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Shirley
By
Charlotte Brontë
Cont=
ents
Chapter IV - Mr Yorke (Continued)<=
/span>
Chapter VII - The Curates at Tea=
span>
Chapter XII - Shirley and Caroline=
Chapter XIII - Further Communicati=
ons on
Business
Chapter XIV - Shirley Seeks to Be =
Saved by
Works
Chapter XV - Mr Donne's Exodus
Chapter XVII - The School-Feast
Chapter XVIII - Which the Genteel =
Reader
is Recommended to Skip, Low Persons Being Here Introduced
Chapter XXIII - An Evening Out
Chapter XXIV - The Valley of the S=
hadow of
Death
Chapter XXV - The West Wind Blows<=
/span>
Chapter XXVII - The First Blue-Sto=
cking
Chapter XXX - Rushedge, a Confessi=
onal
Chapter XXXI - Uncle and Niece
Chapter XXXII - The Schoolboy and =
the
Wood-Nymph
Chapter XXXIII - Martin's Tactics<=
/span>
Chapter XXXV - Wherein Matters Mak=
e Some
Progress, But Not Much
Chapter XXXVI - Written in the Sch=
oolroom
Chapter XXXVII - The Winding-Up
Of late years an abundant shower of
curates has fallen upon the north of England: they lie very thick on the hi=
lls;
every parish has one or more of them; they are young enough to be very acti=
ve,
and ought to be doing a great deal of good. But not of late years are we ab=
out
to speak; we are going back to the beginning of this century: late years -
present years are dusty, sunburnt, hot, arid; we will evade the noon, forge=
t it
in siesta, pass the midday in slumber, and dream of dawn.
If you think, from this prelude, t=
hat
anything like a romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more
mistaken. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and reverie? Do you expe=
ct
passion, and stimulus, and melodrama? Calm your expectations; reduce them t=
o a
lowly standard. Something real, cool and solid lies before you; something
unromantic as Monday morning, when all who have work wake with the
consciousness that they must rise and betake themselves thereto. It is not
positively affirmed that you shall not have a taste of the exciting, perhaps
towards the middle and close of the meal, but it is resolved that the first
dish set upon the table shall be one that a Catholic - ay, even an
Anglo-Catholic - might eat on Good Friday in Passion Week: it shall be cold
lentils and vinegar without oil; it shall be unleavened bread with bitter
herbs, and no roast lamb.
Of late years, I say, an abundant
shower of curates has fallen upon the north of England, but in
eighteen-hundred-eleven-twelve that affluent rain had not descended. Curates
were scarce then: there was no Pastoral Aid - no Additional Curates' Societ=
y to
stretch a helping hand to worn-out old rectors and incumbents, and give them
the wherewithal to pay a vigorous young colleague from Oxford or Cambridge.=
The
present successors of the apostles, disciples of Dr. Pusey and tools of the
Propaganda, were at that time being hatched under cradle- blankets, or
undergoing regeneration by nursery-baptism in wash-hand basins. You could n=
ot
have guessed by looking at any one of them that the Italian-ironed double
frills of its net-cap surrounded the brows of a preordained, specially-
sanctified successor of St. Paul, St. Peter, or St. John; nor could you have
foreseen in the folds of its long nightgown the white surplice in which it =
was
hereafter cruelly to exercise the souls of its parishioners, and strangely =
to
nonplus its old-fashioned vicar by flourishing aloft in a pulpit the shirt-=
like
raiment which had never before waved higher than the reading-desk.
Yet even in those days of scarcity
there were curates: the precious plant was rare, but it might be found. A
certain favoured district in the West Riding of Yorkshire could boast three
rods of Aaron blossoming within a circuit of twenty miles. You shall see th=
em,
reader. Step into this neat garden-house on the skirts of Whinbury, walk
forward into the little parlour. There they are at dinner. Allow me to
introduce them to you: Mr Donne, curate of Whinbury; Mr Malone, curate of
Briarfield; Mr Sweeting, curate of Nunnely. These are Mr Donne's lodgings,
being the habitation of one John Gale, a small clothier. Mr Donne has kindly
invited his brethren to regale with him. You and I will join the party, see
what is to be seen, and hear what is to be heard. At present, however, they=
are
only eating; and while they eat we will talk aside.
These gentlemen are in the bloom of
youth; they possess all the activity of that interesting age - an activity
which their moping old vicars would fain turn into the channel of their
pastoral duties, often expressing a wish to see it expended in a diligent s=
uperintendence
of the schools, and in frequent visits to the sick of their respective
parishes. But the youthful Levites feel this to be dull work; they prefer
lavishing their energies on a course of proceeding which, though to other e=
yes
it appear more heavy with ennui, more cursed with monotony, than the toil of
the weaver at his loom, seems to yield them an unfailing supply of enjoyment
and occupation.
I allude to a rushing backwards and
forwards, amongst themselves, to and from their respective lodgings - not a
round, but a triangle of visits, which they keep up all the year through, in
winter, spring, summer, and autumn. Season and weather make no difference; =
with
unintelligible zeal they dare snow and hail, wind and rain, mire and dust, =
to
go and dine, or drink tea, or sup with each other. What attracts them it wo=
uld
be difficult to say. It is not friendship, for whenever they meet they quar=
rel.
It is not religion - the thing is never named amongst them; theology they m=
ay
discuss occasionally, but piety - never. It is not the love of eating and
drinking: each might have as good a joint and pudding, tea as potent, and t=
oast
as succulent, at his own lodgings, as is served to him at his brother's. Mrs
Gale, Mrs Hogg, and Mrs Whipp - their respective landladies - affirm that '=
it
is just for naught else but to give folk trouble.' By 'folk' the good ladie=
s of
course mean themselves, for indeed they are kept in a continual 'fry' by th=
is
system of mutual invasion.
Mr Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner; Mrs Gale waits on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen fire is in her eye. She considers that the privilege of inviting a friend t= o a meal occasionally, without additional charge (a privilege included in the t= erms on which she lets her lodgings), has been quite sufficiently exercised of l= ate. The present week is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday Mr Malone, the curat= e of Briarfield, came to breakfast and stayed dinner; on Tuesday Mr Malone and Mr Sweeting of Nunnely came to tea, remained to supper, occupied the spare bed, and favoured her with their company to breakfast on Wednesday morning; now,= on Thursday, they are both here at dinner, and she is almost certain they will stay all night. 'C'en est trop,' she would say, if she could speak French.<= o:p>
Mr Sweeting is mincing the slice of
roast beef on his plate, and complaining that it is very tough; Mr Donne sa=
ys
the beer is flat. Ay, that is the worst of it: if they would only be civil =
Mrs
Gale wouldn't mind it so much, if they would only seem satisfied with what =
they
get she wouldn't care; but 'these young parsons is so high and so scornful,
they set everybody beneath their ‘fit.’ They treat her with less
than civility, just because she doesn't keep a servant, but does the work of
the house herself; as her mother did afore her; then they are always speaki=
ng
against Yorkshire ways and Yorkshire folk,' and by that very token Mrs Gale
does not believe one of them to be a real gentleman, or come of gentle kin.
'The old parsons is worth the whole lump of college lads; they know what
belongs to good manners, and is kind to high and low.'
'More bread!' cries Mr Malone, in a
tone which, though prolonged but to utter two syllables, proclaims him at o=
nce
a native of the land of shamrocks and potatoes. Mrs Gale hates Mr Malone mo=
re
than either of the other two; but she fears him also, for he is a tall
strongly-built personage, with real Irish legs and arms, and a face as
genuinely national - not the Milesian face, not Daniel O'Connell's style, b=
ut
the high featured, North-American-Indian sort of visage, which belongs to a
certain class of the Irish gentry, and has a petrified and proud look, bett=
er
suited to the owner of an estate of slaves than to the landlord of a free
peasantry. Mr Malone's father termed himself a gentleman: he was poor and in
debt, and besottedly arrogant; and his son was like him.
Mrs Gale offered the loaf.
'Cut it, woman,' said her guest; a=
nd
the woman cut it accordingly. Had she followed her inclinations, she would =
have
cut the parson also; her Yorkshire soul revolted absolutely from his manner=
of
command.
The curates had good appetites, and
though the beef was 'tough,' they ate a great deal of it. They swallowed, t=
oo,
a tolerable allowance of the 'flat beer,' while a dish of Yorkshire pudding,
and two tureens of vegetables, disappeared like leaves before locusts. The
cheese, too, received distinguished marks of their attention; and a
'spice-cake,' which followed by way of dessert, vanished like a vision, and=
was
no more found. Its elegy was chanted in the kitchen by Abraham, Mrs Gale's =
son
and heir, a youth of six summers; he had reckoned upon the reversion thereo=
f,
and when his mother brought down the empty platter, he lifted up his voice =
and
wept sore.
The curates, meantime, sat and sip=
ped
their wine, a liquor of unpretending vintage, moderately enjoyed. Mr Malone,
indeed, would much rather have had whisky; but Mr Donne, being an Englishma=
n,
did not keep the beverage. While they sipped they argued, not on politics, =
nor
on philosophy, nor on literature - these topics were now, as ever, totally
without interest for them - not even on theology, practical or doctrinal, b=
ut
on minute points of ecclesiastical discipline, frivolities which seemed emp=
ty
as bubbles to all save themselves. Mr Malone, who contrived to secure two
glasses of wine, when his brethren contented themselves with one, waxed by
degrees hilarious after his fashion; that is; he grew a little insolent, sa=
id
rude things in a hectoring tone, and laughed clamorously at his own brillia=
ncy
Each of his companions became in t=
urn
his butt. Malone had a stock of jokes at their service, which he was accust=
omed
to serve out regularly on convivial occasions like the present, seldom vying
his wit; for which, indeed, there was no necessity, as he never appeared to
consider himself monotonous, and did not at all care what others thought. Mr
Donne he favoured with hints about his extreme meagreness, allusions to his
turned-up nose, cutting sarcasms on a certain threadbare chocolate surtout
which that gentleman was accustomed to sport whenever it rained or seemed
likely to rain, and criticisms on a choice set of cockney phrases and modes=
of
pronunciation, Mr Donne's own property, and certainly deserving of remark f=
or
the elegance and finish they communicated to his style.
Mr Sweeting was bantered about his
stature - he was a little man, a mere boy in height and breadth compared wi=
th
the athletic Malone; rallied on his musical accomplishments - he played the
flute and sang hymns like a seraph, some young ladies of his parish thought;
sneered at as 'the ladies pet; teased about his mamma and sisters, for whom
poor Mr Sweeting had some lingering regard, and of whom he was foolish enou=
gh
now and then to speak in the presence of the priestly Paddy, from whose ana=
tomy
the bowels of natural affection had somehow been omitted.
The victims met these attacks each=
in
his own way: Mr Donne with a stilted self-complacency and half-sullen phleg=
m,
the sole props of his otherwise somewhat rickety dignity; Mr Sweeting with =
the
indifference of a light, easy disposition, which never professed to have any
dignity to maintain.
When Malone's raillery became rath=
er
too offensive, which it soon did, they joined in an attempt to turn the tab=
les
on him by asking him how many boys had shouted 'Irish Peter!' after him as =
he
came along the road that day (Malone's name was Peter - the Rev. Peter Augu=
stus
Malone); requesting to be informed whether it was the mode in Ireland for
clergymen to carry loaded pistols in their pockets, and a shillelah in their
hands, when they made pastoral visits; inquiring the signification of such
words as vele, firrum, hellum, storrum (so Mr Malone invariably pronounced
veil, firm, helm, storm), and employing such other methods of retaliation as
the innate refinement of their minds suggested.
This, of course, would not do. Mal=
one,
being neither good-natured nor phlegmatic, was presently in a towering pass=
ion.
He vociferated, gesticulated; Donne and Sweeting laughed. He reviled them as
Saxons and snobs at the very top pitch of his high Celtic voice; they taunt=
ed
him with being the native of a conquered land. He menaced rebellion in the =
name
of his 'counthry,' vented bitter hatred against English rule; they spoke of
rags, beggary, and pestilence. The little parlour was in an uproar; you wou=
ld
have thought a duel must follow such virulent abuse; it seemed a wonder tha=
t Mr
and Mrs Gale did not take alarm at the noise, and send for a constable to k=
eep
the peace. But they were accustomed to such demonstrations; they well knew =
that
the curates never dined or took tea together without a little exercise of t=
he
sort, and were quite easy as to consequences, knowing that these clerical
quarrels were as harmless as they were noisy, that they resulted in nothing,
and that, on whatever terms the curates might part to-night, they would be =
sure
to meet the best friends in the world to-morrow morning.
As the worthy pair were sitting by
their kitchen fire, listening to the repeated and sonorous contact of Malon=
e's
fist with the mahogany plane of the parlour table, and to the consequent st=
art
and jingle of decanters and glasses following each assault, to the mocking
laughter of the allied English disputants, and the stuttering declamation of
the isolated Hibernian - as they thus sat, a foot was heard on the outer
door-step, and the knocker quivered to a sharp appeal.
Mr Gale went and opened.
'Whom have you upstairs in the
parlour?' asked a voice - a rather remarkable voice, nasal in tone, abrupt =
in
utterance.
'O Mr Helstone, is it you, sir? I =
could
hardly see you for the darkness; it is so soon dark now. Will you walk in,
sir?'
'I want to know first whether it is
worth my while walking in. Whom have you upstairs?'
'The curates, sir.'
'What! all of them?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Been dining here?'
'Yes, sir.'
'That will do.'
With these words a person entered =
- a
middle-aged man, in black. He walked straight across the kitchen to an inner
door, opened it, inclined his head forward, and stood listening. There was
something to listen to, for the noise above was just then louder than ever.=
'Hey!' he ejaculated to himself; t=
hen
turning to Mr Gale - 'Have you often this sort of work?'
Mr Gale had been a churchwarden, a=
nd
was indulgent to the clergy.
'They're young, you know, sir -
they're young,' said he deprecatingly.
'Young! They want caning. Bad boys= - bad boys! And if you were a Dissenter, John Gale, instead of being a good Churchman, they'd do the like - they'd expose themselves; but I'll. . . .'<= o:p>
By way of finish to this sentence,=
he
passed through the inner door, drew it after him, and mounted the stair. Ag=
ain
he listened a few minutes when he arrived at the upper room. Making entrance
without warning, he stood before the curates.
And they were silent; they were
transfixed; and so was the invader. He - a personage short of stature, but
straight of port, and bearing on broad shoulders a hawk's head, beak, and e=
ye,
the whole surmounted by a Rehoboam, or shovel hat, which he did not seem to
think it necessary to lift or remove before the presence in which he then s=
tood
- he folded his arms on his chest and surveyed his young friends, if friends
they were, much at his leisure.
'What!' he began, delivering his w=
ords
in a voice no longer nasal, but deep - more than deep - a voice made purpos=
ely
hollow and cavernous 'what! has the miracle of Pentecost been renewed? Have=
the
cloven tongues come down again? Where are they? The sound filled the whole
house just now. I heard the seventeen languages in full action: Parthians, =
and
Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea, and Cappado=
cia,
in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, in Egypt and in the parts of Lib=
ya
about Cyrene, strangers of Rome, Jews and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians;
every one of these must have had its representative in this room two minutes
since.'
'I beg your pardon, Mr Helstone,'
began Mr Donne; 'take a seat, pray, sir. Have a glass of wine?'
His civilities received no answer.=
The
falcon in the black coat proceeded, -
'What do I talk about the gift of
tongues? Gift, indeed! I mistook the chapter, and book, and Testament - gos=
pel
for law, Acts for Genesis, the city of Jerusalem for the plain of Shinar. It
was no gift but the confusion of tongues which has gabbled me deaf as a pos=
t.
You, apostles? What! you three? Certainly not; three presumptuous Babylonish
masons - neither more nor less!'
'I assure you, sir, we were only
having a little chat together over a glass of wine after a friendly dinner -
settling the Dissenters!'
'Oh! settling the Dissenters, were
you? Was Malone settling the Dissenters? It sounded to me much more like
settling his co-apostles. You were quarrelling together, making almost as m=
uch
noise - you three alone - as Moses Barraclough, the preaching tailor, and a=
ll
his hearers are making in the Methodist chapel down yonder, where they are =
in
the thick of a revival. I know whose fault it is. - It is yours, Malone.'
'Mine, sir?'
'Yours, sir. Donne and Sweeting we=
re
quiet before you came, and would be quiet if you were gone. I wish, when you
crossed the Channel, you had left your Irish habits behind you. Dublin stud=
ent
ways won't do here, The proceedings which might pass unnoticed in a wild bog
and mountain district in Connaught will, in a decent English parish, bring
disgrace on those who indulge in them, and, what is far worse, on the sacred
institution of which they are merely the humble appendages.'
There was a certain dignity in the
little elderly gentleman's manner of rebuking these youths, though it was n=
ot,
perhaps, quite the dignity most appropriate to the occasion. Mr Helstone,
standing straight as a ramrod, looking keen as a kite, presented, despite h=
is
clerical hat, black coat, and gaiters, more the air of a veteran officer
chiding his subalterns than of a venerable priest exhorting his sons in the
faith. Gospel mildness, apostolic benignity, never seemed to have breathed
their influence over that keen brown visage, but firmness had fixed the
features, and sagacity had carved her own lines about them.
'I met Supplehough,' he continued,
'plodding through the mud this wet night, going to preach at Milldean
opposition shop. As I told you, I heard Barraclough bellowing in the midst =
of a
conventicle like a possessed bull; and I find you, gentlemen, tarrying over
your half-pint of muddy port wine, and scolding like angry old women. No wo=
nder
Supplehough should have dipped sixteen adult converts in a day - which he d=
id a
fortnight since; no wonder Barraclough, scamp and hypocrite as he is, should
attract all the weaver-girls in their flowers and ribbons, to witness how m=
uch
harder are his knuckles than the wooden brim of his tub; as little wonder t=
hat
you, when you are left to yourselves, without your rectors - myself, and Ha=
ll,
and Boultby - to back you, should too often perform the holy service of our
church to bare walls, and read your bit of a dry discourse to the clerk, and
the organist, and the beadle. But enough of the subject. I came to see Malo=
ne.
- I have an errand unto thee, O captain!'
'What is it?' inquired Malone
discontentedly. 'There can be no funeral to take at this time of day.'
'Have you any arms about you?'
'Arms, sir? - yes, and legs.' And =
he
advanced the mighty members.
'Bah! weapons I mean.'
'I have the pistols you gave me
yourself. I never part with them. I lay them ready cocked on a chair by my =
bedside
at night. I have my blackthorn.'
'Very good. Will you go to Hollow's
Mill?'
'What is stirring at Hollow's Mill=
?'
'Nothing as yet, nor perhaps will =
be;
but Moore is alone there. He has sent all the workmen he can trust to Stilb=
ro';
there are only two women left about the place. It would be a nice opportuni=
ty
for any of his well-wishers to pay him a visit, if they knew how straight t=
he
path was made before them.'
'I am none of his well-wishers, si=
r. I
don't care for him.'
'Soh! Malone, you are afraid.'
'You know me better than that. If I
really thought there was a chance of a row I would go: but Moore is a stran=
ge,
shy man, whom I never pretend to understand; and for the sake of his sweet
company only I would not stir a step.'
'But there is a chance of a row; i=
f a
positive riot does not take place - of which, indeed, I see no signs - yet =
it
is unlikely this night will pass quite tranquilly. You know Moore has resol=
ved
to have new machinery, and he expects two wagon-loads of frames and shears =
from
Stilbro' this evening. Scott, the overlooker, and a few picked men are gone=
to
fetch them.'
'They will bring them in safely and
quietly enough, sir.'
'Moore says so, and affirms he wan=
ts
nobody. Some one, however, he must have, if it were only to bear evidence i=
n case
anything should happen. I call him very careless. He sits in the counting-h=
ouse
with the shutters unclosed; he goes out here and there after dark, wanders
right up the hollow, down Fieldhead Lane, among the plantations, just as if=
he
were the darling of the neighbourhood, or - being, as he is, its detestatio=
n -
bore a ‘charmed life,’ as they say in tale- books. He takes no
warning from the fate of Pearson, nor from that of Armitage - shot, one in =
his
own house and the other on the moor.'
'But he should take warning, sir, =
and
use precautions too,' interposed Mr Sweeting; 'and I think he would if he h=
eard
what I heard the other day.'
'What did you hear, Davy?'
'You know Mike Hartley, sir?'
'The Antinomian weaver? Yes.'
'When Mike has been drinking for a=
few
weeks together, he generally winds up by a visit to Nunnely vicarage, to te=
ll Mr
Hall a piece of his mind about his sermons, to denounce the horrible tenden=
cy
of his doctrine of works, and warn him that he and all his hearers are sitt=
ing
in outer darkness.'
'Well that has nothing to do with
Moore.'
'Besides being an Antinomian, he i=
s a
violent Jacobin and leveller, sir.'
'I know. When he is very drunk, his
mind is always running on regicide. Mike is not unacquainted with history, =
and
it is rich to hear him going over the list of tyrants of whom, as he says, =
‘the
revenger of blood has obtained satisfaction.’ The fellow exults stran=
gely
in murder done on crowned heads or on any head for political reasons. I have
already heard it hinted that he seems to have a queer hankering after Moore=
. Is
that what you allude to, Sweeting?'
'You use the proper term, sir. Mr =
Hall
thinks Mike has no personal hatred of Moore. Mike says he even likes to tal=
k to
him and run after him, but he has a hankering that Moore should be made an
example of. He was extolling him to Mr Hall the other day as the mill-owner
with the most brains in Yorkshire, and for that reason he affirms Moore sho=
uld
be chosen as a sacrifice, an oblation of a sweet savour. Is Mike Hartley in=
his
right mind, do you think, sir?' inquired Sweeting simply.
'Can't tell, Davy. He may be craze=
d,
or he may be only crafty, or perhaps a little of both.'
'He talks of seeing visions, sir.'=
'Ay! He is a very Ezekiel or Daniel
for visions. He came just when I was going to bed last Friday night to desc=
ribe
one that had been revealed to him in Nunnely Park that very afternoon.'
'Tell it, sir. What was it?' urged
Sweeting.
'Davy, thou hast an enormous organ=
of
wonder in thy cranium. Malone, you see, has none. Neither murders nor visio=
ns
interest him. See what a big vacant Saph he looks at this moment'
'Saph! Who was Saph, sir?'
'I thought you would not know. You=
may
find it out It is biblical. I know nothing more of him than his name and ra=
ce;
but from a boy upwards I have always attached a personality to Saph. Depend=
on
it he was honest, heavy, and luckless. He met his end at Gob by the hand of
Sibbechai.'
'But the vision, sir?'
'Davy, thou shalt hear. Donne is
biting his nails, and Malone yawning, so I will tell it but to thee. Mike is
out of work, like many others, unfortunately. Mr Grame, Sir Philip Nunnely's
steward, gave him a job about the priory. According to his account, Mike was
busy hedging rather late in the afternoon; but before dark, when he heard w=
hat
he thought was a band at a distance - bugles, fifes, and the sound of a
trumpet; it came from the forest, and he wondered that there should be music
there. He looked up. All amongst the trees he saw moving objects, red, like
poppies, or white, like may blossom. The wood was full of them; they poured=
out
and filled the park. He then perceived they were soldiers - thousands and t=
ens
of thousands; but they made no more noise than a swarm of midges on a summer
evening. They formed in order, he affirmed, and marched, regiment after
regiment, across the park. He followed them to Nunnely Common; the music st=
ill
played soft and distant On the common be watched them go through a number of
evolutions. A man clothed in scarlet stood in the centre and directed them.
They extended, he declared, over fifty acres. They were in sight half an ho=
ur;
then they marched away quite silently. The whole time he heard neither voice
nor tread nothing but the faint music playing a solemn march.'
'Where did they go, sir?'
'Towards Briarfield. Mike followed
them. They seemed passing Fieldhead, when a column of smoke, such as might =
be
vomited by a park of artillery, spread noiseless over the fields, the road,=
the
common, and roiled, he said, blue and dim, to his very feet. As it cleared =
away
he looked again for the soldiers, but they were vanished; he saw them no mo=
re.
Mike, like a wise Daniel as he is, not only rehearsed the vision but gave t=
he
interpretation thereof. It signifies, he intimated, bloodshed and civil
conflict.'
'Do you credit it, sir?' asked
Sweeting.
'Do you, Davy? - But come, Malone;=
why
are you not off?'
'I am rather surprised, sir, you d=
id
not stay with Moore yourself. You like this kind of thing.'
'So I should have done, had I not
unfortunately happened to engage Boultby to sup with me on his way home from
the Bible Society meeting at Nunnely. I promised to send you as my substitu=
te;
for which, by-the-bye, he did not thank me. He would much rather have had me
than you, Peter. Should there be any real need of help I shall join you. Th=
e mill-bell
will give warning. Meantime, go - unless (turning suddenly to Messrs. Sweet=
ing
and Donne) - unless Davy Sweeting or Joseph Donne prefers going. - What do =
you
say, gentlemen? The commission is an honourable one, not without the season=
ing
of a little real peril; for the country is in a queer state, as you all kno=
w,
and Moore and his mill and his machinery are held in sufficient odium. There
are chivalric sentiments, there is high-beating courage, under those waistc=
oats
of yours, I doubt not Perhaps I am too partial to my favourite Peter. Little
David shall be the champion, or spotless Joseph. - Malone, you are but a gr=
eat
floundering Saul after all, good only to lend your armour. Out with your
firearms; fetch your shillelah. It is there - in the corner.'
With a significant grin Malone
produced his pistols, offering one to each of his brethren. They were not
readily seized on. With graceful modesty each gentleman retired a step from=
the
presented weapon.
'I never touch them. I never did t=
ouch
anything of the kind,' said Mr Donne.
'I am almost a stranger to Mr Moor=
e,'
murmured Sweeting.
'If you never touched a pistol, try
the feel of it now, great satrap of Egypt As to the little minstrel, he
probably prefers encountering the Philistines with no other weapon than his
flute. - Get their hats, Peter. They'll both of 'em go.'
'No, sir; no, Mr Helstone. My moth=
er
wouldn't like it,' pleaded Sweeting.
'And I make it a rule never to get
mixed up in affairs of the kind,' observed Donne.
Helstone smiled sardonically; Malo=
ne
laughed a horse-laugh. He then replaced his arms, took his hat and cudgel, =
and
saying that 'he never felt more in tune for a shindy in his life, and that =
he
wished a score of greasy cloth-dressers might beat up Moore's quarters that
night,' he made his exit, clearing the stairs at a stride or two, and making
the house shake with the bang of the front-door behind him.
The evening was pitch dark: star a=
nd
moon were quenched in gray rain-clouds - gray they would have been by day; =
by
night they looked sable. Malone was not a man given to close observation of
nature; her changes passed, for the most part, unnoticed by him. He could w=
alk
miles on the most varying April day and never see the beautiful dallying of
earth and heaven - never mark when a sunbeam kissed the hill-tops, making t=
hem
smile clear in green light, or when a shower wept over them, hiding their
crests With the low-hanging, dishevelled tresses of a cloud. He did not,
therefore, care to contrast the sky as it now appeared - a muffled, streami=
ng
vault, all black, save where, towards the east, the furnaces of Stilbro'
ironworks threw a tremulous lurid shimmer on the horizon - with the same sk=
y on
an unclouded frosty night He did not trouble himself to ask where the const=
ellations
and the planets were gone, or to regret the 'black-blue' serenity of the
air-ocean which those white islets stud, and which another ocean, of heavier
and denser element, now rolled below and concealed. He just doggedly pursued
his way, leaning a little forward as he walked, and wearing his hat on the =
back
of his head, as his Irish manner was. 'Tramp, tramp,' he went along the
causeway, where the road boasted the privilege of such an accommodation;
'splash, splash,' through the mire-filled cart ruts, where the flags were
exchanged for soft mud. He looked but for certain landmarks - the spire of
Briarfield Church; farther on, the lights of Redhouse. This was an inn; and
when he reached it, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained window, a v=
ision
of glasses on a round table, and of revellers on an oaken settle, had nearly
drawn aside the curate from his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler of
whisky-and-water. In a strange place he would instantly have realised the
dream; but the company assembled in that kitchen were Mr Helstone's own
parishioners; they all knew him. He sighed, and passed on.
The highroad was now to be quitted=
, as
the remaining distance to Hollow's Mill might be considerably reduced by a
short cut across fields. These fields were level and monotonous. Malone too=
k a
direct course through them, jumping hedge and wall. He passed but one build=
ing
here, and that seemed large and hall- like, though irregular. You could see=
a
high gable, then a long front, then a low gable, then a thick, lofty stack =
of
chimneys. There were some trees behind it. It was dark; not a candle shone =
from
any window. It was absolutely still; the rain running from the eaves, and t=
he
rather wild but very low whistle of the wind round the chimneys and through=
the
boughs were the sole sounds in its neighbourhood.
This building passed, the fields,
hitherto flat, declined in a rapid descent Evidently a vale lay below, thro=
ugh
which you could hear the water run. One light glimmered in the depth. For t=
hat
beacon Malone steered.
He came to a little white house - =
you
could see it was white even through this dense darkness - and knocked at the
door. A fresh-faced servant opened it. By the candle she held was revealed a
narrow passage, terminating in a narrow stair. Two doors covered with crims=
on
baize, a strip of crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with light-colo=
ured
walls and white floor, made the little interior look clean and fresh.
'Mr Moore is at home, I suppose?'<= o:p>
'Yes, sir, but he is not in?'
'Not in! Where is he then?'
'At the mill - in the counting-hou=
se.'
Here one of the crimson doors open=
ed.
'Are the wagons come, Sarah?' aske=
d a
female voice, and a female head at the same time was apparent It might not =
be
the head of a goddess - indeed a screw of curl-paper on each side the templ=
es
quite forbade that supposition - but neither was it the head of a Gorgon; y=
et
Malone seemed to take it in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank
bashfully back into the rain at the view thereof; and saying, 'I'll go to h=
im,'
hurried in seeming trepidation down a short lane, across an obscure yard,
towards a huge black mill.
The work-hours were over; the 'han=
ds'
were gone. The machinery was at rest, the mill shut up. Malone walked round=
it
somewhere in its great sooty flank he found another chink of light; he knoc=
ked
at another door, using for the purpose the thick end of his shillelah, with
which he beat a rousing tattoo. A key turned; the door unclosed.
'Is it Joe Scott? What news of the
wagons, Joe?'
'No; it's myself. Mr Helstone would
send me.'
'Oh! Mr Malone.' The voice in utte=
ring
this name had the slightest possible cadence of disappointment. After a
moment's pause it continued, politely but a little formally, -
'I beg you will come in, Mr Malone=
. I
regret extremely Mr Helstone should have thought it necessary to trouble yo=
u so
far. There was no necessity - I told him so - and on such a night; but walk
forwards.'
Through a dark apartment, of aspect
undistinguishable, Malone followed the speaker into a light and bright room
within - very light and bright indeed it seemed to eyes which, for the last
hour, had been striving to penetrate the double darkness of night and fog; =
but
except for its excellent fire, and for a lamp of elegant design and vivid
lustre burning on a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was
carpetless; the three or four stiff-backed, green- painted chairs seemed on=
ce
to have furnished the kitchen of some farm-house; a desk of strong, solid
formation, the table aforesaid, and some framed sheets on the stone-coloured
walls, bearing plans for building, for gardening, designs of machinery, etc=
.,
completed the furniture of the place.
Plain as it was, it seemed to sati=
sfy
Malone, who, when he had removed and hung up his wet surtout and hat, drew =
one
of the rheumatic-looking chairs to the hearth, and set his knees almost wit=
hin
the bars of the red grate.
'Comfortable quarters you have her=
e, Mr
Moore; and all snug to yourself.'
'Yes; but my sister would be glad =
to
see you, if you would prefer stepping into the house.'
'Oh no! The ladies are best alone.=
I
never was a lady's man. You don't mistake me for my friend Sweeting, do you=
, Mr
Moore?'
'Sweeting! Which of them is that? =
The
gentleman in the chocolate overcoat, or the little gentleman?'
'The little one - he of Nunnely; t=
he
cavalier of the Misses Sykes, with the whole six of whom he is in love, ha!
ha!'
'Better be generally in love with =
all
than especially with one, I should think, in that quarter.'
'But he is specially in love with =
one
besides, for when I and Donne urged him to make a choice amongst the fair b=
evy,
he named - which do you think?'
With a queer, quiet smile Mr Moore
replied, 'Dora, of course, or Harriet'
'Ha! ha! you've an excellent guess.
But what made you hit on those two?'
'Because they are the tallest, the
handsomest, and Dora, at least, is the stoutest; and as your friend Mr Swee=
ting
is but a little slight figure, I concluded that, according to a frequent ru=
le
in such cases, he preferred his contrast.'
'You are right; Dora it is. But he=
has
no chance, has he, Moore?'
'What has Mr Sweeting besides his
curacy?'
This question seemed to tickle Mal=
one
amazingly. He laughed for full three minutes before he answered it.
'What has Sweeting? Why, David has=
his
harp, or flute, which comes to the same thing. He has a sort of pinchbeck
watch; ditto, ring; ditto, eyeglass. That's what he has.'
'How would he propose to keep Miss
Sykes in gowns only?'
'Ha! ha! Excellent! I'll ask him t=
hat
next time I see him. I'll roast him for his presumption. But no doubt he
expects old Christopher Sykes would do something handsome. He is rich, is he
not? They live in a large house.'
'Sykes carries on an extensive
concern.'
'Therefore he must be wealthy, eh?=
'
'Therefore he must have plenty to =
do
with his wealth, and in these times would be about as likely to think of
drawing money from the business to give dowries to his daughters as I shoul=
d be
to dream of pulling down the cottage there, and constructing on its ruins a
house as large as Fieldhead.'
'Do you know what I heard, Moore, =
the
other day?'
'No. Perhaps that I was about to
effect some such change. Your Briarfield gossips are capable of saying that=
or
sillier things.'
'That you were going to take Field=
head
on a lease (I thought it looked a dismal place, by-the-bye, to-night, as I
passed it), and that it was your intention to settle a Miss Sykes there as
mistress - to be married, in short, ha! ha! Now, which is it? Dora, I am su=
re.
You said she was the handsomest'
'I wonder how often it has been
settled that I was to be married since I came to Briarfield. They have assi=
gned
me every marriageable single woman by turns in the district. Now it was the=
two
Misses Wynns - first the dark, then the light one; now the red-haired Miss
Armitage, then the mature Ann Pearson. At present you throw on my shoulders=
all
the tribe of the Misses Sykes. On what grounds this gossip rests God knows.=
I
visit now here; I seek female society about as assiduously as you do, Mr
Malone. If ever I go to Whinbury, it is only to give Sykes or Pearson a cal=
l in
their counting-house, where our discussions run on other topics than matrim=
ony,
and our thoughts are occupied with other things than courtships,
establishments, dowries. The cloth we can't sell, the hands we can't employ,
the mills we can't run, the perverse course of events generally, which we
cannot alter, fill our hearts, I take it, pretty well at present, to the
tolerably complete exclusion of such figments as lovemaking, etc.'
'I go along with you completely,
Moore. If there is one notion I hate more than another, it is that of marri=
age
- I mean marriage in the vulgar weak sense, as a mere matter of sentiment -=
two
beggarly fools agreeing to unite their indigence by some fantastic tie of
feeling. Humbug! But an advantageous connection, such as can be formed in
consonance with dignity of views and permanency of solid interests, is not =
so
bad - eh?'
'No,' responded Moore, in an absent
manner. The subject seemed to have no interest for him; he did not pursue i=
t.
After sitting for some time gazing at the fire with a preoccupied air, he
suddenly turned his head.
'Hark!' said he. 'Did you hear
wheels?'
Rising, he went to the window, ope=
ned
it, and listened. He soon closed it. 'It is only the sound of the wind risi=
ng',
he remarked, 'and the rivulet a little swollen, rushing down the hollow. I
expected those wagons at six; it is near nine now.'
'Seriously, do you suppose that the
putting up of this new machinery will bring you into danger?' inquired Malo=
ne.
'Helstone seems to think it will.'
'I only wish the machines - the fr=
ames
- were safe here, and lodged within the walls of this mill. Once put up, I =
defy
the frame-breakers. Let them only pay me a visit and take the consequences.=
My
mill is my castle.'
'One despises such low scoundrels,'
observed Malone, in a profound vein of reflection. 'I almost wish a party w=
ould
call upon you to-night; but the road seemed extremely quiet as I came along=
. I
saw nothing astir.'
'You came by the Redhouse?'
'Yes.'
'There would be nothing on that ro=
ad.
It is in the direction of Stilbro' the risk lies.'
'And you think there is risk?'
'What these fellows have done to
others they may do to me. There is only this difference: most of the
manufacturers seem paralysed when they are attacked. Sykes, for instance, w=
hen
his dressing-shop was set on fire and burned to the ground, when the cloth =
was
torn from his tenters and left in shreds in the field, took no steps to
discover or punish the miscreants: he gave up as tamely as a rabbit under t=
he
jaws of a ferret. Now I, if I know myself, should stand by my trade, my mil=
l,
and my machinery.'
'Helstone says these three are your
gods; that the ‘Orders in Council’ are with you another name for
the seven deadly sins; that Castlereagh is your Antichrist, and the war-par=
ty
his legions.'
'Yes; I abhor all these things bec=
ause
they ruin me. They stand in my way. I cannot get on. I cannot execute my pl=
ans
because of them. I see myself baffled at every turn by their untoward effec=
ts.'
'But you are rich and thriving,
Moore?'
'I am very rich in cloth I cannot
sell. You should step into my warehouse yonder, and observe how it is piled=
to
the roof with pieces. Roakes and Pearson are in the same condition. America
used to be their market, but the Orders in Council have cut that off.'
Malone did not seem prepared to ca=
rry
on briskly a conversation of this sort. He began to knock the heels of his
boots together, and to yawn.
'And then to think,' continued Mr
Moore, who seemed too much taken up with the current of his own thoughts to
note the symptoms of his guest's ennui - to think that these ridiculous gos=
sips
of Whinbury and Briarfield will keep pestering one about being married! As =
if
there was nothing to be done in life but to ‘pay attention,’ as
they say to some young lady, and then to go to church with her, and then to
start on a bridal tour and then to run through a round of visits, and then,=
I
suppose, to be ‘having a family.’ Oh, que le diable emporte!' He
broke off the aspiration into which he was launching with a certain energy,=
and
added, more calmly, 'I believe women talk and think only of these things, a=
nd
they naturally fancy men's minds similarly occupied.'
'Of course - of course,' assented
Malone; 'but never mind them.' And he whistled, looked impatiently round, a=
nd
seemed to feel a great want of something. This time Moore caught and, it
appeared, comprehended his demonstrations.
'Mr Malone,' said he, 'you must
require refreshment after your wet walk. I forget hospitality.'
'Not at all,' rejoined Malone; but=
he
looked as if the right nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore
rose and opened a cupboard.
'It is my fancy,' said he, 'to have
every convenience within myself, and not to be dependent on the femininity =
in
the cottage yonder for every mouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often
spend the evening and sup here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill.
Sometimes I am my own watchman. I require little sleep, and it pleases me o=
n a
fine night to wander for an hour or two with my musket about the hollow. Mr
Malone, can you cook a mutton chop?'
'Try me. I've done it hundreds of
times at college.'
'There's a dishful, then, and ther=
e's
the gridiron. Turn them quickly. You know the secret of keeping the juices =
in?'
'Never fear me; you shall see. Han=
d a
knife and fork, please.'
The curate turned up his coat-cuff=
s,
and applied himself to the cookery with vigour. The manufacturer placed on =
the
table plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then
produced a small copper kettle - still from the same well-stored recess, his
cupboard - filled it with water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it =
on
the fire beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china
punch-bowl; but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him
away.
'Is it you, Sarah?'
'Yes, sir. Will you come to supper,
please, sir?'
'No; I shall not be in to-night; I
shall sleep in the mill. So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to
bed.'
He returned.
'You have your household in proper
order,' observed Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the em=
bers
over which he bent, he assiduously turned the mutton chops. 'You are not un=
der
petticoat government, like poor Sweeting, a man - whew! how the fat spits! =
it
has burnt my hand - destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I, Moore -
there's a fine brown one for you, and full of gravy - you and I will have no
gray mares in our stables when we marry.'
'I don't know; I never think about=
it.
If the gray mare is handsome and tractable, why not?'
'The chops are done. Is the punch
brewed?'
'There is a glassful. Taste it. Wh=
en
Joe Scott and his minions return they shall have a share of this, provided =
they
bring home the frames intact.'
Malone waxed very exultant over the
supper. He laughed aloud at trifles, made bad jokes and applauded them hims=
elf,
and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained
quiet as before. It is time, reader, that you should have some idea of the
appearance of this same host I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at
table.
He is what you would probably call=
, at
first view, rather a strange-looking man; for he is thin, dark, sallow, very
foreign of aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. It
appears that he spends but little time at his toilet, or he would arrange it
with more taste. He seems unconscious that his features are fine, that they
have a southern symmetry, clearness, regularity in their chiselling; nor do=
es a
spectator become aware of this advantage till he has examined him well, for=
an
anxious countenance, and a hollow, somewhat haggard, outline of lace disturb
the idea of beauty with one of care. His eyes are large, and grave, and gra=
y;
their expression is intent and meditative, rather searching than soft, rath=
er
thoughtful than genial. when he parts his lips in a smile, his physiognomy =
is
agreeable - not that it is frank or cheerful even then, but you feel the
influence of a certain sedate charms, suggestive, whether truly or delusive=
ly,
of a considerate, perhaps a kind nature, of feelings that may wear well at =
home
- patient, forbearing, possibly faithful feelings. He is still young - not =
more
than thirty; his stature is tall, his figure slender. His manner of speaking
displeases. He has an outlandish accent, which, notwithstanding a studied
carelessness of pronunciation and diction, grates on a British, and especia=
lly
on a Yorkshire, ear.
Mr Moore, indeed, was but half a
Briton, and scarcely that. He came of a foreign ancestry by the mother's si=
de,
and was himself born and partly reared on a foreign soil. A hybrid in natur=
e,
it is probable he had a hybrid's feeling on many points - patriotism for on=
e;
it is likely that he was unapt to attach himself to parties, to sects, even=
to
climes and customs; it is not impossible that he had a tendency to isolate =
his
individual person from any community amidst which his lot might temporarily
happen to be thrown, and that he felt it to be his best wisdom to push the
interests of Robert Gérard Moore, to the exclusion of philanthropic
consideration for general interests, with which he regarded the said
Gérard Moore as in a great measure disconnected. Trade was Mr Moore's
hereditary calling: the Gérards of Antwerp had been merchants for two
centuries back. Once they had been wealthy merchants; but the uncertainties,
the involvements, of business had come upon them; disastrous speculations h=
ad
loosened by degrees the foundations of their credit. The house had stood on=
a
tottering base for a dozen years; and at last, in the shock of the French
Revolution, it had rushed down a total ruin. In its fall was involved the
English and Yorkshire firm of Moore, closely connected with the Antwerp hou=
se,
and of which one of the partners, resident in Antwerp, Robert Moore, had
married Hortense Gérard, with the prospect of his bride inheriting h=
er
father Constantine Gérard's share in the business. She inherited, as=
we
have seen, but his share in the liabilities of the film; and these liabilit=
ies,
though duly set aside by a composition with creditors, some said her son Ro=
bert
accepted, in his turn, as a legacy, and that he aspired one day to discharge
them, and to rebuild the fallen house of Gérard and Moore on a scale=
at
least equal to its former greatness. It was even supposed that he took bypa=
st
circumstances much to heart; and if a childhood passed at the side of a
saturnine mother, under foreboding of coming evil, and a manhood drenched a=
nd
blighted by the pitiless descent of the storm, could painfully impress the
mind, his probably was impressed in no golden characters.
If, however, he had a great end of
restoration in view it was not in his power to employ great means for its
attainment He was obliged to be content with the day of small things. When =
he
came to Yorkshire he - whose ancestors had owned warehouses in this seaport=
and
factories in that inland town, had possessed their town-house and their
country-seat - saw no way open to him but to rent a cloth-mill, in an
out-of-the-way nook of an out-of-the-way district; to take a cottage adjoin=
ing
it for his residence, and to add to his possessions, as pasture for his hor=
se,
and space for his cloth-tenters, a few acres of the steep, rugged land that
lined the hollow through which his mill-stream brawled. All this he held at=
a
somewhat high rent (for these war times were hard and everything was dear) =
of
the trustees of the Fieldhead estate, then the property of a minor.
At the time this history commences,
Robert Moore had lived but two years in the district, during which period he
had at least proved himself possessed of the quality of activity. The dingy
cottage was converted into a neat; tasteful residence. Of part of the rough
land he had made garden-ground, which he cultivated with singular, even with
Flemish, exactness and care. As to the mill, which was an old structure, and
fitted up with old machinery, now become inefficient and out of date, he had
from the first evinced the strongest contempt for all its arrangements and
appointments: his aim had been to effect a radical reform, which he had
executed as fast as his very limited capital would allow; and the narrownes=
s of
that capital, and consequent check on his progress, was a restraint which
galled his spirit sorely. Moore ever wanted to push on. 'Forward' was the
device stamped upon his soul; but poverty curbed him. Sometimes (figurative=
ly)
he foamed at the mouth when the reins were drawn very tight.
In this state of feeling, it is no=
t to
be expected that he would deliberate much as to whether his advance was or =
was
not prejudicial to others. Not being a native, nor for any length of time a
resident of the neighbourhood, he did not sufficiently care when the new
inventions threw the old workpeople out of employ. He never asked himself w=
here
those to whom he no longer paid weekly wages found daily bread; and in this
negligence he only resembled thousands besides, on whom the starving poor of
Yorkshire seemed to have a closer claim.
The period of which I write was an
overshadowed one in British history, and especially in the history of the
northern provinces. War was then at its height. Europe was all involved
therein. England, if not weary, was worn with long resistance - yes, and ha=
lf
her people were weary too, and cried out for peace on any terms. National
honour was become a mere empty name, of no value in the eyes of many, becau=
se
their sight was dim with famine; and for a morsel of meat they would have s=
old
their birthright.
The 'Orders in Council,' provoked =
by
Napoleon's Milan and Berlin decrees, and forbidding neutral powers to trade
with France, had, by offending America, cut off the principal market of the
Yorkshire woollen trade, and brought it consequently to the verge of ruin.
Minor foreign markets were glutted, and would receive no more. The Brazils,
Portugal, Sicily, were all overstocked by nearly two years' consumption. At
this crisis certain inventions in machinery were introduced into the staple
manufactures of the north, which, greatly reducing the number of hands
necessary to be employed, threw thousands out of work, and left them without
legitimate means of sustaining life. A bad harvest supervened. Distress rea=
ched
its climax. Endurance, overgoaded, stretched the hand of fraternity to
sedition. The throes of a sort of moral earthquake were felt heaving under =
the
hills of the northern counties. But, as is usual in such cases, nobody took
much notice. when a food-riot broke out in a manufacturing town, when a
gig-mill was burnt to the ground, or a manufacturer's house was attacked, t=
he
furniture thrown into the streets, and the family forced to flee for their
lives, some local measures were or were not taken by the local magistracy. A
ringleader was detected, or more frequently suffered to elude detection;
newspaper paragraphs were written on the subject, and there the thing stopp=
ed.
As to the sufferers, whose sole inheritance was labour, and who had lost th=
at
inheritance - who could not get work, and consequently could not get wages,=
and
consequently could not get bread - they were left to suffer on, perhaps
inevitably left. It would not do to stop the progress of invention, to dama=
ge
science by discouraging its improvements; the war could not be terminated;
efficient relief could not be raised. There was no help then; so the unempl=
oyed
underwent their destiny - ate the bread and drank the waters of affliction.=
Misery generates hate. These suffe=
rers
hated the machines which they believed took their bread from them; they hat=
ed
the buildings which contained those machines; they hated the manufacturers =
who
owned those buildings. In the parish of Briarfield, with which we have at
present to do, Hollow's Mill was the place held most abominable; Gér=
ard
Moore, in his double character of semi- foreigner and thorough going
progressist, the man most abominated. And it perhaps rather agreed with Moo=
re's
temperament than otherwise to be generally hated, especially when he believ=
ed
the thing for which he was hated a right and an expedient thing; and it was
with a sense of warlike excitement he, on this night, sat in his counting-h=
ouse
waiting the arrival of his frame-laden wagons. Malone's coming and company
were, it may be, most unwelcome to him. He would have preferred sitting alo=
ne,
for he liked a silent, sombre, unsafe solitude. His watchman's musket would
have been company enough for him; the full-flowing beck in the den would ha=
ve
delivered continuously the discourse most genial to his ear.
With the queerest look in the world
had the manufacturer for some ten minutes been watching the Irish curate, as
the latter made free with the punch, when suddenly that steady gray eye
changed, as if another vision came between it and Malone. Moore raised his
hand.
'Chut!' he said in his French fash=
ion,
as Malone made a noise with his glass. He listened a moment, then rose, put=
his
hat on, and went out at the counting- house door.
The night was still, dark, and
stagnant: the water yet rushed on full and fast; its flow almost seemed a f=
lood
in the utter silence. Moore's ear, however, caught another sound very dista=
nt
but yet dissimilar, broken and rugged - in short, a sound of heavy wheels
crunching a stony road. He returned to the counting-house and lit a lantern,
with which he walked down the mill-yard, and proceeded to open the gates. T=
he
big wagons were coming on; the dray-horses' huge hoofs were heard splashing=
in
the mud and water. Moore hailed them.
'Hey, Joe Scott! Is all right?'
Probably Joe Scott was yet at too
great a distance to hear the inquiry. He did not answer it.
'Is all right, I say?' again asked
Moore, when the elephant-like leader's nose almost touched his.
Some one jumped out from the forem=
ost
wagon into the road; a voice cried aloud, 'Ay, ay, divil; all's raight! We'=
ve
smashed 'em.'
And there was a run. The wagons st=
ood
still; they were now deserted.
'Joe Scott!' No Joe Scott answered.
'Murgatroyd! Pighills! Sykes!' No reply. Mr Moore lifted his lantern and lo=
oked
into the vehicles. There was neither man nor machinery; they were empty and
abandoned.
Now Mr Moore loved his machinery. =
He
had risked the last of his capital on the purchase of these frames and shea=
rs
which to-night had been expected. Speculations most important to his intere=
sts
depended on the results to be wrought by them: where were they?
The words 'we've smashed 'em' rang=
in
his ears. How did the catastrophe affect him? By the light of the lantern h=
e held
were his features visible, relaxing to a singular smile - the smile the man=
of
determined spirit wears when he reaches a juncture in his life where this
determined spirit is to feel a demand on its strength, when the strain is t=
o be
made, and the faculty must bear or break. Yet he remained silent, and even
motionless; for at the instant he neither knew what to say nor what to do. =
He
placed the lantern on the ground, and stood with his arms folded, gazing do=
wn
and reflecting.
An impatient trampling of one of t=
he
horses made him presently look up. His eye in the moment caught the gleam of
something white attached to a part of the harness. Examined by the light of=
the
lantern this proved to be a folded paper - a billet. It bore no address
without; within was the superscription: -
'To the Divil of Hollow's-miln.'
We will not copy the rest of the
orthography, which was very peculiar, but translate it into legible English=
. It
ran thus:
'Your hellish machinery is shivere=
d to
smash on Stilbro' Moor, and your men are lying bound hand and foot in a dit=
ch
by the roadside. Take this as a warning from men that are starving, and have
starving wives and children to go home to when they have done this deed. If=
you
get new machines, or if you otherwise go on as you have done, you shall hear
from us again. Beware!'
'Hear from you again? Yes, I'll he=
ar
from you again, and you shall hear from me. I'll speak to you directly. On
Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from me in a moment.'
Having led the wagons within the
gates, he hastened towards the cottage. Opening the door, he spoke a few wo=
rds
quickly but quietly to two females who ran to meet him in the passage. He
calmed the seeming alarm of one by a brief palliative account of what had t=
aken
place; to the other he said, 'Go into the mill, Sarah - there is the key - =
and
ring the mill-bell as loud as you can. Afterwards you will get another lant=
ern
and help me to light up the front.'
Returning to his horses, he
unharnessed, fed, and stabled them with equal speed and care, pausing occas=
ionally,
while so occupied, as if to listen for the mill-bell. It clanged out presen=
tly,
with irregular but loud and alarming din. The hurried, agitated peal seemed
more urgent than if the summons had been steadily given by a practised hand=
. On
that still night, at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way round. The
guests in the kitchen of the Redhouse were startled by the clamour, and
declaring that 'there must be summat more nor common to do at Hollow's-miln=
,'
they called for lanterns, and hurried to the spot in a body. And scarcely h=
ad
they thronged into the yard with their gleaming lights, when the tramp of
horses was heard, and a little man in a shovel hat, sitting erect on the ba=
ck
of a shaggy pony, 'rode lightly in,' followed by an aide-de-camp mounted on=
a
larger steed.
Mr Moore, meantime, after stabling=
his
dray-horses, had saddled his hackney, and with the aid of Sarah, the servan=
t,
lit up his mill, whose wide and long front now glared one great illuminatio=
n,
throwing a sufficient light on the yard to obviate all fear of confusion
arising from obscurity. Already a deep hum of voices became audible. Mr Mal=
one
had at length issued from the counting-house, previously taking the precaut=
ion
to dip his head and face in the stone water- jar; and this precaution, toge=
ther
with the sudden alarm, had nearly restored to him the possession of those
senses which the punch had partially scattered. He stood with his hat on the
back of his head, and his shillelah grasped in his dexter fist answering mu=
ch
at random the questions of the newly-arrived party from the Redhouse. Mr Mo=
ore
now appeared, and was immediately confronted by the shovel hat and the shag=
gy
pony.
'Well, Moore, what is your business
with us?' I thought you would want us to- night - me and the hetman here
(patting his pony's neck), and Tom and his charger. when I heard your mill-=
bell
I could sit still no longer, so I left Boultby to finish his supper alone. =
But
where is the enemy? I do not see a mask or a smutted face present; and ther=
e is
not a pane of glass broken in your windows. Have you had an attack, or do y=
ou
expect one?'
'Oh, not at all! I have neither had
one nor expect one,' answered Moore coolly. 'I only ordered the bell to be =
rung
because I want two or three neighbours to stay here in the Hollow while I a=
nd a
couple or so more go over to Stilbro' Moor.'
'To Stilbro' Moor! What to do? To =
meet
the wagons?'
'The wagons are come home an hour
ago.'
'Then all's right. what more would=
you
have?'
'They came home empty; and Joe Sco=
tt
and company are left on the moor, and so are the frames. Read that scrawl.'=
Mr Helstone received and perused t=
he
document of which the contents have before, been given.
'Hum! They've only served you as t=
hey
serve others. But, however, the poor fellows in the ditch will be expecting
help with some impatience. This is a wet night for such a berth. I and Tom =
will
go with you. Malone may stay behind and take care of the mill: what is the
matter with him? His eyes seem starting out of his head.'
'He has been eating a mutton chop.=
'
'Indeed! - Peter Augustus, be on y=
our
guard. Eat no more mutton chops to- night. You are left here in command of
these premises - an honourable post!'
'Is anybody to stay with me?'
'As many of the present assemblage=
as
choose. My lads, how many of you will remain here, and how many will go a
little way with me and Mr Moore on the Stilbro' road, to meet some men who =
have
been waylaid and assaulted by frame- breakers?'
The small number of three voluntee=
red
to go; the rest preferred staying behind. As Mr Moore mounted his horse the
rector asked him in a low voice whether he had locked up the mutton chops, =
so
that Peter Augustus could not get at them? The manufacturer nodded an
affirmative, and the rescue-party set out.
Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a
matter which depends fully as much on the state of things within as on the
state of things without and around us. I make this trite remark, because I
happen to know that Messrs Helstone and Moore trotted forth from the mill-y=
ard
gates at the head of their very small company, in the best possible spirits.
When a ray from a lantern (the three pedestrians of the party carried each =
one)
fell on Mr Moore's face, you could see an unusual, because a lively, spark
dancing in his eyes, and a new-found vivacity mantling on his dark physiogn=
omy;
and when the rector's visage was illuminated, his hard features were reveal=
ed
all agrin and ashine with glee. Yet a drizzling night, a somewhat perilous
expedition, you would think were not circumstances calculated to enliven th=
ose
exposed to the wet and engaged in the adventure. If any member or members of
the crew who had been at work on Stilbro' Moor had caught a view of this pa=
rty,
they would have had great pleasure in shooting either of the leaders from
behind a wall: and the leaders knew this; and the fact is, being both men of
steely nerves and steady beating hearts, were elate with the knowledge.
I am aware, reader, and you need n=
ot
remind me, that it is a dreadful thing for a parson to be warlike; I am awa=
re
that he should be a man of peace. I have some faint outline of an idea of w=
hat
a clergyman's mission is amongst mankind, and I remember distinctly whose
servant he is, whose message he delivers, whose example he should follow; y=
et,
with all this, if you are a parson-hater, you need not expect me to go along
with you every step of your dismal, downward- tending, unchristian road; you
need not expect me to join in your deep anathemas, at once so narrow and so
sweeping, in your poisonous rancour, so intense and so absurd, against 'the
cloth;' to lift up my eyes and hands with a Supplehough, or to inflate my l=
ungs
with a Barraclough, in horror and denunciation of the diabolical rector of
Briarfield.
He was not diabolical at all. The = evil simply was - he had missed his vocation. He should have been a soldier, and circumstances had made him a priest. For the rest, he was a conscientious, hard-headed, hard-handed, brave, stern, implacable, faithful little man; a = man almost without sympathy, ungentle, prejudiced, and rigid; but a man true to principle, honourable, sagacious, and sincere. It seems to me, reader, that= you cannot always cut out men to fit their profession, and that you ought not to curse them because their profession sometimes hangs on them ungracefully. N= or will I curse Helstone, clerical Cossack as he was. Yet he was cursed, and by many of his own parishioners, as by others he was adored - which is the frequent fate of men who show partiality in friendship and bitterness in enmity, who are equally attached to principles and adherent to prejudices.<= o:p>
Helstone and Moore, being both in
excellent spirits, and united for the present in one cause, you would expect
that, as they rode side by side, they would converse amicably. Oh no! These=
two
men, of hard, bilious natures both, rarely came into contact but they chafed
each other's moods. Their frequent bone of contention was the war. Helstone=
was
a high Tory (there were Tories in those days), and Moore was a bitter Whig =
- a
Whig, at least, as far as opposition to the war-party was concerned, that b=
eing
the question which affected his own interest; and only on that question did=
he
profess any British politics at all. He liked to infuriate Helstone by
declaring his belief in the invincibility of Bonaparte; by taunting England=
and
Europe with the impotence of their efforts to withstand him and by coolly
advancing the opinion that it was as well to yield to him soon as late, sin=
ce
he must in the end crush every antagonist, and reign supreme.
Helstone could not bear these
sentiments. It was only on the consideration of Moore being a sort of outca=
st
and alien, and having but half measure of British blood to temper the forei=
gn
gall which corroded his veins, that he brought himself to listen to them
without indulging the wish he felt to cane the speaker. Another thing, too,
somewhat allayed his disgust; namely, a fellow- feeling for the dogged tone
with which these opinions were asserted, and a respect for the consistency =
of
Moore's crabbed contumacy.
As the party turned into the Stilb=
ro'
road, they met what little wind there was; the rain dashed in their faces.
Moore had been fretting his companion previously, and now, braced up by the=
raw
breeze, and perhaps irritated by the sharp drizzle, he began to goad him.
'Does your Peninsular news please =
you
still?' he asked.
'What do you mean?' was the surly
demand of the rector.
'I mean, have you still faith in t=
hat
Baal of a Lord Wellington?'
'And what do you mean now?'
'Do you still believe that this
wooden-faced and pebble-hearted idol of England has power to send fire down
from heaven to consume the French holocaust you want to offer up?'
'I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals into the sea the day it pleases him to lift his arm.'<= o:p>
'But, my dear sir, you can't be
serious in what you say. Bonaparte's marshals are great men, who act under =
the
guidance of an omnipotent master-spirit. Your Wellington is the most humdru=
m of
commonplace martinets, whose slow, mechanical movements are further cramped=
by
an ignorant home government.'
'Wellington is the soul of England.
Wellington is the right champion of a good cause, the fit representative of=
a
powerful, a resolute, a sensible, and an honest nation.'
'Your good cause, as far as I
understand it, is simply the restoration of that filthy, feeble Ferdinand t=
o a
throne which he disgraced. Your fit representative of an honest people is a
dull-witted drover, acting for a duller- witted farmer; and against these a=
re
arrayed victorious supremacy and invincible genius.'
'Against legitimacy is arrayed
usurpation; against modest, single-minded, righteous, and brave resistance =
to
encroachment is arrayed boastful, double- tongued, selfish, and treacherous
ambition to possess. God defend the right!'
'God often defends the powerful.'<= o:p>
'What! I suppose the handful of
Israelites standing dryshod on the Asiatic side of the Red Sea was more
powerful than the host of the Egyptians drawn up on the African side? Were =
they
more numerous? Were they better appointed? Were they more mighty, in a word=
-
eh? Don't speak, or you'll tell a lie, Moore; you know you will. They were a
poor, overwrought band of bondsmen. Tyrants had oppressed them through four
hundred years; a feeble mixture of women and children diluted their thin ra=
nks;
their masters, who roared to follow them through the divided flood, were a =
set
of pampered Ethiops, about as strong and brutal as the lions of Libya. They
were armed, horsed, and charioted; the poor Hebrew wanderers were afoot. Fe=
w of
them, it is likely, had better weapons than their shepherds' crooks or their
masons' building-tools; their meek and mighty leader himself had only his r=
od.
But bethink you, Robert Moore, right was with them; the God of battles was =
on
their side. Crime and the lost archangel generalled the ranks of Pharaoh, a=
nd
which triumphed? We know that well. ‘The Lord saved Israel that day o=
ut
of the hand of the Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the
sea-shore’ yea, ‘the depths covered them, they sank to the bott=
om
as a stone.’ The right hand of the Lord became glorious in power; the
right hand of the Lord dashed in pieces the enemy!'
'You are all right; only you forget
the true parallel. France is Israel, and Napoleon is Moses. Europe, with her
old overgorged empires and rotten dynasties, is corrupt Egypt; gallant Fran=
ce
is the Twelve Tribes, and her fresh and vigorous Usurper the Shepherd of
Horeb.'
'I scorn to answer you.'
Moore accordingly answered himself=
-
at least, he subjoined to what he had just said an additional observation i=
n a
lower voice.
'Oh, in Italy he was as great as a=
ny
Moses! He was the right thing there, fit to head and organise measures for =
the
regeneration of nations. It puzzles me to this day how the conqueror of Lodi
should have condescended to become an emperor, a vulgar, a stupid humbug; a=
nd
still more how a people who had once called. themselves republicans should =
have
sunk again to the grade of mere slaves. I despise France! If England had go=
ne
as far on the march of civilisation as France did, she would hardly have
retreated so shamelessly.'
'You don't mean to say that besott=
ed
imperial France is any worse than bloody republican France?' demanded Helst=
one
fiercely.
'I mean to say nothing, but I can
think what I please, you know, Mr Helstone, both about France and England; =
and
about revolutions, and regicides, and restorations in general; and about the
divine right of kings, which you often stickle for in your sermons, and the
duty of non-resistance, and the sanity of war, and - '
Mr Moore's sentence was here cut s=
hort
by the rapid rolling up of a gig, and its sudden stoppage in the middle of =
the
road. Both he and the rector had been too much occupied with their discours=
e to
notice its approach till it was close upon them.
'Nah, maister; did th' waggons hit
home?' demanded a voice from the vehicle.
'Can that be Joe Scott?'
'Ay, ay!' returned another voice; =
for
the gig contained two persons, as was seen by the glimmer of its lamp. The =
men
with the lanterns had now fallen into the rear, or rather, the equestrians =
of the
rescue-party had outridden the pedestrians. 'Ay, Mr Moore, it's Joe Scott. =
I'm
bringing him back to you in a bonny pickle. I fand him on the top of the mo=
or
yonder, him and three others. What will you give me for restoring him to yo=
u?'
'Why, my thanks, I believe; for I
could better have afforded to lose a better man. That is you, I suppose, Mr
Yorke, by your voice?'
'Ay, lad, it's me. I was coming ho=
me
from Stilbro' market, and just as I got to the middle of the moor, and was
whipping on as swift as the wind (for these, they say, are not safe times,
thanks to a bad government!), I heard a groan. I pulled up. Some would have
whipt on faster; but I've naught to fear that I know of. I don't believe
there's a lad in these parts would harm me - at least, I'd give them as goo=
d as
I got if they offered to do it. I said, ‘Is there aught wrong anywher=
e?’
‘'Deed is there,' somebody says, speaking out of the ground, like. =
8216;What's
to do? Be sharp and tell me,’ I ordered. ‘Nobbut four on us lig=
ging
in a ditch,’ says Joe, as quiet as could be. I tell'd 'em more shame =
to
'em, and bid them get up and move on, or I'd lend them a lick of the gig-wh=
ip;
for my notion was they were all fresh. ‘We'd ha' done that an hour si=
n',
but we're teed wi' a bit o' band,’ says Joe. So in a while I got down=
and
loosed 'em wi' my penknife; and Scott would ride wi' me, to tell me all how=
it
happened; and t' others are coming on as fast as their feet will bring them=
.'
'Well, I am greatly obliged to you=
, Mr
Yorke.'
'Are you, my lad? You know you're =
not.
However, here are the rest approaching. And here, by the Lord, is another s=
et
with lights in their pitchers, like the army of Gideon; and as we've th' pa=
rson
wi' us - good- evening, Mr Helstone, we'se do.'
Mr Helstone returned the salutatio=
n of
the individual in the gig very stiffly indeed. That individual proceeded:
'We're eleven strong men, and ther=
e's
both horses and chariots amang us. If we could only fall in wi' some of the=
se
starved ragamuffins of frame-breakers we could win a grand victory. We're c=
ould
iv'ry one be a Wellington - that would please ye, Mr Helstone - and sich
paragraphs as we could contrive for t' papers! Briarfield suld be famous: b=
ut
we'se hev a column and a half i' th' Stilbro' Courier ower this job, as it =
is,
I dare say. I'se expect no less.'
'And I'll promise you no less, Mr
Yorke, for I'll write the article myself,' returned the rector.
'To be sure - sartainly! And mind =
ye
recommend weel that them 'at brake t' bits o' frames, and teed Joe Scott's =
legs
wi' band, suld be hung without benefit o' clergy. It's a hanging matter, or
suld be. No doubt o' that'
'If I judged them I'd give them sh=
ort
shrift!' cried Moore. 'But I mean to let them quite alone this bout, to give
them rope enough, certain that in the end they will hang themselves.'
'Let them alone, will ye, Moore? Do
you promise that?'
'Promise! No. All I mean to say is=
, I
shall give myself no particular trouble to catch them; but if one falls in =
my
way - '
'You'll snap him up, of course. On=
ly
you would rather they would do something worse than merely stop a wagon bef=
ore
you reckon with them. Well, we'll say no more on the subject at present Her=
e we
are at my door, gentlemen, and I hope you and the men will step in. You will
none of you be the worse of a little refreshment.'
Moore and Helstone opposed this
proposition as unnecessary. It was, however, pressed on them so courteously,
and the night, besides, was so inclement, and the gleam from the
muslin-curtained windows of the house before which they had halted looked s=
o inviting,
that at length they yielded. Mr Yorke, after having alighted from his gig,
which he left in charge of a man who issued from an outbuilding on his arri=
val,
led the way in.
It will have been remarked that Mr
Yorke varied a little in his phraseology. Now he spoke broad Yorkshire, and
anon he expressed himself in very pure English. His manner seemed liable to
equal alternations. He could be polite and affable, and he could be blunt a=
nd
rough. His station then you could not easily determine by his speech and
demeanour. Perhaps the appearance of his residence may decide it.
The men he recommended to take the
kitchen way, saying that he would 'see them served wi' summat to taste
presently.' The gentlemen were ushered in at the front entrance. They found=
themselves
in a matted hall, lined almost to the ceiling with pictures. Through this t=
hey
were conducted to a large parlour, with a magnificent fire in the grate; the
most cheerful of rooms it appeared as a whole, and when you came to examine
details, the enlivening effect was not diminished. There was no splendour, =
but
there was taste everywhere, unusual taste, the taste, you would have said, =
of a
travelled man, a scholar, and a gentleman. A series of Italian views decked=
the
walls. Each of these was a specimen of true art. A connoisseur had selected
them; they were genuine and valuable. Even by candle-light the bright clear
skies, the soft distances, with blue air quivering between the eye and the
hills, the fresh tints and well- massed lights and shadows, charmed the vie=
w.
The subjects were all pastoral, the scenes were all sunny. There was a guit=
ar
and some music on a sofa; there were cameos, beautiful miniatures; a set of
Grecian-looking vases on the mantelpiece; there were books well arranged in=
two
elegant bookcases.
Mr Yorke bade his guests be seated=
. He
then rang for wine. To the servant who brought it he gave hospitable orders=
for
the refreshment of the men in the kitchen. The rector remained standing; he
seemed not to like his quarters; he would not touch the wine his host offer=
ed
him.
'E'en as you will,' remarked Mr Yo=
rke.
'I reckon you're thinking of Eastern customs, Mr Helstone, and you'll not e=
at
nor drink under my roof, feared we suld be forced to be friends; but I am n=
ot
so particular or superstitious. You might sup the contents of that decanter,
and you might give me a bottle of the best in your own cellar, and I'd hold
myself free to oppose you at every turn still, in every vestry-meeting and
justice-meeting where we encountered one another.'
'It is just what I should expect of
you, Mr Yorke.'
'Does it agree wi' ye now, Mr
Helstone, to be riding out after rioters, of a wet night, at your age?'
'It always agrees with me to be do=
ing
my duty; and in this case my duty is a thorough pleasure. To hunt down verm=
in
is a noble occupation, fit for an Archbishop.'
'Fit for ye, at ony rate. But wher=
e's
t' curate? He's happen gone to visit some poor body in a sick gird, or he's
happen hunting down vermin in another direction.'
'He is doing garrison-duty at Holl=
ow's-miln.'
'You left him a sup o' wine, I hop=
e,
Bob' (turning to Mr Moore), 'to keep his courage up?'
He did not pause for an answer, but
continued, quickly - still addressing Moore, who had thrown himself into an
old-fashioned chair by the fireside - 'Move it, Robert! Get up, my lad! That
place is mine. Take the sofa, or three other chairs, if you will, but not t=
his.
It belangs to me, and nob'dy else.'
'Why are you so particular to that
chair, Mr Yorke?' asked Moore, lazily vacating the place in obedience to
orders.
'My father war afore me, and that's
all t' answer I sall gie thee; and it's as good a reason as Mr Helstone can
give for the main feck o' his notions.'
'Moore, are you ready to go?' inqu=
ired
the Rector.
'Nay; Robert's not ready, or rathe=
r,
I'm not ready to part wi' him. He's an ill lad, and wants correcting.'
'Why, sir? what have I done?'
'Made thyself enemies on every han=
d.'
'What do I care for that? What
difference does it make to me whether your Yorkshire louts hate me or like =
me?'
'Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak=
' of
an alien amang us. His father would never have talked i' that way. - Go bac=
k to
Antwerp, where you were born and bred, mauvaise tête!'
'Mauvaise tête
vous-même, je ne fais que mon devoir; quant à vos lourdauds de
paysans, je m'en moque!'
'En ravanche, mon garçon, n=
os
lourdauds de paysans se moqueront de toi; sois en certain,' replied Yorke,
speaking with nearly as pure a French accent as Gérard Moore.
'C'est bon! c'est bon! Et puisque =
cela
m'est égal, que mes amis ne s'en inquiètent pas.'
'Tes amis! où sont-ils, =
tes
amis?'
'Je fais êcho, Où
sont-ils? et je suis fort aise que l'écho seul y répond. Au
diable les amis! Je me souviens encore du moment où mon père =
et
mes oncles Gérard appellèrent autour d'eux leurs amis et Dieu
sait si les amis se sont empressés d'accourir a leur secours! Tenez, M. Yorke, ce mot, ami, m'ir=
rite
trop; ne m'en parlez plus.'
'Comme tu voudras.'
And here Mr Yorke held his peace; =
and
while he sits leaning back in his three-cornered carved oak chair, I will s=
natch
my opportunity to sketch the portrait of this French-speaking Yorkshire
gentleman.
A Yorkshire gentleman he was, par
excellence, in every point; about fifty- five years old, but looking at fir=
st
sight still older, for his hair was silver white. His forehead was broad, n=
ot
high; his face fresh and hale; the harshness of the north was seen in his
features, as it was heard in his voice; every trait was thoroughly English -
not a Norman line anywhere; it was an inelegant, unclassic, unaristoctatic
mould of visage. Fine people would perhaps have called it vulgar; sensible
people would have termed it characteristic; shrewd people would have deligh=
ted
in it for the pith, sagacity, intelligence, the rude yet real originality
marked in every lineament, latent in every furrow. But it was an indocile, a
scornful, and a sarcastic face - the face of a man difficult to lead, and
impossible to drive. His stature was rather tall, and he was well made and
wiry, and had a stately integrity of port; there was not a suspicion of the
clown about him anywhere.
I did not find it easy to sketch Mr
Yorke's person, but it is more difficult to indicate his mind. If you expec=
t to
be treated to a Perfection, reader, or even to a benevolent, philanthropic =
old
gentleman in him, you are mistaken. He has spoken with some sense and with =
some
good feeling to Mr Moore, but you are not thence to conclude that he always
spoke and thought justly and kindly.
Mr Yorke, in the first place, was
without the organ of veneration - a great want, and which throws a man wron=
g on
every point where veneration is required. Secondly, he was without the orga=
n of
Comparison - a deficiency which strips a man of sympathy; and thirdly, he h=
ad
too little of the organs of Benevolence and Ideality, which took the glory =
and
softness from his nature, and for him diminished those divine qualities
throughout the universe.
The want of veneration made him
intolerant to those above him - kings and nobles and priests, dynasties and
parliaments and establishments, with all their doings, most of their
enactments, their forms, their rights, their claims, were to him an
abomination, all rubbish; he found no use or pleasure in them, and believed=
it
would be clear gain, and no damage to the world, if its high places were ra=
zed,
and their occupants crushed in the fall. The want of veneration, too, made =
him
dead at heart to the electric delight of admiring what is admirable; it dri=
ed
up a thousand pure sources of enjoyment; it withered a thousand vivid
pleasures. He was not irreligious, though a member of no sect; but his reli=
gion
could not be that of one who knows how to venerate. He believed in God and
heaven; but his God and heaven were those of a man in whom awe, imagination,
and tenderness lack.
The weakness of his powers of
comparison made him inconsistent; while he professed some excellent general
doctrines of mutual toleration and forbearance, he cherished towards certain
classes a bigoted antipathy. He spoke of 'parsons' and all who belonged to
parsons, of 'lords' and the appendages of lords, with a harshness, sometime=
s an
insolence, as unjust as it was insufferable. He could not place himself in =
the
position of those he vituperated; he could not compare their errors with th=
eir
temptations, their defects with their disadvantages; he could not realise t=
he
effect of such and such circumstances on himself similarly situated, and he
would often express the most ferocious and tyrannical wishes regarding those
who had acted, as he thought, ferociously and tyrannically. To judge by his
threats, he would have employed arbitrary, even cruel, means to advance the
cause of freedom and equality. Equality! yes, Mr Yorke talked about equalit=
y,
but at heart he was a proud man: very friendly to his workpeople, very good=
to
all who were beneath him, and submitted quietly to be beneath him, but haug=
hty
as Beelzebub to whomsoever the world deemed (for he deemed no man) his
superior. Revolt was in his blood: he could not bear control; his father, h=
is
grandfather before him, could not bear it, and his children after him never
could.
