LITMIR.BIZ

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which drew up that,” said Mr. Hall, glancing at Miss Ainley, and smiling benignantly. His approbation was won at once. Boultby heard and deliberated with bent brow and protruded under lip. His consent he considered too weighty to be given in a hurry. Helstone glanced sharply round with an alert, suspicious expression, as if he apprehended that female craft was at work, and that something in petticoats was somehow trying underhand to acquire too much influence, and make itself of too much importance. Shirley caught and comprehended the expression. “This scheme is nothing,” said she carelessly. “It is only an outline — a mere suggestion. You, gentlemen, are requested to draw up rules of your own.”

      And she directly fetched her writing-case, smiling queerly to herself as she bent over the table where it stood. She produced a sheet of paper, a new pen, drew an armchair to the table, and presenting her hand to old Helstone, begged permission to install him in it. For a minute he was a little stiff, and stood wrinkling his copper-coloured forehead strangely. At last he muttered, “Well, you are neither my wife nor my daughter, so I’ll be led for once; but mind — I know I am led. Your little female manœuvres don’t blind me.”

      “Oh!” said Shirley, dipping the pen in the ink, and putting it into his hand, “you must regard me as Captain Keeldar to-day. This is quite a gentleman’s affair — yours and mine entirely, doctor” (so she had dubbed the rector). “The ladies there are only to be our aides-de-camp, and at their peril they speak, till we have settled the whole business.”

      He smiled a little grimly, and began to write. He soon interrupted himself to ask questions, and consult his brethren, disdainfully lifting his glance over the curly heads of the two girls and the demure caps of the elder ladies, to meet the winking glasses and gray pates of the priests. In the discussion which ensued, all three gentlemen, to their infinite credit, showed a thorough acquaintance with the poor of their parishes — an even minute knowledge of their separate wants. Each rector knew where clothing was needed, where food would be most acceptable, where money could be bestowed with a probability of it being judiciously laid out. Wherever their memories fell short, Miss Ainley or Miss Hall, if applied to, could help them out; but both ladies took care not to speak unless spoken to. Neither of them wanted to be foremost, but each sincerely desired to be useful; and useful the clergy consented to make them — with which boon they were content.

      Shirley stood behind the rectors, leaning over their shoulders now and then to glance at the rules drawn up and the list of cases making out, listening to all they said, and still at intervals smiling her queer smile — a smile not ill-natured, but significant — too significant to be generally thought amiable. Men rarely like such of their fellows as read their inward nature too clearly and truly. It is good for women, especially, to be endowed with a soft blindness; to have mild, dim eyes, that never penetrate below the surface of things — that take all for what it seems. Thousands, knowing this, keep their eyelids drooped on system; but the most downcast glance has its loophole, through which it can, on occasion, take its sentinel-survey of life. I remember once seeing a pair of blue eyes, that were usually thought sleepy, secretly on the alert, and I knew by their expression — an expression which chilled my blood, it was in that quarter so wondrously unexpected — that for years they had been accustomed to silent soul-reading. The world called the owner of these blue eyes bonne petite femme (she was not an Englishwoman). I learned her nature afterwards — got it off by heart — studied it in its farthest, most hidden recesses. She was the finest, deepest, subtlest schemer in Europe.

      When all was at length settled to Miss Keeldar’s mind, and the clergy had entered so fully into the spirit of her plans as to head the subscription-list with their signatures for £50 each, she ordered supper to be served, having previously directed Mrs. Gill to exercise her utmost skill in the preparation of this repast. Mr. Hall was no bon vivant — he was naturally an abstemious man, indifferent to luxury; but Boultby and Helstone both liked good cookery. The recherché supper consequently put them into excellent humour. They did justice to it, though in a gentlemanly way — not in the mode Mr. Donne would have done had he been present. A glass of fine wine was likewise tasted, with discerning though most decorous relish. Captain Keeldar was complimented on his taste; the compliment charmed him. It had been his aim to gratify and satisfy his priestly guests. He had succeeded, and was radiant with glee.

      CHAPTER XV.

      MR. DONNE’S EXODUS.

      The next day Shirley expressed to Caroline how delighted she felt that the little party had gone off so well.

      “I rather like to entertain a circle of gentlemen,” said she. “It is amusing to observe how they enjoy a judiciously concocted repast. For ourselves, you see, these choice wines and these scientific dishes are of no importance to us; but gentlemen seem to retain something of the naïveté of children about food, and one likes to please them — that is, when they show the becoming, decent self-government of our admirable rectors. I watch Moore sometimes, to try and discover how he can be pleased; but he has not that child’s simplicity about him. Did you ever find out his accessible point, Caroline? you have seen more of him than I.”

      “It is not, at any rate, that of my uncle and Dr. Boultby,” returned Caroline, smiling. She always felt a sort of shy pleasure in following Miss Keeldar’s lead respecting the discussion of her cousin’s character. Left to herself, she would never have touched on the subject; but when invited, the temptation of talking about him of whom she was ever thinking was irresistible. “But,” she added, “I really don’t know what it is, for I never watched Robert in my life but my scrutiny was presently baffled by finding he was watching me.”

      “There it is!” exclaimed Shirley. “You can’t fix your eyes on him but his presently flash on you. He is never off his guard. He won’t give you an advantage. Even when he does not look at you, his thoughts seem to be busy amongst your own thoughts, tracing your words and actions to their source, contemplating your motives at his ease. Oh! I know that sort of character, or something in the same style. It is one that piques me singularly. How does it affect you?”

      This question was a specimen of one of Shirley’s sharp, sudden turns. Caroline used to be fluttered by them at first, but she had now got into the way of parrying these home-thrusts like a little Quakeress.

      “Pique you? In what way does it pique you?” she said.

      “Here he comes!” suddenly exclaimed Shirley, breaking off, starting up and running to the window. “Here comes a diversion. I never told you of a superb conquest I have made lately — made at those parties to which I can never persuade you to accompany me; and the thing has been done without effort or intention on my part — that I aver. There is the bell — and, by all that’s delicious! there are two of them. Do they never hunt, then, except in couples? You may have one, Lina, and you may take your choice. I hope I am generous enough. Listen to Tartar!”

      The black-muzzled, tawny dog, a glimpse of which was seen in the chapter which first introduced its mistress to the reader, here gave tongue in the hall, amidst whose hollow space the deep bark resounded formidably. A growl more terrible than the bark, menacing as muttered thunder, succeeded.

      “Listen!” again cried Shirley, laughing. “You would think that the prelude to a bloody onslaught. They will be frightened. They don’t know old Tartar as I do. They are not aware his uproars are all sound and fury, signifying nothing!”

      Some bustle was heard. “Down, sir, down!” exclaimed a high-toned, imperious voice, and then came a crack of a cane or whip. Immediately there was a yell — a scutter — a run — a positive tumult.

      “O Malone, Malone!”

      “Down! down! down!” cried the high voice.

      “He really is worrying them!” exclaimed Shirley. “They have struck him. A blow is what he is not used to, and will not take.”

      Out she ran. A gentleman was fleeing up the oak staircase, making for refuge in the gallery or chambers in hot haste; another was backing fast to the stairfoot, wildly flourishing a knotty stick, at the same time reiterating, “Down! down! down!” while the tawny dog

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