middle of the moor, and was whipping on as swift as the wind (for these, they say, are not safe times, thanks to a bad government!), I heard a groan. I pulled up. Some would have whipt on faster; but I've naught to fear that I know of. I don't believe there's a lad in these parts would harm me--at least, I'd give them as good as I got if they offered to do it. I said, 'Is there aught wrong anywhere?' ''Deed is there,' somebody says, speaking out of the ground, like. 'What's to do? Be sharp and tell me,' I ordered.

"Ay, lad, it's me. I was coming home from Stilbro' market, and just as I got to the middle of the moor, I heard a groan. Some would have whipt on faster; but I pulled up and said, 'Is there aught wrong anywhere?' ''Deed is there,' somebody says, speaking out of the ground, like.


'Nobbut four on us ligging in a ditch,' says Joe, as quiet as could be. I telled 'em more shame to 'em, and bid them get up and move on, or I'd lend them a lick of the gig-whip; for my notion was they were all fresh. 'We'd ha' done that an hour sin', but we're teed wi' a bit o' band,' says Joe. So in a while I got down and loosed 'em wi' my penknife; and Scott would ride wi' me, to tell me all how it happened; and t' others are coming on as fast as their feet will bring them."
"Well, I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Yorke."
"Are you, my lad? You know you're not. However, here are the rest approaching. And here, by the Lord, is another set with lights in their pitchers, like the army of Gideon; and as we've th' parson wi', us--good-evening, Mr. Helstone--we'se do."

'Nobbut four on us ligging in a ditch.' I bid them get up and move on, for I'd a notion they were all drunk. 'We'd ha' done that an hour sin', but we're tied,' says Joe. So I got down and loosed 'em wi' my penknife; and he rode wi' me, and t' others are coming as fast as their feet will bring them."
"I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Yorke."
"Are you, my lad? You know you're not. However, here are the rest now.


Mr. Helstone returned the salutation of the individual in the gig very stiffly indeed. That individual proceeded,--
"We're eleven strong men, and there's both horses and chariots amang us. If we could only fall in wi' some of these starved ragamuffins of frame-breakers we could win a grand victory. We could iv'ry one be a Wellington--that would please ye, Mr. Helstone--and sich paragraphs as we could contrive for t' papers! Briarfield suld be famous. But we'se hev a column and a half i' th' _Stilbro' Courier_ ower this job, as it is, I dare say. I'se expect no less."
"And I'll promise you no less, Mr. Yorke, for I'll write the article myself," returned the rector.

We're eleven strong men, and if we could only meet some of these starved ragamuffins of frame-breakers we'd win a grand victory. We could every one be a Wellington - that would please ye, Mr. Helstone - and sich paragraphs as we could contrive for t' papers! We'll hev a column and a half i' th' Stilbro' Courier ower this job, as it is, I dare say. I'd expect no less."
"And I'll promise you no less, Mr. Yorke, for I'll write the article myself," returned the rector.


"To be sure--sartainly! And mind ye recommend weel that them 'at brake t' bits o' frames, and teed Joe Scott's legs wi' band, suld be hung without benefit o' clergy. It's a hanging matter, or suld be. No doubt o' that."
"If I judged them I'd give them short shrift!" cried Moore. "But I mean to let them quite alone this bout, to give them rope enough, certain that in the end they will hang themselves."
"Let them alone, will ye, Moore? Do you promise that?"

"To be sure! And mind ye recommend that them as broke t' frames, and tied Joe Scott up, should be hung. No doubt o' that."
"I'd give them short shrift!" cried Moore. "But I mean to let them alone this time, to give them rope enough to hang themselves."


"Promise! No. All I mean to say is, I shall give myself no particular trouble to catch them; but if one falls in my way----"
"You'll snap him up, of course. Only you would rather they would do something worse than merely stop a wagon before you reckon with them. Well, we'll say no more on the subject at present. Here we are at my door, gentlemen, and I hope you and the men will step in. You will none of you be the worse of a little refreshment."

"Well, we'll say no more on the subject at present," said Mr. Yorke. "Here we are at my door, gentlemen, and I hope you and the men will step in for a little refreshment."


Moore and Helstone opposed this proposition as unnecessary. It was, however, pressed on them so courteously, and the night, besides, was so inclement, and the gleam from the muslin-curtained windows of the house before which they had halted looked so inviting, that at length they yielded. Mr. Yorke, after having alighted from his gig, which he left in charge of a man who issued from an outbuilding on his arrival, led the way in.
It will have been remarked that Mr. Yorke varied a little in his phraseology. Now he spoke broad Yorkshire, and anon he expressed himself in very pure English. His manner seemed liable to equal alternations. He could be polite and affable, and he could be blunt and rough. His station then you could not easily determine by his speech and demeanour. Perhaps the appearance of his residence may decide it.

