‘You remember this little ring fastened to my watch-chain? It was my mother’s, and is too small to pass the joint of my little finger. You have many a time sportively purloined it. It fitted your forefinger. Try now.’
She permitted the test. The ring dropped from the wasted little hand. Louis picked it up, and re-attached it to the chain. An uneasy flush coloured his brow. Shirley again said:
‘It is not because I am ill.’
‘Not only have you lost sleep, appetite and flesh,’ proceeded Moore, ‘but your spirits are always at ebb. Besides, there is a nervous alarm in your eye, a nervous disquiet in your manner. These peculiarities were not formerly yours.’
‘Mr. Moore, we will pause here. You have exactly hit it: I am nervous. Now talk of something else. What wet weather we have—steady, pouring rain!’
‘You nervous? Yes; and if Miss Keeldar is nervous it is not without a cause. Let me reach it. Let me look nearer. The ailment is not physical—I have suspected that. It came in one moment—I know the day. I noticed the change. Your pain is mental.’
‘Not at all. It is nothing so dignified—merely nervous. Oh! dismiss the topic.’
‘When it is exhausted—not till then. Nervous alarms should always be communicated that they may be dissipated. I wish I had the gift of persuasion, and could incline you to speak willingly. I believe confession, in your case, would be half equivalent to cure.’
‘No,’ said Shirley abruptly. ‘I wish that were at all probable; but I am afraid it is not.’
She suspended her work a moment. She was now seated. Resting her elbow on the table, she leaned her head on her hand. Mr. Moore looked as if he felt he had at last gained some footing in this difficult path. She was serious, and in her wish was implied an important admission. After that she could no longer affirm that nothing ailed her.
The tutor allowed her some minutes for repose and reflection ere he returned to the charge. Once his lips moved to speak, but he thought better of it, and prolonged the pause. Shirley lifted her eye to his. Had he betrayed injudicious emotion, perhaps obstinate persistence in silence would have been the result, but he looked calm, strong, trustworthy.
‘I had better tell you than my aunt,’ she said, ‘or than my cousins, or my uncle. They would all make such a bustle, and it is that very bustle I dread; that alarm, the flurry, the éclat; in short, I never liked to be the centre of a small domestic whirlpool. You can bear a little shock—eh?’
‘A great one, if necessary.’
Not a muscle of the man’s frame moved, and yet his large heart beat fast in his deep chest. What was she going to tell him? Was irremediable mischief done?
‘Had I thought it right to go to you, I would never have made a secret of the matter one moment,’ she continued; ‘I would have told you at once, and asked advice.’
‘Why was it not right to come to me?’
‘It might be right—I do not mean that; but I could not do it. I seemed to have no title to trouble you: the mishap concerned me only—I wanted to keep it to myself, and people will not let me. I tell you, I hate to be an object of worrying attention, or a theme for village gossip. Besides, it may pass away without result—God knows!’