“Not my husband; only my uncle.”
“Where is the difference?”
“There is a slight difference – that is certain. And I know full well any man who wishes to live in decent comfort with me as a husband must be able to control me.”
“I wish you had a real tyrant.”
“A tyrant would not hold me for a day, not for an hour. I would rebel – break from him – defy him.”
“Are you not enough to bewilder one’s brain with your self-contradiction?”
“It is evident I bewilder your brain.”
“You talk of Sir Philip being young. He is two-and-twenty.”
“My husband must be thirty, with the sense of forty.”
“You had better pick out some old man – some white-headed or bald-headed swain.”
“No, thank you.”
“You could lead some doting fool; you might pin him to your apron.”
“I might do that with a boy; but it is not my vocation. Did I not say I prefer a master – one in whose presence I shall feel obliged and disposed to be good; one whose control my impatient temper must acknowledge; a man whose approbation can reward, whose displeasure punish me; a man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and very possible to fear?”
“What is there to hinder you from doing all this with Sir Philip? He is a baronet – a man of rank, property, connections far above yours. If you talk of intellect, he is a poet – he writes verses; which you, I take it, cannot do, with all your cleverness.”
“Neither his title, wealth, pedigree, nor poetry avail to invest him with the power I describe. These are feather-weights; they want ballast. A measure of sound, solid, practical sense would have stood him in better stead with me.”
“You and Henry rave about poetry! You used to catch fire like tinder on the subject when you were a girl.”
“O uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this world, there is nothing glorious in the world to come that is not poetry!”
“Marry a poet, then, in God’s name!”
“Show him me, and I will.”
“Sir Philip.”
“Not at all. You are almost as good a poet as he.”
“Madam, you are wandering from the point.”
“Indeed, uncle, I wanted to do so, and I shall be glad to lead you away with me. Do not let us get out of temper with each other; it is not worthwhile.”
“Out of temper, Miss Keeldar! I should be glad to know who is out of temper.”
“I am not, yet.”
“If you mean to insinuate that I am, I consider that you are guilty of impertinence.”
“You will be soon, if you go on at that rate.”
“There it is! With your pert tongue you would try the patience of a Job.”
“I know I should.”
“No levity, miss! This is not a laughing matter. It is an affair I am resolved to probe thoroughly, convinced that there is mischief at the bottom. You described just now, with far too much freedom for your years and sex, the sort of individual you would prefer as a husband. Pray, did you paint from the life?”
Shirley opened her lips, but instead of speaking she only glowed rose-red.
“I shall have an answer to that question,” affirmed Mr. Sympson, assuming vast courage and consequence on the strength of this symptom of confusion.
“It was an historical picture, uncle, from several originals.”
“Several originals! Bless my heart!”
“I have been in love several times.”
“This is cynical.”
“With heroes of many nations.”
“What next”
“And philosophers.”
“She is mad”
“Don’t ring the bell, uncle; you will alarm my aunt.”
“Your poor dear aunt, what a niece has she!”
“Once I loved Socrates.”
“Pooh! no trifling, ma’am.”
“I admired Themistocles, Leonidas, Epaminondas.”
“Miss Keeldar”
“To pass over a few centuries, Washington was a plain man, but I liked him; but to speak of the actual present”
“Ah! the actual present.”
“To quit crude schoolgirl fancies, and come to realities.”
“Realities! That is the test to which you shall be brought, ma’am.”
“To avow before what altar I now kneel – to reveal the present idol of my soul”
“You will make haste about it, if you please. It is near luncheon time, and confess you shall.”
“Confess I must. My heart is full of the secret. It must be spoken. I only wish you were Mr. Helstone instead of Mr. Sympson; you would sympathize with me better.”
“Madam, it is a question of common sense and common prudence, not of sympathy and sentiment, and so on. Did you say it was Mr. Helstone?”
“Not precisely, but as near as may be; they are rather alike.”
“I will know the name; I will have particulars.”
“They positively are rather alike. Their very faces are not dissimilar – a pair of human falcons – and dry, direct, decided both. But my hero is the mightier of the two. His mind has the clearness of the deep sea, the patience of its rocks, the force of its billows.”
“Rant and fustian!”
“I dare say he can be harsh as a saw-edge and gruff as a hungry raven.”
“Miss Keeldar, does the person reside in Briarfield? Answer me that.”
“Uncle, I am going to tell you; his name is trembling on my tongue.”
“Speak, girl!”
“That was well said, uncle. ‘Speak, girl!’ It is quite tragic. England has howled savagely against this man, uncle, and she will one day roar exultingly over him. He has been unscared by the howl, and he will be unelated by the shout.”
“I said she was mad. She is.”
“This country will change and change again in her demeanour to him; he will never change in his duty to her. Come, cease to chafe, uncle, I’ll tell you his name.”
“You shall tell me, or”
“Listen! Arthur Wellesley, Lord Wellington.”
Mr. Sympson rose up furious. He bounced out of the room, but immediately bounced back again, shut the door, and resumed his seat.
“Ma’am, you shall tell me this. Will your principles permit you to marry a man without money – a man below you?”
“Never a man below me.”
(In a high voice.) “Will you, Miss Keeldar, marry a poor man?”
“What right have you, Mr. Sympson, to ask me?”
“I insist upon knowing.”
“You don’t go the way to know.”
“My family respectability shall not be compromised.”
“A good resolution; keep it.”
“Madam, it is you who shall keep it.”
“Impossible, sir, since I form no part of your family.”
“Do you disown us?”
“I disdain your dictatorship.”
“Whom will you marry, Miss Keeldar?”
“Not Mr. Sam Wynne, because I scorn him; not Sir Philip Nunnely, because I only esteem him.”
“Whom have you in your eye?”
“Four rejected candidates.”
“Such obstinacy could not be unless you were under improper influence.”
“What do you mean? There are certain phrases potent to make my blood boil. Improper influence! What old woman’s cackle is that?”
“Are you a young lady?”
“I am a thousand times better: I am an honest woman, and as such I will be treated.”
“Do you know” (leaning mysteriously forward, and speaking with ghastly solemnity)—“do you know the whole neighbourhood teems with rumours respecting you and a bankrupt tenant of yours, the foreigner Moore?”
“Does it?”
“It does. Your name is in every mouth.”
“It honours the lips it crosses, and I wish to the gods it may purify them.”
“Is it that person who has power to influence you?”
“Beyond any whose cause you have advocated.”
“Is it he you will marry?”
“He is handsome, and manly, and commanding.”
“You declare it to my face! The Flemish knave! the low trader!”
“He is talented, and venturous, and resolute. Prince is on his brow, and ruler in his bearing.”
“She glories in it! She conceals nothing! No shame, no fear!”
“When we speak the name of Moore, shame should be forgotten and fear discarded. The Moores know only honour and courage.”
“I say she is mad.”