The want of general benevolence ma=
de
him very impatient of imbecility, and of all faults which grated on his str=
ong,
shrewd nature; it left no check to his cutting sarcasm. As he was not merci=
ful,
he would sometimes wound and wound again, without noticing how much he hurt=
, or
caring how deep he thrust.
As to the paucity of ideality in h=
is
mind, that can scarcely be called a fault: a fine ear for music, a correct =
eye
for colour and form, left him the quality of taste; and who cares for
imagination? Who does not think it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute,
akin to weakness, perhaps partaking of frenzy - a disease rather than a gif=
t of
the mind?
Probably all think it so but those=
who
possess, or fancy they possess it. To hear them speak, you would believe th=
at
their hearts would be cold if that elixir did not flow about them, that the=
ir
eyes would be dim if that flame did not refine their vision, that they woul=
d be
lonely if this strange companion abandoned them. You would suppose that it
imparted some glad hope to spring, some fine charm to summer, some tranquil=
joy
to autumn, some consolation to winter, which you do not feel. All illusion,=
of
course; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give it for go=
ld.
As Mr Yorke did not possess poetic
imagination himself, he considered it a most superfluous quality in others.
Painters and musicians he could tolerate, and even encourage, because he co=
uld
relish the results of their art; he could see the charm of a fine picture, =
and
feel the pleasure of good music; but a quiet poet - whatever force struggle=
d,
whatever fire glowed in his breast - if he could not have played the man in=
the
counting-house, or the tradesman in the Piece Hall, might have lived despis=
ed,
and died scorned, under the eyes of Hiram Yorke.
And as there are' many Hiram Yorke=
s in
the world, it is well that the true poet, quiet externally though he may be,
has often a truculent spirit under his placidity, and is full of shrewdness=
in
his meekness, and can measure the whole stature of those who look down on h=
im,
and correctly ascertain the weight and value of the pursuits they disdain h=
im
for not having followed. It is happy that he can have his own bliss, his own
society with his great friend and goddess Nature, quite independent of those
who find little pleasure in him, and in whom he finds no pleasure at all. I=
t is
just that while the world and circumstances often turn a dark, cold side to=
him
- and properly, too, because he first turns a dark, cold, careless side to =
them
- he should be able to maintain a festal brightness and cherishing glow in =
his
bosom, which makes all bright and genial for him; while strangers, perhaps,
deem his existence a Polar winter never gladdened by a sun. The true poet is
not one whit to be pitied, and he is apt to laugh in his sleeve when any
misguided sympathiser whines over his wrongs. Even when utilitarians sit in
judgment on him, and pronounce him and his art useless, he hears the senten=
ce
with such a hard derision, such a broad, deep, comprehensive, and merciless
contempt of the unhappy Pharisees who pronounce it, that he is rather to be
chidden than condoled with. These, however, are not Mr Yorke's reflections,=
and
it is with Mr Yorke we have at present to do.
I have told you some of his faults,
reader: as to his good points, he was one of the most honourable and capable
men in Yorkshire; even those who disliked him were forced to respect him. He
was much beloved by the poor, because he was thoroughly kind and very fathe=
rly
to them. To his workmen he was considerate and cordial: when he dismissed t=
hem
from an occupation, he would try to set them on to something else, or, if t=
hat
was impossible, help them to remove with their families to a district where
work might possibly be had. It must also be remarked that if, as sometimes
chanced, any individual amongst his 'hands' showed signs of insubordination,
Yorke - who, like many who abhor being controlled, knew how to control with
vigour - had the secret of crushing rebellion in the germ, of eradicating it
like a bad weed, so that it never spread or developed within the sphere of =
his
authority. Such being the happy state of his own affairs, he felt himself at
liberty to speak with the utmost severity of those who were differently
situated, to ascribe whatever was unpleasant in their position entirely to
their own fault, to sever himself from the masters, and advocate freely the
cause of the operatives.
Mr Yorke's family was the first and
oldest in the district; and he, though not the wealthiest, was one of the m=
ost
influential men. His education had been good. In his youth, before the Fren=
ch
Revolution, he had travelled on the Continent He was an adept in the French=
and
Italian languages. During a two years' sojourn in Italy he had collected ma=
ny
good paintings and tasteful rarities, with which his residence was now ador=
ned.
His manners, when he liked, were those of a finished gentleman of the old
school; his conversation, when he was disposed to please, was singularly
interesting and original; and if he usually expressed himself in the Yorksh=
ire
dialect; it was because he chose to do so, preferring his native Doric to a
more refined vocabulary. 'A Yorkshire burr,' he affirmed, 'was as much bett=
er than
a cockney's lisp as a bull's bellow than a ratton's squeak.'
Mr Yorke knew every one, and was k=
nown
by every one, for miles round; yet his intimate acquaintances were very few.
Himself thoroughly original, he had no taste for what was ordinary: a racy,=
rough
character, high or low, ever found acceptance with him; a refined, insipid
personage, however exalted in station, was his aversion. He would spend an =
hour
any time in talking freely with a shrewd workman of his own, or with some
queer, sagacious old woman amongst his cottagers, when he would have grudge=
d a
moment to a commonplace fine gentleman or to the most fashionable and elega=
nt,
if frivolous, lady. His preferences on these points he carried to an extrem=
e,
forgetting that there may be amiable and even admirable characters amongst
those who cannot be original. Yet he made exceptions to his own rule. There=
was
a certain order of mind, plain, ingenuous, neglecting refinement, almost de=
void
of intellectuality, and quite incapable of appreciating what was intellectu=
al
in him, but which, at the same time, never felt disgust at his rudeness, was
not easily wounded by his sarcasm, did not closely analyse his sayings, doi=
ngs,
or opinions, with which he was peculiarly at ease, and, consequently, which=
he
peculiarly preferred. He was lord amongst such characters. They, while
submitting implicitly to his influence, never acknowledged, because they ne=
ver
reflected on, his superiority; they were quite tractable therefore without
running the smallest danger of being servile; and their unthinking, easy,
artless insensibility was as acceptable, because as convenient, to Mr Yorke=
as
that of the chair he sat on, or of the floor he trod.
It will have been observed that he=
was
not quite uncordial with Mr Moore. He had two or three reasons for entertai=
ning
a faint partiality to that gentleman. It may sound odd, but the first of th=
ese
was that Moore spoke English with a foreign, and French with a perfectly pu=
re,
accent and that his dark, thin face, with its fine though rather wasted lin=
es,
had a most anti-British and anti- Yorkshire look These points seem frivolou=
s,
unlikely to influence a character like Yorke's; but the fact is they recall=
ed
old, perhaps pleasurable associations they brought back his travelling, his
youthful days. He had seen, amidst Italian cities and scenes, faces like
Moore's; he had heard, in Parisian cafes and theatres, voices like his. He =
was
young then, and when he looked at and listened to the alien, he seemed young
again.
Secondly, he had known Moore's fat=
her,
and had had dealings with him. That was a more substantial, though by no me=
ans
a more agreeable tie; for as his firm had been connected with Moore's in
business, it had also, in some measure, been implicated in its losses. Thir=
dly,
he had found Robert himself a sharp man of business. He saw reason to
anticipate that he would, in the end, by one means or another, make money; =
and
he respected both his resolution and acuteness - perhaps also, his hardness=
. A
fourth circumstance which drew them together was that of Mr Yorke being one=
of
the guardians of the minor on whose estate Hollow's Mill was situated;
consequently Moore, in the course of his alterations and improvements, had
frequent occasion to consult him.
As to the other guest now present =
in Mr
Yorke's parlour, Mr Helstone, between him and his host there existed a doub=
le
antipathy - the antipathy of nature and that of circumstances. The free-thi=
nker
hated the formalist, the lover of liberty detested the disciplinarian. Besi=
des,
it was said that in former years they had been rival suitors of the same la=
dy.
Mr Yorke, as a general rule, was, =
when
young, noted for his preference of sprightly and dashing women: a showy sha=
pe
and air, a lively wit, a ready tongue, chiefly seemed to attract him. He ne=
ver,
however, proposed to any of these brilliant belles whose society he sought;=
and
all at once he seriously fell in love with and eagerly wooed a girl who
presented a complete contrast to those he had hitherto noticed - a girl with
the face of a Madonna; a girl of living marble - stillness personified. No
matter that, when he spoke to her, she only answered him in monosyllables; =
no
matter that his sighs seemed unheard, that his glances were unreturned, that
she never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his jests, paid him no
respect and no attention; no matter that she seemed the opposite of everyth=
ing
feminine he had ever in his whole life been known to admire. For him Mary C=
ave
was perfect, because somehow, for some reason - no doubt he had a reason - =
he
loved her.
Mr Helstone, at that time curate of
Briarfield, loved Mary too or, at any rate, he fancied her. Several others
admired her, for she was beautiful as a monumental angel; but the clergyman=
was
preferred for his office's sake - that office probably investing him with s=
ome
of the illusion necessary to allure to the commission of matrimony, and whi=
ch
Miss Cave did not find in any of the young wool-staplers, her other adorers=
. Mr
Helstone neither had, nor professed to have, Mr Yorke's absorbing passion f=
or
her. He had none of the humble reverence which seemed to subdue most of her
suitors; he saw her more as she really was than the rest did. He was,
consequently, more master of her and himself. She accepted him at the first
offer, and they were married.
Nature never intended Mr Helstone =
to
make a very good husband, especially to a quiet wife. He thought so long as=
a
woman was silent nothing ailed her, and she wanted nothing. If she did not
complain of solitude, solitude, however continued, could not be irksome to =
her.
If she did not talk and put herself forward, express a partiality for this,=
an
aversion to that, she had no partialities or aversions, and it was useless =
to
consult her tastes. He made no pretence of comprehending women, or comparing
them with men. They were a different, probably a very inferior, order of
existence. A wife could not be her husband's companion, much less his
confidante, much less his stay. His wife, after a year or two, was of no gr=
eat
importance to him in any shape; and when she one day, as he thought, sudden=
ly -
for he had scarcely noticed her decline - but, as others thought, gradually,
took her leave of him and of life, and there was only a still;
beautiful-featured mould of clay left, cold and white, in the conjugal couc=
h,
he felt his bereavement - who shall say how little? Yet, perhaps, more than=
he
seemed to feel it; for he was not a man from whom grief easily wrung tears.=
His dry-eyed and sober mourning
scandalised an old housekeeper, and likewise a female attendant, who had wa=
ited
upon Mrs Helstone in her sickness, and who, perhaps, had had opportunities =
of
learning more of the deceased lady's nature, of her capacity for feeling and
loving, than her husband knew. They gossiped together over the corpse, rela=
ted
anecdotes, with embellishments of her lingering decline, and its real or
supposed cause. In short, they worked each other up to some indignation aga=
inst
the austere little man, who sat examining papers in an adjoining room,
unconscious of what opprobrium he was the object.
Mrs Helstone was hardly under the =
sod,
when rumours began to be rife in the neighbourhood that she had died of a
broken heart. These magnified quickly into reports of hard usage, and, fina=
lly,
details of harsh treatment on the part of her husband - reports grossly unt=
rue,
but not the less eagerly received on that account. Mr Yorke heard them, par=
tly
believed them. Already, of course, he had no friendly feeling to his succes=
sful
rival. Though himself a married man now, and united to a woman who seemed a
complete contrast to Mary Gave in all respects, he could not forget the gre=
at
disappointment of his life; and when he heard that what would have been so
precious to him had been neglected, perhaps abused, by another, he conceived
for that other a rooted and bitter animosity. Of the nature and strength of
this animosity Mr Helstone was but half aware. He neither knew how much Yor=
ke
had loved Mary Gave, what he had felt on losing her, nor was he conscious of
the calumnies concerning his treatment of her, familiar to every ear in the
neighbourhood but his own. He believed political and religious differences
alone separated him and Mr Yorke. Had he known how the case really stood, he
would hardly have been induced by any persuasion to cross his former rival's
threshold.
Mr Yorke did not resume his lectur=
e of
Robert Moore. The conversation ere long recommenced in a more general form,
though still in a somewhat disputative tone. The unquiet state of the count=
ry,
the various depredations lately committed on mill-property in the district,
supplied abundant matter for disagreement, especially as each of the three
gentlemen present differed more or less in his views on these subjects. Mr
Helstone thought the masters aggrieved, the workpeople unreasonable; he
condemned sweepingly the widespread spirit of disaffection against constitu=
ted
authorities, the growing indisposition to bear with patience evils he regar=
ded
as inevitable. The cures he prescribed were vigorous government interferenc=
e,
strict magisterial vigilance; when necessary, prompt military coercion.
Mr Yorke wished to know whether th=
is
interference, vigilance, and coercion would feed those who were hungry, give
work to those who wanted work, and whom no man would hire. He scouted the i=
dea
of inevitable evils. He said public patience was a camel, on whose back the
last atom that could be borne had already been laid, and that resistance was
now a duty; the widespread spirit of disaffection against constituted
authorities he regarded as the most promising sign of the times; the master=
s,
he allowed, were truly aggrieved, but their main grievance had been heaped =
upon
them by a 'corrupt, base and bloody' government (these were Mr Yorke's
epithets). Madmen like Pitt, demons like Castlereagh, mischievous idiots li=
ke
Perceval, were the tyrants, the curses of the country, the destroyers of her
trade. It was their infatuated perseverance in an unjustifiable, a hopeless=
, a
ruinous war, which had brought the nation to its present pass. It was their
monstrously oppressive taxation, it was the infamous 'Orders in Council' - =
the
originators of which deserved impeachment and the scaffold, if ever public =
men
did - that hung a millstone about England's neck.
'But where was the use of talking?=
' he
demanded. 'what chance was there of reason being heard in a land that was
king-ridden, priest-ridden, peer-ridden; where a lunatic was the nominal
monarch, an unprincipled debauchee the real ruler; where such an insult to
common sense as hereditary legislators was tolerated; where such a humbug a=
s a
bench of bishops, such an arrogant abuse as a pampered, persecuting establi=
shed
church was endured and venerated; where a standing army was maintained, and=
a
host of lazy parsons, and the pauper families were kept on the fat of the l=
and?'
Mr Helstone, rising up and putting=
on
his shovel-hat, observed in reply, 'that in the course of his life he had m=
et
with two or three instances where sentiments of this sort had been very bra=
vely
maintained so long as health, strength, and worldly prosperity had been the
allies of him who professed them; but there came a time,' he said, 'to all =
men,
‘when the keepers of the house should tremble; when they should be af=
raid
of that which is high, and fear should be in the way,’ and that time =
was
the test of the advocate of anarchy and rebellion, the enemy of religion and
order. Ere now,' he affirmed, 'he had been called upon to read those prayers
our church has provided for the sick by the miserable dying-bed of one of h=
er
most rancorous foes; he had seen such a one stricken with remorse, solicito=
us
to discover a place for repentance, and unable to find any, though he sough=
t it
carefully with tears. He must forewarn Mr Yorke that blasphemy against God =
and
the king was a deadly sin, and that there was such a thing as ‘judgme=
nt
to come.’'
Mr Yorke 'believed fully that there
was such a thing as judgment to come. If it were otherwise, it would be
difficult to imagine how all the scoundrels who seemed triumphant in this
world, who broke innocent hearts with impunity, abused unmerited privileges,
were a scandal to honourable callings, took the bread out of the mouths of =
the
poor, browbeat the humble, and truckled meanly to the rich and proud, were =
to
be properly paid off, in such coin as they had earned. But,' he added,
'whenever he got low-spirited about such-like goings-on, and their seeming
success in this mucky lump of a planet, he just reached down t' owd book'
(pointing to a great Bible in the bookcase), 'opened it like at a chance, a=
nd
he was sure to light of a verse blazing wi' a blue brimstone low that set a=
ll
straight. He knew,' he said, 'where some folk war bound for, just as weel a=
s if
an angel wi' great white wings had come in ower t' door-stone and told him.=
'
'Sir,' said Mr Helstone, collecting
all his dignity - 'sir, the great knowledge of man is to know himself, and =
the
bourne whither his own steps tend.'
'Ay, ay. You'll recollect, Mr
Helstone, that Ignorance was carried away from the very gates of heaven, bo=
rne
through the air, and thrust in at a door in the side of the hill which led =
down
to hell.'
'Nor have I forgotten, Mr Yorke, t=
hat
Vain-Confidence, not seeing the way before him, fell into a deep pit, which=
was
on purpose there made by the prince of the grounds, to catch vain-glorious
fools withal, and was dashed to pieces with his fall.'
'Now,' interposed Mr Moore, who had
hitherto sat a silent but amused spectator of this wordy combat, and whose
indifference to the party politics of the day, as well as to the gossip of =
the
neighbourhood, made him an impartial, if apathetic, judge of the merits of =
such
an encounter, 'you have both sufficiently black-balled each other, and prov=
ed
how cordially you detest each other, and how wicked you think each other. F=
or
my part my hate is still running in such a strong current against the fello=
ws
who have broken my frames that I have none to spare for my private
acquaintance, and still less for such a vague thing as a sect or a governme=
nt.
But really, gentlemen, you both seem very bad by your own showing - worse t=
han
ever I suspected you to be - I dare not stay all night with a rebel and
blasphemer like you, Yorke; and I hardly dare ride home with a cruel and
tyrannical ecclesiastic like Mr Helstone.'
'I am going, however, Mr Moore,' s=
aid
the rector sternly. 'Come with me or not, as you please.'
'Nay, he shall not have the choice=
, he
shall go with you,' responded Yorke. 'It's midnight, and past; and I'll have
nob'dy staying up i' my house any longer. Ye mun all go.'
He rang the bell.
'Deb,' said he to the servant who
answered it, 'clear them folk out o' t' kitchen, and lock t' doors, and be =
off
to bed. Here is your way, gentlemen,' he continued to his guests; and, ligh=
ting
them through the passage, he fairly put them out at his front-door.
They met their party hurrying out
pell-mell by the back way. Their horses stood at the gate; they mounted and
rode off, Moore laughing at their abrupt dismissal, Helstone deeply indigna=
nt
thereat.
Moore's good spirits were still wi=
th
him when he rose next morning. He and Joe Scott had both spent the night in=
the
mill, availing themselves of certain sleeping accommodations producible from
recesses in the front and back counting- houses. The master, always an early
riser, was up somewhat sooner even than usual. He awoke his man by singing a
French song as he made his toilet
'Ye're not custen dahm, then,
maister?' cried Joe.
'Not a stiver, mon garçon -
which means, my lad: get up, and we'll take a turn through the mill before =
the
hands come in, and I'll explain my future plans. We'll have the machinery y=
et,
Joseph. You never heard of Bruce, perhaps?'
'And th' arrand (spider)? Yes, but=
I
hev. I've read th' history o' Scotland, and happen knaw as mich on't as ye;=
and
I understand ye to mean to say ye'll persevere.'
'I do.'
'Is there mony o' your mak' i' your
country?' inquired Joe, as he folded up his temporary bed, and put it away.=
'In my country! Which is my countr=
y?'
'Why, France isn't it?'
'Not it, indeed! The circumstance =
of
the French having seized Antwerp, where I was born, does not make me a
Frenchman.'
'Holland, then?'
'I am not a Dutchman. Now you are
confounding Antwerp with Amsterdam.'
'Flanders?'
'I scorn the insinuation Joe! I a
Flemish! Have I a Flemish face! Have I a Flemish face - the clumsy nose
standing out, the mean forehead falling back, the pale blue eyes ‘&eg=
rave;
fleur de tête’? Am I all body and no legs, like a Flamand? But =
you
don't know what they are like, those Netherlanders. Joe, I'm an Anversois. =
My
mother was an Anversoise, though she came of French lineage, which is the
reason I speak French.'
'But your father war Yorkshire, wh=
ich
maks ye a bit Yorkshire too; and onybody may see ye're akin to us, ye're so
keen o' making brass, and getting forrards.'
'Joe, you're an impudent dog; but =
I've
always been accustomed to a boorish sort of insolence from my youth up. The=
‘classe
ouvrière’; that is, the working people in Belgium bear themsel=
ves
brutally towards their employers; and by brutally, Joe, I mean brutalement -
which, perhaps, when properly translated, should be roughly.'
'We allus speak our minds i' this
country; and them young parsons and grand folk fro' London is shocked at we=
r ‘incivility;’
and we like weel enough to gi'e 'em summat to be shocked at, 'cause it's sp=
ort
to us to watch 'em turn up the whites o' their een, and spreed out their bi=
ts
o' hands, like as they're flayed wi' bogards, and then to hear 'em say, nip=
ping
off their words short like, ‘Dear! dear! Whet seveges! How very corse=
!’'
'You are savages, Joe. You don't
suppose you're civilised, do you?'
'Middling, middling, maister. I re=
ckon
'at us manufacturing lads i' th' north is a deal more intelligent, and knaw=
s a
deal more nor th' farming folk i' th' south. Trade sharpens wer wits; and t=
hem
that's mechanics like me is forced to think. Ye know, what wi' looking after
machinery and sich like, I've getten into that way that when I see an effec=
t, I
look straight out for a cause, and I oft lig hold on't to purpose; and then=
I
like reading, and I'm curious to knaw what them that reckons to govern us a=
ims
to do for us and wi' us. And there's many 'cuter nor me; there's many a one
amang them greasy chaps 'at smells o' oil, and amang them dyers wi' blue and
black skins that has a long head, and that can tell what a fooil of a law i=
s,
as well as ye or old Yorke and a deal better nor soft uns like Christopher
Sykes o' Whinbury, and greet hectoring nowts like yond' Irish Peter, Helsto=
ne's
curate.'
'You think yourself a clever fello=
w, I
know, Scott.'
'Ay! I'm fairish. I can tell cheese
fro' chalk, and I'm varry weel aware that I've improved sich opportunities =
as I
have had, a deal better nor some 'at reckons to be aboon me; but there's
thousands i' Yorkshire that's as good as me, and a two-three that's better.=
'
'You're a great man - you're a sub=
lime
fellow; but you're a prig, a conceited noodle with it all, Joe! You need no=
t to
think that because you've picked up a little knowledge of practical
mathematics, and because you have found some scantling of the elements of
chemistry at the bottom of a dyeing vat, that therefore you're a neglected =
man
of science; and you need not to suppose that because the course of trade do=
es
not always run smooth, and you, and such as you, are sometimes short of work
and of bread, that therefore your class are martyrs, and that the whole for=
m of
government under which you live is wrong. And, moreover, you need not for a
moment to insinuate that the virtues have taken refuge in cottages and whol=
ly
abandoned slated houses. Let me tell you, I particularly abominate that sor=
t of
trash, because I know so well that human nature is human nature everywhere,
whether under tile or thatch, and that in every specimen of human nature th=
at
breathes, vice and virtue are ever found blended, in smaller or greater
proportions, and that the proportion is not determined by station. I have s=
een
villains who were rich, and I have seen villains who were poor, and I have =
seen
villains who were neither rich nor poor, but who had realised Agar's wish, =
and
lived in fair and modest competency. The clock is going to strike six. Away
with you, Joe, and ring the mill bell.'
It was now the middle of the month=
of
February; by six o'clock therefore dawn was just beginning to steal on nigh=
t,
to penetrate with a pale ray its brown obscurity, and give a demi-transluce=
nce
to its opaque shadows. Pale enough that ray was on this particular morning:=
no
colour tinged the east, no flush warmed it. To see what a heavy lid day slo=
wly
lifted, what a wan glance she flung along the hills, you would have thought=
the
sun's fire quenched in last night's floods. The breath of this morning was
chill as its aspect; a raw wind stirred the mass of night-cloud, and showed=
, as
it slowly rose, leaving a colourless, silver-gleaming ring all round the
horizon, not blue sky, but a stratum of paler vapour beyond. It had ceased =
to
rain, but the earth was sodden, and the pools and rivulets were full.
The mill-windows were alight, the =
bell
still rung loud, and now the little children came running in, in too great a
hurry, let us hope, to feel very much nipped by the inclement air; and inde=
ed,
by contrast, perhaps the morning appeared rather favourable to them than
otherwise, for they had often come to their work that winter through
snowstorms, through heavy rain, through hard frost.
Mr Moore stood at the entrance to
watch them pass. He counted them as they went by. To those who came rather =
late
he said a word of reprimand, which was a little more sharply repeated by Joe
Scott when the lingerers reached the work- rooms. Neither master nor overlo=
oker
spoke savagely. They were not savage men either of them, though it appeared
both were rigid, for they fined a delinquent who came considerably too late=
. Mr
Moore made him pay his penny down ere he entered, and informed him that the
next repetition of the fault would cost him twopence.
Rules, no doubt, are necessary in =
such
cases, and coarse and cruel masters will make coarse and cruel rules, which=
, at
the time we treat of at least, they used sometimes to enforce tyrannically;=
but
though I describe imperfect characters (every character in this book will be
found to be more or less imperfect, my pen refusing to draw anything in the
model line), I have not undertaken to handle degraded or utterly infamous o=
nes.
Child-torturers, slave masters and drivers, I consign to the hands of jaile=
rs.
The novelist may be excused from sullying his page with the record of their
deeds.
Instead, then, of harrowing up my
reader's soul and delighting his organ of wonder with effective description=
s of
stripes and scourgings, I am happy to be able to inform him that neither Mr
Moore nor his overlooker ever struck a child in their mill. Joe had, indeed,
once very severely flogged a son of his own for telling a lie and persistin=
g in
it; but, like his employer, he was too phlegmatic, too calm, as well as too
reasonable a man, to make corporal chastisement other than the exception to=
his
treatment of the young.
Mr Moore haunted his mill, his
mill-yard, his dyehouse, and his warehouse till the sickly dawn strengthened
into day. The sun even rose, at least a white disc, clear, tintless, and al=
most
chill-looking as ice, peeped over the dark crest of a hill, changed to silv=
er
the livid edge of the cloud above it, and looked solemnly down the whole le=
ngth
of the den, or narrow dale, to whose strait bounds we are at present limite=
d.
It was eight o'clock; the mill lights were all extinguished; the signal was
given for breakfast; the children, released for half an hour from toil, bet=
ook
themselves to the little tin cans which held their coffee, and to the small
baskets which contained their allowance of bread. Let us hope they have eno=
ugh
to eat; it would be a pity were it otherwise.
And now at last Mr Moore quitted t=
he
mill-yard, and bent his steps to his dwelling-house. It was only a short
distance from the factory, but the hedge and high bank on each side of the =
lane
which conducted to it seemed to give it something of the appearance and fee=
ling
of seclusion. It was a small, whitewashed place, with a green porch over the
door; scanty brown stalks showed in the garden soil near this porch, and
likewise beneath the windows - stalks budless and flowerless now, but giving
dim prediction of trained and blooming creepers for summer days. A grass pl=
at
and borders fronted the cottage. The borders presented only black mould yet,
except where, in sheltered nooks, the first shoots of snowdrop or crocus
peeped, green as emerald, from the earth. The spring was late; it had been a
severe and prolonged winter; the last deep snow had but just disappeared be=
fore
yesterday's rains; on the hills, indeed, white remnants of it yet gleamed,
flecking the hollows and crowning the peaks; the lawn was not verdant, but
bleached, as was the grass on the bank, and under the hedge in the lane. Th=
ree
trees, gracefully grouped, rose beside the cottage. They were not lofty, but
having no rivals near, they looked well and imposing where they grew. Such =
was Mr
Moore's home - a snug nest for content and contemplation, but one within wh=
ich
the wings of action and ambition could not long lie folded.
Its air of modest comfort seemed to
possess no particular attraction for its owner. Instead of entering the hou=
se
at once, he fetched a spade from a little shed and began to work in the gar=
den.
For about a quarter of an hour he dug on uninterrupted. At length, however,=
a
window opened, and a female voice called to him, -
'Eh, bien! Tu ne
déjeûnes pas ce matin?'
The answer, and the rest of the
conversation, was in French; but as this is an English book, I shall transl=
ate
it into English.
'Is breakfast ready, Hortense?'
'Certainly; it has been ready half=
an
hour.'
'Then I am ready too. I have a can=
ine
hunger.'
He threw down his spade, and enter=
ed
the house. The narrow passage conducted him to a small parlour, where a
breakfast of coffee and bread and butter, with the somewhat un-English
accompaniment of stewed pears, was spread on the table. Over these viands
presided the lady who had spoken from the window. I must describe her befor=
e I
go any farther.
She seemed a little older than Mr =
Moore
- perhaps she was thirty-five, tall, and proportionately stout; she had very
black hair, for the present twisted up in curl-papers, a high colour in her
cheeks, a small nose, a pair of little black eyes. The lower part of her fa=
ce
was large in proportion to the upper; her forehead was small and rather
corrugated; she had a fretful though not an ill- natured expression of
countenance; there was something in her whole appearance one felt inclined =
to
be half provoked with and half amused at. The strangest point was her dress=
- a
stuff petticoat and a striped cotton camisole. The petticoat was short,
displaying well a pair of feet and ankles which left much to be desired in =
the
article of symmetry.
You will think I have depicted a
remarkable slattern, reader; not at all. Hortense Moore (she was Mr Moore's
sister) was a very orderly, economical person. The petticoat, camisole, and
curl-papers were her morning costume, in which, of forenoons, she had always
been accustomed to 'go her household ways' in her own country. She did not
choose to adopt English fashions because she was obliged to live in England;
she adhered to her old Belgian modes, quite satisfied that there was a meri=
t in
so doing.
Mademoiselle had an excellent opin=
ion
of herself - an opinion not wholly undeserved, for she possessed some good =
and
sterling qualities; but she rather over-estimated the kind and degree of th=
ese
qualities; and quite left out of the account sundry little defects which
accompanied them. You could never have persuaded her that she was a prejudi=
ced
and narrow-minded person; that she was too susceptible on the subject of her
own dignity and importance, and too apt to take offence about trifles; yet =
all
this was true. However, where her claims to distinction were not opposed, a=
nd
where her prejudices were not offended, she could be kind and friendly enou=
gh.
To her two brothers (for there was another Gérard Moore besides Robe=
rt)
she was very much attached. As the sole remaining representatives of their
decayed family, the persons of both were almost sacred in her eyes. Of Loui=
s,
however, she knew less than of Robert. He had been sent to England when a m=
ere
boy, and had received his education at an English school. His education not
being such as to adapt him for trade, perhaps, too, his natural bent not
inclining him to mercantile pursuits, he had, when the blight of hereditary
prospects rendered it necessary for him to push his own fortune, adopted the
very arduous and very modest career of a teacher. He had been usher in a sc=
hool,
and was said now to be tutor in a private family. Hortense, when she mentio=
ned
Louis, described him as having what she called 'des moyens,' but as being t=
oo
backward and quiet. Her praise of Robert was in a different strain, less
qualified: she was very proud of him; she regarded him as the greatest man =
in
Europe; all he said and did was remarkable in her eyes, and she expected ot=
hers
to behold him from the same point of view; nothing could be more irrational,
monstrous and infamous than opposition from any quarter to Robert, unless it
were opposition to herself.
Accordingly, as soon as the said
Robert was seated at the breakfast-table, and she had helped him to a porti=
on
of stewed pears, and cut him a good-sized Belgian tartine, she began to pour
out a flood of amazement and horror at the transaction of last night, the
destruction of the frames.
'Quelle ideé! to destroy th=
em.
Quelle action honteuse! On voyait bien que les ouvriers de ce pays
étaient à la fois bêtes et méchants. C'ét=
ait
absolument comme les domestiques anglais, les servantes surtout: rien
d'insupportable comme cette Sara, par exemple!'
'She looks clean and industrious,'=
Mr
Moore remarked.
'Looks! I don't know how she looks,
and I do not say that she is altogether dirty or idle, mais elle est d'une
insolence! She disputed with me a quarter of an hour yesterday about the
cooking of the beef; she said I boiled it to rags, that English people would
never be able to eat such a dish as our bouilli, that the bouillon was no
better than greasy warm water, and as to the choucroute, she affirms she ca=
nnot
touch it! That barrel we have in the cellar - delightfully prepared by my o=
wn
hands - she termed a tub of hog-wash, which means food for pigs. I am haras=
sed
with the girl, and yet I cannot part with her lest I should get a worse. You
are in the same position with your workmen, pauvre cher frère!'
'I am afraid you are not very happ=
y in
England, Hortense.'
'It is my duty to be happy where y=
ou
are, brother; but otherwise there are certainly a thousand things which mak=
e me
regret our native town. All the world here appears to me ill-bred
(mal-élevé). I find my habits considered ridiculous. If a girl
out of your mill chances to come into the kitchen and find me in my jupon a=
nd
camisole preparing dinner (for you know I cannot trust Sarah to cook a sing=
le
dish), she sneers. If I accept an invitation out to tea, which I have done =
once
or twice, I perceive I am put quite into the background; I have not that
attention paid me which decidedly is my due. Of what an excellent family are
the Gérards, as we know, and the Moores also! They have a right to c=
laim
a certain respect, and to feel wounded when it is withheld from them. In
Antwerp I was always treated with distinction; here, one would think that w=
hen
I open my lips in company I speak English with a ridiculous accent, whereas=
I
am quite assured that I pronounce it perfectly.'
'Hortense, in Antwerp we were known
rich; in England we were never known but poor.'
'Precisely, and thus mercenary are
mankind. Again, dear brother, last Sunday, if you recollect, was very wet;
accordingly I went to church in my neat black sabots, objects one would not
indeed wear in a fashionable city but which in the country I have ever been
accustomed to use for walking in dirty roads. Believe me, as I paced up the
aisle, composed and tranquil, as I am always, four ladies, and as many
gentlemen, laughed and hid their faces behind their prayer- books.'
'Well, well I don't put on the sab=
ots
again. I told you before I thought they were not quite the thing for this
country.'
'But, brother, they are not common
sabots, such as the peasantry wear. I tell you, they are sabots noirs,
très propres, très convenables. At Mons and Leuze - cities not
very far removed from the elegant capital of Brussels - it is very seldom t=
hat
the respectable people wear anything else for walking in winter. Let any one
try to wade the mud of the Flemish chaussées in a pair of Paris
brodequins, on m'en dirait des nouvelles!'
'Never mind Mons and Leuze and the
Flemish chaussées; do at Rome as the Romans do. And as to the camiso=
le
and jupon, I am not quite sure about them either. I never see an English la=
dy
dressed in such garments. Ask Caroline Helstone.'
'Caroline! I ask Caroline? I consu=
lt
her about my dress? It is she who on all points should consult me. She is a
child.'
'She is eighteen, or at least
seventeen - old enough to know all about gowns, petticoats, and chaussures.=
'
'Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat =
you,
brother. Do not make her of more consequence than she ought to be. At prese=
nt
she is modest and unassuming: let us keep her so.'
'With all my heart. Is she coming =
this
morning?'
'She will come at ten, as usual, to
take her French lesson.'
'You don't find that she sneers at
you, do you?'
'She does not. She appreciates me
better than any one else here; but then she has more intimate opportunities=
of
knowing me. She sees that I have education, intelligence, manner, principle=
s -
all, in short, which belongs to a person well born and well bred.'
'Are you at all fond of her?'
'For fond I cannot say. I am not o=
ne
who is prone to take violent fancies, and, consequently, my friendship is t=
he
more to be depended on. I have a regard for her as my relative; her position
also inspires interest, and her conduct as my pupil has hitherto been such =
as
rather to enhance than diminish the attachment that springs from other caus=
es.'
'She behaves pretty well at lesson=
s?'
'To me she behaves very well; but =
you
are conscious, brother, that I have a manner calculated to repel
over-familiarity, to win esteem, and to command respect. Yet, possessed of
penetration, I perceive dearly that Caroline is not perfect, that there is =
much
to be desired in her.'
'Give me a last cup of coffee, and
while I am drinking it amuse me with an account of her faults.'
'Dear brother, I am happy to see y=
ou
eat your breakfast with relish, after the fatiguing night you have passed.
Caroline, then, is defective; but with my forming hand and almost motherly =
care
she may improve. There is about her an occasional something - a reserve, I
think - which I do not quite like, because it is not sufficiently girlish a=
nd
submissive; and there are glimpses of an unsettled hurry in her nature, whi=
ch
put me out. Yet she is usually most tranquil, too dejected and thoughtful
indeed sometimes. In time, I doubt not, I shall make her uniformly sedate a=
nd
decorous, without being unaccountably pensive. I ever disapprove what is not
intelligible.'
'I don't understand your account in
the least. What do you mean by ‘unsettled hurries,’ for instanc=
e?'
'An example will, perhaps, be the =
most
satisfactory explanation. I sometimes, you are aware, make her read French
poetry by way of practice in pronunciation. She has in the course of her
lessons gone through much of Corneille and Racine, in a very steady, sober
spirit, such as I approve. Occasionally she showed, indeed, a degree of lan=
guor
in the perusal of those esteemed authors, partaking rather of apathy than
sobriety; and apathy is what I cannot tolerate in those who have the benefi=
t of
my instructions; besides, one should not be apathetic in studying standard
works. The other day I put into her hands a volume of short fugitive pieces=
. I
sent her to the window to learn one by heart, and when I looked up I saw her
turning the leaves over impatiently, and curling her lip, absolutely with
scorn, as she surveyed the little poems cursorily. I chid her. ‘Ma
cousine,’ said she, ‘tout cela m'ennuie à la mort.’=
; I
told her this was improper language. ‘Dieu!’ she exclaimed, =
216;Il
n'y a donc pas deux lignes de poësie dans toute la littérature
française?’ I inquired what she meant. She begged my pardon wi=
th
proper submission. Ere long she was still. I saw her smiling to herself over
the book. She began to learn assiduously. In half an hour she came and stood
before me, presented the volume, folded her hands, as I always require her =
to
do, and commenced the repetition of that short thing by Chénier, =
216;La
Jeune Captive.’ If you had heard the manner in which she went through
this, and in which she uttered a few incoherent comments when she had done,=
you
would have known what I meant by the phrase ‘unsettled hurry.’ =
One
would have thought Chénier was more moving than all Racine and all
Corneille. You, brother, who have so much sagacity, will discern that this
disproportionate preference argues an ill-regulated mind; but she is fortun=
ate
in her preceptress. I will give her a system, a method of thought, a set of
opinions; I will give her the perfect control and guidance of her feelings.=
'
'Be sure you do, Hortense. Here sh=
e comes.
That was her shadow passed the window, I believe.'
'Ah! truly. She is too early - hal=
f an
hour before her time. - My child, what brings you here before I have
breakfasted?'
This question was addressed to an
individual who now entered the room, a young girl, wrapped in a winter mant=
le,
the folds of which were gathered with some grace round an apparently slender
figure.
'I came in haste to see how you we=
re,
Hortense, and how Robert was too. I was sure you would be both grieved by w=
hat
happened last night. I did not hear till this morning: my uncle told me at
breakfast'
'Ah! it is unspeakable. You sympat=
hise
with us? Your uncle sympathises with us?'
'My uncle is very angry; but he was
with Robert, I believe, was he not? - Did he not go with you to Stilbro' Mo=
or?'
'Yes, we set out in very martial
style, Caroline; but the prisoners we went to rescue met us half-way.'
'Of course nobody was hurt?'
'Why, no; only Joe Scott's wrists =
were
a little galled with being pinioned too tightly behind his back.'
'You were not there? You were not =
with
the wagons when they were attacked?'
'No. One seldom has the fortune to=
be
present at occurrences at which one would particularly wish to assist.'
'Where are you going this morning?=
I
saw Murgatroyd saddling your horse in the yard.'
'To Whinbury. It is market day.'
'Mr Yorke is going too. I met him =
in
his gig. Come home with him.'
'Why?'
'Two are better than one, and nobo=
dy
dislikes Mr Yorke; at least, poor people do not dislike him.'
'Therefore he would be a protectio=
n to
me, who am hated?'
'Who are misunderstood. That,
probably, is the word. Shall you be late? - Will he be late, Cousin Hortens=
e?'
'It is too probable: he has often =
much
business to transact at Whinbury. Have you brought your exercise-book, chil=
d?'
'Yes. What time will you return,
Robert?'
'I generally return at seven. Do y=
ou
wish me to be at home earlier?'
'Try rather to be back by six. It =
is
not absolutely dark at six now, but by seven daylight is quite gone.'
'And what danger is to be apprehen=
ded,
Caroline, when daylight is gone? What peril do you conceive comes as the
companion of darkness for me?'
'I am not sure that I can define my
fears, but we all have a certain anxiety at present about our friends. My u=
ncle
calls these times dangerous. He says, too, that mill-owners are unpopular.'=
'And I one of the most unpopular? =
Is
not that the fact? You are reluctant to speak out plainly, but at heart you
think me liable to Pearson's fate, who was shot at - not, indeed, from behi=
nd a
hedge, but in his own house, through his staircase window, as he was going =
to
bed.'
'Anne Pearson showed me the bullet=
in
the chamber-door,' remarked Caroline gravely, as she folded her mantle and
arranged it and her muff on a side-table. 'You know,' she continued, 'there=
is
a hedge all the way along the road from here to Whinbury, and there are the
Fieldhead plantations to pass; but you will be back by six - or before?'
'Certainly he will,' affirmed
Hortense. 'And now, my child, prepare your lessons for repetition, while I =
put
the peas to soak for the puree at dinner.'
With this direction she left the r=
oom.
'You suspect I have many enemies,
then, Caroline,' said Mr Moore, 'and doubtless you know me to be destitute =
of
friends?'
'Not destitute, Robert. There is y=
our
sister, your brother Louis, whom I have never seen; there is Mr Yorke, and
there is my uncle besides, of course, many more.'
Robert smiled. 'You would he puzzl=
ed
to name your ‘many more,’' said he. 'But show me your
exercise-book. What extreme pains you take with the writing! My sister, I
suppose, exacts this care. She wants to form you in all things after the mo=
del
of a Flemish school-girl. What life are you destined for, Caroline? What wi=
ll
you do with your French, drawing, and other accomplishments, when they are
acquired?'
'You may well say, when they are
acquired; for, as you are aware, till Hortense began to teach me, I knew
precious little. As to the life I am destined for, I cannot tell. I suppose=
to
keep my uncle's house till - =
' she
hesitated.
'Till what? Till he dies?'
'No. How harsh to say that! I never
think of his dying. He is only fifty- five. But till - in short, till events
offer other occupations for me.'
'A remarkably vague prospect! Are =
you
content with it?'
'I used to be, formerly. Children,=
you
know, have little reflection, or rather their reflections run on ideal them=
es.
There are moments now when I am not quite satisfied.'
'Why?'
'I am making no money - earning
nothing.'
'You come to the point, Lina: you =
too,
then, wish to make money?'
'I do. I should like an occupation;
and if I were a boy, it would not be so difficult to find one. I see such an
easy, pleasant way of learning a business, and making my way in life.'
'Go on. Let us hear what way.'
'I could be apprenticed to your tr=
ade
- the cloth trade. I could learn it of you, as we are distant relations. I
would do the counting-house work, keep the books, and write the letters, wh=
ile
you went to market. I know you greatly desire to be rich, in order to pay y=
our
father's debts; perhaps I could help you to get rich.'
'Help me? You should think of
yourself.'
'I do think of myself; but must one
for ever think only of oneself?'
'Of whom else do I think? Of whom =
else
dare I think? The poor ought to have no large sympathies; it is their duty =
to
be narrow.'
'No, Robert'
'Yes, Caroline. Poverty is necessa=
rily
selfish, contracted, grovelling, anxious. Now and then a poor man's heart, =
when
certain beams and dews visit it, may swell like the budding vegetation in
yonder garden on this spring day, may feel ripe to evolve in foliage, perha=
ps
blossom; but he must not encourage the pleasant impulse; he must invoke
Prudence to check it, with that frosty breath of hers, which is as nipping =
as
any north wind.'
'No cottage would be happy then.'<= o:p>
'When I speak of poverty, I do not=
so
much mean the natural, habitual poverty of the working-man, as the embarras=
sed
penury of the man in debt; my grub-worm is always a straitened, struggling,
care-worn tradesman.'
'Cherish hope, not anxiety. Certain
ideas have become too fixed in your mind. It may be presumptuous to say it,=
but
I have the impression that there is something wrong in your notions of the =
best
means of attaining happiness, as there is in - ' Second hesitation.
'I am all ear, Caroline.'
'In (courage - let me speak the tr=
uth)
- in your manner - mind, I say only manner - to these Yorkshire workpeople.=
'
'You have often wanted to tell me
that, have you not?'
'Yes; often - very often.'
'The faults of my manner are, I th=
ink,
only negative. I am not proud. What has a man in my position to be proud of=
? I
am only taciturn, phlegmatic, and joyless.'
'As if your living cloth-dressers =
were
all machines like your frames and shears. In your own house you seem
different.'
'To those of my own house I am no
alien, which I am to these English clowns. I might act the benevolent with
them, but acting is not my forte. I find them irrational, perverse; they hi=
nder
me when I long to hurry forward. In treating them justly I fulfil my whole =
duty
towards them.'
'You don't expect them to love you=
, of
course?'
'Nor wish it'
'Ah!' said the monitress, shaking =
her
head and heaving a deep sigh. With this ejaculation, indicative that she
perceived a screw to be loose somewhere, but that it was out of her reach to
set it right, she bent over her grammar, and sought the rule and exercise f=
or
the day.
'I suppose I am not an affectionate
man, Caroline; the attachment of a very few suffices me.'
'If you please, Robert, will you m=
end
me a pen or two before you go?'
'First let me rule your book, for =
you
always contrive to draw the lines aslant. There now. And now for the pens. =
You
like a fine one, I think?'
'Such as you generally make for me=
and
Hortense; not your own broad points.'
'If I were of Louis's calling I mi=
ght
stay at home and dedicate this morning to you and your studies, whereas I m=
ust
spend it in Sykes's wool-warehouse.'
'You will be making money.'
'More likely losing it.'
As he finished mending the pens, a
horse, saddled and bridled, was brought up to the garden-gate.
'There, Fred is ready for me; I mu=
st
go. I'll take one look to see what the spring has done in the south border,
too, first.'
He quitted the room, and went out =
into
the garden ground behind the mill. A sweet fringe of young verdure and open=
ing
flowers - snowdrop, crocus, even primrose - bloomed in the sunshine under t=
he
hot wall of the factory. Moore plucked here and there a blossom and leaf, t=
ill
he had collected a little bouquet. He returned to the parlour, pilfered a
thread of silk from his sister's work-basket, tied the flowers, and laid th=
em
on Caroline's desk.
'Now, good-morning.'
'Thank you, Robert. It is pretty; =
it
looks, as it lies there, like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky. Good-morni=
ng.'
He went to the door, stopped, open=
ed
his lips as if to speak, said nothing, and moved on. He passed through the
wicket, and mounted his horse. In a second he had flung himself from the sa=
ddle
again, transferred the reins to Murgatroyd, and re-entered the cottage.
'I forgot my gloves,' he said,
appearing to take something from the side- table then, as an impromptu thou=
ght,
he remarked, 'You have no binding engagement at home perhaps, Caroline?'
'I never have. Some children's soc=
ks,
which Mrs Ramsden has ordered, to knit for the Jew's basket; but they will
keep.'
'Jew's basket be - sold! Never was
utensil better named. Anything more Jewish than it - its contents and their
prices - cannot be conceived. But I see something, a very tiny curl, at the
corners of your lip, which tells me that you know its merits as well as I d=
o.
Forget the Jew's basket, then, and spend the day here as a change. Your unc=
le
won't break his heart at your absence?'
She smiled. 'No.'
'The old Cossack! I dare say not,'
muttered Moore. Then stay and dine with Hortense; she will be glad of your
company. I shall return in good time. We will have a little reading in the
evening. The moon rises at half-past eight, and I will walk up to the recto=
ry
with you at nine. Do you agree?'
She nodded her head, and her eyes =
lit
up.
Moore lingered yet two minutes. He
bent over Caroline's desk and glanced at her grammar, he fingered her pen, =
he
lifted her bouquet and played with it; his horse stamped impatient; Fred
Murgatroyd hemmed and coughed at the gate, as if he wondered what in the wo=
rld
his master was doing. 'Good-morning,' again said Moore, and finally vanishe=
d.
Hortense, coming in ten minutes af=
ter,
found, to her surprise, that Caroline had not yet commenced her exercise.
Mademoiselle Moore had that mornin=
g a
somewhat absent minded pupil. Caroline forgot, again and again, the explana=
tions
which were given to her. However, she still bore with unclouded mood the
chidings her inattention brought upon her. Sitting in the sunshine near the
window, she seemed to receive with its warmth a kind influence, which made =
her
both happy and good. Thus disposed, she looked her best, and her best was a
pleasing vision.
To her had not been denied the gif=
t of
beauty. It was not absolutely necessary to know her in order to like her; s=
he
was fair enough to please, even at the first view. Her shape suited her age=
: it
was girlish, light, and pliant; every curve was neat, every limb proportion=
ate;
her face was expressive and gentle; her eyes were handsome, and gifted at t=
imes
with a winning beam that stole into the heart, with a language that spoke s=
oftly
to the affections. Her mouth was very pretty; she had a delicate skin, and a
fine flow of brown hair, which she knew how to arrange with taste; curls be=
came
her, and she possessed them in picturesque profusion. Her style of dress
announced taste in the wearer - very unobtrusive in fashion, far from costl=
y in
material, but suitable in colour to the fair complexion with which it
contrasted, and in make to the slight form which it draped. Her present win=
ter
garb was of merino - the same soft shade of brown as her hair; the little
collar round her neck lay over a pink ribbon, and was fastened with a pink =
knot
She wore no other decoration.
So much for Caroline Helstone's
appearance. As to her character or intellect, if she had any, they must spe=
ak
for themselves in due time.
Her connections are soon explained.
She was the child of parents separated soon after her birth, in consequence=
of
disagreement of disposition. Her mother was the half-sister of Mr Moore's
father; thus, though there was no mixture of blood, she was, in a distant
sense, the cousin of Robert, Louis, and Hortense. Her father was the brothe=
r of
Mr Helstone - a man of the character friends desire not to recall, after de=
ath
has once settled all earthly accounts. He had rendered his wife unhappy. The
reports which were known to be true concerning him had given an air of
probability to those which were falsely circulated respecting his better
principled brother. Caroline had never known her mother, as she was taken f=
rom
her in infancy, and had not since seen her; her father died comparatively
young, and her uncle, the rector, had for some years been her sole guardian=
. He
was not, as we are aware, much adapted, either by nature or habits, to have=
the
charge of a young girl He had taken little trouble about her education;
probably he would have taken none if she, finding herself neglected, had not
grown anxious on her own account, and asked, every now and then, for a litt=
le
attention, and for the means of acquiring such amount of knowledge as could=
not
be dispensed with. Still, she had a depressing feeling that she was inferio=
r,
that her attainments were fewer than were usually possessed by girls of her=
age
and station; and very glad was she to avail herself of the kind offer made =
by
her cousin Hortense, soon after the arrival of the latter at Hollow's Mill,=
to
teach her French and fine needlework. Mlle. Moore, for her part, delighted =
in
the task, because it gave her importance; she liked to lord it a little ove=
r a
docile yet quick pupil. She took Caroline precisely at her own estimate, as=
an
irregularly-taught, even ignorant girl; and when she found that she made ra=
pid
and eager progress, it was to no talent, no application, in the scholar she
ascribed the improvement, but entirely to her own superior method of teachi=
ng.
When she found that Caroline, unskilled in routine, had a knowledge of her =
own,
desultory but varied, the discovery caused her no surprise, for she still
imagined that from her conversation had the girl unawares gleaned these
treasures. She thought it even when forced to feel that her pupil knew much=
on
subjects whereof she knew little; the idea was not logical, but Hortense had
perfect faith in it
Mademoiselle, who prided herself on
possessing 'un esprit positif,' and on entertaining a decided preference for
dry studies, kept her young cousin to the same as closely as she could. She
worked her unrelentingly at the grammar of the French language, assigning h=
er,
as the most improving exercise she could devise, interminable 'analyses
logiques.' These 'analyses' were by no means a source of particular pleasur=
e to
Caroline; she thought she could have learned French just as well without th=
em,
and grudged excessively the time spent in pondering over 'propositions,
principales, et incidents;' in deciding the 'incidente déterminative=
,'
and the 'incidente applicative;' in examining whether the proposition was
'pleine' 'elliptique,' or 'implicite.' Sometimes she lost herself in the ma=
ze,
and when so lost she would, now and then (while Hortense was rummaging her
drawers upstairs - an unaccountable occupation in which she spent a large
portion of each day, arranging, disarranging, rearranging, and
counter-arranging), carry her book to Robert in the counting-house and get =
the
rough place made smooth by his aid. Mr Moore possessed a clear, tranquil br=
ain
of his own. Almost as soon as he looked at Caroline's little difficulties t=
hey
seemed to dissolve beneath his eye. In two minutes he would explain all, in=
two
words give the key to the puzzle. She thought if Hortense could only teach =
like
him, how much faster she might learn. Repaying him by an admiring and grate=
ful
smile, rather shed at his feet than lifted to his face; she would leave the
mill reluctantly to go back to the cottage, and then, while she completed t=
he
exercise, or worked out the sum (for Mlle. Moore taught her arithmetic too)=
she
would wish nature had made her a boy instead of a girl, that she might ask
Robert to let her be his clerk, and sit with him in the counting-house, ins=
tead
of sitting with Hortense in the parlour.
Occasionally - but this happened v=
ery
rarely - she spent the evening at Hollow's Cottage. Sometimes during these
visits Moore was away attending a market; sometimes he was gone to Mr Yorke=
's;
often he was engaged with a male visitor in another room; but sometimes, to=
o,
he was at home; disengaged, free to talk with Caroline. When this was the c=
ase,
the evening hours passed on wings of light; they were gone before they were
counted. There was no room in England so pleasant as that small parlour when
the three cousins occupied it. Hortense, when she was not teaching, or
scolding, or cooking, was far from ill-humoured; it was her custom to relax
towards evening, and to be kind to her young English kinswoman. There was a
means, too, of rendering her delightful, by inducing her to take her guitar=
and
sing and play. She then became quite good-natured. And as she played with
skill, and had a well-toned voice, it was not disagreeable to listen to her=
. It
would have been absolutely agreeable, except that her formal and self-impor=
tant
character modulated her strains, as it impressed her manners and moulded her
countenance.
Mr Moore, released from the busine=
ss
yoke, was, if not lively himself, a willing spectator of Caroline's livelin=
ess,
a complacent listener to her talk, a ready respondent to her questions. He =
was
something agreeable to sit near, to hover round, to address and look at.
Sometimes he was better than this - almost animated, quite gentle and frien=
dly.
The drawback was that by the next
morning he was sure to be frozen up again; and however much he seemed, in h=
is
quiet way, to enjoy these social evenings, he rarely contrived their
recurrence. This circumstance puzzled the inexperienced head of his cousin.=
'If
I had a means of happiness at my command,' she thought, 'I would employ that
means often. I would keep it bright with use, and not let it lie for weeks
aside; till it gets rusty.'
Yet she was careful not to put in
practice her own theory. Much as she liked an evening visit to the cottage,=
she
never paid one unasked. Often, indeed, when pressed by Hortense to come, she
would refuse, because Robert did not second, or but slightly seconded the
request. This morning was the first time he had ever, of his own unprompted
will, given her an invitation; and then he had spoken so kindly that in hea=
ring
him she had received a sense of happiness sufficient to keep her glad for t=
he
whole day.
The morning passed as usual.
Mademoiselle, ever breathlessly busy, spent it in bustling from kitchen to =
parlour,
now scolding Sarah, now looking over Caroline's exercise or hearing her
repetition-lesson. However faultlessly these tasks were achieved, she never
commended: it was a maxim with her that praise is inconsistent with a teach=
er's
dignity, and that blame, in more or less unqualified measure, is indispensa=
ble
to it. She thought incessant reprimand, severe or slight, quite necessary to
the maintenance of her authority; and if no possible error was to be found =
in
the lesson, it was the pupil's carriage, or air, or dress, or mien, which
required correction.
The usual affray took place about =
the
dinner, which meal, when Sarah at last brought it into the room, she almost
flung upon the table, with a look that expressed quite plainly, 'I never di=
shed
such stuff i' my life afore; it's not fit for dogs.' Notwithstanding Sarah's
scorn, it was a savoury repast enough. The soup was a sort of puree of dried
peas, which mademoiselle had prepared amidst bitter lamentations that in th=
is
desolate country of England no haricot beans were to be had. Then came a di=
sh
of meat - nature unknown, but supposed to be miscellaneous - singularly cho=
pped
up with crumbs of bread, seasoned uniquely though not unpleasantly, and bak=
ed
in a mould - a queer but by no means unpalatable dish. Greens, oddly bruise=
d,
formed the accompanying vegetable; and a pâté of fruit, conser=
ved
after a recipe devised by Madame Gérard Moore's 'grand'mère,'=
and
from the taste of which it appeared probable that 'mélasse' had been
substituted for sugar, completed the dinner.
Caroline had no objection to this
Belgian cookery - indeed she rather liked it for a change; and it was well =
she
did so, for had she evinced any disrelish thereof, such manifestation would
have injured her in mademoiselle's good graces for ever; a positive crime m=
ight
have been more easily pardoned than a symptom of distaste for the foreign
comestibles.
Soon after dinner Caroline coaxed =
her
governess-cousin upstairs to dress. This manoeuvre required management. To =
have
hinted that the jupon, camisole, and curl-papers were odious objects, or in=
deed
other than quite meritorious points, would have been a felony. Any premature
attempt to urge their disappearance was therefore unwise, and would be like=
ly
to issue in the persevering wear of them during the whole day. Carefully
avoiding rocks and quicksands, however, the pupil, on pretence of requiring=
a
change of scene, contrived to get the teacher aloft; and, once in the bedro=
om,
she persuaded her that it was not worth while returning thither, and that s=
he
might as well make her toilet now; and while Mademoiselle delivered a solemn
homily on her own surpassing merit in disregarding all frivolities of fashi=
on,
Caroline denuded her of the camisole, invested her with a decent gown, arra=
nged
her collar, hair, etc., and made her quite presentable. But Hortense would =
put
the finishing touches herself, and these finishing touches consisted in a t=
hick
handkerchief tied round the throat, and a large, servant-like black apron,
which spoiled everything. On no account would mademoiselle have appeared in=
her
own house without the thick handkerchief and the voluminous apron. The first
was a positive matter of morality - it was quite improper not to wear a fic=
hu;
the second was the ensign of a good housewife - she appeared to think that =
by
means of it she somehow effected a large saving in her brother's income. She
had, with her own hands, made and presented to Caroline similar equipments;=
and
the only serious quarrel they had ever had, and which still left a soreness=
in
the elder cousin's soul, had arisen from the refusal of the younger one to
accept of and profit by these elegant presents.
'I wear a high dress and a collar,'
said Caroline, 'and I should feel suffocated with a handkerchief in additio=
n;
and my short aprons do quite as well as that very long one. I would rather =
make
no change.'
Yet Hortense, by dint of persevera=
nce,
would probably have compelled her to make a change, had not Mr Moore chance=
d to
overhear a dispute on the subject, and decided that Caroline's little aprons
would suffice, and that, in his opinion, as she was still but a child, she
might for the present dispense with the fichu, especially as her curls were
long, and almost touched her shoulders.
There was no appeal against Robert=
's
opinion, therefore his sister was compelled to yield; but she disapproved
entirely of the piquant neatness of Caroline's costume, and the ladylike gr=
ace
of her appearance. Something more solid and homely she would have considered
'beaucoup plus convenable.'
The afternoon was devoted to sewin=
g.
Mademoiselle, like most Belgian ladies, was specially skilful with her need=
le.
She by no means thought it waste of time to devote unnumbered hours to fine
embroidery, sight-destroying lace-work, marvellous netting and knitting, an=
d,
above all, to most elaborate stocking- mending. She would give a day to the
mending of two holes in a stocking any time, and think her 'mission' nobly
fulfilled when she had accomplished it. It was another of Caroline's troubl=
es
to be condemned to learn this foreign style of darning, which was done stit=
ch
by stitch, so as exactly to imitate the fabric of the stocking itself - a
weariful process, but considered by Hortense Gérard, and by her
ancestresses before her for long generations back, as one of the first 'dut=
ies
of woman.' She herself had had a needle, cotton, and a fearfully torn stock=
ing
put into her hand while she yet wore a child's coif on her little black hea=
d;
her 'hauts faits' in the darning line had been exhibited to company ere she=
was
six years old; and when she first discovered that Caroline was profoundly
ignorant of this most essential of attainments, she could have wept with pi=
ty
over her miserably neglected youth.
No time did she lose in seeking up=
a
hopeless pair of hose, of which the heels were entirely gone, and in setting
the ignorant English girl to repair the deficiency. This task had been
commenced two years ago, and Caroline had the stockings in her work-bag yet.
She did a few rows everyday, by way of penance for the expiation of her sin=
s.
They were a grievous burden to her; she would much have liked to put them in
the fire; and once Mr Moore, who had observed her sitting and sighing over
them, had proposed a private incremation in the counting-house; but to this
proposal Caroline knew it would have been impolitic to accede - the result
could only be a fresh pair of hose, probably in worse condition. She adhere=
d,
therefore, to the ills she knew.
All the afternoon the two ladies s=
at
and sewed, till the eyes and fingers, and even the spirits of one of them, =
were
weary. The sky since dinner had darkened; it had begun to rain again, to po=
ur
fast secret fears began to steal on Caroline that Robert would be persuaded=
by Mr
Sykes or Mr Yorke to remain at Whinbury till it cleared, and of that there
appeared no present chance. Five o'clock struck, and time stole on; still t=
he
clouds streamed. A sighing wind whispered in the roof-trees of the cottage;=
day
seemed already closing; the parlour fire shed on the clear hearth a glow ru=
ddy
as at twilight.
'It will not be fair till the moon
rises,' pronounced Mademoiselle Moore, 'consequently I feel assured that my
brother will not return till then. Indeed I should be sorry if he did. We w=
ill
have coffee. It would be vain to wait for him.'
'I am tired. May I leave my work n=
ow,
cousin?'
'You may, since it grows too dark =
to
see to do it well. Fold it up; put it carefully in your bag; then step into=
the
kitchen and desire Sarah to bring in the goûter, or tea, as you call =
it.'
'But it has not yet struck six. He=
may
still come.'
'He will not, I tell you. I can
calculate his movements. I understand my brother.'
Suspense is irksome, disappointment
bitter. All the world has, some time or other, felt that Caroline, obedient=
to
orders, passed into the kitchen. Sarah was making a dress for herself at the
table.
'You are to bring in coffee,' said=
the
young lady in a spiritless tone; and then she leaned her arm and head again=
st
the kitchen mantelpiece, and hung listlessly over the fire.
'How low you seem, miss! But it's =
all
because your cousin keeps you so close to work. It's a shame!'
'Nothing of the kind, Sarah,' was =
the
brief reply.
'Oh! but I know it is. You're fit =
to
cry just this minute, for nothing else but because you've sat still the who=
le
day. It would make a kitten dull to be mewed up so.'
'Sarah, does your master often come
home early from market when it is wet?'
'Never, hardly; but just to-day, f=
or
some reason, he has made a difference.'
'What do you mean?'
'He is come. I am certain I saw
Murgatroyd lead his horse into the yard by the back-way, when I went to get
some water at the pump five minutes since. He was in the counting-house with
Joe Scott, I believe.'
'You are mistaken.'
'What should I be mistaken for? I =
know
his horse surely?'
'But you did not see himself?'
'I heard him speak, though. He was
saying something to Joe Scott about having settled all concerning ways and
means, and that there would be a new set of frames in the mill before anoth=
er
week passed, and that this time he would get four soldiers from Stilbro'
barracks to guard the wagon.'
'Sarah, are you making a gown?'
'Yes. Is it a handsome one?'
'Beautiful! Get the coffee ready. =
I'll
finish cutting out that sleeve for you, and I'll give you some trimming for=
it
I have some narrow satin ribbon of a colour that will just match it'
'You're very kind, miss.'
'Be quick; there's a good girl. But
first put your master's shoes on the hearth: he will take his boots off whe=
n he
comes in. I hear him; he is coming.'
'Miss, you're cutting the stuff wr=
ong.'
'So I am; but it is only a snip: t=
here
is no harm done.'
The kitchen door opened; Mr Moore
entered, very wet and cold. Caroline half turned from her dressmaking
occupation, but renewed it for a moment, as if to gain a minute's tune for =
some
purpose. Bent over the dress, her face was hidden; there was an attempt to
settle her features and veil their expression, which failed. When she at la=
st
met Mr Moore, her countenance beamed.
'We had ceased to expect you. They
asserted you would not come,' she said.
'But I promised to return soon: you
expected me, I suppose?'
'No, Robert; I dared not when it
rained so fast. And you are wet and chilled. Change everything. If you took
cold, I should - we should blame ourselves in some measure.'
'I am not wet through: my riding-c=
oat
is waterproof. Dry shoes are all I require. There - the fire is pleasant af=
ter
facing the cold wind and rain for a few miles.'
He stood on the kitchen hearth;
Caroline stood beside him. Mr Moore, while enjoying the genial glow, kept h=
is
eyes directed towards the glittering brasses on the shelf above. Chancing f=
or
an instant to look down, his glance rested on an uplifted face flushed,
smiling, happy, shaded with silky curls, lit with fine eyes. Sarah was gone
into the parlour with the tray; a lecture from her mistress detained her th=
ere.
Moore placed his hand a moment on his young cousin's shoulder, stooped, and
left a kiss on her forehead.
'Oh!' said she, as if the action h=
ad
unsealed her lips, 'I was miserable when I thought you would not come. I am
almost too happy now. Are you happy, Robert? Do you like to come home?'
'I think I do - to-night, at least=
'
'Are you certain you are not frett=
ing
about your frames, and your business, and the war?'
'Not just now.'
'Are you positive you don't feel H=
ollow's
Cottage too small for you, and narrow, and dismal?'
'At this moment, no.'
'Can you affirm that you are not
bitter at heart because rich and great people forget you?'
'No more questions. You are mistak=
en
if you think I am anxious to curry favour with rich and great people. I only
want means - a position - a career.'
'Which your own talent and goodness
shall win you. You were made to be great; you shall be great.'
'I wonder now, if you spoke honest=
ly
out of your heart, what recipe you would give me for acquiring this same
greatness; but I know it - better than you know it yourself. Would it be
efficacious? Would it work? Yes - poverty, misery, bankruptcy. Oh, life is =
not
what you think it, Lina!'
'But you are what I think you.'
'I am not'
'You are better, then?'
'Far worse.'
'No; far better. I know you are go=
od.'
'How do you know it?'
'You look so, and I feel you are s=
o.'
'Where do you feel it?'
'In my heart'
'Ah! you judge me with your heart,
Lina; you should judge me with your head.'
'I do; and then I am quite proud of
you. Robert, you cannot tell all my thoughts about you.'
Mr Moore's dark face mustered colo=
ur;
his lips smiled, and yet were compressed; his eyes laughed, and yet he
resolutely knit his brow.
'Think meanly of me, Lina,' said h=
e.
'Men, in general, are a sort of scum, very different to anything of which y=
ou
have an idea. I make no pretension to be better than my fellows.'
'If you did, I should not esteem y=
ou
so much. It is because you are modest that I have such confidence merit'
'Are you flattering me?' he demand=
ed,
turning sharply upon her, and searching her face with an eye of acute
penetration.
'No,' she said softly, laughing at=
his
sudden quickness. She seemed to think it unnecessary to proffer any eager
disavowal of the charge.
'You don't care whether I think you
flatter me or not?'
'No.'
'You are so secure of your own
intentions?'
'I suppose so.'
'What are they, Caroline?'
'Only to ease my mind by expressing
for once part of what I think, and then to make you better satisfied with
yourself.'
'By assuring me that my kinswoman =
is
my sincere friend?'
'Just so. I am your sincere friend,
Robert'
'And I am - what chance and change
shall make me, Lina.'
'Not my enemy, however?'
The answer was cut short by Sarah =
and
her mistress entering the kitchen together in some commotion. They had been
improving the time which Mr Moore and Miss Helstone had spent in dialogue b=
y a
short dispute on the subject of 'café au lait,' which Sarah said was=
the
queerest mess she ever saw, and a waste of God's good gifts, as it was 'the
nature of coffee to be boiled in water,' and which mademoiselle affirmed to=
be
'un breuvage royal,' a thousand times too good for the mean person who obje=
cted
to it.
The former occupants of the kitchen
now withdrew into the parlour. Before Hortense followed them thither, Carol=
ine
had only time again to question, 'Not my enemy, Robert?' And Moore,
Quaker-like, had replied with another query, 'Could I be?' and then, seating
himself at the table, had settled Caroline at his side.
Caroline scarcely heard Mademoisel=
le's
explosion of wrath when she rejoined them; the long declamation about the
'conduite indigne de cette méchante créature' sounded in her =
ear
as confusedly as the agitated rattling of the china. Robert laughed a littl=
e at
it, in very subdued sort, and then, politely and calmly entreating his sist=
er
to be tranquil, assured her that if it would yield her any satisfaction, she
should have her choice of an attendant amongst all the girls in his mill. O=
nly
he feared they would scarcely suit her, as they were most of them, he was
informed, completely ignorant of household work; and pert and self-willed as
Sarah was, she was, perhaps, no worse than the majority of the women of her
class.
Mademoiselle admitted the truth of
this conjecture: according to her, 'ces paysannes anglaises étaient =
tout
insupportables.' What would she not give for some 'bonne cuisinière
anversoise,' with the high cap, short petticoat, and decent sabots proper to
her class - something better, indeed, 'thin an insolent coquette in a floun=
ced
gown, and absolutely without cap! (For Sarah, it appears, did not partake t=
he
opinion of St. Paul that 'it is a shame for a woman to go with her head
uncovered;' but, holding rather a contrary doctrine, resolutely refused to
imprison in linen or muslin the plentiful tresses of her yellow hair, which=
it
was her wont to fasten up smartly with a comb behind, and on Sundays to wear
curled in front.)
'Shall I try and get you an Antwerp
girl?' asked Mr Moore, who, stern in public, was on the whole very kind in
private.
'Merci du cadeau!' was the answer.=
'An
Antwerp girl would not stay here ten days, sneered at as she would be by all
the young coquines in your factory;' then softening, You are very good, dear
brother - excuse my petulance - but truly my domestic trials are severe, yet
they are probably my destiny; for I recollect that our revered mother
experienced similar sufferings, though she had the choice of all the best
servants in Antwerp. Domestics are in all countries a spoiled and untruly s=
et.'
Mr Moore had also certain
reminiscences about the trials of his revered mother. A good mother she had
been to him, and he honoured her memory; but he recollected that she kept a=
hot
kitchen of it in Antwerp, just as his faithful sister did here in England.
Thus, therefore, he let the subject drop, and when the coffee-service was
removed, proceeded to console Hortense by fetching her music-book and guita=
r;
and having arranged the ribbon of the instrument round her neck with a quiet
fraternal kindness he knew to be all-powerful in soothing her most ruffled
moods, he asked her to give him some of their mother's favourite songs.
Nothing refines like affection. Fa=
mily
jarring vulgarises; family union elevates. Hortense, pleased with her broth=
er,
and grateful to him, looked, as she touched her guitar, almost graceful, al=
most
handsome; her every-day fretful look was gone for a moment, and was replace=
d by
a 'sourire plein de bonté.' She sang the songs he asked for, with
feeling; they reminded her of a parent to whom she had been truly attached;
they reminded her of her young days. She observed, too, that Caroline liste=
ned
with naïve interest; this augmented her good-humour; and the exclamati=
on
at the close of the song, 'I wish I could sing and play like Hortense!'
achieved the business, and rendered her charming for the evening.
It is true a little lecture to
Caroline followed, on the vanity of wishing and the duty of trying. 'As Rom=
e,'
it was suggested, 'had not been built in a day, so neither had Mademoiselle
Gérard Moore's education been completed in a week, or by merely wish=
ing
to be clever. It was effort that had accomplished that great work. She was =
ever
remarkable for her perseverance, for her industry. Her masters had remarked
that it was as delightful as it was uncommon to find so much talent united =
with
so much solidity,' and so on. Once on the theme of her own merits, mademois=
elle
was fluent.
Cradled at last in blissful
self-complacency, she took her knitting, and sat down tranquil. Drawn curta=
ins,
a clear fire, a softly-shining lamp, gave now to the little parlour its bes=
t,
its evening charm. It is probable that the three there present felt this ch=
arm.
They all looked happy.
'What shall we do now, Caroline?'
asked Mr Moore, returning to his seat beside his cousin.
'What shall we do, Robert?' repeat=
ed
she playfully, 'You decide.'
'Not play at chess?'
'No.'
'Nor draughts, nor backgammon?'
'No, no; we both hate silent games
that only keep one's hands employed, don't we?'
'I believe we do. Then shall we ta=
lk
scandal?'
'About whom? Are we sufficiently
interested in anybody to take a pleasure in pulling their character to piec=
es?'
'A question that comes to the poin=
t.
For my part, unamiable as it sounds, I must say no.'
'And I too. But it is strange, tho=
ugh we
want no third - fourth, I mean (she hastily and with contrition glanced at
Hortense), living person among us - so selfish we are in our happiness - th=
ough
we don't want to think of the present existing world, it would be pleasant =
to
go back to the past, to hear people that have slept for generations in grav=
es
that are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens and fields, speak to us =
and
tell us their thoughts, and impart their ideas.'
'Who shall be the speaker? What
language shall he utter? French?'
'Your French forefathers don't spe=
ak
so sweetly, nor so solemnly nor so impressively as your English ancestors,
Robert. To-night you shall be entirely English. You shall read an English
book.'
'An old English book?'
'Yes, an old English book - one th=
at
you like; and I'll choose a part of it that is toned quite in harmony with
something in you. It shall waken your nature, fill your mind with music, it
shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound.
Your heart is a lyre, Robert; but the lot of your life has not been a minst=
rel
to sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and tou=
ch
it. You will see how he will draw the English power and melody out of its
chords.'
'I must read Shakespeare?'
'You must have his spirit before y=
ou;
you must hear his voice with your mind's ear; you must take some of his soul
into yours.'
'With a view to making me better? =
Is
it to operate like a sermon?'
'It is to stir you, to give you new
sensations. It is to make you feel your life strongly - not only your virtu=
es,
but your vicious, perverse points.'
'Dieu! que dit-elle?' cried Horten=
se,
who hitherto had been counting stitches in her knitting, and had not much
attended to what was said, but whose ear these two strong words caught with=
a tweak.
'Never mind her, sister; let her t=
alk.
Now just let her say anything she pleases to-night. She likes to come down =
hard
upon your brother sometimes. It amuses me, so let her alone.'
Caroline, who, mounted on a chair,=
had
been rummaging the bookcase, returned with a book.
'Here's Shakespeare,' she said, 'a=
nd
there's ‘Coriolanus.’ Now, read, and discover by the feelings t=
he
reading will give you at once how low and how high you are.'
'Come then, sit near me, and corre=
ct
when I mispronounce.'
'I am to be the teacher then, and =
you
my pupil?'
'Ainsi, soit-il!'
'And Shakespeare is our science, s=
ince
we are going to study?'
'It appears so.'
'And you are not going to be Frenc=
h,
and sceptical, and sneering? You are not going to think it a sign of wisdom=
to
refuse to admire?'
'I don't know.'
'If you do, Robert, I'll take
Shakespeare away; and I'll shrivel up within myself, and put on my bonnet a=
nd
go home.'
'Sit down. Here I begin.'
'One minute if you please, brother=
,'
interrupted Mademoiselle. 'When the gentleman of a family reads, the ladies
should always sew. - Caroline, dear child; take your embroidery. You may get
three sprigs done to-night.'
Caroline looked dismayed. 'I can't=
see
by lamplight; my eyes are tired, and I can't do two things well at once. If=
I
sew, I cannot listen; if I listen, I cannot sew.'
