Shirley by Charlotte Brontë (best books to read for teens .TXT) 📕

her drear solitude for one hour of social enjoyment. Miss Mann looked tired of standing; a lady in a yellow bonnet brought her a chair. Caroline knew well that chapeau en satin jaune; she knew the black hair, and the kindly though rather opinionated and froward-looking face under it; she knew that robe de soie noire, she knew even that schall gris de lin; she knew, in short, Hortense Moore, and she wanted to jump up and run to her and kiss her⁠—to give her one embrace for her own sake and two for her brother’s. She half rose, indeed, with a smothered exclamation, and perhaps⁠—for the impulse was very strong⁠—she would have run across the room and actually saluted her; but a hand replaced her in her seat, and a voice behind her whispered, “Wait till after tea, Lina, and then I’ll bring her to you.”

And when she could look up she did, and there was Robert himself close behind, smiling at her eagerness, looking better than she had ever seen him look⁠—looking, indeed, to her partial eyes, so very handsome that she dared not trust herself to hazard a second glance; for his image struck on her vision with painful brightness, and pictured itself on her memory as vividly as if there daguerreotyped by a pencil of keen lightning.

He moved on, and spoke to Miss Keeldar. Shirley, irritated by some unwelcome attentions from Sam Wynne, and by the fact of that gentleman being still seated on her gloves and handkerchief⁠—and probably, also, by Moore’s want of punctuality⁠—was by no means in good humour. She first shrugged her shoulders at him, and then she said a bitter word or two about his “insupportable tardiness.” Moore neither apologized nor retorted. He stood near her quietly, as if waiting to see whether she would recover her temper; which she did in little more than three minutes, indicating the change by offering him her hand. Moore took it with a smile, half-corrective, half-grateful. The slightest possible shake of the head delicately marked the former quality; it is probable a gentle pressure indicated the latter.

“You may sit where you can now, Mr. Moore,” said Shirley, also smiling. “You see there is not an inch of room for you here; but I discern plenty of space at Mrs. Boultby’s table, between Miss Armitage and Miss Birtwhistle. Go! John Sykes will be your vis-à-vis, and you will sit with your back towards us.”

Moore, however, preferred lingering about where he was. He now and then took a turn down the long room, pausing in his walk to interchange greetings with other gentlemen in his own placeless predicament; but still he came back to the magnet, Shirley, bringing with him, each time he returned, observations it was necessary to whisper in her ear.

Meantime poor Sam Wynne looked far from comfortable. His fair neighbour, judging from her movements, appeared in a mood the most unquiet and unaccommodating. She would not sit still two seconds. She was hot; she fanned herself; complained of want of air and space. She remarked that, in her opinion, when people had finished their tea they ought to leave the tables, and announced distinctly that she expected to faint if the present state of things continued. Mr. Sam offered to accompany her into the open air; just the way to give her her death of cold, she alleged. In short, his post became untenable; and having swallowed his quantum of tea, he judged it expedient to evacuate.

Moore should have been at hand, whereas he was quite at the other extremity of the room, deep in conference with Christopher Sykes. A large corn-factor, Timothy Ramsden, Esq., happened to be nearer; and feeling himself tired of standing, he advanced to fill the vacant seat. Shirley’s expedients did not fail her. A sweep of her scarf upset her teacup: its contents were shared between the bench and her own satin dress. Of course, it became necessary to call a waiter to remedy the mischief. Mr. Ramsden, a stout, puffy gentleman, as large in person as he was in property, held aloof from the consequent commotion. Shirley, usually almost culpably indifferent to slight accidents affecting dress, etc., now made a commotion that might have become the most delicate and nervous of her sex. Mr. Ramsden opened his mouth, withdrew slowly, and, as Miss Keeldar again intimated her intention to “give way” and swoon on the spot, he turned on his heel, and beat a heavy retreat.

Moore at last returned. Calmly surveying the bustle, and somewhat quizzically scanning Shirley’s enigmatical-looking countenance, he remarked that in truth this was the hottest end of the room, that he found a climate there calculated to agree with none but cool temperaments like his own; and putting the waiters, the napkins, the satin robe⁠—the whole turmoil, in short⁠—to one side, he installed himself where destiny evidently decreed he should sit. Shirley subsided; her features altered their lines; the raised knit brow and inexplicable curve of the mouth became straight again; wilfulness and roguery gave place to other expressions; and all the angular movements with which she had vexed the soul of Sam Wynne were conjured to rest as by a charm. Still no gracious glance was cast on Moore. On the contrary, he was accused of giving her a world of trouble, and roundly charged with being the cause of depriving her of the esteem of Mr. Ramsden and the invaluable friendship of Mr. Samuel Wynne.

“Wouldn’t have offended either gentleman for the world,” she averred. “I have always been accustomed to treat both with the most respectful consideration, and there, owing to you, how they have been used! I shall not be happy till I have made it up. I never am happy till I am friends with my neighbours. So tomorrow I must make a pilgrimage to Royd corn-mill, soothe the miller, and praise the grain; and next day I must call at De Walden⁠—where I hate to go⁠—and carry in