CHAPTER XXIX. LOUIS MOORE.

LouisMoorewasusedtoaquietlife.Beingaquietman,heendureditbetterthanmostmenwould.Havingalargeworldofhisowninhisownheadandheart,hetoleratedconfinementtoasmall,stillcorneroftherealworldverypatiently. HowhushedisFieldheadthisevening!AllbutMoore—MissKeeldar,thewholefamilyoftheSympsons,evenHenry—aregonetoNunnely.SirPhilipwouldhavethemcomehewishedtomakethemacquaintedwithhismotherandsisters,whoarenowatthepriory.Kindgentlemanasthebaronetis,heaskedthetutortoobutthetutorwouldmuchsoonerhavemadeanappointmentwiththeghostoftheEarlofHuntingdontomeethim,andashadowyringofhismerrymen,underthecanopyofthethickest,blackest,oldestoakinNunnelyForest.Yes,hewouldratherhaveappointedtrystwithaphantomabbess,ormist-palenun,amongthewetandweedyrelicsofthatruinedsanctuaryoftheirs,moulderinginthecoreofthewood.LouisMoorelongstohavesomethingnearhimto-nightbutnottheboy-baronet,norhisbenevolentbutsternmother,norhispatriciansisters,noronesouloftheSympsons. Thisnightisnotcalmtheequinoxstillstrugglesinitsstorms.Thewildrainsofthedayareabatedthegreatsingleclouddispartsandrollsawayfromheaven,notpassingandleavingaseaallsapphire,buttossedbuoyantbeforeacontinued,long-sounding,high-rushingmoonlighttempest.Themoonreignsglorious,gladofthegale,asgladasifshegaveherselftohisfiercecaresswithlove.NoEndymionwillwatchforhisgoddessto-night.Therearenoflocksoutonthemountainsanditiswell,forto-nightshewelcomes?olus. Moore,sittingintheschoolroom,heardthestormroarroundtheothergableandalongthehall-front.Thisendwassheltered.Hewantednoshelterhedesirednosubduedsoundsorscreenedposition. "Alltheparloursareempty,"saidhe."Iamsickatheartofthiscell." Heleftit,andwentwherethecasements,largerandfreerthanthebranch-screenedlatticeofhisownapartment,admittedunimpededthedark-blue,thesilver-fleeced,thestirringandsweepingvisionoftheautumnnight-sky.Hecarriednocandleunneededwaslamporfire.Thebroadandclearthoughcloud-crossedandfluctuatingbeamofthemoonshoneoneveryfloorandwall. Moorewandersthroughalltherooms.Heseemsfollowingaphantomfromparlourtoparlour.Intheoakroomhestops.Thisisnotchill,andpolished,andfirelesslikethesalon.Thehearthishotandruddythecinderstinkleintheintenseheatoftheirclearglowneartherugisalittlework-table,adeskuponit,achairnearit. DoesthevisionMoorehastrackedoccupythatchair?Youwouldthinkso,couldyouseehimstandingbeforeit.Thereisasmuchinterestnowinhiseye,andasmuchsignificanceinhisface,asifinthishouseholdsolitudehehadfoundalivingcompanion,andwasgoingtospeaktoit. Hemakesdiscoveries.Abag—asmallsatinbag—hangsonthechair-back.Thedeskisopen,thekeysareinthelock.Aprettyseal,asilverpen,acrimsonberryortwoofripefruitonagreenleaf,asmall,clean,delicateglove—thesetriflesatoncedecorateanddisarrangethestandtheystrew.Orderforbidsdetailsinapicture—sheputsthemtidilyawaybutdetailsgivecharm. Moorespoke. "Hermark,"hesaid."Hereshehasbeen—careless,attractivething!—calledawayinhaste,doubtless,andforgettingtoreturnandputalltorights.Whydoesshelea