Shirley

plain, practical man myself; and if Robert is willing to give up that royal prize to a lad-rival – a puling slip of aristocracy – I am quite agreeable. At
his
age, in
his
place, with
his
inducements, I would have acted differently. Neither baronet, nor duke, nor prince, should have snatched my sweetheart from me without a struggle. But you tutors are such solemn chaps: it is almost like speaking to a parson to consult with you.«
     
    Flattered and fawned upon as Shirley was just now, it appeared she was not absolutely spoiled – that her better nature did not quite leave her. Universal report had indeed ceased to couple her name with that of Moore, and this silence seemed sanctioned by her own apparent oblivion of the absentee; but that she had not
quite
forgotten him – that she still regarded him, if not with love yet with interest – seemed proved by the increased attention which at this juncture of affairs a sudden attack of illness induced her to show that tutor-brother of Robert's, to whom she habitually bore herself with strange alternations of cool reserve and docile respect: now sweeping past him in all the dignity of the monied heiress and prospective Lady Nunnely, and anon accosting him as abashed school-girls are wont to accost their stern professors: bridling her neck of ivory, and curling her lip of carmine, if he encountered her glance, one minute; and the next submitting to the grave rebuke of his eye, with as much contrition as if he had the power to inflict penalties in case of contumacy.
    Louis Moore had perhaps caught the fever, which for a few days laid him low, in one of the poor cottages of the district, which he, his lame pupil, and Mr. Hall, were in the habit of visiting together. At any rate he sickened, and after opposing to the malady a taciturn resistance for a day or two, was obliged to keep his chamber.
    He lay tossing on his thorny bed one evening, Henry, who would not quit him, watching faithfully beside him, when a tap – too light to be that of Mrs. Gill or the housemaid – summoned young Sympson to the door.
    »How is Mr. Moore to-night?« asked a low voice from the dark gallery.
    »Come in and see him yourself.«
    »Is he asleep?«
    »I wish he could sleep. Come and speak to him. Shirley.«
    »He would not like it.«
    But the speaker stepped in, and Henry, seeing her hesitate on the threshold, took her hand and drew her to the couch.
    The shaded light showed Miss Keeldar's form but imperfectly, yet it revealed her in elegant attire. There was a party assembled below, including Sir Philip Nunnely; the ladies were now in the drawing-room, and their hostess had stolen from them to visit Henry's tutor. Her pure white dress, her fair arms and neck, the trembling chainlet of gold circling her throat, and quivering on her breast, glistened strangely amid the obscurity of the sick-room. Her mien was chastened and pensive: she spoke gently.
    »Mr. Moore, how are you to-night?«
    »I have not been very ill, and am now better.«
    »I heard that you complained of thirst: I have brought you some grapes: can you taste one?«
    »No: but I thank you for remembering me.«
    »Just one.«
    From the rich cluster that filled a small basket held in her hand, she severed a berry and offered it to his lips. He shook his head, and turned aside his flushed face.
    »But what then can I bring you instead? You have no wish for fruit; yet I see that your lips are parched. What beverage do you prefer?«
    »Mrs. Gill supplies me with toast and water: I like it best.«
    Silence fell for some minutes.
    »Do you suffer? Have you pain?«
    »Very little.«
    »What made you ill?«
    Silence.
    »I wonder what caused this fever? To what do you attribute it?«
    »Miasma, perhaps – malaria. This is autumn, a season fertile in fevers.«
    »I hear you often visit the sick in Briarfield, and Nunnely too, with Mr. Hall: you should be on your guard: temerity is not wise.«
    »That reminds me, Miss Keeldar, that perhaps you had better not enter this chamber, or come near this couch. I do not believe my illness is infectious: I scarcely fear (with a sort of smile)
you
will take it; but why should you run even the shadow of a risk? Leave me.«
    »Patience: I will go soon; but I should like to do something for you before I depart – any little service –«
    »They will miss you below.«
    »No, the gentlemen are still at table.«
    »They will not linger long: Sir Philip Nunnely is no wine-bibber, and I hear him just