Moore and Helstone at first declined. It was, however, pressed on them so courteously, and the night, besides, was so inclement, and the house looked so inviting, that at last they yielded. Mr. Yorke led the way in.
It will have been remarked that Mr. Yorke varied a little in his speech, alternating between broad Yorkshire and very pure English. His manner was equally variable. He could be polite and affable, and he could be blunt and rough.


The men he recommended to take the kitchen way, saying that he would "see them served wi' summat to taste presently." The gentlemen were ushered in at the front entrance. They found themselves in a matted hall, lined almost to the ceiling with pictures. Through this they were conducted to a large parlour, with a magnificent fire in the grate--the most cheerful of rooms it appeared as a whole, and when you came to examine details, the enlivening effect was not diminished. There was no splendour, but there was taste everywhere, unusual taste--the taste, you would have said, of a travelled man, a scholar, and a gentleman. A series of Italian views decked the walls. Each of these was a specimen of true art. A connoisseur had selected them; they were genuine and valuable. Even by candle-light the bright clear skies, the soft distances, with blue air quivering between the eye and the hills, the fresh tints, and well-massed lights and shadows, charmed the view. The subjects were all pastoral, the scenes were all sunny.

He sent the workmen round by the kitchen, saying that he would see them served presently. The gentlemen were ushered in at the front entrance, and found themselves in a hall lined with pictures. Through this they were conducted to a large, cheerful parlour, with a magnificent fire in the grate. There was no splendour, but there was unusual taste - the taste, you would have said, of a travelled man, and a scholar. A series of Italian views of high quality decked the walls. The subjects were all pastoral, the scenes all sunny.


There was a guitar and some music on a sofa; there were cameos, beautiful miniatures; a set of Grecian-looking vases on the mantelpiece; there were books well arranged in two elegant bookcases.
Mr. Yorke bade his guests be seated. He then rang for wine. To the servant who brought it he gave hospitable orders for the refreshment of the men in the kitchen. The rector remained standing; he seemed not to like his quarters; he would not touch the wine his host offered him.
"E'en as you will," remarked Mr. Yorke. "I reckon you're thinking of Eastern customs, Mr. Helstone, and you'll not eat nor drink under my roof, feared we suld be forced to be friends; but I am not so particular or superstitious. You might sup the contents of that decanter, and you might give me a bottle of the best in your own cellar, and I'd hold myself free to oppose you at every turn still--in every vestry-meeting and justice-meeting where we encountered one another."
"It is just what I should expect of you, Mr. Yorke."
"Does it agree wi' ye now, Mr. Helstone, to be riding out after rioters, of a wet night, at your age?"

There was a guitar and some music on a sofa; there were cameos, beautiful miniatures; a set of Grecian-looking vases on the mantelpiece; and books arranged in two elegant bookcases.
Mr. Yorke rang for wine, and gave orders to the servant for the refreshment of the men in the kitchen. The rector remained standing; he would not touch any wine.
"E'en as you will," remarked Mr. Yorke. "I reckon you'll not eat nor drink under my roof, Mr. Helstone, lest we should be forced to be friends; but I am not so particular. You might sup the contents of that decanter, and I'd still feel free to oppose you at every vestry-meeting."
"It is just what I should expect of you, Mr. Yorke."


"It always agrees with me to be doing my duty; and in this case my duty is a thorough pleasure. To hunt down vermin is a noble occupation, fit for an archbishop."
"Fit for ye, at ony rate. But where's t' curate? He's happen gone to visit some poor body in a sick gird, or he's happen hunting down vermin in another direction."
"He is doing garrison-duty at Hollow's Mill."
"You left him a sup o' wine, I hope, Bob" (turning to Mr. Moore), "to keep his courage up?"


He did not pause for an answer, but continued, quickly, still addressing Moore, who had thrown himself into an old-fashioned chair by the fireside--"Move it, Robert! Get up, my lad! That place is mine. Take the sofa, or three other chairs, if you will, but not this. It belangs to me, and nob'dy else."
"Why are you so particular to that chair, Mr. Yorke?" asked Moore, lazily vacating the place in obedience to orders.
"My father war afore me, and that's all t' answer I sall gie thee; and it's as good a reason as Mr. Helstone can give for the main feck o' his notions."
"Moore, are you ready to go?" inquired the rector.

Mr. Yorke addressed Moore, who had thrown himself into an old-fashioned chair by the fireside. "Get up, my lad! That place is mine. Take the sofa, if you will."
"Why are you so particular to that chair, Mr. Yorke?" asked Moore, lazily vacating it.
"My father were afore me, and that's all t' answer I shall gie thee; and it's as good a reason as Mr. Helstone can give for his notions."
"Moore, are you ready to go?" inquired the rector.


