Shirley

ever wish me anything else? What is Fanny waiting for – I told her to walk on? Oh! we have reached the churchyard; then, we are to part here, I suppose: we might have sat a few minutes in the church-porch, if the girl had not been with us. It is so fine a night, so summer-mild and still, I have no particular wish to return yet to the Hollow.«
    »But we cannot sit in the porch now, Robert.«
    Caroline said this because Moore was turning her round towards it.
    »Perhaps not, but tell Fanny to go in; say we are coming: a few minutes will make no difference.«
    The church-clock struck ten.
    »My uncle will be coming out to take his usual sentinel round, and he always surveys the church and churchyard.«
    »And if he does? If it were not for Fanny, who knows we are here, I should find pleasure in dodging and eluding him. We could be under the east window when he is at the porch; as he came round to the north side, we could wheel off to the south; we might at a pinch hide behind some of the monuments: that tall erection of the Wynnes would screen us completely.«
    »Robert, what good spirits you have! Go – go!« added Caroline hastily, »I hear the front door –«
    »I don't want to go; on the contrary, I want to stay.«
    »You know my uncle will be terribly angry: he forbade me to see you because you are a Jacobin.«
    »A queer Jacobin!«
    »Go, Robert, he is coming; I hear him cough.«
    »Diable! It is strange – what a pertinacious wish I feel to stay!«
    »You remember what he did to Fanny's ––« began Caroline, and stopped abruptly short. Sweetheart was the word that ought to have followed, but she could not utter it; it seemed calculated to suggest ideas she had no intention to suggest; ideas delusive and disturbing. Moore was less scrupulous; »Fanny's sweetheart?« he said at once. »He gave him a shower-bath under the pump – did he not? He'd do as much for me, I daresay, with pleasure. I should like to provoke the old Turk – not however against
you:
but he would make a distinction between a cousin and a lover, would he not?«
    »Oh! he would not think of you in that way, of course not; his quarrel with you is entirely political; yet I should not like the breach to be widened, and he is so testy. Here he is at the garden-gate – for your own sake and mine, Robert, go!«
    The beseeching words were aided by a beseeching gesture and a more beseeching look. Moore covered her clasped hands an instant with his, answered her upward by a downward gaze, said »Good-night!« and went.
    Caroline was in a moment at the kitchen-door behind Fanny; the shadow of the shovel-hat at that very instant fell on a moonlit tomb; the Rector emerged, erect as a cane, from his garden, and proceeded in slow march, his hands behind him, down the cemetery. Moore was almost caught: he had to ›dodge‹ after all, to coast round the church, and finally to bend his tall form behind the Wynnes' ambitious monument. There he was forced to hide full ten minutes, kneeling with one knee on the turf, his hat off, his curls bare to the dew, his dark eye shining, and his lips parted with inward laughter at his position; for the Rector meantime stood coolly star-gazing, and taking snuff within three feet of him.
    It happened, however, that Mr. Helstone had no suspicion whatever on his mind; for being usually but vaguely informed of his niece's movements, not thinking it worth while to follow them closely, he was not aware that she had been out at all that day, and imagined her then occupied with book or work in her chamber: where, indeed, she was by this time; though not absorbed in the tranquil employment he ascribed to her, but standing at her window with fast-throbbing heart, peeping anxiously from behind the blind, watching for her uncle to re-enter and her cousin to escape; and at last she was gratified: she heard Mr. Helstone come in; she saw Robert stride the tombs and vault the wall; she then went down to prayers. When she returned to her chamber, it was to meet the memory of Robert. Slumber's visitation was long averted: long she sat at her lattice, long gazed down on the old garden and older church, on the tombs laid out all grey and calm, and clear in moonlight. She followed the steps of the night, on its pathway of stars, far into the »wee sma' hours ayont the twal':« she was with Moore, in spirit, the whole time: she was at his side: she heard his voice: she gave her hand into his hand; it rested warm in his fingers. When