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

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. 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.’ ”

He paused, listening.

“Will she come, or will she not come?” he inquired. “How will she take the message? Naively or disdainfully? Like a child or like a queen? Both characters are in her nature.

“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.

“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.”

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 crânerie. A soft kind of youthful shyness depressed her eyelid and mantled on her cheek. 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?”

“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.”

“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.”

“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?”

“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.”

“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 forefinger. 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.”

“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!”

“You nervous? Yes; and if Miss Keeldar is nervous, it is not without a cause. Let me reach it. Let me look