Shirley

the church-clock struck, when any other sound stirred, when a little mouse familiar to her chamber, an intruder for which she would never permit Fanny to lay a trap, came rattling amongst the links of her locket-chain, her one ring, and another trinket or two, on the toilette-table, to nibble a bit of biscuit laid ready for it, she looked up, recalled momentarily to the real. Then she said half aloud, as if deprecating the accusation of some unseen and unheard monitor, –
    »I am not cherishing love-dreams: I am only thinking because I cannot sleep: of course, I know he will marry Shirley.«
    With returning silence, with the lull of the chime, and the retreat of her small untamed and unknown protégé, she still resumed the dream, nestling to the vision's side, – listening to, conversing with it. It paled at last: as dawn approached, the setting stars and breaking day dimmed the creation of Fancy: the wakened song of birds hushed her whispers. The tale full of fire, quick with interest, borne away by the morning wind, became a vague murmur. The shape that, seen in a moonbeam, lived, had a pulse, had movement, wore health's glow and youth's freshness, turned cold and ghostly grey, confronted with the red of sunrise. It wasted. She was left solitary at last: she crept to her couch, chill and dejected.
     

 
Chapter XIV
Shirley Seeks to be Saved by Works
    »Of course, I know he will marry Shirley,« were her first words when she rose in the morning. »And he ought to marry her: she can help him,« she added firmly. »But I shall be forgotten when they
are
married,« was the cruel succeeding thought. »Oh! I shall be wholly forgotten! And what –
what
shall I do when Robert is taken quite from me? Where shall I turn?
My
Robert! I wish I could justly call him mine: but I am poverty and incapacity; Shirley is wealth and power: and she is beauty too, and love – I cannot deny it. This is no sordid suit: she loves him – not with inferior feelings: she loves, or
will
love, as he must feel proud to be loved. Not a valid objection can be made. Let them be married then: but afterwards I shall be nothing to him. As for being his sister, and all that stuff, I despise it. I will either be all or nothing to a man like Robert: no feeble shuffling, or false cant, is endurable. Once let that pair be united, and I will certainly leave them. As for lingering about, playing the hypocrite, and pretending to calm sentiments of friendship, when my soul will be wrung with other feelings, I shall not descend to such degradation. As little could I fill the place of their mutual friend as that of their deadly foe: as little could I stand between them as trample over them. Robert is a first-rate man – in my eyes: I
have
loved,
do
love, and
must
love him. I would be his wife, if I could; as I cannot, I must go where I shall never see him. There is but one alternative – to cleave to him as if I were a part of him, or to be sundered from him wide as the two poles of a sphere. Sunder me then, Providence. Part us speedily.«
    Some such aspirations as these were again working in her mind late in the afternoon, when the apparition of one of the personages haunting her thoughts passed the parlour window. Miss Keeldar sauntered slowly by: her gait, her countenance wearing that mixture of wistfulness and carelessness which, when quiescent, was the wonted cast of her look, and character of her bearing. When animated, the carelessness quite vanished, the wistfulness became blent with a genial gaiety, seasoning the laugh, the smile, the glance, with an unique flavour of sentiment, so that mirth from her never resembled ›the crackling of thorns under a pot.‹
    »What do you mean by not coming to see me this afternoon, as you promised?« was her address to Caroline as she entered the room.
    »I was not in the humour,« replied Miss Helstone, very truly.
    Shirley had already fixed on her a penetrating eye.
    »No,« she said; »I see you are not in the humour for loving me: you are in one of your sunless, inclement moods, when one feels a fellow-creature's presence is not welcome to you. You have such moods: are you aware of it?«
    »Do you mean to stay long, Shirley?«
    »Yes: I am come to have my tea, and must have it before I go. I shall take the liberty then of removing my bonnet, without being asked.«
    And this she did, and then stood on the rug with her hands behind her.
    »A pretty expression you have in your countenance,« she went on,