Chapter 12.11 - Shirley

If they are true oracles, it is good never to fall in love. Very good, if you can avoid it. I choose to doubt their truth. I'm afraid that proves you are already caught. Not I. But if I were, do you know what soothsayers I would consult? Let me hear. Neither man nor woman, elderly nor young. The little Irish beggar that comes barefoot to my door. The mouse that steals out of the cranny in the wainscot. The bird that in frost and snow pecks at my window for a crumb. The dog that licks my hand and sits beside my knee. Did you ever see anyone who was kind to such things? Did you ever see anyone whom such things seemed instinctively to follow? Rely on. We have a black cat and an old dog at the rectory. I know somebody to whose knee that black cat loves to climb, against whose shoulder and cheek it likes to purr. The old dog always comes out of his kennel and wags his tail and whines affectionately when somebody passes. And what does that somebody do? He quietly strokes the cat and lets her sit while he conveniently can. And when he must disturb her by rising, he puts her softly down and never flings her from him roughly. He always whistles to the dog and gives him a caress. Does he? It is not Robert. But it is Robert. Handsome fellow, said Shirley with enthusiasm, her eyes sparkled. Is he not handsome? Has he not fine eyes and well-cut features and a clear, princely forehead? He has all that, Caroline. Bless him. He is both graceful and good. I was sure you would see that he was. When I first looked at your face, I knew you would. I was well inclined to him before I saw him. I liked him when I did see him. I admire him now. There is charm in beauty for itself, Caroline. When it is blent with goodness, there is a powerful charm.