'Fi, donc! Quel enfantillage!' beg=
an
Hortense. Mr Moore, as usual, suavely interposed.
'Permit her to neglect the embroid=
ery
for this evening. I wish her whole attention to be fixed on my accent, and =
to
ensure this, she must follow the reading with her eyes - she must look at t=
he
book.'
He placed it between them, reposed=
his
arm on the back of Caroline's chair, and thus began to read.
The very first scene in 'Coriolanu=
s'
came with smart relish to his intellectual palate, and still as he read he
warmed. He delivered the haughty speech of Caius Marcius to the starving
citizens with unction; he did not say he thought his irrational pride right,
but he seemed to feel it so. Caroline looked up at him with a singular smil=
e.
'There's a vicious point hit alrea=
dy,'
she said. 'You sympathise with that proud patrician who does not sympathise
with his famished fellowmen, and insults them. There, go on.' He proceeded.=
The
warlike portions did not rouse him much; he said all that was out of date, =
or
should be; the spirit displayed was barbarous; yet the encounter single-han=
ded
between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius he delighted in. As he advanced, he for=
got
to criticise; it was evident he appreciated the power, the truth of each po=
rtion;
and, stepping out of the narrow line of private prejudices, began to revel =
in
the large picture of human nature, to feel the reality stamped upon the
characters who were speaking from that page before him.
He did not read the comic scenes w=
ell;
and Caroline, taking the book out of his hand, read these parts for him. Fr=
om
her he seemed to enjoy them, and indeed she gave them with a spirit no one
could have expected of her, with a pithy expression with which she seemed
gifted on the spot, and for that brief moment only. It may be remarked, in
passing, that the general character of her conversation that evening, wheth=
er
serious or sprightly, grave or gay, was as of something untaught, unstudied,
intuitive, fitful - when once gone, no more to be reproduced as it had been
than the glancing ray of the meteor, than the tints of the dew-gem, than the
colour or form of the sunset cloud, than the fleeting and glittering ripple
varying the flow of a rivulet.
Coriolanus in glory, Coriolanus in
disaster, Coriolanus banished, followed like giant shades one after the oth=
er.
Before the vision of the banished man Moore's spirit seemed to pause. He st=
ood
on the hearth of Aufidius's hall, facing the image of greatness fallen, but
greater than ever in that low estate. He saw 'the grim appearance,' the dark
face 'bearing command in it,' 'the noble vessel with its tackle torn.' With=
the
revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly sympathised; he was not scandalis=
ed
by it; and again Caroline whispered, 'There I see another glimpse of
brotherhood in error.'
The march on Rome, the mother's
supplication, the long resistance, the final yielding of bad passions to go=
od,
which ever must be the case in a nature worthy the epithet of noble, the ra=
ge
of Aufidius at what he considered his ally's weakness, the death of Coriola=
nus,
the final sorrow of his great enemy - all scenes made of condensed truth and
strength - came on in succession and carried with them in their deep, fast =
flow
the heart and mind of reader and listener.
'Now, have you felt Shakespeare?'
asked Caroline, some ten minutes after her cousin had closed the book.
'I think so.'
'And have you felt anything in
Coriolanus like you?'
'Perhaps I have.'
'Was he not faulty as well as grea=
t?'
Moore nodded.
'And what was his fault? What made=
him
hated by the citizens? What caused him to be banished by his countrymen?'
'What do you think it was?'
'I ask again -
‘Whether was it pride, Which=
out
of daily fortune ever taints The happy man? whether defect of judgment, To =
fail
in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of? or whether nature, =
Not
to be other than one thing, not moving From the casque to the cushion, but
commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controlled the
war?’'
'Well, answer yourself, Sphinx.'
'It was a spice of all; and you mu=
st
not be proud to your workpeople; you must not neglect chances of soothing t=
hem;
and you must not be of an inflexible nature, uttering a request as austerel=
y as
if it were a command.'
'That is the moral you tack to the
play. What puts such notions into your head?'
'A wish for your good, a care for =
your
safety, dear Robert, and a fear, caused by many things which I have heard
lately, that you will come to harm.'
'Who tells you these things?'
'I hear my uncle talk about you. He
praises your hard spirit, your determined cast of mind, your scorn of low
enemies, your resolution not ‘to truckle to the mob,’ as he say=
s.'
'And would you have me truckle to
them?'
'No, not for the world. I never wi=
sh
you to lower yourself; but somehow I cannot help thinking it unjust to incl=
ude
all poor working-people under the general and insulting name of ‘the =
mob,’
and continually to think of them and treat them haughtily.'
'You are a little democrat, Caroli=
ne.
If your uncle knew, what would he say?'
'I rarely talk to my uncle, as you
know, and never about such things. He thinks everything but sewing and cook=
ing
above women's comprehension, and out of their line.'
'And do you fancy you comprehend t=
he
subjects on which you advise me?'
'As far as they concern you, I
comprehend them. I know it would be better for you to be loved by your
workpeople than to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is more li=
kely
to win their regard than pride. If you were proud and cold to me and Horten=
se,
should we love you? When you are cold to me, as you are sometimes, can I
venture to be affectionate in return?'
'Now, Lina, I've had my lesson bot=
h in
languages and ethics, with a touch on politics; it is your turn. Hortense t=
ells
me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you learned the other da=
y, a
piece by poor André Chénier - ‘La Jeune Captive.’=
Do
you remember it still?'
'I think so.'
'Repeat it, then. Take your time a=
nd
mind your accent; especially let us have no English u's.'
Caroline, beginning in a low, rath=
er
tremulous voice, but gaining courage as she proceeded, repeated the sweet
verses of Chénier. The last three stanzas she rehearsed well.
'Mon beau voyage encore est si loin de sa fin!
Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemin
J'ai passé les premiers à peine.
Au banquet de la vie é peine commencé
Un instant seulement mes lèvres ont pressé'
La coupe en mes mams encore pleine.
'Je ne suis qu'au printemps - je veux voir la moisson;
Comme le soleil, de saison en saison,
Je veux achever mon année.
Brillante sur ma tige, et l'honneu=
r du
jardin
Je n'ai vu luire encore que les feux du matin,
Je veux achever ma journée!'
Moore listened at first with his e=
yes
cast down, but soon he furtively raised them. Leaning back in his chair he
could watch Caroline without her perceiving where his gaze was fixed. Her c=
heek
had a colour, her eyes a light, her countenance an expression this evening
which would have made even plain features striking; but there was not the
grievous defect of plainness to pardon in her case. The sunshine was not sh=
ed
on rough barrenness; it fell on soft bloom. Each lineament was turned with
grace; the whole aspect was pleasing. At the present moment - animated,
interested, touched - she might be called beautiful. Such a face was calcul=
ated
to awaken not only the calm sentiment of esteem, the distant one of admirat=
ion,
but some feeling more tender, genial, intimate - friendship, perhaps,
affection, interest. When she had finished, she turned to Moore, and met his
eye.
'Is that pretty well repeated?' she
inquired, smiling like any happy, docile child.
'I really don't know.'
'Why don't you know? Have you not
listened?'
'Yes - and looked. You are fond of
poetry, Lina?'
'When I meet with real poetry, I
cannot rest till I have learned it by heart, and so made partly mine.'
Mr Moore now sat silent for several
minutes. It struck nine o'clock. Sarah entered, and said that Mr Helstone's
servant was come for Miss Caroline.
'Then the evening is gone already,'
she observed, 'and it will be long, I suppose, before I pass another here.'=
Hortense had been for some time
nodding over her knitting; fallen into a doze now, she made no response to =
the
remark.
'You would have no objection to co=
me
here oftener of an evening?' inquired Robert, as he took her folded mantle =
from
the side-table, where it still lay, and carefully wrapped it round her.
'I like to come here, but I have no
desire to be intrusive. I am not hinting to be asked; you must understand
that.'
'Oh! I understand thee, child. You
sometimes lecture me for wishing to be rich, Lina; but if I were rich, you
should live here always - at any rate, you should live with me wherever my
habitation might be.'
'That would be pleasant; and if you
were poor - ever so poor - it would still be pleasant. Good-night, Robert.'=
'I promised to walk with you up to=
the
rectory.'
'I know you did, but I thought you=
had
forgotten, and I hardly knew how to remind you, though I wished to do it. B=
ut
would you like to go? It is a cold night, and as Fanny is come, there is no=
necessity
- '
'Here is your muff; don't wake
Hortense - come.'
The half-mile to the rectory was s=
oon
traversed. They parted in the garden without kiss, scarcely with a pressure=
of
hands; yet Robert sent his cousin in excited and joyously troubled. He had =
been
singularly kind to her that day - not in phrase, compliment, profession, bu=
t in
manner, in look, and in soft and friendly tones.
For himself, he came home grave,
almost morose. As he stood leaning on his own yard-gate, musing in the wate=
ry
moonlight all alone, the hushed, dark mill before him, the hill-environed
hollow round, he exclaimed, abruptly, -
'This won't do! There's weakness -
there's downright ruin in all this. However,' he added, dropping his voice,
'the frenzy is quite temporary. I know it very well; I have had it before. =
It
will be gone to-morrow.
Caroline Helstone was just eighteen
years old, and at eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to be commence=
d.
Before that time we sit listening to a tale, a marvellous fiction, delightf=
ul
sometimes and sad sometimes, almost always unreal. Before that time our wor=
ld
is heroic, its inhabitants half-divine or semi-demon; its scenes are
dream-scenes; darker woods and stranger hills, brighter skies, more dangero=
us waters,
sweeter flowers, more tempting fruits, wider plains, drearier deserts, sunn=
ier
fields than are found in nature, over- spread our enchanted globe. What a m=
oon
we gaze on before that time! How the trembling of our hearts at her aspect
bears witness to its unutterable beauty! As to our sun, it is a burning hea=
ven
- the world of gods.
At that time, at eighteen, drawing
near the confines of illusive, void dreams, Elf-land lies behind us, the sh=
ores
of Reality rise in front. These shores are yet distant; they look so blue,
soft, gentle, we long to reach them. In sunshine we see a greenness beneath=
the
azure, as of spring meadows; we catch glimpses of silver lines, and imagine=
the
roll of living waters. Could we but reach this land, we think to hunger and=
thirst
no more; whereas many a wilderness, and often the flood of death, or some
stream of sorrow as cold and almost as black as death, is to be crossed ere
true bliss can be tasted. Every joy that life gives must be earned ere it is
secured; and how hardly earned, those only know who have wrestled for great
prizes. The heart's blood must gem with red beads the brow of the combatant,
before the wreath of victory rustles over it.
At eighteen we are not aware of th=
is.
Hope, when she smiles on us, and promises happiness to-morrow, is implicitly
believed; Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel to our door, is at
once admitted, welcomed, embraced. His quiver is not seen; if his arrows
penetrate, their wound is like a thrill of new life. There are no fears of
poison, none of the barb which no leech's hand can extract That perilous
passion - an agony ever in some of its phases; with many, an agony througho=
ut -
is believed to be an unqualified good. In short, at eighteen the school of
experience is to be entered, and her humbling, crushing, grinding, but yet
purifying and invigorating lessons are yet to be learned.
Alas, Experience! No other mentor =
has
so wasted and frozen a face as yours, none wears a robe so black, none bear=
s a
rod so heavy, none with hand so inexorable draws the novice so sternly to h=
is
task, and forces him with authority so resistless to its acquirement. It is=
by
your instructions alone that man or woman can ever find a safe track through
life's wilds; without it, how they stumble, how they stray! On what forbidd=
en
grounds do they intrude, down what dread declivities are they hurled!
Caroline, having been conveyed hom=
e by
Robert, had no wish to pass what remained of the evening with her uncle. The
room in which he sat was very sacred ground to her; she seldom intruded on =
it;
and to-night she kept aloof till the bell rang for prayers. Part of the eve=
ning
church service was the form of worship observed in Mr Helstone's household.=
He
read it in his usual nasal voice, clear, loud, and monotonous. The rite ove=
r,
his niece, according to her wont, stepped up to him.
'Good-night, uncle.'
'Hey! You've been gadding abroad a=
ll
day - visiting, dining out, and what not'
'Only at the cottage.'
'And have you learned your lessons=
?'
'Yes.'
'And made a shirt?'
'Only part of one.'
'Well, that will do. Stick to the
needle, learn shirt-making and gown-making and piecrust-making, and you'll =
be a
clever woman some day. Go to bed now. I'm busy with a pamphlet here.'
Presently the niece was enclosed in
her small bedroom, the door bolted, her white dressing-gown assumed, her lo=
ng
hair loosened and falling thick, soft, and wavy to her waist; and as, resti=
ng
from the task of combing it out, she leaned her cheek on her hand and fixed=
her
eyes on the carpet, before her rose, and close around her drew, the visions=
we
see at eighteen years.
Her thoughts were speaking with he=
r,
speaking pleasantly, as it seemed, for she smiled as she listened. She look=
ed
pretty meditating thus; but a brighter thing than she was in that apartment=
-
the spirit of youthful Hope. According to this flattering prophet, she was =
to
know disappointment, to feel chill no more; she had entered on the dawn of a
summer day - no false dawn, but the true spring of morning - and her sun wo=
uld
quickly rise. Impossible for her now to suspect that she was the sport of
delusion; her expectations seemed warranted, the foundation on which they
rested appeared solid.
'When people love, the next step is
they marry,' was her argument. 'Now, I love Robert, and I feel sure that Ro=
bert
loves me. I have thought so many a time before; to-day I felt it. When I lo=
oked
up at him after repeating Chénier's poem, his eyes (what handsome ey=
es
he has!) sent the truth through my heart. Sometimes I am afraid to speak to
him, lest I should be too frank, lest I should seem forward - for I have mo=
re
than once regretted bitterly overflowing, superfluous words, and feared I h=
ad
said more than he expected me to say, and that he would disapprove what he
might deem my indiscretion; now, to-night I could have ventured to express =
any
thought, he was so indulgent. How kind he was as we walked up the lane! He =
does
not flatter or say foolish things; his love- making (friendship, I mean; of
course I don't yet account him my lover, but I hope he will be so some day)=
is
not like what we read of in books, - it is far better - original, quiet, ma=
nly,
sincere. I do like him, I would be an excellent wife to him if he did marry=
me;
I would tell him of his faults (for he has a few faults), but I would study=
his
comfort, and cherish him, and do my best to make him happy. Now, I am sure =
he
will not be cold to-morrow. I feel almost certain that to-morrow evening he
will either come here, or ask me to go there.'
She recommenced combing her hair, =
long
as a mermaid's. Turning her head as she arranged it she saw her own face and
form in the glass. Such reflections are soberising to plain people: their o=
wn
eyes are not enchanted with the image; they are confident then that the eye=
s of
others can see in it no fascination. But the fair must naturally draw other
conclusions: the picture is charming, and must charm. Caroline saw a shape,=
a
head, that, daguerreotyped in that attitude and with that expression, would
have been lovely. She could not choose but derive from the spectacle
confirmation to her hopes. It was then in undiminished gladness she sought =
her
couch.
And in undiminished gladness she r=
ose
the next day. As she entered her uncle's breakfast-room, and with soft
cheerfulness wished him good-morning, even that little man of bronze himself
thought, for an instant, his niece was growing 'a fine girl.' Generally she=
was
quiet and timid with him - very docile, but not communicative; this morning,
however, she found many things to say. Slight topics alone might be discuss=
ed between
them; for with a woman - a girl - Mr Helstone would touch on no other. She =
had
taken an early walk in the garden, and she told him what flowers were begin=
ning
to spring there; she inquired when the gardener was to come and trim the
borders; she informed him that certain starlings were beginning to build th=
eir
nests in the church-tower (Briarfield church was close to Briarfield rector=
y);
she wondered the tolling of the bells in the belfry did not scare them.
Mr Helstone opined that 'they were
like other fools who had just paired - insensible to inconvenience just for=
the
moment.' Caroline, made perhaps a little too courageous by her temporary go=
od
spirits, here hazarded a remark of a kind she had never before ventured to =
make
on observations dropped by her revered relative.
'Uncle,' said she, 'whenever you s=
peak
of marriage, you speak of it scornfully. Do you think people shouldn't marr=
y?'
'It is decidedly the wisest plan to
remain single, especially for women.'
'Are all marriages unhappy?'
'Millions of marriages are unhappy=
. If
everybody confessed the truth, perhaps all are more or less so.'
'You are always vexed when you are
asked to come and marry a couple. Why?'
'Because one does not like to act =
as
accessory to the commission of a piece of pure folly.'
Mr Helstone spoke so readily, he
seemed rather glad of the opportunity to give his niece a piece of his mind=
on
this point. Emboldened by the impunity which had hitherto attended her
questions, she went a little further.
'But why,' said she, 'should it be
pure folly? If two people like each other, why shouldn't they consent to li=
ve
together?'
'They tire of each other - they ti=
re
of each other in a month. A yoke-fellow is not a companion; he or she is a
fellow-sufferer.'
It was by no means naive simplicity
which inspired Caroline's next remark; it was a sense of antipathy to such
opinions, and of displeasure at him who held them.
'One would think you had never been
married, uncle. One would think you were an old bachelor.'
'Practically, I am so.'
'But you have been married. Why we=
re
you so inconsistent as to marry?'
'Every man is mad once or twice in=
his
life.'
'So you tired of my aunt, and my a=
unt
of you, and you were miserable together?'
'Mr Helstone pushed out his cynical
lip, wrinkled his brown forehead, and gave an inarticulate grunt.
'Did she not suit you? Was she not
good-tempered? Did you not get used to her? Were you not sorry when she die=
d?'
'Caroline,' said Mr Helstone, brin=
ging
his hand slowly down to within an inch or two of the table, and then smitin=
g it
suddenly on the mahogany, 'understand this: it is vulgar and puerile to
confound generals with particulars. In every case there is the rule and the=
re
are the exceptions. Your questions are stupid and babyish. Ring the bell, if
you have done breakfast.'.
The breakfast was taken away, and =
that
meal over, it was the general custom of uncle and niece to separate, and no=
t to
meet again till dinner; but to-day the niece, instead of quitting the room,
went to the window-seat and sat down there. Mr Helstone looked round uneasi=
ly
once or twice, as if he wished her away; but she was gazing from the window,
and did not seem to mind him: so he continued the perusal of his morning pa=
per
- a particularly interesting one it chanced to be, as new movements had just
taken place in the Peninsula, and certain columns of the journal were rich =
in
long dispatches from General Lord Wellington. He little knew, meantime, what
thoughts were busy in his niece's mind - thoughts the conversation of the p=
ast
half-hour had revived but not generated; tumultuous were they now, as distu=
rbed
bees in a hive, but it was years since they had first made their cells in h=
er
brain.
She was reviewing his character, h=
is
disposition, repeating his sentiments on marriage. Many a time had she revi=
ewed
them before, and sounded the gulf between her own mind and his; and then, on
the other side of the wide and deep chasm, she had seen, and she now saw
another figure standing beside her uncle's - a strange shape, dim, sinister,
scarcely early - the half-remembered image of her own father, James Helston=
e,
Matthewson Helstone's brother.
Rumours had reached her ear of what
that father's character was; old servants had dropped hints; she knew, too,
that he was not a good man, and that he was never kind to her. She recollec=
ted
- a dark recollection it was - some weeks that she had spent with him in a
great town somewhere, when she had had no maid to dress her or take care of
her; when she had been shut up, day and night, in a high garret-room, witho=
ut a
carpet, with a bare uncurtained bed, and scarcely any other furniture; when=
he
went out early every morning, and often forgot to return and give her her
dinner during the day, and at night, when he came back, was like a madman,
furious, terrible, or - still more painful - like an idiot, imbecile,
senseless. She knew she had fallen ill in this place, and that one night wh=
en
she was very sick he had come roving into the room, and said he would kill =
her,
for she was a burden to him. Her screams had brought aid; and from the mome=
nt
she was then rescued from him she had never seen him, except as a dead man =
in
his coffin.
That was her father. Also she had a
mother, though Mr Helstone never spoke to her of that mother, though she co=
uld
not remember having seen her; but that she was alive she knew. This mother =
was
then the drunkard's wife. What had their marriage been? Caroline, turning f=
rom
the lattice, whence she had been watching the starlings (though without see=
ing
them), in a low voice, and with a sad, bitter tone, thus broke the silence =
of
the room, -
'You term marriage miserable, I
suppose, from what you saw of my father and mother's. If my mother suffered
what I suffered when I was with papa, she must have had a dreadful life'
Mr Helstone, thus addressed, wheel=
ed
about in his chair, and looked over his spectacles at his niece. He was tak=
en
aback.
Her father and mother! What had pu=
t it
into her head to mention her father and mother, of whom he had never, during
the twelve years she had lived with him, spoken to her? That the thoughts w=
ere
self-matured, that she had any recollections or speculations about her pare=
nts,
he could not fancy.
'Your father and mother? Who has b=
een
talking to you about them?'
'Nobody; but I remember something =
of
what papa was, and I pity mamma. Where is she?'
This 'Where is she?' had been on
Caroline's lips hundreds of times before, but till now she had never uttered
it.
'I hardly know,' returned Mr Helst=
one;
'I was little acquainted with her. I have not heard from her for years: but
wherever she is, she thinks nothing of you; she never inquires about you. I
have reason to believe she does not wish to see you. Come, it is schooltime.
You go to your cousin at ten, don't you? The clock has struck.'
Perhaps Caroline would have said m=
ore;
but Fanny, coming in, informed her master that the churchwardens wanted to
speak to him in the vestry. He hastened to join them, and his niece present=
ly
set out for the cottage.
The road from the rectory to Hollo=
w's
Mill inclined downwards; she ran, therefore, almost all the way. Exercise, =
the
fresh air, the thought of seeing Robert, at least of being on his premises,=
in
his vicinage, revived her somewhat depressed spirits quickly. Arriving in s=
ight
of the white house, and within hearing of the thundering mill and its rushi=
ng
watercourse, the first thing she saw was Moore at his garden gate. There he
stood, in his belted Holland blouse, a light cap covering his head, which
undress costume suited him. He was looking down the lane, not in the direct=
ion
of his cousin's approach. She stopped, withdrawing a little behind a willow,
and studied his appearance.
'He has not his peer,' she thought.
'He is as handsome as he is intelligent. What a keen eye he has! What
clearly-cut, spirited features - thin and serious, but graceful! I do like =
his
face, I do like his aspect, I do like him so much - better than any of those
shuffling curates, for instance - better than anybody; bonnie Robert!'
She sought 'bonny Robert's' presen=
ce
speedily. For his part, when she challenged his sight, I believe he would h=
ave
passed from before her eyes like a phantom, if he could; but being a tall f=
act,
and no fiction, he was obliged to stand the greeting. He made it brief. It =
was
cousin-like, brother-like, friend- like, anything but lover-like. The namel=
ess
charm of last night had left his manner: he was no longer the same man; or,=
at
any rate, the same heart did not beat in his breast. Rude disappointment, s=
harp
cross! At first the eager girl would not believe in the change, though she =
saw
and felt it. It was difficult to withdraw her hand from his, till he had
bestowed at least something like a kind pressure; it was difficult to turn =
her
eyes from his eyes, till his looks had expressed something more and fonder =
than
that cool welcome.
A lover masculine so disappointed =
can
speak and urge explanation, a lover feminine can say nothing; if she did, t=
he
result would be shame and anguish, inward remorse for self-treachery. Nature
would brand such demonstration as a rebellion against her instincts, and wo=
uld
vindictively repay it afterwards by the thunderbolt of self-contempt smiting
suddenly in secret. Take the matter as you find it ask no questions, utter =
no
remonstrances; it is your best wisdom. You expected bread and you have got a
stone: break your teeth on it, and don't shriek because the nerves are
martyrised; do not doubt that your mental stomach - if you have such a thin=
g -
is strong as an ostrich's; the stone will digest. You held out your hand fo=
r an
egg, and fate put into it a scorpion. Show no consternation; close your fin=
gers
firmly upon the gift; let it sting through your palm. Never mind; in time,
after your hand and arm have swelled and quivered long with torture, the
squeezed scorpion will die, and you will have learned the great lesson how =
to
endure without a sob. For the whole remnant of your life, if you survive the
test - some, it is said, die under it - you will be stronger, wiser, less
sensitive. This you are not aware of, perhaps, at the time, and so cannot
borrow courage of that hope. Nature, however, as has been intimated, is an
excellent friend in such cases, sealing the lips, interdicting utterance,
commanding a placid dissimulation - a dissimulation often wearing an easy a=
nd
gay mien at first, settling down to sorrow and paleness in time, then passi=
ng
away, and leaving a convenient stoicism, not the less fortifying because it=
is
half-bitter.
Half-bitter! Is that wrong? No; it
should be bitter: bitterness is strength - it is a tonic. Sweet, mild force
following acute suffering you find nowhere; to talk of it is delusion. There
may be apathetic exhaustion after the rack. If energy remains, it will be
rather a dangerous energy - deadly when confronted with injustice.
Who has read the ballad of 'Puir M=
ary
Lee' - that old Scotch ballad, written I know not in what generation nor by
what hand? Mary had been ill-used - probably in being made to believe that
truth which was falsehood. She is not complaining, but she is sitting alone=
in
the snowstorm, and you hear her thoughts. They are not the thoughts of a mo=
del
heroine under her circumstances, but they are those of a deeply-feeling,
strongly-resentful peasant-girl. Anguish has driven her from the inglenook =
of
home to the white-shrouded and icy hills. Crouched under the 'cauld drift,'=
she
recalls every image of horror - 'the yellow-wymed ask,' 'the hairy adder,' =
'the
auld moon-bowing tyke,' 'the ghaist at e'en,' 'the sour bullister,' 'the mi=
lk
on the taed's back.' She hates these, but 'waur she hates Robin-a-Ree.'
Oh! ance I lived happily by yon bonny burn -
The warld was in love wi' me;
But now I maun sit 'neath the cauld drift and mourn,
And curse black Robin-a-Ree!
Then whudder awa', thou bitter biting blast,
And sough through the scrunty tree,
And smoor me up in the snaw fu' fast,
And ne'er let the sun me see!
Oh, never melt awa', thou wreath o' snaw,
That's sae kind in graving me;
But hide me frae the scorn and guffaw
O' villains like Robin-a-Ree!
But what has been said in the last
page or two not germane to Caroline Helstone's feelings, or to the state of
things between her and Robert Moore. Robert had done her no wrong; he had t=
old
her no lie; it was she that was to blame, if any one was. What bitterness h=
er
mind distilled should and would be poured on her own head. She had loved wi=
thout
being asked to love - a natural, sometimes an inevitable chance, but big wi=
th
misery.
Robert, indeed, had sometimes seem=
ed
to be fond of her; but why? Because she had made herself so pleasing to him=
, he
could not, in spite of all his efforts, help testifying a state of feeling =
his
judgment did not approve nor his will sanction. He was about to withdraw
decidedly from intimate communication with her, because he did not choose to
have his affections inextricably entangled, nor to be drawn, despite his re=
ason,
into a marriage he believed imprudent. Now, what was she to do? To give way=
to
her feelings, or to vanquish them? To pursue him, or to turn upon herself? =
If
she is weak, she will try the first expedient - will lose his esteem and win
his aversion; if she has sense, she will be her own governor, and resolve to
subdue and bring under guidance the disturbed realm of her emotions. She wi=
ll
determine to look on life steadily, as it is; to begin to learn its severe
truths seriously, and to study its knotty problems closely, conscientiously=
.
It appeared she had a little sense,
for she quitted Robert quietly, without complaint or question, without the
alteration of a muscle or the shedding of a tear, betook herself to her stu=
dies
under Hortense as usual, and at dinner-time went home without lingering.
When she had dined, and found hers=
elf
in the rectory drawing-room alone, having left her uncle over his temperate
glass of port wine, the difficulty that occurred to and embarrassed her was,
'How am I to get through this day?'
Last night she had hoped it would =
be
spent as yesterday was, that the evening would be again passed with happine=
ss
and Robert. She had learned her mistake this morning; and yet she could not
settle down, convinced that no chance would occur to recall her to Hollow's
Cottage, or to bring Moore again into her society.
He had walked up after tea more th=
an
once to pass an hour with her uncle. The door-bell had rung, his voice had =
been
heard in the passage just at twilight, when she little expected such a
pleasure; and this had happened twice after he had treated her with peculiar
reserve; and though he rarely talked to her in her uncle's presence, he had
looked at her relentingly as he sat opposite her work- table during his sta=
y.
The few words he had spoken to her were comforting; his manner on bidding h=
er
good-night was genial. Now, he might come this evening, said False Hope. She
almost knew it was False Hope which breathed the whisper, and yet she liste=
ned.
She tried to read - her thoughts
wandered; she tried to sew - every stitch she put in was an ennui, the
occupation was insufferably tedious; she opened her desk and attempted to w=
rite
a French composition - she wrote nothing but mistakes.
Suddenly the door-bell sharply ran=
g;
her heart leaped; she sprang to the drawing-room door, opened it softly, pe=
eped
through the aperture. Fanny was admitting a visitor - a gentleman - a tall =
man
- just the height of Robert. For one second she thought it was Robert for o=
ne
second she exulted; but the voice asking for Mr Helstone undeceived her. Th=
at
voice was an Irish voice, consequently not Moore's, but the curate's -
Malone's, He was ushered into the dining-room, where, doubtless he speedily
helped his rector to empty the decanters.
It was a fact to be noted, that at
whatever house in Briarfield, Whinbury, or Nunnely one curate dropped in to=
a
meal - dinner or tea, as the case might be - another presently followed, of=
ten
two more. Not that they gave each other the rendezvous, but they were usual=
ly
all on the run at the same time, and when Donne, for instance, sought Malon=
e at
his lodgings and found him not, he inquired whither he had posted, and havi=
ng
learned of the landlady his destination, hastened with all speed after him.=
The
same causes operated in the same way with Sweeting. Thus it chanced on that
afternoon that Caroline's ears were three times tortured with the ringing of
the bell and the advent of undesired guests; for Donne followed Malone, and
Sweeting followed Donne; and more wine was ordered up from the cellar into =
the
dining- room (for though old Helstone chid the inferior priesthood when he
found them 'carousing,' as he called it, in their own tents, yet at his
hierarchical table he ever liked to treat them to a glass of his best), and
through the closed doors Caroline heard their boyish laughter, and the vaca=
nt
cackle of their voices. Her fear was lest they should stay to tea, for she =
had
no pleasure in making tea for that particular trio. What distinctions people
draw! These three were men - young men - educated men, like Moore; yet, for
her, how great the difference! Their society was a bore - his a delight.
Not only was she destined to be
favoured with their clerical company, but Fortune was at this moment bringi=
ng
her four other guests - lady guests, all packed in a pony-phaeton now rolli=
ng
somewhat heavily along the road from Whinbury: an elderly lady and three of=
her
buxom daughters were coming to see her 'in a friendly way,' as the custom of
that neighbourhood was. Yes, a fourth time the bell clanged. Fanny brought =
the
present announcement to the drawing- room, -
'Mrs Sykes and the three Misses
Sykes.'
When Caroline was going to receive
company, her habit was to wring her hands very nervously, to flush a little,
and come forward hurriedly yet hesitatingly, wishing herself meantime at
Jericho. She was, at such crises sadly deficient in finished manner, though=
she
had once been at school a year. Accordingly, on this occasion her small whi=
te
hands sadly maltreated each other while she stood up, waiting the entrance =
of Mrs
Sykes.
In stalked that lady, a tall, bili=
ous
gentlewoman, who made an ample and not altogether insincere profession of
piety, and was greatly given to hospitality towards the clergy. In sailed h=
er
three daughters, a showy trio, being all three well-grown, and more or less
handsome.
In English country ladies there is
this point to be remarked. Whether young or old, pretty or plain, dull or
sprightly, they all (or almost all) have a certain expression stamped on th=
eir
features, which seems to say, 'I know - I do not boast of it, but I know th=
at I
am the standard of what is proper; let every one therefore whom I approach,=
or
who approaches me, keep a sharp lookout, for wherein they differ from me - =
be
the same in dress, manner, opinion, principle, or practice - therein they a=
re
wrong.'
Mrs and Misses Sykes, far from bei=
ng
exceptions to this observation were pointed illustrations of its truth; Miss
Mary - a well-looked, well-meant, and, on the whole, well-dispositioned gir=
l -
wore her complacency with some state, though without harshness. Miss Harrie=
t -
a beauty - carried it more overbearingly; she looked high and cold. Miss
Hannah, who was conceited, dashing, pushing, flourished hers consciously and
openly. The mother evinced it with the gravity proper to her age and religi=
ous
fame.
The reception was got through some=
how.
Caroline 'was glad to see them' (an unmitigated fib), hoped they were well,
hoped Mrs Sykes's cough was better (Mrs Sykes had had a cough for the last
twenty years), hoped the Misses Sykes had left their sisters at home well; =
to
which inquiry the Misses Sykes, sitting on three chairs opposite the
music-stool, whereon Caroline had undesignedly come to anchor, after waveri=
ng
for some seconds between it and a large armchair, into which she at length
recollected she ought to induct Mrs Sykes - and indeed that lady saved her =
the
trouble by depositing herself therein - the Misses Sykes replied to Carolin=
e by
one simultaneous bow, very majestic and mighty awful. A pause followed. This
bow was of a character to ensure silence for the next five minutes, and it =
did.
Mrs Sykes then inquired after Mr Helstone, and whether he had had any retur=
n of
rheumatism, and whether preaching twice on a Sunday fatigued him, and if he=
was
capable of taking a full service now; and on being assured he was, she and =
all
her daughters, combining in chorus, expressed their opinion that he was 'a
wonderful man of his years.'
Pause second.
Miss Mary, getting up the steam in=
her
turn, asked whether Caroline had attended the Bible Society meeting which h=
ad
been held at Nunnely last Thursday night. The negative answer which truth
compelled Caroline to utter - for last Thursday evening she had been sittin=
g at
home, reading a novel which Robert had lent her - elicited a simultaneous
expression of surprise from the lips of the four ladies.
'We were all there,' said Miss Mar=
y -
'mamma and all of us. We even persuaded papa to go. Hannah would insist upon
it. But he fell asleep while Mr Langweilig, the German Moravian minister, w=
as
speaking. I felt quite ashamed, he nodded so.'
'And there was Dr. Broadbent,' cri=
ed
Hannah - 'such a beautiful speaker. You couldn't expect it of him, for he is
almost a vulgar-looking man.'
'But such a dear man,' interrupted
Mary.
'And such a good man, such a useful
man,' added her mother.
'Only like a butcher in appearance=
,'
interposed the fair, proud Harriet. 'I couldn't bear to look at him. I list=
ened
with my eyes shut.'
Miss Helstone felt her ignorance a=
nd
incompetency. Not having seen Dr. Broadbent, she could not give her opinion.
Pause third came on. During its continuance, Caroline was feeling at her
heart's core what a dreaming fool she was, what an unpractical life she led,
how little fitness there was in her for ordinary intercourse with the ordin=
ary
world. She was feeling how exclusively she had attached herself to the white
cottage in the Hollow, how in the existence of one inmate of that cottage s=
he
had pent all her universe. She was sensible that this would not do, and that
some day she would be forced to make an alteration. It could not be said th=
at
she exactly wished to resemble the ladies before her, but she wished to bec=
ome
superior to her present self, so as to feel less scared by their dignity.
The sole means she found of revivi= ng the flagging discourse was by asking them if they would all stay to tea; an= d a cruel struggle it cost her to perform this piece of civility. Mrs Sykes had begun, 'We are much obliged to you, but - -' when in came Fanny once more.<= o:p>
'The gentlemen will stay the eveni=
ng,
ma'am,' was the message she brought from Mr Helstone.
'What gentlemen have you?' now
inquired Mrs Sykes. Their names were specified; she and her daughters
interchanged glances. The curates were not to them what they were to Caroli=
ne. Mr
Sweeting was quite a favourite with them; even Mr Malone rather so, because=
he
was a clergyman, 'Really, since you have company already, I think we shall
stay,' remarked Mrs Sykes. 'We shall be quite a pleasant little party. I al=
ways
like to meet the clergy.'
And now Caroline had to usher them
upstairs, to help them to unshawl, smooth their hair, and make themselves
smart; to reconduct them to the drawing-room, to distribute amongst them bo=
oks
of engravings, or odd things purchased from the Jew-basket. She was obliged=
to
be a purchaser, though she was a slack contributor; and if she had possessed
plenty of money, she would rather, when it was brought to the rectory - an
awful incubus! - have purchased the whole stock than contributed a single
pincushion.
It ought to be explained in passin=
g,
for the benefit of those who are not au fait to the mysteries of the
'Jew-basket' and 'missionary basket,' that these meubles are willow
repositories, of the capacity of a good-sized family clothes basket, dedica=
ted
to the purpose of conveying from house to house a monster collection of
pincushions, needlebooks, cardracks, workbags, articles of infant wear, etc=
.,
etc., etc., made by the willing or reluctant hands of the Christian ladies =
of a
parish, and sold perforce to the heathenish gentlemen thereof, at prices
unblushingly exorbitant. The proceeds of such compulsory sales are applied =
to
the conversion of the Jews, the seeking out of the ten missing tribes, or to
the regeneration of the interesting coloured population of the globe. Each =
lady
contributor takes it in her turn to keep the basket a month, to sew for it,=
and
to foist its contents on a shrinking male public. An exciting time it is wh=
en
that turn comes round. Some active-minded women, with a good trading spirit=
, like
it, and enjoy exceedingly the fun of making hard-handed worsted-spinners ca=
sh
up, to the tune of four or five hundred per cent above the cost price, for
articles quite useless to them; other feebler souls object to it, and would
rather see the prince of darkness himself at their door any morning than th=
at
phantom basket, brought with 'Mrs Rouse's compliments; and please, ma'am, s=
he
says it's your turn now.'
Miss Helstone's duties of hostess
performed, more anxiously than cheerily, she betook herself to the kitchen,=
to
hold a brief privy-council with Fanny and Eliza about the tea.
'What a lot on 'em!' cried Eliza, =
who
was cook. 'And I put off the baking to- day because I thought there would be
bread plenty to fit while morning. We shall never have enow.'
'Are there any tea-cakes?' asked t=
he
young mistress.
'Only three and a loaf. I wish the=
se
fine folk would stay at home till they're asked; and I want to finish trimm=
ing
my hat' (bonnet she meant).
'Then,' suggested Caroline, to whom
the importance of the emergency gave a certain energy, 'Fanny must run down=
to
Briarfield and buy some muffins and crumpets and some biscuits. And don't be
cross, Eliza; we can't help it now.'
'And which tea-things are we to ha=
ve?'
'Oh, the best, I suppose. I'll get=
out
the silver service.' And she ran upstairs to the plate-closet, and presently
brought down teapot, cream-ewer, and sugar-basin.
'And mun we have th' urn?'
'Yes; and now get it ready as quic=
kly
as you can, for the sooner we have tea over the sooner they will go - at le=
ast,
I hope so. Heigh-ho! I wish they were gone,' she sighed, as she returned to=
the
drawing-room. 'Still,' she thought, as she paused at the door ere opening i=
t,
'if Robert would but come even now, how bright all would be! How comparativ=
ely
easy the task of amusing these people if he were present! There would be an
interest in hearing him talk (though he never says much in company), and in
talking in his presence. There can be no interest in hearing any of them, o=
r in
speaking to them. How they will gabble when the curates come in, and how we=
ary
I shall grow with listening to them! But I suppose I am a selfish fool. The=
se
are very respectable gentlefolks. I ought, no doubt, to be proud of their
countenance. I don't say they are not as good as I am - far from it - but t=
hey
are different from me.
She went in.
Yorkshire people in those days took
their tea round the table, sitting well into it, with their knees duly
introduced under the mahogany. It was essential to have a multitude of plat=
es
of bread and butter, varied in sorts and plentiful in quantity. It was thou=
ght
proper, too, that on the centre plate should stand a glass dish of marmalad=
e.
Among the viands was expected to be found a small assortment of cheesecakes=
and
tarts. If there was also a plate of thin slices of pink ham garnished with
green parsley, so much the better.
Eliza, the rector's cook, fortunat=
ely
knew her business as provider. She had been put out of humour a little at
first, when the invaders came so unexpectedly in such strength; but it appe=
ared
that she regained her cheerfulness with action, for in due time the tea was
spread forth in handsome style, and neither ham, tarts, nor marmalade were
wanting among its accompaniments.
The curates, summoned to this
bounteous repast, entered joyous; but at once, on seeing the ladies, of who=
se
presence they had not been forewarned, they came to a stand in the doorway.
Malone headed the party; he stopped short and fell back, almost capsizing
Donne, who was behind him. Donne, staggering three paces in retreat, sent
little Sweeting into the arms of old Helstone, who brought up the rear. The=
re
was some expostulation, some tittering. Malone was desired to mind what he =
was
about, and urged to push forward, which at last he did, though colouring to=
the
top of his peaked forehead a bluish purple. Helstone, advancing, set the shy
curates aside, welcomed all his fair guests, shook hands and passed a jest =
with
each, and seated himself snugly between the lovely Harriet and the dashing
Hannah. Miss Mary he requested to move to the seat opposite to him, that he
might see her if he couldn't be near her. Perfectly easy and gallant, in his
way, were his manners always to young ladies, and most popular was he among=
st
them; yet at heart he neither respected nor liked the sex, and such of them=
as
circumstances had brought into intimate relation with him had ever feared
rather than loved him.
The curates were left to shift for
themselves. Sweeting, who was the least embarrassed of the three, took refu=
ge
beside Mrs Sykes, who, he knew, was almost as fond of him as if he had been=
her
son. Donne, after making his general bow with a grace all his own, and sayi=
ng
in a high pragmatical voice, 'How d'ye do, Miss Helstone?' dropped into a s=
eat
at Caroline's elbow, to her unmitigated annoyance, for she had a peculiar
antipathy to Donne, on account of his stultified and immovable self-conceit=
and
his incurable narrowness of mind. Malone, grinning most unmeaningly, induct=
ed
himself into the corresponding seat on the other side. She was thus blessed=
in
a pair of supporters, neither of whom, she knew, would be of any mortal use,
whether for keeping up the conversation, handing cups, circulating the muff=
ins,
or even lifting the plate from the slop basin. Little Sweeting, small and
boyish as he was, would have been worth twenty of them. Malone, though a
ceaseless talker when there were only men present, was usually tongue-tied =
in
the presence of ladies. Three phrases, however, he had ready cut and dried,
which he never failed to produce: =
span>-
1stly. 'Have you had a walk to-day,
Miss Helstone?'
2ndly. 'Have you seen your cousin
Moore lately?'
3rdly. 'Does your class at the Sun=
day
school keep up its number?'
These three questions being put and
responded to, between Caroline and Malone reigned silence.
With Donne it was otherwise; he was
troublesome, exasperating. He had a stock of small-talk on hand, at once the
most trite and perverse that can well be imagined - abuse of the people of
Briarfield; of the natives of Yorkshire generally; complaints of the want of
high society; of the backward state of civilisation in these districts;
murmurings against the disrespectful conduct of the lower orders in the nor=
th
toward their betters; silly ridicule of the manner of living in these parts=
-
the want of style, the absence of elegance, as if he, Donne, had been
accustomed to very great doings indeed, an insinuation which his somewhat
underbred manner and aspect failed to bear out. These strictures, he seemed=
to
think, must raise him in the estimation of Miss Helstone or of any other la=
dy
who heard him; whereas with her, at least, they brought him to a level below
contempt, though sometimes, indeed, they incensed her; for, a Yorkshire girl
herself, she hated to hear Yorkshire abused by such a pitiful prater; and w=
hen
wrought up to a certain pitch, she would turn and say something of which
neither the matter nor the manner recommended her to Mr Donne's good- will.=
She
would tell him it was no proof of refinement to be ever scolding others for
vulgarity, and no sign of a good pastor to be eternally censuring his flock.
She would ask him what he had entered the church for, since he complained t=
here
were only cottages to visit, and poor people to preach to - whether he had =
been
ordained to the ministry merely to wear soft clothing and sit in king's hou=
ses.
These questions were considered by all the curates as, to the last degree,
audacious and impious.
Tea was a long time in progress; a=
ll
the guests gabbled as their hostess had expected they would. Mr Helstone, b=
eing
in excellent spirits - when, indeed, was he ever otherwise in society,
attractive female society? it being only with the one lady of his own family
that he maintained a grim taciturnity - kept up a brilliant flow of easy
prattle with his right-hand and left-hand neighbours, and even with his
vis-à-vis, Miss Mary; though, as Mary was the most sensible, the lea=
st
coquettish, of the three, to her the elderly widower was the least attentiv=
e.
At heart he could not abide sense in women. He liked to see them as silly, =
as
light-headed, as vain, as open to ridicule as possible, because they were t=
hen
in reality what he held them to be, and wished them to be - inferior, toys =
to
play with, to amuse a vacant hour, and to be thrown away.
Hannah was his favourite. Harriet,
though beautiful, egotistical, and self- satisfied, was not quite weak enou=
gh
for him. She had some genuine self-respect amidst much false pride, and if =
she
did not talk like an oracle, neither would she babble like one crazy; she w=
ould
not permit herself to be treated quite as a doll, a child, a plaything; she
expected to be bent to like a queen.
Hannah, on the contrary, demanded =
no
respect, only flattery. If her admirers only told her that she was an angel,
she would let them treat her like an idiot. So very credulous and frivolous=
was
she, so very silly did she become when besieged with attention, flattered a=
nd
admired to the proper degree, that there were moments when Helstone actually
felt tempted to commit matrimony a second time, and to try the experiment of
taking her for his second helpmeet; but fortunately the salutary recollecti=
on
of the ennuis of his first marriage, the impression still left on him of the
weight of the millstone he had once worn round his neck, the fixity of his
feelings respecting the insufferable evils of conjugal existence, operated =
as a
check to his tenderness, suppressed the sigh heaving his old iron lungs, and
restrained him from whispering to Hannah proposals it would have been high =
fun
and great satisfaction to her to hear.
It is probable she would have marr=
ied
him if he had asked her; her parents would have quite approved the match. To
them his fifty-five years, his bend- leather heart, could have presented no
obstacles; and as he was a rector, held an excellent living, occupied a good
house, and was supposed even to have private property (though in that the w=
orld
was mistaken; every penny of the £5,000 inherited by him from his fat=
her
had been devoted to the building and endowing of a new church at his native=
village
in Lancashire - for he could show a lordly munificence when he pleased, and=
if
the end was to his liking, never hesitated about making a grand sacrifice to
attain it) - her parents, I say, would have delivered Hannah over to his lo=
ving
kindness and his tender mercies without one scruple; and the second Mrs
Helstone, inverting the natural order of insect existence, would have flutt=
ered
through the honeymoon a bright, admired butterfly, and crawled the rest of =
her
days a sordid, trampled worm.
Little Mr Sweeting, seated between=
Mrs
Sykes and Miss Mary, both of whom were very kind to him, and having a dish =
of
tarts before him, and marmalade and crumpet upon his plate, looked and felt
more content than any monarch. He was fond of all the Misses Sykes; they we=
re
all fond of him. He thought them magnificent girls, quite proper to mate wi=
th
one of his inches. If he had a cause of regret at this blissful moment, it =
was
that Miss Dora happened to be absent - Dora being the one whom he secretly
hoped one day to call Mrs David Sweeting, with whom he dreamt of taking sta=
tely
walks, leading her like an empress through the village of Nunnely; and an
empress she would have been, if size could make an empress. She was vast,
ponderous. Seen from behind, she had the air of a very stout lady of forty,=
but
withal she possessed a good face, and no unkindly character.
The meal at last drew to a close. =
It
would have been over long ago if Mr Donne had not persisted in sitting with=
his
cup half full of cold tea before him, long after the rest had finished and
after he himself had discussed such allowance of viands as he felt competen=
t to
swallow - long, indeed, after signs of impatience had been manifested all r=
ound
the board, till chairs were pushed back, till the talk flagged, till silence
fell. Vainly did Caroline inquire repeatedly if he would have another cup, =
if
he would take a little hot tea, as that must be cold, etc.; he would neither
drink it nor leave it. He seemed to think. that this isolated position of h=
is
gave him somehow a certain importance, that it was dignified and stately to=
be
the last, that it was grand to keep all the others waiting. So long did he
linger, that the very urn died; it ceased to hiss. At length, however, the =
old
rector himself, who had hitherto been too pleasantly engaged with Hannah to
care for the delay, got impatient.
'For whom are we waiting?' he aske=
d.
'For me, I believe,' returned Donne
complacently, appearing to think it much to his credit that a party should =
thus
be kept dependent on his movements.
'Tut!' cried Helstone. Then standi=
ng
up, 'Let us return thanks,' said he; which he did forthwith, and all quitted
the table. Donne, nothing abashed, still sat ten minutes quite alone, where=
upon
Mr Helstone rang the bell for the things to be removed. The curate at length
saw himself forced to empty his cup, and to relinquish the rôle which=
, he
thought, had given him such a felicitous distinction, drawn upon him such
flattering general notice.
And now, in the natural course of
events (Caroline, knowing how it would be, had opened the piano, and produc=
ed
music-books in readiness), music was asked for. This was Mr Sweeting's chan=
ce
for showing off. He was eager to commence. He undertook, therefore, the ard=
uous
task of persuading the young ladies to favour the company with an air - a s=
ong.
Con amore he went through the whole business of begging, praying, resisting
excuses, explaining away difficulties, and at last succeeded in persuading =
Miss
Harriet to allow herself to be led to the instrument. Then out came the pie=
ces
of his flute (he always carried them in his pocket, as unfailingly as he
carried his handkerchief). They were screwed and arranged; Malone and Donne
meanwhile herding together and sneering at him, which the little man, glanc=
ing
over his shoulder, saw, but did not heed at all. He was persuaded their sar=
casm
all arose from envy. They could not accompany the ladies as he could; he was
about to enjoy a triumph over them.
The triumph began. Malone, much
chagrined at hearing him pipe up in most superior style, determined to earn
distinction too, if possible, and all at once assuming the character of a s=
wain
(which character he had endeavoured to enact once or twice before, but in w=
hich
he had not hitherto met with the success he doubtless opined his merits
deserved), approached a sofa on which Miss Helstone was seated, and deposit=
ing
his great Irish frame near her, tried his hand (or rather tongue) at a fine
speech or two, accompanied by grins the most extraordinary and
incomprehensible. In the course of his efforts to render himself agreeable,=
he
contrived to possess himself of the two long sofa cushions and a square one;
with which, after rolling them about for some time with strange gestures, he
managed to erect a sort of barrier between himself and the object of his
attentions. Caroline, quite willing that they should be sundered, soon devi=
sed
an excuse for stepping over to the opposite side of the room, and taking up=
a
position beside Mrs Sykes, of which good lady she entreated some instructio=
n in
a new stitch in ornamental knitting, a favour readily granted; and thus Pet=
er
Augustus was thrown out.
Very sullenly did his countenance
lower when he saw himself abandoned - left entirely to his own resources on=
a
large sofa, with the charge of three small cushions on his hands. The fact =
was,
he felt disposed seriously to cultivate acquaintance with Miss Helstone,
because he thought, in common with others, that her uncle possessed money, =
and
concluded that, since he had no children, he would probably leave it to his
niece. Gérard Moore was better instructed on this point: he had seen=
the
neat church that owed its origin to the rector's zeal and cash, and more th=
an
once, in his inmost soul, had cursed an expensive caprice which crossed his
wishes.
The evening seemed long to one per=
son
in that room. Caroline at intervals dropped her knitting on her lap, and ga=
ve
herself up to a sort of brain-lethargy - closing her eyes and depressing her
head - caused by what seemed to her the unmeaning hum around her, - the inh=
armonious
tasteless rattle of the piano keys, the squeaking and gasping notes of the
flute, the laughter and mirth of her uncle, and Hannah, and Mary, she could=
not
tell whence originating for she heard nothing comic or gleeful in their
discourse; and more than all, by the interminable gossip of Mrs Sykes murmu=
red
dose at her ear, gossip which rang the changes on four subjects - her own
health and that of the various members of her family; the missionary and Jew
baskets and their contents; the late meeting at Nunnely, and one which was
expected to come off next week at Whinbury.
Tired at length to exhaustion, she
embraced the opportunity of Mr Sweeting coming up to speak to Mrs Sykes to =
slip
quietly out of the apartment, and seek a moment's respite in solitude. She
repaired to the dining-room where the dear but now low remnant of a fire st=
ill
burned in the grate. The place was empty and quiet, glasses and decanters w=
ere
cleared from the table, the chairs were put back in their places, all was
orderly. Caroline sank into her uncle's large easy-chair, half shut her eye=
s,
and rested herself - rested at least her limits, her senses, her hearing, h=
er
vision - weary with listening to nothing, and gazing on vacancy. As to her
mind, that flew directly to the Hollow. It stood on the threshold of the
parlour there, then it passed to the counting-house, and wondered which spot
was blessed by the presence of Robert. It so happened that neither locality=
had
that honour; for Robert was half a mile away from both and much nearer to
Caroline than her deadened spirit suspected. He was at this moment crossing=
the
churchyard, approaching the rectory garden-gate - not, however, corning to =
see
his cousin, but intent solely on communicating a brief piece of intelligenc=
e to
the rector.
Yes, Caroline; you hear the wire of
the bell vibrate; it rings again for the fifth time this afternoon. You sta=
rt,
and you are certain now that this must be he of whom you dream. Why you are=
so
certain you cannot explain to yourself, but you know it. You lean forward,
listening eagerly as Fanny opens the door. Right! That is the voice - low, =
with
the slight foreign accent, but so sweet, as you fancy. You half rise. 'Fanny
will tell him Mr Helstone is with company, and then he will go away.' Oh! s=
he
cannot let him go. In spite of herself, in spite of her reason, she walks h=
alf
across the room; she stands ready to dart out in case the step should retre=
at;
but he enters the passage. 'Since your master is engaged,' he says, 'just s=
how
me into the dining-room. Bring me pen and ink. I will write a short note and
leave it for him.'
Now, having caught these words, and hearing him advance, Caroline, if there was a door within the dining-room, would glide through it and disappear. She feels caught, hemmed in; she drea= ds her unexpected presence may annoy him. A second since she would have flown = to him; that second past, she would flee from him. She cannot. There is no way= of escape. The dining-room has but one door, through which now enters her cous= in. The look of troubled surprise she expected to see in his face has appeared there, has shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered a sort of apology: <= o:p>
'I only left the drawing-room a mi=
nute
for a little quiet.'
There was something so diffident a=
nd
downcast in the air and tone with which she said this, any one might percei=
ve
that some saddening change had lately passed over her prospects, and that t=
he
faculty of cheerful self-possession had left her. Mr Moore, probably,
remembered how she had formerly been accustomed to meet him with gentle ard=
our
and hopeful confidence. He must have seen how the check of this morning had
operated. Here was an opportunity for carrying out his new system with effe=
ct,
if he chose to improve it. Perhaps he found it easier to practise that syst=
em in
broad daylight, in his mill-yard, amidst busy occupations, than in a quiet
parlour, disengaged, at the hour of eventide. Fanny lit the candles, which
before had stood unlit on the table, brought writing materials, and left the
room. Caroline was about to follow her. Moore; to act consistently, should =
have
let her go; whereas he stood in the doorway, and, holding out his hand, gen=
tly
kept her back. He did not ask her to stay, but he would not let her go.
'Shall I tell my uncle you are her=
e?'
asked she, still in the same subdued voice.
'No; I can say to you all I had to=
say
to him. You will be my messenger?'
'Yes, Robert.'
'Then you may just inform him that=
I
have got a clue to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my
frames; that he belongs to the same gang who attacked Sykes and Pearson's
dressing-shop, and that I hope to have him in custody to-morrow. You can
remember that?'
'Oh yes!' These two monosyllables =
were
uttered in a sadder tone than ever; and as she said them she shook her head
slightly and sighed. 'Will you prosecute him?'
'Doubtless.'
'No, Robert.'
'And why no, Caroline?'
'Because it will set all the
neighbourhood against you more than ever.'
'That is no reason why I should no=
t do
my duty, and defend my property. This fellow is a great scoundrel, and ough=
t to
be incapacitated from perpetrating further mischief'
'But his accomplices will take rev=
enge
on you. You do not know how the people of this country bear malice. It is t=
he
boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in their pocket seven year=
s,
turn it at the end of that time, keep it seven years longer, and hurl it and
hit their mark ‘at last.’'
Moore laughed.
'A most pithy vaunt,' said he - 'o=
ne
that redounds vastly to the credit of your dear Yorkshire friends. But don't
fear for me, Lina. I am on my guard against these lamb-like compatriots of
yours. Don't make yourself uneasy about me.'
'How can I help it? You are my cou=
sin.
If anything happened - ' She
stopped.
'Nothing will happen, Lina. To spe=
ak
in your own language, there is a Providence above all - is there not?'
'Yes, dear Robert. May He guard yo=
u!'
'And if prayers have efficacy, you=
rs
will benefit me. You pray for me sometimes?'
'Not sometimes, Robert. You, and
Louis, and Hortense are always remembered.'
'So I have often imagined. It has
occurred to me when, weary and vexed, I have myself gone to bed like a heat=
hen,
that another had asked forgiveness for my day, and safety for my night I do=
n't
suppose such vicarial piety will avail much, but the petitions come out of a
sincere breast from innocent lips. They should be acceptable as Abel's
offering; and doubtless would be, if the object deserved them.'
'Annihilate that doubt. It is
groundless.'
'When a man has been brought up on=
ly
to make money, and lives to make it, and for nothing else, and scarcely
breathes any other air than that of mills and markets, it seems odd to utter
his name in a prayer, or to mix his idea with anything divine; and very str=
ange
it seems that a good, pure heart should take him in and harbour him, as if =
he
had any claim to that sort of nest. If I could guide that benignant heart, I
believe I should counsel it to exclude one who does not profess to have any
higher aim in life than that of patching up his broken fortune, and wiping
clean from his bourgeois scutcheon the foul stain of bankruptcy.'
The hint, though conveyed thus
tenderly and modestly (as Caroline thought), was felt keenly and comprehend=
ed
dearly.
'Indeed, I only think - or I will =
only
think - of you as my cousin,' was the quick answer. 'I am beginning to
understand things better than I did, Robert, when you first came to England=
-
better than I did a week, a day ago. I know it is your duty to try to get o=
n,
and that it won't do for you to be romantic; but in future you must not mis=
understand
me if I seem friendly. You misunderstood me this morning, did you not?'
'What made you think so?'
'Your look - your manner.'
'But look at me now.'
'Oh! you are' different now. At
present I dare speak to you.'
'Yet I am the same, except that I =
have
left the tradesman behind me in the Hollow. Your kinsman alone stands before
you.'
'My cousin Robert - not Mr Moore.'=
'Not a bit of Mr Moore. Caroline <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> - '
Here the company was heard rising =
in
the other room. The door was opened; the pony-carriage was ordered; shawls =
and
bonnets were demanded; Mr Helstone called for his niece.
'I must go, Robert.'
'Yes, you must go, or they will co=
me
in and find us here; and I, rather than meet all that host in the passage, =
will
take my departure through the window. Luckily it opens like a door. One min=
ute
only - put down the candle an instant - good-night. I kiss you because we a=
re
cousins, and, being cousins, one - two - three kisses are allowable. Caroli=
ne,
good-night!'
The next day Moore had risen before
the sun, and had taken a ride to Whinbury and back ere his sister had made =
the
café au lait or cut the tartines for his breakfast What business he
transacted there he kept to himself. Hortense asked no questions: it was not
her wont to comment on his movements, nor his to render an account of them.=
The
secrets of business - complicated and often dismal mysteries - were buried =
in
his breast and never came out of their sepulchre save now and then to scare=
Joe
Scott, or give a start to some foreign correspondent. Indeed, a general hab=
it
of reserve on whatever was important seemed bred in his mercantile blood.
Breakfast over, he went to his
counting-house. Henry, Joe Scott's boy, brought in the letters and the daily
papers; Moore seated himself at his desk, broke the seals of the documents,=
and
glanced them over. They were all short, but not it seemed, sweet - probably
rather sour, on the contrary, for as Moore laid down the last, his nostrils
emitted a derisive and defiant snuff, and though he burst into no soliloquy,
there was a glance in his eye which seemed to invoke the devil, and lay cha=
rges
on him to sweep the whole concern to Gehenna. However, having chosen a pen =
and
stripped away the feathered top in a brief spasm of finger-fury (only finge=
r-fury
- his face was placid), he dashed off a batch of answers, sealed them, and =
then
went out and walked through the mill. On coming back he sat down to read his
newspaper.
The contents seemed not absorbingly
interesting; he more than once laid it across his knee, folded his arms and
gazed into the fire; he occasionally turned his head towards the window; he
looked at intervals at his watch; in short, his mind appeared preoccupied.
Perhaps he was thinking of the beauty of the weather - for it was a fine and
mild morning for the season - and wishing to be out in the fields enjoying =
it.
The door of his counting-house stood wide open. The breeze and sunshine ent=
ered
freely; but the first visitant brought no spring perfume on its wings, only=
an
occasional sulphur-puff from the soot-thick column of smoke rushing sable f=
rom
the gaunt mill-chimney.
A dark-blue apparition (that of Joe
Scott, fresh from a dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, utte=
red
the words 'He's comed, sir,' and vanished.
Mr Moore raised not his eyes from =
the
paper. A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian
garments and gray worsted stockings, entered, who was received with a nod, =
and
desired to take a seat, which he did, making the remark, as he removed his =
hat
(a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead wi=
th a
spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat-crown, that it was 'raig=
ht
dahn warm for Febewerry.' Mr Moore assented - at least he uttered some slig=
ht
sound, which, though inarticulate, might pass for an assent. The visitor now
carefully deposited in the corner beside him an official-looking staff whic=
h he
bore in his hand; this done, he whistled, probably by way of appearing at h=
is
ease.
'You have what is necessary, I sup=
pose?'
said Mr Moore.
'Ay, ay! all's right.'
He renewed his whistling, Mr Moore=
his
reading. The paper apparently had become more interesting. Presently, howev=
er,
he turned to his cupboard, which was within reach of his long arm, opened it
without rising, took out a black bottle - the same he had produced for Malo=
ne's
benefit - a tumbler, and a jug, placed them on the table, and said to his
guest, -
'Help yourself; there's water in t=
hat
jar in the corner.'
'I dunnut knaw that there's mich n=
eed,
for all a body is dry' (thirsty) 'in a morning,' said the fustian gentleman,
rising and doing as requested.
'Will you tak naught yourseln, Mr
Moore?' he inquired, as with skilled hand he mixed a portion, and having te=
sted
it by a deep draught, sank back satisfied and bland in his seat. Moore, cha=
ry
of words, replied by a negative movement and murmur.
'Yah'd as good,' continued his
visitor; 'it 'uld set ye up wald a sup o' this stuff. Uncommon good Holland=
s.
Ye get it fro' furrin parts, I'se think?'
'Ay!'
'Tak my advice and try a glass on'=
t.
Them lads 'at's coming'll keep ye talking, nob'dy knows how long. Ye'll need
propping.'
'Have you seen Mr Sykes this morni=
ng?'
inquired Moore.
'I seed him a hauf an hour - nay,
happen a quarter of an hour sin', just afore I set off. He said he aimed to
come here, and I sudn't wonder but ye'll have old Helstone too. I seed 'em
saddling his little nag as I passed at back o' t' rectory.'
The speaker was a true prophet, for
the trot of a little nag's hoofs was, five minutes after, heard in the yard=
; it
stopped, and a well-known nasal voice cried aloud, 'Boy' (probably addressi=
ng
Harry Scott, who usually hung about the premises from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.), 't=
ake
my horse and lead him into the stable.'
Helstone came in marching nimbly a=
nd
erect, looking browner, keener, and livelier than usual.
'Beautiful morning, Moore. How do,=
my
boy? Ha! whom have we here?' (turning to the personage with the staff).
'Sugden! What! You're going to work directly? On my word, you lose no time.=
But
I come to ask explanations. Your message was delivered to me. Are you sure =
you
are on the right scent? How do you mean to set about the business? Have you=
got
a warrant?'
'Sugden has.'
'Then you are going to seek him no=
w?
I'll accompany you.'
'You will be spared that trouble, =
sir;
he is coming to seek me. I'm just now sitting instate waiting his arrival.'=
'And who is it? One of my
parishioners?'
Joe Scott had entered unobserved. =
He
now stood, a most sinister phantom, half his person being dyed of the deepe=
st
tint of indigo, leaning on the desk. His master's answer to the rector's
question was a smile. Joe took the word. Putting on a quiet but pawky look,=
he
said, -
'It's a friend of yours, Mr Helsto=
ne,
a gentleman you often speak of.'
'Indeed! His name, Joe? You look w=
ell
this morning.'
'Only the Revd. Moses Barraclough;=
t'
tub orator you call him sometimes, I think.'
'Ah!' said the rector, taking out =
his
snuff-box, and administering to himself a very long pinch - 'Ah! couldn't h=
ave
supposed it. Why, the pious man never was a workman of yours, Moore. He's a
tailor by trade.'
'And so much the worse grudge I owe
him, for interfering and setting my discarded men against me.'
'And Moses was actually present at=
the
battle of Stilbro' Moor? He went there, wooden leg and all?'
'Ay, sir,' said Joe, 'he went ther=
e on
horseback, that his leg mightn't be noticed. He was the captain, and wore a
mask. The rest only had their faces blacked.'
'And how was he found out?'
'I'll tell you, sir,' said Joe 't'
maister's not so fond of talking. I've no objections. He courted Sarah, Mr
Moore's sarvant lass, and so it seems she would have nothing to say to him;=
she
either didn't like his wooden leg or she'd some notion about his being a
hypocrite. Happen (for women is queer hands; we may say that amang werseln =
when
there's none of 'em nigh) she'd have encouraged him, in spite of his leg and
his deceit, just to pass time like. I've known some on 'em do as mich, and =
some
o' t' bonniest and mimmest-looking, too - ay, I've seen clean, trim young t=
hings,
that looked as denty and pure as daisies, and wi' time a body fun' 'em out =
to
be nowt but stinging, venomed nettles.'
'Joe's a sensible fellow,' interje=
cted
Helstone.
'Howsiver, Sarah had another strin=
g to
her bow. Fred Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her, and as women judge m=
en
by their faces - and Fred has a middling face, while Moses is none so hands=
ome,
as we all knaw - the lass took on wi' Fred. A two-three months sin', Murgat=
royd
and Moses chanced to meet one Sunday night; they'd both come lurking about
these premises wi' the notion of counselling Sarah to tak a bit of a walk w=
i'
them. They fell out, had a tussle, and Fred was worsted, for he's young and
small, and Barraclough for all he has only one leg, is almost as strong as
Sugden there - indeed, anybody that hears him roaring at a revival or a
love-feast may be sure he's no weakling.'
'Joe, you're insupportable,' here
broke in Mr Moore. 'You spin out your explanation as Moses spins out his
sermons. The long and short of it is, Murgatroyd was jealous of Barraclough;
and last night, as he and a friend took shelter in a barn from a shower, th=
ey
heard and saw Moses conferring with some associates within. From their
discourse it was plain he had been the leader not only at Stilbro' Moor, bu=
t in
the attack on Sykes's property. Moreover they planned a deputation to wait =
on
me this morning, which the tailor is to head, and which, in the most religi=
ous
and peaceful spirit, is to entreat me to put the accursed thing out of my t=
ent.
I rode over to Whinbury this morning, got a constable and a warrant, and I =
am
now waiting to give my friend the reception he deserves. Here, meantime, co=
mes
Sykes. Mr Helstone, you must spirit him up. He feels timid at the thoughts =
of
prosecuting.'
A gig was heard to roll into the y=
ard.
Mr Sykes entered - a tall stout man of about fifty, comely of feature, but
feeble of physiognomy. He looked anxious.
'Have they been? Are they gone? Ha=
ve
you got him? Is it over?' he asked.
'Not yet,' returned Moore with phl=
egm.
'We are waiting for them.'
'They'll not come; it's near noon.
Better give it up. It will excite bad feeling - make a stir - cause perhaps
fatal consequences.'
'You need not appear,' said Moore.=
'I
shall meet them in the yard when they come; you can stay here.'
'But my name must be seen in the l=
aw
proceedings. A wife and family, Mr Moore - a wife and family make a man
cautious.'
Moore looked disgusted. 'Give way,=
if
you please,' said he, 'leave me to myself. I have no objection to act alone;
only be assured you will not find safety in submission. Your partner Pearson
gave way, and conceded, and forbore. Well, that did not prevent them from
attempting to shoot him in his own house.'
'My dear sir; take a little wine a=
nd
water,' recommended Mr Helstone. The wine and water was Hollands and water,=
as Mr
Sykes discovered when he had compounded and swallowed a brimming tumbler
thereof. It transfigured him in two minutes, brought the colour back to his
face, and madeto-day word-valiant. He now announced that he hoped he was ab=
ove
being trampled on by the common people; he was determined to endure the
insolence of the working classes no longer; he had considered of it, and ma=
de
up his mind to go all lengths; if money and spirit could put down these
rioters, they should be put down; Mr Moore might do as he liked, but he -
Christopher Sykes - would spend his last penny in law before he would be
beaten; he'd settle them, or he'd see.
'Take another glass,' urged Moore.=
Mr Sykes didn't mind if he did. Th=
is
was a cold morning (Sugden had found it a warm one); it was necessary to be
careful at this time of year - it was proper to take something to keep the =
damp
out; he had a little cough already (here he coughed in attestation of the
fact); something of this sort (lifting the black bottle) was excellent, tak=
en
medicinally (he poured the physic into his tumbler); he didn't make a pract=
ice
of drinking spirits in the morning, but occasionally it really was prudent =
to
take precautions.
'Quite prudent, and take them by a=
ll
means,' urged the host.
Mr Sykes now addressed Mr Helstone,
who stood on the hearth, his shovel-hat on his head,. watching him
significantly with his little, keen eyes.
'You, sir, as a clergyman,' said h=
e,
'may feel it disagreeable to be present amid scenes of hurry and flurry, an=
d, I
may say, peril. I dare say your nerves won't stand it. You're a man of peac=
e,
sir; but we manufacturers, living in the world, and always in turmoil, get
quite belligerent. Really, there's an ardour excited by the thoughts of dan=
ger
that makes my heart pant. When Mrs Sykes is afraid of the house being attac=
ked
and broke open - as she is every night - I get quite excited. I couldn't
describe to you, sir, my feelings. Really, if anybody was to come - thieves=
or
anything - I believe I should enjoy it, such is my spirit.'
The hardest of laughs, though brief
and low, and by no means insulting, was the response of the rector. Moore w=
ould
have pressed upon the heroic mill-owner a third tumbler; but the clergyman,=
who
never transgressed, nor would suffer others in his presence to transgress, =
the
bounds of decorum, checked him.
'Enough is as good as a feast, is =
it
not, Mr Sykes?' he said; and Mr Sykes assented, and then sat and watched Joe
Scott remove the bottle at a sign from Helstone, with a self-satisfied simp=
er
on his lips and a regretful glisten in his eye. Moore looked as if he should
have liked to fool him to the top of his bent. What would a certain young
kinswoman of his have said could she have seen her dear, good, great Robert=
-
her Coriolanus - just now? Would she have acknowledged in that mischievous,
sardonic visage the same face to which she had looked up with such love, wh=
ich
had bent over her with such gentleness last night? Was that the man who had
spent so quiet an evening with his sister and his cousin so suave to one, so
tender to the other reading Shakespeare and listening to Chénier?
Yes, it was the same man, only see=
n on
a different side - a side Caroline had not yet fairly beheld, though perhaps
she had enough sagacity faintly to suspect its existence. Well, Caroline ha=
d,
doubtless, her defective side too. She was human. She must, then, have been
very imperfect, and had she seen Moore on his very worst side she would
probably have said this to herself and excused him. Love can excuse anythin=
g except
Meanness; but Meanness kills Love, cripples even Natural Affection; without
Esteem True Love cannot exist. Moore, with all his faults, might be esteeme=
d;
for he had no moral scrofula in his mind, no hopeless polluting taint - suc=
h,
for instance, as that of falsehood; neither was he the slave of his appetit=
es.
The active life to which he had been born and bred had given him something =
else
to do than to join the futile chase of the pleasure- hunter. He was a man
integrated, the disciple of reason, not the votary of sense. The same might=
be
said of old Helstone: neither of these two would look, think, or speak a li=
e;
for neither of them had the wretched black bottle, which had just been put
away, any charms; both might boast a valid claim to the proud title of 'lor=
d of
the creation,' for no animal vice was lord of them; they looked and were
superior beings to poor Sykes.
A sort of gathering and trampling
sound was heard in the yard, and then a pause. Moore walked to the window;
Helstone followed. Both stood on one side, the tall junior behind the
under-sized senior, looking forth carefully, so that they might not be visi=
ble
from without. Their sole comment on what they saw was a cynical smile flash=
ed
into each other's stern eyes.
A flourishing oratorical cough was=
now
heard, followed by the interjection 'Whisht!' designed, as it seemed, to st=
ill
the hum of several voices. Moore opened his casement an inch or two to admit
sound more freely.
'Joseph Scott,' began a snuffling
voice - Scott was standing sentinel at the counting-house door - 'might we
inquire if your master be within, and is to be spoken to?'
'He's within, ay,' said Joe
nonchalantly.
'Would you then, if you please'
(emphasis on 'you'), 'have the goodness to tell him that twelve gentlemen w=
ants
to see him.'
'He'd happen ax what for,' suggest=
ed
Joe. 'I mught as wed tell him that at t' same time.'
'For a purpose,' was the answer. J=
oe
entered.
'Please, sir, there's twelve gentl=
emen
wants to see ye, ‘for a purpose.’'
'Good, Joe; I'm their man. - Sugde=
n,
come when I whistle.'
Moore went out, chuckling dryly. He
advanced into the yard, one hand in his pocket, the other in his waistcoat,=
his
cap brim over his eyes, shading in some measure their deep dancing ray of
scorn. Twelve men waited in the yard, some in their shirt-sleeves, some in =
blue
aprons. Two figured conspicuously in the van of the party. One, a little da=
pper
strutting man with a turned-up nose; the other a broad-shouldered fellow,
distinguished no less by his demure face and catlike, trustless eyes than b=
y a
wooden leg and stout crutch. There was a kind of leer about his lips; he se=
emed
laughing in his sleeve at some person or thing; his whole air was anything =
but
that of a true man.
'Good-morning, Mr Barraclough,' sa=
id
Moore debonairly, for him.
'Peace be unto you!' was the answe=
r, Mr
Barraclough entirely closing his naturally half-shut eyes as he delivered i=
t.
'I'm obliged to you. Peace is an
excellent thing; there's nothing I more wish for myself. But that is not all
you have to say to me, I suppose? I imagine peace is not your purpose?'
'As to our purpose,' began
Barraclough, 'it's one that may sound strange and perhaps foolish to ears l=
ike
yours, for the childer of this world is wiser in their generation than the
childer of light.'
'To the point, if you please, and =
let
me hear what it is.'
'Ye'se hear, sir. If I cannot get =
it
off, there's eleven behint can help me. It is a grand purpose; and' (changi=
ng
his voice from a half-sneer to a whine) 'it's the Looard's own purpose, and
that's better.'
'Do you want a subscription to a n=
ew
Ranter's chapel, Mr Barraclough? Unless your errand be something of that so=
rt,
I cannot see what you have to do with it.'
'I hadn't that duty on my mind, si=
r;
but as Providence has led ye to mention the subject, I'll make it i' my way=
to
tak ony trifle ye may have to spare, the smallest contribution will be
acceptable.'
With that he doffed his hat, and h=
eld
it out as a begging-box, a brazen grin at the same time crossing his
countenance.
'If I gave you sixpence you would
drink it.'
Barraclough uplifted the palms of =
his
hands and the whites of his eyes, evincing in the gesture a mere burlesque =
of
hypocrisy.
