Shirley

will she pardon all I have made her suffer – all that long pain I have wickedly caused her – all that sickness of body and mind she owed to me? Will she forget what she knows of my poor ambition – my sordid schemes? Will she let me expiate these things? Will she suffer me to prove that, as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly, injured basely, I can now love faithfully, cherish fondly, treasure tenderly?«
    His hand was in Caroline's still: a gentle pressure answered him.
    »Is Caroline mine?«
    »Caroline is yours.«
    »I will prize her: the sense of her value is here, in my heart; the necessity for her society is blended with my life: not more jealous shall I be of the blood whose flow moves my pulses, than of her happiness and well-being.«
    »I love you, too, Robert, and will take faithful care of you.«
    »Will you take faithful care of me? – faithful care! as if that rose should promise to shelter from tempest this hard, grey stone. But she
will
care for me, in her way: these hands will be the gentle ministrants of every comfort I can taste. I know the being I seek to entwine with my own will bring me a solace – a charity – a purity – to which, of myself, I am a stranger.«
    Suddenly, Caroline was troubled; her lip quivered.
    »What flutters my dove?« asked Moore, as she nestled to, and then uneasily shrank from him.
    »Poor mamma! I am all mamma has: must I leave her?«
    »Do you know, I thought of that difficulty: I and ›mamma‹ have discussed it.«
    »Tell me what you wish – what you would like – and I will consider if it is possible to consent; but I cannot desert her, even for you: I cannot break her heart, even for your sake.«
    »She was faithful when I was false – was she not? I never came near your sick-bed, and she watched it ceaselessly.«
    »What must I do? Anything but leave her.«
    »At my wish, you never shall leave her.«
    »She may live very near us?«
    »With us – only she will have her own rooms and servant: for this she stipulates herself.«
    »You know she has an income, that, with her habits, makes her quite independent?«
    »She told me that, with a gentle pride that reminded me of somebody else.«
    »She is not at all interfering, and incapable of gossip.«
    »I know her, Cary: but if – instead of being the personification of reserve and discretion – she were something quite opposite, I should not fear her.«
    »Yet she will be your mother-in-law?« The speaker gave an arch little nod: Moore smiled.
    »Louis and I are not of the order of men who fear their mothers-in-law, Cary: our foes never have been, nor will be, those of our own household. I doubt not, my mother-in-law will make much of me.«
    »That she will – in her quiet way, you know. She is not demonstrative; and when you see her silent, or even cool, you must not fancy her displeased – it is only a manner she has. Be sure to let me interpret for her, whenever she puzzles you: always believe my account of the matter, Robert.«
    »Oh, implicitly! Jesting apart, I feel that she and I will suit – on ne peut mieux. Hortense, you know, is exquisitely susceptible – in our French sense of the word – and not, perhaps, always reasonable in her requirements; yet – dear, honest girl – I never painfully wounded her feelings, or had a serious quarrel with her, in my life.«
    »No: you are most generously considerate – indeed, most tenderly indulgent to her; and you will be considerate with mamma. You are a gentleman all through, Robert, to the bone, and nowhere so perfect a gentleman as at your own fireside.«
    »An eulogium I like: it is very sweet. I am well pleased my Caroline should view me in this light.«
    »Mamma just thinks of you as I do.«
    »Not quite, I hope?«
    »She does not want to marry you – don't be vain; but she said to me the other day, ›My dear, Mr. Moore has pleasing manners; he is one of the few gentlemen I have seen who combine politeness with an air of sincerity.‹«
    »›Mamma‹ is rather a misanthropist, is she not? Not the best opinion of the sterner sex?«
    »She forbears to judge them as a whole, but she has her exceptions whom she admires. Louis and Mr. Hall, and, of late – yourself. She did not like you once: I knew that, because she would never speak of you. But, Robert –«
    »Well, what now? What is the new thought?«
    »You have not seen my uncle yet?«
    »I have: ›mamma‹ called him into the room. He consents conditionally: if I prove that I