Shirley Charlotte Brontë (free ebook reader for pc .txt) 📖

Caroline’s to her cousin’s character augmented her favourable opinion of him. William Farren, whose cottage he had visited in company with Mr. Hall, pronounced him a “real gentleman;” there was not such another in Briarfield. He⁠—William⁠—“could do aught for that man. And then to see how t’ bairns liked him, and how t’ wife took to him first minute she saw him. He never went into a house but t’ childer wor about him directly. Them little things wor like as if they’d a keener sense nor grown-up folks i’ finding out folk’s natures.”

Mr. Hall, in answer to a question of Miss Helstone’s as to what he thought of Louis Moore, replied promptly that he was the best fellow he had met with since he left Cambridge.

“But he is so grave,” objected Caroline.

“Grave! the finest company in the world! Full of odd, quiet, out-of-the-way humour. Never enjoyed an excursion so much in my life as the one I took with him to the Lakes. His understanding and tastes are so superior, it does a man good to be within their influence; and as to his temper and nature, I call them fine.”

“At Fieldhead he looks gloomy, and, I believe, has the character of being misanthropical.”

“Oh! I fancy he is rather out of place there⁠—in a false position. The Sympsons are most estimable people, but not the folks to comprehend him. They think a great deal about form and ceremony, which are quite out of Louis’s way.”

“I don’t think Miss Keeldar likes him.”

“She doesn’t know him⁠—she doesn’t know him; otherwise she has sense enough to do justice to his merits.”

“Well, I suppose she doesn’t know him,” mused Caroline to herself, and by this hypothesis she endeavoured to account for what seemed else unaccountable. But such simple solution of the difficulty was not left her long. She was obliged to refuse Miss Keeldar even this negative excuse for her prejudice.

One day she chanced to be in the schoolroom with Henry Sympson, whose amiable and affectionate disposition had quickly recommended him to her regard. The boy was busied about some mechanical contrivance; his lameness made him fond of sedentary occupation. He began to ransack his tutor’s desk for a piece of wax or twine necessary to his work. Moore happened to be absent. Mr. Hall, indeed, had called for him to take a long walk. Henry could not immediately find the object of his search. He rummaged compartment after compartment; and at last, opening an inner drawer, he came upon⁠—not a ball of cord or a lump of beeswax, but a little bundle of small marble-coloured cahiers, tied with tape. Henry looked at them. “What rubbish Mr. Moore stores up in his desk!” he said. “I hope he won’t keep my old exercises so carefully.”

“What is it?”

“Old copybooks.”

He threw the bundle to Caroline. The packet looked so neat externally her curiosity was excited to see its contents.

“If they are only copybooks, I suppose I may open them?”

“Oh yes, quite freely. Mr. Moore’s desk is half mine⁠—for he lets me keep all sorts of things in it⁠—and I give you leave.”

On scrutiny they proved to be French compositions, written in a hand peculiar but compact, and exquisitely clean and clear. The writing was recognizable. She scarcely needed the further evidence of the name signed at the close of each theme to tell her whose they were. Yet that name astonished her⁠—“Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove, ⸺⁠shire” (a southern county), and a date four years back.

She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, meditating over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a confidence.

“They are Shirley’s, you see,” said Henry carelessly.

“Did you give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with Mrs. Pryor, I suppose?”

“She wrote them in my schoolroom at Sympson Grove, when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her French; it is his native language.”

“I know. Was she a good pupil, Henry?”

“She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have in the room. She made lesson-time charming. She learned fast⁠—you could hardly tell when or how. French was nothing to her. She spoke it quick, quick⁠—as quick as Mr. Moore himself.”

“Was she obedient? Did she give trouble?”

“She gave plenty of trouble, in a way. She was giddy, but I liked her. I’m desperately fond of Shirley.”

“Desperately fond⁠—you small simpleton! You don’t know what you say.”

“I am desperately fond of her. She is the light of my eyes. I said so to Mr. Moore last night.”

“He would reprove you for speaking with exaggeration.”

“He didn’t. He never reproves and reproves, as girls’ governesses do. He was reading, and he only smiled into his book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than that, she was less than he took her to be; for I was but a dim-eyed, shortsighted little chap. I’m afraid I am a poor unfortunate, Miss Caroline Helstone. I am a cripple, you know.”

“Never mind, Henry, you are a very nice little fellow; and if God has not given you health and strength, He has given you a good disposition and an excellent heart and brain.”

“I shall be despised. I sometimes think both Shirley and you despise me.”

“Listen, Henry. Generally, I don’t like schoolboys. I have a great horror of them. They seem to me little ruffians, who take an unnatural delight in killing and tormenting birds, and insects, and kittens, and whatever is weaker than themselves. But you are so different I am quite fond of you. You have almost as much sense as a man (far more, God wot,” she muttered to herself, “than many men); you are fond of reading, and you can talk sensibly about what you read.”

“I am fond of reading. I know I have sense, and I know I have feeling.”

Miss Keeldar here entered.

“Henry,” she said, “I have brought your lunch here. I shall prepare it for you myself.”

She placed on the table a glass of new milk, a plate of something which looked not unlike leather, and a utensil which resembled a toasting-fork.

“What