CHAPTER XXIX. LOUIS MOORE.

vefascinationinherfootprints?Whencedidsheacquirethegifttobeheedlessandneveroffend?Thereisalwayssomethingtochideinher,andthereprimandneversettlesindispleasureontheheart,but,forherloverorherhusband,whenithadtrickledawhileinwords,wouldnaturallymeltfromhislipsinakiss.Betterpasshalfanhourinremonstratingwithherthanadayinadmiringorpraisinganyotherwomanalive.AmImuttering?soliloquizing?Stopthat." Hedidstopit.Hestoodthinking,andthenhemadeanarrangementforhisevening'scomfort. Hedroppedthecurtainsoverthebroadwindowandregalmoon.Heshutoutsovereignandcourtandstarryarmiesheaddedfueltothehotbutfast-wastingfirehelitacandle,ofwhichtherewereapaironthetableheplacedanotherchairoppositethatneartheworkstandandthenhesatdown.Hisnextmovementwastotakefromhispocketasmall,thickbookofblankpaper,toproduceapencil,andtobegintowriteinacramp,compacthand.Comenear,byallmeans,reader.Donotbeshy.Stoopoverhisshoulderfearlessly,andreadashescribbles. "Itisnineo'clockthecarriagewillnotreturnbeforeeleven,Iamcertain.FreedomisminetillthentillthenImayoccupyherroom,sitoppositeherchair,restmyelbowonhertable,haveherlittlemementoesaboutme. "IusedrathertolikeSolitude—tofancyherasomewhatquietandserious,yetfairnymphanOread,descendingtomefromlonemountain-passes,somethingofthebluemistofhillsinherarrayandoftheirchillbreezeinherbreath,butmuchalsooftheirsolemnbeautyinhermien.Ioncecouldcourtherserenely,andimaginemyhearteasierwhenIheldhertoit—allmute,butmajestic. "SincethatdayIcalledS.tomeintheschoolroom,andshecameandsatsonearmysidesincesheopenedthetroubleofhermindtome,askedmyprotection,appealedtomystrength—sincethathourIabhorSolitude.Coldabstraction,fleshlessskeleton,daughter,mother,andmateofDeath! "Itispleasanttowriteaboutwhatisnearanddearasthecoreofmyheart.Nonecandeprivemeofthislittlebook,andthroughthispencilIcansaytoitwhatIwill—saywhatIdareuttertonothingliving—saywhatIdarenotthinkaloud. "Wehavescarcelyencounteredeachothersincethatevening.Once,whenIwasaloneinthedrawing-room,seekingabookofHenry's,sheentered,dressedforaconcertatStilbro'.Shyness—hershyness,notmine—drewasilverveilbetweenus.MuchcanthaveIheardandreadabout'maidenmodesty,'but,properlyused,andnothackneyed,thewordsaregoodandappropriatewords.Asshepassedtothewindow,aftertacitlybutgracefullyrecognizingme,Icouldcallhernothinginmyownmindsave'stainlessvirgin.'Tomyperception,adelicatesplendourrobedher,andthemodestyofgirlhoodwasherhalo.Imaybethemostfatuous,asIamoneoftheplainest,ofmen,butintruththatshynessofherstouchedmeexquisitelyitflatteredmyfinestsensations.Ilookedastupidblock,Idaresay.IwasalivewithalifeofParadise,assheturnedherglancefrommyglance,andsoftlyavertedherheadtohidethesuffusionofhercheek. "Iknowthisisthetalkofadreamer—ofarapt,romanticlunatic.Idodream.Iwilldreamnowandthenandifshehasinspiredromanceintomyprosaiccomposition,howcanIhelpit? "Whatachildsheissometimes!Whatanunsophisticated,untaughtthing!Iseehernowlookingupintomyface,andentreatingmetopre