'You seem a fine fellow,' said Moo=
re,
quite coolly and dryly; 'you don't care for showing me that you are a doubl=
e-dyed
hypocrite, that your trade is fraud. You expect indeed to make me laugh at =
the
cleverness with which you play your coarsely farcical part, while at the sa=
me
time you think you are deceiving the men behind you.'
Moses' countenance lowered. He saw=
he
had gone too far. He was going to answer, when the second leader, impatient=
of
being hitherto kept in the background, stepped forward. This man did not lo=
ok
like a traitor, though he had an exceedingly self-confident and conceited a=
ir.
'Mr Moore,' commenced he, speaking
also in his throat and nose, and enunciating each word very slowly, as if w=
ith
a view to giving his audience time to appreciate fully the uncommon eleganc=
e of
the phraseology, 'it might, perhaps, justly be said that reason rather than
peace is our purpose. We come, in the first place, to request you to hear
reason, and should you refuse, it is my duty to warn you, in very decided
terms, that measures will be had resort to' (he meant recourse) which will
probably terminate in - in bringing you to a sense of the unwisdom, of the -
the foolishness which seems to guide and guard your proceedings as a trades=
man
in this manufacturing part of the country. Hem! Sir, I would beg to allude =
that
as a furriner, coming from a distant coast, another quarter and hemisphere =
of
this globe, thrown, as I may say, a perfect outcast on these shores - the
cliffs of Albion - you have not that understanding of huz and wer ways which
might conduce to the benefit of the working-classes. If, to come at once to
partic'lars, you'd consider to give up this here mill, and go without furth=
er
protractions straight home to where you belong, it 'ud happen be as well. I=
can
see naught ageean such a plan. - What hev ye to say tull't, lads?' turning
round to the other members of the deputation, who responded unanimously, 'H=
ear,
hear!'
'Brayvo, Noah o' Tim's!' murmured =
Joe
Scott, who stood behind Mr Moore; 'Moses'll niver beat that. Cliffs o' Albi=
on,
and t' other hemisphere! My certy! Did ye come fro' th' Antarctic Zone,
maister? Moses is dished.'
Moses, however, refused to be dish=
ed.
He thought he would try again. Casting a somewhat ireful glance at 'Noah o'
Tim's,' he launched out in his turn; and now he spoke in a serious tone,
relinquishing the sarcasm which he found had not answered.
'Or iver you set up the pole o' yo=
ur
tent amang us, Mr Moore, we lived i' peace and quietness - yea, I may say, =
in
all loving-kindness. I am not myself an aged person as yet, but I can remem=
ber
as far back as maybe some twenty year, when hand-labour were encouraged and
respected, and no mischief-maker had ventured to introduce these here machi=
nes
which is so pernicious. Now, I'm not a cloth-dresser myself, but by trade a
tailor. Howsiver, my heart is of a softish nature. I'm a very feeling man, =
and
when I see my brethren oppressed, like my great namesake of old, I stand up=
for
'em; for which intent I this day speak with you face to face, and advises y=
ou
to part wi' your infernal machinery, and tak on more hands.'
'What if I don't follow your advic=
e, Mr
Barraclough?'
'The Looard pardon you! The Looard
soften your heart, sir!'
'Are you in connection with the
Wesleyans now, Mr Barraclough?'
'Praise God! Bless His name! I'm a
joined Methody!'
'Which in no respect prevents you =
from
being at the same time a drunkard and a swindler. I saw you one night a week
ago laid dead-drunk by the roadside, as I returned from Stilbro' market; and
while you preach peace, you make it the business of your life to stir up
dissension. You no more sympathise with the poor who are in distress than y=
ou
sympathise with me. You incite them to outrage for bad purposes of your own=
; so
does the individual called Noah of Tim's. You two are restless, meddling,
impudent scoundrels, whose chief motive-principle is a selfish ambition, as
dangerous as it is puerile. The persons behind you are some of them honest
though misguided men; but you two I count altogether bad.'
Barraclough was going to speak.
'Silence! You have had your say, a=
nd
now I will have mine. As to being dictated to by you, or any Jack, Jem, or
Jonathan on earth, I shall not suffer it for a moment. You desire me to quit
the country; you request me to part with my machinery. In case I refuse, you
threaten me. I do refuse - point-blank! Here I stay, and by this mill I sta=
nd,
and into it will I convey the best machinery inventors can furnish. What wi=
ll
you do? The utmost you can do - and this you will never dare to do - is to =
burn
down my mill, destroy its contents, and shoot me. What then? Suppose that
building was a ruin and I was a corpse - what then, you lads behind these t=
wo
scamps? Would that stop invention or exhaust science? Not for the fraction =
of a
second of time! Another and better gig-mill would rise on the ruins of this,
and perhaps a more enterprising owner come in my place. Hear me! I'll make =
my
cloth as I please, and according to the best lights I have. In its manufact=
ure
I will employ what means I choose. Whoever after hearing this, shall dare to
interfere with me may just take the consequences. An example shall prove I'=
m in
earnest.'
He whistled shrill and loud. Sugde=
n,
his staff and warrant, came on the scene.
Moore turned sharply to Barracloug=
h.
'You were at Stilbro',' said he; 'I have proof of that. You were on the moo=
r,
you wore a mask, you knocked down one of my men with your own hand - you! a
preacher of the gospel! - Sugden, arrest him!'
Moses was captured. There was a cry
and a rush to rescue, but the right hand which all this while had lain hidd=
en
in Moore's breast, reappearing, held out a pistol.
'Both barrels are loaded,' said he.
'I'm quite determined! Keep off.'
Stepping backwards facing the foe =
as
he went, he guarded his prey to the counting-house. He ordered Joe Scott to
pass in with Sugden and the prisoner, and to bolt the door inside. For hims=
elf,
he walked backwards and forwards along the front of the mill, looking
meditatively on the ground, his hand hanging carelessly by his side, but st=
ill
holding the pistol. The eleven remaining deputies watched him some time,
talking under their breath to each other. At length one of them approached.
This man looked very different from either of the two who had previously
spoken; he was hard-favoured, but modest and manly- looking.
'I've not much faith i' Moses
Barraclough,' said he, 'and I would speak a word to you myseln, Mr Moore. I=
t's
out o' no ill-will that I'm here, for my part; it's just to mak a effort to=
get
things straightened, for they're sorely a-crooked. Ye see we're ill off - v=
arry
ill off; wer families is poor and pined. We're thrown out o' work wi' these=
frames;
we can get nought to do; we can earn nought. What is to be done? Mun we say,
wisht! and lig us down and dee? Nay; I've no grand words at my tongue's end=
, Mr
Moore, but I feel that it wad be a low principle for a reasonable man to st=
arve
to death like a dumb cratur. I willn't do't. I'm not for shedding blood: I'd
neither kill a man nor hurt a man; and I'm not for pulling down mills and
breaking machines - for, as ye say, that way o' going on'll niver stop
invention; but I'll talk - I'll mak as big a din as ever I can. Invention m=
ay
be all right, but I know it isn't right for poor folks to starve. Them that
governs mun find a way to help us, they mun make fresh orderations. Ye'll s=
ay
that's hard to do. So mich louder mun we shout out then, for so much slacker
will t' Parliament men be to set on to a tough job.'
'Worry the Parliament-men as much =
as
you please,' said Moore; 'but to worry the mill-owners is absurd, and I for=
one
won't stand it.'
'Ye're a raight hard un!' returned=
the
workman; 'Willn't ye gie us a bit o' time? Willn't ye consent to mak your
changes rather more slowly?'
'Am I the whole body of clothiers =
in
Yorkshire? Answer me that.'
'Ye're yourseln.'
'And only myself. And if I stopped=
by
the way an instant, while others are rushing on, I should be trodden down. =
If I
did as you wish me to do, I should be bankrupt in a month; and would my
bankruptcy put bread into your hungry children's mouths? William Farren,
neither to your dictation nor to that of any other will I submit. Talk to m=
e no
more about machinery. I will have my own way. I shall get new frames in
to-morrow. If you broke these, I would still get more. I'll never give in.'=
Here the mill-bell rang twelve
o'clock. It was the dinner-hour. Moore abruptly turned from the deputation =
and
re-entered his counting-house.
His last words had left a bad, har=
sh
impression; he at least, had 'failed in the disposing of a chance he was lo=
rd
of.' By speaking kindly to William Farren - who was a very honest man, with=
out
envy or hatred of those more happily circumstanced than himself, thinking i=
t no
hardship and no injustice to be forced to live by labour, disposed to be
honourably content if he could but get work to do - Moore might have made a
friend. It seemed wonderful how he could turn from such a man without a
conciliatory or a sympathising expression. The poor fellow's face looked
haggard with want; he had the aspect of a man who had not known what it was=
to
live in comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps months, past, and yet there w=
as
no ferocity, no malignity in his countenance; it was worn, dejected, auster=
e,
but still patient. How could Moore leave him thus, with the words, 'I'll ne=
ver
give in,' and not a whisper of good-will, or hope, or aid?
Farren, as he went home to his cot=
tage
- once, in better times, a decent, clean, pleasant place, but now, though s=
till
clean, very dreary, because so poor - asked himself this question. He concl=
uded
that the foreign mill-owner was a selfish, an unfeeling, and, he thought, t=
oo,
a foolish man. It appeared to him that emigration, had he only the means to
emigrate, would be preferable to service under such a master. He felt much =
cast
down - almost hopeless.
On his entrance his wife served ou=
t,
in orderly sort, such dinner as she had to give him and the bairns. It was =
only
porridge, and too little of that. Some of the younger children asked for mo=
re
when they had done their portion - an application which disturbed William m=
uch.
While his wife quieted them as well as she could, he left his seat and went=
to
the door. He whistled a cheery stave, which did not, however, prevent a bro=
ad
drop or two (much more like the 'first of a thundershower' than those which
oozed from the wound of the gladiator) from gathering on the lids of his gr=
ay
eyes, and plashing thence to the threshold. He cleared his vision with his
sleeve, and the melting mood over, a very stern one followed.
He still stood brooding in silence,
when a gentleman in black came up - a clergyman, it might be seen at once, =
but
neither Helstone, nor Malone, nor Donne, nor Sweeting. He might be forty ye=
ars
old; he was plain-looking, dark- complexioned, and already rather gray-hair=
ed.
He stooped a little in walking. His countenance, as he came on, wore an
abstracted and somewhat doleful air; but in approaching Farren he looked up,
and then a hearty expression illuminated the preoccupied, serious face.
'Is it you, William? How are you?'=
he
asked.
'Middling, Mr Hall. How are ye? Wi=
ll
ye step in and rest ye?'
Mr Hall; whose name the reader has
seen mentioned before (and who, indeed, was vicar of Nunnely, of which pari=
sh
Farren was a native, and from whence he had removed but three years ago to
reside in Briarfield, for the convenience of being near Hollow's Mill, wher=
e he
had obtained work), entered the cottage, and having greeted the good-wife a=
nd
the children, sat down. He proceeded to talk very cheerfully about the leng=
th
of time that had elapsed since the family quitted his parish, the changes w=
hich
had occurred since; he answered questions touching his sister Margaret, who=
was
inquired after with much interest; he asked questions in his turn, and at l=
ast,
glancing hastily and anxiously round through his spectacles (he wore
spectacles, for he was short-sighted) at the bare room, and at the meagre a=
nd
wan faces of the circle about him - for the children had come round his kne=
e,
and the father and mother stood before him - he said abruptly, - 'And how a=
re
you all? How do you get on?'
Mr Hall, be it remarked, though an
accomplished scholar, not only spoke with a strong northern accent, but, on
occasion, used freely north-country expressions.
'We get on poorly,' said William;
'we're all out of work. I've selled most o' t' household stuff, as ye may s=
ee;
and what we're to do next, God knows.'
'Has Mr Moore turned you off?'
'He has turned us off, and I've si=
ch
an opinion of him now that I think if he'd tak me on again to-morrow I woul=
dn't
work for him.'
'It is not like you to say so,
William.'
'I know it isn't; but I'm getting
different to mysel'; I feel I am changing. I wadn't heed if t' bairns and t'
wife had enough to live on; but they're pinched - they're pined.'
'Well, my lad, and so are you; I s=
ee
you are. These are grievous times; I see suffering wherever I turn. William,
sit down. Grace, sit down. Let us talk it over.'
And in order the better to talk it
over, Mr Hall lifted the least of the children on to his knee, and placed h=
is
hand on the head of the next least; but when the small things began to chat=
ter
to him he bade them 'Whisht!' and fixing his eyes on the grate, he regarded=
the
handful of embers which burned there very gravely.
'Sad times,' he said, 'and they la=
st
long. It is the will of God. His will be done. But He tries us to the utmos=
t.'
Again he reflected. 'You've no money, William, and you've nothing you could=
sell
to raise a small sum?'
'No. I've selled t' chest o' drawe=
rs,
and t' clock, and t' bit of a mahogany stand, and t' wife's bonny tea-tray =
and
set o' cheeney that she brought for a portion when we were wed.'
'And if somebody lent you a pound =
or
two, could you make any good use of it? Could you get into a new way of doi=
ng
something?' Farren did not answer, but his wife said quickly, 'Ay, I'm sure=
he
could, sir. He's a very contriving chap is our William. If he'd two or three
pounds he could begin selling stuff'
'Could you, William?'
'Please God,' returned William
deliberately, 'I could buy groceries, and bits o' tapes, and thread, and wh=
at I
thought would sell, and I could begin hawking at first.'
'And you know, sir,' interposed Gr=
ace,
'you're sure William would neither drink, nor idle, nor waste, in any way. =
He's
my husband, and I shouldn't praise him; but I will say there's not a sobere=
r,
honester man i' England nor he is.'
'Well, I'll speak to one or two
friends, and I think I can promise to let him have £5 in a day or two=
-
as a loan, ye mind, not a gift. He must pay it back.'
'I understand, sir. I'm quite
agreeable to that.'
'Meantime, there's a few shillings=
for
you, Grace, just to keep the pot boiling till custom comes. - Now, bairns,
stand up in a row and say your catechism, while your mother goes and buys s=
ome
dinner; for you've not had much to-day, I'll be bound. - You begin, Ben. Wh=
at
is your name?'
Mr Hall stayed till Grace came bac=
k;
then he hastily took his leave, shaking hands with both Farren and his wife.
Just at the door he said to them a few brief but very earnest words of
religious consolation and exhortation. With a mutual 'God bless you, sir!' =
'God
bless you, my friends!' they separated.
Messrs Helstone and Sykes began to=
be
extremely jocose and congratulatory with Mr Moore when he returned to them
after dismissing the deputation. He was so quiet, however, under their
compliments upon his firmness etc., and wore a countenance so like a still,
dark day, equally beamless and breezeless, that the rector, after glancing
shrewdly into his eyes, buttoned up his felicitations with his coat, and sa=
id
to Sykes, whose senses were not acute enough to enable him to discover
unassisted where his presence and conversation were a nuisance, 'Come, sir;
your road and mine lie partly together. Had we not better bear each other
company? We'll bid Moore ‘good-morning’ and leave him to the ha=
ppy
fancies he seems disposed to indulge.'
'And where is Sugden?' demanded Mo=
ore,
looking up. 'Ah, ha!' cried Helstone. 'I've not been quite idle while you w=
ere
busy. I've been helping you a little; I flatter myself not injudiciously. I
thought it better not to lose time; so, while you were parleying with that
down-looking gentleman - Farren I think his name is - I opened this back
window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was in the stable, to bring Mr Sykes's g=
ig
round; then I smuggled Sugden and brother Moses - wooden leg and all - thro=
ugh
the aperture, and saw them mount the gig (always with our good friend Sykes=
's
permission, of course). Sugden took the reins he drives like Jehu - and in
another quarter of an hour Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro' jail.'
'Very good; thank you,' said Moore;
'and good-morning, gentlemen,' he added, and so politely conducted them to =
the
door, and saw them clear of his premises.
He was a taciturn, serious man the
rest of the day. He did not even bandy a repartee with Joe Scott, who, for =
his
part, said to his master only just what was absolutely necessary to the
progress of business, but looked at him a good deal out of the corners of h=
is
eyes, frequently came to poke the counting-house fire for him, and once, as=
he
was locking up for the day (the mill was then working short time, owing to =
the
slackness of trade), observed that it was a grand evening, and he 'could wi=
sh Mr
Moore to take a bit of a walk up th' Hollow. It would do him good.'
At this recommendation Mr Moore bu=
rst
into a short laugh, and after demanding of Joe what all this solicitude mea=
nt,
and whether he took him for a woman or a child, seized the keys from his ha=
nd,
and shoved him by the shoulders out of his presence. He called him back,
however, ere he had reached the yard- gate.
'Joe, do you know those Farrens? T=
hey
are not well off, I suppose?'
'They cannot be well off, sir, when
they've not had work as a three month. Ye'd see yoursel' 'at William's sore=
ly
changed - fair pared. They've selled most o' t' stuff out o' th' house.'
'He was not a bad workman?'
'Ye never had a better, sir, sin' =
ye
began trade.'
'And decent people - the whole
family?'
'Niver dacenter. Th' wife's a raig=
ht
cant body, and as clean - ye mught eat your porridge off th' house floor.
They're sorely comed down. I wish William could get a job as gardener or su=
mmat
i' that way; he understands gardening weel. He once lived wi' a Scotchman t=
hat
tached him the mysteries o' that craft, as they say.'
'Now, then, you can go, Joe. You n=
eed
not stand there staring at me.'
'Ye've no orders to give, sir?'
'None, but for you to take yourself
off.' Which Joe did accordingly.
Spring evenings are often cold and
raw, and though this had been a fine day, warm even in the morning and meri=
dian
sunshine, the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and ere dusk a hoar
frost was insidiously stealing over growing grass and unfolding bud. It
whitened the pavement in front of Briarmains (Mr Yorke's residence), and ma=
de
silent havoc among the tender plants in his garden, and on the mossy level =
of
his lawn. As to that great tree, strong-trunked and broad-armed, which guar=
ded
the gable nearest the road, it seemed to defy a spring-night frost to harm =
its
still bare boughs; and so did the leafless grove of walnut-trees rising tall
behind the house.
In the dusk of the moonless if sta=
rry
night, lights from window's shone vividly. This was no dark or lonely scene,
nor even a silent one. Briarmains stood near the highway. It was rather an =
old
place, and had been built ere that highway was cut, and when a lane winding=
up
through fields was the only path conducting to it. Briarfield lay scarce a =
mile
off; its hum was heard, its glare distinctly seen. Briar Chapel, a large, n=
ew,
raw Wesleyan place of worship, rose but a hundred yards distant; and as the=
re
was even now a prayer-meeting being held within its walls, the illumination=
of its
windows cast a bright reflection on the road, while a hymn of a most
extraordinary description, such as a very Quaker might feel himself moved by
the Spirit to dance to, roused cheerily all the echoes of the vicinage. The
words were distinctly audible by snatches. Here is a quotation or two from
different strains; for the singers passed jauntily from hymn to hymn and fr=
om
tune to tune, with an ease and buoyancy all their own:
'Oh! who can explain
This struggle for life,
This travail and pain,
This trembling, and strife?
'Plague, earthquake, and famine,
And tumult and war,
The wonderful coming
Of Jesus declare!
'For every fight
Is dreadful and loud:
The warrior's delight
Is slaughter and blood,
'His foes overturning,
Till all shall expire,
And this is with burning,
And fuel, and fire!'
Here followed an interval of clamo=
rous
prayer, accompanied by fearful groans. A shout of 'I've found liberty!' 'Do=
ad
o' Bill's has fun' liberty!' rang from the chapel, and out all the assembly
broke again.
'What a mercy is this!
What a heaven of bliss!
How unspeakably happy am I!
Gathered into the fold,
With Thy people enrolled
With Thy people to live and to die!
'Oh, the goodness of God
In employing a clod
His tribute of glory to raise;
His standard to bear,
And with Triumph declare
His unspeakable riches of grace!
'Oh, the fathomless love
That has deigned to approve
And prosper the work in my hands.
With my pastoral crook
I went over the brook,
And behold I am spread into bands!
'Who, I ask in amaze,
Hath begotten me these?
And inquire from what quarter they came.
My full heart it replies,
They are born from the skies,
And gives glory to God and the Lamb!'
The stanza which followed this, af=
ter
another and longer interregnum of shouts, yells, ejaculations, frantic crie=
s,
agonised groans, seemed to cap the climax of noise and zeal.
'Sleeping on the brink of sin,
Tophet gaped to take us in;
Mercy to our rescue flew,
Broke the snare, and brought us through.
'Here, as in a lion's den,
Undevoured we still remain,
Pass secure the watery flood,
Hanging on the arm of God.
Here - '
(Terrible, most distracting to the
ear, was the strained shout in which the last stanza was given.)
'Here we raise our voices higher,
Shout in the refiner's fire
Clap our hands amidst the flame,
Glory give to Jesus' name!'
The roof of the chapel did not fly
off, which speaks volumes in praise of its solid slating.
But if Briar Chapel seemed alive, =
so
also did Briarmains, though certainly the mansion appeared to enjoy a quiet=
er
phase of existence than the temple. Some of its windows too were aglow; the
lower casements opened upon the lawn; curtains concealed the interior, and
partly obscured the ray of the candles which lit it, but they did not entir=
ely
muffle the sound of voice and laughter. We are privileged to enter that fro=
nt
door, and to penetrate to the domestic sanctum.
It is not the presence of company
which makes Mr Yorke's habitation lively, for there is none within it save =
his
own family, and they are assembled in that farthest room to the right, the =
back
parlour.
This is the usual sitting-room of =
an
evening. Those windows would be seen by daylight to be of brilliantly-stain=
ed
glass, purple and amber the predominant hues, glittering round a gravely-ti=
nted
medallion in the centre of each, representing the suave head of William
Shakespeare, and the serene one of John Milton. Some Canadian views hung on=
the
walls - green forest and blue water scenery - and in the midst of them blaz=
es a
night eruption of Vesuvius; very ardently it glows, contrasted with the cool
foam and azure of cataracts, and the dusky depths of woods.
The fire illuminating this room,
reader, is such as, if you be a southern, you do not often see burning on t=
he
hearth of a private apartment It is a clear, hot coal fire, heaped high in =
the
ample chimney. Mr Yorke will have such fires even in warm summer weather. He
sits beside it with a book in his hand, a little round stand at his elbow
supporting a candle; but he is not reading - he is watching his children.
Opposite to him sits his lady - a personage whom I might describe minutely,=
but
I feel no vocation to the task. I see her, though, very plainly before me -=
a
large woman of the gravest aspect, care on her front and on her shoulders, =
but
not over-whelming, inevitable care, rather the sort of voluntary, exemplary
cloud and burden people ever carry who deem it their duty to be gloomy. Ah,
well-a-day! Mrs Yorke had that notion, and grave as Saturn she was, morning,
noon, and night; and hard things she thought of any unhappy wight - especia=
lly
of the female sex - who dared in her presence to show the light of a gay he=
art
on a sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be mirthful was to be profane=
, to
be cheerful was to be frivolous. She drew no distinctions. Yet she was a ve=
ry
good wife, a very careful mother, looked after her children unceasingly, was
sincerely attached to her husband; only the worst of it was, if she could h=
ave
had her will, she would not have permitted him to have any friend in the wo=
rld
beside herself. All his relations were insupportable to her, and she kept t=
hem
at arm's length.
Mr Yorke and she agreed perfectly
well, yet he was naturally a social, hospitable man, in advocate for family
unity, and in his youth, as has been said, he liked none but lively, cheerf=
ul
women. Why he chose her, how they contrived to suit each other, is a problem
puzzling enough, but which might soon be solved if one had time to go into =
the
analysis of the case. Suffice it here to say that Yorke had a shadowy side =
as
well as a sunny side to his character, and that his shadowy side found symp=
athy
and affinity in the whole of his wife's uniformly overcast nature. For the
rest, she was a strong-minded woman; never said a weak or a trite thing; to=
ok
stern, democratic views of society, and rather cynical ones of human nature;
considered herself perfect and safe, and the rest of the world all wrong. H=
er
main fault was a brooding, eternal, immitigable suspicion of all men, thing=
s,
creeds, and parties; this suspicion was a mist before her eyes, a false gui=
de
in her path, wherever she looked, wherever she turned.
It may be supposed that the childr=
en
of such a pair were not likely to turn out quite ordinary, commonplace bein=
gs;
and they were not. You see six of them, reader. The youngest is a baby on t=
he
mother's knee. It is all her own yet, and that one she has not yet begun to
doubt, suspect, condemn; it derives its sustenance from her, it hangs on he=
r,
it clings to her, it loves her above everything else in the world. She is s=
ure
of that, because, as it lives by her, it cannot be otherwise, therefore she
loves it.
The two next are girls, Rose and
Jessy; they are both now at their father's knee; they seldom go near their
mother, except when obliged to do so. Rose, the elder, is twelve years old -
she is like her father - the most like him of the whole group - but it is a
granite head copied in ivory; all is softened in colour and line. Yorke him=
self
has a harsh face his daughter's is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; i=
t is
simple, childlike in feature; the round cheeks bloom: as to the gray eyes, =
they
are otherwise than childlike - a serious soul lights them - a young soul ye=
t,
but it will mature, if the body lives; and neither father nor mother have a
spirit to compare with it. Partaking of the essence of each, it will one da=
y be
better than either - stronger, much purer, more aspiring. Rose is a still,
sometimes a stubborn, girl now. Her mother wants to make of her such a woma=
n as
she is herself - a woman of dark and dreary duties; and Rose has a mind
full-set, thick-sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. It is a=
gony
to her often to have these ideas trampled on and repressed. She has never
rebelled yet, but if hard driven she will rebel one day, and then it will be
once for all. Rose loves her father: her father does not rule her with a ro=
d of
iron; he is good to her. He sometimes fears she will not live, so bright are
the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glance and gle=
am
in her language. This idea makes him often sadly tender to her.
He has no idea that little Jessy w=
ill
die young, she is so gay and chattering, arch, original even now; passionate
when provoked, but most affectionate if caressed; by turns gentle and rattl=
ing;
exacting, yet generous; fearless of her mother, for instance, whose
irrationally hard and strict rule she has often defied - yet reliant on any=
who
will help her. Jessy, with her little piquant face, engaging prattle, and
winning ways, is made to be a pet, and her father's pet she accordingly is.=
It
is odd that the doll should resemble her mother feature by feature, as Rose
resembles her father, and yet the physiognomy - how different!
Mr Yorke, if a magic mirror were n=
ow
held before you, and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they w=
ill
be twenty years from this night, what would you think? The magic mirror is
here: you shall learn their destinies - and first that of your little life,
Jessy.
Do you know this place? No, you ne=
ver
saw it; but you recognise the nature of these trees, this foliage - the
cypress, the willow, the yew. Stone crosses like these are not unfamiliar to
you, nor are these dim garlands of everlasting flowers. Here is the place -
green sod and a gray marble headstone. Jessy sleeps below. She lived throug=
h an
April day; much loved was she, much loving. She often, in her brief life, s=
hed
tears, she had frequent sorrows; she smiled between, gladdening whatever saw
her. Her death was tranquil and happy in Rose's guardian arms, for Rose had
been her stay and defence through many trials. The dying and the watching
English girls were at that hour alone in a foreign country, and the soil of
that country gave Jessy a grave.
Now, behold Rose two years later. =
The
crosses and garlands looked strange, but the hills and woods of this landsc=
ape look
still stranger. This, indeed, is far from England: remote must be the shores
which wear that wild, luxuriant aspect. This is some virgin solitude. Unkno=
wn
birds flutter round the skirts of that forest; no European river this, on w=
hose
banks Rose sits thinking. The little quiet Yorkshire girl is a lonely emigr=
ant
in some region of the southern hemisphere. Will she ever come back? The thr=
ee
eldest of the family are all boys - Matthew, Mark, and Martin. They are sea=
ted
together in that corner, engaged in some game. Observe their three heads: m=
uch
alike at a first glance, at a second, different; at a third, contrasted.
Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked are the whole trio; small, English feat=
ures
they all possess; all own a blended resemblance to sire and mother; and yet=
a
distinctive physiognomy, mark of a separate character, belongs to each.
I shall not say much about Matthew,
the first-born of the house, though it is impossible to avoid gazing at him
long, and conjecturing what qualities that visage hides or indicates. He is=
no
plain-looking boy: that jet-black hair, white brow, high-coloured cheek, th=
ose
quick, dark eyes, are good points in their way. How is it that, look as lon=
g as
you will, there is but one object in the room, and that the most sinister, =
to
which Matthew's face seems to bear an affinity, and of which, ever and anon=
, it
reminds you strangely - the eruption of Vesuvius? Flame and shadow seem the
component parts of that lad's soul - no daylight in it, and no sunshine, an=
d no
pure, cool moonbeam ever shone there. He has an English frame, but, apparen=
tly,
not an English mind - you would say, an Italian stiletto in a sheath of Bri=
tish
workmanship. He is crossed in the game - look at his scowl. Mr Yorke sees i=
t,
and what does he say? In a low voice he pleads, 'Mark and Martin, don't ang=
er
your brother.' And this is ever the tone adopted by both parents.
Theoretically, they decry partiality - no rights of primogeniture are to be
allowed in that house; but Matthew is never to be vexed, never to be oppose=
d;
they avert provocation from him as assiduously as they would avert fire fro=
m a
barrel of gunpowder. 'Concede, conciliate,' is their motto wherever he is
concerned. The republicans are fast making a tyrant of their own flesh and
blood. This the younger scions know and feel, and at heart they all rebel
against the injustice. They cannot read their parents' motives; they only s=
ee
the difference of treatment. The dragon's teeth are already sown amongst Mr
Yorke's young olive-branches; discord will one day be the harvest.
Mark is a bonny-looking boy, the m=
ost
regular-featured of the family. He is exceedingly calm; his smile is shrewd=
; he
can say the driest, most cutting things in the quietest of tones. Despite h=
is
tranquillity, a somewhat heavy brow speaks temper, and reminds you that the
smoothest waters are not always the safest. Besides, he is too still, unmov=
ed,
phlegmatic, to be happy. Life will never have much joy in it for Mark: by t=
he
time he is five-and-twenty he will wonder why people ever laugh, and think =
all
fools who seem merry. Poetry will not exist for Mark, either in literature =
or
in life; its best effusions will sound to him mere rant and jargon. Enthusi=
asm
will be his aversion and contempt. Mark will have no youth; while he looks
juvenile and blooming, he will be already middle-aged in mind. His body is =
now
fourteen years of age, but his soul is already thirty.
Martin, the youngest of the three,
owns another nature. Life may, or may not; be brief for him, but it will
certainly be brilliant. He will pass through all its illusions, half believ=
e in
them, wholly enjoy them, then outlive them. That boy is not handsome - not =
so
handsome as either of his brothers. He is plain; there is a husk upon him, a
dry shell, and he will wear it till he is near twenty, then he will put it =
off.
About that period he'll make himself handsome. He will wear uncouth manners
till that age, perhaps homely garments; but the chrysalis will retain the p=
ower
of transfiguring itself into the butterfly, and such transfiguration will, =
in
due season, take place. For a space he will be vain, probably a downright
puppy, eager for pleasure and desirous of admiration, athirst, too, for
knowledge. He will want all that the world can give him, both of enjoyment =
and
lore - he will perhaps, take deep draughts at each fount. That thirst
satisfied, what next? I know not. Martin might be a remarkable man. Whether=
he
will or not, the seer is powerless to predict: on that subject there has be=
en
no open vision.
Take Mr Yorke's family in the
aggregate: there is as much mental power in those six young heads, as much
originality as much activity and vigour of brain, as - divided amongst half=
a
dozen commonplace broods - would give to each rather more than an average
amount of sense and capacity. Mr Yorke knows this, and is proud of his race.
Yorkshire has such families here and there amongst her hills and wolds -
peculiar, racy, vigorous; of good blood and strong brain; turbulent somewha=
t in
the pride of their strength and intractable in the force of their native
powers; wanting polish, wanting consideration, wanting docility, but sound,
spirited, and true-bred as the eagle on the cliff or the steed in the stepp=
e.
A low tap is heard at the parlour
door; the boys have been making such a noise over their game, and little Je=
ssy,
besides, has been singing so sweet a Scotch song to her father - who deligh=
ts
in Scotch and Italian songs, and has taught his musical little daughter som=
e of
the best - that the ring at the outer door was not observed.
'Come in,' says Mrs Yorke, in that
conscientiously constrained and solemnised voice of hers, which ever modula=
tes
itself to a funereal dreariness of tone, though the subject it is exercised
upon be but to give orders for the making of a pudding in the kitchen, to b=
id
the boys hang up their caps in the hall, or to call the girls to their sewi=
ng -
'come in!' And in came Robert Moore.
Moore's habitual gravity, as well =
as
his abstemiousness (for the case of spirit decanters is never ordered up wh=
en
he pays an evening visit), has so far recommended him to Mrs Yorke that she=
has
not yet made him the subject of private animadversions with her husband; she
has not yet found out that he is hampered by a secret intrigue which preven=
ts
him from marrying, or that he is a wolf in sheep's clothing - discoveries w=
hich
she made at an early date after marriage concerning most of her husband's
bachelor friends, and excluded them from her board accordingly; which part =
of
her conduct, indeed, might be said to have its just and sensible as well as=
its
harsh side.
'Well, is it you?' she says to Mr
Moore, as he comes up to her and gives his hand. 'What are you roving about=
at
this time of night for? You should be at home.'
'Can a single man be said to have a
home, madam?' he asks.
'Pooh!' says Mrs Yorke, who despis=
es
conventional smoothness quite as much as her husband does, and practises it=
as
little, and whose plain speaking on all occasions is carried to a point
calculated, sometimes, to awaken admiration, but oftener alarm - 'pooh! you
need not talk nonsense to me; a single man can have a home if he likes. Pra=
y,
does not your sister make a home for you?'
'Not she,' joined in Mr Yorke.
'Hortense is an honest lass. But when I was Robert's age I had five or six
sisters, all as decent and proper as she is; but you see, Hesther, for all =
that
it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife.'
'And sorely he has repented marryi=
ng
me,' added Mrs Yorke, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against
matrimony, even though it should be at her own expense. 'He has repented it=
in
sackcloth and ashes, Robert Moore, as you may well believe when you see his
punishment' (here she pointed to her children). 'Who would burden themselves
with such a set of great, rough lads as those, if they could help it? It is=
not
only bringing them into the world, though that is bad enough, but they are =
all
to feed, to clothe, to rear, to settle in life. Young sir, when you feel
tempted to marry, think of our four sons and two daughters, and look twice
before you leap.'
'I am not tempted now, at any rate=
. I
think these are not times for marrying or giving in marriage.'
A lugubrious sentiment of this sort
was sure to obtain Mrs Yorke's approbation. She nodded and groaned
acquiescence; but in a minute she said, 'I make little account of the wisdo=
m of
a Solomon of your age; it will be upset by the first fancy that crosses you.
Meantime, Sit down, sir. You can talk, I suppose, as well sitting as standi=
ng?'
This was her way of inviting her g=
uest
to take a chair. He had no sooner obeyed her than little Jessy jumped from =
her
father's knee and ran into Mr Moore's arms, which were very promptly held o=
ut
to receive her.
'You talk of marrying him,' said s=
he
to her mother, quite indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee, 'a=
nd
he is married now, or as good. He promised that I should be his wife last
summer, the first time he saw me in my new white frock and blue sash. Didn't
he, father?' (These children were not accustomed to say papa and mamma; the=
ir
mother would allow no such 'namby-pamby.')
'Ay, my little lassie, he promised;
I'll bear witness. But make him say it over again now, Jessy. Such as he are
only false loons.'
'He is not false. He is too bonny =
to
be false,' said Jessy, looking up to her tall sweetheart with the fullest
confidence in his faith.
'Bonny!' cried Mr Yorke. 'That's t=
he
reason that he should be, and proof that he is, a scoundrel'
'But he looks too sorrowful to be
false,' here interposed a quiet voice from behind the father's chair. 'If he
were always laughing, I should think he forgot promises soon; but Mr Moore
never laughs.'
'Your sentimental buck is the grea=
test
cheat of all, Rose,' remarked Mr Yorke.
'He's not sentimental,' said Rose.=
Mr Moore turned to her with a litt=
le
surprise, smiling at the same time.
'How do you know I am not sentimen=
tal,
Rose?'
'Because I heard a lady say you we=
re
not'
'Voilà, qui devient
intéressant!' exclaimed Mr Yorke, hitching his chair nearer the fire=
. 'A
lady! That has quite a romantic twang. We must guess who it is . . . Rosy,
whisper the name low to your father. after him hear.'
'Rose, don't be too forward to tal=
k,'
here interrupted Mrs Yorke, in her usual kill-joy fashion, 'nor Jessy eithe=
r.
It becomes all children, especially girls, to be silent in the presence of
their elders.'
'Why have we tongues, then?' asked
Jessy pertly; while Rose only looked at her mother with an expression that
seemed to say she should take that maxim in and think it over at her leisur=
e.
After two minutes' grave deliberation, she asked, 'And why especially girls,
mother?'
'Firstly, because I say so; and
secondly, because discretion and reserve are a girl's best wisdom.'
'My dear madam,' observed Moore, '=
what
you say is excellent - it reminds me, indeed, of my dear sister's observati=
ons;
but really it is not applicable to these little ones. Let Rose and Jessy ta=
lk
to me freely, or my chief pleasure in coming here is gone. I like their
prattle; it does me good.'
'Does it not?' asked Jessy. 'More =
good
than if the rough lads came round you. - You call them rough, mother,
yourself.'
'Yes, mignonne, a thousand times m=
ore
good. I have rough lads enough about me all day long, poulet.'
'There are plenty of people,' continued she, 'who take notice of the boys. All my uncles and aunts seem to think their nephews better than their nieces, and when gentlemen come here = to dine, it is always Matthew, and Mark, and Martin that are talked to, and ne= ver Rose and me. Mr Moore is our friend, and we'll keep him: but mind, Rose, he= 's not so much your friend as he is mine. He is my particular acquaintance, remember that!' And she held up her small hand with an admonitory gesture.<= o:p>
Rose was quite accustomed to be
admonished by that small hand. Her will daily bent itself to that of the
impetuous little Jessy. She was guided, overruled by Jessy in a thousand
things. On all occasions of show and pleasure Jessy took the lead, and Rose
fell quietly into the background, whereas, when the disagreeables of life i=
ts
work and privations - were in question, Rose instinctively took upon her, in
addition to her own share, what she could of her sister's. Jessy had already
settled it in her mind that she, when she was old enough, was to be married,
Rose, she decided, must be an old maid, to live with her, look after her
children, keep her house. This state of things is not uncommon between two
sisters, where one is plain and the other pretty; but in this case, if there
was a difference in external appearance, Rose had the advantage: her face w=
as
more regular featured than that of the piquant little Jessy. Jessy, however,
was destined to possess, along with sprightly intelligence and vivacious
feeling, the gift of fascination, the power to charm when, where, and whom =
she
would. Rose was to have a fine, generous soul, a noble intellect profoundly
cultivated, a heart as true as steel, but the manner to attract was not to =
be
hers.
'Now, Rose, tell me the name of th=
is
lady who denied that I was sentimental,' urged Mr Moore.
Rose had no idea of tantalisation,=
or
she would have held him a while in doubt. She answered briefly, 'I can't. I
don't know her name.'
'Describe her to me. What was she
like? Where did you see her?'
'When Jessy and I went to spend the
day at Whinbury with Kate and Susan Pearson, who were just come home from
school, there was a party at Mrs Pearson's, and some grown-up ladies were
sitting in a corner of the drawing-room talking about you.'
'Did you know none of them?'
'Hannah, and Harriet, and Dora, and
Mary Sykes.'
'Good. Were they abusing me, Rosy?=
'
'Some of them were. They called yo=
u a
misanthrope. I remember the word. I looked for it in the dictionary when I =
came
home. It means a man-hater.'
'What besides?'
'Hannah Sykes said you were a sole=
mn
puppy.'
'Better!' cried Mr Yorke, laughing.
'Oh, excellent! Hannah! that's the one with the red hair - a fine girl, but
half-witted.'
'She has wit enough for me, it
appears,' said Moore: 'A solemn puppy, indeed! Well, Rose, go on.'
'Miss Pearson said she believed th=
ere
was a good deal of affectation about you, and that with your dark hair and =
pale
face you looked to her like some sort of a sentimental noodle.'
Again Mr Yorke laughed. Mrs Yorke =
even
joined in this time. 'You see in what esteem you are held behind your back,'
said she; 'yet I believe that after to catch you. She set her cap at you wh=
en
you first came into the country, old as she is.'
'And who contradicted her, Rosy?'
inquired Moore.
'A lady whom I don't know, because=
she
never visits here, though I see her every Sunday at church. She sits in the=
pew
near the pulpit. I generally look at her instead of looking at my prayer-bo=
ok,
for she is like a picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in h=
er
hand - at least she has eyes like it, and a nose too, a straight nose, that
makes all her face look, somehow, what I call clear.'
'And you don't know her!' exclaimed
Jessy, in a tone of exceeding surprise. 'That's so like Rose. Mr Moore, I o=
ften
wonder in what sort of a world my sister lives. I am sure she does not live=
all
her time in this. One is continually finding out that she is quite ignorant=
of
some little matter which everybody else knows. To think of her going solemn=
ly
to church every Sunday, and looking all service-time at one particular pers=
on,
and never so much as asking that person's name. She means Caroline Helstone=
, the
rector's niece. I remember all about it Miss Helstone was quite angry with =
Anne
Pearson. She said, ‘Robert Moore is neither affected nor sentimental;=
you
mistake his character utterly, or rather not one of you here knows anything
about it.’ Now, shall I tell you what she is like? I can tell what pe=
ople
are like, and how they are dressed, better than Rose can.'
'Let us hear.'
'She is nice; she is fair; she has=
a
pretty white slender throat; she has long curls, not stiff ones - they hang
loose and soft, their colour is brown but not dark; she speaks quietly, wit=
h a
dear tone; she never makes a bustle in moving; she often wears a gray silk
dress she is neat all over - her gowns, and her shoes, and her gloves always
fit her. She is what I call a lady, and when I am as tall as she is, I mean=
to
be like her. Shall I suit you if I am? Will you really marry me?'
Moore stroked Jessy's hair. For a
minute he seemed as if he would draw her nearer to him, but instead he put =
her
a little farther off.
'Oh! you won't have me? You push me
away.'
'Why, Jessy, you care nothing about
me. You never come to see me now at the Hollow.'
'Because you don't ask me.'
Hereupon Mr Moore gave both the li=
ttle
girls an invitation to pay him a visit next day, promising that, as he was
going to Stilbro' in the morning, he would buy them each a present, of what
nature he would not then declare, but they must come and see. Jessy was abo=
ut
to reply, when one of the boys unexpectedly broke in, -
'I know that Miss Helstone you have
all been palavering about. She's an ugly girl. I hate her. I hate all
womenites. I wonder what they were made for.'
'Martin!' said his father, for Mar=
tin
it was. The lad only answered by turning his cynical young face, half-arch,
half-truculent towards the paternal chair. 'Martin, my lad, thou'rt a
swaggering whelp now; thou wilt some day be an outrageous puppy. But stick =
to
those sentiments of thine. See, I'll write down the words now i' my
pocket-book.' (The senior took out a morocco-covered book, and deliberately=
wrote
therein.) 'Ten years hence, Martin, if thou and I be both alive at that day,
I'll remind thee of that speech.'
'I'll say the same then. I mean al=
ways
to hate women. They're such dolls; they do nothing but dress themselves fin=
ely,
and go swimming about to be admired. I'll never marry. I'll be a bachelor.'=
'Stick to it! stick to it! - Hesth=
er'
(addressing his wife), 'I was like him when I was his age - a regular
misogamist; and, behold! by the time I was three- and twenty - being then a
tourist in France and Italy, and the Lord knows where - I curled my hair ev=
ery
night before I went to bed, and wore a ring i' my ear, and would have worn =
one
i' my nose if it had been the fashion, and all that I might make myself
pleasing and charming to the ladies. Martin will do the like.'
'Will I? Never! I've more sense. W=
hat
a guy you were father! As to dressing, I make this vow: I'll never dress mo=
re
finely than as you see me at present. - Mr Moore, I'm clad in blue cloth fr=
om
top to toe, and they laugh at me, and call me sailor at the grammar-school.=
I
laugh louder at them, and say they are all magpies and parrots, with their
coats one colour, and their waistcoats another, and their trousers a third.
I'll always wear blue cloth, and nothing but blue cloth. It is beneath a hu=
man
being's dignity to dress himself in parti- coloured garments.
'Ten years hence, Martin, no tailo=
r's
shop will have choice of colours varied enough for thy exacting taste; no
perfumer's, stores essences exquisite enough for thy fastidious senses.'
Martin looked disdain, but vouchsa=
fed
no further reply. Meantime Mark, who for some minutes had been rummaging
amongst a pile of books on a side-table took the word. He spoke in a peculi=
arly
slow, quiet voice, and with an expression of still irony in his face not ea=
sy
to describe.
'Mr Moore,' said he, 'you think
perhaps it was a compliment on Miss Caroline Helstone's part to say you were
not sentimental. I thought you appeared confused when my sisters told you t=
he
words, as if you felt flattered. You turned red, just like a certain vain
little lad at our school, who always thinks proper to blush when he gets a =
rise
in the class. For your benefit, Mr Moore, I've been looking up the word =
216;sentimental’
in the dictionary, and I find it to mean ‘tinctured with sentiment.=
8217;
On examining further, ‘sentiment’ is explained to be thought, i=
dea,
notion. A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts, ideas, notions; an
unsentimental man is one destitute of thought, idea, or notion.'
And Mark stopped. He did not smile=
, he
did not look round for admiration. He had said his say, and was silent.
'Ma foi! mon ami,' observed Mr Moo=
re
to Yorke, 'ce sont vraiment des enfants terribles, que les vôtres!'
Rose, who had been listening
attentively to Mark's speech, replied to him, 'There are different kinds of
thoughts, ideas, and notions,' said she, 'good and bad: sentimental must re=
fer
to the bad, or Miss Helstone must have taken it in that sense, for she was =
not
blaming Mr Moore; she was defending him.'
'That's my kind little advocate!' =
said
Moore, taking Rose's hand.
'She was defending him,' repeated
Rose, 'as I should have done had I been in her place, for the other ladies
seemed to speak spitefully.'
'Ladies always do speak spitefully=
,'
observed Martin. 'It is the nature of womenites to be spiteful.'
Matthew now, for the first time,
opened his lips. 'What a fool Martin is, to be always gabbling about what he
does not understand!'
'It is my privilege, as a freeman,=
to
gabble on whatever subject I like,' responded Martin.
'You use it, or rather abuse it, to
such an extent,' rejoined the elder brother, 'that you prove you ought to h=
ave
been a slave.'
'A slave! a slave! That to a Yorke,
and from a Yorke! This fellow,' he added, standing up at the table, and
pointing across it to Matthew - 'this fellow forgets, what every cottier in
Briarfield knows, that all born of our house have that arched instep under
which water can flow - proof that there has not been a slave of the blood f=
or
three-hundred years.'
'Mountebank!' said Matthew.
'Lads, be silent!' exclaimed Mr Yo=
rke.
- 'Martin, you are a mischief-maker. There would have been no disturbance b=
ut
for you.'
'Indeed! Is that correct? Did I be=
gin,
or did Matthew? Had I spoken to him when he accused me of gabbling like a
fool?'
'A presumptuous fool!' repeated
Matthew.
Here Mrs Yorke commenced rocking
herself - rather a portentous movement with her, as it was occasionally
followed, especially when Matthew was worsted in a conflict, by a fit of
hysterics.
'I don't see why I should bear
insolence from Matthew Yorke, or what right he has to use bad language to m=
e,'
observed Martin.
'He has no right, my lad; but forg=
ive
your brother until seventy-and-seven times,' said Mr Yorke soothingly.
'Always alike, and theory and prac=
tice
always adverse!' murmured Martin as he turned to leave the room.
'Where art thou going, my son?' as=
ked
the father. 'Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult, if in this house I
can find any such place.'
Matthew laughed very insolently.
Martin threw a strange look at him, and trembled through all his slight lad=
's
frame; but he restrained himself.
'I suppose there is no objection t=
o my
withdrawing?' he inquired.
'No. Go, my lad; but remember not =
to
bear malice.'
Martin went, and Matthew sent anot=
her
insolent laugh after him. Rose, lifting her fair head from Moore's shoulder
against which, for a moment, it had been resting, said, as she directed a
steady gaze to Matthew, 'Martin is grieved, and you are glad; but I would
rather be Martin than you. I dislike your nature.'
Here Mr Moore, by way of averting,=
or
at least escaping, a scene - which a sob from Mrs Yorke warned him was like=
ly
to come on - rose, and putting Jessy off his knee, he kissed her and Rose,
reminding them, at the same time, to be sure and come to the Hollow in good
time to-morrow afternoon; then, having taken leave of his hostess, he said =
to Mr
Yorke, 'May I speak a word with you?' and was followed by him from the room.
Their brief conference took place in the hall.
'Have you employment for a good
workman?' asked Moore.
'A nonsense question in these time=
s,
when you know that every master has many good workmen to whom he cannot give
full employment.'
'You must oblige me by taking on t=
his
man, if possible.'
'My lad, I can take on no more han=
ds
to oblige all England.'
'It does not signify; I must find =
him
a place somewhere.'
'Who is he?'
'Mr William Farren.'
'I know William. A right-down hone=
st
man is William.'
'He has been out of work three mon=
ths.
He has a large family. We are sure they cannot live without wages. He was o=
ne
of a deputation of cloth-dressers who came to me this morning to complain a=
nd
threaten. William did not threaten. He only asked me to give them rather mo=
re
time - to make my changes more slowly. You know I cannot do that: straitene=
d on
all sides as I am, I have nothing for it but to push on. I thought it would=
be
idle to palaver long with them. I sent them away, after arresting a rascal
amongst them, whom I hope to transport - a fellow who preaches at the chapel
yonder sometimes.'
'Not Moses Barraclough?'
'Yes.'
'Ah! you've arrested him? Good! Th=
en
out of a scoundrel you're going to make a martyr. You've done a wise thing.=
'
'I've done a right thing. Well, the
short and the long of it is, I'm determined to get Farren a place, and I re=
ckon
on you to give him one.'
'This is cool, however!' exclaimed=
Mr
Yorke. 'What right have you to reckon on me to provide for your dismissed
workmen? What do I know about your Farrens and your Williams? I've heard he=
's
an honest man, but am I to support all the honest men in Yorkshire? You may=
say
that would be no great charge to undertake; but great or little, I'll none =
of
it'
'Come, Mr Yorke, what can you find=
for
him to do?'
'I find! You afterguage I'm not
accustomed to use. I wish you would go home. Here is the door; set off.'
Moore sat down on one of the hall
chairs.
'You can't give him work in your m=
ill
- good; but you have land. Find him some occupation on your land, Mr Yorke.=
'
'Bob, I thought you cared nothing
about our lourdauds de paysans. I don't understand this change.'
'I do. The fellow spoke to me noth=
ing
but truth and sense. I answered him just as roughly as I did the rest, who
jabbered mere gibberish. I couldn't make distinctions there and then. His
appearance told what he had gone through lately clearer than his words; but
where is the use of explaining? Let him have work.'
'Let him have it yourself If you a=
re
so very much in earnest, strain a point.'
'If there was a point left in my
affairs to strain, I would strain it till it cracked again; but I received =
letters
this morning which show me pretty clearly where I stand, and it is not far =
off
the end of the plank. My foreign market, at any rate, is gorged. If there i=
s no
change - if there dawns no prospect of peace - if the Orders in Council are
not, at least, suspended, so as to open our way in the West - I do not know
where I an' to turn. I see no more light than if I were sealed in a rock, so
that for me to pretend to offer a man a livelihood would be to do a dishone=
st
thing.'
'Come, let us take a turn on the f=
ront.
It is a starlight night,' said Mr Yorke.
They passed out, closing the front
door after them, and side by side paced the frost-white pavement to and fro=
.
'Settle about Farren at once,' urg=
ed Mr
Moore. 'You have large fruit-gardens at Yorke Mills. He is a good gardener.
Give him work there.'
'Well, so be it. I'll send for him
to-morrow, and we'll see. And now, my lad, you're concerned about the condi=
tion
of your affairs?'
'Yes, a second failure - which I m=
ay
delay, but which, at this moment, I see no way finally to avert - would bli=
ght
the name of Moore completely; and you are aware I had fine intentions of pa=
ying
off every debt and re-establishing the old firm on its former basis.'
'You want capital - that's all you
want.'
'Yes; but you might as well say th=
at
breath is all a dead man wants to live.'
'I know - I know capital is not to=
be
had for the asking; and if you were a married man, and had a family, like m=
e, I
should think your case pretty nigh desperate; but the young and unencumbered
have chances peculiar to themselves. I hear gossip now and then about your
being on the eve of marriage with this miss and that; but I suppose it is n=
one
of it true?'
'You may well suppose that. I thin=
k I
am not in a position to be dreaming of marriage. Marriage! I cannot bear the
word: it sounds so silly and utopian. I have settled it decidedly that marr=
iage
and love are superfluities, intended only for the rich, who live at ease, a=
nd
have no need to take thought for the morrow; or desperations - the last and
reckless joy of the deeply wretched, who never hope to rise out of the slou=
gh
of their utter poverty.'
'I should not think so if I were
circumstanced as you are. I should think I could very likely get a wife wit=
h a
few thousands, who would suit both me and my affairs.'
'I wonder where?'
'Would you try if you had a chance=
?'
'I don't know. It depends on - in
short, it depends on many things.'
'Would you take an old woman?'
'I'd rather break stones on the ro=
ad.'
'So would I. Would you take an ugly
one?'
'Bah! I hate ugliness and delight =
in
beauty. My eyes and heart, Yorke, take pleasure in a sweet, young, fair fac=
e,
as they are repelled by a grim, rugged, meagre one. Soft delicate lines and
hues please, harsh ones prejudice me. I won't have an ugly wife.'
'Not if she were rich?'
'Not if she were dressed in gems. I
could not love - I could not fancy - I could not endure her. My taste must =
have
satisfaction, or disgust would break; out in despotism, or worse - freeze to
utter iciness.'
'What! Bob, if you married an hone=
st
good-natured, and wealthy lass, though a little hard-favoured, couldn't you=
put
up with the high cheek-bones, the rather wide mouth, and reddish hair?'
'I'll never try, I tell you. Grace=
at
least I will have, and youth and symmetry - yes, and what I call beauty.'
'And poverty, and a nursery full of
bairns you can neither clothe nor feed, and very soon an anxious, faded mot=
her
and then bankruptcy, discredit - a life- long struggle.'
'Let me alone, Yorke.'
'If you are romantic, Robert, and
especially if you are already in love, it is of no use talking.'
'I am not romantic. I am stripped =
of
romance as bare as the white tenters in that field are of cloth.'
'Always use such figures of speech,
lad; I can understand them. And there is no love affair to disturb your
judgment)'
'I thought I had said enough on th=
at
subject before. Love for me? Stuff!'
'Well, then, if you are sound both=
in
heart and head, there is no reason why you should not profit by a good chan=
ce
if it offers; therefore, wait and see.'
'You are quite oracular, Yorke.'
'I think I am a bit i' that line. I
promise ye naught and I advise ye naught; but I bid ye keep your heart up, =
and
be guided by circumstances.'
'My namesake the physician's alman=
ac
could not speak more guardedly.'
'In the meantime, I care naught ab=
out
ye, Robert Moore: ye are nothing akin to me or mine, and whether ye lose or
find a fortune it makes no difference to me. Go home, now. It has stricken =
ten.
Miss Hortense will be wondering where ye are.'
Time wore on, and spring matured. =
The
surface of England began to look pleasant: her fields grew green, her hills
fresh, her gardens blooming; but at heart she was no better. Still her poor
were wretched, still their employers were harassed. Commerce, in some of it=
s branches,
seemed threatened with paralysis, for the war continued; England's blood was
shed and her wealth lavished: all, it seemed, to attain most inadequate end=
s.
Some tidings there were indeed occasionally of successes in the Peninsula, =
but
these came in slowly; long intervals occurred between, in which no note was
heard but the insolent self-felicitations of Bonaparte on his continued
triumphs. Those who suffered from the results of the war felt this tedious,=
and
- as they thought - hopeless, struggle against what their fears or their
interests taught them to regard as an invincible power, most insufferable: =
they
demanded peace on any terms: men like Yorke and Moore - and there were
thousands whom the war placed where it placed them, shuddering on the verge=
of
bankruptcy - insisted on peace with the energy of desperation.
They held meetings; they made
speeches; they got up petitions to extort this boon: on what terms it was m=
ade
they cared not.
All men, taken singly, are more or
less selfish; and taken in bodies they are intensely so. The British mercha=
nt
is no exception to this rule: the mercantile classes illustrate it striking=
ly.
These classes certainly think too exclusively of making money: they are too
oblivious of every national consideration but that of extending England's
(i.e., their own) commerce. Chivalrous feeling, disinterestedness, pride in
honour, is too dead in their hearts. A land ruled by them alone would too o=
ften
make ignominious submission - not at all from the motives Christ teaches, b=
ut
rather from those Mammon instils. During the late war, the tradesmen of Eng=
land
would have endured buffets from the French on the right cheek and on the le=
ft;
their cloak they would have given to Napoleon, and then have politely offer=
ed
him their coat also, nor would they have withheld their waistcoat if urged:
they would have prayed permission only to retain their one other garment, f=
or
the sake of the purse in its pocket. Not one spark of spirit, not one sympt=
om
of resistance would they have shown till the hand of the Corsican bandit had
grasped that beloved purse: then, perhaps, transfigured at once into British
bull-dogs, they would have sprung at the robber's throat, and there they wo=
uld
have fastened, and there hung - inveterate, insatiable, till the treasure h=
ad
been restored. Tradesmen, when they speak against war, always profess to ha=
te
it because it is a bloody and barbarous proceeding: you would think, to hear
them talk, that they are peculiarly civilised - especially gentle and kindl=
y of
disposition to their fellow-men. This is not the case. Many of them are
extremely narrow and cold-hearted, have no good feeling for any class but t=
heir
own, are distant - even hostile to all others; call them useless; seem to
question their right to exist; seem to grudge them the very air they breath=
e,
and to think the circumstance of their eating, drinking, and living in dece=
nt
houses, quite unjustifiable. They do not know what others do in the way of
helping, pleasing, or teaching their race; they will not trouble themselves=
to
inquire; whoever is not in trade is accused of eating the bread of idleness=
, of
passing a useless existence. Long may it be ere England really becomes a na=
tion
of shopkeepers!
We have already said that Moore wa=
s no
self-sacrificing patriot, and we have also explained what circumstances
rendered him specially prone to confine his attention and efforts to the
furtherance of his individual interest; accordingly, when he felt himself u=
rged
a second time to the brink of ruin, none struggled harder than he against t=
he
influences which would have thrust him over. What he could do towards stirr=
ing
agitation in the North against the war, he did, and he instigated others wh=
ose
money and connections gave them more power than he possessed. Sometimes, by=
flashes,
he felt there was little reason in the demands his party made on Government:
when he heard of all Europe threatened by Bonaparte, and of all Europe armi=
ng
to resist him; when he saw Russia menaced, and beheld Russia rising, incens=
ed
and stern, to defend her frozen soil, her wild provinces of serfs, her dark
native despotism, from the tread, the yoke, the tyranny of a foreign victor=
, he
knew that England, a free realm, could not then depute her sons to make
concessions and propose terms to the unjust, grasping French leader. When n=
ews
came from time to time of the movements of that man then representing Engla=
nd
in the Peninsula; of his advance from success to success - that advance so
deliberate but so unswerving, so circumspect but so certain, so 'unhasting'=
but
so 'unresting'; when he read Lord Wellington's own despatches in the column=
s of
the newspapers, documents written by Modesty to the dictation of Truth - Mo=
ore
confessed at heart that a power was with the troops of Britain, of that
vigilant, enduring, genuine, unostentatious sort, which must win victory to=
the
side it led, in the end. In the end! but that end, he thought, was yet far =
off;
and meantime he, Moore, as an individual, would be crushed, his hopes groun=
d to
dust: it was himself be had to care for, his hopes he had to pursue, and he
would fulfil his destiny.
He fulfiled it so vigorously, that=
ere
long he came to a decisive rupture with his old Tory friend the Rector. They
quarrelled at a public meeting, and afterwards exchanged some pungent lette=
rs
in the newspapers. Mr Helstone denounced Moore as a Jacobin, ceased to see =
him,
would not even speak to him when they met: he intimated also to his niece, =
very
distinctly, that her communications with Hollow's Cottage must for the pres=
ent
cease; she must give up taking French lessons. The language, he observed, w=
as a
bad and frivolous one at the best, and most of the works it boasted were bad
and frivolous, highly injurious in their tendency to weak female minds. He
wondered (he remarked parenthetically) what noodle first made it the fashio=
n to
teach women French: nothing was more improper for them; it was like feeding=
a
rickety child on chalk and water-gruel; Caroline must give it up, and give =
up
her cousins too: they were dangerous people.
Mr Helstone quite expected opposit=
ion
to this order; he expected tears. Seldom did he trouble himself about Carol=
ine
s movements, but a vague idea possessed him that she was fond of going to
Hollow's Cottage: also he suspected that she liked Robert Moore's occasional
presence at the Rectory. The Cossack had perceived that whereas if Malone
stepped in of an evening to make himself sociable and charming, by pinching=
the
ears of an aged black cat, which usually shared with Miss Helstone's feet t=
he
accommodation of her footstool, or by borrowing a fowling-piece, and banging
away at a tool-shed door in the garden while enough of daylight remained to
show that conspicuous mark - keeping the passage and sitting-room doors
meantime uncomfortably open for the convenience of running in and out to
announce his failures and successes with noisy brusquerie - he had observed
that under such entertaining circumstances Caroline had a trick of
disappearing, tripping noiselessly upstairs, and remaining invisible till
called down to supper. On the other hand, when Robert Moore was the guest,
though he elicited no vivacities from the cat, did nothing to it, indeed,
beyond occasionally coaxing it from the stool to his knee, and there lettin=
g it
purr, climb to his shoulder, and rub its head against his cheek; though the=
re
was no ear-splitting cracking off of firearms, no diffusion of sulphurous
gunpowder perfume, no noise, no boasting during his stay, that still Caroli=
ne
sat in the room, and seemed to find wondrous content in the stitching of
Jew-basket pin-cushions, and the knitting of Missionary-basket socks.
She was very quiet, and Robert paid
her little attention, scarcely ever addressing his discourse to her; but Mr
Helstone, not being one of those elderly gentlemen who are easily blinded, =
on
the contrary, finding himself on all occasions extremely wide-awake, had
watched them when they bade each other good-night: he had just seen their e=
yes
meet once - only once. Some natures would have taken pleasure in the glance
then surprised, because there was no harm and some delight in it. It was by=
no
means a glance of mutual intelligence, for mutual love-secrets existed not
between them: there was nothing then of craft and concealment to offend; on=
ly Mr
Moore's eyes, looking into Caroline's, felt they were clear and gentle, and
Caroline's eyes encountering Mr Moore's confessed they were manly and
searching: each acknowledged the charm in his or her own way. Moore smiled
slightly, and Caroline coloured as slightly. Mr Helstone could, on the spot,
have rated them both: they annoyed him; why? - impossible to say. If you had
asked him what Moore merited at that moment, he would have said 'a horsewhi=
p';
if you had inquired into Caroline's deserts, he would have adjudged her a b=
ox
on the ear; if you had further demanded the reason of such chastisements, he
would have stormed against flirtation and love-making, and vowed he would h=
ave
no such folly going on under his roof.
These private considerations, comb=
ined
with political reasons, fixed his resolution of separating the cousins. He
announced his will to Caroline one evening, as she was sitting at work near=
the
drawing-room window: her face was turned towards him, and the light fell fu=
ll
upon it. It had struck him a few minutes before that she was looking paler =
and
quieter than she used to look; it had not escaped him either that Robert
Moore's name had never, for some three weeks past, dropped from her lips; n=
or
during the same space of time had that personage made his appearance at the
Rectory. Some suspicion of clandestine meetings haunted him; having but an
indifferent opinion of women, he always suspected them: he thought they nee=
ded
constant watching. It was in a tone drily significant he desired her to cea=
se
her daily visits to the Hollow; he expected a start, a look of deprecation:=
the
start he saw but it was a very slight one; no look whatever was directed to
him.
'Do you hear me?' he asked.
'Yes, uncle.'
'Of course you mean to attend to w=
hat
I say?'
'Yes, certainly.'
'And there must be no letter-scrib=
bling
to your cousin Hortense: no intercourse whatever. I do not approve of the
principles of the family: they are Jacobinical.'
'Very well,' said Caroline quietly.
She acquiesced then: there was no vexed flushing of the face, no gathering
tears: the shadowy thoughtfulness which had covered her features ere Mr
Helstone spoke remained undisturbed: she was obedient.
Yes, perfectly; because the mandate
coincided with her own previous judgment; because it was now become pain to=
her
to go to Hollow's Cottage; nothing met her there but disappointment: hope a=
nd
love had quitted that little tenement, for Robert seemed to have deserted i=
ts
precincts. Whenever she asked after him - which she very seldom did, since =
the
mere utterance of his name made her face grow hot - the answer was, be was =
from
home, or he was quite taken up with business: Hortense feared he was killing
himself by application: he scarcely ever took a meal in the house; he lived=
in
the counting house.
At church only Caroline had the ch=
ance
of seeing him, and there she rarely looked at him: it was both too much pain
and too much pleasure to look: it excited too much emotion; and that it was=
all
wasted emotion, she had learned well to comprehend.
Once, on a dark, wet Sunday, when
there were few people at church, and when especially certain ladies were
absent, of whose observant faculties and tomahawk tongues Caroline stood in
awe, she had allowed her eye to seek Robert's pew, and to rest a while on i=
ts
occupant. He was there alone: Hortense had been kept at home by prudent
considerations relative to the rain and a new spring 'chapeau.' During the
sermon, he sat with folded arms and eyes cast down, looking very sad and
abstracted. When depressed, the very hue of his face seemed more dusk than =
when
he smiled, and to-day cheek and forehead wore their most tintless and sober
olive. By instinct Caroline knew, as she examined that clouded countenance,
that his thoughts were running in no familiar or kindly channel; that they =
were
far away, not merely from her, but from all which she could comprehend, or =
in
which she could sympathise. Nothing that they had ever talked of together w=
as
now in his mind: he was wrapped from her by interests and responsibilities =
in
which it was deemed such as she could have no part.
Caroline meditated in her own way = on the subject; speculated on his feelings, on his life, on his fears, on his fate; mused over the mystery of 'business,' tried to comprehend more about = it than had ever been told her - to understand its perplexities, liabilities, duties, exactions; endeavoured to realise the state of mind of man of a 'ma= n of business,' to enter into it, feel what he would feel, aspire to what he wou= ld aspire. Her earnest wish was to see things as they were, and not to be romantic. By dint of effort she contrived to get a glimpse of the light of truth here and there, and hoped that scant ray might suffice to guide her.<= o:p>
'Different, indeed,' she concluded,
'is Robert's mental condition to mine: I think only of him; he has no room,=
no
leisure to think of me. The feeling called love is and has been for two yea=
rs
the predominant emotion of my heart: always there, always awake, always ast=
ir:
quite other feelings absorb his reflections, and govern his faculties. He is
rising now, going to leave the church, for service is over. Will he turn his
head towards this pew? - no - not once - he has not one look for me: that is
hard: a kind glance would have made me happy till to-morrow. I have not got=
it;
he would not give it; he is gone. Strange that grief should now almost choke
me, because another human being's eye has failed to greet mine.'
That Sunday evening, Mr Malone com=
ing,
as usual, to pass it with his Rector, Caroline withdrew after tea to her
chamber. Fanny, knowing her habits, had lit her a cheerful little fire, as =
the
weather was so gusty and chill. Closeted there, silent and solitary, what c=
ould
she do but think? She noiselessly paced to and fro the carpeted floor, her =
head
drooped, her hands folded: it was irksome to sit: the current of reflection=
ran
rapidly through her mind: to-night she was mutely excited.
Mute was the room, - mute the hous=
e.
The double door of the study muffled the voices of the gentlemen: the serva=
nts
were quiet in the kitchen, engaged with books their young mistress had lent
them; books which she had told them were 'fit for Sunday reading.' And she
herself had another of the same sort open on the table, but she could not r=
ead
it: its theology was incomprehensible to her, and her own mind was too busy,
teeming, wandering, to listen to the language of another mind.
Then, too, her imagination was ful=
l of
pictures; images of Moore; scenes where he and she had been together; winter
fireside sketches; a glowing landscape of a hot summer afternoon passed with
him in the bosom of Nunnely Wood: divine vignettes of mild spring or mellow
autumn moments, when she had sat at his side in Hollow's Copse, listening to
the call of the May cuckoo, or sharing the September treasure of nuts and r=
ipe
blackberries - a wild dessert which it was her morning's pleasure to collec=
t in
a little basket, and cover with green leaves and fresh blossoms, and her
afternoon's delight to administer to Moore, berry by berry, and nut by nut,
like a bird feeding its fledgling.
Robert's features and form were wi=
th
her; the sound of his voice was quite distinct in her ear; his few caresses
seemed renewed. But these joys being hollow, were, ere long, crushed in: the
pictures faded, the voice failed, the visionary clasp melted chill from her
hand, and where the warm seal of lips had made impress on her forehead, it =
felt
now as if a sleety raindrop had fallen. She returned from an enchanted regi=
on
to the real world for Nunnely Wood in June, she saw her narrow chamber; for=
the
songs of birds in alleys, she heard the rain on her casement; for the sigh =
of
the south wind, came the sob of the mournful east; and for Moore's manly
companionship, she had the thin illusion of her own dim shadow on the wall.
Turning from the pale phantom which reflected herself in its outline, and h=
er
reverie in the drooped attitude of its dim head and colourless tresses, she=
sat
down - inaction would suit the frame of mind into which she was now declini=
ng -
she said to herself - 'I have to live, perhaps, till seventy years. As far =
as I
know, I have good health: half a century of existence may lie before me. Ho=
w am
I to occupy it? What am I to do to fill the interval of time which spreads
between me and the grave?'
She reflected.
'I shall not be married, it appear=
s,'
she continued. 'I suppose, as Robert does not care for me, I shall never ha=
ve a
husband to love, nor little children to take care of. Till lately I had
reckoned securely on the duties and affections of wife and mother to occupy=
my
existence. I considered, somehow, as a matter of course, that I was growing=
up
to the ordinary destiny, and never troubled myself to seek any other; but n=
ow,
I perceive plainly, I may have been mistaken. Probably I shall be an old ma=
id.
I shall live to see Robert married to some one else, some rich lady: I shall
never marry. What was I created for, I wonder? Where is my place in the wor=
ld?'
She mused again.
'Ah! I see,' she pursued presently:
'that is the question which most old maids are puzzled to solve; other peop=
le
solve it for them by saying, 'Your place is to do good to others, to be hel=
pful
whenever help is wanted.' That is right in some measure, and a very conveni=
ent
doctrine for the people who hold it; but I perceive that certain sets of hu=
man
beings are very apt to maintain that other sets should give up their lives =
to
them and their service, and then they requite them by praise: they call them
devoted and virtuous. Is this enough? Is it to live? Is there not a terrible
hollowness, mockery, want, craving, in that existence which is given away to
others, for want of something of your own to bestow it on? I suspect there =
is.
Does virtue lie in abnegation of self? I do not believe it. Undue humility
makes tyranny; weak concession creates selfishness. The Romish religion
especially teaches renunciation of self, submission to others, and nowhere =
are
found so many grasping tyrants as in the ranks of the Romish priesthood. Ea=
ch
human being has his share of rights. I suspect it would conduce to the
happiness and welfare of all, if each knew his allotment, and held to it as
tenaciously as the martyr to his creed. Queer thoughts these, that surge in=
my
mind: are they right thoughts? I am not certain.
'Well, life is short at the best:
seventy years, they say, pass like a vapour, like a dream when one awaketh;=
and
every path trod by human feet terminates in one bourne - the grave: the lit=
tle
chink in the surface of this great globe - the furrow where the mighty
husbandman with the scythe deposits the seed he has shaken from the ripe st=
em;
and there it falls, decays, and thence it springs again, when the world has
rolled round a few times more. So much for the body: the soul meantime wings
its long flight upward, folds its wings on the brink of the sea of fire and
glass, and gazing down through the burning clearness, finds there mirrored =
the
vision of the Christian's triple Godhead: the Sovereign Father; the mediati=
ng
Son; the Creator Spirit. Such words, at least, have been chosen to express =
what
is inexpressible, to describe what baffles description. The soul's real her=
eafter,
who shall guess?'
Her fire was decayed to its last
cinder; Malone had departed; and now the study bell rang for prayers.
The next day Caroline had to spend
altogether alone, her uncle being gone to dine with his friend Dr. Boultby,
vicar of Whinbury. The whole time she was talking inwardly in the same stra=
in;
looking forwards, asking what she was to do with life. Fanny, as she passed=
in
and out of the room occasionally, intent on housemaid errands, perceived th=
at
her young mistress sat very still. She was always in the same place, always
bent industriously over a piece of work: she did not lift her head to speak=
to
Fanny, as her custom was; and when the latter remarked that the day was fin=
e,
and she ought to take a walk, she only said - 'It is cold.'
You are very diligent at that sewi=
ng,
Miss Caroline,' continued the girl, approaching her little table.
'I am tired of it, Fanny.'
'Then why do you go on with it? Pu=
t it
down: read, or do something to amuse you.'
'It is solitary in this house, Fan=
ny:
don't you think so?'
'I don't find it so, miss. Me and
Eliza are company for one another; but you are quite too still - you should
visit more. Now, be persuaded; go upstairs and dress yourself smart, and go=
and
take tea, in a friendly way, with Miss Mann or Miss Ainley: I am certain ei=
ther
of those ladies would be delighted to see you.'
'But their houses are dismal: they=
are
both old maids. I am certain old maids are a very unhappy race.'
'Not they, miss: they can't be
unhappy; they take such care of themselves. They are all selfish.'
'Miss Ainley is not selfish, Fanny:
she is always doing good. How devotedly kind she was to her stepmother, as =
long
as the old lady lived; and now when she is quite alone in the world, without
brother or sister, or any one to care for her, how charitable she is to the
poor, as far as her means permit! Still nobody thinks much of her, or has
pleasure in going to see her: and how gentlemen always sneer at her!'
'They shouldn't, miss; I believe s=
he
is a good woman: but gentlemen think only of ladies' looks.'
'I'll go and see her,' exclaimed
Caroline, starting up: 'and if she asks me to stay to tea, I'll stay. How w=
rong
it is to neglect people because they are not pretty, and young, and merry! =
And
I will certainly call to see Miss Mann, too: she may not be amiable; but wh=
at
has made her unamiable? What has life been to her?'
Fanny helped Miss Helstone to put =
away
her work, and afterwards assisted her to dress.
'You'll not be an old maid, Miss
Caroline,' she said, as she tied the sash of her brown-silk frock, having
previously smoothed her soft, full, and shining curls; 'there are no signs =
of
an old maid about you.'
Caroline looked at the little mirr=
or
before her, and she thought there were some signs. She could see that she w=
as
altered within the last month; that the hues of her complexion were paler, =
her
eyes changed - a wan shade seemed to circle them, her countenance was dejec=
ted:
she was not, in short, so pretty or so fresh as she used to be. She distant=
ly
hinted this to Fanny, from whom she got no direct answer, only a remark that
people did vary in their looks; but that at her age a little falling away
signified nothing, - she would soon come round again, and be plumper and ro=
sier
than ever. Having given this assurance, Fanny showed singular zeal in wrapp=
ing
her up in warm shawls and handkerchiefs, till Caroline, nearly smothered wi=
th
the weight, was fain to resist further additions.
