Shirley

other's waists: Tartar, who long since had craved and obtained admission, sat sagely in the centre of the rug, staring at the blaze which burst fitful from morsels of coal among the red cinders: the group were happy enough, but –
     
    »Pleasures are like poppies spread;
    You seize the flower – its bloom is shed.«
     
    The dull, rumbling sound of wheels was heard on the pavement in the yard.
    »It is the carriage returned,« said Shirley; »and dinner must be just ready, and I am not dressed.«
    A servant came in with Mr. Moore's candle and tea: for the tutor and his pupil usually dined at luncheon time.
    »Mr. Sympson and the ladies are returned,« she said, »and Sir Philip Nunnely is with them.«
    »How you did start, and how your hand trembled, Shirley!« said Henry, when the maid had closed the shutter and was gone. »But I know why – don't you, Mr. Moore? I know what papa intends. He is a little ugly man, that Sir Philip: I wish he had not come: I wish sisters and all of them had stayed at De Walden Hall to dine. Shirley should once more have made tea for you and me, Mr. Moore, and we would have had a happy evening of it.«
    Moore was locking up his desk, and putting away his St Pièrre, – »That was
your
plan – was it, my boy?«
    »Don't you approve it, sir?«
    »I approve nothing Utopian. Look Life in its iron face: stare Reality out of its brassy countenance. Make the tea, Henry; I shall be back in a minute.«
    He left the room: so did Shirley, by another door.
     

 
Chapter XXVIII
Phœbe
    Shirley probably got on pleasantly with Sir Philip that evening, for the next morning she came down in one of her best moods.
    »Who will take a walk with me?« she asked, after breakfast. »Isabella and Gertrude – will you?«
    So rare was such an invitation from Miss Keeldar to her female cousins that they hesitated before they accepted it. Their mamma, however, signifying acquiescence in the project, they fetched their bonnets, and the trio set out.
    It did not suit these three young persons to be thrown much together: Miss Keeldar liked the society of few ladies: indeed, she had a cordial pleasure in that of none except Mrs. Pryor and Caroline Helstone. She was civil, kind, attentive even to her cousins; but still she usually had little to say to them. In the sunny mood of this particular morning, she contrived to entertain even the Misses Sympson. Without deviating from her wonted rule of discussing with them only ordinary themes, she imparted to these themes an extraordinary interest: the sparkle of her spirit glanced along her phrases.
    What made her so joyous? All the cause must have been in herself. The day was not bright; it was dim – a pale, waning autumn day: the walks through the dun woods were damp; the atmosphere was heavy, the sky overcast; and yet, it seemed that in Shirley's heart lived all the light and azure of Italy, as all its fervour laughed in her grey English eye.
    Some directions necessary to be given to her foreman, John, delayed her behind her cousins as they neared Fieldhead on their return; perhaps an interval of twenty minutes elapsed between her separation from them and her reentrance into the house: in the mean time she had spoken to John, and then she had lingered in the lane at the gate. A summons to luncheon called her in: she excused herself from the meal, and went up-stairs.
    »Is not Shirley coming to luncheon?« asked Isabella: »she said she was not hungry.«
    An hour after, as she did not quit her chamber, one of her cousins went to seek her there. She was found sitting at the foot of the bed, her head resting on her hand: she looked quite pale, very thoughtful, almost sad.
    »You are not ill?« was the question put.
    »A little sick,« replied Miss Keeldar.
    Certainly, she was not a little changed from what she had been two hours before.
    This change, accounted for only by those three words, explained no otherwise; this change – whence so ever springing, effected in a brief ten minutes – passed like no light summer cloud. She talked when she joined her friends at dinner, talked as usual; she remained with them during the evening; when again questioned respecting her health, she declared herself perfectly recovered: it had been a mere passing faintness; a momentary sensation, not worth a thought: yet it was felt there was a difference in Shirley.
    The next day – the day – the week – the fortnight after – this new and peculiar shadow lingered on the