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

“She has loved none of these.”

“Yet some of them were worthy of a woman’s affection.”

“Of some women’s, but not of Shirley’s.”

“Is she better than others of her sex?”

“She is peculiar, and more dangerous to take as a wife⁠—rashly.”

“I can imagine that.”

“She spoke of you⁠—”

“Oh, she did! I thought you denied it.”

“She did not speak in the way you fancy; but I asked her, and I would make her tell me what she thought of you, or rather how she felt towards you. I wanted to know; I had long wanted to know.”

“So had I; but let us hear. She thinks meanly, she feels contemptuously, doubtless?”

“She thinks of you almost as highly as a woman can think of a man. You know she can be eloquent. I yet feel in fancy the glow of the language in which her opinion was conveyed.”

“But how does she feel?”

“Till you shocked her (she said you had shocked her, but she would not tell me how) she felt as a sister feels towards a brother of whom she is at once fond and proud.”

“I’ll shock her no more, Cary, for the shock rebounded on myself till I staggered again. But that comparison about sister and brother is all nonsense. She is too rich and proud to entertain fraternal sentiments for me.”

“You don’t know her, Robert; and, somehow, I fancy now (I had other ideas formerly) that you cannot know her. You and she are not so constructed as to be able thoroughly to understand each other.”

“It may be so. I esteem her, I admire her; and yet my impressions concerning her are harsh⁠—perhaps uncharitable. I believe, for instance, that she is incapable of love⁠—”

“Shirley incapable of love!”

“That she will never marry. I imagine her jealous of compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power, of sharing her property.”

“Shirley has hurt your amour propre.”

“She did hurt it; though I had not an emotion of tenderness, nor a spark of passion for her.”

“Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want to marry her.”

“And very mean, my little pastor, my pretty priestess. I never wanted to kiss Miss Keeldar in my life, though she has fine lips, scarlet and round as ripe cherries; or, if I did wish it, it was the mere desire of the eye.”

“I doubt, now, whether you are speaking the truth. The grapes or the cherries are sour⁠—‘hung too high.’ ”

“She has a pretty figure, a pretty face, beautiful hair. I acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them, or only feel them in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was truly tempted by the mere gilding of the bait. Caroline, what a noble fellow your Robert is⁠—great, good, disinterested, and then so pure!”

“But not perfect. He made a great blunder once, and we will hear no more about it.”

“And shall we think no more about it, Cary? Shall we not despise him in our heart⁠—gentle but just, compassionate but upright?”

“Never! We will remember that with what measure we mete it shall be measured unto us, and so we will give no scorn, only affection.”

“Which won’t satisfy, I warn you of that. Something besides affection⁠—something far stronger, sweeter, warmer⁠—will be demanded one day. Is it there to give?”

Caroline was moved, much moved.

“Be calm, Lina,” said Moore soothingly. “I have no intention, because I have no right, to perturb your mind now, nor for months to come. Don’t look as if you would leave me. We will make no more agitating allusions; we will resume our gossip. Do not tremble; look me in the face. See what a poor, pale, grim phantom I am⁠—more pitiable than formidable.”

She looked shyly. “There is something formidable still, pale as you are,” she said, as her eye fell under his.

“To return to Shirley,” pursued Moore: “is it your opinion that she is ever likely to marry?”

“She loves.”

“Platonically⁠—theoretically⁠—all humbug!”

“She loves what I call sincerely.”

“Did she say so?”

“I cannot affirm that she said so. No such confession as ‘I love this man or that’ passed her lips.”

“I thought not.”

“But the feeling made its way in spite of her, and I saw it. She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunderstood. Her voice alone was sufficient testimony. Having wrung from her an opinion on your character, I demanded a second opinion of⁠—another person about whom I had my conjectures, though they were the most tangled and puzzled conjectures in the world. I would make her speak. I shook her, I chid her, I pinched her fingers when she tried to put me off with gibes and jests in her queer provoking way, and at last out it came. The voice, I say, was enough; hardly raised above a whisper, and yet such a soft vehemence in its tones. There was no confession, no confidence, in the matter. To these things she cannot condescend; but I am sure that man’s happiness is dear to her as her own life.”

“Who is it?”

“I charged her with the fact. She did not deny, she did not avow, but looked at me. I saw her eyes by the snow-gleam. It was quite enough. I triumphed over her mercilessly.”

“What right had you to triumph? Do you mean to say you are fancy free?”

“Whatever I am, Shirley is a bondswoman. Lioness, she has found her captor. Mistress she may be of all round her, but her own mistress she is not.”

“So you exulted at recognizing a fellow-slave in one so fair and imperial?”

“I did; Robert, you say right, in one so fair and imperial.”

“You confess it⁠—a fellow-slave?”

“I confess nothing; but I say that haughty Shirley is no more free than was Hagar.”

“And who, pray, is the Abraham, the hero of a patriarch who has achieved such a conquest?”

“You still speak scornfully, and cynically, and sorely; but I will make you change your note before I have done with you.”

“We will see that. Can she marry this Cupidon?”

“Cupidon! he is just about as much a Cupidon as you