She paid her visits: first to Miss
Mann, for this was the most difficult point: Miss Mann was certainly not qu=
ite
a lovable person. Till now, Caroline had always unhesitatingly declared she
disliked her, and more than once she had joined her cousin Robert in laughi=
ng
at some of her peculiarities. Moore was not habitually given to sarcasm,
especially on anything humbler or weaker than himself; but he had once or t=
wice
happened to be in the room when Miss Mann had made a call on his sister, and
after listening to her conversation and viewing her features for a time, he=
had
gone out into the garden where his little cousin was tending some of his
favourite flowers, and while standing near and watching her, he had amused
himself with comparing fair youth - delicate and attractive - with shrivell=
ed
eld, livid and loveless, and in jestingly repeating to a smiling girl the
vinegar discourse of a cankered old maid. Once on such an occasion, Caroline
had said to him, looking up from the luxuriant creeper she was binding to i=
ts
frame, 'Ah! Robert, you do not like old maids. I, too, should come under the
lash of your sarcasm, if I were an old maid.'
'You an old maid!' he had replied.=
'A
piquant notion suggested by lips of that tint and form. I can fancy you,
though, at forty, quietly dressed, pale and sunk, but still with that strai=
ght
nose, white forehead, and those soft eyes. I suppose, too, you will keep yo=
ur
voice, which has another 'timbre' than that hard, deep organ of Miss Mann's.
Courage, Cary! - even at fifty you will not be repulsive.'
'Miss Mann did not make herself, or
tune her voice, Robert.'
'Nature made her in the mood in wh=
ich
she makes her briars and thorns; whereas for the creation of some women, she
reserves the May morning hours, when with light and dew she woos the primro=
se
from the turf, and the lily from the wood-moss.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
.
Ushered into Miss Mann's little
parlour, Caroline found her, as she always found her, surrounded by perfect
neatness, cleanliness, and comfort (after all, is it not a virtue in old ma=
ids
that solitude rarely makes them negligent or disorderly?); no dust on her
polished furniture, none on her carpet, fresh flowers in the vase on her ta=
ble,
a bright fire in the grate. She herself sat primly and somewhat grimly-tidy=
in
a cushioned rocking-chair, her hands busied with some knitting: this was her
favourite work, as it required the least exertion. She scarcely rose as
Caroline entered; to avoid excitement was one of Miss Mann's aims in life: =
she
had been composing herself ever since she came down in the morning, and had
just attained a certain lethargic state of tranquillity when the visitor's
knock at the door startled her, and undid her day's work. She was scarcely
pleased, therefore, to see Miss Helstone: she received her with reserve, ba=
de
her be seated with austerity, and when she got her placed opposite, she fix=
ed
her with her eye.
This was no ordinary doom - to be
fixed with Miss Mann's eye. Robert Moore had undergone it once, and had nev=
er
forgotten the circumstance.
He considered it quite equal to
anything Medusa could do: he professed to doubt whether, since that inflict=
ion,
his flesh had been quite what it was before - whether there was not somethi=
ng
stony in its texture. The gaze had had such an effect on him as to drive him
promptly from the apartment and house; it had even sent him straightway up =
to
the Rectory, where he had appeared in Caroline's presence with a very queer
face, and amazed her by demanding a cousinly salute on the spot, to rectify=
a
damage that had been done him.
Certainly Miss Mann had a formidab=
le
eye for one of the softer sex: it was prominent, and showed a great deal of=
the
white, and looked as steadily, as unwinkingly, at you as if it were a steel
ball soldered in her head; and when, while looking, she began to talk in an
indescribably dry monotonous tone - a tone without vibration or inflection -
you felt as if a graven image of some bad spirit were addressing you. But it
was all a figment of fancy, a matter of surface. Miss Mann's goblin-grimness
scarcely went deeper than the angel- sweetness of hundreds of beauties. She=
was
a perfectly honest, conscientious woman, who had performed duties in her day
from whose severe anguish many a human Peri, gazelle-eyed, silken-tressed, =
and
silver-tongued, would have shrunk appalled: she had passed alone through
protracted scenes of suffering, exercised rigid self-denial, made large
sacrifices of time, money, health, for those who had repaid her only by
ingratitude, and now her main - almost her sole - fault was, that she was
censorious.
Censorious she certainly was. Caro=
line
had not sat five minutes ere her hostess, still keeping her under the spell=
of
that dread and Gorgon gaze, began flaying alive certain of the families in =
the
neighbourhood. She went to work at this business in a singularly cool,
deliberate manner, like some surgeon practising with his scalpel on a lifel=
ess
subject: she made few distinctions; she allowed scarcely any one to be good;
she dissected impartially almost all her acquaintance. If her auditress
ventured now and then to put in a palliative word, she set it aside with a
certain disdain. Still, though thus pitiless in moral anatomy, she was no
scandal-monger: she never disseminated really malignant or dangerous report=
s:
it was not her heart so much as her temper that was wrong.
Caroline made this discovery for t=
he
first time to-day; and moved thereby to regret divers unjust judgments she =
had
more than once passed on the crabbed old maid, she began to talk to her sof=
tly,
not in sympathising words, but with a sympathising voice. The loneliness of=
her
condition struck her visitor in a new light; as did also the character of h=
er
ugliness - a bloodless pallor of complexion, and deeply worn lines of featu=
re.
The girl pitied the solitary and afflicted woman; her looks told what she f=
elt:
a sweet countenance is never so sweet as when the moved heart animates it w=
ith
compassionate tenderness. Miss Mann, seeing such a countenance raised to he=
r,
was touched in her turn: she acknowledged her sense of the interest thus
unexpectedly shown in her, who usually met with only coldness and ridicule,=
by
replying to her candidly. Communicative on her own affairs she usually was =
not,
because no one cared to listen to her; but to-day she became so, and her
confidant shed tears as she heard her speak: for she told of cruel,
slow-wasting, obstinate sufferings. Well might she be corpse-like; well mig=
ht
she look grim, and never smile; well might she wish to avoid excitement, to
gain and retain composure! Caroline, when she knew all, acknowledged that M=
iss
Mann was rather to be admired for fortitude than blamed for moroseness. Rea=
der!
when you behold an aspect for whose constant gloom and frown you cannot
account, whose unvarying cloud exasperates you by its apparent causelessnes=
s,
be sure that there is a canker somewhere, and a canker not the less deeply
corroding because concealed.
Miss Mann felt that she was unders=
tood
partly, and wished to be understood further; for however old, plain, humble,
desolate, afflicted we may be, so long as our hearts preserve the feeblest
spark of life, they preserve also, shivering near that pale ember, a starve=
d,
ghostly longing for appreciation and affection. To this extenuated spectre,
perhaps, a crumb is not thrown once a year; but when ahungered and athirst =
to
famine - when all humanity has forgotten the dying tenant of a decaying hou=
se -
Divine Mercy remembers the mourner, and a shower of manna falls for lips th=
at
earthly nutriment is to pass no more. Biblical promises, heard first in hea=
lth,
but then unheeded, come whispering to the couch of sickness: it is felt tha=
t a
pitying God watches what all mankind have forsaken; the tender compassion of
Jesus is recalled and relied on: the faded eye, gazing beyond Time, sees a
Home, a Friend, a Refuge in Eternity.
Miss Mann, drawn on by the still
attention of her listener, proceeded to allude to circumstances in her past
life. She spoke like one who tells the truth - simply, and with a certain
reserve: she did not boast, nor did she exaggerate. Caroline found that the=
old
maid had been a most devoted daughter and sister, an unwearied watcher by
lingering deathbeds; that to prolonged and unrelaxing attendance on the sic=
k,
the malady that now poisoned her own life owed its origin; that to one wret=
ched
relative she had been a support and succour in the depths of self-earned de=
gradation,
and that it was still her hand which kept him from utter destitution. Miss
Helstone stayed the whole evening, omitting to pay her other intended visit;
and when she left Miss Mann, it was with the determination to try in future=
to
excuse her faults, never again to make light of her peculiarities or to lau=
gh
at her plainness; and, above all things, not to neglect her, but to come on=
ce a
week, and to offer her from one human heart at least, the homage of affecti=
on
and respect: she felt she could now sincerely give her a small tribute of e=
ach
feeling.
Caroline, on her return, told Fanny
she was very glad she had gone out, as she felt much better for the visit. =
The
next day she failed not to seek Miss Ainley. This lady was in narrower
circumstances than Miss Mann, and her dwelling was more humble: it was,
however, if possible, yet more exquisitely clean; though the decayed
gentlewoman could not afford to keep a servant, but waited on herself, and =
had
only the occasional assistance of a little girl who lived in a cottage near=
.
Not only was Miss Ainley poorer, b=
ut
she was even plainer than the other old maid. In her first youth she must h=
ave
been ugly; now, at the age of fifty, she was very ugly. At first sight, all=
but
peculiarly well-disciplined minds were apt to turn from her with annoyance:=
to
conceive against her a prejudice, simply on the ground of her unattractive
look. Then she was prim in dress and manner: she looked, spoke, and moved t=
he
complete old maid.
Her welcome to Caroline was formal=
, even
in its kindness - for it was kind; but Miss Helstone excused this. She knew
something of the benevolence of the heart which beat under that starched
kerchief; all the neighbourhood - at least all the female neighbourhood - k=
new
something of it: no one spoke against Miss Ainley except lively young
gentlemen, and inconsiderate old ones, who declared her hideous.
Caroline was soon at home in that =
tiny
parlour; a kind hand took from her her shawl and bonnet, and installed her =
in
the most comfortable seat near the fire. The young and the antiquated woman
were presently deep in kindly conversation, and soon Caroline became aware =
of
the power a most serene, unselfish, and benignant mind could exercise over
those to whom it was developed. She talked never of herself - always of oth=
ers.
Their faults she passed over; her theme was their wants, which she sought to
supply; their sufferings, which she longed to alleviate. She was religious =
- a
professor of religion - what some would call 'a saint,' and she referred to=
religion
often in sanctioned phrase - in phrase which those who possess a perception=
of
the ridiculous, without owning the power of exactly testing and truly judgi=
ng
character, would certainly have esteemed a proper subject for satire - a ma=
tter
for mimicry and laughter. They would have been hugely mistaken for their pa=
ins.
Sincerity is never ludicrous; it is always respectable. Whether truth - be =
it
religious or moral truth - speak eloquently and in well-chosen language or =
not,
its voice should be heard with reverence. Let those who cannot nicely, and =
with
certainty, discern the difference between the tones of hypocrisy and those =
of
sincerity, never presume to laugh at all, lest they should have the miserab=
le
misfortune to laugh in the wrong place, and commit impiety when they think =
they
are achieving wit.
Not from Miss Ainley's own lips did
Caroline hear of her good works; but she knew much of them nevertheless; her
beneficence was the familiar topic of the poor in Briarfield. They were not
works of almsgiving: the old maid was too poor to give much, though she
straitened herself to privation that she might contribute her mite when
needful: they were the works of a Sister of Charity, far more difficult to
perform than those of a Lady Bountiful. She would watch by any sick-bed: she
seemed to fear no disease; she would nurse the poorest whom none else would
nurse: she was serene, humble, kind, and equable through everything.
For this goodness she got but litt=
le
reward in this life. Many of the poor became so accustomed to her services =
that
they hardly thanked her for them: the rich heard them mentioned with wonder,
but were silent, from a sense of shame at the difference between her sacrif=
ices
and their own. Many ladies, however, respected her deeply: they could not h=
elp
it; one gentleman - one only - gave her his friendship and perfect confiden=
ce:
this was Mr Hall, the vicar of Nunnely. He said, and said truly, that her l=
ife
came nearer the life of Christ than that of any other human being he had ev=
er
met with. You must not think, reader, that in sketching Miss Ainley's
character, I depict a figment of imagination - no - we seek the originals of
such portraits in real life only.
Miss Helstone studied well the mind
and heart now revealed to her. She found no high intellect to admire: the o=
ld
maid was merely sensible, but she discovered so much goodness, so much
usefulness, so much mildness, patience, truth, that she bent her own mind
before Miss Ainley's in reverence. What was her love of nature, what was her
sense of beauty, what were her more varied and fervent emotions, what was h=
er
deeper power of thought, what her wider capacity to comprehend, compared to=
the
practical excellence of this good woman? Momently, they seemed only beautif=
ul
forms of selfish delight; mentally, she trod them under foot.
It is true, she still felt with pa=
in
that the life which made Miss Ainley happy could not make her happy: pure a=
nd
active as it was, in her heart she deemed it deeply dreary because it was so
loveless - to her ideas, so forlorn. Yet, doubtless, she reflected, it need=
ed
only habit to make it practicable and agreeable to any one: it was despicab=
le,
she felt, to pine sentimentally, to cherish secret griefs, vain memories; t=
o be
inert, to waste youth in aching languor, to grow old doing nothing.
'I will bestir myself,' was her
resolution, 'and try to be wise if I cannot be good.'
She proceeded to make inquiry of M=
iss
Ainley if she could help her in anything. Miss Ainley, glad of an assistant,
told her that she could, and indicated some poor families in Briarfield tha=
t it
was desirable she should visit; giving her likewise, at her further request,
some work to do for certain poor women who had many children, and who were
unskilled in using the needle for themselves.
Caroline went home, laid her plans,
and took a resolve not to swerve from them. She allotted a certain portion =
of
her time for her various studies, and a certain portion for doing anything =
Miss
Ainley might direct her to do; the remainder was to be spent in exercise; n=
ot a
moment was to be left for the indulgence of such fevered thoughts as had
poisoned last Sunday evening.
To do her justice, she executed her
plans conscientiously, perseveringly. It was very hard work at first - it w=
as
even hard work to the end, but it helped her to stem and keep down anguish:=
it
forced her to be employed; it forbade her to brood; and gleams of satisfact=
ion
chequered her grey life here and there when she found she had done good,
imparted pleasure, or allayed suffering.
Yet I must speak truth; these effo=
rts
brought her neither health of body nor continued peace of mind: with them a=
ll,
she wasted, grew more joyless and more wan; with them all, her memory kept
harping on the name of Robert Moore; an elegy over the past still rung cons=
tantly
in her ear; a funereal inward cry haunted and harassed her: the heaviness o=
f a
broken spirit, and of pining and palsying faculties, settled slow on her
buoyant youth. Winter seemed conquering her spring: the mind's soil and its
treasures were freezing gradually to barren stagnation.
Yet Caroline refused tamely to
succumb: she had native strength in her girl's heart, and she used it. Men =
and
women never struggle so hard as when they struggle alone, without witness,
counsellor, or confidant; unencouraged, unadvised, and unpitied.
Miss Helstone was in this position.
Her sufferings were her only spur; and being very real and sharp, they rous=
ed
her spirit keenly. Bent on victory over a mortal pain, she did her best to
quell it. Never had she been seen so busy, so studious, and, above all, so
active. She took walks in all weathers - long walks in solitary directions.=
Day
by day she came back in the evening, pale and wearied-looking, yet seemingly
not fatigued; for still, as soon as she had thrown off her bonnet and shawl,
she would, instead of resting, begin to pace her apartment: sometimes she w=
ould
not sit down till she was literally faint. She said she did this to tire
herself well, that she might sleep soundly at night. But if that was her ai=
m it
was unattained, for at night, when others slumbered, she was tossing on her
pillow, or sitting at the foot of her couch in the darkness, forgetful,
apparently, of the necessity of seeking repose. Often, unhappy girl! she was
crying - crying in a sort of intolerable despair; which, when it rushed over
her, smote down her strength, and reduced her to childlike helplessness.
When thus prostrate, temptations
besieged her: weak suggestions whispered in her weary heart to write to Rob=
ert,
and say that she was unhappy because she was forbidden to see him and Horte=
nse,
and that she feared he would withdraw his friendship (not love) from her, a=
nd
forget her entirely, and begging him to remember her, and sometimes to writ=
e to
her. One or two such letters she actually indited, but she never sent them:
shame and good sense forbade.
At last the life she led reached t=
he
point when it seemed she could bear it no longer; that she must seek and fi=
nd a
change somehow, or her heart and head would fail under the pressure which
strained them. She longed to leave Briarfield, to go to some very distant
place. She longed for something else: the deep, secret, anxious yearning to
discover and know her mother strengthened daily; but with the desire was
coupled a doubt, a dread - if she knew her, could she love her? There was c=
ause
for hesitation, for apprehension on this point: never in her life had she h=
eard
that mother praised: whoever mentioned her, mentioned her coolly. Her uncle
seemed to regard his sister-in-law with a sort of tacit antipathy; an old
servant, who had lived with Mrs James Helstone for a short time after her
marriage, whenever she referred to her former mistress, spoke with chilling
reserve: sometimes she called her 'queer,' sometimes she said she did not u=
nderstand
her. These expressions were ice to the daughter's heart; they suggested the
conclusions that it was perhaps better never to know her parent, than to kn=
ow
her and not like her.
But one project could she frame wh=
ose
execution seemed likely to bring her a hope of relief; it was to take a
situation, to be a governess - she could do nothing else. A little incident
brought her to the point when she found courage to break her design to her
uncle.
Her long and late walks lay always=
, as
has been said, on lonely roads; but in whatever direction she had rambled,
whether along the drear skirts of Stilbro' Moor, or over the sunny stretch =
of
Nunnely Common, her homeward path was still so contrived as to lead her near
the Hollow. She rarely descended the den, but she visited its brink at twil=
ight
almost as regularly as the stars rose over the hill-crests. Her resting-pla=
ce
was at a certain stile under a certain old thorn: thence she could look dow=
n on
the cottage, the mill, the dewy garden- ground, the still, deep dam; thence=
was
visible the well-known counting-house window, from whose panes at a fixed h=
our
shot, suddenly bright, the ray of the well-known lamp. Her errand was to wa=
tch
for this ray: her reward to catch it, sometimes sparkling bright in clear a=
ir,
sometimes shimmering dim through mist, and anon flashing broken between sla=
nt
lines of rain - for she came in all weathers.
There were nights when it failed to
appear: she knew then that Robert was from home, and went away doubly sad;
whereas its kindling rendered her elate, as though she saw in it the promis=
e of
some indefinite hope. If, while she gazed, a shadow bent between the light =
and
lattice, her heart leaped - that eclipse was Robert: she had seen him. She
would return home comforted, carrying in her mind a clearer vision of his
aspect, a distincter recollection of his voice, his smile, his hearing; and,
blent with these impressions, was often a sweet persuasion that, if she cou=
ld
get near him, his heart might welcome her presence yet: that at this moment=
he
might be willing to extend his hand and draw her to him, and shelter her at=
his
side as he used to do. That night, though she might weep as usual, she would
fancy her tears less scalding; the pillow they watered seemed a little soft=
er;
the temples pressed to that pillow ached less.
The shortest path from the Hollow =
to
the Rectory wound near a certain mansion, the same under whose lone walls
Malone passed on that night-journey mentioned in an early chapter of this w=
ork
- the old and tenantless dwelling yclept Fieldhead. Tenantless by the
proprietor it had been for ten years, but it was no ruin: Mr Yorke had seen=
it
kept in good repair, and an old gardener and his wife had lived in it,
cultivated the grounds, and maintained the house in habitable condition.
If Fieldhead had few other merits =
as a
building, it might at least be termed picturesque: its irregular architectu=
re,
and the grey and mossy colouring communicated by time, gave it a just claim=
to
this epithet. The old latticed windows, the stone porch, the walls, the roo=
f,
the chimney-stacks, were rich in crayon touches and sepia lights and shades.
The trees behind were fine, bold, and spreading; the cedar on the lawn in f=
ront
was grand, and the granite urns on the garden wall, the fretted arch of the
gateway, were, for an artist, as the very desire of the eye.
One mild May evening, Caroline pas=
sing
near about moonrise, and feeling, though weary, unwilling yet to go home, w=
here
there was only the bed of thorns and the night of grief to anticipate, sat =
down
on the mossy ground near the gate, and gazed through towards cedar and mans=
ion.
It was a still night - calm, dewy, cloudless: the gables, turned to the wes=
t,
reflected the clear amber of the horizon they faced; the oaks behind were
black; the cedar was blacker; under its dense, raven boughs a glimpse of sky
opened gravely blue: it was full of the moon, which looked solemnly and mil=
dly
down on Caroline from beneath that sombre canopy.
She felt this night and prospect
mournfully lovely. She wished she could he happy: she wished she could know
inward peace: she wondered Providence had no pity on her, and would not hel=
p or
console her. Recollections of happy trysts of lovers commemorated in old
ballads returned on his mind: she thought such tryst in such scene would be
blissful. Where now was Robert? she asked: not at the Hollow: she had watch=
ed
for his lamp long, and had not seen it. She questioned within herself wheth=
er
she and Moore were ever destined to meet and speak again. Suddenly the door
within the stone porch of the hall opened, and two men came out: one elderly
and white-headed, the other young, dark-haired, and tall. They passed across
the lawn, out through a portal in the garden wall: Caroline saw them cross =
the
road, pass the stile, descend the fields; she saw them disappear. Robert Mo=
ore
had passed before her with his friend Mr Yorke: neither had seen her.
The apparition had been transient -
scarce seen ere gone; but its electric passage left her veins kindled, her =
soul
insurgent. It found her despairing: it left her desperate - two different
states.
'Oh! had he but been alone! Had he=
but
seen me!' was her cry, 'he would have said something; he would have given me
his hand. He does, he must love me a little: he would have shown some token=
of
affection: in his eye, on his lips, I should have read comfort: but the cha=
nce
is lost. The wind - the cloud's shadow does not pass more silently, more
emptily than he. I have been mocked, and Heaven is cruel!'
Thus, in the utter sickness of lon=
ging
and disappointment, she went home.
The next morning at breakfast, when
she appeared white-cheeked and miserable- looking as one who had seen a gho=
st,
she inquired of Mr Helstone - 'Have you any objection, uncle, to my inquiri=
ng
for a situation in a family?'
Her uncle, ignorant as the table
supporting his coffee-cup of all his niece had undergone and was undergoing,
scarcely believed his ears.
'What whim now?' he asked. 'Are you
bewitched? What can you mean?'
'I am not well, and need a change,'
she said.
He examined her. He discovered she=
had
experienced a change, at any rate. Without his being aware of it, the rose =
had
dwindled and faded to a mere snowdrop: bloom had vanished, flesh wasted; she
sat before him drooping, colourless, and thin. But for the soft expression =
of
her brown eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flowing abundan=
ce
of her hair, she would no longer have possessed a claim to the epithet -
pretty.
'What on earth is the matter with
you?' he asked. 'What is wrong? How are you ailing?'
No answer, only the brown eyes fil=
led,
the faintly-tinted lips trembled.
'Look out for a situation, indeed!=
For
what situation are you fit? What have you been doing with yourself? You are=
not
well.'
'I should be well if I went from
home.'
'These women are incomprehensible.
They have the strangest knack of startling you with unpleasant surprises.
To-day you see them bouncing, buxom, red as cherries, and round as apples;
to-morrow they exhibit themselves effete as dead weeds, blanched and broken
down. And the reason of it all? that's the puzzle. She has her meals, her
liberty, a good house to live in, and good clothes to wear, as usual: a whi=
le
since that sufficed to keep her handsome and cheery, and there she sits now=
, a
poor little, pale, puling chit enough. Provoking! Then comes the question, =
what
is to be done? I suppose I must send for advice. Will you have a doctor,
child?'
'No, uncle: I don't want one: a do=
ctor
could do me no good. I merely want change of air and scene.'
'Well, if that be the caprice, it =
shall
be gratified. You shall go to a watering-place I don't mind the expense: Fa=
nny
shall accompany you.'
'But, uncle, some day I must do
something for myself; I have no fortune. I had better begin now.'
'While I live, you shall not turn =
out
as a governess, Caroline. I will not have it said that my niece is a
governess.'
'But the later in life one makes a
change of that sort, uncle, the more difficult and painful it is. I should =
wish
to get accustomed to the yoke before any habits of ease and independence are
formed.'
'I beg you will not harass me,
Caroline. I mean to provide for you. I have always meant to provide for you=
: I
will purchase an annuity. Bless me; I am but fifty-five; my health and
constitution are excellent: there is plenty of time to save and take measur=
es.
Don't make yourself anxious respecting the future: is that what frets you?'=
'No, uncle; but I long for a chang=
e.'
He laughed. 'There speaks the woma=
n!'
cried he, 'the very woman! A change! a change! Always fantastical and
whimsical? Well, it's in her sex.'
'But it is not fantasy and whim,
uncle,'
'What is it, then?'
'Necessity, I think. I feel weaker
than formerly; I believe I should have more to do.'
'Admirable! She feels weak, and
therefore she should be set to hard labour - ‘clair comme le jourR=
17;
- as Moore - confound Moore! You shall go to Cliff Bridge; and there are two
guineas to buy a new frock. Come, Cary, never fear: we'll find balm in Gile=
ad.'
'Uncle, I wish you were less gener=
ous,
and more' - -
'More what?'
Sympathising was the word on
Caroline's lips, but it was not uttered: she checked herself in time: her u=
ncle
would indeed have laughed if that namby-pamby word had escaped her. Finding=
her
silent, he said - 'The fact is, you don't know precisely what you want.'
'Only to be a governess.'
'Pooh! mere nonsense! I'll not hea=
r of
governessing. Don't mention it again. It is rather too feminine a fancy. I =
have
finished breakfast, ring the bell: put all crotchets out of your head, and =
run
away and amuse yourself.'
'What with? My doll?' asked Caroli=
ne
to herself as she quitted the room.
A week or two passed; her bodily a=
nd
mental health neither grew worse nor better. She was now precisely in that
state, when, if her constitution had contained the seeds of consumption,
decline, or slow fever, those diseases would have been rapidly developed, a=
nd
would soon have carried her quietly from the world. People never die of lov=
e or
grief alone; though some die of inherent maladies, which the tortures of th=
ose
passions prematurely force into destructive action. The sound by nature und=
ergo
these tortures, and are racked, shaken, shattered: their beauty and bloom
perish, but life remains untouched. They are brought to a certain point of
dilapidation; they are reduced to pallor, debility, and emaciation. People
think, as they see them gliding languidly about, that they will soon withdr=
aw
to sick-beds, perish there, and cease from among the healthy and happy. This
does not happen: they live on; and though they cannot regain youth and gaie=
ty,
they may regain strength and serenity. The blossom which the March wind nip=
s,
but fails to sweep away, may survive to hang a withered apple on the tree l=
ate
into autumn: having braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the
first of winter.
Every one noticed the change in Mi=
ss
Helstone's appearance, and most people said she was going to die. She never
thought so herself: she felt in no dying case; she had neither pain nor
sickness. Her appetite was diminished; she knew the reason: it was because =
she
wept so much at night. Her strength was lessened; she could account for it;
sleep was coy and hard to be won; dreams were distressing and baleful. In t=
he
far future she still seemed to anticipate a time when this passage of misery
should be got over, and when she should once more be calm, though perhaps n=
ever
again happy.
Meanwhile her uncle urged her to
visit; to comply with the frequent invitations of their acquaintance: this =
she
evaded doing; she could not be cheerful in company: she felt she was observ=
ed
there with more curiosity than sympathy. Old ladies were always offering her
their advice, recommending this or that nostrum; young ladies looked at her=
in
a way she understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said they knew =
she
had been 'disappointed,' as custom phrases it: by whom, they were not certa=
in.
Commonplace young ladies can be qu=
ite
as hard as commonplace young gentlemen - quite as worldly and selfish. Those
who suffer should always avoid them; grief and calamity they despise: they =
seem
to regard them as the judgments of God on the lowly. With them, to 'love' is
merely to contrive a scheme for achieving a good match: to be 'disappointed=
' is
to have their scheme seen through and frustrated. They think the feelings a=
nd
projects of others on the subject of love similar to their own, and judge t=
hem
accordingly.
All this Caroline knew, partly by
instinct, partly by observation: she regulated her conduct by her knowledge,
keeping her pale face and wasted figure as much out of sight as she could.
Living thus in complete seclusion, she ceased to receive intelligence of the
little transactions of the neighbourhood.
One morning her uncle came into the
parlour, where she sat endeavouring to find some pleasure in painting a lit=
tle
group of wild flowers, gathered under a hedge at the top of the Hollow fiel=
ds,
and said to her in his abrupt manner - 'Come, child, you are always stooping
over palette, or book, or sampler: leave that tinting work. By-the-bye, do =
you
put your pencil to your lips when you paint?'
'Sometimes, uncle, when I forget.'=
'Then it is that which is poisoning
you. The paints are deleterious, child: there is white lead and red lead, a=
nd
verdigris, and gamboge, and twenty other poisons in those colour cakes. Lock
them up! lock them up! Get your bonnet on. I want you to make a call with m=
e.'
'With you, uncle?
This question was asked in a tone =
of
surprise. She was not accustomed to make calls with her uncle: she never ro=
de
or walked out with him on any occasion.
'Quick! quick! I am always busy, y=
ou
know: I have no time to lose.'
She hurriedly gathered up her
materials, asking, meantime, where they were going.
'To Fieldhead.'
'Fieldhead! What, to see old James
Booth, the gardener? Is he ill?'
'We are going to see Miss Shirley
Keeldar.'
'Miss Keeldar! Is she come to
Yorkshire? Is she at Fieldhead?'
'She is. She has been there a week=
. I
met her at a party last night; - that party to which you would not go. I was
pleased with her: I choose that you shall make her acquaintance: it will do=
you
good.'
'She is now come of age, I suppose=
?'
'She is come of age, and will resi=
de
for a time on her property. I lectured her on the subject: I showed her her
duty: she is not intractable; she is rather a fine girl; she will teach you
what it is to have a sprightly spirit: nothing lackadaisical about her.'
'I don't think she will want to see
me, or to have me introduced to her. What good can I do her? How can I amuse
her?'
'Pshaw! Put your bonnet on,'
'Is she proud, uncle?'
'Don't know. You hardly imagine she
would show her pride to me, I suppose? A chit like that would scarcely pres=
ume
to give herself airs with the Rector of her parish, however rich she might =
be.'
'No - but how did she behave to ot=
her
people?'
'Didn't observe. She holds her head
high, and probably can be saucy enough where she dare - she wouldn't be a w=
oman
otherwise. There, - away now for your bonnet at once!'
Not naturally very confident, a
failure of physical strength and a depression of spirits had not tended to
increase Caroline's presence of mind and ease of manner, or to give her
additional courage to face strangers, and she quailed, in spite of
self-remonstrance, as she and her uncle walked up the broad, paved approach
leading from the gateway of Fieldhead to its porch. She followed Mr Helstone
reluctantly through that porch into the sombre old vestibule beyond.
Very sombre it was; long, vast, and
dark: one latticed window lit it but dimly; the wide old chimney contained =
now
no fire, for the present warm weather needed it not; it was filled instead =
with
willow-boughs. The gallery on high, opposite the entrance, was seen but in
outline, so shadowy became this hall towards its ceiling; carved stags' hea=
ds,
with real antlers, looked down grotesquely from the walls, This was neither=
a
grand nor a comfortable house: within as without it was antique, rambling, =
and
incommodious. A property of a thousand a year belonged to it; which property
had descended, for lack of male heirs, on a female. There were mercantile
families in the district boasting twice the income, but the Keeldars, by vi=
rtue
of their antiquity, and their distinction of lords of the manor, took the
precedence of all.
Mr and Miss Helstone were ushered =
into
a parlour: of course, as was to be expected in such a Gothic old barrack, t=
his
parlour was lined with oak: fine dark, glossy panels compassed the walls
gloomily and grandly. Very handsome, reader, these shining brown panels are:
very mellow in colouring and tasteful in effect, but - if you know what a
'Spring-clean' is - very execrable and inhuman. Whoever, having the bowels =
of
humanity, has seen servants scrubbing at these polished wooden walls with
bees-waxed cloths on a warm May day, must allow that they are 'intolerable =
and
not to be endured'; and I cannot but secretly applaud the benevolent barbar=
ian
who had painted another and larger apartment of Fieldhead - the drawing-roo=
m to
wit, formerly also an oak-room - of a delicate pinky white; thereby earning=
for
himself the character of a Hun, but mightily enhancing the cheerfulness of =
that
portion of his abode, and saving future housemaids a world of toil.
The brown-panelled parlour was
furnished all in old style, and with real old furniture. On each side of the
high mantelpiece stood two antique chairs of oak, solid as sylvan thrones, =
and
in one of these sat a lady. But if this were Miss Keeldar, she must have co=
me
of age at least some twenty years ago: she was of matronly form, and though=
she
wore no cap, and possessed hair of quite an undimmed auburn, shading small =
and
naturally young-looking features, she had no youthful aspect, nor apparently
the wish to assume it. You could have wished her attire of a newer fashion:=
in
a well-cut, well-made gown, hers would have been no uncomely presence. It
puzzled you to guess why a garment of handsome materials should be arranged=
in
such scanty folds, and devised after such an obsolete mode: you felt dispos=
ed
to set down the wearer as somewhat eccentric at once.
This lady received the visitors wi=
th a
mixture of ceremony and diffidence quite English: no middle-aged matron who=
was
not an Englishwoman could evince precisely the same manner; a manner so
uncertain of herself, of her own merits, of her power to please; and yet so
anxious to be proper, and if possible, rather agreeable than otherwise. In =
the
present instance, however, more embarrassment was shown than is usual even =
with
diffident Englishwomen: Miss Helstone felt this, sympathised with the stran=
ger,
and knowing by experience what was good for the timid, took a seat quietly =
near
her, and began to talk to her with a gentle ease, communicated for the mome=
nt
by the presence of one less self-possessed than herself.
She and this lady would, if alone,
have at once got on extremely well together. The lady had the clearest voice
imaginable: infinitely softer and more tuneful than could have been reasona=
bly
expected from forty years, and a form decidedly inclined to embonpoint. This
voice Caroline liked: it atoned for the formal, if correct, accent and
language: the lady would soon have discovered she liked it and her, and in =
ten
minutes they would have been friends. But Mr Helstone stood on the rug look=
ing
at them both; looking especially at the strange lady with his sarcastic, ke=
en
eye, that clearly expressed impatience of her chilly ceremony, and annoyanc=
e at
her want of aplomb. His hard gaze and rasping voice discomfited the lady mo=
re
and more; she tried, however, to get up little speeches about the weather, =
the
aspect of the country, etc., but the impracticable Mr Helstone presently fo=
und
himself somewhat deaf: whatever she said, he affected not to hear distinctl=
y,
and she was obliged to go over each elaborately constructed nothing twice. =
The
effort soon became too much for her; she was just rising in a perplexed
flutter, nervously murmuring that she knew not what detained Miss Keeldar -
that she would go and look for her, when Miss Keeldar saved her the trouble=
by
appearing: it was to be presumed at least that she who now came in through a
glass-door from the garden owned that name.
There is real grace in ease of man=
ner,
and so old Helstone her left when an erect, slight girl walked up to him,
retaining with her left hand her little silk apron full of flowers, and giv=
ing
him her right hand said pleasantly: 'I knew you would come to see me, though
you do think Mr Yorke has made me a Jacobin. Good-morning.'
'But we'll not have you a Jacobin,'
returned he. 'No, Miss Shirley, they shall not steal the flower of my parish
from me: now that you are amongst us, you shall be my pupil in politics and
religion: I'll teach you sound doctrine on both points.'
'Mrs Pryor has anticipated you,' s=
he
replied, turning to the elder lady. 'Mrs Pryor, you know, was my governess,=
and
is still my friend; and of all the high and rigid Tories, she is queen; of =
all
the stanch churchwomen, she is chief. I have been well drilled both in theo=
logy
and history, I assure you, Mr Helstone.'
The Rector immediately bowed very =
low
to Mrs Pryor, and expressed himself obliged to her.
The ex-governess disclaimed skill
either in political or religious controversy, explained that she thought su=
ch
matters little adapted for female minds, but avowed herself in general terms
the advocate of order and loyalty, and, of course, truly attached to the
Establishment. She added, she was ever averse to change under any circumsta=
nces;
and something scarcely audible about the extreme danger of being too ready =
to
take up new ideas, closed her sentence.
'Miss Keeldar thinks as you think,=
I
hope, madam.'
'Difference of age and difference =
of
temperament occasion difference of sentiment,' was the reply. 'It can scarc=
ely
he expected that the eager and young should hold the opinions of the cool a=
nd
middle-aged.'
'Oh! oh! we are independent: we th=
ink
for ourselves!' cried Mr Helstone. 'We are a little Jacobin, for anything I
know: a little free-thinker, in good earnest. Let us have a confession of f=
aith
on the spot.'
And he took the heiress's two hand=
s -
causing her to let fall her whole cargo of flowers - and seated her by him =
on
the sofa.
'Say your creed,' he ordered.
'The Apostles' creed?'
'Yes.'
She said it like a child.
'Now for St. Athanasius's: that's =
the
test!'
'Let me gather up my flowers: here=
is
Tartar coming, he will tread upon them.'
Tartar was a rather large, strong,=
and
fierce-looking dog, very ugly, being of a breed between mastiff and bull-do=
g,
who at this moment entered through the glass-door, and posting directly to =
the
rug, snuffed the fresh flowers scattered there. He seemed to scorn them as
food; but probably thinking their velvety petals might be convenient as lit=
ter,
he was turning round preparatory to depositing his tawny bulk upon them, wh=
en
Miss Helstone and Miss Keeldar simultaneously stooped to the rescue.
'Thank you,' said the heiress, as =
she
again held out her little apron for Caroline to heap the blossoms into it, =
'Is
this your daughter, Mr Helstone? ' she asked.
'My niece, Caroline.'
Miss Keeldar shook hands with her,=
and
then looked at her. Caroline also looked at her hostess.
Shirley Keeldar (she had no Christ=
ian
name but Shirley: her parents, who had wished to have a son, finding that,
after eight years of marriage, Providence had granted them only a daughter,
bestowed on her the same masculine family cognomen they would have bestowed=
on
a boy, if with a boy they had been blessed) - Shirley Keeldar was no ugly
heiress: she was agreeable to the eye. Her height and shape were not unlike
Miss Helstone's: perhaps in stature she might have the advantage by an inch=
or
two; she was gracefully made, and her face, too, possessed a charm as well
described by the word grace as any other. It was pale naturally, but
intelligent, and of varied expression. She was not a blonde, like Caroline:
clear and dark were the characteristics of her aspect as to colour: her face
and brow were clear, her eyes of the darkest grey: no green lights in them,=
-
transparent, pure, neutral grey: and her hair of the darkest brown. Her
features were distinguished: by which I do not mean that they were high, bo=
ny,
and Roman, being indeed rather small and slightly marked than otherwise; but
only that they were, to use a few French words, 'fins, gracieux, spirituels=
':
mobile they were and speaking; but their changes were not to be understood,=
nor
their language interpreted all at once. She examined Caroline seriously,
inclining her head a little to one side, with a thoughtful air.
'You see she is only a feeble chic=
k,'
observed Mr Helstone.
'She looks young - younger than I.=
How
old are you?' she inquired, in a manner that would have been patronising if=
it
had not been extremely solemn and simple.
'Eighteen years and six months.'
'And I am twenty-one.'
She said no more; she had now plac=
ed
her flowers on the table, and was busied in arranging them.
'And St. Athanasius's creed?' urged
the Rector; 'you believe it all - don't you?'
'I can't remember it quite all. I =
will
give you a nosegay, Mr Helstone, when I have given your niece one.'
She had selected a little bouquet =
of
one brilliant and two or three delicate flowers, relieved by a spray of dark
verdure: she tied it with silk from her work-box, and placed it on Caroline=
's
lap; and then she put her hands behind her, and stood bending slightly towa=
rds
her guest, still regarding her, in the attitude and with something of the
aspect of a grave but gallant little cavalier. This temporary expression of
face was aided by the style in which she wore her hair, parted on one templ=
e,
and brushed in a glossy sweep above the forehead, whence it fell in curls t=
hat
looked natural, so free were their wavy undulations.
'Are you tired with your walk?' she
inquired.
'No - not in the least; it is but a
short distance - but a mile.'
'You look pale. Is she always so
pale?' she asked, turning to the Rector.
'She used to be as rosy as the red=
dest
of your flowers.
'Why is she altered? What has made=
her
pale? Has she been ill?'
'She tells me she wants a change.'=
'She ought to have one: you ought =
to
give her one: you should send her to the sea-coast.'
'I will, ere summer is over. Meant=
ime,
I intend her to make acquaintance with you, if you have no objection.'
'I am sure Miss Keeldar will have = no objection,' here observed Mrs Pryor. 'I think I may take it upon me to say = that Miss Helstone's frequent presence at Fieldhead will be esteemed a favour.'<= o:p>
'You speak my sentiments precisely,
ma'am,' said Shirley, 'and I thank you for anticipating me. Let me tell you=
,'
she continued, turning again to Caroline, 'that you also ought to thank my
governess; it is not every one she would welcome as she has welcomed you: y=
ou
are distinguished more than you think. This morning, as soon as you are gon=
e, I
shall ask Mrs Pryor's opinion of you. I am apt to rely on her judgment of
character, for hitherto I have found it wondrous accurate. Already I forese=
e a
favourable answer to my inquiries: do I not guess rightly, Mrs Pryor?'
'My dear - you said but now you wo=
uld
ask my opinion when Miss Helstone was gone; I am scarcely likely to give it=
in
her presence.'
'No - and perhaps it will be long
enough before I obtain it. I am sometimes sadly tantalised, Mr Helstone, by=
Mrs
Pryor's extreme caution: her judgments ought to be correct when they come, =
for
they are often as tardy of delivery as a Lord Chancellor's: on some people's
characters I cannot get her to pronounce sentence, entreat as I may.'
Mrs Pryor here smiled.
'Yes,' said her pupil, 'I know what
that smile means: you are thinking of my gentleman-tenant. Do you know Mr M=
oore
of the Hollow?' she asked Mr Helstone.
'Ay! ay! your tenant - so he is: y=
ou
have seen a good deal of him, no doubt, since you came?'
'I have been obliged to see him: t=
here
was business to transact. Business! Really the word makes me conscious I am
indeed no longer a girl, but quite a woman and something more. I am an esqu=
ire!
Shirley Keeldar, Esquire, ought to be my style and title. They gave me a ma=
n's
name; I hold a man's position: it is enough to inspire me with a touch of
manhood, and when I see such people as that stately Anglo-Belgian - that
Gérard Moore before me, gravely talking to me of business, really I =
feel
quite gentleman-like. You must choose me for your churchwarden, Mr Helstone,
the next time you elect new ones: they ought to make me a magistrate and a
captain of yeomanry Tony Lumpkin's mother was a colonel, and his aunt a jus=
tice
of the peace - why shouldn't I be?'
'With all my heart. If you choose =
to
get up a requisition on the subject, I promise to head the list of signatur=
es
with my name. But you were speaking of Moore?'
'Ah! yes. I find it a little diffi=
cult
to understand Mr Moore - to know what to think of him: whether to like him =
or
not. He seems a tenant of whom any proprietor might be proud - and proud of=
him
I am, in that sense - but as a neighbour, what is he? Again and again I have
entreated Mrs Pryor to say what she thinks of him, but she still evades
returning a direct answer. I hope you will be less oracular, Mr Helstone, a=
nd
pronounce at once: do you like him?'
'Not at all, just now: his name is
entirely blotted from my good books.'
'What is the matter? What has he
done?'
'My uncle and he disagree on
politics,' interposed the low voice of Caroline. She had better not have sp=
oken
just then: having scarcely joined in the conversation before, it was not
apropos to do it now: she felt this with nervous acuteness as soon as she h=
ad
spoken, and coloured to the eyes.
'What are Moore's politics?' inqui=
red
Shirley.
'Those of a tradesman,' returned t= he Rector; 'narrow, selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is eternally writing and speaking against the continuance of the war: I have no patience with him.'<= o:p>
'The war hurts his trade. I rememb=
er
he remarked that only yesterday. But what other objection have you to him?'=
'That is enough.'
'He looks the gentleman, in my sen=
se
of the term,' pursued Shirley, 'and it pleases me to think he is such.'
Caroline rent the Tyrian petals of=
the
one brilliant flower in her bouquet, and answered in distinct tones -
'Decidedly he is.' Shirley, hearing this courageous affirmation, flashed an
arch, searching glance at the speaker from her deep, expressive eyes.
'You are his friend, at any rate,'=
she
said; 'you defend him in his absence.'
'I am both his friend and his
relative,' was the prompt reply. 'Robert Moore is my cousin.'
'Oh, then, you can tell me all abo=
ut
him. Just give me a sketch of his character.'
Insuperable embarrassment seized
Caroline when this demand was made: she could not, and did not attempt to
comply with it. Her silence was immediately covered by Mrs Pryor, who proce=
eded
to address sundry questions to Mr Helstone regarding a family or two in the
neighbourhood, with whose connections in the south she said she was acquain=
ted.
Shirley soon withdrew her gaze from Miss Helstone's face. She did not renew=
her
interrogations, but returning to her flowers, proceeded to choose a nosegay=
for
the Rector. She presented it to him as he took leave, and received the homa=
ge
of a salute on the hand in return.
'Be sure you wear it for my sake,'
said she.
'Next my heart, of course,' respon=
ded
Helstone. 'Mrs Pryor, take care of this future magistrate, this churchwarde=
n in
perspective, this captain of yeomanry, this young squire of Briarfield, in a
word: don't let him exert himself too much: don't let him break his neck in
hunting: especially, let him mind how he rides down that dangerous hill near
the Hollow.'
'I like a descent,' said Shirley -=
'I
like to clear it rapidly; and especially I like that romantic Hollow, with =
all
my heart.'
'Romantic - with a mill in it?'
'Romantic with a mill in it. The o=
ld
mill and the white cottage are each admirable in its way.'
'And the counting-house, Mr Keelda=
r?'
'The counting-house is better than=
my
bloom-coloured drawing-room: I adore the counting-house.'
'And the trade? The cloth - the gr=
easy
wool - the polluting dyeing-vats?'
'The trade is to be thoroughly
respected.'
'And the tradesman is a hero? Good=
!'
'I am glad to hear you say so: I
thought the tradesman looked heroic.'
Mischief, spirit, and glee sparkled
all over her face as she thus bandied words with the old Cossack, who almost
equally enjoyed the tilt.
'Captain Keeldar, you have no
mercantile blood in your veins: why are you so fond of trade?'
'Because I am a mill-owner, of cou=
rse.
Half my income comes from the works in that Hollow.'
'Don't enter into partnership, tha=
t's
all.'
'You've put it into my head! you've
put it into my head!' she exclaimed, with a joyous laugh. 'It will never get
out: thank you.' And waving her hand, white as a lily and fine as a fairy's,
she vanished within the porch, while the Rector and his niece passed out
through the arched gateway.
Shirley showed she had been sincer=
e in
saying she should be glad of Caroline's society, by frequently seeking it: =
and,
indeed, if she had not sought it, she would not have had it; for Miss Helst=
one
was slow to make fresh acquaintance. She was always held back by the idea t=
hat
people could not want her, - that she could not amuse them; and a brilliant,
happy, youthful creature, like the heiress of Fieldhead, seemed to her too
completely independent of society so uninteresting as hers, ever to find it
really welcome.
Shirley might be brilliant, and
probably happy likewise, but no one is independent of genial society; and
though in about a month she had made the acquaintance of most of the famili=
es
round, and was on quite free and easy terms with all the Misses Sykes, and =
all
the Misses Pearson, and the two superlative Misses Wynne of Walden Hall; ye=
t,
it appeared, she found none amongst them very genial: she fraternised with =
none
of them, to use her own words. If she had had the bliss to be really Shirley
Keeldar, Esq., Lord of the Manor of Briarfield, there was not a single fair=
one
in this and the two neighbouring parishes, whom she should have felt dispos=
ed
to request to become Mrs Keeldar, lady of the manor. This declaration she m=
ade
to Mrs Pryor, who received it very quietly, as she did most of her pupil's
off-hand speeches, responding - 'My dear, do not allow that habit of alludi=
ng
to yourself as a gentleman to be confirmed: it is a strange one. Those who =
do
not know you, hearing you speak thus, would think you affected masculine
manners.'
Shirley never laughed at her former
governess: even the little formalities and harmless peculiarities of that l=
ady
were respectable in her eyes: had it been otherwise, she would have proved
herself a weak character at once: for it is only the weak who make a butt of
quiet worth; therefore she took her remonstrance in silence. She stood quie=
tly
near the window, looking at the grand cedar on her lawn, watching a bird on=
one
of its lower boughs. Presently she began to chirrup to the bird: soon her
chirrup grew clearer; erelong she was whistling; the whistle struck into a
tune, and very sweetly and deftly it was executed.
'My dear!' expostulated Mrs Pryor.=
'Was I whistling?' said Shirley; 'I
forgot. I beg your pardon, ma'am. I had resolved to take care not to whistle
before you.'
'But, Miss Keeldar, where did you
learn to whistle? You must have got the habit since you came down into
Yorkshire. I never knew you guilty of it before.'
'Oh! I learned to whistle a long w=
hile
ago.'
'Who taught you?'
'No one: I took it up by listening,
and I had laid it down again; but lately, yesterday evening, as I was comin=
g up
our lane, I heard a gentleman whistling that very tune in the field on the
other side of the hedge, and that reminded me.'
'What gentleman was it?'
'We have only one gentleman in this
region, ma'am, and that is Mr Moore: at least he is the only gentleman who =
is
not grey-haired: my two venerable favourites, Mr Helstone and Mr Yorke, it =
is
true, are fine old beaux; infinitely better than any of the stupid young on=
es.'
Mrs Pryor was silent.
'You do not like Mr Helstone, ma'a=
m?'
'My dear, Mr Helstone's office sec=
ures
him from criticism.'
'You generally contrive to leave t=
he
room when he is announced.'
'Do you walk out this morning, my
dear?'
'Yes, I shall go to the Rectory, a=
nd
seek and find Caroline Helstone, and make her take some exercise: she shall
have a breezy walk over Nunnely Common.'
'If you go in that direction, my d=
ear,
have the goodness to remind Miss Helstone to wrap up well, as there is a fr=
esh
wind, and she appears to me to require care.'
'You shall be minutely obeyed, Mrs
Pryor: meantime, will you not accompany us yourself?'
'No, my love; I should be a restra= int upon you: I am stout, and cannot walk so quickly as you would wish to do.'<= o:p>
Shirley easily persuaded Caroline =
to
go with her: and when they were fairly out on the quiet road, traversing the
extensive and solitary sweep of Nunnely Common, she as easily drew her into
conversation. The first feelings of diffidence overcome, Caroline soon felt
glad to talk with Miss Keeldar. The very first interchange of slight
observations sufficed to give each an idea of what the other was. Shirley s=
aid
she liked the green sweep of the common turf, and, better still, the heath =
on
its ridges, for the heath reminded her of moors: she had seen moors when she
was travelling on the borders near Scotland. She remembered particularly a
district traversed one long afternoon, on a sultry but sunless day in summe=
r:
they journeyed from
'I know how the heath would look on
such a day,' said Caroline; 'purple- black: a deeper shade of the sky-tint,=
and
that would be livid.'
'Yes - quite livid, with brassy ed=
ges to
the clouds, and here and there a white gleam, more ghastly than the lurid
tinge, which, as you looked at it, you momentarily expected would kindle in=
to
blinding lightning.'
'Did it thunder?'
'It muttered distant peals, but the
storm did not break till evening, after we had reached our inn: that inn be=
ing
an isolated house at the foot of a range of mountains.'
'Did you watch the clouds come down
over the mountains?'
'I did: I stood at the window an h=
our
watching them. The hills seemed rolled in a sullen mist, and when the rain =
fell
in whitening sheets, suddenly they were blotted from the prospect: they were
washed from the world.'
'I have seen such storms in hilly
districts in Yorkshire; and at their riotous climax, while the sky was all
cataract, the earth all flood, I have remembered the Deluge.'
'It is singularly reviving after s=
uch
hurricanes to feel calm return, and from the opening clouds to receive a
consolatory gleam, softly testifying that the sun is not quenched.'
'Miss Keeldar, just stand still no=
w,
and look down at Nunnely dale and wood.'
They both halted on the green brow=
of
the Common: they looked down on the deep valley robed in May raiment; on va=
ried
meads, some pearled with daisies, and some golden with king-cups: to-day all
this young verdure smiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber
gleams played over it. On Nunnwood - the sole remnant of antique British fo=
rest
in a region whose lowlands were once all sylvan chase, as its highlands were
breast-deep heather - slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were
dappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery bl=
ues,
soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of
white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye as with a remote glimpse of
heaven's foundations. The air blowing on the brow was fresh, and sweet, and
bracing.
'Our England is a bonnie island,' =
said
Shirley, 'and Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks.'
'You are a Yorkshire girl too?'
'I am - Yorkshire in blood and bir=
th.
Five generations of my race sleep under the aisles of Briarfield Church: I =
drew
my first breath in the old black hall behind us.'
Hereupon Caroline presented her ha=
nd,
which was accordingly taken and shaken. 'We are compatriots,' said she.
'Yes,' agreed Shirley, with a grave
nod.
'And that,' asked Miss Keeldar,
pointing to the forest - 'that is Nunnwood?'
'It is.'
'Were you ever there? '
'Many a time.'
'In the heart of it?
'Yes.'
'What is it like?'
'It is like an encampment of forest
sons of Anak. The trees are huge and old. When you stand at their roots, the
summits seem in another region: the trunks remain still and firm as pillars,
while the boughs sway to every breeze. In the deepest calm their leaves are
never quite hushed, and in high wind a flood rushes - a sea thunders above
you.'
'Was it not one of Robin Hood's
haunts?'
'Yes, and there are mementoes of h=
im
still existing. To penetrate into Nunnwood, Miss Keeldar, is to go far back
into the dim days of old. Can you see a break in the forest, about the cent=
re?'
'Yes, distinctly.'
'That break is a dell; a deep, hol=
low
cup, lined with turf as green and short as the sod of this common: the very
oldest of the trees, gnarled mighty oaks, crowd about the brink of this del=
l:
in the bottom lie the ruins of a nunnery.'
'We will go - you and I alone,
Caroline - to that wood, early some fine summer morning, and spend a long d=
ay
there. We can take pencils and sketch- books, and any interesting reading-b=
ook
we like; and of course we shall take something to eat. I have two little
baskets, in which Mrs Gill, my housekeeper, might pack our provisions, and =
we
could each carry our own. It would not tire you too much to walk so far?'
'Oh, no; especially if we rested t=
he
whole day in the wood, and I know all the pleasantest spots: I know where we
could get nuts in nutting time; I know where wild strawberries abound: I kn=
ow
certain lonely, quite untrodden glades, carpeted with strange mosses, some
yellow as if gilded, some a sober grey, some gem-green. I know groups of tr=
ees
that ravish the eye with their perfect, picture-like effects: rude oak,
delicate birch, glossy beech, clustered in contrast; and ash trees stately =
as
Saul, standing isolated, and superannuated wood-giants clad in bright shrou=
ds
of ivy. Miss Keeldar, I could guide you.'
'You would be dull with me alone?'=
'I should not. I think we should s=
uit:
and what third person is there whose presence would not spoil our pleasure?=
'
'Indeed, I know of none about our =
own
ages - no lady at least, and as to gentlemen' - -
'An excursion becomes quite a
different thing when there are gentlemen of the party,' interrupted Carolin=
e.
'I agree with you - quite a differ=
ent
thing to what we were proposing.'
'We were going simply to see the o=
ld
trees, the old ruins; to pass a day in old times, surrounded by olden silen=
ce,
and above all by quietude.'
'You are right; and the presence of
gentlemen dispels the last charm, I think. If they are of the wrong sort, l=
ike
your Malones, and your young Sykes, and Wynnes, irritation takes the place =
of
serenity. If they are of the right sort, there is still a change - I can ha=
rdly
tell what change, one easy to feel, difficult to describe.'
'We forget Nature, imprimis.'
'And then Nature forgets us; covers
her vast calm brow with a dim veil, conceals her face, and withdraws the
peaceful joy with which, if we had been content to worship her only, she wo=
uld
have filled our hearts.'
'What does she give us instead?'
'More elation and more anxiety: an
excitement that steals the hours away fast, and a trouble that ruffles their
course.'
'Our power of being happy lies a g=
ood
deal in ourselves, I believe,' remarked Caroline sagely. 'I have gone to
Nunnwood with a large party, all the curates and some other gentry of these
parts, together with sundry ladies; and I found the affair insufferably ted=
ious
and absurd: and I have gone quite alone, or accompanied but by Fanny, who s=
at
in the woodman's hut and sewed, or talked to the good wife, while I roamed
about and made sketches, or read; and I have enjoyed much happiness of a qu=
iet
kind all day long. But that was when I was young - two years ago.'
'Did you ever go with your cousin,
Robert Moore?'
'Yes; once.'
'What sort of a companion is he on
these occasions?'
'A cousin, you know, is different =
to a
stranger.'
'I am aware of that; but cousins, =
if
they are stupid, are still more insupportable than strangers, because you
cannot so easily keep them at a distance. But your cousin is not stupid?'
'No; but -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Well?'
'If the company of fools irritates=
, as
you say, the society of clever men leaves its own peculiar pain also. Where=
the
goodness or talent of your friend is beyond and above all doubt, your own
worthiness to be his associate often becomes a matter of question.'
'Oh! there I cannot follow you: th=
at
crotchet is not one I should choose to entertain for an instant. I consider
myself not unworthy to be the associate of the best of them - of gentlemen,=
I
mean: though that is saying a great deal. Where they are good, they are very
good, I believe. Your uncle, by-the-bye, is not a bad specimen of the elder=
ly
gentleman: I am always glad to see his brown, keen, sensible old face, eith=
er
in my own house or any other. Are you fond of him? Is he kind to you? Now s=
peak
the truth.'
He has brought me up from childhoo=
d, I
doubt not, precisely as he would have brought up his own daughter, if he had
had one; and that is kindness; but I am not fond of him: I would rather be =
out
of his presence than in it.'
'Strange! when he has the art of
making himself so agreeable.'
'Yes, in company; but he is stern =
and
silent at home. As he puts away his cane and shovel-hat in the Rectory-hall=
, so
he locks his liveliness in his book- case and study-desk: the knitted brow =
and
brief word for the fire-side; the smile, the jest, the witty sally, for
society.'
'Is he tyrannical?'
'Not in the least: he is neither
tyrannical nor hypocritical: he is simply a man who is rather liberal than
good-natured, rather brilliant than genial, rather scrupulously equitable t=
han
truly just, - if you can understand such superfine distinctions?'
'Oh! yes: good-nature implies
indulgence, which he has not; geniality, warmth of heart, which he does not
own; and genuine justice is the offspring of sympathy and considerateness, =
of
which, I can well conceive, my bronzed old friend is quite innocent.'
'I often wonder, Shirley, whether =
most
men resemble my uncle in their domestic relations; whether it is necessary =
to
be new and unfamiliar to them, in order to seem agreeable or estimable in t=
heir
eyes; and whether it is impossible to their natures to retain a constant
interest and affection for those they see every day.'
'I don't know: I can't clear up yo=
ur
doubts. I ponder over similar ones myself sometimes. But, to tell you a sec=
ret,
if I were convinced that they are necessarily and universally different fro=
m us
- fickle, soon petrifying, unsympathising - I would never marry. I should n=
ot
like to find out that what I loved did not love me, that it was weary of me,
and that whatever effort I might make to please would hereafter be worse th=
an
useless, since it was inevitably in its nature to change and become
indifferent. That discovery once made, what should I long for? To go away -=
to
remove from a presence where my society gave no pleasure.'
'But you could not, if you were ma=
rried.'
'No, I could not, - there it is. I
could never be my own mistress more. A terrible thought! - it suffocates me!
Nothing irks me like the idea of being a burden and a bore, - an inevitable
burden, - a ceaseless bore! Now, when I feel my company superfluous, I can
comfortably fold my independence round me like a mantle, and drop my pride =
like
a veil, and withdraw to solitude. If married, that could not be.'
'I wonder we don't all make up our
minds to remain single,' said Caroline: 'we should if we listened to the wi=
sdom
of experience. My uncle always speaks of marriage as a burden; and I believe
whenever he hears of a man being married, he invariably regards him as a fo=
ol,
or at any rate, as doing a foolish thing.'
'But, Caroline, men are not all li=
ke your
uncle: surely not - I hope not.'
She paused and mused.
'I suppose we each find an excepti=
on
in the one we love, till we are married,' suggested Caroline.
'I suppose so: and this exception = we believe to be of sterling materials; we fancy it like ourselves; we imagine= a sense of harmony. We think his voice gives the softest, truest promise of a heart that will never harden against us: we read in his eyes that faithful feeling - affection. I don't think we should trust to what they call passio= n at all, Caroline. I believe it is a mere fire of dry sticks, blazing up and vanishing: but we watch him, and see him kind to animals, to little childre= n, to poor people. He is kind to us likewise - good - considerate: he does not flatter women, but he is patient with them, and he seems to be easy in their presence, and to find their company genial. He likes them not only for vain= and selfish reasons, but as we like him - because we like him. Then we observe = that he is just - that he always speaks the truth - that he is conscientious. We feel joy and peace when he comes into a room: we feel sadness and trouble w= hen he leaves it. We know that this man has been a kind son, that he is a kind brother: will any one dare to tell me that he will not be a kind husband?'<= o:p>
'My uncle would affirm it
unhesitatingly. He will be sick of you in a month,' he would say.'
'Mrs Pryor would seriously intimate
the same.'
'Miss Yorke and Miss Mann would da=
rkly
suggest ditto.'
'If they are true oracles, it is g=
ood
never to fall in love.'
'Very good, if you can avoid it.'<= o:p>
'I choose to doubt their truth.'
'I am 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 s=
now
pecks at my window for a crumb; the dog that licks my hand and sits beside =
my
knee.'
'Did you ever see any one who was =
kind
to such things?'
'Did you ever see any one whom such
things seemed instinctively to follow, like, rely on?'
'We have a black cat and an old do=
g 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?'<= o:p>
'He quietly strokes the cat, and l=
ets
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 whis=
tles
to the dog and gives him a caress.'
'Does he? It is not Robert?'
'But it is Robert.'
'Handsome fellow!' said Shirley, w=
ith
enthusiasm: her eyes sparkled.
'Is he not handsome? Has he not fi=
ne
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.'
'When mind is added, Shirley?'
'Who can resist it?'
'Remember my uncle, Mesdames Pryor,
Yorke, and Mann.'
'Remember the croaking of the frog= s of Egypt! He is a noble being. I tell you when they are good, they are the lor= ds of the creation, - they are the sons of God. Moulded in their Maker's image, the minutest spark of His spirit lifts them almost above mortality. Indisputably, a great, good, handsome man is the first of created things.'<= o:p>
'Above us?'
'I would scorn to contend for empi=
re
with him, - I would scorn it. Shall my left hand dispute for precedence wit=
h my
right? - shall my heart quarrel with my pulse? - shall my veins be jealous =
of
the blood which fills them?'
'Men and women, husbands and wives
quarrel horribly, Shirley.'
'Poor things! - poor, fallen,
degenerate things! God made them for another lot - for other feelings.'
'But are we men's equals, or are we
not?'
'Nothing ever charms me more than =
when
I meet my superior - one who makes me sincerely feel that he is my superior=
.'
'Did you ever meet him?'
'I should be glad to see him any d=
ay:
the higher above me, so much the better: it degrades to stoop - it is glori=
ous
to look up. What frets me is, that when I try to esteem, I am baffled: when
religiously inclined, there are but false gods to adore. I disdain to be a
Pagan.'
'Miss Keeldar, will you come in? We
are here at the Rectory gates.'
'Not to-day; but to-morrow I shall
fetch you to spend the evening with me. Caroline Helstone - if you really a=
re
what at present to me you seem - you and I will suit. I have never in my wh=
ole
life been able to talk to a young lady as I have talked to you this morning.
Kiss me - and good-bye.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
.
Mrs Pryor seemed as well-disposed =
to
cultivate Caroline's acquaintance as Shirley. She, who went nowhere else,
called on an early day at the Rectory. She came in the afternoon, when the
Rector happened to be out. It was rather a close day; the heat of the weath=
er
had flushed her, and she seemed fluttered, too, by the circumstance of ente=
ring
a strange house; for it appeared her habits were most retiring and secluded.
When Miss Helstone went to her in the dining-room she found her seated on t=
he
sofa, trembling, fanning herself with her handkerchief, and seeming to cont=
end
with a nervous discomposure that threatened to become hysterical.
Caroline marvelled somewhat at this
unusual want of self-command in a lady of her years, and also at the lack of
real strength in one who appeared almost robust: for Mrs Pryor hastened to
allege the fatigue of her walk, the heat of the sun, etc., as reasons for h=
er
temporary indisposition; and still as, with more hurry than coherence, she
again and again enumerated these causes of exhaustion, Caroline gently soug=
ht
to relieve her by opening her shawl and removing her bonnet. Attentions of =
this
sort, Mrs Pryor would not have accepted from everyone: in general, she reco=
iled
from touch or close approach, with a mixture of embarrassment and coldness =
far
from flattering to those who offered her aid: to Miss Helstone's little lig=
ht
hand, however, she yielded tractably, and seemed soothed by its contact. In=
a
few minutes she ceased to tremble, and grew quiet and tranquil.
Her usual manner being resumed, she
proceeded to talk of ordinary topics. In a miscellaneous company, Mrs Pryor
rarely opened her lips; or, if obliged to speak, she spoke under restraint,=
and
consequently not well; in dialogue, she was a good converser: her language,
always a little formal, was well chosen; her sentiments were just; her
information was varied and correct. Caroline felt it pleasant to listen to =
her:
more pleasant than she could have anticipated.
On the wall opposite the sofa where
they sat, hung three pictures: the centre one, above the mantel-piece, that=
of
a lady; the two others, male portraits.
'That is a beautiful face,' said M=
rs
Pryor, interrupting a brief pause which had followed half-an-hour's animated
conversation: 'the features may be termed perfect; no statuary's chisel cou=
ld
improve them: it is a portrait from the life, I presume?'
'It is a portrait of Mrs Helstone.=
'
'Of Mrs Matthewson Helstone? Of yo=
ur
uncle's wife?'
'It is, and is said to be a good
likeness: before her marriage, she was accounted the beauty of the district=
.'
'I should say she merited the
distinction: what accuracy in all the lineaments! It is, however, a passive
face: the original could not have been what is generally termed 'a woman of
spirit.''
'I believe she was a remarkably st=
ill,
silent person.'
'One would scarcely have expected,=
my
dear, that your uncle's choice should have fallen on a partner of that desc=
ription.
Is he not fond of being amused by lively chat?'
'In company he is; but he always s=
ays
he could never do with a talking wife: he must have quiet at home. You go o=
ut
to gossip, he affirms; you come home to read and reflect.'
'Mrs Matthewson lived but a few ye=
ars
after her marriage, I think I have heard?'
'About five years.'
'Well, my dear,' pursued Mrs Pryor,
rising to go, 'I trust it is understood that you will frequently come to
Fieldhead: I hope you will. You must feel lonely here, having no female
relative in the house: you must necessarily pass much of your time in
solitude.'
'I am inured to it: I have grown u=
p by
myself. May I arrange your shawl for you?'
Mrs Pryor submitted to be assisted=
.
'Should you chance to require help=
in
your studies,' she said, 'you may command me.'
Caroline expressed her sense of su=
ch
kindness.
'I hope to have frequent conversat=
ions
with you. I should wish to be of use to you.'
Again Miss Helstone returned thank=
s.
She thought what a kind heart was hidden under her visitor's seeming
chilliness. Observing that Mrs Pryor again glanced with an air of interest
towards the portraits, as she walked down the room, Caroline casually expla=
ined
- 'The likeness that hangs near the window, you will see, is my uncle, taken
twenty years ago; the other, to the left of the mantelpiece, is his brother
James, my father.'
'They resemble each other in some
measure,' said Mrs Pryor; 'yet a difference of character may be traced in t=
he
different mould of the brow and mouth.'
'What difference?' inquired Caroli=
ne,
accompanying her to the door. 'James Helstone - that is, my father - is
generally considered the best-looking of the two: strangers, I remark, alwa=
ys
exclaim, 'What a handsome man!' Do you think his picture handsome, Mrs Pryo=
r?'
'It is much softer or finer featur=
ed
than that of your uncle.'
'But where or what is the differen=
ce
of character to which you alluded? Tell me: I wish to see if you guess righ=
t.'
'My dear, your uncle is a man of
principle: his forehead and his lips are firm, and his eye is steady.'
'Well, and the other? Do not be af=
raid
of offending me: I always like the truth.'
'Do you like the truth? It is well=
for
you: adhere to that preference - never swerve thence. The other, my dear, i=
f he
had been living now, would probably have furnished little support to his
daughter. It is, however, a graceful head - taken in youth, I should think.=
My
dear' (turning abruptly), 'you acknowledge an inestimate value in principle=
?'
'I am sure no character can have t=
rue
worth without it.'
'You feel what you say? You have
considered the subject?'
'Often. Circumstances early forced=
it
upon my attention.'
'The lesson was not lost, then, th=
ough
it came so prematurely. I suppose the soil is not light nor stony, otherwise
seed falling in that season never would have borne fruit. My dear, do not s=
tand
in the air of the door, you will take cold: good afternoon.'
Miss Helstone's new acquaintance s=
oon
became of value to her: their society was acknowledged a privilege. She fou=
nd
she would have been in error indeed to have let slip this chance of relief =
- to
have neglected to avail herself of this happy change: a turn was thereby gi=
ven
to her thoughts; a new channel was opened for them, which, diverting a few =
of
them at least from the one direction in which all had hitherto tended, abat=
ed
the impetuosity of their rush, and lessened the force of their pressure on =
one
worn-down point.
Soon she was content to spend whole
days at Fieldhead, doing by turns whatever Shirley or Mrs Pryor wished her =
to
do: and now one would claim her, now the other. Nothing could be less
demonstrative than the friendship of the elder lady; but also nothing could=
be
more vigilant, assiduous, untiring. I have intimated that she was a peculiar
personage; and in nothing was her peculiarity more shown than in the nature=
of
the interest she evinced for Caroline. She watched all her movements: she
seemed as if she would have guarded all her steps: it gave her pleasure to =
be
applied to by Miss Helstone for advice and assistance; she yielded her aid,
when asked, with such quiet yet obvious enjoyment, that Caroline ere long t=
ook
delight in depending on her.
Shirley Keeldar's complete docility
with Mrs Pryor had at first surprised Miss Helstone, and not less the fact =
of
the reserved ex-governess being so much at home and at ease in the residenc=
e of
her young pupil, where she filled with such quiet independency a very depen=
dent
post; but she soon found that it needed but to know both ladies to comprehe=
nd
fully the enigma. Every one, it seemed to her, must like, must love, must p=
rize
Mrs Pryor when they knew her. No matter that she perseveringly wore
old-fashioned gowns; that her speech was formal, and her manner cool; that =
she
had twenty little ways such as nobody else had - she was still such a stay,=
such
a counsellor, so truthful, so kind in her way, that, in Caroline's idea, no=
ne
once accustomed to her presence could easily afford to dispense with it.
As to dependency or humiliation,
Caroline did not feel it in her intercourse with Shirley, and why should Mrs
Pryor? The heiress was rich - very rich - compared with her new friend: one
possessed a clear thousand a year - the other not a penny; and yet there wa=
s a
safe sense of equality experienced in her society, never known in that of t=
he
ordinary Briarfield and Whinbury gentry.
The reason was, Shirley's head ran=
on
other things than money and position. She was glad to be independent as to
property: by fits she was even elated at the notion of being lady of the ma=
nor,
and having tenants and an estate: she was especially tickled with an agreea=
ble
complacency when reminded of 'all that property' down in the Hollow,
'comprising an excellent cloth-mill, dyehouse, warehouse, together with the
messuage, gardens, and outbuildings, termed Hollow's Cottage'; but her
exultation being quite undisguised was singularly inoffensive; and, for her
serious thoughts, they tended elsewhere. To admire the great, reverence the
good, and be joyous with the genial, was very much the bent of Shirley's so=
ul:
she mused therefore on the means of following this bent far oftener than she
pondered on her social superiority.
In Caroline, Miss Keeldar had first
taken an interest because she was quiet, retiring, looked delicate, and see=
med
as if she needed some one to take care of her. Her predilection increased
greatly when she discovered that her own way of thinking and talking was
understood and responded to by this new acquaintance. She had hardly expect=
ed
it. Miss Helstone, she fancied, had too pretty a face, manners and voice too
soft, to be anything out of the common way in mind and attainments; and she
very much wondered to see the gentle features light up archly to the
reveillé of a dry sally or two risked by herself; and more did she
wonder to discover the self-won knowledge treasured, and the untaught
speculations working in that girlish, curl-veiled head. Caroline's instinct=
of
taste, too, was like her own: such books as Miss Keeldar had read with the =
most
pleasure, were Miss Helstone's delight also. They held many aversions too in
common, and could have the comfort of laughing together over works of false
sentimentality and pompous pretension.
Few, Shirley conceived, men or wom=
en
have the right taste in poetry: the right sense for discriminating between =
what
is real and what is false. She had again and again heard very clever people
pronounce this or that passage, in this or that versifier, altogether
admirable, which, when she read, her soul refused to acknowledge as anything
but cant, flourish, and tinsel, or at the best, elaborate wordiness; curiou=
s,
clever, learned perhaps; haply even tinged with the fascinating hues of fan=
cy,
but, God knows, as different from real poetry as the gorgeous and massy vas=
e of
mosaic is from the little cup of pure metal; or, to give the reader a choic=
e of
similes, as the milliner's artificial wreath is from the fresh-gathered lil=
y of
the field.
Caroline, she found, felt the valu=
e of
the true ore, and knew the deception of the flashy dross. The minds of the =
two
girls being toned in harmony, often chimed very sweetly together.
One evening, they chanced to be al=
one
in the oak-parlour. They had passed a long wet day together without ennui; =
it
was now on the edge of dark; candles were not yet brought in; both, as twil=
ight
deepened, grew meditative and silent. A western wind roared high round the
hall, driving wild clouds and stormy rain up from the far-remote ocean: all=
was
tempest outside the antique lattices, all deep peace within. Shirley sat at=
the
window, watching the rack in heaven, the mist on earth, listening to certain
notes of the gale that plained like restless spirits - notes which, had she=
not
been so young, gay, and healthy, would have swept her trembling nerves like
some omen, some anticipatory dirge: in this her prime of existence and bloo=
m of
beauty, they but subdued vivacity to pensiveness. Snatches of sweet ballads
haunted her ear; now and then she sang a stanza: her accents obeyed the fit=
ful
impulse of the wind; they swelled as its gusts rushed on, and died as they
wandered away. Caroline, withdrawn to the farthest and darkest end of the r=
oom,
her figure just discernible by the ruby shine of the flameless fire, was pa=
cing
to and fro, murmuring to herself fragments of well-remembered poetry. She s=
poke
very low, but Shirley heard her; and while singing softly, she listened. Th=
is
was the strain:
Obscurest night involved the sky, =
The
Atlantic billows roar'd, When such a destined wretch as I, Washed headlong =
from
on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home for ever le=
ft.
Here the fragment stopped; because
Shirley's song, erewhile somewhat full and thrilling, had become delicately
faint.
'Go on,' said she.
'Then you go on, too. I was only
repeating The Castaway.'
'I know: if you can remember it al=
l,
say it all.'
And as it was nearly dark, and, af=
ter
all, Miss Keeldar was no formidable auditor, Caroline went through it. She =
went
through it as she should have gone through it. The wild sea, the drowning
mariner, the reluctant ship swept on in the storm, you heard were realised =
by
her; and more vividly was realised the heart of the poet, who did not weep =
for
The Castaway, but who, in an hour of tearless anguish, traced a semblance to
his own God-abandoned misery in the fate of that man-forsaken sailor, and c=
ried
from the depths where he struggled:
No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone,
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd - each alone!
