Shirley

busied that I cut short the interview with him somewhat abruptly: I left him raving: here is the note – I wish you to see it – it refers to my brother Robert.« And he looked at Shirley.
    »I shall be glad to hear news of him: is he coming home?«
    »He is come: he is in Yorkshire: Mr. Yorke went yesterday to Stilbro' to meet him.«
    »Mr. Moore – something is wrong –?«
    »Did my voice tremble? He is now at Briarmains – and I am going to see him.«
    »What has occurred?«
    »If you turn so pale I shall be sorry I have spoken. It might have been worse: Robert is not dead, but much hurt.«
    »Oh! sir; it is you who are pale. Sit down near me.«
    »Read the note – let me open it.«
    Miss Keeldar read the note: it briefly signified that last night Robert Moore had been shot at from behind the wall of Milldean plantation, at the foot of the Brow; that he was wounded severely, but it was hoped not fatally: of the assassin, or assassins, nothing was known – they had escaped. »No doubt,« Mr. Yorke observed, »it was done in revenge: it was a pity ill-will had ever been raised; but that could not be helped now.«
    »He is my only brother,« said Louis, as Shirley returned the note. »I cannot hear unmoved that ruffians have laid in wait for him, and shot him down like some wild beast from behind a wall.«
    »Be comforted: be hopeful. He will get better – I know he will.«
    Shirley, solicitous to soothe, held her hand over Mr. Moore's, as it lay on the arm of the chair: she just touched it lightly, scarce palpably.
    »Well, give me your hand,« he said; »it will be for the first time: it is in a moment of calamity – give it me.«
    Awaiting neither consent nor refusal, he took what he asked.
    »I am going to Briarmains now,« he went on. »I want you to step over to the Rectory, and tell Caroline Helstone what has happened: will you do this? she will hear it best from you.«
    »Immediately,« said Shirley, with docile promptitude. »Ought I to say that there is no danger?«
    »Say so.«
    »You will come back soon, and let me know more?«
    »I will either come or write.«
    »Trust me for watching over Caroline. I will communicate with your sister, too; but, doubtless, she is already with Robert?«
    »Doubtless; or will be soon. Good-morning, now.«
    »You will bear up, come what may?«
    »We shall see that.«
    Shirley's fingers were obliged to withdraw from the Tutor's: Louis was obliged to relinquish that hand folded, clasped, hidden in his own.
    »I thought I should have had to support her,« he said, as he walked towards Briarmains, »and it is she who has made me strong. That look of pity – that gentle touch! No down was ever softer – no elixir more potent! It lay like a snow-flake: it thrilled like lightning. A thousand times I have longed to possess that hand – to have it in mine. I
have
possessed it – for five minutes I held it. Her fingers and mine can never be strangers more – having met once, they must meet again.«
     
     
Chapter XXXII
The Schoolboy and the Wood-Nymph
    Briarmains being nearer than the Hollow, Mr. Yorke had conveyed his young comrade there. He had seen him laid in the best bed of the house, as carefully as if he had been one of his own sons. The sight of his blood, welling from the treacherously-inflicted wound, made him indeed the son of the Yorkshire gentleman's heart. The spectacle of the sudden event; of the tall, straight shape prostrated in its pride across the road; of the fine southern head laid low in the dust; of that youth in prime flung at once before him pallid, lifeless, helpless – this was the very combination of circumstances to win for the victim Mr. Yorke's liveliest interest.
    No other hand was there to raise – to aid; no other voice to question kindly; no other brain to concert measures: he had to do it all himself. This utter dependence of the speechless, bleeding youth (as a youth he regarded him) on his benevolence, secured that benevolence most effectually. Well did Mr. Yorke like to have power, and to use it: he had now between his hands power over a fellow-creature's life: it suited him.
    No less perfectly did it suit his saturnine better-half: the incident was quite in her way, and to her taste. Some women would have been terror-struck to see a gory man brought in over their threshold, and laid down in their hall in the ›howe of the night.‹ There, you would suppose, was subject-matter for hysterics. No: Mrs. Yorke went into hysterics