“What is it?”
“Old copybooks.”
He threw the bundle to Caroline. The packet looked so neat externally her curiosity was excited to see its contents.
“If they are only copybooks, I suppose I may open them?”
“Oh yes, quite freely. Mr. Moore’s desk is half mine – for he lets me keep all sorts of things in it – and I give you leave.”
On scrutiny they proved to be French compositions, written in a hand peculiar but compact, and exquisitely clean and clear. The writing was recognizable. She scarcely needed the further evidence of the name signed at the close of each theme to tell her whose they were. Yet that name astonished her—“Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove,–shire” (a southern county), and a date four years back.
She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, meditating over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a confidence.
“They are Shirley’s, you see,” said Henry carelessly.
“Did you give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with Mrs. Pryor, I suppose?”
“She wrote them in my schoolroom at Sympson Grove, when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her French; it is his native language.”
“I know. Was she a good pupil, Henry?”
“She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have in the room. She made lesson-time charming. She learned fast – you could hardly tell when or how. French was nothing to her. She spoke it quick, quick – as quick as Mr. Moore himself.”
“Was she obedient? Did she give trouble?”
“She gave plenty of trouble, in a way. She was giddy, but I liked her. I’m desperately fond of Shirley.”
“Desperately fond – you small simpleton! You don’t know what you say.”
“I am desperately fond of her. She is the light of my eyes. I said so to Mr. Moore last night.”
“He would reprove you for speaking with exaggeration.”
“He didn’t. He never reproves and reproves, as girls’ governesses do. He was reading, and he only smiled into his book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than that, she was less than he took her to be; for I was but a dim-eyed, short-sighted little chap. I’m afraid I am a poor unfortunate, Miss Caroline Helstone. I am a cripple, you know.”
“Never mind, Henry, you are a very nice little fellow; and if God has not given you health and strength, He has given you a good disposition and an excellent heart and brain.”
“I shall be despised. I sometimes think both Shirley and you despise me.”
“Listen, Henry. Generally, I don’t like schoolboys. I have a great horror of them. They seem to me little ruffians, who take an unnatural delight in killing and tormenting birds, and insects, and kittens, and whatever is weaker than themselves. But you are so different I am quite fond of you. You have almost as much sense as a man (far more, God wot,” she muttered to herself, “than many men); you are fond of reading, and you can talk sensibly about what you read.”
“I am fond of reading. I know I have sense, and I know I have feeling.”
Miss Keeldar here entered.
“Henry,” she said, “I have brought your lunch here. I shall prepare it for you myself.”
She placed on the table a glass of new milk, a plate of something which looked not unlike leather, and a utensil which resembled a toasting fork.
“What are you two about,” she continued, “ransacking Mr. Moore’s desk?”
“Looking at your old copybooks,” returned Caroline.
“My old copybooks?”
“French exercise books. Look here! They must be held precious; they are kept carefully.”
She showed the bundle. Shirley snatched it up. “Did not know one was in existence,” she said. “I thought the whole lot had long since lit the kitchen fire, or curled the maid’s hair at Sympson Grove. – What made you keep them, Henry?”
“It is not my doing. I should not have thought of it. It never entered my head to suppose copybooks of value. Mr. Moore put them by in the inner drawer of his desk. Perhaps he forgot them.”
“C’est cela. He forgot them, no doubt,” echoed Shirley. “They are extremely well written,” she observed complacently.
“What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, in those days! I remember you so well. A slim, light creature whom, though you were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with your long, countless curls on your shoulders, and your streaming sash. You used to make Mr. Moore lively – that is, at first. I believe you grieved him after a while.”
Shirley turned the closely-written pages and said nothing. Presently she observed, “That was written one winter afternoon. It was a description of a snow scene.”
“I remember,” said Henry. “Mr. Moore, when he read it, cried, ‘Voilà le Français gagné!’ He said it was well done. Afterwards you made him draw, in sepia, the landscape you described.”
“You have not forgotten, then, Hal?”
“Not at all. We were all scolded that day for not coming down to tea when called. I can remember my tutor sitting at his easel, and you standing behind him, holding the candle, and watching him draw the snowy cliff, the pine, the deer couched under it, and the half-moon hung above.”
“Where are his drawings, Harry? Caroline should see them.”
“In his portfolio. But it is padlocked; he has the key.”
“Ask him for it when he comes in.”
“You should ask him, Shirley. You are shy of him now. You are grown a proud lady to him; I notice that.”
“Shirley, you are a real enigma,” whispered Caroline in her ear. “What queer discoveries I make day by day now! – I who thought I had your confidence. Inexplicable creature! even this boy reproves you.”
“I have forgotten ‘Auld lang syne,’ you see, Harry,” said Miss Keeldar, answering young Sympson, and not heeding Caroline.
“Which you never should have done. You don’t deserve to be a man’s morning star if you have so short a memory.”
“A man’s morning star, indeed! and by ‘a man’ is meant your worshipful self, I suppose? Come, drink your new milk while it is warm.”
The young cripple rose and limped towards the fire; he had left his crutch near the mantelpiece.
“My poor lame darling!” murmured Shirley, in her softest voice, aiding him.
“Whether do you like me or Mr. Sam Wynne best, Shirley?” inquired the boy, as she settled him in an armchair.
“O Harry, Sam Wynne is my aversion; you are my pet.”
“Me or Mr. Malone?”
“You again, a thousand times.”
“Yet they are great whiskered fellows, six feet high each.”
“Whereas, as long as you live, Harry, you will never be anything more than a little pale lameter.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You need not be sorrowful. Have I not often told you who was almost as little, as pale, as suffering as you, and yet potent as a giant and brave as a lion?”
“Admiral Horatio?”
“Admiral Horatio, Viscount Nelson, and Duke of Bronte; great at heart as a Titan; gallant and heroic as all the world and age of chivalry; leader of the might of England; commander of her strength on the deep; hurler of her thunder over the flood.”
“A great man. But I am not warlike, Shirley; and yet my mind is so restless I burn day and night – for what I can hardly tell – to be – to do – to suffer, I think.”
“Harry, it is your mind, which is stronger and older than your frame, that troubles you. It is a captive; it lies in physical bondage. But it will work its own redemption yet. Study carefully not only books but the world. You love nature; love her without fear. Be patient – wait the course of time. You will not be a soldier or a sailor, Henry; but if you live you will be – listen to my prophecy – you will be an author, perhaps a poet.”
“An author! It is a flash – a flash of light to me! I will – I will! I’ll write a book that I may dedicate it to you.”
“You will write it that you may give your soul its natural release. Bless me! what am I saying? more than I understand, I believe, or can make good. Here, Hal – here is your toasted oatcake; eat and live!”