Shirley

share, what she could of her sister's. Jessy had already settled it in her mind that she, when she was old enough, was to be married; Rose, she decided, must be an old maid, to live with her, look after her children, keep her house. This state of things is not uncommon between two sisters, where one is plain and the other pretty; but in this case, if there
was
a difference in external appearance, Rose had the advantage: her face was more regular-featured than that of the piquant little Jessy. Jessy, however, was destined to possess, along with sprightly intelligence and vivacious feeling, the gift of fascination, the power to charm when, where, and whom she would. Rose was to have a fine, generous soul, a noble intellect profoundly cultivated, a heart as true as steel, but the manner to attract was not to be hers.
    »Now, Rose, tell me the name of this lady who denied that I was sentimental,« urged Mr. Moore.
    Rose had no idea of tantalization, or she would have held him a while in doubt; she answered briefly: –
    »I can't: I don't know her name.«
    »Describe her to me: what was she like? Where did you see her?«
    »When Jessy and I went to spend the day at Whinbury with Kate and Susan Pearson, who were just come home from school, there was a party at Mrs. Pearson's, and some grown-up ladies were sitting in a corner of the drawing-room talking about you.«
    »Did you know none of them?«
    »Hannah, and Harriet, and Dora, and Mary Sykes.«
    »Good. Were they abusing me, Rosy?«
    »Some of them were: they called you a misanthrope: I remember the word – I looked for it in the dictionary when I came home: it means a man-hater.«
    »What besides?«
    »Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy.«
    »Better!« cried Mr. Yorke, laughing. »Oh! excellent! Hannah – that's the one with the red hair: a fine girl, but half-witted.«
    »She has wit enough for me, it appears,« said Moore. »A solemn puppy, indeed! Well, Rose, go on.«
    »Miss Pearson said she believed there was a good deal of affectation about you, and that with your dark hair and pale face, you looked to her like some sort of a sentimental noodle.«
    Again Mr. Yorke laughed: Mrs. Yorke even joined in this time. »You see in what esteem you are held behind your back,« said she; »yet I believe
that
Miss Pearson would like to catch you: she set her cap at you when you first came into the country, old as she is.«
    »And who contradicted her, Rosy?« inquired Moore.
    »A lady whom I don't know, because she never visits here, though I see her every Sunday at church; she sits in the pew near the pulpit. I generally look at her, instead of looking at my prayer-book; for she is like a picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in her hand: at least she has eyes like it, and a nose too, a straight nose, that makes all her face look, somehow, what I call clear.«
    »And you don't know her!« exclaimed Jessy, in a tone of exceeding surprise. »That's so like Rose. Mr. Moore, I often wonder in what sort of a world my sister lives; I am sure she does not live all her time in this: one is continually finding out that she is quite ignorant of some little matter which everybody else knows. To think of her going solemnly to church every Sunday, and looking all service-time at one particular person, and never so much as asking that person's name! She means Caroline Helstone, the Rector's niece: I remember all about it. Miss Helstone was quite angry with Anne Pearson: she said, ›Robert Moore is neither affected nor sentimental; you mistake his character utterly, or rather not one of you here knows anything about it.‹ Now, shall I tell you what she is like? I can tell what people are like, and how they are dressed, better than Rose can.«
    »Let us hear.«
    »She is nice; she is fair; she has a pretty white slender throat; she has long curls, not stiff ones, they hang loose and soft, their colour is brown but not dark; she speaks quietly, with a clear tone; she never makes a bustle in moving; she often wears a grey silk dress; she is neat all over: her gowns, and her shoes, and her gloves always fit her. She is what I call a lady, and when I am as tall as she is, I mean to be like her. Shall I suit you if I am? Will you really marry me?«
    Moore stroked Jessy's hair: for a minute he seemed as if he would draw her nearer to him, but instead he put her a little farther off.
    »Oh! you won't have me? You push me away.«
    »Why, Jessy, you care nothing about me: