Shirley

unsmiling sparkle of her eye, the slight recoil of her whole frame when you draw a little too near, and gaze a little too expressively, and whisper a little too warmly: I never witness these things, but I think of the fable of Semele reversed.
    It is not the daughter of Cadmus I see; nor do I realize her fatal longing to look on Jove in the majesty of his godhead. It is a priest of Juno that stands before me, watching late and lone at a shrine in an Argive temple. For years of solitary ministry, he has lived on dreams: there is divine madness upon him: he loves the idol he serves, and prays day and night that his frenzy may be fed, and that the Ox-eyed may smile on her votary. She has heard; she will be propitious. All Argos slumbers. The doors of the temple are shut: the priest waits at the altar.
    A shock of heaven and earth is felt – not by the slumbering city; only by that lonely watcher, brave and unshaken in his fanaticism. In the midst of silence, with no preluding sound, he is wrapt in sudden light. Through the roof – through the rent, wide-yawning, vast, white-blazing blue of heaven above, pours a wondrous descent – dread as the down-rushing of stars. He has, what he asked: withdraw – forbear to look – I am blinded. I hear in that fane an unspeakable sound – would that I could not hear it! I see an insufferable glory burning terribly between the pillars. Gods be merciful and quench it!
    A pious Argive enters to make an early offering in the cool dawn of morning. There was thunder in the night: the bolt felt here. The shrine is shivered: the marble pavement round, split and blackened. Saturnia's statue rises chaste, grand, untouched: at her feet, piled ashes lie pale. No priest remains: he who watched will be seen no more.
     
    There is the carriage! Let me lock up the desk and pocket the keys: she will be seeking them to-morrow: she will have to come to me. I hear her –
    ›Mr. Moore, have you seen my keys?‹
    So she will say in her clear voice, speaking with reluctance, looking ashamed, conscious that this is the twentieth time of asking. I will tantalize her: keep her with me, expecting, doubting; and when I
do
restore them, it shall not be without a lecture. Here is the bag, too, and the purse; the glove – pen – seal. She shall wring them all out of me slowly and separately: only by confession, penitence, entreaty. I never can touch her hand, or a ringlet of her head, or a ribbon of her dress, but I will make privileges for myself: every feature of her face, her bright eyes, her lips, shall go through each change they know, for my pleasure: display each exquisite variety of glance and curve, to delight – thrill – perhaps, more hopelessly to enchain me. If I
must
be her slave, I will not lose my freedom for nothing.«
    He locked the desk, pocketed all the property, and went.
     
     
Chapter XXX
Rushedge, a Confessional
    Everybody said it was high time for Mr. Moore to return home: all Briarfield wondered at his strange absence, and Whinbury and Nunnely brought each its separate contribution of amazement.
    Was it known why he stayed away? Yes: it was known twenty – forty times over; there being, at least, forty plausible reasons adduced to account for the unaccountable circumstance. Business, it was not –
that
the gossips agreed: he had achieved the business on which he departed long ago: his four ringleaders he had soon scented out and run down; he had attended their trial, heard their conviction and sentence, and seen them safely shipped prior to transportation.
    This was known at Briarfield: the newspapers had reported it: the »Stilbro' Courier« had given every particular, with amplifications. None applauded his perseverance or hailed his success; though the mill-owners were glad of it, trusting that the terrors of Law vindicated would henceforward paralyze the sinister valour of disaffection. Disaffection, however, was still heard muttering to himself. He swore ominous oaths over the drugged beer of alehouses, and drank strange toasts in fiery British gin.
    One report affirmed that Moore
dared
not come to Yorkshire: he knew his life was not worth an hour's purchase, if he did.
    »I 'll tell him that,« said Mr. Yorke, when his foreman mentioned the rumour; »and if
that
does not bring him home full-gallop – nothing will.«
    Either that or some other motive prevailed, at last, to recall him. He announced to Joe Scott the day he should arrive at Stilbro', desiring his