Shirley

she left the oak-parlour, instinctively I rose, and left it too. She chid me for this procedure more than once: I did it with a vague, blundering idea of getting a word with her in the hall, or elsewhere. Yesterday, towards dusk, I had her to myself for five minutes, by the hall-fire: we stood side by side; she was railing at me, and I was enjoying the sound of her voice: the young ladies passed, and looked at us; we did not separate: ere-long, they repassed, and again looked. Mrs. Sympson came; we did not move: Mr. Sympson opened the dining-room door; Shirley flashed him back full payment for his spying gaze: she curled her lip, and tossed her tresses. The glance she gave was at once explanatory and defiant; it said – ›I like Mr. Moore's society, and I dare you to find fault with my taste.‹
    I asked – ›Do you mean him to understand how matters are?‹
    ›I do,‹ said she; ›but I leave the development to chance. There will be a scene. I neither invite it nor fear it – only, you must be present; for I am inexpressibly tired of facing him solus. I don't like to see him in a rage; he then puts off all his fine proprieties and conventional disguises, and the real human being below is what you would call »commun, plat, bas – vilain et un peu méchant.« His ideas are not clean, Mr. Moore; they want scouring with soft soap and fuller's earth. I think, if he could add his imagination to the contents of Mrs. Gill's bucking-basket, and let her boil it in her copper, with rain-water and bleaching-powder (I hope you think me a tolerable laundress), it would do him incalculable good.‹
    This morning, fancying I heard her descend somewhat early, I was down instantly. I had not been deceived: there she was, busy at work, in the breakfast-parlour, of which the housemaid was completing the arrangement and dusting. She had risen betimes to finish some little keepsake she intended for Henry. I got only a cool reception; which I accepted till the girl was gone, taking my book to the window-seat very quietly. Even when we were alone, I was slow to disturb her: to sit with her in sight was happiness, and the proper happiness, for early morning – serene, incomplete, but progressive. Had I been obtrusive, I knew I should have encountered rebuff. ›Not at home to suitors‹, was written on her brow; therefore, I read on – stole, now and then, a look; watched her countenance soften and open, as she felt I respected her mood, and enjoyed the gentle content of the moment.
    The distance between us shrank, and the light hoarfrost thawed insensibly: ere an hour elapsed, I was at her side, watching her sew, gathering her sweet smiles and her merry words, which fell for me abundantly. We sat, as we had a right to sit, side by side: my arm rested on her chair; I was near enough to count the stitches of her work, and to discern the eye of her needle. The door suddenly opened.
    I believe, if I had just then started from her, she would have despised me: thanks to the phlegm of my nature, I rarely start. When I am well-off, bien, comfortable, I am not soon stirred: bien I was – très bien – consequently, immutable: no muscle moved. I hardly looked to the door.
    ›Good-morning, uncle‹ said she, addressing that personage; who paused on the threshold in a state of petrifaction.
    ›Have you been long down-stairs, Miss Keeldar, and alone with Mr. Moore?‹
    ›Yes, a very long time: we both came down early; it was scarcely light.‹
    ›The proceeding is improper –‹
    ›It was at first: I was rather cross, and not civil; but you will perceive that we are now friends.‹
    ›I perceive more than you would wish me to perceive.‹
    ›Hardly, sir,‹ said I: ›we have no disguises. Will you permit me to intimate, that any further observations you have to make may as well be addressed to me. Henceforward, I stand between Miss Keeldar and all annoyance.‹
    ›
You!
What have
you
to do with Miss Keeldar?‹
    ›To protect, watch over, serve her.‹
    ›You, sir? – you, the tutor?‹
    ›Not one word of insult, sir,‹ interposed she: ›not one syllable of disrespect to Mr. Moore, in this house.‹
    ›Do you take his part?‹
    ›
His
part! Oh, yes!‹
    She turned to me with a sudden, fond movement, which I met by circling her with my arm. She and I both rose.
    ›Good Ged!‹ was the cry from the morning-gown standing quivering at the door.
Ged,
I think, must be the cognomen of Mr. Sympson's Lares: when hard-pressed, he