"Nay; Robert's not ready, or rather, I'm not ready to part wi' him. He's an ill lad, and wants correcting."
"Why, sir? What have I done?"
"Made thyself enemies on every hand."
"What do I care for that? What difference does it make to me whether your Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?"
"Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak' of an alien amang us. His father would never have talked i' that way.--Go back to Antwerp, where you were born and bred, mauvaise tte!"

"Nay; Robert's not ready, or rather, I'm not ready to part wi' him. He's an ill lad, and wants correcting."
"Why, sir?" asked Moore. "What have I done?"
"Made thyself enemies on every hand."
"What do I care for that? What difference does it make to me whether your Yorkshire louts hate me or like me?"
"Ay, there it is. The lad is an alien among us. His father would never have talked i' that way. Go back to Antwerp, mauvaise tte!"


"Mauvaise tte vous-mme; je ne fais que mon devoir; quant vos lourdauds de paysans, je m'en moque!"
"En ravanche, mon garon, nos lourdauds de paysans se moqueront de toi; sois en certain," replied Yorke, speaking with nearly as pure a French accent as Grard Moore.
"C'est bon! c'est bon! Et puisque cela m'est gal, que mes amis ne s'en inquitent pas."
"Tes amis! O sont-ils, tes amis?"

"Mauvaise tte vous-mme; blockhead yourself," retorted Moore, continuing in the French tongue, "I'm only doing my duty; I don't care about your peasant thugs!"
"On the contrary, my boy, the peasant thugs will laugh at you," replied Yorke in perfect French.
"C'est bon!


"Je fais cho, o sont-ils? et je suis fort aise que l'cho seul y rpond. Au diable les amis! Je me souviens encore du moment o mon pre et mes oncles Grard appellrent autour d'eux leurs amis, et Dieu sait si les amis se sont empresss d'accourir leur secours! Tenez, M. Yorke, ce mot, ami, m'irrite trop; ne m'en parlez plus."
"Comme tu voudras."
And here Mr. Yorke held his peace; and while he sits leaning back in his three-cornered carved oak chair, I will snatch my opportunity to sketch the portrait of this French-speaking Yorkshire gentleman.

It's all the same to me. Monsieur Yorke, let us talk no more of it."
"As you wish." And Mr. Yorke held his peace. While he sits leaning back in his carved oak chair, I will sketch the portrait of this Yorkshire gentleman.


By the time the Fieldhead party returned to Briarfield Caroline was nearly well. Miss Keeldar, who had received news by post of her friend's convalescence, hardly suffered an hour to elapse between her arrival at home and her first call at the rectory.
A shower of rain was falling gently, yet fast, on the late flowers and russet autumn shrubs, 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 peculiar fashion. When deeply moved by serious fears or joys she was not garrulous. The strong emotion was rarely suffered to influence her tongue, and even her eye refused it more than a furtive 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!"

By the time the Fieldhead party returned to Briarfield, Caroline was nearly well. As soon as Miss Keeldar arrived home she called at the rectory.
A shower of rain was falling on the late flowers when the garden wicket was heard to swing open, and Shirley passed the window. On her entrance she showed her feelings in her own peculiar fashion. When deeply moved, she was not garrulous. She took Caroline in her arms, gave her one look, one kiss, then said, "You are better. God keep you in good health!"


She proceeded to talk fluently about the journey. In the midst of vivacious discourse her eye still wandered to Caroline. There spoke in its light a deep solicitude, some trouble, and some amaze.
"She may be better," it said, "but how weak she still is! What peril she has come through!"
Suddenly her glance reverted to Mrs. Pryor. It pierced her through.
"When will my governess return to me?" she asked.

She began to talk about the journey; but her eye still wandered to Caroline with some trouble and amazement. Suddenly her piercing glance turned to Mrs. Pryor.
"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?"

"May I tell her all?" demanded Caroline of her mother. Shirley was soon enlightened.
"Very good," was the cool comment. "But it is no news to me."
"What! did you know?"


"I guessed long since the whole business. I have heard 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, treacherous, courteous, 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 withhold 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 subterfuges that are shabbier than lies."

"I guessed long since. I have heard somewhat of Mrs. Pryor's history and of Mr. James Helstone's career and character, from talking to Miss Mann; also he is one of Mrs. Yorke's warning examples, that she hangs out to scare young ladies away from matrimony. I was sceptical, but when I asked Mr. Yorke about it, he said, 'James Helstone was a man-tiger. He was handsome, dissolute, soft, treacherous, courteous, cruel-' Don't cry, Cary; we'll say no more about it."
"I am not crying, Shirley; go on."
"Fortunately I have said all that I have to say."