But I - beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
'I hope William Cowper is safe and
calm in heaven now,' said Caroline.
'Do you pity what he suffered on
earth?' asked Miss Keeldar.
'Pity him, Shirley? What can I do
else? He was nearly broken-hearted when he wrote that poem, and it almost
breaks one's heart to read it. But he found relief in writing it - I know he
did; and that gift of poetry - the most divine bestowed on man - was, I
believe, granted to allay emotions when their strength threatens harm. It s=
eems
to me, Shirley, that nobody should write poetry to exhibit intellect or
attainment. Who cares for that sort of poetry? Who cares for learning - who
cares for fine words in poetry? And who does not care for feeling - real
feeling - however simply, even rudely expressed?'
'It seems you care for it, at all events: and certainly, in hearing that poem, one discovers that Cowper was under an impulse strong as that of the wind which drove the ship - an impul= se which, while it would not suffer him to stop to add ornament to a single stanza, filled him with force to achieve the whole with consummate perfecti= on. You managed to recite it with a steady voice, Caroline: I wonder thereat.'<= o:p>
'Cowper's hand did not tremble in
writing the lines; why should my voice falter in repeating them? Depend on =
it,
Shirley, no tear blistered the manuscript of The Castaway, I hear in it no =
sob
of sorrow, only the cry of despair; but, that cry uttered, I believe the de=
adly
spasm passed from his heart; that he wept abundantly, and was comforted.'
Shirley resumed her ballad minstre=
lsy.
Stopping short, she remarked ere long - 'One could have loved Cowper, if it
were only for the sake of having the privilege of comforting him.'
'You never would have loved Cowper=
,'
rejoined Caroline promptly: 'he was not made to be loved by woman.'
'What do you mean?'
'What I say. I know there is a kin=
d of
natures in the world - and very noble, elevated natures, too - whom love ne=
ver
comes near. You might have sought Cowper with the intention of loving him; =
and
you would have looked at him, pitied him, and left him: forced away by a se=
nse
of the impossible, the incongruous, as the crew were borne from their drown=
ing
comrade by ‘the furious blast.’'
'You may be right. Who told you th=
is?'
'And what I say of Cowper, I should
say of Rousseau. Was Rousseau ever loved? He loved passionately; but was his
passion ever returned? I am certain, never. And if there were any female
Cowpers and Rousseaus, I should assert the same of them.'
'Who told you this, I ask? Did Moo=
re?'
'Why should anybody have told me? =
Have
I not an instinct? Can I not divine by analogy? Moore never talked to me ei=
ther
about Cowper, or Rousseau, or love. The voice we hear in solitude told me a=
ll I
know on these subjects.'
'Do you like characters of the
Rousseau order, Caroline?'
'Not at all, as a whole. I sympath=
ise
intensely with certain qualities they possess: certain divine sparks in the=
ir
nature dazzle my eyes, and make my soul glow. Then, again, I scorn them. Th=
ey
are made of clay and gold. The refuse and the ore make a mass of weakness:
taken altogether, I feel them unnatural, unhealthy, repulsive.'
'I dare say I should be more toler=
ant
of a Rousseau than you would, Cary: submissive and contemplative yourself, =
you
like the stern and the practical. By the way, you must miss that Cousin Rob=
ert
of yours very much, now that you and he never meet.'
'I do.'
'And he must miss you?'
'That he does not.'
'I cannot imagine,' pursued Shirle=
y,
who had lately got a habit of introducing Moore's name into the conversatio=
n,
even when it seemed to have no business there, - 'I cannot imagine but that=
he
was fond of you, since he took so much notice of you, talked to you, and ta=
ught
you so much.'
'He never was fond of me: he never
professed to be fond of me. He took pains to prove that he only just tolera=
ted
me.'
Caroline, determined not to err on=
the
flattering side in estimating her cousin's regard for her, always now
habitually thought of it and mentioned it in the most scanty measure. She h=
ad
her own reasons for being less sanguine than ever in hopeful views of the
future: less indulgent to pleasurable retrospections of the past.
'Of course, then,' observed Miss
Keeldar, 'you only just tolerated him, in return?'
'Shirley, men and women are so
different: they are in such a different position. Women have so few things =
to
think about - men so many: you may have a friendship for a man, while he is
almost indifferent to you. Much of what cheers your life may be dependent on
him, while not a feeling or interest of moment in his eyes may have referen=
ce
to you. Robert used to be in the habit of going to London, sometimes for a =
week
or a fortnight together; well, while he was away, I found his absence a voi=
d:
there was something wanting; Briarfield was duller. Of course, I had my usu=
al
occupations; still I missed him. As I sat by myself in the evenings, I used=
to
feel a strange certainty of conviction I cannot describe: that if a magicia=
n or
a genius had, at that moment, offered me Prince Ali's tube (you remember it=
in
the Arabian Nights?), and if, with its aid, I had been enabled to take a vi=
ew
of Robert - to see where he was, how occupied - I should have learned, in a
startling manner, the width of the chasm which gaped between such as he and
such as I. I knew that, however my thoughts might adhere to him, his were
effectually sundered from me.'
'Caroline,' demanded Miss Keeldar
abruptly, 'don't you wish you had a profession - a trade?'
'I wish it fifty times a day. As it
is, I often wonder what I came into the world for. I long to have something
absorbing and compulsory to fill my head and hands, and to occupy my though=
ts.'
'Can labour alone make a human bei=
ng
happy?'
'No; but it can give varieties of
pain, and prevent us from breaking our hearts with a single tyrant
master-torture. Besides, successful labour has its recompense; a vacant, we=
ary,
lonely, hopeless life has none.'
'But hard labour and learned
professions, they say, make women masculine, coarse, unwomanly.'
'And what does it signify, whether
unmarried and never-to-be-married women are unattractive and inelegant, or =
not?
- provided only they are decent, decorous, and neat, it is enough. The utmo=
st
which ought to be required of old maids, in the way of appearance, is that =
they
should not absolutely offend men's eyes as they pass them in the street; for
the rest, they should be allowed, without too much scorn, to be as absorbed,
grave, plain-looking, and plain- dressed as they please.'
'You might be an old maid yourself,
Caroline, you speak so earnestly.'
'I shall be one: it is my destiny.=
I
will never marry a Malone or a Sykes - and no one else will ever marry me.'=
Here fell a long pause. Shirley br=
oke
it. Again the name by which she seemed bewitched was almost the first on her
lips.
'Lina - did not Moore call you Lina
sometimes?'
'Yes: it is sometimes used as the
abbreviation of Caroline in his native country.'
'Well, Lina, do you remember my one
day noticing an inequality in your hair - a curl wanting on that right side=
-
and your telling me that it was Robert's fault, as he had once cut therefro=
m a
long lock?'
'Yes.'
'If he is, and always was, as
indifferent to you as you say, why did he steal your hair?'
'I don't know - yes, I do: it was =
my
doing, not his. Everything of that sort always was my doing. He was going f=
rom
home, to London, as usual; and the night before he went, I had found in his
sister's workbox a lock of black hair - a short, round curl: Hortense told =
me
it was her brother's and a keepsake. He was sitting near the table; I looke=
d at
his head - he has plenty of hair; on the temples were many such round curls=
. I
thought he could spare me one: I knew I should like to have it, and I asked=
for
it. He said, on condition that he might have his choice of a tress from my
head; so he got one of my long locks of hair, and I got one of his short on=
es.
I keep his, but, I dare say, he has lost mine. It was my doing, and one of
those silly deeds it distresses the heart and sets the face on fire to think
of: one of those small but sharp recollections that return, lacerating your
self-respect like tiny penknives, and forcing from your lips, as you sit al=
one,
sudden, insane-sounding interjections.'
'Caroline!'
'I do think myself a fool, Shirley=
, in
some respects: I do despise myself. But I said I would not make you my
confessor; for you cannot reciprocate foible for foible: you are not weak. =
How
steadily you watch me now! Turn aside your clear, strong, she-eagle eye: it=
is
an insult to fix it on me thus.'
'What a study of character you are!
Weak, certainly; but not in the sense you think. - Come in!'
This was said in answer to a tap at
the door. Miss Keeldar happened to be near it at the moment, Caroline at the
other end of the room; she saw a note put into Shirley's hands, and heard t=
he
words - 'From Mr Moore, ma'am.'
'Bring candles,' said Miss Keeldar=
.
Caroline sat expectant.
'A communication on business,' said
the heiress; but when candles were brought, she neither opened nor read it.=
The
Rector's Fanny was presently announced, and the Rector's niece went home.
In Shirley's nature prevailed at t=
imes
an easy indolence: there were periods when she took delight in perfect vaca=
ncy
of hand and eye - moments when her thoughts, her simple existence, the fact=
of
the world being around - and heaven above her, seemed to yield her such ful=
ness
of happiness, that she did not need to lift a finger to increase the joy.
Often, after an active morning, she would spend a sunny afternoon in lying
stirless on the turf, at the foot of some tree of friendly umbrage: no soci=
ety
did she need but that of Caroline, and it sufficed if she were within call;=
no
spectacle did she ask but that of the deep blue sky, and such cloudlets as
sailed afar and aloft across its span; no sound but that of the bee's hum, =
the
leaf's whisper. Her sole book in such hours was the dim chronicle of memory=
, or
the sibyl page of anticipation: from her young eyes fell on each volume a
glorious light to read by; round her lips at moments played a smile which
revealed glimpses of the tale or prophecy: it was not sad, not dark. Fate h=
ad
been benign to the blissful dreamer, and promised to favour her yet again. =
In
her past were sweet passages; in her future rosy hopes.
Yet one day when Caroline drew nea=
r to
rouse her, thinking she had lain long enough, behold, as she looked down,
Shirley's cheek was wet as if with dew: those fine eyes of hers shone humid=
and
brimming.
'Shirley, why do you cry?' asked
Caroline, involuntarily laying stress on you.
Miss Keeldar smiled, and turned her
picturesque head towards the questioner. 'Because it pleases me mightily to
cry,' she said; 'my heart is both sad and glad: but why, you good, patient
child - why do you not bear me company? I only weep tears, delightful and s=
oon
wiped away: you might weep gall, if you choose.'
'Why should I weep gall?'
'Mateless, solitary bird!' was the
only answer.
'And are not you, too, mateless,
Shirley?'
'At heart - no.'
'Oh! who nestles there, Shirley?'<= o:p>
But Shirley only laughed gaily at =
this
question, and alertly started up.
I have dreamed,' she said: 'a mere
day-dream; certainly bright, probably baseless!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
.
Miss Helstone was by this time free
enough from illusions: she took a sufficiently grave view of the future, and
fancied she knew pretty well how her own destiny and that of some others we=
re
tending. Yet old associations retained their influence over her, and it was
these, and the power of habit, which still frequently drew her of an evenin=
g to
the field-stile and the old thorn overlooking the Hollow.
One night, the night after the
incident of the note, she had been at her usual post, watching for her beac=
on -
watching vainly; that evening no lamp was lit. She waited till the rising of
certain constellations warned her of lateness, and signed her away. In pass=
ing
Fieldhead, on her return, its moonlight beauty attracted her glance, and st=
ayed
her step an instant. Tree and hall rose peaceful under the night sky and cl=
ear
full orb; pearly paleness gilded the building; mellow brown gloom bosomed it
round; shadows of deep green brooded above its oak-wreathed roof. The broad
pavement in front shone pale also; it gleamed as if some spell had transfor=
med
the dark granite to glistering Parian: on the silvery space slept two sable
shadows, thrown sharply defined from two human figures. These figures when
first seen were motionless and mute; presently they moved in harmonious ste=
p,
and spoke low in harmonious key. Earnest was the gaze that scrutinised them=
as
they emerged from behind the trunk of the cedar. ' Is it Mrs Pryor and Shir=
ley?
Certainly it is Shirley. Who else =
has
a shape so lithe, and proud, and graceful? And her face, too, is visible: h=
er
countenance careless and pensive, and musing and mirthful, and mocking and
tender. Not fearing the dew, she has not covered her head; her curls are fr=
ee:
they veil her neck and caress her shoulder with their tendril rings. An
ornament of gold gleams through the half- closed folds of the scarf she has
wrapped across her bust, and a large bright gem glitters on the white hand
which confines it. Yes, that is Shirley.
Her companion then is, of course, =
Mrs
Pryor?
Yes, if Mrs Pryor owns six feet of
stature, and if she has changed her decent widow's weeds for masculine
disguise. The figure walking at Miss Keeldar's side is a man - a tall, youn=
g,
stately man - it is her tenant, Robert Moore.
The pair speak softly, their words=
are
not distinguishable: to remain a moment to gaze is not to be an eavesdroppe=
r;
and as the moon shines so clearly and their countenances are so distinctly
apparent, who can resist the attraction of such interest; Caroline it seems
cannot, for she lingers.
There was a time when, on summer
nights, Moore had been wont to walk with his cousin, as he was now walking =
with
the heiress. Often had she gone up the Hollow with him after sunset, to sce=
nt
the freshness of the earth, where a growth of fragrant herbage carpeted a
certain narrow terrace, edging a deep ravine, from whose rifted gloom was h=
eard
a sound like the spirit of the lonely watercourse, moaning amongst its wet
stones, and between its weedy banks, and under its dark bower of alders.
'But I used to be closer to him,'
thought Caroline: 'he felt no obligation to treat me with homage; I needed =
only
kindness. He used to hold my hand: he does not touch hers. And yet Shirley =
is
not proud where she loves. There is no haughtiness in her aspect now, only a
little in her port; what is natural to and inseparable from her; what she
retains in her most careless as in her most guarded moments. Robert must th=
ink
as I think, that he is at this instant looking down on a fine face; and he =
must
think it with a man's brain, not with mine. She has such generous, yet soft
fire in her eyes. She smiles - what makes her smile so sweet? I saw that Ro=
bert
felt its beauty, and he must have felt it with his man's heart, not with my=
dim
woman's perceptions. They look to me like two great happy spirits; yonder
silver pavement reminds me of that white shore we believe to be beyond the
death-flood: they have reached it, they walk there united. And what am I -
standing here in shadow, shrinking into concealment, my mind darker than my
hiding-place? I am one of this world, no spirit - a poor, doomed mortal, who
asks, in ignorance and hopelessness, wherefore she was born, to what end she
lives; whose mind for ever runs on the question, how she shall at last enco=
unter,
and by whom be sustained through death?'
'This is the worst passage I have =
come
to yet: still I was quite prepared for it. I gave Robert up, and gave him u=
p to
Shirley, the first day I heard she was come: the first moment I saw her - r=
ich,
youthful, and lovely. She has him now: he is her lover; she is his darling:=
she
will be far more his darling yet when they are married: the more Robert kno=
ws
of Shirley, the more his soul will cleave to her. They will both be happy, =
and
I do not grudge them their bliss; but I groan under my own misery: some of =
my
suffering is very acute. Truly, I ought not to have been born: they should =
have
smothered me at the first cry.'
Here, Shirley stepping aside to ga=
ther
a dewy flower, she and her companion turned into a path that lay nearer the
gate: some of their conversation became audible. Caroline would not stay to
listen: she passed away noiselessly, and the moonlight kissed the wall which
her shadow had dimmed. The reader is privileged to remain, and try what he =
can
make of the discourse.
'I cannot conceive why Nature did =
not
give you a bulldog's head, for you have all a bulldog's tenacity,' said
Shirley.
'Not a flattering idea: am I so
ignoble?'
'And something also you have of the
same animal's silent ways of going about its work: you give no warning; you
come noiselessly behind, seize fast, and hold on.'
'This is guess-work; you have
witnessed no such feat on my part: in your presence I have been no bulldog.=
'
'Your very silence indicates your
race. How little you talk in general, yet how deeply you scheme! You are
far-seeing; you are calculating.'
'I know the ways of these people. I
have gathered information of their intentions. My note last night informed =
you
that Barraclough's trial had ended in his conviction and sentence to
transportation: his associates will plot vengeance. I shall lay my plans so=
as
to counteract, or, at least, be prepared for theirs; that is all. Having now
given you as clear an explanation as I can, am I to understand that for wha=
t I
propose doing I have your approbation?'
'I shall stand by you so long as y=
ou
remain on the defensive. Yes.'
'Good! Without any aid - even oppo=
sed
or disapproved by you - I believe I should have acted precisely as I now in=
tend
to act; but in another spirit. I now feel satisfied. On the whole, I relish=
the
position.'
'I dare say you do; that is eviden=
t:
you relish the work which lies before you still better than you would relish
the execution of a government order for army-cloth.'
'I certainly feel it congenial.'
'So would old Helstone. It is true
there is a shade of difference in your motives: many shades, perhaps. Shall=
I
speak to Mr Helstone? I will, if you like.'
'Act as you please: your judgment,
Miss Keeldar, will guide you accurately. I could rely on it myself, in a mo=
re
difficult crisis; but I should inform you, Mr Helstone is somewhat prejudic=
ed
against me at present.'
'I am aware, I have heard all about
your differences: depend upon it they will melt away: he cannot resist the
temptation of an alliance under present circumstances.'
'I should be glad to have him: he =
is
of true metal.'
'I think so also.'
'An old blade, and rusted somewhat;
but the edge and temper still excellent.'
'Well, you shall have him, Mr Moor=
e;
that is, if I can win him.'
'Whom can you not win?'
'Perhaps not the Rector; but I will
make the effort.'
'Effort! He will yield for a word =
- a
smile.'
'By no means. It will cost me seve=
ral
cups of tea, some toast and cake, and an ample measure of remonstrances,
expostulations, and persuasions. It grows rather chill.'
'I perceive you shiver. Am I acting
wrongly to detain you here? Yet it is so calm: I even feel it warm; and soc=
iety
such as yours is a pleasure to me so rare. - If you were wrapped in a thick=
er
shawl - - '
'I might stay longer, and forget h=
ow late
it is, which would chagrin Mrs Pryor. We keep early and regular hours at
Fieldhead, Mr Moore; and so, I am sure, does your sister at the cottage.'
'Yes; but Hortense and I have an
understanding the most convenient in the world, that we shall each do as we
please.'
'How do you please to do?'
'Three nights in the week I sleep =
in
the mill: but I require little rest; and when it is moonlight and mild, I o=
ften
haunt the Hollow till daybreak.'
'When I was a very little girl, Mr
Moore, my nurse used to tell me tales of fairies being seen in that Hollow.
That was before my father built the mill, when it was a perfectly solitary
ravine: you will be falling under enchantment.'
'I fear it is done,' said Moore, i=
n a
low voice.
'But there are worse things than
fairies to be guarded against,' pursued Miss Keeldar.
'Things more perilous,' he subjoin=
ed.
'Far more so. For instance, how wo=
uld
you like to meet Michael Hartley, that mad Calvinist and Jacobin weaver? Th=
ey
say he is addicted to poaching, and often goes abroad at night with his gun=
.'
'I have already had the luck to me=
et
him. We held a long argument together one night. A strange little incident =
it
was: I liked it.'
'Liked it? I admire your taste!
Michael is not sane. Where did you meet him?'
'In the deepest, shadiest spot in =
the
glen, where the water runs low, under brushwood. We sat down near that plank
bridge. It was moonlight, but clouded, and very windy. We had a talk.'
'On politics?'
'And religion. I think the moon wa=
s at
the full, and Michael was as near crazed as possible: he uttered strange
blasphemy in his Antinomian fashion.'
'Excuse me, but I think you must h=
ave
been nearly as mad as he, to sit listening to him.'
'There is a wild interest in his
ravings. The man would be half a poet, if he were not wholly a maniac; and
perhaps a prophet, if he were not a profligate. He solemnly informed me that
hell was foreordained my inevitable portion; that he read the mark of the b=
east
on my brow; that I had been an outcast from the beginning. God's vengeance,=
he
said, was preparing for me, and affirmed that in a vision of the night he h=
ad
beheld the manner and the instrument of my doom. I wanted to know further, =
but
he left me with these words, 'The end is not yet.'
'Have you ever seen him since?'
'About a month afterwards, in returning from market, I encountered him and Moses Barraclough both in an advanced stage of inebriation: they were praying in frantic sort at the roadside. They accosted me as Satan, bid me avaunt, and clamoured to be delivered from temptation. Again, but a few days ago, Michael took the trou= ble of appearing at the counting-house door, hatless, in his shirt- sleeves, - = his coat and castor having been detained at the public-house in pledge; he delivered himself of the comfortable message that he could wish Mr Moore to= set his house in order, as his soul was likely shortly to be required of him.'<= o:p>
'Do you make light of these things=
?'
'The poor man had been drinking for
weeks, and was in a state bordering on delirium tremens.'
'What then? He is the more likely =
to
attempt the fulfilment of his own prophecies.'
'It would not do to permit inciden=
ts
of this sort to affect one's nerves.'
'Mr Moore, go home!'
'So soon?'
'Pass straight down the fields, not
round by the lane and plantations.'
'It is early yet.'
'It is late: for my part I am going
in. Will you promise me not to wander in the Hollow to-night?'
'If you wish it.'
'I do wish it. May I ask whether y=
ou
consider life valueless?'
'By no means: on the contrary, of =
late
I regard my life as invaluable.'
'Of late?'
'Existence is neither aimless nor
hopeless to me now; and it was both three months ago. I was then drowning, =
and
rather wished the operation over. All at once a hand was stretched to me, -
such a delicate hand, I scarcely dared trust it: - its strength, however, h=
as
rescued me from ruin.'
'Are you really rescued?'
'For the time your assistance has
given me another chance.'
'Live to make the best of it. Don't
offer yourself as a target to Michael Hartley, and good-night!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
.
Miss Helstone was under a promise =
to
spend the evening of the next day at Fieldhead: she kept her promise. Some
gloomy hours had she spent in the interval. Most of the time had been passed
shut up in her own apartment; only issuing from it, indeed, to join her unc=
le
at meals, and anticipating inquires from Fanny by telling her that she was =
busy
altering a dress, and preferred sewing upstairs, to avoid interruption.
She did sew: she plied her needle
continuously, ceaselessly; but her brain worked faster than her fingers. Ag=
ain,
and more intensely than ever, she desired a fixed occupation, - no matter h=
ow
onerous, how irksome. Her uncle must be once more entreated, but first she
would consult Mrs Pryor. Her head laboured to frame projects as diligently =
as
her hands to plait and stitch the thin texture of the muslin summer dress
spread on the little white couch at the foot of which she sat. Now and then,
while thus doubly occupied, a tear would fill her eyes and fall on her busy
hands; but this sign of emotion was rare and quickly effaced: the sharp pang
passed, the dimness cleared from her vision; she would re-thread her needle,
rearrange tuck and trimming, and work on.
Late in the afternoon she dressed
herself: she reached Fieldhead, and appeared in the oak parlour just as tea=
was
brought in. Shirley asked her why she came so late.
'Because I have been making my dre=
ss,'
said she. 'These fine sunny days began to make me ashamed of my winter meri=
no;
so I have furbished up a lighter garment.'
'In which you look as I like to see
you,' said Shirley. 'You are a lady-like little person, Caroline: is she no=
t, Mrs
Pryor?'
Mrs Pryor never paid compliments, =
and
seldom indulged in remarks, favourable or otherwise, on personal appearance=
. On
the present occasion she only swept Caroline's curls from her cheek as she =
took
a seat near her, caressed the oval outline, and observed - 'You get somewhat
thin, my love, and somewhat pale. Do you sleep well? Your eyes have a langu=
id
look'; and she gazed at her anxiously.
'I sometimes dream melancholy drea=
ms,'
answered Caroline; 'and if I lie awake for an hour or two in the night, I am
continually thinking of the Rectory as a dreary old place. You know it is v=
ery
near the churchyard: the back part of the house is extremely ancient, and i=
t is
said that the out-kitchens there were once enclosed in the churchyard, and =
that
there are graves under them. I rather long to leave the Rectory.'
'My dear! You are surely not
superstitious?'
'No, Mrs Pryor; but I think I grow
what is called nervous. I see things under a darker aspect than I used to d=
o. I
have fears I never used to have - not of ghosts, but of omens and disastrous
events; and I have an inexpressible weight on my mind which I would give the
world to shake off, and I cannot do it.'
'Strange!' cried Shirley. 'I never
feel so.' Mrs Pryor said nothing.
'Fine weather, pleasant days, plea=
sant
scenes are powerless to give me pleasure,' continued Caroline. 'Calm evenin=
gs
are not calm to me: moonlight, which I used to think mild, now only looks
mournful. Is this weakness of mind, Mrs Pryor, or what is it? I cannot help=
it:
I often struggle against it: I reason: but reason and effort make no
difference.'
'You should take more exercise,' s=
aid Mrs
Pryor.
'Exercise! I exercise sufficiently=
: I
exercise till I am ready to drop.'
'My dear, you should go from home.=
'
'Mrs Pryor, I should like to go fr=
om
home, but not on any purposeless excursion or visit. I wish to be a governe=
ss
as you have been. It would oblige me greatly if you would speak to my uncle=
on
the subject.'
'Nonsense!' broke in Shirley. 'Wha=
t an
idea! Be a governess! Better be a slave at once. Where is the necessity of =
it?
Why should you dream of such a painful step?'
'My dear,' said Mrs Pryor, 'you are
very young to be a governess, and not sufficiently robust: the duties a
governess undertakes are often severe.'
'And I believe I want severe dutie=
s to
occupy me.'
'Occupy you!' cried Shirley. 'When=
are
you idle? I never saw a more industrious girl than you you are always at wo=
rk.
Come,' she continued - 'come and sit by my side, and take some tea to refre=
sh
you. You don't care much for my friendship, then, that you wish to leave me=
?'
'Indeed, I do, Shirley; and I don't
wish to leave you. I shall never find another friend so dear.'
At which words Miss Keeldar put her
hand into Caroline's with an impulsively affectionate movement, which was w=
ell
seconded by the expression of her face.
'If you think so, you had better m=
ake
much of me,' she said, 'and not run away from me. I hate to part with those=
to
whom I am become attached. Mrs Pryor there sometimes talks of leaving me, a=
nd
says I might make a more advantageous connection than herself. I should as =
soon
think of exchanging an old-fashioned mother for something modish and stylis=
h.
As for you - why, I began to flatter myself we were thoroughly friends; that
you liked Shirley almost as well as Shirley likes you: and she does not sti=
nt
her regard.'
'I do like Shirley: I like her more
and more every day; but that does not make me strong or happy.'
'And would it make you strong or h=
appy
to go and live as a dependent amongst utter strangers? It would not; and the
experiment must not be tried. I tell you it would fail: it is not in your
nature to bear the desolate life governesses generally lead: you would fall
ill: I won't hear of it.'
And Miss Keeldar paused, having
uttered this prohibition very decidedly. Soon she recommenced, still looking
somewhat courroucée - 'Why, it is my daily pleasure now to look out =
for
the little cottage bonnet and the silk scarf glancing through the trees in =
the
lane, and to know that my quiet, shrewd, thoughtful companion and monitress=
is
coming back to me: that I shall have her sitting in the room to look at, to
talk to, or to let alone, as she and I please. This may be a selfish sort of
language - I know it is; but it is the language which naturally rises to my
lips; therefore I utter it.'
'I would write to you, Shirley.'
'And what are letters? Only a sort=
of
pis-aller. Drink some tea, Caroline: eat something - you eat nothing; laugh=
and
be cheerful, and stay at home.'
Miss Helstone shook her head and
sighed. She felt what difficulty she would have to persuade any one to assi=
st
or sanction her in making that change in her life which she believed desira=
ble.
Might she only follow her own judgment, she thought she should be able to f=
ind,
perhaps a harsh, but an effectual cure for her sufferings. But this judgmen=
t,
founded on circumstances she could fully explain to none, least of all to
Shirley, seemed, in all eyes but her own, incomprehensible and fantastic, a=
nd
was opposed accordingly.
There really was no present pecuni=
ary
need for her to leave a comfortable home and 'take a situation'; and there =
was
every probability that her uncle might in some way permanently provide for =
her.
So her friends thought, and, as far as their lights enabled them to see, th=
ey
reasoned correctly: but of Caroline's strange sufferings, which she desired=
so
eagerly to overcome or escape, they had no idea, - of her racked nights and
dismal days, no suspicion. It was at once impossible and hopeless to explai=
n:
to wait and endure was her only plan. Many that want food and clothing have
cheerier lives and brighter prospects than she had; many, harassed by pover=
ty,
are in a strait less afflictive.
'Now, is your mind quieted?' inqui=
red
Shirley. 'Will you consent to stay at home?'
'I shall not leave it against the
approbation of my friends,' was the reply; 'but I think in time they will be
obliged to think as I do.'
During this conversation Mrs Pryor
looked far from easy. Her extreme habitual reserve would rarely permit her =
to
talk freely, or to interrogate others closely. She could think a multitude =
of
questions she never ventured to put; give advice in her mind which her tong=
ue
never delivered. Had she been alone with Caroline, she might possibly have =
said
something to the point: Miss Keeldar's presence, accustomed as she was to i=
t,
sealed her lips. Now, as on a thousand other occasions, inexplicable nervous
scruples kept her back from interfering. She merely showed her concern for =
Miss
Helstone in an indirect way, by asking her if the fire made her too warm,
placing a screen between her chair and the hearth, closing a window whence =
she
imagined a draught proceeded, and often and restlessly glancing at her. Shi=
rley
resumed - 'Having destroyed your plan,' she said, 'which I hope I have done=
, I
shall construct a new one of my own. Every summer I make an excursion. This
season I propose spending two months either at the Scotch lochs or the Engl=
ish
lakes: that is, I shall go there, provided you consent to accompany me: if =
you
refuse, I shall not stir a foot.'
'You are very good, Shirley.'
'I would be very good if you would=
let
me: I have every disposition to be good. It is my misfortune and habit, I k=
now,
to think of myself paramount to anybody else: but who is not like me in that
respect? However, when Captain Keeldar is made comfortable, accommodated wi=
th
all he wants, including a sensible genial comrade, it gives him a thorough
pleasure to devote his spare efforts to making that comrade happy. And shou=
ld
we not be happy, Caroline, in the Highlands? We will go to the Highlands. We
will, if you can bear a sea- voyage, go to the Isles, - the Hebrides, the
Shetland, the Orkney Islands. Would you not like that? I see you would: Mrs
Pryor, I call you to witness; her face is all sunshine at the bare mention =
of
it.'
'I should like it much,' returned
Caroline; to whom, indeed, the notion of such a tour was not only pleasant,=
but
gloriously reviving. Shirley rubbed her hands.
'Come, I can bestow a benefit,' she
exclaimed. 'I can do a good deed with my cash. My thousand a year is not me=
rely
a matter of dirty bank-notes and jaundiced guineas (let me speak respectful=
ly
of both though, for I adore them); but, it may be, health to the drooping,
strength to the weak, consolation to the sad. I was determined to make
something of it better than a fine old house to live in, than satin gowns to
wear; better than deference from acquaintance, and homage from the poor. He=
re
is to begin. This summer - Caroline, Mrs Pryor, and I go out into the North
Atlantic, beyond the Shetland - perhaps to the Faroe Isles. We will see sea=
ls
in Suderoe, and, doubtless, mermaids in Stromoe. Caroline is laughing, Mrs
Pryor: I made her laugh; I have done her good.'
'I shall like to go, Shirley,' aga=
in
said Miss Helstone. 'I long to hear the sound of waves - ocean-waves, and to
see them as I have imagined them in dreams, like tossing banks of green lig=
ht,
strewed with vanishing and re-appearing wreaths of foam, whiter than lilies=
. I
shall delight to pass the shores of those lone rock-islets where the sea-bi=
rds
live and breed unmolested. We shall be on the track of the old Scandinavian=
s -
of the Norsemen; we shall almost see the shores of Norway. This is a very v=
ague
delight that I feel, communicated by your proposal, but it is a delight.'
'Will you think of Fitful Head now,
when you lie awake at night; of gulls shrieking round it, and waves tumblin=
g in
upon it rather than of the graves under the Rectory hack-kitchen?'
'I will try; and instead of musing
about remnants of shrouds, and fragments of coffins, and human bones and mo=
uld,
I will fancy seals lying in the sunshine on solitary shores, where neither
fisherman nor hunter ever come: of rock- crevices full of pearly eggs bedde=
d in
sea-weed; of unscared birds covering white sands in happy flocks.'
'And what will become of that
inexpressible weight you said you had on your mind?'
'I will try to forget it in
speculation on the sway of the whole Great Deep above a herd of whales rush=
ing
through the livid and liquid thunder down from the frozen zone: a hundred of
them, perhaps, wallowing, flashing, rolling in the wake of a patriarch bull,
huge enough to have been spawned before the Flood: such a creature as poor
Smart had in his mind when he said:
Strong against tides, the enormous
whale Emerges as he goes.'
'I hope our bark will meet with no
such shoal, or herd, as you term it, Caroline. (I suppose you fancy the
sea-mammoths pasturing about the bases of the 'everlasting hills,' devouring
strange provender in the vast valleys through and above which sea-billows
roll.) I should not like to be capsized by the patriarch bull.'
'I suppose you expect to see merma=
ids,
Shirley?'
'One of them at any rate: I do not
bargain for less: and she is to appear in some such fashion as this. I am t=
o be
walking by myself on deck, rather late of an August evening, watching and b=
eing
watched by a full harvest-moon: something is to rise white on the surface of
the sea, over which that moon mounts silent, and hangs glorious: the object
glitters and sinks. It rises again. I think I hear it cry with an articulate
voice: I call you up from the cabin: I show you an image, fair as alabaster,
emerging from the dim wave. We both see the long hair, the lifted and
foam-white arm, the oval mirror brilliant as a star. It glides nearer: a hu=
man
face is plainly visible; a face in the style of yours, whose straight, pure
(excuse the word, it is appropriate), - whose straight, pure lineaments,
paleness does not disfigure. It looks at us, but not with your eyes. I see a
preternatural lure in its wily glance: it beckons. Were we men, we should
spring at the sign, the cold billow would be dared for the sake of the cold=
er
enchantress; being women, we stand safe, though not dreadless. She comprehe=
nds
our unmoved gaze; she feels herself powerless; anger crosses her front; she
cannot charm, but she will appal us: she rises high, and glides all reveale=
d,
on the dark wave-ridge. Tempt-ress-terror! monstrous likeness of ourselves!=
Are
you not glad, Caroline, when at last, and with a wild shriek, she dives?'
'But, Shirley, she is not like us:=
we
are neither temptresses, nor terrors, nor monsters.'
'Some of our kind, it is said, are= all three. There are men who ascribe to 'woman,' in general, such attributes.'<= o:p>
'My dears,' here interrupted Mrs
Pryor, 'does it not strike you that your conversation for the last ten minu=
tes
has been rather fanciful?'
'But there is no harm in our fanci=
es
is there, ma'am?'
'We are aware that mermaids do not
exist: why speak of them as if they did? How can you find interest in speak=
ing
of a nonentity?'
'I don't know,' said Shirley.
'My dear, I think there is an arri=
val.
I heard a step in the lane, while you were talking; and is not that the
garden-gate which creaks?'
Shirley stepped to the window.
'Yes, there is some one,' said she,
turning quietly away; and, as she resumed her seat, a sensitive flush anima=
ted
her face, while a trembling ray at once kindled and softened her eye. She
raised her hand to her chin, cast her gaze down, and seemed to think as she
waited.
The servant announced Mr Moore, and
Shirley turned round when Mr Moore appeared at the door. His figure seemed =
very
tall as he entered, and stood in contrast with the three ladies, none of wh=
om could
boast a stature much beyond the average. He was looking well, better than he
had been known to look for the past twelve months: a sort of renewed youth
glowed in his eye and colour, and an invigorated hope and settled purpose
sustained his bearing: firmness his countenance still indicated, but not
austerity: it looked as cheerful as it was earnest.
'I am just returned from Stilbro',=
' he
said to Miss Keeldar, as he greeted her; 'and I thought I would call to imp=
art
to you the result of my mission.'
'You did right not to keep me in
suspense,' she said; 'and your visit is well-timed. Sit down: we have not
finished tea. Are you English enough to relish tea; or do you faithfully ad=
here
to coffee?'
Moore accepted tea.
'I am learning to be a naturalised
Englishman,' said he; my foreign habits are leaving me one by one.'
And now he paid his respects to Mrs
Pryor, and paid them well, with a grave modesty that became his age, compar=
ed
with hers. Then he looked at Caroline - not, however, for the first time - =
his
glance had fallen upon her before: he bent towards her as she sat, gave her=
his
hand, and asked her how she was. The light from the window did not fall upon
Miss Helstone, her back was turned towards it: a quiet though rather low re=
ply,
a still demeanour, and the friendly protection of early twilight, kept out =
of
view each traitorous symptom. None could affirm that she had trembled or
blushed, that her heart had quaked, or her nerves thrilled: none could prove
emotion: a greeting showing less effusion was never interchanged. Moore took
the empty chair near her, opposite Miss Keeldar. He had placed himself well:
his neighbour, screened by the very closeness of his vicinage from his
scrutiny, and sheltered further by the dusk which deepened each moment, soo=
n regained
not merely seeming, but real mastery of the feelings which had started into
insurrection at the first announcement of his name.
He addressed his conversation to M=
iss
Keeldar.
'I went to the barracks,' he said,
'and had an interview with Colonel Ryde: he approved my plans, and promised=
the
aid I wanted: indeed, he offered a more numerous force than I require -
half-a-dozen will suffice. I don't intend to be swamped by redcoats: they a=
re
needed for appearance rather than anything else: my main reliance is on my =
own
civilians.'
'And on their Captain,' interposed
Shirley.
'What, Captain Keeldar?' inquired
Moore, slightly smiling, and not lifting his eyes: the tone of raillery in
which he said this was very respectful and suppressed.
'No,' returned Shirley, answering =
the
smile; 'Captain Gérard Moore, who trusts much to the prowess of his =
own
right arm, I believe.'
'Furnished with his counting-house ruler,' added Moore. Resuming his usual gravity, he went on: 'I received by this evening's post a note from the Home Secretary in answer to mine: it appears they are uneasy at the state of matters here in the north; they especially condemn the supineness and pusillanimity of the mill-owners; they say, as I have always said, that inaction, under present circumstances, is criminal, and that cowardice is cruelty, since both can only encourage disorder, and lead finally to sanguinary outbreaks. There is the note: I brought it for your perusal; and there is a batch of newspapers, containing further accounts of proceedings in Nottingham, Manchester, and elsewhere.'<= o:p>
He produced letters and journals, =
and
laid them before Miss Keeldar. While she perused them, he took his tea quie=
tly;
but, though his tongue was still, his observant faculties seemed by no means
off duty. Mrs Pryor, sitting in the background, did not come within the ran=
ge
of his glance, but the two younger ladies had the full benefit thereof.
Miss Keeldar, placed directly
opposite, was seen without effort: she was the object his eyes, when lifted,
naturally met first; and, as what remained of daylight - the gilding of the
west - was upon her, her shape rose in relief from the dark panelling behin=
d.
Shirley's clear cheek was tinted yet with the colour which had risen into i=
t a
few minutes since: the dark lashes of her eyes looking down as she read, the
dusk yet delicate line of her eyebrows, the almost sable gloss of her curls,
made her heightened complexion look fine as the bloom of a red wild-flower =
by
contrast. There was natural grace in her attitude, and there was artistic
effect in the ample and shining folds of her silk dress - an attire simply
fashioned, but almost splendid from the shifting brightness of its dye, warp
and woof being of tints deep and changing as the hue on a pheasant's neck. A
glancing bracelet on her arm produced the contrast of gold and ivory: there=
was
something brilliant in the whole picture. It is to be supposed that Moore
thought so, as his eye dwelt long on it, but he seldom permitted his feelin=
gs
or his opinions to exhibit themselves in his face: his temperament boasted a
certain amount of phlegm, and he preferred an undemonstrative, not ungentle,
but serious aspect, to any other.
He could not, by looking straight
before him, see Caroline, as she was close at his side; it was necessary,
therefore, to manoeuvre a little to get her well within the range of his
observation: he leaned back in his chair, and looked down on her. In Miss
Helstone, neither he nor any one else could discover brilliancy. Sitting in=
the
shade, without flowers or ornaments, her attire the modest muslin dress,
colourless but for its narrow stripe of pale azure, her complexion unflushe=
d,
unexcited, the very brownness of her hair and eyes invisible by this faint
light, she was, compared with the heiress, as a graceful pencil-sketch comp=
ared
with a vivid painting. Since Robert had seen her last, a great change had b=
een
wrought in her; whether he perceived it, might not be ascertained: he said
nothing to that effect.
'How is Hortense?' asked Caroline
softly.
'Very well; but she complains of b=
eing
unemployed; she misses you.'
'Tell her that I miss her, and tha=
t I
write and read a portion of French every day.'
'She will ask if you sent your lov=
e:
she is always particular on that point. You know she likes attention.'
'My best love - my very best; and =
say
to her, that whenever she has time to write me a little note, I shall be gl=
ad
to hear from her.'
'What if I forget? I am not the su=
rest
messenger of compliments.'
'No, don't forget, Robert: it is no
compliment - it is in good earnest.'
'And must therefore be delivered
punctually?'
'If you please.'
'Hortense will be ready to shed te=
ars.
She is tender-hearted on the subject of her pupil; yet she reproaches you
sometimes for obeying your uncle's injunctions too literally. Affection, li=
ke
love, will be unjust now and then.'
And Caroline made no answer to this
observation; for indeed her heart was troubled, and to her eyes she would h=
ave
raised her handkerchief, if she had dared. If she had dared, too, she would
have declared how the very flowers in the garden of Hollow's Cottage were d=
ear
to her; how the little parlour of that house was her earthly paradise; how =
she
longed to return to it, as much almost as the First Woman, in her exile, mu=
st
have longed to revisit Eden. Not daring, however, to say these things, she =
held
her peace: she sat quiet at Robert's side, waiting for him to say something
more. It was long since this proximity had been hers - long since his voice=
had
addressed her; could she, with any show of probability, even of possibility,
have imagined that the meeting gave him pleasure, to her it would have given
deep bliss. Yet, even in doubt that it pleased - in dread that it might ann=
oy
him - she received the boon of the meeting as an imprisoned bird would the
admission of sunshine to its cage: it is of no use arguing - contending aga=
inst
the sense of present happiness: to be near Robert was to be revived.
Miss Keeldar laid down the papers.=
'And are you glad or sad for all t=
hese
menacing tidings?' she inquired of her tenant.
'Not precisely either; but I certa=
inly
am instructed. I see that our only plan is to be firm. I see that efficient
preparation and a resolute attitude are the best means of averting bloodshe=
d.'
He then inquired if she had observ=
ed
some particular paragraph, to which she replied in the negative, and he ros=
e to
show it to her: he continued the conversation standing before her. From the
tenor of what he said, it appeared evident that they both apprehended
disturbances in the neighbourhood of Briarfield, though in what form they
expected them to break out was not specified. Neither Caroline nor Mrs Pryor
asked questions: the subject did not appear to be regarded as one ripe for =
free
discussion; therefore the lady and her tenant were suffered to keep details=
to
themselves, unimportuned by the curiosity of their listeners.
Miss Keeldar, in speaking to Mr Mo=
ore,
took a tone at once animated and dignified, confidential and self-respectin=
g.
When, however, the candles were brought in, and the fire was stirred up, and
the fulness of light thus produced rendered the expression of her countenan=
ce
legible, you could see that she was all interest, life, and earnestness: th=
ere
was nothing coquettish in her demeanour: whatever she felt for Moore, she f=
elt
it seriously. And serious, too, were his feelings, and settled were his vie=
ws,
apparently; for he made no petty effort to attract, dazzle, or impress. He
contrived, notwithstanding, to command a little; because the deeper voice,
however mildly modulated, the somewhat harder mind, now and then, though
involuntarily and unintentionally, bore down by some peremptory phrase or t=
one
the mellow accents and susceptible, if high, nature of Shirley. Miss Keeldar
looked happy in conversing with him, and her joy seemed twofold, - a joy of=
the
past and present, of memory and of hope.
What I have just said are Caroline=
's
ideas of the pair: she felt what has just been described. In thus feeling, =
she
tried not to suffer; but suffered sharply, nevertheless. She suffered, inde=
ed,
miserably: a few minutes before, her famished heart had tasted a drop and c=
rumb
of nourishment, that, if freely given, would have brought back abundance of
life where life was failing; but the generous feast was snatched from her,
spread before another, and she remained but a bystander at the banquet.
The clock struck nine: it was
Caroline's time for going home: she gathered up her work, put the embroider=
y,
the scissors, the thimble into her bag: she bade Mrs Pryor a quiet goodnigh=
t,
receiving from that lady a warmer pressure of the hand than usual: she step=
ped
up to Miss Keeldar.
'Good-night, Shirley!'
Shirley started up. 'What! - so so=
on?
Are you going already?'
'It is past nine.'
'I never heard the clock. You will
come again to-morrow, and you will be happy to-night, will you not? Remember
our plans.'
'Yes,' said Caroline: 'I have not
forgotten.'
Her mind misgave her that neither
those plans nor any other could permanently restore her mental tranquillity.
She turned to Robert, who stood close behind her: as he looked up, the ligh=
t of
the candles on the mantelpiece fell full on her face: all its paleness, all=
its
change, all its forlorn meaning were clearly revealed. Robert had good eyes,
and might have seen it, if he would: whether he did see it, nothing indicat=
ed.
'Good-night!' she said, shaking li=
ke a
leaf, offering her thin hand hastily, anxious to part from him quickly.
'You are going home?' he asked, not
touching her hand.
'Yes.'
'Is Fanny come for you?'
'Yes.'
'I may as well accompany you a ste=
p of
the way: not up to the Rectory, though, lest my old friend, Helstone, should
shoot me from the window.'
He laughed and took his hat. Carol=
ine
spoke of unnecessary trouble: he told her to put on her bonnet and shawl. S=
he
was quickly ready, and they were soon both in the open air. Moore drew her =
hand
under his arm, just in his old manner, - that manner which she ever felt to=
be
so kind.
'You may run on, Fanny,' he said to
the house-maid: 'we shall overtake you': and when the girl had got a little=
in
advance, he enclosed Caroline's hand in his, and said he was glad to find s=
he
was a familiar guest at Fieldhead: he hoped her intimacy with Miss Keeldar
would continue; such society would be both pleasant and improving.
Caroline replied that she liked
Shirley.
'And there is no doubt the liking =
is
mutual,' said Moore: 'if she professes friendship, be certain she is sincer=
e:
she cannot feign; she scorns hypocrisy. And, Caroline, are we never to see =
you
at Hollow's Cottage again?'
'I suppose not, unless my uncle sh=
ould
change his mind.'
'Are you much alone now?'
'Yes; a good deal. I have little
pleasure in any society but Miss Keeldar's.'
'Have you been quite well lately?'=
'Quite.'
'You must take care of yourself. Be
sure not to neglect exercise. Do you know I fancied you somewhat altered; -=
a
little fallen away, and pale. Is your uncle kind to you?'
'Yes; he is just as he always is.'=
'Not too tender, that is to say; n=
ot
too protective and attentive. And what ails you, then? - tell me, Lina.'
'Nothing, Robert'; but her voice
faltered.
'That is to say, nothing that you =
will
tell me: I am not to be taken into confidence. Separation is then quite to
estrange us, is it?'
'I do not know: sometimes I almost
fear it is.'
'But it ought not to have that eff=
ect.
'Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o' lang syne?''
'Robert, I don't forget.'
'It is two months, I should think,
Caroline, since you were at the cottage.'
'Since I was within it - yes.'
'Have you ever passed that way in =
your
walk?'
'I have come to the top of the fie=
lds
sometimes of an evening, and looked down. Once I saw Hortense in the garden
watering her flowers, and I know at what time you light your lamp in the
counting-house: I have waited for it to shine out now and then; and I have =
seen
you bend between it and the window: I knew it was you - I could almost trace
the outline of your form.'
'I wonder I never encountered you:=
I
occasionally walk to the top of the Hollow's fields after sunset.'
'I know you do: I had almost spoke=
n to
you one night, you passed so near me.'
'Did I? I passed near you, and did=
not
see you Was I alone?'
'I saw you twice, and neither time
were you alone.'
'Who was my companion? Probably
nothing but Joe Scott, or my own shadow by moonlight.'
'No; neither Joe Scott nor your
shadow, Robert. The first time you were with Mr Yorke; and the second time =
what
you call your shadow was a shape with a white forehead and dark curls, and a
sparkling necklace round its neck; but I only just got a glimpse of you and
that fairy shadow: I did not wait to hear you converse.'
'It appears you walk invisible. I
noticed a ring on your hand this evening; can it be the ring of Gyges?
Henceforth, when sitting in the counting-house by myself, perhaps at dead of
night, I shall permit myself to imagine that Caroline may be leaning over my
shoulder reading with me from the same book, or sitting at my side engaged =
in
her own particular task, and now and then raising her unseen eyes to my fac=
e to
read there my thoughts.'
'You need fear no such infliction:=
I
do not come near you: I only stand afar off, watching what may become of yo=
u.'
'When I walk out along the hedgero=
ws
in the evening after the mill is shut - or at night, when I take the watchm=
an's
place - I shall fancy the flutter of every little bird over its nest, the
rustle of every leaf, a movement made by you; tree-shadows will take your
shape: in the white sprays of hawthorn, I shall imagine glimpses of you. Li=
na,
you will haunt me.'
'I will never be where you would n=
ot
wish me to he, nor see nor hear what you would wish unseen and unheard.'
'I shall see you in my very mill in
broad daylight: indeed, I have seen you there once. But a week ago, I was
standing at the top of one of my long rooms, girls were working at the other
end, and amongst half-a-dozen of them, moving to and fro, I seemed to see a
figure resembling yours. It was some effect of doubtful light or shade, or =
of
dazzling sunbeam. I walked up to this group; what I sought had glided away:=
I
found myself between two buxom lasses in pinafores.'
'I shall not follow you into your
mill, Robert, unless you call me there.'
'Nor is that the only occasion on
which imagination has played me a trick. One night, when I came home late f=
rom
market, I walked into the cottage parlour thinking to find Hortense; but
instead of her, I thought I found you. There was no candle in the room: my
sister had taken the light upstairs with her; the window-blind was not draw=
n,
and broad moonbeams poured through the panes: there you were, Lina, at the
casement, shrinking a little to one side in an attitude not unusual with yo=
u.
You were dressed in white, as I have seen you dressed at an evening party. =
For
half a second, your fresh, living face seemed turned towards me, looking at=
me;
for half a second, my idea was to go and take your our hand, to chide you f=
or
your long absence, and welcome your present visit. Two steps forward broke =
the
spell: the drapery of the dress changed outline; the tints of the complexion
dissolved, and were formless: positively, as I reached the spot, there was
nothing left but the sweep of a white muslin curtain, and a balsam plant in=
a
flower-pot, covered with a flush of bloom - 'sic transit,' et cetera.'
'It was not my wraith, then? I alm=
ost
thought it was.'
'No; only gauze, crockery, and pink
blossom: a sample of earthly illusions.'
'I wonder you have time for such
illusions, occupied as your mind must be.'
'So do I. But I find in myself, Li=
na,
two natures; one for the world and business, and one for home and leisure.
Gérard Moore is a hard dog, brought up to mill and market: the person
you call your cousin Robert is sometimes a dreamer, who lives elsewhere tha=
n in
Cloth-hall and counting- house.'
'Your two natures agree with you: I
think you are looking in good spirits and health: you have quite lost the
harassed air which it often pained one to see in your face a few months ago=
.'
'Do you observe that? Certainly, I=
am
disentangled of some difficulties: I have got clear of some shoals, and have
more sea-room.'
'And, with a fair wind, you may now
hope to make a prosperous voyage?'
'I may hope it - yes - but hope is
deceptive: there is no controlling wind or wave: gusts and swells perpetual=
ly
trouble the mariner's course; he dare not dismiss from his mind the expecta=
tion
of tempest.'
'But you are ready for a breeze - =
you
are a good seaman - an able commander: you are a skilful pilot, Robert; you
will weather the storm.'
'My kinswoman always thinks the be=
st
of me, but I will take her words for a propitious omen; I will consider tha=
t in
meeting her to-night, I have met with one of those birds whose appearance i=
s to
the sailor the harbinger of good- luck.'
'A poor harbinger of good-luck is =
she
who can do nothing - who has no power. I feel my incapacity: it is of no use
saying I have the will to serve you, when I cannot prove it; yet I have the
will. I wish you success; I wish you high fortune and true happiness.'
'When did you ever wish me anything
else? What is Fanny waiting for - I told her to walk on? Oh! we have reached
the churchyard: then, we are to part here, I suppose: we might have sat a f=
ew
minutes in the church-porch, if the girl had not been with us. It is so fin=
e a
night, so summer-mild and still, I have no particular wish to return yet to=
the
Hollow.'
'But we cannot sit in the porch no=
w,
Robert.' Caroline said this because Moore was turning her round towards it.=
'Perhaps not, but tell Fanny to go=
in;
say we are coming, a few minutes will make no difference.'
The church-clock struck ten.
'My uncle will be coming out to ta=
ke
his usual sentinel round, and he always surveys the church and churchyard.'=
'And if he does? If it were not for
Fanny, who knows we are here, I should find pleasure in dodging and eluding
him. We could be under the east window when he is at the porch; as he came
round to the north side we could wheel off to the south; we might at a pinch
hide behind some of the monuments: that tall erection of the Wynnes would
screen us completely.'
'Robert, what good spirits you hav=
e!
Go - go!' added Caroline hastily, 'I hear the front door -&=
nbsp;
- '
'I don't want to go; on the contra=
ry,
I want to stay.'
'You know my uncle will be terribly
angry: he forbade me to see you because you are a Jacobin.'
'A queer Jacobin!'
'Go, Robert, he is coming; I hear =
him
cough.'
'Diable! It is strange - what a
pertinacious wish I feel to stay!'
'You remember what he did to Fanny=
's -&=
nbsp;
- ' began Caroline, and stopped abruptly short. Sweetheart was the w=
ord
that ought to have followed, but she could not utter it; it seemed calculat=
ed
to suggest ideas she had no intention to suggest; ideas delusive and
disturbing. Moore was less scrupulous; 'Fanny's sweetheart?' he said at onc=
e.
'He gave him a shower-bath under the pump - did he not? He'd do as much for=
me,
I daresay, with pleasure. I should like to provoke the old Turk - not howev=
er
against you: but he would make a distinction between a cousin and a lover,
would he not?'
'Oh! he would not think of you in =
that
way, of course not; his quarrel with you is entirely political; yet I should
not like the breach to be widened, and he is so testy. Here he is at the ga=
rden
gate - for your own sake and mine, Robert, go!'
The beseeching words were aided by=
a
beseeching gesture and a more beseeching look. Moore covered her clasped ha=
nds
an instant with his, answered her upward by a downward gaze, said 'Good-nig=
ht!'
and went.
Caroline was in a moment at the
kitchen-door behind Fanny; the shadow of the shovel-hat at that very instant
fell on a moonlit tomb; the Rector emerged erect as a cane, from his garden,
and proceeded in slow march, his hands behind him, down the cemetery. Moore=
was
almost caught: he had to 'dodge' after all, to coast round the church, and
finally to bend his tall form behind the Wynnes' ambitious monument. There =
he
was forced to hide full ten minutes, kneeling with one knee on the turf, hi=
s hat
off, his curls bare to the dew, his dark eye shining, and his lips parted w=
ith
inward laughter at his position; for the Rector meantime stood coolly
star-gazing, and taking snuff within three feet of him.
It happened, however, that Mr Hels= tone had no suspicion whatever on his mind; for being usually but vaguely inform= ed of his niece's movements, not thinking it worth while to follow them closel= y, he was not aware that she had been out at all that day, and imagined her th= en occupied with book or work in her chamber: where, indeed, she was by this t= ime; though not absorbed in the tranquil employment he ascribed to her, but stan= ding at her window with fast- throbbing heart, peeping anxiously from behind the blind, watching for her uncle to re-enter and her cousin to escape; and at = last she was gratified; she heard Mr Helstone come in; she saw Robert stride the tombs and vault the wall; she then went down to prayers. When she returned = to her chamber, it was to meet the memory of Robert. Slumber's visitation was = long averted: long she sat at her lattice, long gazed down on the old garden and older church, on the tombs laid out all grey and calm, and clear in moonlig= ht. She followed the steps of the night, on its pathway of stars, far into the = 'wee sma' hours ayont the twal':' she was with Moore, in spirit, the whole time:= she was at his side: she heard his voice: she gave her hand into his hand; it rested warm in his fingers. When the church-clock struck, when any other so= und stirred, when a little mouse familiar to her chamber, an intruder for which= she would never permit Fanny to lay a trap, came rattling amongst the links of = her locket chain, her one ring, and another trinket or two on the toilet-table,= to nibble a bit of biscuit laid ready for it, she looked up, recalled momentar= ily to the real. Then she said half aloud, as if deprecating the accusation of = some unseen and unheard monitor, 'I am not cherishing love-dreams: I am only thinking because I cannot sleep; of course, I know he will marry Shirley.'<= o:p>
With returning silence, with the l=
ull
of the chime, and the retreat of her small untamed and unknown
protégé, she still resumed the dream, nestling to the vision's
side, - listening to, conversing with it. It paled at last: as dawn approac=
hed,
the setting stars and breaking day dimmed the creation of Fancy: the wakened
song of birds hushed her whispers. The tale full of fire, quick with intere=
st,
borne away by the morning wind, became a vague murmur. The shape that, seen=
in
a moonbeam, lived, had a pulse, had movement, wore health's glow and youth's
freshness, turned cold and ghostly grey, confronted with the red of sunrise=
. It
wasted. She was left solitary at last: she crept to her couch, chill and
dejected.
'Of course, I know he will marry
Shirley,' were her first words when she rose in the morning. 'And he ought =
to
marry her: she can help him,' she added firmly. 'But I shall be forgotten w=
hen
they are married,' was the cruel succeeding thought. 'Oh! I shall be wholly
forgotten! And what - what shall I do when Robert is taken quite from me? W=
here
shall I turn? My Robert! I wish I could justly call him mine: but I am pove=
rty
and incapacity; Shirley is wealth and power: and she is beauty too, and lov=
e -
I cannot deny it. This is no sordid suit: she loves him - not with inferior
feelings: she loves, or will love, as he must feel proud to be loved. Not a
valid objection can be made. Let them be married then: but afterwards I sha=
ll
be nothing to him. As for being his sister, and all that stuff, I despise i=
t. I
will either be all or nothing to a man like Robert: no feeble shuffling or
false cant is endurable. Once let that pair be united, and I will certainly
leave them. As for lingering about, playing the hypocrite, and pretending to
calm sentiments of friendship, when my soul will be wrung with other feelin=
gs,
I shall not descend to such degradation. As little could I fill the place of
their mutual friend as that of their deadly foe: as little could I stand
between them as trample over them. Robert is a first-rate man - in my eyes:=
I
have loved, do love, and must love him. I would be his wife, if I could; as=
I
cannot, I must go where I shall never see him. There is but one alternative=
-
to cleave to him as if I were a part of him, or to be sundered from him wid=
e as
the two poles of a sphere. Sunder me then, Providence. Part us speedily.'
Some such aspirations as these were
again working in her mind late in the afternoon, when the apparition of one=
of
the personages haunting her thoughts passed the parlour window. Miss Keeldar
sauntered slowly by: her gait, her countenance wearing that mixture of
wistfulness and carelessness which, when quiescent, was the wonted cast of =
her
look, and character of her bearing. When animated, the carelessness quite
vanished, the wistfulness became blent with a genial gaiety, seasoning the
laugh, the smile, the glance, with an unique flavour of sentiment, so that
mirth from her never resembled 'the crackling of thorns under a pot.'
'What do you mean by not coming to=
see
me this afternoon, as you promised?' was her address to Caroline as she ent=
ered
the room.
'I was not in the humour,' replied
Miss Helstone, very truly.
Shirley had already fixed on her a
penetrating eye.
'No,' she said; 'I see you are not=
in
the humour for loving me: you are in one of your sunless, inclement moods, =
when
one feels a fellow-creature's presence is not welcome to you, You have such
moods are you aware of it?'
'Do you mean to stay long, Shirley=
?'
'Yes; I am come to have my tea, and
must have it before I go. I shall take the liberty then of removing my bonn=
et,
without being asked.'
And this she did, and then stood on
the rug with her hands behind her.
'A pretty expression you have in y=
our
countenance,' she went on, still gazing keenly, though not inimically, rath=
er
indeed pityingly at Caroline. 'Wonderfully self-supported you look, you
solitude-seeking, wounded deer. Are you afraid Shirley will worry you, if s=
he
discovers that you are hurt, and that you bleed?'
'I never do fear Shirley.'
'But sometimes you dislike her: of=
ten
you avoid her. Shirley can feel when she is slighted and shunned. If you had
not walked home in the company you did last night, you would have been a
different girl to-day. What time did you reach the Rectory?'
'By ten.'
'Humph! You took three-quarters of=
an
hour to walk a mile. Was it you, or Moore, who lingered so?'
'Shirley, you talk nonsense.'
'He talked nonsense - that I doubt
not; or he looked it, which is a thousand times worse: I see the reflection=
of
his eyes on your forehead at this moment. I feel disposed to call him out, =
if I
could only get a trustworthy second: I feel desperately irritated: I felt so
last night, and have felt it all day.'
'You don't ask me why,' she procee=
ded,
after a pause, 'you little silent, over-modest thing; and you don't deserve
that I should pour out my secrets into your lap without an invitation. Upon=
my
word, I could have found it in my heart to have dogged Moore yesterday even=
ing
with dire intent: I have pistols, and can use them.'
'Stuff, Shirley! Which would you h=
ave
shot - me or Robert?'
'Neither, perhaps - perhaps myself=
-
more likely a bat or a tree-bough. He is a puppy - your cousin: a quiet,
serious, sensible, judicious, ambitious puppy. I see him standing before me,
talking his half-stern, half-gentle talk, bearing me down (as I am very
conscious he does) with his fixity of purpose, etc.; and then -&=
nbsp;
- I have no patience w=
ith
him!'
Miss Keeldar started off on a rapid
walk through the room, repeating energetically that she had no patience with
men in general, and with her tenant in particular.
'You are mistaken,' urged Caroline=
, in
some anxiety: 'Robert is no puppy or male flirt; I can vouch for that.'
'You vouch for it! Do you think I'=
ll
take your word on the subject? There is no one's testimony I would not cred=
it
sooner than yours. To advance Moore's fortune, you would cut off your right
hand.'
'But not tell lies; and if I speak=
the
truth, I must assure you that he was just civil to me last night - that was=
all.'
'I never asked what he was - I can
guess: I saw him from the window take your hand in his long fingers, just a=
s he
went out at my gate.'
'That is nothing. I am not a stran=
ger,
you know: I am an old acquaintance, and his cousin.'
'I feel indignant; and that is the
long and short of the matter,' responded Miss Keeldar. 'All my comfort,' she
added presently, 'is broken up by his manoeuvres. He keeps intruding between
you and me: without him we should be good friends; but that six feet of
puppy-hood makes a perpetually-recurring eclipse of our friendship. Again a=
nd
again he crosses and obscures the disk I want always to see clear: ever and
anon he renders me to you a mere bore and nuisance.'
'No, Shirley; no.'
'He does. You did not want my soci=
ety
this afternoon, and I feel it hard: you are naturally somewhat reserved, bu=
t I
am a social personage, who cannot live alone. If we were but left unmoleste=
d, I
have that regard for you that I could bear you in my presence for ever, and=
not
for the fraction of a second do I ever wish to be rid of you. You cannot sa=
y as
much respecting me.'
'Shirley, I can say anything you w=
ish:
Shirley, I like you.'
'You will wish me at Jericho
to-morrow, Lina.'
'I shall not. I am every day growi=
ng
more accustomed to - fonder of you. You know I am too English to get up a
vehement friendship all at once; but you are so much better than common - y=
ou
are so different to everyday young ladies - I esteem you - I value you: you=
are
never a burden to me - never. Do you believe what I say?'
'Partly,' replied Miss Keeldar,
smiling rather incredulously; 'but you are a peculiar personage: quiet as y=
ou
look, there is both a force and a depth somewhere within, not easily reache=
d or
appreciated: then you certainly are not happy.'
'And unhappy people are rarely goo=
d -
is that what you mean?'
'Not at all: I mean rather that
unhappy people are often pre-occupied, and not in the mood for discoursing =
with
companions of my nature. Moreover, there is a sort of unhappiness which not
only depresses, but corrodes - and that, I fear, is your portion. Will pity=
do
you any good, Lina? If it will, take some from Shirley: she offers largely,=
and
warrants the article genuine.'
'Shirley, I never had a sister - y=
ou
never had a sister; but it flashes on me at this moment how sisters feel
towards each other. Affection twined with their life, which no shocks of
feeling can uproot, which little quarrels only trample an instant that it m=
ay
spring more freshly when the pressure is removed: affection that no passion=
can
ultimately outrival, with which even love itself cannot do more than compet=
e in
force and truth. Love hurts us so, Shirley: it is so tormenting, so racking,
and it burns away our strength with its flame; in affection is no pain and =
no
fire, only sustenance and balm. I am supported and soothed when you - that =
is,
you only - are near, Shirley, Do you believe me now?'
'I am always easy of belief when t=
he
creed pleases me. We really are friends then, Lina, in spite of the black
eclipse?'
'We really are,' returned the othe=
r,
drawing Shirley towards her, and making her sit down, 'chance what may.'
'Come, then, we will talk of somet=
hing
else than the Troubler.' But at this moment the Rector came in, and the
'something else' of which Miss Keeldar was about to talk was not again allu=
ded
to till the moment of her departure; she then delayed a few minutes in the
passage to say. - 'Caroline, I wish to tell you that I have a great weight =
on
my mind: my conscience is quite uneasy, as if I had committed, or was going=
to
commit, a crime. It is not my private conscience, you must understand, but =
my
landed-proprietor and lord-of-the-manor conscience. I have got into the clu=
tch
of an eagle with iron talons. I have fallen under a stern influence, which I
scarcely approve, but cannot resist. Something will be done ere long, I fea=
r,
which it by no means pleases me to think of. To ease my mind, and to prevent
harm as far as I can, I mean to enter on a series of good works. Don't be
surprised, therefore, if you see me all at once turn outrageously charitabl=
e. I
have no idea how to begin, but you must give me some advice: we will talk m=
ore
on the subject to-morrow; and just ask that excellent person, Miss Ainley, =
to
step up to Fieldhead: I have some notion of putting myself under her tuitio=
n -
won't she have a precious pupil? Drop a hint to her, Lina, that, though a
well-meaning, I am rather a neglected character, and then she will feel less
scandalised at my ignorance about clothing societies, and such things.'
On the morrow, Caroline found Shir=
ley
sitting gravely at her desk, with an account-book, a bundle of bank-notes, =
and
a well-filled purse before her. She was looking mighty serious, but a little
puzzled. She said she had been 'casting an eye' over the weekly expenditure=
in
housekeeping at the Hall, trying to find out where she could retrench; that=
she
had also just given audience to Mrs Gill, the cook, and had sent that person
away with a notion that her (Shirley's) brain was certainly crazed. 'I have
lectured her on the duty of being careful,' said she, 'in a way quite new to
her. So eloquent was I on the text of economy, that I surprised myself; for,
you see, it is altogether a fresh idea: I never thought, much less spoke, on
the subject till lately. But it is all theory; for when I came to the pract=
ical
part I could retrench nothing. I had not firmness to take off a single poun=
d of
butter, or to prosecute to any clear result an inquest into the destiny of
either dripping, lard, bread, cold meat, or other kitchen perquisite whatev=
er.
I know we never get up illuminations at Fieldhead, but I could not ask the
meaning of sundry quite unaccountable pounds of candles: we do not wash for=
the
parish, yet I viewed in silence items of soap and bleaching-powder calculat=
ed
to satisfy the solicitude of the most anxious inquirer after our position in
reference to those articles: carnivorous I am not, nor is Mrs Pryor, nor is=
Mrs
Gill herself, yet I only hemmed and opened my eyes a little wide when I saw
butchers' bills whose figures seemed to prove that fact - falsehood, I mean.
Caroline, you may laugh at me, but you can't change me. I am a poltroon on
certain points - I feel it. There is a base alloy of moral cowardice in my
composition. I blushed and hung my head before Mrs Gill, when she ought to =
have
been faltering confessions to me. I found it impossible to get up the spirit
even to hint, much less to prove, to her that she was a cheat. I have no ca=
lm
dignity - no true courage about me.'
'Shirley, what fit of self-injusti=
ce
is this? My uncle, who is not given to speak well of women, says there are =
not
ten thousand men in England as genuinely fearless as you.'
'I am fearless, physically: I am n=
ever
nervous about danger. I was not startled from self-possession when Mr Wynne=
's
great red bull rose with a bellow before my face, as I was crossing the
cowslip-lea alone, stooped his begrimed, sullen head, and made a run at me:=
but
I was afraid of seeing Mrs Gill brought to shame and confusion of face. You
have twice - ten times my strength of mind on certain subjects, Caroline: y=
ou,
whom no persuasions can induce to pass a bull, however quiet he looks, would
have firmly shown my housekeeper she had done wrong; then you would have ge=
ntly
and wisely admonished her; and at last, I daresay, provided she had seemed =
penitent,
you would have very sweetly forgiven her. Of this conduct I am incapable.
However, in spite of exaggerated imposition, I still find we live within our
means: I have money in hand, and I really must do some good with it. The
Briarfield poor are badly off: they must be helped. What ought I to do, thi=
nk
you, Lina? Had I not better distribute the cash at once?'
'No, indeed, Shirley: you will not
manage properly. I have often noticed that your only notion of charity is to
give shillings and half-crowns in a careless, freehanded sort of way, which=
is
liable to continual abuse. You must have a prime minister, or you will get
yourself into a series of scrapes. You suggested Miss Ainley yourself: to M=
iss
Ainley I will apply; and, meantime, promise to keep quiet, and not begin
throwing away your money. What a great deal you have, Shirley! - you must f=
eel
very rich with all that?'
'Yes; I feel of consequence. It is=
not
an immense sum, but I feel responsible for its disposal; and really this
responsibility weighs on my mind more heavily than I could have expected. T=
hey
say that there are some families almost starving to death in Briarfield: so=
me
of my own cottagers are in wretched circumstances: I must and will help the=
m.'
'Some people say we shouldn't give
alms to the poor, Shirley.'
'They are great fools for their pa=
ins.
For those who are not hungry, it is easy to palaver about the degradation of
charity, and so on; but they forget the brevity of life, as well as its
bitterness. We have none of us long to live: let us help each other through
seasons of want and woe, as well as we can, without heeding in the least the
scruples of vain philosophy.'
'But you do help others, Shirley: =
you
give a great deal as it is.'
'Not enough: I must give more, or,=
I
tell you, my brother's blood will some day be crying to Heaven against me. =
For,
after all, if political incendiaries come here to kindle conflagration in t=
he
neighbourhood, and my property is attacked, I shall defend it like a tigres=
s -
I know I shall. Let me listen to Mercy as long as she is near me: her voice
once drowned by the shout of ruffian defiance, and I shall be full of impul=
ses
to resist and quell. If once the poor gather and rise in the form of the mo=
b, I
shall turn against them as an aristocrat: if they bully me, I must defy; if
they attack, I must resist, - and I will.'
'You talk like Robert.'
'I feel like Robert, only more
fierily. Let them meddle with Robert, or Robert's mill, or Robert's interes=
ts,
and I shall hate them. At present I am no patrician, nor do I regard the po=
or
around me as plebeians; but if once they violently wrong me or mine, and th=
en
presume to dictate to us, I shall quite forget pity for their wretchedness =
and
respect for their poverty, in scorn of their ignorance and wrath at their i=
nsolence.'
'Shirley - how your eyes flash!'
'Because my soul burns. Would you,=
any
more than me, let Robert be borne down by numbers?'
'If I had your power to aid Robert=
, I
would use it as you mean to use it. If I could be such a friend to him as y=
ou
can be, I would stand by him, as you mean to stand by him - till death.'
'And now, Lina, though your eyes d=
on't
flash, they glow. You drop your lids; but I saw a kindled spark. However, i=
t is
not yet come to fighting. What I want to do is to prevent mischief. I cannot
forget, either day or night, that these embittered feelings of the poor aga=
inst
the rich have been generated in suffering: they would neither hate nor envy=
us
if they did not deem us so much happier than themselves. To allay this
suffering, and thereby lessen this hate, let me, out of my abundance, give
abundantly: and that the donation may go farther, let it be made wisely. To
that intent, we must introduce some clear, calm, practical sense into our
councils: so go, and fetch Miss Ainley.'
Without another word, Caroline put=
on
her bonnet and departed. It may, perhaps, appear strange that neither she n=
or
Shirley thought of consulting Mrs Pryor on their scheme; but they were wise=
in
abstaining. To have consulted her - and this they knew by instinct - would =
only
have been to involve her in painful embarrassment. She was far better infor=
med,
better read, a deeper thinker than Miss Ainley, but of administrative energ=
y,
of executive activity, she had none. She would subscribe her own modest mit=
e to
a charitable object willingly, - secret almsgiving suited her; but in public
plans, on a large scale, she could take no part: as to originating them, th=
at
was out of the question. This Shirley knew, and therefore she did not troub=
le Mrs
Pryor by unavailing conferences, which could only remind her of her own
deficiencies, and do no good.
It was a bright day for Miss Ainley
when she was summoned to Fieldhead to deliberate on projects so congenial to
her; when she was seated with all honour and deference at a table with pape=
r,
pen, ink and - what was best of all - cash before her, and requested to dra=
w up
a regular plan for administering relief to the destitute poor of Briarfield.
She, who knew them all, had studied their wants, had again and again felt in
what way they might best be succoured, could the means of succour only be
found, was fully competent to the undertaking, and a meek exultation gladde=
ned
her kind heart as she felt herself able to answer clearly and promptly the
eager questions put by the two young girls; as she showed them in her answe=
rs
how much and what serviceable knowledge she had acquired of the condition of
her fellow-creatures round her.
Shirley placed at her disposal
£300, and at sight of the money Miss Ainley's eyes filled with joyful
tears; for she already saw the hungry fed, the naked clothed, the sick
comforted thereby. She quickly drew up a simple, sensible plan for its
expenditure; and she assured them brighter times would now come round, for =
she
doubted not the lady of Fieldhead's example would be followed by others: she
should try to get additional subscriptions, and to form a fund; but first s=
he
must consult the clergy: yes, on that point, she was peremptory: Mr Helston=
e,
Dr. Boultby, Mr Hall, must be consulted - (for not only must Briarfield be
relieved, but Whinbury and Nunnely) - it would, she averred, be presumption=
in
her to take a single step unauthorised by them.
The clergy were sacred beings in M=
iss
Ainley's eyes: no matter what might be the insignificance of the individual,
his station made him holy. The very curates - who, in their trivial arrogan=
ce,
were hardly worthy to tie her patten- strings, or carry her cotton umbrella=
, or
check woollen-shawl - she, in her pure, sincere enthusiasm, looked upon as
sucking saints. No matter how clearly their little vices and enormous
absurdities were pointed out to her, she could not see them: she was blind =
to
ecclesiastical defects: the white surplice covered a multitude of sins.
Shirley, knowing this harmless
infatuation on the part of her recently chosen prime minister, stipulated
expressly that the curates were to have no voice in the disposal of the mon=
ey;
that their meddling fingers were not to be inserted into the pie. The recto=
rs,
of course, must be paramount, and they might be trusted: they had some
experience, some sagacity, and Mr Hall, at least, had sympathy and
loving-kindness for his fellowmen; but as for the youth under them, they mu=
st
be set aside, kept down, and taught that subordination and silence best bec=
ame
their years and capacity.
