“Well, you have Caroline Helstone.”
“Yes. 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.”
“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.”
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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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—”
“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—”
“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.”
“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.”
“Tomorrow you will not be as you are today.”
“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
