Shirley

orphan-girl, when you find her.‹
    ›Oh! could I find her such as I image her. Something to tame first, and teach afterwards: to break in, and then to fondle. To lift the destitute proud thing out of poverty; to establish power over, and then to be indulgent to the capricious moods that never were influenced and never indulged before; to see her alternately irritated and subdued about twelve times in the twenty-four hours; and perhaps, eventually, when her training was accomplished, to behold her the exemplary and patient mother of about a dozen children, only now and then lending little Louis a cordial cuff by way of paying the interest of the vast debt she owes his father. Oh!‹ (I went on) ›my orphan-girl would give me many a kiss; she would watch on the threshold for my coming home of an evening; she would run into my arms; should keep my hearth as bright as she would make it warm. God bless the sweet idea! Find her I must.‹
    Her eyes emitted an eager flash, her lips opened; but she reclosed them, and impetuously turned away.
    ›Tell me, tell me where she is, Miss Keeldar!‹
    Another movement: all haughtiness, and fire, and impulse.
    ›I must know. You
can
tell me. You
shall
tell me.‹
    ›I
never will.
‹
    She turned to leave me. Could I now let her part as she had always parted from me? No: I had gone too far not to finish. I had come too near the end not to drive home to it. All the encumbrance of doubt, all the rubbish of indecision must be removed at once, and the plain truth must be ascertained. She must take her part, and tell me what it was. I must take mine, and adhere to it.
    ›A minute, madam,‹ I said, keeping my hand on the door-handle before I opened it. ›We have had a long conversation this morning, but the last word has not been spoken yet: it is yours to speak it.‹
    ›May I pass?‹
    ›No. I guard the door. I would almost rather die than let you leave me just now, without speaking the word I demand.‹
    ›What dare you expect me to say?‹
    ›What I am dying and perishing to hear; what I
must
and
will
hear; what you dare not now suppress.‹
    ›Mr. Moore, I hardly know what you mean: you are not like yourself.‹
    I suppose I hardly was like my usual self, for I scared her; that I could see: it was right; she must be scared to be won.
    ›You
do
know what I mean, and for the first time I stand before you
myself.
I have flung off the tutor, and beg to introduce you to the man: and, remember, he is a gentleman.‹
    She trembled. She put her hand to mine as if to remove it from the lock; she might as well have tried to loosen, by her soft touch, metal welded to metal. She felt she was powerless, and receded; and again she trembled.
    What change I underwent, I cannot explain; but out of her emotion passed into me a new spirit. I neither was crushed nor elated by her lands and gold; I thought not of them, cared not for them: they were nothing: dross that could not dismay me. I saw only herself; her young beautiful form; the grace, the majesty, the modesty of her girlhood.
    ›My pupil.‹ I said.
    ›My master,‹ was the low answer.
    ›I have a thing to tell you.‹
    She waited with declined brow, and ringlets drooped.
    ›I have to tell you, that for four years you have been growing into your tutor's heart, and that you are rooted there now. I have to declare that you have bewitched me, in spite of sense and experience, and difference of station and estate: you have so looked, and spoken, and moved; so shown me your faults and your virtues – beauties rather; they are hardly so stern as virtues, – that I love you – love you with my life and strength. It is out now.‹
    She sought what to say, but could not find a word: she tried to rally; but vainly. I passionately repeated that I loved her.
    ›Well, Mr. Moore, what then?‹ was the answer I got; uttered in a tone that would have been petulant, if it had not faltered.
    ›Have you nothing to say to me? Have you no love for me?‹
    ›A little bit.‹
    ›I am not to be tortured: I will not even play at present.‹
    ›I don't want to play; I want to go.‹
    ›I wonder you dare speak of going at this moment.
You
go! What! with my heart in your hand, to lay it on your toilet and pierce it with your pins? From my presence you do not stir; out of my reach you do not stray, till I receive a hostage – pledge for pledge – your heart for mine.‹
    ›The thing you want is mislaid – lost some time since: let me go and