It was with some horror Miss Ainley
heard this language: Caroline, however, interposing with a mild word or two=
in
praise of Mr Sweeting, calmed her again. Sweeting was, indeed, her own
favourite: she endeavoured to respect Messrs. Malone and Donne; but the sli=
ces
of sponge-cake, and glasses of cowslip or primrose wine, she had at differe=
nt
times administered to Sweeting when he came to see her in her little cottag=
e,
were ever offered with sentiments of truly motherly regard. The same innocu=
ous
collation she had once presented to Malone; but that personage evinced such
open scorn of the offering, she had never ventured to renew it. To Donne she
always served the treat, and was happy to see his approbation of it proved
beyond a doubt, by the fact of his usually eating two pieces of cake, and
putting a third in his pocket.
Indefatigable in her exertions whe=
re
good was to be done, Miss Ainley would immediately have set out on a walk of
ten miles round to the three rectors, in order to show her plan, and humbly
solicit their approval: but Miss Keeldar interdicted this, and proposed, as=
an
amendment, to collect the clergy in a small select reunion that evening at
Fieldhead. Miss Ainley was to meet them, and the plan was to be discussed in
full privy council.
Shirley managed to get the senior
priesthood together accordingly; and before the old maid's arrival she had,
further, talked all the gentlemen into the most charming mood imaginable. S=
he
herself had taken in hand Dr. Boultby and Mr Helstone. The first was a stub=
born
old Welshman, hot, opinionated, and obstinate, but withal a man who did a g=
reat
deal of good, though not without making some noise about it: the latter we
know. She had rather a friendly feeling for both; especially for old Helsto=
ne;
and it cost her no trouble to be quite delightful to them, She took them ro=
und
the garden; she gathered them flowers; she was like a kind daughter to them=
. Mr
Hall she left to Caroline - or rather, it was to Caroline's care Mr Hall
consigned himself.
He generally sought Caroline in ev=
ery
party where she and he happened to be. He was not generally a lady's man,
though all ladies liked him: something of a book-worm he was, nearsighted,
spectacled, now and then abstracted. To old ladies he was kind as a son. To=
men
of every occupation and grade he was acceptable: the truth, simplicity,
frankness of his manners, the nobleness of his integrity, the reality and
elevation of his piety, won him friends in every grade: his poor clerk and
sexton delighted in him; the noble patron of his living esteemed him highly=
. It
was only with young, handsome, fashionable, and stylish ladies he felt a li=
ttle
shy: being himself a plain man - plain in aspect, plain in manners, plain in
speech - he seemed to fear their dash, elegance, and airs. But Miss Helstone
had neither dash nor airs, and her native elegance was of a very quiet orde=
r -
quiet as the beauty of a ground-loving hedge-flower. He was a fluent, cheer=
ful,
agreeable talker. Caroline could talk, too, in a tête-ô-tê=
;te:
she liked Mr Hall to come and take the seat next her in a party, and thus
secure her from Peter Augustus Malone, Joseph Donne, or John Sykes; and Mr =
Hall
never failed to avail himself of this privilege when he possibly could. Such
preference shown by a single gentleman to a single lady would certainly, in
ordinary cases, have set in motion the tongues of the gossips; but Cyril Ha=
ll
was forty-five years old, slightly bald and slightly grey, and nobody ever =
said
or thought he was likely to be married to Miss Helstone. Nor did he think so
himself: he was wedded already to his books and his parish: his kind sister
Margaret, spectacled and learned like himself, made him happy in his single
state; he considered it too late to change. Besides, he had known Caroline =
as a
pretty little girl: she had sat on his knee many a time; he had bought her =
toys
and given her books; he felt that her friendship for him was mixed with a s=
ort
of filial respect; he could not have brought himself to attempt to give ano=
ther
colour to her sentiments, and his serene mind could glass a fair image with=
out
feeling its depths troubled by the reflection.
When Miss Ainley arrived, she was =
made
kindly welcome by every one: Mrs Pryor and Margaret Hall made room for her =
on
the sofa between them; and when the three were seated, they formed a trio w=
hich
the gay and thoughtless would have scorned, indeed, as quite worthless and
unattractive - a middle-aged widow and two plain spectacled old maids - yet
which had its own quiet value, as many a suffering and friendless human bei=
ng
knew.
Shirley opened the business and sh=
owed
the plan.
'I know the hand which drew up tha=
t,'
said Mr Hall, glancing at Miss Ainley, and smiling benignantly: his approba=
tion
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 sch=
eme
is nothing,' said she carelessly; 'it is only an outline - a mere suggestio=
n;
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 arm-chair to the
table, and presenting her hand to old Helstone, begged permission to instal=
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 manoeuvres don't blind me.'
'Oh!' said Shirley, dipping the pe=
n in
the ink, and putting it into his hand, 'you must regard me as Captain Keeld=
ar
to-day. This is quite a gentleman's affair - yours and mine entirely, Docto=
r'
(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 beg=
an
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
grey pates of the priests. In the discussion which ensued, all three gentle=
men,
to their infinite credit, showed a thorough acquaintance with the poor of t=
heir
parishes, - an even minute knowledge of their separate wants. Each rector k=
new
where clothing was needed, where food would be most acceptable, where money
could be bestowed with a probability of it being judiciously laid out. Wher=
ever
their memories fell short, Miss Ainley or Miss Hall, if applied to, could h=
elp
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 use=
ful
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 significa=
nt:
too significant to be generally thought amiable. Men rarely like such of th=
eir
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 e=
yes,
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, t=
ake
its sentinel-survey of life. I remember once seeing a pair of blue eyes, th=
at
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 t=
he
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 m=
ost
decorous relish. Captain Keeldar was complimented on his taste; the complim=
ent
charmed him: it had been his aim to gratify and satisfy his priestly guests=
: he
had succeeded, and was radiant with glee.
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 circ=
le
of gentlemen,' said she; 'it is amusing to observe how they enjoy a judicio=
usly
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 baf=
fled
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, h=
is
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 piqu=
es
me singularly - how does it affect you?'
This question was a specimen of on=
e of
Shirley's sharp, sudden turns: Caroline used to be fluttered by them at fir=
st,
but she had now got into the way of parrying these home-thrusts like a litt=
le
Quakeress.
'Pique you? In what way does it pi=
que
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 th=
ing
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 h=
unt,
then, except in couples? You may have one, Lina, and you may take your choi=
ce:
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 mistres=
s 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 wil=
l be
frightened: they don't know old Tartar as I do: they are not aware his upro=
ars
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 tumu=
lt.
'Oh! 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 flee=
ing
up the oak staircase, making for refuge in the gallery or chambers in hot
haste; another was backing fast to the stair- foot, wildly flourishing a kn=
otty
stick, at the same time reiterating, 'Down I down! down!' while the tawny d=
og
bayed, bellowed, howled at him, and a group of servants came bundling from =
the
kitchen. The dog made a spring: the second gentleman turned tail and rushed
after his comrade: the first was already safe in a bedroom: he held the door
against his fellow; - nothing so merciless as terror; - but the other fugit=
ive
struggled hard: the door was about to yield to his strength.
'Gentlemen,' was uttered in Miss
Keeldar's silvery but vibrating tones, 'spare my locks, if you please. Calm
yourselves! - come down! Look at Tartar, - he won't harm a cat.'
She was caressing the said Tartar:=
he
lay crouched at her feet, his fore-paws stretched out, his tail still in
threatening agitation, his nostrils snorting, his bulldog eyes conscious of=
a
dull fire. He was an honest, phlegmatic, stupid, but stubborn canine charac=
ter:
he loved his mistress, and John - the man who fed him - but was mostly
indifferent to the rest of the world: quiet enough he was, unless struck or
threatened with a stick, and that put a demon into him at once.
'Mr Malone, how do you do?' contin=
ued
Shirley, lifting up her mirth-lit face to the gallery. 'That is not the way=
to
the oak-parlour: that is Mrs Pryor's apartment. Request your friend Mr Donn=
e to
evacuate: I shall have the greatest pleasure in receiving him in a lower ro=
om.'
'Ha! ha!' cried Malone, in hollow =
laughter,
quitting the door, and leaning over the massive balustrade. 'Really that an=
imal
alarmed Donne. He is a little timid,' he proceeded, stiffening himself, and
walking trimly to the stairhead. 'I thought it better to follow, in order to
reassure him.'
'It appears you did: well, come do=
wn,
if you please. John' (turning to her manservant), 'go upstairs and liberate=
Mr
Donne. Take care, Mr Malone, the stairs are slippery.'
In truth they were; being of polis=
hed
oak. The caution came a little late for Malone: he had slipped already in h=
is
stately descent, and was only saved from falling by a clutch at the baniste=
rs,
which made the whole structure creak again.
Tartar seemed to think the visitor=
's
descent effected with unwarranted éclat, and accordingly he growled =
once
more. Malone, however, was no coward: the spring of the dog had taken him by
surprise: but he passed him now in suppressed fury rather than fear: if a l=
ook
could have strangled Tartar, he would have breathed no more. Forgetting
politeness, in his sullen rage, Malone pushed into the parlour before Miss
Keeldar. He glanced at Miss Helstone; he could scarcely bring himself to be=
nd
to her. He glared on both the ladies: he looked as if, had either of them b=
een
his wife, he would have made a glorious husband at the moment: in each hand=
he
seemed as if he would have liked to clutch one and gripe her to death.
However, Shirley took pity: she ce=
ased
to laugh; and Caroline was too true a lady to smile even at any one under
mortification. Tartar was dismissed; Peter Augustus was soothed: for Shirley
had looks and tones that might soothe a very bull: he had sense to feel tha=
t,
since he could not challenge the owner of the dog, he had better be civil; =
and
civil he tried to be; and his attempts being well received, he grew present=
ly
very civil and quite himself again. He had come, indeed, for the express
purpose of making himself charming and fascinating: rough portents had met =
him
on his first admission to Fieldhead; but that passage got over, charming and
fascinating he resolved to be. Like March, having come in like a lion, he
purposed to go out like a lamb.
For the sake of air, as it appeare=
d,
or perhaps for that of ready exit in case of some new emergency arising, he
took his seat - not on the sofa, where Miss Keeldar offered him enthronisat=
ion,
nor yet near the fireside, to which Caroline, by a friendly sigh, gently
invited him, - but on a chair close to the door. Being no longer sullen or
furious, he grew, after his fashion, constrained and embarrassed. He talked=
to
the ladies by fits and starts, choosing for topics whatever was most intens=
ely
commonplace: he sighed deeply, significantly, at the close of every sentenc=
e;
he sighed in each pause; he sighed ere he opened his mouth. At last, findin=
g it
desirable to add ease to his other charms, he drew forth to aid him an ample
silk pocket-handkerchief. This was to be the graceful toy with which his
unoccupied hands were to trifle. He went to work with a certain energy: he
folded the red and yellow square cornerwise; he whipped it open with a waft:
again he folded it in narrower compass: he made of it a handsome band. To w=
hat
purpose would he proceed to apply the ligature? Would he wrap it about his
throat - his head? Should it be a comforter or a turban? Neither. Peter
Augustus had an inventive - an original genius: he was about to show the la=
dies
graces of action possessing at least the charm of novelty. He sat on the ch=
air
with his athletic Irish legs crossed, and these legs, in that attitude, he
circled with the bandanna and bound firmly together. It was evident he felt
this device to be worth an encore: he repeated it more than once. The second
performance sent Shirley to the window to laugh her silent but irrepressible
laugh unseen: it turned Caroline's head aside, that her long curls might sc=
reen
the smile mantling on her features. Miss Helstone, indeed, was amused by mo=
re
than one point in Peter's demeanour: she was edified at the complete though
abrupt diversion of his homage from herself to the heiress: the £5,00=
0 he
supposed her likely one day to inherit, were not to be weighed in the balan=
ce
against Miss Keeldar's estate and hall. He took no pains to conceal his
calculations and tactics: he pretended to no gradual change of views: he
wheeled about at once: the pursuit of the lesser fortune was openly
relinquished for that of the greater. On what grounds he expected to succee=
d in
his chase, himself best knew: certainly not by skilful management.
From the length of time that elaps=
ed,
it appeared that John had some difficulty in persuading Mr Donne to descend=
. At
length, however, that gentleman appeared: nor, as he presented himself at t=
he
oak-parlour door, did he seem in the slightest degree ashamed or confused -=
not
a whit. Donne, indeed, was of that coldly phlegmatic, immovably complacent,
densely self-satisfied nature which is insensible to shame. He had never
blushed in his life: no humiliation could abash him: his nerves were not
capable of sensation enough to stir his life, and make colour mount to his =
cheek:
he had no fire in his blood, and no modesty in his soul: he was a frontless,
arrogant; decorous slip of the commonplace; conceited, inane, insipid: and =
this
gentleman had a notion of wooing Miss Keeldar! He knew no more, however, ho=
w to
set about the business than if he had been an image carved in wood: he had =
no
idea of a taste to be pleased, a heart to be reached in courtship: his noti=
on
was, when he should have formally visited her a few times, to write a letter
proposing marriage; then he calculated she would accept him for love of his
office, then they would be married, then he should be master of Fieldhead, =
and
he should live very comfortably, have servants at his command, eat and drin=
k of
the best, and be a great man. You would not have suspected his intentions w=
hen
he addressed his intended bride in an impertinent, injured tone - 'A very
dangerous dog that, Miss Keeldar. I wonder you should keep such an animal.'=
'Do you, Mr Donne? Perhaps you will
wonder more when I tell you I am very fond of him.'
'I should say you are not serious =
in
the assertion. Can't fancy a lady fond of that brute - 'tis so ugly - a mere
carter's dog - pray hang him.'
'Hang what I am fond of!'
'And purchase in his stead some
sweetly pooty pug or poodle: something appropriate to the fair sex: ladies
generally like lapdogs.'
'Perhaps I am an exception.'
'Oh! you can't be, you know. All
ladies are alike in those matters: that is universally allowed.'
'Tartar frightened you terribly, Mr
Donne. I hope you won't take any harm.'
'That I shall, no doubt. He gave m=
e a
turn I shall not soon forget. When I sor him' (such was Mr Donne's
pronunciation) 'about to spring, I thought I should have fainted.'
'Perhaps you did faint in the bed-=
room
- you were a long time there?'
'No; I bore up that I might hold t=
he
door fast: I was determined not to let any one enter: I thought I would kee=
p a
barrier between me and the enemy.'
'But what if your friend Mr Malone=
had
been worried?'
'Malone must take care of himself.
Your man persuaded me to come out at last by saying the dog was chained up =
in
his kennel: if I had not been assured of this, I would have remained all da=
y in
the chamber. But what is that? I declare the man has told a falsehood! The =
dog
is there!'
And indeed Tartar walked past the
glass-door opening to the garden, stiff, tawny, and black-muzzled as ever. =
He
still seemed in bad humour; he was growling again, and whistling a
half-strangled whistle, being an inheritance from the bull-dog side of his
ancestry.
'There are other visitors coming,'=
observed
Shirley, with that provoking coolness which the owners of formidable-looking
dogs are apt to show while their animals are all bristle and bay. Tartar sp=
rang
down the pavement towards the gate, bellowing 'avec explosion.' His mistress
quietly opened the glass-door, and stepped out chirruping to him. His bellow
was already silenced, and he was lifting up his huge, blunt, stupid head to=
the
new callers to be patted.
'What - Tartar, Tartar!' said a
cheery, rather boyish voice, 'don't you know us? Good-morning, old boy!'
And little Mr Sweeting, whose
conscious good-nature made him comparatively fearless of man, woman, child,=
or
brute, came through the gate, caressing the guardian. His vicar, Mr Hall,
followed: he had no fear of Tartar either, and Tartar had no ill-will to hi=
m:
he snuffed both the gentlemen round, and then, as if concluding that they w=
ere
harmless, and might be allowed to pass, he withdrew to the sunny front of t=
he
hall, leaving the archway free. Mr Sweeting followed, and would have played=
with
him, but Tartar took no notice of his caresses: it was only his mistress's =
hand
whose touch gave him pleasure; to all others he showed himself obstinately
insensible.
Shirley advanced to meet Messrs. H=
all
and Sweeting, shaking hands with them cordially: they were come to tell her=
of
certain successes they had achieved that morning in applications for
subscriptions to the fund. Mr Hall's eyes beamed benignantly through his
spectacles: his plain face looked positively handsome with goodness, and wh=
en
Caroline, seeing who was come, ran out to meet him, and put both her hands =
into
his, he gazed down on her with a gentle, serene, affectionate expression, t=
hat
gave him the aspect of a smiling Melanchthon.
Instead of re-entering the house, =
they
strayed through the garden, the ladies walking one on each side of Mr Hall.=
It
was a breezy sunny day; the air freshened the girls' cheeks, and gracefully
dishevelled their ringlets: both of them looked pretty, - one, gay: Mr Hall
spoke oftenest to his brilliant companion, looked most frequently at the qu=
iet
one. Miss Keeldar gathered handfuls of the profusely blooming flowers, whose
perfume filled the enclosure; she gave some to Caroline, telling her to cho=
ose
a nosegay for Mr Hall; and with her lap filled with delicate and splendid
blossoms, Caroline sat down on the steps of a summer-house: the Vicar stood
near her, leaning on his cane.
Shirley, who could not be
inhospitable, now called out the neglected pair in the oak-parlour: she
convoyed Donne past his dread enemy Tartar, who, with his nose on his
fore-paws, lay snoring under the meridian sun. Donne was not grateful: he n=
ever
was grateful for kindness and attention; but he was glad of the safeguard. =
Miss
Keeldar, desirous of being impartial, offered the curates flowers: they
accepted them with native awkwardness. Malone seemed specially at a loss, w=
hen
a bouquet filled one hand, while his shillelagh occupied the other. Donne's
'Thank you!' was rich to hear: it was the most fatuous and arrogant of soun=
ds,
implying that he considered this offering an homage to his merits, and an
attempt on the part of the heiress to ingratiate herself into his priceless
affections. Sweeting alone received the posy like a smart, sensible little =
man,
as he was; putting it gallantly and nattily into his button-hole.
As a reward for his good manners, =
Miss
Keeldar beckoning him apart, gave him some commission, which made his eyes
sparkle with glee. Away he flew, round by the courtyard to the kitchen: no =
need
to give him directions; he was always at home everywhere. Erelong he
re-appeared, carrying a round table, which he placed under the cedar; then =
he
collected six garden-chairs from various nooks and bowers in the grounds, a=
nd
placed them in a circle. The parlour-maid - Miss Keeldar kept no footman - =
came
out, bearing a napkin-covered tray. Sweeting's nimble fingers aided in
disposing glasses, plates, knives and forks: he assisted her too in setting
forth a neat luncheon, consisting of cold chicken, ham, and tarts.
This sort of impromptu regale, it =
was
Shirley's delight to offer any chance guests: and nothing pleased her better
than to have an alert, obliging little friend, like Sweeting, to run about =
her
hand, cheerily receive and briskly execute her hospitable hints. David and =
she
were on the best terms in the world; and his devotion to the heiress was qu=
ite
disinterested, since it prejudiced in nothing his faithful allegiance to the
magnificent Dora Sykes.
The repast turned out a very merry one. Donne and Malone, indeed, contributed but little to its vivacity, the chief part they played in it being what concerned the knife, fork, and wineglass; but where four such natures as Mr Hall, David Sweeting, Shirley,= and Caroline, were assembled in health and amity, on a green lawn, under a sunny sky, amidst a wilderness of flowers, there could not be ungenial dullness.<= o:p>
In the course of conversation, Mr =
Hall
reminded the ladies that Whitsuntide was approaching, when the grand United
Sunday-School tea-drinking and procession of the three parishes of Briarfie=
ld,
Whinbury, and Nunnely were to take place. Caroline he knew would be at her =
post
as teacher, he said, and he hoped Miss Keeldar would not be wanting: he hop=
ed
she would make her first public appearance amongst them at that time. Shirl=
ey
was not the person to miss an occasion of this sort; she liked festive
excitement, a gathering of happiness, a concentration and combination of
pleasant details, a throng of glad faces, a muster of elated hearts: she to=
ld Mr
Hall they might count on her with security: she did not know what she would
have to do, but they might dispose of her as they pleased.
'And,' said Caroline, 'you will
promise to come to my table, and to sit near me, Mr Hall?'
'I shall not fail, Deo volente,' s=
aid
he. 'I have occupied the place on her right hand at these monster tea-drink=
ings
for the last six years,' he proceeded, turning to Miss Keeldar. 'They made =
her
a Sunday-school teacher when she was a little girl of twelve: she is not
particularly self-confident by nature, as you may have observed; and the fi=
rst
time she had to 'take a tray,' as the phrase is, and make tea in public, th=
ere
was some piteous trembling and flushing. I observed the speechless panic, t=
he
cups shaking in the little hand, and the overflowing tea-pot filled too ful=
l from
the urn. I came to her aid, took a seat near her, managed the urn and the
slop-basin, and in fact made the tea for her like any old woman.'
'I was very grateful to you,'
interposed Caroline.
'You were: you told me so with an
earnest sincerity that repaid me well; inasmuch as it was not like the majo=
rity
of little ladies of twelve, whom you may help and caress for ever without t=
heir
evincing any quicker sense of the kindness done and meant than if they were
made of wax and wood, instead of flesh and nerves. She kept close to me, Mi=
ss
Keeldar, the rest of the evening, walking with me over the grounds where the
children were playing; she followed me into the vestry when all were summon=
ed
into church: she would, I believe, have mounted with me to the pulpit, had I
not taken the previous precaution of conducting her to the Rectory-pew.'
'And he has been my friend ever
since,' said Caroline.
'And always sat at her table, near=
her
tray, and handed the cups, - that is the extent of my services. The next th=
ing
I do for her will be to marry her some day to some curate or mill-owner: but
mind, Caroline, I shall inquire about the bridegroom's character, and if he=
is
not a gentleman likely to render happy the little girl who walked with me h=
and
in hand over Nunnely Common, I will not officiate: so take care.'
'The caution is useless: I am not
going to be married. I shall live single like your sister Margaret, Mr Hall=
.'
'Very well - you might do worse -
Margaret is not unhappy: she has her books for a pleasure, and her brother =
for
a care, and is content. If ever you want a home; if the day should come when
Briarfield Rectory is yours no longer, come to Nunnely Vicarage. Should the=
old
maid and bachelor be still living, they will make you tenderly welcome.'
'There are your flowers. Now,' said
Caroline, who had kept the nosegay she had selected for him till this momen=
t,
'you don't care for a bouquet, but you must give it to Margaret: only - to =
be
sentimental for once - keep that little forget-me-not, which is a wild-flow=
er I
gathered from the grass; and - to be still more sentimental - let me take t=
wo
or three of the blue blossoms and put them in my souvenir.'
And she took out a small book with
enamelled cover and silver clasp, wherein, having opened it, she inserted t=
he
flowers, writing round them in pencil - 'To be kept for the sake of the Rev.
Cyril Hall, my friend. May - =
, 18 -
.'
The Rev. Cyril Hall, on his part a=
lso,
placed a sprig in safety between the leaves of a pocket Testament: he only
wrote on the margin - 'Caroline.'
'Now,' said he, smiling, 'I trust =
we
are romantic enough. Miss Keeldar,' he continued (the curates, by-the-bye,
during this conversation, were too much occupied with their own jokes to no=
tice
what passed at the other end of the table), 'I hope you are laughing at this
trait of 'exaltation' in the old grey- headed Vicar; but the fact is, I am =
so
used to comply with the requests of this young friend of yours, I don't know
how to refuse her when she tells me to do anything. You would say it is not
much in my way to traffic with flowers and forget-me-nots: but, you see, wh=
en
requested to be sentimental, I am obedient.'
'He is naturally rather sentimenta=
l,'
remarked Caroline; 'Margaret told me so, and I know what pleases him.'
'That you should be good and happy?
Yes; that is one of my greatest pleasures. May God long preserve to you the
blessings of peace and innocence! By which phrase, I mean comparative
innocence; for in His sight, I am well aware, none are pure. What, to our h=
uman
perceptions, looks spotless as we fancy angels, is to Him but frailty, need=
ing
the blood of His Son to cleanse, and the strength of His Spirit to sustain.=
Let
us each and all cherish humility - I, as you, my young friends; and we may =
well
do it when we look into our own hearts, and see there temptations,
inconsistencies, propensities, even we blush to recognise. And it is not yo=
uth,
nor good looks, nor grace, nor any gentle outside charm which makes either
beauty or goodness in God's eyes. Young ladies, when your mirror or men's t=
ongues
flatter you, remember that, in the sight of her Maker, Mary Ann Ainley - a
woman whom neither glass nor lips have ever panegyrised - is fairer and bet=
ter
than either of you. She is, indeed,' he added, after a pause - 'she is, ind=
eed.
You young things - wrapt up in yourselves and in earthly hopes - scarcely l=
ive
as Christ lived: perhaps you cannot do it yet, while existence is so sweet =
and
earth so smiling to you; it would be too much to expect: she, with meek hea=
rt
and due reverence, treads close in her Redeemer's steps.'
Here the harsh voice of Donne brok=
e in
on the mild tones of Mr Hall - 'Ahem!' he began, clearing his throat eviden=
tly
for a speech of some importance. 'Ahem Miss Keeldar, your attention an inst=
ant,
if you please.'
'Well,' said Shirley nonchalantly.
'What is it? I listen: all of me is ear that is not eye.'
'I hope part of you is hand also,'
returned Donne, in his vulgarly presumptuous and familiar style, 'and part
purse: it is to the hand and purse I propose to appeal. I came here this mo=
rning
with a view to beg of you - - '
'You should have gone to Mrs Gill:=
she
is my almoner.'
'To beg of you a subscription to a
school. I and Dr. Boultby intend to erect one in the hamlet of Ecclefigg, w=
hich
is under our vicarage of Whinbury. The Baptists have got possession of it: =
they
have a chapel there, and we want to dispute the ground.'
'But I have nothing to do with
Ecclefigg: I possess no property there.'
'What does that signify? You're a
Churchwoman, ain't you?'
'Admirable creature!' muttered Shi=
rley,
under her breath: 'exquisite address: fine style! What raptures he excites =
in
me!' Then aloud, 'I am a Churchwoman, certainly.'
'Then you can't refuse to contribu=
te
in this case. The population of Ecclefigg are a parcel of brutes - we want =
to
civilise them.'
'Who is to be the missionary?'
'Myself, probably.'
'You won't fail through lack of
sympathy with your flock.'
'I hope not - I expect success; bu=
t we
must have money. There is the paper - pray give a handsome sum.'
When asked for money, Shirley rare=
ly
held back. She put down her name for £5: after the £300 she had
lately given, and the many smaller sums she was giving constantly, it was as
much as she could at present afford. Donne looked at it, declared the
subscription 'shabby,' and clamorously demanded more. Miss Keeldar flushed =
up
with some indignation and more astonishment.
'At present I shall give no more,'
said she.
'Not give more! Why, I expected yo=
u to
head the list with a cool hundred. With your property, you should never put
down a signature for less.'
She was silent.
'In the south,' went on Donne, 'a =
lady
with a thousand a year would be ashamed to give five pounds for a public
object.'
Shirley, so rarely haughty, looked=
so
now. Her slight frame became nerved; her distinguished face quickened with
scorn.
'Strange remarks!' said she: 'most
inconsiderate! Reproach in return for bounty is misplaced.'
'Bounty! Do you call five pounds
bounty?'
'I do: and bounty which, had I not
given it to Dr. Boultby's intended school, of the erection of which I appro=
ve,
and in no sort to his curate, who seems ill- advised in his manner of apply=
ing
for - or rather extorting - subscriptions, - bounty, I repeat, which, but f=
or
this consideration, I should instantly reclaim.'
Donne was thick-skinned: he did not
feel all or half that the tone, air, glance of the speaker expressed: he kn=
ew
not on what ground he stood.
'Wretched place - this Yorkshire,'=
he
went on. 'I could never have formed an idear of the country had I not seen =
it;
and the people - rich and poor - what a set! How corse and uncultivated! Th=
ey
would be scouted in the south.'
Shirley leaned forwards on the tab=
le,
her nostrils dilating a little, her taper fingers interlaced and compressing
each other hard.
'The rich,' pursued the infatuated=
and
unconscious Donne, 'are a parcel of misers - never living as persons with t=
heir
incomes ought to live: you scarsley' - (you must excuse Mr Donne's
pronunciation, reader; it was very choice; he considered it genteel, and pr=
ided
himself on his southern accent; northern ears received with singular sensat=
ions
his utterance of certain words); 'you scarsley ever see a fam'ly where a pr=
opa
carriage or a reg'la butla is kep; and as to the poor - just look at them w=
hen
they come crowding about the church-doors on the occasion of a marriage or a
funeral, clattering in clogs; the men in their shirt-sleeves and wool-combe=
rs'
aprons, the women in mob-caps and bed-gowns. They pos'tively deserve that o=
ne
should turn a mad cow in amongst them to rout their rabble-rank - he! he! W=
hat fun
it would be!'
'There, - you have reached the
climax,' said Shirley quietly. 'You have reached the climax,' she repeated,
turning her glowing glance towards him. 'You cannot go beyond it, and,' she
added with emphasis, 'you shall not, in my house.'
Up she rose: nobody could control =
her
now, for she was exasperated; straight she walked to her garden-gates, wide=
she
flung them open.
'Walk through,' she said austerely,
'and pretty quickly, and set foot on this pavement no more.'
Donne was astounded. He had thought
all the time he was showing himself off to high advantage, as a lofty-souled
person of the first 'ton'; he imagined he was producing a crushing impressi=
on.
Had he not expressed disdain of everything in Yorkshire? What more conclusi=
ve
proof could be given that he was better than anything there? And yet here w=
as
he about to be turned like a dog out of a Yorkshire garden! Where, under su=
ch
circumstances, was the 'concatenation accordingly'?
'Rid me of you instantly - instant=
ly!'
reiterated Shirley, as he lingered.
'Madam - a clergyman! Turn out a
clergyman?'
'Off! Were you an archbishop you h=
ave
proved yourself no gentleman, and must go. Quick!'
She was quite resolved: there was =
no
trifling with her: besides, Tartar was again rising; he perceived symptoms =
of a
commotion: he manifested a disposition to join in; there was evidently noth=
ing
for it but to go, and Donne made his Exodus; the heiress sweeping him a deep
curtsey as she closed the gates on him.
'How dare the pompous priest abuse=
his
flock? How dare the lisping cockney revile Yorkshire?' was her sole observa=
tion
on the circumstance, as she returned to the table.
Ere long, the little party broke u=
p:
Miss Keeldar's ruffled and darkened brow, curled lip, and incensed eye, gav=
e no
invitation to further social enjoyment.
The fund prospered. By dint of Miss
Keeldar's example, the three rectors' vigorous exertions, and the efficient
though quiet aid of their spinster and spectacled lieutenants, Mary Ann Ain=
ley
and Margaret Hall, a handsome sum was raised; and this being judiciously
managed, served for the present greatly to alleviate the distress of the
unemployed poor. The neighbourhood seemed to grow calmer: for a fortnight p=
ast
no cloth had been destroyed; no outrage on mill or mansion had been committ=
ed
in the three parishes. Shirley was sanguine that the evil she wished to ave=
rt
was almost escaped; that the threatened storm was passing over: with the
approach of summer she felt certain that trade would improve - it always di=
d; and
then this weary war could not last for ever: peace must return one day: with
peace what an impulse would be given to commerce!
Such was the usual tenor of her
observations to her tenant, Gérard Moore, whenever she met him where
they could converse, and Moore would listen very quietly - too quietly to
satisfy her. She would then by her impatient glance demand something more f=
rom
him - some explanation, or at least some additional remark. Smiling in his =
way,
with that expression which gave a remarkable cast of sweetness to his mouth,
while his brow remained grave, he would answer to the effect, that himself,
too, trusted in the finite nature of the war; that it was indeed on that gr=
ound
the anchor of his hopes was fixed: thereon his speculations depended. 'For =
you
are aware,' he would continue, 'that I now work Hollow's Mill entirely on
speculation: I sell nothing; there is no market for my goods. I manufacture=
for
a future day: I make myself ready to take advantage of the first opening th=
at
shall occur. Three months ago this was impossible to me; I had exhausted bo=
th
credit and capital: you well know who came to my rescue; from what hand I
received the loan which saved me. It is on the strength of that loan I am
enabled to continue the bold game which, a while since, I feared I should n=
ever
play more. Total ruin I know will follow loss, and I am aware that gain is
doubtful; but I am quite cheerful: so long as I can be active, so long as I=
can
strive, so long, in short, as my hands are not tied, it is impossible for m=
e to
be depressed. One year, nay, but six months of the reign of the olive, and =
I am
safe; for, as you say, peace will give an impulse to commerce. In this you =
are
right; but as to the restored tranquillity of the neighbourhood - as to the
permanent good effect of your charitable fund - I doubt. Eleemosynary relief
never yet tranquillised the working-classes - it never made them grateful; =
it
is not in human nature that it should. I suppose, were all things ordered
aright, they ought not to be in a position to need that humiliating relief;=
and
this they feel: we should feel it were we so placed. Besides, to whom should
they be grateful? To you - to the clergy perhaps, but not to us mill-owners.
They hate us worse than ever. Then, the disaffected here are in corresponde=
nce
with the disaffected elsewhere: Nottingham is one of their headquarters,
Manchester another, Birmingham a third. The subalterns receive orders from
their chiefs; they are in a good state of discipline: no blow is struck wit=
hout
mature deliberation. In sultry weather, you have seen the sky threaten thun=
der
day by day, and yet night after night the clouds have cleared, and the sun =
has
set quietly; but the danger was not gone, it was only delayed: the
long-threatening storm is sure to break at last. There is analogy between t=
he
moral and physical atmosphere.'
'Well, Mr Moore' (so these confere=
nces
always ended), 'take care of yourself. If you think that I have ever done y=
ou
any good, reward me by promising to take care of yourself.'
'I do: I will take close and watch=
ful
care. I wish to live, not to die: the future opens like Eden before me; and
still, when I look deep into the shades of my paradise, I see a vision, tha=
t I
like better than seraph or cherub, glide across remote vistas.'
'Do you? Pray, what vision?'
'I see -&=
nbsp;
- '
The maid came bustling in with the
tea-things.
The early part of that May, as we =
have
seen, was fine, the middle was wet; but in the last week, at change of moon=
, it
cleared again. A fresh wind swept off the silver-white, deep-piled rain-clo=
uds,
bearing them, mass on mass, to the eastern horizon; on whose verge they
dwindled, and behind whose rim they disappeared, leaving the vault behind a=
ll
pure blue space, ready for the reign of the summer sun. That sun rose broad=
on
Whitsuntide: the gathering of the schools was signalised by splendid weathe=
r.
Whit-Tuesday was the great day, in
preparation for which the two large schoolrooms of Briarfield, built by the
present rector, chiefly at his own expense, were cleaned out, white-washed,
repainted, and decorated with flowers and evergreens - some from the
Rectory-garden, two cart-loads from Fieldhead, and a wheel-barrowful from t=
he
more stingy domain of De Walden, the residence of Mr Wynne. In these
schoolrooms twenty tables, each calculated to accommodate twenty guests, we=
re
laid out, surrounded with benches, and covered with white cloths: above them
were suspended at least some twenty cages, containing as many canaries,
according to a fancy of the district, specially cherished by Mr Helstone's
clerk, who delighted in the piercing song of these birds, and knew that ami=
dst
confusion of tongues they always carolled loudest. These tables, be it
understood, were not spread for the twelve hundred scholars to be assembled
from the three parishes, but only for the patrons and teachers of the schoo=
ls:
the children's feast was to be spread in the open air. At one o'clock the
troops were to come in; at two they were to be marshalled; till four they w=
ere
to parade the parish; then came the feast, and afterwards the meeting, with
music and speechifying in the church.
Why Briarfield was chosen for the
point of rendezvous - the scene of the fête - should be explained. It=
was
not because it was the largest or most populous parish - Whinbury far outdi=
d it
in that respect; nor because it was the oldest - antique as were the hoary
Church and Rectory, Nunnely's low-roofed Temple and mossy Parsonage, buried
both in coeval oaks, outstanding sentinels of Nunnwood, were older still: it
was simply because Mr Helstone willed it so, and Mr Helstone's will was
stronger than that of Boultby or Hall; the former could not, the latter wou=
ld
not, dispute a point of precedence with their resolute and imperious brothe=
r:
they let him lead and rule.
This notable anniversary had always
hitherto been a trying day to Caroline Helstone, because it dragged her
perforce into public, compelling her to face all that was wealthy, respecta=
ble,
influential in the neighbourhood; in whose presence, but for the kind
countenance of Mr Hall, she would have appeared unsupported. Obliged to be
conspicuous; obliged to walk at the head of her regiment as the Rector's ni=
ece,
and first teacher of the first class; obliged to make tea at the first table
for a mixed multitude of ladies and gentlemen; and to do all this without t=
he
countenance of mother, aunt, or other chaperon - she, meantime, being a ner=
vous
person, who mortally feared publicity - it will be comprehended that, under
these circumstances, she trembled at the approach of Whitsuntide.
But this year Shirley was to be wi=
th
her, and that changed the aspect of the trial singularly - it changed it
utterly: it was a trial no longer - it was almost an enjoyment. Miss Keeldar
was better in her single self than a host of ordinary friends. Quite
self-possessed, and always spirited and easy; conscious of her social
importance, yet never presuming upon it, it would be enough to give one cou=
rage
only to look at her. The only fear was, lest the heiress should not be punc=
tual
to tryst: she often had a careless way of lingering behind time, and Caroli=
ne
knew her uncle would not wait a second for any one: at the moment of the
church-clock tolling two, the bells would clash out and the march begin. She
must look after Shirley, then, in this matter, or her expected companion wo=
uld
fail her.
Whit-Tuesday saw her rise almost w=
ith
the sun. She, Fanny, and Eliza were busy the whole morning arranging the
Rectory-parlours in first-rate company order, and setting out a collation of
cooling refreshments - wine, fruit, cakes - on the dining-room sideboard. T=
hen
she had to dress in her freshest and fairest attire of white muslin; the
perfect fineness of the day and the solemnity of the occasion warranted, and
even exacted, such costume. Her new sash - a birthday present from Margaret
Hall, which she had reason to believe Cyril himself had bought, and in retu=
rn
for which she had indeed given him a set of cambric bands in a handsome cas=
e -
was tied by the dexterous fingers of Fanny, who took no little pleasure in =
arraying
her fair young mistress for the occasion; her simple bonnet had been trimme=
d to
correspond with her sash; her pretty but inexpensive scarf of white crape
suited her dress. When ready she formed a picture, not bright enough to daz=
zle,
but fair enough to interest; not brilliantly striking, but very delicately
pleasing; a picture in which sweetness of tint, purity of air, and grace of
mien, atoned for the absence of rich colouring and magnificent contour. What
her brown eye and clear forehead showed of her mind, was in keeping with her
dress and face - modest, gentle, and, though pensive, harmonious. It appear=
ed
that neither lamb nor dove need fear her, but would welcome rather, in her =
look
of simplicity and softness, a sympathy with their own natures, or with the
natures we ascribe to them.
After all, she was an imperfect,
faulty human being; fair enough of form, hue, and array; but, as Cyril Hall
said, neither so good nor so great as the withered Miss Ainley, now putting=
on
her best black gown and Quaker-drab shawl and bonnet in her own narrow
cottage-chamber.
Away Caroline went, across some ve=
ry
sequestered fields and through some quite hidden lanes, to Fieldhead. She
glided quickly under the green hedges and across the greener leas. There wa=
s no
dust - no moisture - to soil the hem of her stainless garment, or to damp h=
er
slender sandal: after the late rains all was clean, and under the present
glowing sun all was dry: she walked fearlessly, then on daisy and turf, and
through thick plantations; she reached Fieldhead and penetrated to Miss
Keeldar's dressing-room.
It was well she had come, or Shirl=
ey
would have been too late. Instead of making ready with all speed, she lay
stretched on a couch, absorbed in reading: Mrs Pryor stood near, vainly urg=
ing
her to rise and dress. Caroline wasted no words: she immediately took the b=
ook
from her, and with her own hands commenced the business of disrobing and
re-robing her. Shirley, indolent with the heat, and gay with her youth and
pleasurable nature, wanted to talk, laugh and linger; but Caroline, intent =
on
being in time, persevered in dressing her as fast as fingers could fasten
strings or insert pins. At length, as she united a final row of hooks and e=
yes,
she found leisure to chide her, saying she was very naughty to be so
unpunctual; that she looked even now the picture of incorrigible carelessne=
ss:
and so Shirley did - but a very lovely picture of that tiresome quality.
She presented quite a contrast to
Caroline: there was style in every fold of her dress and every line of her
figure: the rich silk suited her better than a simpler costume; the deep
embroidered scarf became her: she wore it negligently, but gracefully; the
wreath on her bonnet crowned her well: the attention to fashion, the tastef=
ul
appliance of ornament in each portion of her dress, were quite in place with
her: all this suited her, like the frank light in her eyes, the rallying sm=
ile
about her lips, like her shaft-straight carriage and lightsome step. Caroli=
ne
took her hand when she was dressed, hurried her downstairs, out of doors, a=
nd
thus they sped through the fields, laughing as they went, and looking very =
much
like a snow-white dove and gem-tinted bird-of- paradise joined in social
flight.
Thanks to Miss Helstone's promptit=
ude,
they arrived in good time. While yet trees hid the church, they heard the b=
ell
tolling a measured but urgent summons for all to assemble; the trooping in =
of
numbers, the trampling of many steps, and murmuring of many voices were
likewise audible. From a rising ground they presently saw, on the Whinbury
road, the Whinbury school approaching: it numbered five hundred souls. The
Rector and Curate, Boultby and Donne, headed it: the former, looming large =
in
full canonicals, walking as became a beneficed priest, under the canopy of a
shovel-hat, with the dignity of an ample corporation, the embellishment of =
the
squarest and vastest of black coats, and the support of the stoutest of
gold-headed canes. As the Doctor walked, he now and then slightly flourished
his cane, and inclined his shovel-hat with a dogmatical wag towards his
aide-de-camp. That aide-de-camp - Donne, to wit - narrow as the line of his
shape was compared to the broad bulk of his principal, contrived,
notwithstanding, to look every inch a curate: all about him was pragmatical=
and
self-complacent, from his turned-up nose and elevated chin to his clerical
black gaiters, his somewhat short, strapless trousers, and his square-toed
shoes.
Walk on, Mr Donne! You have underg=
one
scrutiny. You think you look well - whether the white and purple figures
watching you from yonder hill think so, is another question.
These figures come running down wh=
en
the regiment has marched by: the churchyard is full of children and teacher=
s,
all in their very best holiday attire: and - distressed as is the district,=
bad
as are the times - it is wonderful to see how respectably - how handsomely =
even
- they have contrived to clothe themselves. That British love of decency wi=
ll
work miracles: the poverty which reduces an Irish girl to rags is impotent =
to
rob the English girl of the neat wardrobe she knows necessary to her
self-respect. Besides, the lady of the manor - that Shirley, now gazing with
pleasure on this well-dressed and happy- looking crowd - has really done th=
em
good: her seasonable bounty consoled many a poor family against the coming
holiday, and supplied many a child with a new frock or bonnet for the occas=
ion;
she knows it, and is elate with the consciousness: glad that her money,
example, and influence have really - substantially - benefited those around
her. She cannot be charitable like Miss Ainley - it is not in her nature: it
relieves her to feel that there is another way of being charitable, practic=
able
for other characters, and under other circumstances.
Caroline, too, is pleased; for she
also has done good in her small way; robbed herself of more than one dress,
ribbon, or collar she could ill spare, to aid in fitting out the scholars of
her class; and as she could not give money, she has followed Miss Ainley's
example, in giving her time and her industry to sew for the children.
Not only is the churchyard full, b=
ut
the Rectory-garden is also thronged: pairs and parties of ladies and gentle=
men
are seen walking amongst the waving lilacs and laburnums. The house also is
occupied: at the wide-open parlour- windows gay groups are standing. These =
are
the patrons and teachers, who are to swell the procession. In the parson's
croft, behind the Rectory, are the musicians of the three parish bands, with
their instruments. Fanny and Eliza, in the smartest of caps and gowns, and =
the
whitest of aprons, move amongst them, serving out quarts of ale; whereof a
stock was brewed very sound and strong some weeks since, by the Rector's
orders, and under his special superintendence. Whatever he had a hand in, m=
ust
be managed handsomely: 'shabby doings,' of any description, were not endured
under his sanction: from the erection of a public building, a church, schoo=
l,
or court-house, to the cooking of a dinner, he still advocated the lordly,
liberal, and effective. Miss Keeldar was like him in this respect, and they
mutually approved each other's arrangements.
Caroline and Shirley were soon in =
the
midst of the company; the former met them very easily for her: instead of
sitting down in a retired corner, or stealing away to her own room till the
procession should be marshalled, according to her wont, she moved through t=
he
three parlours, conversed and smiled, absolutely spoke once or twice ere she
was spoken to, and, in short, seemed a new creature. It was Shirley's prese=
nce
which thus transformed her: the view of Miss Keeldar's air and manner did h=
er a
world of good. Shirley had no fear of her kind; no tendency to shrink from,=
to
avoid it. All human beings, men, women, or children, whom low breeding or c=
oarse
presumption did not render positively offensive, were welcome enough to her:
some much more so than others, of course; but, generally speaking, till a m=
an
had indisputably proved himself bad and a nuisance, Shirley was willing to
think him good and an acquisition, and to treat him accordingly. This
disposition made her a general favourite, for it robbed her very raillery of
its sting, and gave her serious or smiling conversation a happy charm: nor =
did
it diminish the value of her intimate friendship, which was a distinct thing
from this social benevolence, depending, indeed, on quite a different part =
of
her character. Miss Helstone was the choice of her affection and intellect;=
the
Misses Pearson, Sykes, Wynne, etc., etc., only the profiters by her good-na=
ture
and vivacity.
Donne happened to come into the
drawing-room while Shirley, sitting on the sofa, formed the centre of a
tolerably wide circle. She had already forgotten her exasperation against h=
im,
and she bowed and smiled good-humouredly. The disposition of the man was th=
en
seen. He knew neither how to decline the advance with dignity, as one whose
just pride has been wounded, nor how to meet it with frankness, as one who =
is
glad to forget and forgive; his punishment had impressed him with no sense =
of
shame, and he did not experience that feeling on encountering his chastiser=
: he
was not vigorous enough in evil to be actively malignant - he merely passed=
by
sheepishly with a rated, scowling look. Nothing could ever again reconcile =
him
to his enemy; while no passion of resentment, for even sharper and more
ignominious inflictions, could his lymphatic nature know.
'He was not worth a scene!' said Shirley to Caroline. 'What a fool I was! To revenge on poor Donne his silly spite at Yorkshire, is something like crushing a gnat for attacking the hid= e of a rhinoceros. Had I been a gentleman, I believe I should have helped him off the premises by dint of physical force: I am glad now I only employed the m= oral weapon. But he must come near me no more: I don't like him: he irritates me: there is not even amusement to be had out of him: Malone is better sport.'<= o:p>
It seemed as if Malone wished to
justify the preference; for the words were scarcely out of the speaker's mo=
uth,
when Peter Augustus came up, all in 'grande tenue,' gloved and scented, with
his hair oiled and brushed to perfection, and bearing in one hand a huge bu=
nch
of cabbage roses, five or six in full blow: these he presented to the heire=
ss
with a grace to which the most cunning pencil could do but defective justic=
e.
And who, after this, could dare to say that Peter was not a lady's man? He =
had
gathered and he had given flowers: he had offered a sentimental - a poetic
tribute at the shrine of Love or Mammon. Hercules holding the distaff was b=
ut a
faint type of Peter bearing the roses. He must have thought this himself, f=
or
he seemed amazed at what he had done: he backed without a word; he was going
away with a husky chuckle of self- felicitation; then he bethought himself =
to
stop and turn, to ascertain by ocular testimony that he really had presente=
d a
bouquet: yes - there were the six red cabbages on the purple satin lap, a v=
ery
white hand, with some gold rings on the fingers, slightly holding them
together, and streaming ringlets, half hiding a laughing face, drooped over
them: only half-hiding: Peter saw the laugh - it was unmistakable - he was =
made
a joke of - his gallantry, his chivalry were the subject of a jest for a
petticoat - for two petticoats - Miss Helstone too was smiling. Moreover, he
felt he was seen through, and Peter grew black as a thundercloud. When Shir=
ley
looked up, a fell eye was fastened on her: Malone, at least, had energy eno=
ugh
in hate: she saw it in his glance.
'Peter is worth a scene, and shall
have it; if he likes, one day,' she whispered to her friend.
And now - solemn and sombre as to
their colour, though bland enough as to their faces - appeared at the
dining-room door the three rectors: they had hitherto been busy in the chur=
ch,
and were now coming to take some little refreshment for the body, ere the m=
arch
commenced. The large morocco-covered easy chair had been left vacant for Dr.
Boultby; he was put into it, and Caroline, obeying the instigations of Shir=
ley,
who told her now was the time to play the hostess, hastened to hand to her
uncle's vast, revered, and, on the whole, worthy friend, a glass of wine an=
d a
plate of macaroons. Boultby's churchwardens, patrons of the Sunday-school b=
oth,
as he insisted on their being, were already beside him; Mrs Sykes. and the
other ladies of his congregation were on his right hand and on his left,
expressing their hopes that he was not fatigued, their fears that the day w=
ould
be too warm for him. Mrs Boultby, who held an opinion that when her lord
dropped asleep after a good dinner his face became as the face of an angel,=
was
bending over him, tenderly wiping some perspiration, real or imaginary, from
his brow: Boultby, in short, was in his glory, and in a round sound 'voix de
poitrine,' he rumbled out thanks for attentions, and assurances of his
tolerable health. Of Caroline he took no manner of notice as she came near,
save to accept what she offered; he did not see her, he never did see her: =
he
hardly knew that such a person existed. He saw the macaroons, however, and
being fond of sweets, possessed himself of a small handful thereof. The win=
e Mrs
Boultby insisted on mingling with hot water, and qualifying with sugar and
nutmeg.
Mr Hall stood near an open window,
breathing the fresh air and scent of flowers, and talking like a brother to=
Miss
Ainley. To him Caroline turned her attention with pleasure. 'What should she
bring him? He must not help himself - he must be served by her'; and she
provided herself with a little salver, that she might offer him variety.
Margaret Hall joined them; so did Miss Keeldar: the four ladies stood round
their favourite pastor: they also had an idea that they looked on the face =
of
an earthly angel: Cyril Hall was their pope, infallible to them as Dr. Thom=
as
Boultby to his admirers. A throng, too, enclosed the Rector of Briarfield:
twenty or more pressed round him; and no parson was ever more potent in a
circle than old Helstone. The curates, herding together after their manner,
made a constellation of three lesser planets: divers young ladies watched t=
hem
afar off, but ventured not nigh.
Mr Helstone produced his watch. 'T=
en
minutes to two,' he announced aloud. 'Time for all to fall into line. Come.=
' He
seized his shovel-hat and marched away; all rose and followed en masse.
The twelve hundred children were d=
rawn
up in three bodies of four hundred souls each: in the rear of each regiment=
was
stationed a band; between every twenty there was an interval, wherein Helst=
one
posted the teachers in pairs: to the van of the armies he summoned -
'Grace Boultby and Mary Sykes lead=
out
Whinbury.'
'Margaret Hall and Mary Ann Ainley
conduct Nunnely.'
'Caroline Helstone and Shirley Kee=
ldar
head Briarfield.'
Then again he gave command -
'Mr Donne to Whinbury: Mr Sweeting=
to
Nunnely; Mr Malone to Briarfield.'
And these gentlemen stepped up bef=
ore
the lady-generals.
The rectors passed to the full fro=
nt -
the parish clerks fell to the extreme rear; Helstone lifted his shovel-hat;=
in
an instant out clashed the eight bells in the tower, loud swelled the sound=
ing
bands, flute spoke and clarion answered, deep rolled the drums, and away th=
ey
marched.
The broad white road unrolled befo=
re
the long procession, the sun and sky surveyed it cloudless, the wind tossed=
the
tree-boughs above it, and the twelve hundred children, and one hundred and
forty adults, of which it was composed, trod on in time and tune, with gay
faces and glad hearts. It was a joyous scene, and a scene to do good: it wa=
s a
day of happiness for rich and poor: the work, first of God, and then of the
clergy. Let England's priests have their due: they are a faulty set in some
respects, being only of common flesh and blood, like us all; but the land w=
ould
be badly off without them: Britain would miss her church, if that church fe=
ll.
God save it! God also reform it!
Not on combat bent, nor of foemen =
in
search, was this priest-led and women- officered company: yet their music
played martial tunes, and - to judge by the eyes and carriage of some, Miss
Keeldar, for instance - these sounds awoke, if not a martial, yet a longing
spirit. Old Helstone, turning by chance, looked into her face, and he laugh=
ed,
and she laughed at him.
'There is no battle in prospect,' =
he
said; 'our country does not want us to fight for it: no foe or tyrant is
questioning or threatening our liberty: there is nothing to be done: we are
only taking a walk. Keep your hand on the reins, Captain, and slack the fir=
e of
that spirit: it is not wanted; the more's the pity.'
'Take your own advice, Doctor,' was
Shirley's response. To Caroline she murmured, 'I'll borrow of imagination w=
hat
reality will not give me. We are not soldiers-bloodshed is not my desire; o=
r,
if we are, we are soldiers of the Cross. Time has rolled back some hundreds=
of
years, and we are bound on a pilgrimage to Palestine. But no, - that is too
visionary. I need a sterner dream: we are Lowlanders of Scotland, following=
a
covenanting captain up into the hills to hold a meeting out of the reach of
persecuting troopers. We know that battle may follow prayer; and, as we bel=
ieve
that in the worst issue of battle, heaven must be our reward, we are ready =
and
willing to redden the peat- moss with our blood. That music stirs my soul; =
it
wakens all my life; it makes my heart beat: not with its temperate daily pu=
lse,
but with a new, thrilling vigour. I almost long for danger; for a faith - a
land - or, at least, a lover to defend.'
'Look, Shirley!' interrupted Carol=
ine.
'What is that red speck above Stilbro' Brow? You have keener sight than I; =
just
turn your eagle eye to it.'
Miss Keeldar looked. 'I see,' she
said: then added presently, 'there is a line of red. They are soldiers -
cavalry soldiers,' she subjoined quickly: 'they ride fast: there are six of
them: they will pass us: no - they have turned off to the right: they saw o=
ur
procession, and avoid it by making a circuit. Where are they going?'
'Perhaps they are only exercising
their horses'
'Perhaps so. We see them no more n=
ow.'
Mr Helstone here spoke.
'We shall pass through Royd-lane, =
to
reach Nunnely Common by a short cut,' said he.
And into the straits of Royd Lane =
they
accordingly defiled. It was very narrow, - so narrow that only two could wa=
lk
abreast without falling into the ditch which ran along each side. They had
gained the middle of it, when excitement became obvious in the clerical
commanders: Boultby's spectacles and Helstone's Rehoboam were agitated: the
curates nudged each other: Mr Hall turned to the ladies and smiled.
'What is the matter?' was the dema=
nd.
He pointed with his staff to the e=
nd
of the lane before them. Lo and behold! another, - an opposition procession=
was
there entering, headed also by men in black, and followed also, as they cou=
ld
now hear, by music.
'Is it our double?' asked Shirley:
'our manifold wraith? Here is a card turned up.'
'If you wanted a battle, you are
likely to get one, - at least of looks,' whispered Caroline, laughing.
'They shall not pass us!' cried the
curates unanimously: 'we'll not give way!'
'Give way!' retorted Helstone ster=
nly,
turning round; 'who talks of giving way? You, boys, mind what you are about:
the ladies, I know, will be firm; I can trust them. There is not a churchwo=
man
here but will stand her ground against these folks, for the honour of the
Establishment. What does Miss Keeldar say?'
'She asks what is it?'
'The Dissenting and Methodist scho=
ols,
the Baptists, Independents, and Wesleyans, joined in unholy alliance, and
turning purposely into this lane with the intention of obstructing our march
and driving us back.'
'Bad manners!' said Shirley; 'and I
hate bad manners. Of course, they must have a lesson.'
'A lesson in politeness,' suggeste=
d Mr
Hall, who was ever for peace: 'not an example of rudeness.'
Old Helstone moved on. Quickening =
his
step, he marched some yards in advance of his company. He had nearly reache=
d the
other sable leaders, when he who appeared to act as the hostile
commander-in-chief - a large, greasy man, with black hair combed flat on his
forehead - called a halt. The procession paused: he drew forth a hymn-book,
gave out a verse, set a tune, and they all struck up the most dolorous of
canticles.
Helstone signed to his bands: they
clashed out with all the power of brass. He desired them to play 'Rule,
Britannia,' and ordered the children to join in vocally, which they did with
enthusiastic spirit. The enemy was sung and stormed down; his psalm quelled=
: as
far as noise went, he was conquered.
'Now, follow me!' exclaimed Helsto=
ne;
'not at a run, but at a firm, smart pace. Be steady, every child and woman =
of
you: - keep together - hold on by each other's skirts, if necessary.'
And he strode on with such a
determined and deliberate gait, and was, besides, so well seconded by his
scholars and teachers - who did exactly as he told them, neither running nor
faltering, but marching with cool, solid impetus: the curates, too, being
compelled to do the same, as they were between two fires, - Helstone and Mi=
ss
Keeldar, both of whom watched any deviation with lynx-eyed vigilance, and w=
ere
ready, the one with his cane, the other with her parasol, to rebuke the sli=
ghtest
breach of orders, the least independent or irregular demonstration, - that =
the
body of Dissenters were first amazed, then alarmed, then borne down and pre=
ssed
back, and at last forced to turn tail and leave the outlet from Royd Lane f=
ree.
Boultby suffered in the onslaught, but Helstone and Malone, between them, h=
eld
him up, and brought him through the business, whole in limb, though sorely
tried in wind.
The fat Dissenter who had given out
the hymn was left sitting in the ditch. He was a spirit merchant by trade, a
leader of the Nonconformists, and, it was said, drank more water in that one
afternoon than he had swallowed for a twelvemonth before. Mr Hall had taken
care of Caroline, and Caroline of him: he and Miss Ainley made their own qu=
iet
comments to each other afterwards on the incident. Miss Keeldar and Mr Hels=
tone
shook hands heartily when they had fairly got the whole party through the l=
ane.
The curates began to exult, but Mr Helstone presently put the curb on their
innocent spirits: he remarked that they never had sense to know what to say,
and had better hold their tongues; and he reminded them that the business w=
as
none of their managing.
About half-past three the processi=
on
turned back, and at four once more regained the starting-place. Long lines =
of
benches were arranged in the close- shorn fields round the school: there the
children were seated, and huge baskets, covered up with white cloths, and g=
reat
smoking tin vessels were brought out. Ere the distribution of good things
commenced, a brief grace was pronounced by Mr Hall, and sung by the childre=
n:
their young voices sounded melodious, even touching, in the open air. Large
currant buns, and hot, well-sweetened tea, were then administered in the pr=
oper
spirit of liberality: no stinting was permitted on this day, at least; the =
rule
for each child's allowance being that it was to have about twice as much as=
it
could possibly eat, thus leaving a reserve to be carried home for such as a=
ge,
sickness, or other impediment, prevented from coming to the feast. Buns and
beer circulated, meantime, amongst the musicians and church-singers: afterw=
ards
the benches were removed, and they were left to unbend their spirits in
licensed play.
A bell summoned the teachers, patr=
ons,
and patronesses to the schoolroom; Miss Keeldar, Miss Helstone, and many ot=
her
ladies were already there, glancing over the arrangement of their separate
trays and tables. Most of the female servants of the neighbourhood, together
with the clerks', the singers', and the musicians' wives, had been pressed =
into
the service of the day as waiters: each vied with the other in smartness and
daintiness of dress, and many handsome forms were seen amongst the younger
ones. About half a score were cutting bread and butter; another half-score =
supplying
hot water, brought from the coppers of the Rector's kitchen. The profusion =
of
flowers and evergreens decorating the white walls, the show of silver teapo=
ts
and bright porcelain on the tables, the active figures, blithe faces, gay
dresses flitting about everywhere, formed altogether a refreshing and lively
spectacle. Everybody talked, not very loudly, but merrily, and the canary b=
irds
sang shrill in their high-hung cages.
Caroline, as the Rector's niece, t=
ook
her place at one of the three first tables; Mrs Boultby and Margaret Hall
officiated at the others. At these tables the élite of the company w=
ere
to be entertained; strict rules of equality not being more in fashion at
Briarfield than elsewhere. Miss Helstone removed her bonnet and scarf, that=
she
might be less oppressed with the heat; her long curls, falling on her neck,
served almost in place of a veil, and for the rest, her muslin dress was
fashioned modestly as a nun's robe, enabling her thus to dispense with the
encumbrance of a shawl.
The room was filling: Mr Hall had
taken his post beside Caroline, who now, as she re-arranged the cups and sp=
oons
before her, whispered to him in a low voice remarks on the events of the da=
y.
He looked a little grave about what had taken place in Royd Lane, and she t=
ried
to smile him out of his seriousness. Miss Keeldar sat near; for a wonder,
neither laughing nor talking; on the contrary, very still, and gazing round=
her
vigilantly: she seemed afraid lest some intruder should take a seat she
apparently wished to reserve next her own: ever and anon she spread her sat=
in
dress over an undue portion of the bench, or laid her gloves or her embroid=
ered
handkerchief upon it. Caroline noticed this manège at last, and asked
her what friend she expected. Shirley bent towards her, almost touched her =
ear
with her rosy lips, and whispered with a musical softness that often
characterised her tones, when what she said tended even remotely to stir so=
me
sweet secret source of feeling in her heart - 'I expect Mr Moore: I saw him
last night, and I made him promise to come with his sister, and to sit at o=
ur
table: he won't fail me, I feel certain, but I apprehend his coming too lat=
e,
and being separated from us. Here is a fresh batch arriving; every place wi=
ll
be taken: provoking!'
In fact Mr Wynne the magistrate, h=
is
wife, his son, and his two daughters, now entered in high state. They were
Briarfield gentry: of course their place was at the first table, and being
conducted thither, they filled up the whole remaining space. For Miss Keeld=
ar's
comfort, Mr Sam Wynne inducted himself into the very vacancy she had kept f=
or
Moore, planting himself solidly on her gown, her gloves, and her handkerchi=
ef. Mr
Sam was one of the objects of her aversion; and the more so because he show=
ed
serious symptoms of an aim at her hand. The old gentleman, too, had publicly
declared that the Fieldhead estate and the De Walden estate were delightful=
ly
contagious - a malapropism which rumour had not failed to repeat to Shirley=
.
Caroline's ears yet rung with that=
thrilling
whisper, 'I expect Mr Moore,' her heart yet beat and her cheek yet glowed w=
ith
it, when a note from the organ pealed above the confused hum of the place. =
Dr.
Boultby, Mr Helstone, and Mr Hall rose, so did all present, and grace was s=
ung
to the accompaniment of the music; and then tea began. She was kept too busy
with her office for a while to have leisure for looking round, but the last=
cup
being filled, she threw a restless glance over the room. There were some la=
dies
and several gentlemen standing about yet unaccommodated with seats; amidst a
group she recognised her spinster friend, Miss Mann, whom the fine weather =
had
tempted, or some urgent friend had persuaded, to leave her drear solitude f=
or
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 a=
nd
froward-looking face under it; she knew that 'robe de soie noire'; she knew
even that 'schal 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 s=
eat,
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 ey=
es,
so very handsome, that she dared not trust herself to hazard a second glanc=
e;
for his image struck on her vision with painful brightness, and pictured it=
self
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, an=
d by
the fact of that gentleman being still seated on her gloves and handkerchie=
f -
and probably, also, by Moore's want of punctuality - was by no means in good
humour. She first shrugged her shoulder at him, and then she said a bitter =
word
or two about his 'insupportable tardiness.' Moore neither apologised 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, indica=
ting
the change by offering him her hand. Moore took it with a smile, half
corrective, half grateful: the slightest possible shake of the head delicat=
ely
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 f=
or
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-ô-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 h=
im,
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 seco=
nds:
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 oug=
ht
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 judg=
ed
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., happene=
d 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 up=
set
her teacup, its contents were shared between the bench and her own satin dr=
ess.
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 b=
eat
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 napk=
ins,
the satin robe, the whole turmoil, in short, to one side, he installed hims=
elf
where destiny evidently decreed he should sit. Shirley subsided; her featur=
es
altered their lines: the raised knit brow and inexplicable curve of the mou=
th
became straight again: wilfulness and roguery gave place to other expressio=
ns;
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 t=
reat
both with the most respectful consideration, and there, owing to you, how t=
hey
have been used! I shall not be happy till I have made it up: I never am hap=
py
till I am friends with my neighbours; so to-morrow 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 my reticule half an
oat-cake to give to Mr Sam's favourite pointers.'
'You know the surest path to the h=
eart
of each swain, I doubt not,' said Moore quietly. He looked very content to =
have
at last secured his present place; but he made no fine speech expressive of
gratification, and offered no apology for the trouble he had given. His phl=
egm
became him wonderfully: it made him look handsomer, he was so composed: it =
made
his vicinage pleasant, it was so peace-restoring. You would not have though=
t,
to look at him, that he was a poor, struggling man seated beside a rich wom=
an;
the calm of equality stilled his aspect: perhaps that calm, too, reigned in=
his
soul. Now and then, from the way in which he looked down on Miss Keeldar as=
he
addressed her, you would have fancied his station towered above hers as muc=
h as
his stature did. Almost stern lights sometimes crossed his brow and gleamed=
in
his eyes: their conversation had become animated, though it was confined to=
a
low key; she was urging him with questions - evidently he refused to her
curiosity all the gratification it demanded. She sought his eye once with h=
ers:
you read, in its soft yet eager expression, that it solicited clearer repli=
es.
Moore smiled pleasantly, but his lips continued sealed. Then she was piqued=
and
turned away, but he recalled her attention in two minutes: he seemed making
promises, which he soothed her into accepting, in lieu of information.
It appeared that the heat of the r=
oom
did not suit Miss Helstone: she grew paler and paler as the process of
tea-making was protracted. The moment thanks were returned, she quitted the
table, and hastened to follow her cousin Hortense, who, with Miss Mann, had
already sought the open air. Robert Moore had risen when she did - perhaps =
he
meant to speak to her; but there was yet a parting word to exchange with Mi=
ss
Keeldar, and while it was being uttered, Caroline had vanished.
Hortense received her former pupil
with a demeanour of more dignity than warmth: she had been seriously offend=
ed
by Mr Helstone's proceedings, and had all along considered Caroline to blam=
e in
obeying her uncle too literally.
'You are a very great stranger,' s=
he
said austerely, as her pupil held and pressed her hand. The pupil knew her =
too
well to remonstrate or complain of coldness; she let the punctilious whim p=
ass,
sure that her natural bonté (I use this French word, because it expr=
esses
just what I mean; neither goodness nor good-nature, but something between t=
he
two) would presently get the upper hand. It did: Hortense had no sooner
examined her face well, and observed the change its somewhat wasted features
betrayed, than her mien softened. Kissing her on both cheeks, she asked
anxiously after her health: Caroline answered gaily. It would, however, have
been her lot to undergo a long cross - examination, followed by an endless
lecture on this head, had not Miss Mann called off the attention of the
questioner, by requesting to be conducted home. The poor invalid was already
fatigued: her weariness made her cross - too cross almost to speak to Carol=
ine;
and besides, that young person's white dress and lively look were displeasi=
ng
in the eyes of Miss Mann: the everyday garb of brown stuff or grey gingham,=
and
the everyday air of melancholy, suited the solitary spinster better: she wo=
uld
hardly know her young friend tonight, and quitted her with a cool nod. Hort=
ense
having promised to accompany her home, they departed together.
Caroline now looked round for Shir=
ley.
She saw the rainbow scarf and purple dress in the centre of a throng of lad=
ies,
all well known to herself, but all of the order whom she systematically avo=
ided
whenever avoidance was possible. Shyer at some moments than at others, she =
felt
just now no courage at all to join this company: she could not, however, st=
and
alone where all others went in pairs or parties, so she approached a group =
of
her own scholars, great girls, or rather young women, who were standing
watching some hundreds of the younger children playing at blind-man's buff.=
Miss Helstone knew these girls lik=
ed
her, yet she was shy even with them out of school: they were not more in aw=
e of
her than she of them: she drew near them now, rather to find protection in
their company than to patronise them with her presence. By some instinct th=
ey
knew her weakness, and with natural politeness they respected it. Her knowl=
edge
commanded their esteem when she taught them; her gentleness attracted their
regard; and because she was what they considered wise and good when on duty,
they kindly overlooked her evident timidity when off: they did not take
advantage of it. Peasant girls as they were, they had too much of her own
English sensibility to be guilty of the coarse error: they stood round her
still, civil, friendly, receiving her slight smiles, and rather hurried eff=
orts
to converse, with a good feeling and good breeding: the last quality being =
the
result of the first, which soon set her at her ease.
Mr Sam Wynne coming up with great
haste, to insist on the elder girls joining in the game as well as the youn=
ger
ones, Caroline was again left alone. She was meditating a quiet retreat to =
the
house, when Shirley, perceiving from afar her isolation, hastened to her si=
de.
'Let us go to the top of the field=
s,'
she said: 'I know you don't like crowds, Caroline.'
'But it will be depriving you of a
pleasure, Shirley, to take you from all these fine people, who court your
society so assiduously, and to whom you can, without art or effort, make
yourself so pleasant.'
'Not quite without effort: I am
already tired of the exertion: it is but insipid, barren work, talking and
laughing with the good gentlefolks of Briarfield. I have been looking out f=
or
your white dress for the last ten minutes: I like to watch those I love in a
crowd, and to compare them with others: I have thus compared you. You resem=
ble
none of the rest, Lina: there are some prettier faces than yours here; you =
are
not a model-beauty like Harriet Sykes, for instance; beside her, your person
appears almost insignificant; but you look agreeable - you look reflective -
you look what I call interesting.'
'Hush, Shirley! You flatter me.'
'I don't wonder that your scholars
like you.'
'Nonsense, Shirley: talk of someth=
ing
else.'
'We will talk of Moore, then, and =
we
will watch him: I see him even now.'
'Where?' And as Caroline asked the
question, she looked not over the fields, but into Miss Keeldar's eyes, as =
was
her wont whenever Shirley mentioned any object she descried afar. Her friend
had quicker vision than herself; and Caroline seemed to think that the secr=
et
of her eagle acuteness might be read in her dark grey irids: or rather,
perhaps, she only sought guidance by the direction of those discriminating =
and
brilliant spheres.
'There is Moore,' said Shirley,
pointing right across the wide field where a thousand children were playing,
and now nearly a thousand adult spectators walking about. 'There - can you =
miss
the tall stature and straight port? He looks amidst the set that surround h=
im
like Eliab amongst humbler shepherds - like Saul in a war-council: and a
war-council it is, if I am not mistaken.'
'Why so, Shirley?' asked Caroline,
whose eye had at last caught the object it sought. 'Robert is just now spea=
king
to my uncle, and they are shaking hands; they are then reconciled.'
'Reconciled not without good reaso=
n,
depend on it: making common cause against some common foe. And why, think y=
ou,
are Messrs. Wynne and Sykes, and Armitage and Ramsden, gathered in such a c=
lose
circle round them? And why is Malone beckoned to join them? When he is
summoned, be sure a strong arm is needed.'
Shirley, as she watched, grew
restless: her eyes flashed.
'They won't trust me,' she said: '=
that
is always the way when it comes to the point.'
'What about?'
'Cannot you feel? There is some
mystery afloat: some event is expected; some preparation is to be made, I am
certain: I saw it all in Mr Moore's manner this evening: he was excited, yet
hard.'
'Hard to you, Shirley!'
'Yes, to me. He often is hard to m=
e.
We seldom converse tête-à- tête, but I am made to feel t=
hat
the basis of his character is not of eider-down.'
'Yet he seemed to talk to you soft=
ly.'
'Did he not? Very gentle tones and quiet manner; yet the man is peremptory and secret: his secrecy vexes me.'<= o:p>
'Yes - Robert is secret.'
'Which he has scarcely a right to =
be
with me; especially as he commenced by giving me his confidence. Having done
nothing to forfeit that confidence, it ought not to be withdrawn: but I sup=
pose
I am not considered iron-souled enough to be trusted in a crisis.'
'He fears, probably, to occasion y=
ou
uneasiness.'
'An unnecessary precaution: I am of
elastic materials, not soon crushed: he ought to know that: but the man is
proud: he has his faults, say what you will, Lina. Observe how engaged that
group appear: they do not know we are watching them.'
'If we keep on the alert, Shirley,=
we
shall perhaps find the clue to their secret.'
'There will be some unusual moveme=
nts
ere long - perhaps to-morrow - possibly to-night. But my eyes and ears are =
wide
open: Mr Moore, you shall be under surveillance. Be you vigilant also, Lina=
.'
'I will: Robert is going, I saw him
turn - I believe he noticed us - they are shaking hands.'
'Shaking hands, with emphasis,' ad=
ded
Shirley; 'as if they were ratifying some solemn league and covenant.'
They saw Robert quit the group, pa=
ss
through a gate, and disappear.
'And he has not bid us good-bye,'
murmured Caroline.
Scarcely had the words escaped her
lips, when she tried by a smile to deny the confession of disappointment th=
ey
seemed to imply. An unbidden suffusion for one moment both softened and
brightened her eyes.
'Oh, that is soon remedied!' excla=
imed
Shirley. 'We'll make him bid us good- bye.'
'Make him! that is not the same
thing,' was the answer.
'It shall be the same thing.'
'But he is gone: you can't overtake
him.'
'I know a shorter way than that he=
has
taken: we will intercept him.'
'But, Shirley, I would rather not =
go.'
Caroline said this as Miss Keeldar=
seized
her arm, and hurried her down the fields. It was vain to contend: nothing w=
as
so wilful as Shirley, when she took a whim into her head: Caroline found
herself out of sight of the crowd almost before she was aware, and ushered =
into
a narrow shady spot, embowered above with hawthorns, and enamelled under fo=
ot
with daisies. She took no notice of the evening sun chequering the turf, nor
was she sensible of the pure incense exhaling at this hour from tree and pl=
ant;
she only heard the wicket opening at one end, and knew Robert was approachi=
ng.
The long sprays of the hawthorns, shooting out before them, served as a scr=
een;
they saw him before he observed them. At a glance Caroline perceived that h=
is
social hilarity was gone: he had left it behind him in the joy-echoing fiel=
ds
round the school; what remained now was his dark, quiet, business countenan=
ce.
As Shirley had said, a certain hardness characterised his air, while his eye
was excited, but austere. So much the worse-timed was the present freak of =
Shirley's:
if he had looked disposed for holiday mirth, it would not have mattered muc=
h,
but now - -
'I told you not to come,' said
Caroline, somewhat bitterly, to her friend. She seemed truly perturbed: to =
be
intruded on Robert thus, against her will and his expectation, and when he
evidently would rather not be delayed, keenly annoyed her. It did not annoy
Miss Keeldar in the least: she stepped forward and faced her tenant, barring
his way - 'You omitted to bid us good-bye,' she said.
'Omitted to bid you good-bye! Where
did you come from? Are you fairies? I left two like you, one in purple and =
one
in white, standing at the top of a bank, four fields off, but a minute ago.=
'
'You left us there and find us her=
e.
We have been watching you; and shall watch you still: you must be questioned
one day, but not now: at present, all you have to do is to say good-night, =
and
then pass.'
Moore glanced from one to the othe=
r,
without unbending his aspect. 'Days of fete have their privileges, and so h=
ave
days of hazard,' observed he gravely.
'Come - don't moralise: say
good-night, and pass,' urged Shirley.