"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 blots out a sin. Weep! your tears have the virtue which the rivers of Damascus lacked. Like Jordan, they can cleanse a leprous memory."

"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. Beside, maybe every drop blots out a sin.


"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 conjectures? I formed them, and they are literally correct. I shall begin to think myself shrewd."
"And you said nothing?" observed Caroline, who soon regained the quiet control of her feelings.
"Nothing. I had no warrant to breathe a word on the subject. _My_ business it was not; I abstained from making it such."
"You guessed so deep a secret, and did not hint that you guessed it?"
"Is that so difficult?"

- Madam," she continued, addressing Mrs. Pryor, "did you think I could see you and your daughter together without noticing your similarity in many points, and observing your emotions in the presence of your child? I made guesses, and they are correct. But I said nothing; it was not my business."


"It is not like you."
"How do you know?"
"You are not reserved; you are frankly communicative."
"I may be communicative, yet know where to stop. In showing my treasure I may withhold a gem or two--a curious, unbought graven stone--an amulet 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 prospect was renewed; it opened upon her.

"That is not like you," said Caroline; "you are not reserved; you talk frankly."
"I may be frank, yet know where to stop. In showing my treasure I may withhold a gem or two."
Caroline thus got a new view of Shirley. Before long, the prospect was renewed.


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, pious 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 mere handful of bitter herbs; a few preferences, soaked till their natural flavour was extracted, and with no seasoning added in the cooking; some excellent principles, made up in a stiff raised crust of bigotry difficult to digest. Far too submissive was she to complain of this diet or to ask for a crumb beyond it.

As soon as she had sufficient strength, Miss Keeldar invited her daily to Fieldhead. Perhaps Shirley had become weary of her honoured relatives the Sympsons. She did not say so; but she claimed Caroline eagerly.
The Sympsons were church people, so they received the rector's niece with courtesy. Mr. Sympson proved to be a man of spotless respectability, pious 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 mere handful of bitter herbs; a few preferences, soaked till they had no flavour; and some excellent principles, made up in a stiff raised crust of bigotry difficult to digest. Far too submissive was she to complain of this diet.


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 possessed 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 deviated from its curious little pragmatical provisions, and they regarded with secret whispered horror all deviations in others. The Abomination of Desolation was no mystery to them; they had discovered that unutterable Thing in the characteristic others call Originality. 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, expressive language--they shuddered, they recoiled.

The daughters were an example to their sex. They were tall, with Roman noses. and had been educated faultlessly. All they did was well done. History and the most solid books had cultivated their minds. They knew by heart a certain young ladies' schoolroom code of behaviour, and never deviated from it; they regarded with whispered horror all deviations in others. Originality - whether in a book, speech, or person - was to them an evil, and they were quick to recognize its signs, and to shudder and recoil.


Danger was above their heads, peril about their steps. What was this strange thing? Being unintelligible 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, lame, and pale; his large eyes shone somewhat languidly in a wan 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 peculiarities were a mark of election. He was not like other children, she allowed.

Henry Sympson, the only son and youngest child, was a boy of fifteen, who generally stayed with his tutor. When he left him, he sought out Shirley. This boy differed from his sisters. He was little, lame, and pale; but emotion could give colour to his cheek and decision to his crippled movements.


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.

He was to be a clergyman. His mother loved him, but Mr. and the Misses Sympson, not understanding him, 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 austerely civil, sometimes irritable; the mother, being a kind woman, was attentive, 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 accomplished; he had talents too, imperceptible to their senses. The most spirited sketch 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 propriety of their behaviour.
I should have said nothing could have equalled it; but I remember a fact which strangely astonished Caroline 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.

Yes, Louis Moore was a satellite of the house of Sympson, connected, yet apart. They treated him with dignity. The father was austerely civil, sometimes irritable; the mother was attentive, 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 accomplished; he had talents too, imperceptible to their senses. The most original observation from his lips fell unheard on their ears. Nothing could exceed the propriety of their behaviour.
One fact strangely astonished Caroline. It was to discover that her cousin Louis had absolutely no sympathizing friend at Fieldhead; that to Miss Keeldar he was as much a mere teacher, as little a man, as to the Misses Sympson.


What had befallen the kind-hearted Shirley that she should be so indifferent to the dreary position of a fellow-creature thus isolated under her roof? She was not, perhaps, haughty 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.

Why was the kind-hearted Shirley so indifferent to the dreary position of a fellow-creature isolated under her roof? She was not, perhaps, haughty 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.