'Must I say good-night to you, Miss
Keeldar?'
'Yes, and to Caroline likewise. It=
is
nothing new, I hope: you have bid us both good-night before.'
He took her hand, held it in one of
his, and covered it with the other: he looked down at her gravely, kindly, =
yet
commandingly. The heiress could not make this man her subject: in his gaze =
on
her bright face there was no servility, hardly homage; but there was intere=
st
and affection, heightened by another feeling: something in his tone when he
spoke, as well as in his words, marked that last sentiment to be gratitude.=
'Your debtor bids you good-night! -
May you rest safely and serenely till morning!'
'And you, Mr Moore, - what are you
going to do? What have you been saying to Mr Helstone, with whom I saw you
shake hands? Why did all those gentlemen gather round you? Put away reserve=
for
once: be frank with me.'
'Who can resist you? I will be fra=
nk:
to-morrow, if there is anything to relate, you shall hear it.'
'Just now,' pleaded Shirley: 'don't
procrastinate.'
'But I could only tell half a tale;
and my time is limited, - I have not a moment to spare: hereafter I will ma=
ke
amends for delay by candour.'
'But are you going home?'
'Yes.'
'Not to leave it any more to-night=
?'
'Certainly not. At present, farewe=
ll
to both of you!'
He would have taken Caroline's hand
and joined it in the same clasp in which he held Shirley's, but somehow it =
was
not ready for him; she had withdrawn a few steps apart: her answer to Moore=
's
adieu was only a slight bend of the head, and a gentle, serious smile. He
sought no more cordial token: again he said 'Farewell!' and quitted them bo=
th.
'There! - it is over!' said Shirle=
y,
when he was gone. 'We have made him bid us good-night, and yet not lost gro=
und
in his esteem, I think, Cary.'
'I hope not,' was the brief reply.=
'I consider you very timid and
undemonstrative,' remarked Miss Keeldar. 'Why did you not give Mr Moore your
hand when he offered you his? He is your cousin: you like him. Are you asha=
med
to let him perceive your affection?'
'He perceives all of it that inter=
ests
him: no need to make a display of feeling.'
'You are laconic: you would be sto=
ical
if you could. Is love, in your eyes, a crime, Caroline?'
'Love a crime! No, Shirley: - love=
is
a divine virtue; but why drag that word into the conversation? it is singul=
arly
irrelevant!'
'Good!' pronounced Shirley.
The two girls paced the green lane=
in
silence. Caroline first resumed.
'Obtrusiveness is a crime; forward=
ness
is a crime; and both disgust: but love! - no purest angel need blush to lov=
e!
And when I see or hear either man or woman couple shame with love, I know t=
heir
minds are coarse, their associations debased. Many who think themselves ref=
ined
ladies and gentlemen, and on whose lips the word 'vulgarity' is for ever
hovering, cannot mention 'love' without betraying their own innate and imbe=
cile
degradation: it is a low feeling in their estimation, connected only with l=
ow
ideas for them.'
'You describe three-fourths of the
world, Caroline.'
'They are cold - they are cowardly=
-
they are stupid on the subject, Shirley! They never loved - they never were
loved!'
'Thou art right, Lina! And in their
dense ignorance they blaspheme living fire, seraph-brought from a divine
altar.'
'They confound it with sparks moun=
ting
from Tophet!'
The sudden and joyous clash of bel=
ls
here stopped the dialogue by summoning all to the church.
The evening was still and warm; cl=
ose
and sultry it even promised to become. Round the descending sun the clouds
glowed purple; summer tints, rather Indian than English, suffused the horiz=
on,
and cast rosy reflections on hill-side, house-front, tree-bole; on winding
road, and undulating pasture-ground. The two girls came down from the fields
slowly by the time they reached the churchyard the bells were hushed; the
multitudes were gathered into the church: the whole scene was solitary.
'How pleasant and calm it is!' said
Caroline.
'And how hot it will be in the
church!' responded Shirley; 'and what a dreary long speech Dr. Boultby will
make! and how the curates will hammer over their prepared orations! For my
part, I would rather not enter.'
'But my uncle will be angry, if he
observes our absence.'
'I will bear the brunt of his wrat=
h:
he will not devour me. I shall be sorry to miss his pungent speech. I know =
it
will be all sense for the Church, and all causticity for Schism: he'll not
forget the battle of Royd Lane. I shall be sorry also to deprive you of Mr
Hall's sincere friendly homily, with all its racy Yorkshireisms; but here I
must stay. The grey church and greyer tombs look divine with this crimson g=
leam
on them. Nature is now at her evening prayers: she is kneeling before those=
red
hills. I see her prostrate on the great steps of her altar, praying for a f=
air
night for mariners at sea, for travellers in deserts, for lambs on moors, a=
nd
unfledged birds in woods. Caroline, I see her! and I will tell you what she=
is
like: she is like what Eve was when she and Adam stood alone on earth.'
'And that is not Milton's Eve,
Shirley.'
'Milton's Eve! Milton's Eve! I rep=
eat.
No, by the pure Mother of God, she is not! Cary, we are alone: we may speak
what we think. Milton was great; but was he good? His brain was right; how =
was
his heart? He saw heaven: he looked down on hell. He saw Satan, and Sin his
daughter, and Death their horrible offspring. Angels serried before him the=
ir
battalions: the long lines of adamantine shields flashed back on his blind
eyeballs the unutterable splendour of heaven. Devils gathered their legions=
in
his sight: their dim, discrowned, and tarnished armies passed rank and file
before him. Milton tried to see the first woman; but, Cary, he saw her not.=
'
'You are bold to say so, Shirley.'=
'Not more bold than faithful. It w=
as
his cook that he saw; or it was Mrs Gill, as I have seen her, making custar=
ds,
in the heat of summer, in the cool dairy, with rose-trees and nasturtiums a=
bout
the latticed window, preparing a cold collation for the rectors, - preserve=
s,
and 'dulcet creams' - puzzled 'what choice to choose for delicacy best; what
order so contrived as not to mix tastes, not well-joined, inelegant; but br=
ing
taste after taste, upheld with kindliest change.''
'All very well too, Shirley.'
'I would beg to remind him that the
first men of the earth were Titans, and that Eve was their mother: from her
sprang Saturn, Hyperion, Oceanus; she bore Prometheus' -&=
nbsp;
-
'Pagan that you are! what does that
signify?'
'I say, there were giants on the e=
arth
in those days: giants that strove to scale heaven. The first woman's breast
that heaved with life on this world yielded the daring which could contend =
with
Omnipotence: the strength which could bear a thousand years of bondage, - t=
he
vitality which could feed that vulture death through uncounted ages, - the
unexhausted life and uncorrupted excellence, sisters to immortality, which,
after millenniums of crimes, struggles, and woes, could conceive and bring
forth a Messiah. The first woman was heaven-born: vast was the heart whence
gushed the well-spring of the blood of nations; and grand the undegenerate =
head
where rested the consort-crown of creation.'
'She coveted an apple, and was che=
ated
by a snake: but you have got such a hash of Scripture and mythology into yo=
ur
head that there is no making any sense of you. You have not yet told me what
you saw kneeling on those hills.'
'I saw - I now see - a woman-Titan:
her robe of blue air spreads to the outskirts of the heath, where yonder fl=
ock
is grazing; a veil white as an avalanche sweeps from her head to her feet, =
and
arabesques of lightning flame on its borders. Under her breast I see her zo=
ne,
purple like that horizon: through its blush shines the star of evening. Her
steady eyes I cannot picture; they are clear - they are deep as lakes - they
are lifted and full of worship - they tremble with the softness of love and=
the
lustre of prayer. Her forehead has the expanse of a cloud, and is paler tha=
n the
early moon, risen long before dark gathers: she reclines her bosom on the r=
idge
of Stilbro' Moor; her mighty hands are joined beneath it. So kneeling, face=
to
face she speaks with God. That Eve is Jehovah's daughter, as Adam was His s=
on.'
'She is very vague and visionary!
Come, Shirley, we ought to go into church.'
'Caroline, I will not: I will stay=
out
here with my mother Eve, in these days called Nature. I love her, undying,
mighty being! Heaven may have faded from her brow when she fell in paradise;
but all that is glorious on earth shines there still, She is taking me to h=
er
bosom, and showing me her heart. Hush, Caroline! you will see her and feel =
her
as I do, if we are both silent.'
'I will humour your whim; but you =
will
begin talking again, ere ten minutes are over.'
Miss Keeldar, on whom the soft
excitement of the warm summer evening seemed working with unwonted power,
leaned against an upright headstone: she fixed her eyes on the deep-burning
west, and sank into a pleasurable trance. Caroline, going a little apart, p=
aced
to and fro beneath the Rectory garden-wall, dreaming, too, in her way. Shir=
ley
had mentioned the word 'mother': that word suggested to Caroline's imaginat=
ion
not the mighty and mystical parent of Shirley's visions, but a gentle human
form - the form she ascribed to her own mother; unknown, unloved, but not
unlonged for.
'Oh, that the day would come when =
she
would remember her child! Oh, that I might know her, and knowing, love her!=
'
Such was her aspiration.
The longing of her childhood filled
her soul again. The desire which many a night had kept her awake in her cri=
b,
and which fear of its fallacy had of late years almost extinguished, relit
suddenly, and glowed warm in her heart: that her mother might come some hap=
py
day, and send for her to her presence - look upon her fondly with loving ey=
es,
and say to her tenderly, in a sweet voice - 'Caroline, my child I have a ho=
me
for you: you shall live with me. All the love you have needed, and not tast=
ed,
from infancy, I have saved for you carefully. Come! it shall cherish you no=
w.'
A noise on the road roused Caroline
from her filial hopes, and Shirley from her Titan visions. They listened, a=
nd
heard the tramp of horses: they looked, and saw a glitter through the trees:
they caught through the foliage glimpses of martial scarlet; helm shone, pl=
ume
waved. Silent and orderly, six soldiers rode softly by.
'The same we saw this afternoon,'
whispered Shirley: 'they have been halting somewhere till now. They wish to=
be
as little noticed as possible, and are seeking their rendezvous at this qui=
et
hour, while the people are at church. Did I not say we should see unusual
things ere long?'
Scarcely were sight and sound of t=
he
soldiers lost, when another and somewhat different disturbance broke the ni=
ght-hush
- a child's impatient scream. They looked: a man issued from the church,
carrying in his arms an infant - a robust, ruddy little boy, of some two ye=
ars
old - roaring with all the power of his lungs; he had probably just awaked =
from
a church-sleep: two little girls, of nine and ten, followed. The influence =
of
the fresh air, and the attraction of some flowers gathered from a grave, so=
on
quieted the child; the man sat down with him, dandling him on his knee as
tenderly as any woman; the two little girls took their places one on each s=
ide.
'Good evening, William,' said Shir=
ley,
after due scrutiny of the man. He had seen her before, and apparently was
waiting to be recognised; he now took off his hat, and grinned a smile of
pleasure. He was a rough-headed, hard-featured personage, not old, but very
weather-beaten; his attire was decent and clean, that of his children
singularly neat; it was our old friend, Farren. The young ladies approached
him.
'You are not going into the church=
?'
he inquired, gazing at them complacently, yet with a mixture of bashfulness=
in
his look: a sentiment not by any means the result of awe of their station, =
but
only of appreciation of their elegance and youth. Before gentlemen - such as
Moore or Helstone, for instance - William was often a little dogged; with p=
roud
or insolent ladies, too, he was quite unmanageable, sometimes very resentfu=
l;
but he was most sensible of, most tractable to, good-humour and civility. H=
is
nature - a stubborn one - was repelled by inflexibility in other natures; f=
or
which reason, he had never been able to like his former master, Moore; and
unconscious of that gentleman's good opinion of himself, and of the service=
he
had secretly rendered him in recommending him as gardener to Mr Yorke, and =
by
this means to other families in the neighbourhood, he continued to harbour a
grudge against his austerity. Latterly, he had often worked at Fieldhead; M=
iss
Keeldar's frank, hospitable manners were perfectly charming to him. Carolin=
e he
had known from her childhood: unconsciously she was his ideal of a lady. Her
gentle mien, step, gestures, her grace of person and attire, moved some
artist-fibres about his peasant heart: he had a pleasure in looking at her,=
as
he had in examining rare flowers, or in seeing pleasant landscapes. Both the
ladies liked William: it was their delight to lend him books, to give him
plants; and they preferred his conversation far before that of many coarse,
hard, pretentious people, immeasurably higher in station.
'Who was speaking, William, when y=
ou
came out?' asked Shirley.
'A gentleman ye set a deal of store
on, Miss Shirley - Mr Donne.'
'You look knowing, William. How did
you find out my regard for Mr Donne?'
'Ay, Miss Shirley, there's a gleg
light i' your een sometimes which betrays you. You look raight down scornful
sometimes, when Mr Donne is by.'
'Do you like him yourself, William=
?'
'Me? I'm stalled o' t' curates, an=
d so
is t' wife: they've no manners; they talk to poor folk fair as if they thou=
ght
they were beneath them. They're allus magnifying their office: it is a pity=
but
their office could magnify them; but it does nought o' t' soart. I fair hate
pride.'
'But you are proud in your own way
yourself,' interposed Caroline: 'you are what you call house-proud; you lik=
e to
have everything handsome about you: sometimes you look as if you were almost
too proud to take your wages. When you were out of work, you were too proud=
to
get anything on credit; but for your children, I believe you would rather h=
ave
starved than gone to the shops without money; and when I wanted to give you
something, what a difficulty I had in making you take it!'
'It is partly true, Miss Caroline:=
ony
day I'd rather give than take, especially from sich as ye. Look at t'
difference between us: ye're a little, young, slender lass, and I'm a great
strong man: I'm rather more nor twice your age. It is not my part then, I
think, to tak' fro' ye - to be under obligations (as they say) to ye; and t=
hat
day ye came to our house, and called me to t' door, and offered me five shi=
llings,
which I doubt ye could ill spare, - for ye've no fortin', I know, - that da=
y I
war fair a rebel - a radical - an insurrectionist; and ye made me so. I tho=
ught
it shameful that, willing and able as I was to work, I suld be i' such a
condition that a young cratur about the age o' my own eldest lass suld thin=
k it
needful to come and offer me her bit o' brass.'
'I suppose you were angry with me,
William?'
'I almost was, in a way; but I for=
gave
ye varry soon: ye meant well. Ay, I am proud, and so are ye; but your pride=
and
mine is t' raight mak' - what we call i' Yorkshire clean pride - such as Mr
Malone and Mr Donne knows nought about: theirs is mucky pride. Now, I shall
teach my lasses to be as proud as Miss Shirley there, and my lads to be as
proud as myseln; but I dare ony o' 'em to be like t' curates: I'd lick litt=
le
Michael, if I seed him show any signs o' that feeling.'
'What is the difference, William?'=
'Ye know t' difference weel enow, =
but
ye want me to get a gate o' talking. Mr Malone and Mr Donne is almost too p=
roud
to do aught for theirsel'n; we are almost too proud to let anybody do aught=
for
us. T' curates can hardly bide to speak a civil word to them they think ben=
eath
them; we can hardly bide to tak' an uncivil word fro' them that thinks them=
sel'n
aboon us.'
'Now, William, be humble enough to
tell me truly how you are getting on in the world. Are you well off?'
'Miss Shirley - I am varry well of=
f.
Since I got into t' gardening line, wi' Mr Yorke's help, and since Mr Hall
(another o' t' raight sort) helped my wife to set up a bit of a shop, I've
nought to complain of. My family has plenty to eat and plenty to wear: my p=
ride
makes me find means to save an odd pound now and then against rainy days; f=
or I
think I'd die afore I'd come to t' parish: and me and mine is content; but =
th'
neighbours is poor yet: I see a great deal of distress.'
'And, consequently, there is still
discontent, I suppose?' inquired Miss Keeldar.
'Consequently - ye say right -
consequently. In course, starving folk cannot be satisfied or settled folk.=
The
country's not in a safe condition; - I'll say so mich!'
'But what can be done? What more c=
an I
do, for instance?'
'Do? - ye can do not mich, poor yo=
ung
lass! Ye've gi'en your brass: ye've done well. If ye could transport your t=
enant,
Mr Moore, to Botany Bay, ye'd happen do better. Folks hate him.'
'William, for shame!' exclaimed
Caroline warmly. 'If folks do hate him, it is to their disgrace, not his. Mr
Moore himself hates nobody; he only wants to do his duty, and maintain his =
rights:
you are wrong to talk so!'
'I talk as I think. He has a cold,
unfeeling heart, yond' Moore.'
'But,' interposed Shirley, 'suppos=
ing
Moore was driven from the country, and his mill razed to the ground, would
people have more work?'
'They'd have less. I know that, and
they know that; and there is many an honest lad driven desperate by the
certainty that, whichever way he turns, he cannot better himself, and there=
is
dishonest men plenty to guide them to the devil: scoundrels that reckons to=
be
the 'people's friends,' and that knows naught about the people, and is as
insincere as Lucifer. I've lived aboon forty year in the world, and I belie=
ve
that 'the people' will never have any true friends but theirsel'n, and them=
two
or three good folk i' different stations that is friends to all the world.
Human natur', taking it i' th' lump, is naught but selfishness. It is but
excessive few, it is but just an exception here and there, now and then, si=
ch
as ye two young uns and me, that being in a different sphere, can understan=
d t'
one t' other, and be friends wi'out slavishness o' one hand, or pride o' t'
other. Them that reckons to be friends to a lower class than their own fro'
political motives is never to be trusted: they always try to make their
inferiors tools. For my own part, I will neither be patronised nor misled f=
or
no man's pleasure. I've had overtures made to me lately that I saw were
treacherous, and I flung 'em back i' the faces o' them that offered 'em.'
'You won't tell us what overtures?=
'
'I will not: it would do no good; =
it
would mak' no difference: them they concerned can look after theirsel'n.'
'Ay, we'se look after wersel'n,' s=
aid
another voice. Joe Scott had sauntered forth from the church to get a breat=
h of
fresh air, and there he stood.
'I'll warrant ye, Joe,' observed
William, smiling.
'And I'll warrant my maister,' was=
the
answer. 'Young ladies,' continued Joe, assuming a lordly air, 'ye'd better =
go
into th' house.'
'I wonder what for?' inquired Shir=
ley,
to whom the overlooker's somewhat pragmatical manners were familiar, and who
was often at war with him; for Joe, holding supercilious theories about wom=
en
in general, resented greatly, in his secret soul, the fact of his master and
his master's mill being, in a manner, under petticoat government, and had f=
elt
as wormwood and gall certain business- visits of the heiress to the Hollow's
counting-house.
'Because there is naught agate that
fits women to be consarned in.'
'Indeed! There is prayer and preac=
hing
agate in that church: are we not concerned in that?'
'Ye have been present neither at t=
he
prayer nor preaching, ma'am, if I have observed aright. What I alluded to w=
as
politics: William Farren, here, was touching on that subject, if I'm not
mista'en.'
'Well, what then? Politics are our
habitual study, Joe. Do you know I see a newspaper every day, and two of a
Sunday?'
'I should think you'll read the
marriages, probably, Miss, and the murders, and the accidents, and sich lik=
e?'
'I read the leading articles, Joe,=
and
the foreign intelligence, and I look over the market prices: in short, I re=
ad
just what gentlemen read.'
Joe looked as if he thought this t=
alk
was like the chattering of a pie. He replied to it by a disdainful silence.=
'Joe,' continued Miss Keeldar, 'I
never yet could ascertain properly whether you are a Whig or a Tory: pray w=
hich
party has the honour of your alliance?'
'It is rayther difficult to explain
where you are sure not to be understood,' was Joe's haughty response; 'but,=
as
to being a Tory, I'd as soon be an old woman, or a young one, which is a mo=
re
flimsier article still. It is the Tories that carries on the war and ruins
trade; and, if I be of any party - though political parties is all nonsense=
-
I'm of that which is most favourable to peace, and, by consequence, to the =
mercantile
interests of this here land.'
'So am I, Joe,' replied Shirley, w=
ho
had rather a pleasure in teasing the overlooker, by persisting in talking on
subjects with which he opined she - as a woman - had no right to meddle:
'partly, at least. I have rather a leaning to the agricultural interest, to=
o;
as good reason is, seeing that I don't desire England to be under the feet =
of
France, and that if a share of my income comes from Hollow's Mill, a larger
share comes from the landed estate around it. It would not do to take any
measure injurious to the farmers, Joe, I think?'
'The dews at this hour is unwholes=
ome
for females,' observed Joe.
'If you make that remark out of
interest in me, I have merely to assure you that I am impervious to cold. I
should not mind taking my turn to watch the mill one of these summer nights,
armed with your musket, Joe.'
Joe Scott's chin was always rather
prominent: he poked it out, at this speech, some inches farther than usual.=
'But - to go back to my sheep,' she
proceeded - 'clothier and mill-owner as I am, besides farmer, I cannot get =
out
of my head a certain idea that we manufacturers and persons of business are
sometimes a little - a very little selfish and shortsighted in our views, a=
nd
rather too regardless of human suffering, rather heartless in our pursuit of
gain: don't you agree with me, Joe?'
'I cannot argue, where I cannot be
comprehended,' was again the answer.
'Man of mystery! Your master will
argue with me sometimes, Joe; he is not so stiff as you are.'
'May be not: we've all our own way=
s.'
'Joe, do you seriously think all t=
he
wisdom in the world is lodged in male skulls?'
'I think that women are a kittle a=
nd a
froward generation; and I've a great respect for the doctrines delivered in=
the
second chapter of St. Paul's first Epistle to Timothy.'
'What doctrines, Joe?'
''Let the woman learn in silence, =
with
all subjection. I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over =
the
man; but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve.''
'What has that to do with the
business?' interjected Shirley: 'that smacks of rights of primogeniture. I'=
ll
bring it up to Mr Yorke the first time he inveighs against those rights.'
''And,'' continued Joe Scott, ''Ad=
am
was not deceived; but the woman, being deceived, was in the transgression.'=
'
'More shame to Adam to sin with his
eyes open!' cried Miss Keeldar. 'To confess the honest truth, Joe, I never =
was
easy in my mind concerning that chapter: it puzzles me.'
'It is very plain, Miss: he that r=
uns
may read.'
'He may read it in his own fashion=
,'
remarked Caroline, now joining in the dialogue for the first time. 'You all=
ow
the right of private judgment, I suppose, Joe?'
'My certy, that I do! I allow and
claim it for every line of the holy Book.'
'Women may exercise it as well as
men?'
'Nay: women is to take their husba=
nds'
opinion, both in politics and religion: it's wholesomest for them.'
'Oh! oh!' exclaimed both Shirley a=
nd
Caroline.
'To be sure; no doubt on't,' persi=
sted
the stubborn overlooker.
'Consider yourself groaned down, a=
nd
cried shame over, for such a stupid observation' said Miss Keeldar. 'You mi=
ght
as well say men are to take the opinions of their priests without examinati=
on.
Of what value would a religion so adopted be? It would be mere blind, besot=
ted
superstition.'
'And what is your reading, Miss
Helstone, o' these words o' St. Paul's?'
'Hem! I - I account for them in th=
is
way: he wrote that chapter for a particular congregation of Christians, und=
er
peculiar circumstances; and besides, I dare say, if I could read the origin=
al
Greek, I should find that many of the words have been wrongly translated,
perhaps misapprehended altogether. It would be possible, I doubt not, with a
little ingenuity, to give the passage quite a contrary turn: to make it say,
'Let the woman speak out whenever she sees fit to make an objection;' - 'it=
is
permitted to a woman to teach and to exercise authority as much as may be. =
Man,
meantime, cannot do better than hold his peace,' and so on.'
'That willn't wash, Miss.'
'I dare say it will. My notions are
dyed in faster colours than yours, Joe. Mr Scott, you are a thoroughly
dogmatical person, and always were: I like William better than you.'
'Joe is well enough in his own hou=
se,'
said Shirley: 'I have seen him as quiet as a lamb at home. There is not a
better nor a kinder husband in Briarfield. He does not dogmatise to his wif=
e.'
'My wife is a hard-working, plain
woman: time and trouble has ta'en all the conceit out of her; but that is n=
ot
the case with you, young misses. And then you reckon to have so much knowle=
dge;
and i' my thoughts it's only superficial sort o' vanities you're acquainted
with. I can tell - happen a year sin' - one day Miss Caroline coming into o=
ur
counting-house when I war packing up summat behind t' great desk, and she d=
idn't
see me, and she brought a slate wi' a sum on it to t' maister: it were only=
a
bit of a sum in practice, that our Harry would have settled i' two minutes.=
She
couldn't do it; Mr Moore had to show her how; and when he did show her, she
couldn't understand him.'
'Nonsense, Joe!'
'Nay, it's no nonsense: and Miss
Shirley there reckons to hearken to t' maister when he's talking ower trade=
, so
attentive like, as if she followed him word for word, and all war as clear =
as a
lady's looking-glass to her een; and all t' while she's peeping and peeping=
out
o' t' window to see if t' mare stands quiet; and then looking at a bit of a
splash on her riding-skirt; and then glancing glegly round at wer
counting-house cobwebs and dust, and thinking what mucky folk we are, and w=
hat
a grand ride she'll have just i' now ower Nunnely Common. She hears no more=
o' Mr
Moore's talk nor if he spake Hebrew.'
'Joe, you are a real slanderer. I
would give you your answer, only the people are coming out of church: we mu=
st
leave you. Man of prejudice, good-bye: William, good-bye. Children, come up=
to
Fieldhead to-morrow, and you shall choose what you like best out of Mrs Gil=
l's
store-room.'
The hour was now that of dusk. A c=
lear
air favoured the kindling of the stars.
'There will be just light enough to
show me the way home,' said Miss Keeldar, as she prepared to take leave of
Caroline at the Rectory garden-door.
'You must not go alone, Shirley. F=
anny
shall accompany you.'
'That she shall not. Of what need =
I be
afraid in my own parish? I would walk from Fieldhead to the church any fine
midsummer night, three hours later than this, for the mere pleasure of seei=
ng
the stars, and the chance of meeting a fairy.'
'But just wait till the crowd is
cleared away.'
'Agreed. There are the five Misses
Armitage streaming by. Here comes Mrs Sykes's phaeton, Mr Wynne's close
carriage, Mrs Birtwhistle's car: I don't wish to go through the ceremony of
bidding them all good-bye, so we will step into the garden and take shelter
amongst the laburnums for an instant.'
The rectors, their curates and the=
ir
churchwardens, now issued from the church-porch. There was a great
confabulation, shaking of hands, congratulation on speeches, recommendation=
to
be careful of the night air, etc. By degrees the throng dispersed; the
carriages drove off. Miss Keeldar was just emerging from her flowery refuge,
when Mr Helstone entered the garden and met her.
'Oh! I want you!' he said: 'I was
afraid you were already gone. Caroline, come here!'
Caroline came, expecting, as Shirl=
ey
did, a lecture on not having been visible at church. Other subjects, howeve=
r,
occupied the Rector's mind.
'I shall not sleep at home to-nigh=
t,'
he continued. 'I have just met with an old friend, and promised to accompany
him. I shall return probably about
'Now,' interrupted Shirley, 'you w=
ant
me as a gentleman - the first gentleman in Briarfield, in short, to supply =
your
place, be master of the Rectory, and guardian of your niece and maids while=
you
are away?'
'Exactly, Captain: I thought the p=
ost
would suit you. Will you favour Caroline so far as to be her guest for one
night? Will you stay here instead of going back to Fieldhead?'
'And what will Mrs Pryor do? She
expects me home.'
'I will send her word. Come, make =
up
your mind to stay. It grows late; the dew falls heavily: you and Caroline w=
ill
enjoy each other's society, I doubt not.'
'I promise you then to stay with
Caroline,' replied Shirley. 'As you say, we shall enjoy each other's societ=
y:
we will not be separated to-night. Now, rejoin your old friend, and fear
nothing for us.'
'If there should chance to be any
disturbance in the night, Captain - if you should hear the picking of a loc=
k,
the cutting out of a pane of glass, a stealthy tread of steps about the hou=
se
(and I need not fear to tell you, who bear a well-tempered, mettlesome heart
under your girl's ribbon-sash, that such little incidents are very possible=
in
the present time), what would you do?'
'Don't know - faint, perhaps - fall down, and have to be picked up again. But, doctor, if you assign me the pos= t of honour, you must give me arms. What weapons are there in your stronghold?'<= o:p>
'You could not wield a sword?'
'No; I could manage the carving-kn=
ife
better.'
'You will find a good one in the
dining-room sideboard: a lady's knife, light to handle, and as sharp-pointe=
d as
a poignard.'
'It will suit Caroline; but you mu=
st
give me a brace of pistols: I know you have pistols.'
'I have two pairs; one pair I can
place at your disposal. You will find them suspended over the mantelpiece o=
f my
study in cloth cases.'
'Loaded?'
'Yes, but not on the cock. Cock th=
em
before you go to bed. It is paying you a great compliment, Captain, to lend=
you
these; were you one of the awkward squad you should not have them.'
'I will take care. You need delay =
no
longer, Mr Helstone: you may go now. He is gracious to me to lend me his
pistols,' she remarked, as the rector passed out at the garden-gate. 'But c=
ome,
Lina,' she continued; 'let us go in and have some supper: I was too much ve=
xed
at tea with the vicinage of Mr Sam Wynne to be able to eat, and now I am re=
ally
hungry.'
Entering the house, they repaired =
to
the darkened dining-room, through the open windows of which apartment stole=
the
evening air, bearing the perfume of flowers from the garden, the very dista=
nt
sound of far-retreating steps from the road, and a soft vague murmur; whose
origin Caroline explained by the remark, uttered as she stood listening at =
the
casement - Shirley, I hear the beck in the Hollow.'
Then she rung the bell, asked for a
candle and some bread and milk - Miss Keeldar's usual supper and her own.
Fanny, when she brought in the tray, would have closed the windows and the
shutters, but was requested to desist for the present: the twilight was too
calm, its breath too balmy to be yet excluded. They took their meal in sile=
nce:
Caroline rose once, to remove to the window- sill a glass of flowers which
stood on the side-board; the exhalation from the blossoms being somewhat too
powerful for the sultry room: in returning, she half opened a drawer, and t=
ook
from it something that glittered clear and keen in her hand.
'You assigned this to me, then,
Shirley - did you? It is bright, keen-edged, finely-tapered: it is
dangerous-looking, I never yet felt the impulse which could move me to dire=
ct
this against a fellow-creature. It is difficult to fancy what circumstances
could nerve my arm to strike home with this long knife.'
'I should hate to do it,' replied
Shirley; 'but I think I could do it, if goaded by certain exigencies which I
can imagine.' And Miss Keeldar quietly sipped her glass of new milk, looking
somewhat thoughtful, and a little pale: though, indeed, when did she not lo=
ok
pale? She was never florid.
The milk sipped and the bread eate=
n,
Fanny was again summoned: she and Eliza were recommended to go to bed, which
they were quite willing to do, being weary of the day's exertions, of much
cutting of currant-buns, and filling of urns and teapots, and running backw=
ards
and forwards with trays. Erelong the maids' chamber-door was heard to close;
Caroline took a candle, and went quietly all over the house, seeing that ev=
ery
window was fast and every door barred. She did not even evade the haunted
back-kitchen, nor the vault-like cellars. These visited, she returned.
'There is neither spirit nor flesh=
in
the house at present,' she said, 'which should not be there. It is now near
eleven o'clock, fully bed-time, yet I would rather sit up a little longer, =
if
you do not object, Shirley. Here,' she continued, 'I have brought the brace=
of
pistols from my uncle's study: you may examine them at your leisure.'
She placed them on the table before
her friend
'Why would you rather sit up longe=
r?'
asked Miss Keeldar, taking up the firearms, examining them, and again laying
them down.
'Because I have a strange excited
feeling in my heart.'
'So have I.'
'Is this state of sleeplessness and
restlessness caused by something electrical in the air, I wonder?'
'No: the sky is clear, the stars
numberless: it is a fine night.'
'But very still. I hear the water =
fret
over its stony bed in Hollow's Copse as distinctly as if it ran below the
churchyard wall.'
'I am glad it is so still a night:=
a
moaning wind or rushing rain would vex me to fever just now.'
'Why, Shirley?'
'Because it would baffle my effort=
s to
listen.'
'Do you listen towards the Hollow?=
'
'Yes; it is the only quarter whenc=
e we
can hear a sound just now.'
'The only one, Shirley.'
They both sat near the window, and
both leaned their arms on the sill, and both inclined their heads towards t=
he
open lattice. They saw each other's young faces by the starlight, and that =
dim
June twilight which does not wholly fade from the west till dawn begins to
break in the east.
'Mr Helstone thinks we have no idea
which way he is gone,' murmured Miss Keeldar, 'nor on what errand, nor with
what expectations, nor how prepared; but I guess much - do not you?'
'I guess something.'
'All those gentlemen - your cousin
Moore included - think that you and I are now asleep in our beds, unconscio=
us.'
'Caring nothing about them - hoping
and fearing nothing for them,' added Caroline.
Both kept silence for full
half-an-hour. The night was silent, too; only the church-clock measured its
course by quarters. Some words were interchanged about the chill of the air:
they wrapped their scarves closer round them, resumed their bonnets which t=
hey
had removed, and again watched.
Towards
It drew near. Those who listened by
degrees comprehended its extent. It was not the tread of two, nor of a doze=
n,
nor of a score of men: it was the tread of hundreds. They could see nothing:
the high shrubs of the garden formed a leafy screen between them and the ro=
ad.
To hear, however, was not enough; and this they felt as the troop trod
forwards, and seemed actually passing the Rectory. They felt it more when a
human voice - though that voice spoke but one word - broke the hush of the
night.
'Halt.'
A halt followed: the march was
arrested. Then came a low conference, of which no word was distinguishable =
from
the dining-room.
'We must hear this,' said Shirley.=
She turned, took her pistols from =
the
table, silently passed out through the middle window of the dining-room, wh=
ich
was, in fact, a glass door, stole down the walk to the garden wall, and sto=
od
listening under the lilacs. Caroline would not have quitted the house had s=
he
been alone, but where Shirley went she would go. She glanced at the weapon =
on
the side-board, but left it behind her, and presently stood at her friend's
side. They dared not look over the wall, for fear of being seen: they were
obliged to crouch behind it: they heard these words -
'It looks a rambling old building.=
Who
lives in it besides the damned parson?'
'Only three women: his niece and t=
wo
servants,'
'Do you know where they sleep?'
'The lasses behind: the niece in a
front room.'
'And Helstone?'
'Yonder is his chamber. He uses
burning a light: but I see none now.'
'Where would you get in?'
'If I were ordered to do his job -=
and
he desarves it - I'd try yond' long window: it opens to the dining-room: I
could grope my way upstairs, and I know his chamber.'
'How would you manage about the
women-folk?'
'Let 'em alone except they shrieke=
d,
and then I'd soon quieten 'em. I could wish to find the old chap asleep: if=
he
waked, he'd be dangerous.'
'Has he arms?'
'Fire-arms, allus - and allus
loadened.'
'Then you're a fool to stop us her=
e; a
shot would give the alarm: Moore would be on us before we could turn round.=
We
should miss our main object.'
'You might go on, I tell you. I'd
engage Helstone alone.'
A pause. One of the party dropped =
some
weapon, which rang on the stone causeway: at this sound the Rectory dog bar=
ked
again furiously - fiercely.
'That spoils all!' said the voice;
'he'll awake: a noise like that might rouse the dead. You did not say there=
was
a dog. Damn you! Forward!'
Forward they went, - tramp, tramp,=
-
with mustering manifold, slow-filing tread. They were gone.
Shirley stood erect; looked over t=
he
wall, along the road.
'Not a soul remains,' she said.
She stood and mused. 'Thank God!' =
was
the next observation.
Caroline repeated the ejaculation,=
not
in so steady a tone: she was trembling much; her heart was beating fast and
thick: her face was cold; her forehead damp.
'Thank God for us!' she reiterated;
'but what will happen elsewhere? They have passed us by that they may make =
sure
of others.'
'They have done well,' returned
Shirley with composure: 'the others will defend themselves, - they can do i=
t, -
they are prepared for them: with us it is otherwise. My finger was on the
trigger of this pistol. I was quite ready to give that man, if he had enter=
ed,
such a greeting as he little calculated on; but behind him followed three
hundred: I had neither three hundred hands nor three hundred weapons. I cou=
ld
not have effectually protected either you, myself, or the two poor women as=
leep
under that roof; therefore I again earnestly thank God for insult and peril
escaped.'
After a second pause, she continue=
d -
'What is it my duty and wisdom to do next? Not to stay here inactive, I am =
glad
to say, but of course to walk over to the Hollow,'
'To the Hollow, Shirley?'
'To the Hollow. Will you go with m=
e?'
'Where those men are gone?'
'They have taken the highway: we
should not encounter them: the road over the fields is as safe, silent, and
solitary as a path through the air would be. Will you go?'
'Yes,' was the answer, given
mechanically, not because the speaker wished, or was prepared to go; or,
indeed, was otherwise than scared at the prospect of going, but because she
felt she could not abandon Shirley.
'Then we must fasten up these wind=
ows,
and leave all as secure as we can behind us. Do you know what we are going =
for,
Cary?'
'Yes - no - because you wish it.'<= o:p>
'Is that all? And you are so obedi=
ent
to a mere caprice of mine? What a docile wife you would make to a stern
husband. The moon's face is not whiter than yours at this moment; and the a=
spen
at the gate does not tremble more than your busy fingers; and so tractable =
and
terror-struck, and dismayed and devoted, you would follow me into the thick=
of
real danger! Cary, let me give your fidelity a motive: we are going for Moo=
re's
sake; to see if we can be of use to him: to make an effort to warn him of w=
hat
is coming.'
'To be sure! I am a blind, weak fo=
ol,
and you are acute and sensible, Shirley! I will go with you! I will gladly =
go
with you!'
'I do not doubt it. You would die
blindly and meekly for me, but you would intelligently and gladly die for
Moore; but in truth there is no question of death to-night, - we run no ris=
k at
all.'
Caroline rapidly closed shutter and
lattice. 'Do not fear that I shall not have breath to run as fast as you can
possibly run, Shirley. Take my hand: let us go straight across the fields.'=
'But you cannot climb walls?'
'To-night I can.'
'You are afraid of hedges, and the
beck which we shall be forced to cross.'
'I can cross it.'
They started: they ran. Many a wall
checked but did not baffle them. Shirley was sure-footed and agile: she cou=
ld
spring like a deer when she chose. Caroline, more timid and less dexterous,
fell once or twice, and bruised herself; but she rose again directly, saying
she was not hurt. A quickset hedge bounded the last field: they lost time in
seeking a gap in it: the aperture, when found, was narrow, but they worked
their way through: the long hair, the tender skin, the silks and the muslins
suffered; but what was chiefly regretted was the impediment this difficulty=
had
caused to speed. On the other side they met the beck, flowing deep in a rou=
gh
bed: at this point a narrow plank formed the only bridge across it. Shirley=
had
trodden the plank successfully and fearlessly many a time before: Caroline =
had
never yet dared to risk the transit.
'I will carry you across,' said Mi=
ss
Keeldar: 'you are light, and I am not weak: let me try.'
'If I fall in you may fish me out,'
was the answer, as a grateful squeeze compressed her hand. Caroline, without
pausing, trod forward on the trembling plank as if it were a continuation of
the firm turf: Shirley, who followed, did not cross it more resolutely or
safely. In their present humour, on their present errand, a strong and foam=
ing
channel would have been a barrier to neither. At the moment they were above=
the
control either of fire or water: all Stilbro' Moor, alight and alow with
bonfires, would not have stopped them, nor would Calder or Aire thundering =
in
flood. Yet one sound made them pause. Scarce had they set foot on the solid=
opposite
bank, when a shot split the air from the north. One second elapsed. Further
off, burst a like note in the south. Within the space of three minutes, sim=
ilar
signals boomed in the east and west.
'I thought we were dead at the fir=
st
explosion,' observed Shirley, drawing a long breath. 'I felt myself hit in =
the
temples, and I concluded your heart was pierced; but the reiterated voice w=
as
an explanation: those are signals - it is their way - the attack must be ne=
ar.
We should have had wings: our feet have not borne us swiftly enough.'
A portion of the copse was now to
clear: when they emerged from it, the mill lay just below them: they could =
look
down upon the buildings, the yard; they could see the road beyond. And the
first glance in that direction told Shirley she was right in her conjecture:
they were already too late to give warning: it had taken more time than they
calculated on to overcome the various obstacles which embarrassed the short=
cut
across the fields.
The road, which should have been
white, was dark with a moving mass: the rioters were assembled in front of =
the
closed yard gates, and a single figure stood within, apparently addressing
them: the mill itself was perfectly black and still; there was neither life,
light, nor motion around it.
'Surely he is prepared: surely tha=
t is
not Moore meeting them alone? ' whispered Shirley.
'It is - we must go to him! I will=
go
to him.'
'That you will not.'
'Why did I come then? I came only =
for
him. I shall join him.'
'Fortunately, it is out of your po=
wer:
there is no entrance to the yard.'
'There is a small entrance at the
back, besides the gates in front: it opens by a secret method which I know =
- I
will try it.'
'Not with my leave.'
Miss Keeldar clasped her round the
waist with both arms and held her back. 'Not one step shall you stir,' she =
went
on authoritatively. 'At this moment, Moore would be both shocked and
embarrassed, if he saw either you or me. Men never want women near them in =
time
of real danger.'
'I would not trouble - I would help
him,' was the reply.
'How? By inspiring him with herois=
m?
Pooh! These are not the days of chivalry: it is not a tilt at a tournament =
we
are going to behold, but a struggle about money, and food, and life.'
'It is natural that I should be at=
his
side.'
'As queen of his heart? His mill is
his lady-love, Cary! Backed by his factory and his frames, he has all the
encouragement he wants or can know. It is not for love or beauty, but for
ledger and broadcloth, he is going to break a spear. Don't be sentimental
Robert is not so.'
'I could help him - I will seek hi=
m.'
'Off then - I let you go - seek Mo=
ore:
you'll not find him.' She loosened her hold. Caroline sped like levelled sh=
aft
from bent bow; after her rang a jesting, gibing laugh. 'Look well there is =
no
mistake!' was the warning given.
But there was a mistake. Miss Hels=
tone
paused, hesitated, gazed. The figure had suddenly retreated from the gate, =
and
was running back hastily to the mill.
'Make haste, Lina!' cried Shirley:
'meet him before he enters.'
Caroline slowly returned. 'It is n=
ot
Robert,' she said: 'it has neither his height, form, nor bearing.'
'I saw it was not Robert when I let
you go. How could you imagine it? It is a shabby little figure of a private
soldier: they have posted him as sentinel. He is safe in the mill now: I saw
the door open and admit him. My mind grows easier; Robert is prepared: our
warning would have been superfluous, and now I am thankful we came too late=
to
give it: it has saved us the trouble of a scene. How fine to have entered t=
he
counting-house 'toute éperdue,' and to have found oneself in presenc=
e of
Messrs. Armitage and Ramsden smoking, Malone swaggering, your uncle sneerin=
g, Mr
Sykes sipping a cordial, and Moore himself in his cold man-of-business vein=
I
am glad we missed it all.'
'I wonder if there are many in the
mill, Shirley!'
'Plenty to defend it. The soldiers=
we
have twice seen to-day were going there no doubt, and the group we noticed
surrounding your cousin in the fields will be with him.'
'What are they doing now, Shirley?
What is that noise?'
'Hatchets and crowbars against the
yard-gates: they are forcing them. Are you afraid?'
'No; but my heart throbs fast; I h=
ave
a difficulty in standing: I will sit down. Do you feel unmoved?'
'Hardly that - but I am glad I cam=
e:
we shall see what transpires with our own eyes: we are here on the spot, and
none know it. Instead of amazing the curate, the clothier, and the corn-dea=
ler
with a romantic rush on the stage, we stand alone with the friendly night, =
its
mute stars, and these whispering trees, whose report our friends will not c=
ome
to gather.'
'Shirley - Shirley, the gates are
down! That crash was like the felling of great trees. Now they are pouring
through. They will break down the mill doors as they have broken the gate: =
what
can Robert do against so many? Would to God I were a little nearer him - co=
uld
hear him speak - could speak to him! With my will - my longing to serve him=
- I
could not be a useless burden in his way: I could be turned to some account=
.'
'They come on!' cried Shirley. 'How
steadily they march in! There is discipline in their ranks - I will not say
there is courage: hundreds against tens are no proof of that quality; but' =
(she
dropped her voice) 'there is suffering and desperation enough amongst them -
these goads will urge them forwards.'
'Forwards against Robert - and they
hate him. Shirley, is there much danger they will win the day?'
'We shall see. Moore and Helstone =
are
of 'earth's first blood' - no bunglers-no cravens' -&=
nbsp;
-
A crash - smash - shiver - stopped=
their
whispers. A simultaneously-hurled volley of stones had saluted the broad fr=
ont
of the mill, with all its windows; and now every pane of every lattice lay =
in
shattered and pounded fragments. A yell followed this demonstration - a
rioters' yell - a North-of-England - a Yorkshire - a West-Riding - a
West-Riding-clothing-district-of-Yorkshire rioters' yell. You never heard t=
hat
sound, perhaps, reader? So much the better for your ears - perhaps for your
heart; since, if it rends the air in hate to yourself, or to the men or
principles you approve, the interests to which you wish well. Wrath wakens =
to
the cry of Hate: the Lion shakes his mane, and rises to the howl of the Hye=
na:
Caste stands up ireful against Caste; and the indignant, wronged spirit of =
the
Middle Rank bears down in zeal and scorn on the famished and furious mass of
the Operative class. It is difficult to be tolerant - difficult to be just =
- in
such moments.
Caroline rose, Shirley put her arm
round her: they stood together as still as the straight stems of two trees.
That yell was a long one, and when it ceased, the night was yet full of the
swaying and murmuring of a crowd.
'What next?' was the question of t=
he
listeners. Nothing came yet. The mill remained mute as a mausoleum.
'He cannot be alone!' whispered
Caroline.
'I would stake all I have, that he=
is
as little alone as he is alarmed,' responded Shirley.
Shots were discharged by the riote=
rs.
Had the defenders waited for this signal? It seemed so. The hitherto inert =
and
passive mill woke: fire flashed from its empty window-frames; a volley of
musketry pealed sharp through the Hollow.
'Moore speaks at last!' said Shirl=
ey,
'and he seems to have the gift of tongues; that was not a single voice.'
'He has been forbearing; no one can
accuse him of rashness,' alleged Caroline: 'their discharge preceded his: t=
hey
broke his gates and his windows; they fired at his garrison before he repel=
led
them.'
What was going on now? It seemed
difficult, in the darkness, to distinguish, but something terrible, a still=
-renewing
tumult, was obvious: fierce attacks, desperate repulses; the mill-yard, the
mill itself, was full of battle movements: there was scarcely any cessation=
now
of the discharge of firearms; and there was struggling, rushing, trampling,=
and
shouting between. The aim of the assailants seemed to be to enter the mill,
that of the defendants to beat them off. They heard the rebel leader cry, '=
To
the back, lads!' They heard a voice retort, 'Come round, we will meet you!'=
'To the counting-house!' was the o=
rder
again.
'Welcome! - We shall have you ther=
e!'
was the response. And accordingly, the fiercest blaze that had yet glowed, =
the
loudest rattle that had yet been heard, burst from the counting-house front,
when the mass of rioters rushed up to it.
The voice that had spoken was Moor=
e's
own voice. They could tell by its tones that his soul was now warm with the
conflict: they could guess that the fighting animal was roused in every one=
of
those men there struggling together, and was for the time quite paramount a=
bove
the rational human being.
Both the girls felt their faces gl= ow and their pulses throb: both knew they would do no good by rushing down into the mêlée: they desired neither to deal nor to receive blows; = but they could not have run away - Caroline no more than Shirley; they could not have fainted; they could not have taken their eyes from the dim, terrible s= cene - from the mass of cloud, of smoke - the musket-lightning - for the world.<= o:p>
'How and when would it end?' was t=
he
demand throbbing in their throbbing pulses. 'Would a juncture arise in which
they could be useful?' was what they waited to see; for, though Shirley put=
off
their too-late arrival with a jest, and was ever ready to satirise her own =
or
any other person's enthusiasm, she would have given a farm of her best land=
for
a chance of rendering good service.
The chance was not vouchsafed her;=
the
looked-for juncture never came: it was not likely. Moore had expected this
attack for days, perhaps weeks: he was prepared for it at every point. He h=
ad
fortified and garrisoned his mill, which in itself was a strong building: he
was a cool, brave man: he stood to the defence with unflinching firmness; t=
hose
who were with him caught his spirit, and copied his demeanour. The rioters =
had
never been so met before. At other mills they had attacked, they had found =
no
resistance; an organised, resolute defence was what they never dreamed of
encountering. When their leaders saw the steady fire kept up from the mill,
witnessed the composure and determination of its owner, heard themselves co=
olly
defied and invited on to death, and beheld their men falling wounded round
them, they felt that nothing was to be done here. In haste, they mustered t=
heir
forces, drew them away from the building: a roll was called over, in which =
the
men answered to figures instead of names: they dispersed wide over the fiel=
ds,
leaving silence and ruin behind them. The attack, from its commencement to =
its
termination, had not occupied an hour.
Day was by this time approaching: =
the
west was dim, the east beginning to gleam. It would have seemed that the gi=
rls
who had watched this conflict would now wish to hasten to the victors, on w=
hose
side all their interest had been enlisted; but they only very cautiously
approached the now battered mill, and, when suddenly a number of soldiers a=
nd
gentlemen appeared at the great door opening into the yard, they quickly
stepped aside into a shed, the deposit of old iron and timber, whence they
could see without being seen.
It was no cheering spectacle: these
premises were now a mere blot of desolation on the fresh front of the
summer-dawn. All the copse up the Hollow was shady and dewy, the hill at its
head was green; but just here in the centre of the sweet glen, Discord, bro=
ken
loose in the night from control, had beaten the ground with his stamping ho=
ofs,
and left it waste and pulverised. The mill yawned all ruinous with unglazed
frames; the yard was thickly bestrewn with stones and brickbats, and, close
under the mill, with the glittering fragments of the shattered windows, mus=
kets
and other weapons lay here and there; more than one deep crimson stain was
visible on the gravel; a human body lay quiet on its face near the gates; a=
nd
five or six wounded men writhed and moaned in the bloody dust.
Miss Keeldar's countenance changed=
at
this view: it was the after-taste of the battle, death and pain replacing
excitement and exertion: it was the blackness the bright fire leaves when i=
ts
blaze is sunk, its warmth failed, and its glow faded.
'That is what I wished to prevent,'
she said, in a voice whose cadence betrayed the altered impulse of her hear=
t.
'But you could not prevent it; you=
did
your best; it was in vain,' said Caroline comfortingly. 'Don't grieve,
Shirley.'
'I am sorry for those poor fellows=
,'
was the answer, while the spark in her glance dissolved to dew. 'Are any wi=
thin
the mill hurt, I wonder? Is that your uncle?'
'It is, and there is Mr Malone, an=
d,
oh Shirley! there is Robert!'
'Well' (resuming her former tone),
'don't squeeze your fingers quite into my hand: I see, there is nothing
wonderful in that. We knew he, at least, was here, whoever might be absent.=
'
'He is coming here towards us,
Shirley!'
'Towards the pump, that is to say,=
for
the purpose of washing his hands and his forehead, which has got a scratch,=
I
perceive.'
'He bleeds, Shirley: don't hold me=
; I
must go.'
'Not a step.'
'He is hurt, Shirley!'
'Fiddlestick!'
'But I must go to him: I wish to g=
o so
much: I cannot bear to be restrained.'
'What for?'
'To speak to him, to ask how he is,
and what I can do for him?'
'To tease and annoy him; to make a
spectacle of yourself and him before those soldiers, Mr Malone, your uncle,=
et
cetera. Would he like it, think you? Would you like to remember it a week
hence?'
'Am I always to be curbed and kept=
down?'
demanded Caroline, a little passionately.
'For his sake, yes. And still more=
for
your own. I tell you, if you showed yourself now, you would repent it an ho=
ur
hence, and so would Robert.'
'You think he would not like it,
Shirley?'
'Far less than he would like our
stopping him to say goodnight, which you were so sore about.'
'But that was all play; there was =
no
danger.'
'And this is serious work: he must=
be
unmolested.'
'I only wish to go to him because =
he
is my cousin - you understand?'
'I quite understand. But now, watch
him. He has bathed his forehead, and the blood has ceased trickling; his hu=
rt
is really a mere graze: I can see it from hence: he is going to look after =
the
wounded men.'
Accordingly Mr Moore and Mr Helsto=
ne
went round the yard, examining each prostrate form. They then gave directio=
ns
to have the wounded taken up and carried into the mill. This duty being
performed, Joe Scott was ordered to saddle his master's horse and Mr Helsto=
ne's
pony, and the two gentlemen rode away full gallop, to seek surgical aid in
different directions.
Caroline was not yet pacified.
'Shirley, Shirley, I should have l=
iked
to speak one word to him before he went,' she murmured, while the tears
gathered glittering in her eyes.
'Why do you cry, Lina?' asked Miss=
Keeldar
a little sternly. 'You ought to be glad instead of sorry. Robert has escaped
any serious harm; he is victorious; he has been cool and brave in combat; h=
e is
now considerate in triumph: is this a time - are these causes for weeping?'=
'You do not know what I have in my
heart,' pleaded the other: 'what pain, what distraction; nor whence it aris=
es.
I can understand that you should exult in Robert's greatness and goodness; =
so
do I, in one sense, but, in another, I feel so miserable. I am too far remo=
ved from
him: I used to be nearer. Let me alone, Shirley: do let me cry a few minute=
s;
it relieves me.'
Miss Keeldar, feeling her tremble =
in
every limb, ceased to expostulate with her: she went out of the shed, and l=
eft
her to weep in peace. It was the best plan: in a few minutes Caroline rejoi=
ned
her, much calmer: she said with her natural, docile, gentle manner - 'Come,
Shirley, we will go home now. I promise not to try to see Robert again till=
he
asks for me. I never will try to push myself on him. I thank you for
restraining me just now.'
'I did it with a good intention,'
returned Miss Keeldar.
'Now, dear Lina,' she continued, '=
let
us turn our faces to the cool morning breeze, and walk very quietly back to=
the
Rectory. We will steal in as we stole out; none shall know where we have be=
en,
or what we have seen to-night: neither taunt nor misconstruction can
consequently molest us. Tomorrow, we will see Robert, and be of good cheer;=
but
I will say no more, lest I should begin to cry too, I seem hard towards you=
, but
I am not so.'
The two girls met no living soul on
their way back to the Rectory: they let themselves in noiselessly; they sto=
le
upstairs unheard: the breaking morning gave them what light they needed.
Shirley sought her couch immediately; and, though the room was strange - for
she had never slept at the Rectory before - and though the recent scene was=
one
unparalleled for excitement and terror by any it had hitherto been her lot =
to
witness, yet, scarce was her head laid on the pillow, ere a deep, refreshing
sleep closed her eyes, and calmed her senses.
Perfect health was Shirley's envia=
ble
portion; though warmhearted and sympathetic, she was not nervous: powerful
emotions could rouse and sway, without exhausting her spirit: the tempest
troubled and shook her while it lasted; but it left her elasticity unbent, =
and
her freshness quite unblighted. As every day brought her stimulating emotio=
n,
so every night yielded her recreating rest. Caroline now watched her sleepi=
ng,
and read the serenity of her mind in the beauty of her happy countenance.
For herself, being of a different
temperament, she could not sleep. The commonplace excitement of the
tea-drinking and school-gathering would alone have sufficed to make her
restless all night: the effect of the terrible drama which had just been
enacted before her eyes was not likely to quit her for days. It was vain ev=
en
to try to retain a recumbent posture: she sat up by Shirley's side, counting
the slow minutes, and watching the June sun mount the heavens.
Life wastes fast in such vigils as
Caroline had of late but too often kept; vigils during which the mind - hav=
ing
no pleasant food to nourish it - no manna of hope - no hived-honey of joyous
memories - tries to live on the meagre diet of wishes, and failing to derive
thence either delight or support, and feeling itself ready to perish with
craving want, turns to philosophy, to resolution, to resignation; calls on =
all
these gods for aid, calls vainly - is unheard, unhelped, and languishes.
Caroline was a Christian; therefor=
e in
trouble she framed many a prayer after the Christian creed; preferred it wi=
th
deep earnestness; begged for patience, strength, relief. This world, howeve=
r,
we all know, is the scene of trial and probation; and, for any favourable
result her petitions had yet wrought, it seemed to her that they were unhea=
rd
and unaccepted. She believed, sometimes, that God had turned His face from =
her.
At moments she was a Calvinist, and, sinking into the gulf of religious
despair, she saw darkening over her the doom of reprobation.
Most people have had a period or
periods in their lives when they have felt thus forsaken; when, having long
hoped against hope, and still seen the day of fruition deferred, their hear=
ts
have truly sickened within them. This is a terrible hour, but it is often t=
hat
darkest point which precedes the rise of day; that turn of the year when the
icy January wind carries over the waste at once the dirge of departing wint=
er,
and the prophecy of coming spring. The perishing birds, however, cannot thus
understand the blast before which they shiver; and as little can the suffer=
ing
soul recognise, in the climax of its affliction, the dawn of its deliveranc=
e.
Yet, let whoever grieves still cling fast to love and faith in God: God will
never deceive, never finally desert him. 'Whom He loveth, He chasteneth.' T=
hese
words are true, and should not be forgotten.
The household was astir at last: t=
he
servants were up; the shutters were opened below. Caroline, as she quitted =
the
couch, which had been but a thorny one to her, felt that revival of spirits
which the return of day, of action, gives to all but the wholly despairing =
or
actually dying: she dressed herself, as usual, carefully, trying so to arra=
nge
her hair and attire that nothing of the forlornness she felt at heart shoul=
d be
visible externally: she looked as fresh as Shirley when both were dressed, =
only
that Miss Keeldar's eyes were lively, and Miss Helstone's languid.
'To-day I shall have much to say to
Moore,' were Shirley's first words; and you could see in her face that life=
was
full of interest, expectation, and occupation for her. 'He will have to und=
ergo
cross-examination,' she added: 'I dare say he thinks he has outwitted me
cleverly. And this is the way men deal with women; still concealing danger =
from
them: thinking, I suppose, to spare them pain. They imagined we little knew
where they were to-night: we know they little conjectured where we were. Me=
n, I
believe, fancy women's minds something like those of children. Now, that is=
a
mistake.'
This was said as she stood at the
glass, training her naturally waved hair into curls by twining it round her
fingers. She took up the theme again five minutes after, as Caroline fasten=
ed
her dress and clasped her girdle.
'If men could see us as we really =
are,
they would be a little amazed; but the cleverest, the acutest men are often
under an illusion about women: they do not read them in a true light: they
misapprehend them, both for good and evil: their good woman is a queer thin=
g, half
doll, half angel; their bad woman almost always a fiend. Then to hear them =
fall
into ecstasies with each other's creations, worshipping the heroine of such=
a
poem - novel - drama, thinking it fine - divine! Fine and divine it may be,=
but
often quite artificial - false as the rose in my best bonnet there. If I sp=
oke
all I think on this point; if I gave my real opinion of some first-rate fem=
ale
characters in first-rate works, where should I be? Dead under a cairn of
avenging stones in half-an-hour.'
'Shirley, you chatter so, I can't
fasten you: be still. And after all, authors' heroines are almost as good as
authoress's heroes.'
'Not at all: women read men more t=
ruly
than men read women. I'll prove that in a magazine paper some day when I've
time; only it will never be inserted: it will be 'declined with thanks,' and
left for me at the publisher's.'
'To be sure: you could not write
cleverly enough; you don't know enough; you are not learned, Shirley.'
'God knows, I can't contradict you,
Cary: I'm as ignorant as a stone. There's one comfort, however, you are not
much better.'
They descended to breakfast.
'I wonder how Mrs Pryor and Horten=
se
Moore have passed the night,' said Caroline, as she made the coffee. 'Selfi=
sh
being that I am! I never thought of either of them till just now: they will
have heard all the tumult, Fieldhead and the Cottage are so near; and Horte=
nse
is timid in such matters: so no doubt is Mrs Pryor.'
'Take my word for it, Lina, Moore =
will
have contrived to get his sister out of the way: she went home with Miss Ma=
nn;
he will have quartered her there for the night. As to Mrs Pryor, I own I am
uneasy about her; but in another half- hour we will be with her.'
By this time the news of what had
happened at the Hollow was spread all over the neighbourhood. Fanny, who had
been to Fieldhead to fetch the milk, returned in panting haste, with tidings
that there had been a battle in the night at Mr Moore's mill, and that some
said twenty men were killed. Eliza, during Fanny's absence, had been appris=
ed
by the butcher's boy that the mill was burnt to the ground. Both women rush=
ed
into the parlour to announce these terrible facts to the ladies, terminating
their clear and accurate narrative by the assertion that they were sure mas=
ter
must have been in it all. He and Thomas, the clerk, they were confident, mu=
st
have gone last night to join Mr Moore and the soldiers: Mr Malone, too, had=
not
been heard of at his lodgings since yesterday afternoon; and Joe Scott's wi=
fe
and family were in the greatest distress, wondering what had become of their
head.
Scarcely was this information impa=
rted
when a knock at the kitchen-door announced the Fieldhead errand-boy, arrive=
d in
hot haste, bearing a billet from Mrs Pryor. It was hurriedly written, and u=
rged
Miss Keeldar to return directly, as the neighbourhood and the house seemed
likely to be all in confusion, and orders would have to be given which the
mistress of the hall alone could regulate. In a postscript it was entreated
that Miss Helstone might not be left alone at the Rectory: she had better, =
it
was suggested, accompany Miss Keeldar.
'There are not two opinions on that
head,' said Shirley, as she tied on her own bonnet, and then ran to fetch
Caroline's.
'But what will Fanny and Eliza do?=
And
if my uncle returns?'
'Your uncle will not return yet; he
has other fish to fry; he will be galloping backwards and forwards from
Briarfield to Stilbro' all day, rousing the magistrates in the court-house,=
and
the officers at the barracks; and Fanny and Eliza can have in Joe Scott's a=
nd
the clerk's wives to bear them company. Besides, of course, there is no real
danger to be apprehended now: weeks will elapse before the rioters can again
rally, or plan any other attempt; and I am much mistaken if Moore and Mr
Helstone will not take advantage of last night's outbreak to quell them
altogether: they will frighten the authorities of Stilbro' into energetic
measures. I only hope they will not be too severe - not pursue the discomfi=
ted
too relentlessly.'
'Robert will not be cruel: we saw =
that
last night,' said Caroline.
'But he will be hard,' retorted
Shirley; 'and so will your uncle.'
As they hurried along the meadow a=
nd
plantation-path to Fieldhead, they saw the distant highway already alive wi=
th
an unwonted flow of equestrians and pedestrians, tending in the direction of
the usually solitary Hollow. On reaching the hall, they found the back-yard
gates open, and the court and kitchen seemed crowded with excited milk-fetc=
hers
- men, women, and children, whom Mrs Gill, the housekeeper, appeared vainly
persuading to take their milk- cans and depart. (It is, or was, by-the-bye,=
the
custom in the north of England for the cottagers on a country squire's esta=
te
to receive their supplies of milk and butter from the dairy of the Manor-Ho=
use,
on whose pastures a herd of milch kine was usually fed for the convenience =
of
the neighbourhood. Miss Keeldar owned such a herd - all deep-dewlapped, Cra=
ven
cows, reared on the sweet herbage and clear waters of bonnie Airedale; and =
very
proud she was of their sleek aspect and high condition.) Seeing now the sta=
te
of matters, and that it was desirable to effect a clearance of the premises,
Shirley stepped in amongst the gossiping groups. She bade them good-morning
with a certain frank, tranquil ease - the natural characteristic of her man=
ner
when she addressed numbers; especially if those numbers belonged to the
working-class; she was cooler amongst her equals, and rather proud to those
above her. She then asked them if they had all got their milk measured out,=
and
understanding that they had, she further observed that she 'wondered what t=
hey
were waiting for, then.'
'We're just talking a bit over this
battle there has been at your mill, Mistress,' replied a man.
'Talking a bit! Just like you!' sa=
id
Shirley. 'It is a queer thing all the world is so fond of talking over even=
ts:
you talk if anybody dies suddenly; you talk if a fire breaks out; you talk =
if a
mill-owner fails; you talk if he's murdered, What good does your talking do=
?'
There is nothing the lower orders =
like
better than a little downright good- humoured rating. Flattery they scorn v=
ery
much: honest abuse they enjoy. They call it speaking plainly, and take a
sincere delight in being the objects thereof. The homely harshness of Miss
Keeldar's salutation won her the ear of the whole throng in a second.
'We're no war nor some 'at is aboon
us; are we?' asked a man smiling.
'Nor a whit better: you that shoul=
d be
models of industry are just as gossip- loving as the idle. Fine, rich people
that have nothing to do, may be partly excused for trifling their time away:
you who have to earn your bread with the sweat of your brow are quite
inexcusable.'
'That's queer, Mistress: suld we n=
ever
have a holiday because we work hard?'
'Never,' was the prompt answer;
'unless,' added the 'mistress,' with a smile that half-belied the severity =
of
her speech, 'unless you knew how to make a better use of it than to get
together over rum and tea, if you are women - or over beer and pipes, if you
are men, and talk scandal at your neighbours' expense. Come, friends,' she
added, changing at once from bluntness to courtesy, 'oblige me by taking yo=
ur
cans and going home. I expect several persons to call to-day, and it will be
inconvenient to have the avenues to the house crowded.'
Yorkshire people are as yielding to
persuasion as they are stubborn against compulsion: the yard was clear in f=
ive
minutes.
'Thank you, and good-bye to you,
friends,' said Shirley, as she closed the gates on a quiet court.
Now, let me hear the most refined =
of
Cockneys presume to find fault with Yorkshire manners! Taken as they ought =
to
be, the majority of the lads and lasses of the West-Riding are gentlemen and
ladies, every inch of them: it is only against the weak affectation and fut=
ile
pomposity of a would-be aristocrat they turn mutinous.
Entering by the back-way, the young
ladies passed through the kitchen (or house, as the inner kitchen is called=
) to
the hall. Mrs Pryor came running down the oak staircase to meet them. She w=
as
all unnerved: her naturally sanguine complexion was pale; her usually placi=
d,
though timid, blue eye was wandering, unsettled, alarmed. She did not, howe=
ver,
break out into any exclamations, or hurried narrative of what had happened.=
Her
predominant feeling had been in the course of the night, and was now this
morning, a sense of dissatisfaction with herself that she could not feel
firmer, cooler, more equal to the demands of the occasion.
'You are aware,' she began with a
trembling voice, and yet the most conscientious anxiety to avoid exaggerati=
on
in what she was about to say, - 'that a body of rioters has attacked Mr Moo=
re's
mill to-night: we heard the firing and confusion very plainly here; we none=
of
us slept: it was a sad night: the house has been in great bustle all the
morning with people coming and going: the servants have applied to me for
orders and directions, which I really did not feel warranted in giving. Mr
Moore has, I believe, sent up for refreshments for the soldiers and others
engaged in the defence; for some conveniences also for the wounded. I could=
not
undertake the responsibility of giving orders or taking measures. I fear de=
lay
may have been injurious in some instances; but this is not my house: you we=
re
absent, my dear Miss Keeldar - what could I do?'
'Were no refreshments sent?' asked
Shirley, while her countenance, hitherto so clear, propitious, and quiet, e=
ven
while she was rating the milk-fetchers, suddenly turned dark and warm.
'I think not, my dear.'
'And nothing for the wounded? no l=
inen
- no wine - no bedding?'
'I think not. I cannot tell what M=
rs
Gill did: but it seemed impossible to me, at the moment, to venture to disp=
ose
of your property by sending supplies to soldiers - provisions for a company=
of
soldiers sounds formidable: how many there are I did not ask; but I could n=
ot
think of allowing them to pillage the house, as it were. I intended to do w=
hat
was right; yet I did not see the case quite clearly, I own.'
'It lies in a nutshell,
notwithstanding. These soldiers have risked their lives in defence of my pr=
operty
- I suppose they have a right to my gratitude: the wounded are our
fellow-creatures - I suppose we should aid them. Mrs Gill!'
She turned, and called in a voice =
more
clear than soft. It rung through the thick oak of the hall and kitchen doors
more effectually than a bell's summons. Mrs Gill, who was deep in bread-mak=
ing,
came with hands and apron in culinary case, not having dared to stop to rub=
the
dough from the one, or to shake the flour from the other. Her mistress had
never called a servant in that voice save once before, and that was when she
had seen from the window Tartar in full tug with two carriers' dogs, each of
them a match for him in size, if not in courage, and their masters standing=
by,
encouraging their animals, while hers was unbefriended: then, indeed, she h=
ad
summoned John as if the Day of Judgment were at hand: nor had she waited for
the said John's coming, but had walked out into the lane bonnetless; and af=
ter
informing the carriers that she held them far less of men than the three br=
utes
whirling and worrying in the dust before them, had put her hands round the
thick neck of the largest of the curs and given her whole strength to the e=
ssay
of choking it from Tartar's torn and bleeding eye, just above and below whi=
ch
organ the vengeful fangs were inserted. Five or six men were presently on t=
he
spot to help her, but she never thanked one of them: 'They might have come
before, if their will had been good,' she said. She had not a word for anyb=
ody
during the rest of the day; but sat near the hall fire till evening watching
and tending Tartar, who lay all gory, stiff, and swelled on a mat at her fe=
et.
She wept furtively over him sometimes, and murmured the softest words of pi=
ty
and endearment, in tones whose music the old, scarred, canine warrior
acknowledged by licking her hand or her sandal alternately with his own red
wounds. As to John, his lady turned a cold shoulder on him for a week
afterwards.
Mrs Gill, remembering this little
episode, came 'all of a tremble,' as she said herself. In a firm, brief voi=
ce,
Miss Keeldar proceeded to put questions and give orders. That at such a time
Fieldhead should have evinced the inhospitality of a miser's hovel, stung h=
er
haughty spirit to the quick; and the revolt of its pride was seen in the he=
aving
of her heart; stirred stormily under the lace and silk which veiled it.
'How long is it since that message
came from the mill?'
'Not an hour yet, ma'am,' answered=
the
housekeeper soothingly.
'Not an hour! You might almost as =
well
have said not a day. They will have applied elsewhere by this time. Send a =
man
instantly down to tell them that everything this house contains is at Mr
Moore's, Mr Helstone's, and the soldiers' service. Do that first!'
While the order was being executed,
Shirley moved away from her friends, and stood at the hall-window, silent,
unapproachable. When Mrs Gill came back, she turned: the purple flush which
painful excitement kindles on a pale cheek, glowed on hers: the spark which
displeasure lights in a dark eye fired her glance.
'Let the contents of the larder and
the wine-cellar be brought up, put into the hay-carts, and driven down to t=
he
Hollow. If there does not happen to be much bread or much meat in the house=
, go
to the butcher and baker, and desire them to send what they have: but I will
see for myself.'
She moved off.
'All will be right soon: she will =
get
over it in an hour,' whispered Caroline to Mrs Pryor. 'Go upstairs, dear
madam,' she added affectionately, 'and try to be as calm and easy as you ca=
n.
The truth is, Shirley will blame herself more than you before the day is ov=
er.'
By dint of a few more gentle
assurances and persuasions, Miss Helstone contrived to soothe the agitated
lady. Having accompanied her to her apartment, and promised to rejoin her t=
here
when things were settled, Caroline left her to see, as she said, 'if she co=
uld
be useful.' She presently found that she could be very useful; for the reti=
nue
of servants at Fieldhead was by no means numerous, and just now their mistr=
ess
found plenty of occupation for all the hands at her command, and for her own
also. The delicate good-nature and dexterous activity which Caroline brough=
t to
the aid of the housekeeper and maids - all somewhat scared by their lady's
unwonted mood - did a world of good at once: it helped the assistants and
appeased the directress. A chance glance and smile from Caroline moved Shir=
ley
to an answering smile directly. The former was carrying a heavy basket up t=
he
cellar-stairs.
'This is a shame,' cried Shirley,
running to her. 'It will strain your arm.'
She took it from her, and herself =
bore
it out into the yard. The cloud of temper was dispelled when she came back;=
the
flash in her eye was melted; the shade on her forehead vanished: she resumed
her usual cheerful and cordial manner to those about her, tempering her rev=
ived
spirits with a little of the softness of shame at her previous unjust anger=
.
She was still superintending the
lading of the cart, when a gentleman entered the yard and approached her ere
she was aware of his presence.
'I hope I see Miss Keeldar well th=
is
morning?' he said, examining with rather significant scrutiny her still flu=
shed
face.
She gave him a look, and then again
bent to her employment, without reply. A pleasant enough smile played on her
lips, but she hid it. The gentleman repeated his salutation, stooping, that=
it
might reach her ear with more facility.
'Well enough, if she be good enoug=
h,'
was the answer; 'and so is Mr Moore too, I dare say. To speak truth, I am n=
ot
anxious about him; some slight mischance would be only his just due: his
conduct has been - we will say strange, just now, till we have time to
characterise it by a more exact epithet. Meantime, may I ask what brings him
here?'
'Mr Helstone and I have just recei=
ved
your message, that everything at Fieldhead was at our service. We judged, by
the unlimited wording of the gracious intimation, that you would be giving
yourself too much trouble: I perceive our conjecture was correct. We are no=
t a
regiment, remember: only about half-a-dozen soldiers, and as many civilians.
Allow me to retrench something from these too abundant supplies.'
Miss Keeldar blushed, while she
laughed at her own over-eager generosity, and most disproportionate
calculations. Moore laughed too - very quietly, though; and as quietly, he
ordered basket after basket to be taken from the cart, and remanded vessel
after vessel to the cellar.
'The Rector must hear of this,' he
said: 'he will make a good story of it. What an excellent army contractor M=
iss
Keeldar would have been!' again he laughed, adding - 'It is precisely as I
conjectured.'
'You ought to be thankful,' said
Shirley, 'and not mock me. What could I do? How could I gauge your appetite=
s,
or number your band? For aught I knew, there might have been fifty of you at
least to victual. You told me nothing; and then, an application to provision
soldiers naturally suggests large ideas.'
'It appears so,' remarked Moore;
levelling another of his keen, quiet glances at the discomfited Shirley. 'N=
ow,'
he continued, addressing the carter, 'I think you may take what remains to =
the
Hollow. Your load will be somewhat lighter than the one Miss Keeldar destin=
ed
You to carry.'
As the vehicle rumbled out of the
yard, Shirley, rallying her spirits, demanded what had become of the wounde=
d.
'There was not a single man hurt on
our side,' was the answer.
'You were hurt yourself, on the
temples,' interposed a quick, low voice - that of Caroline, who, having
withdrawn within the shade of the door, and behind the large person of Mrs
Gill, had till now escaped Moore's notice: when she spoke, his eye searched=
the
obscurity of her retreat.
'Are you much hurt?' she inquired.=
'As you might scratch your finger =
with
a needle in sewing.'
'Lift your hair, and let us see.'<= o:p>
He took his hat off, and did as he=
was
bid, disclosing only a narrow slip of court-plaster. Caroline indicated, by=
a
slight movement of the head, that she was satisfied, and disappeared within=
the
clear obscure of the interior.
'How did she know I was hurt?' ask=
ed
Moore.
'By rumour, no doubt. But it is too
good in her to trouble herself about you. For my part, it was of your victi=
ms I
was thinking when I inquired after the wounded: what damage have your oppon=
ents
sustained?'
'One of the rioters, or victims, as
you call them, was killed, and six were hurt.'
'What have you done with them?'
'What you will perfectly approve.
Medical aid was procured immediately; and as soon as we can get a couple of
covered waggons, and some clean straw, they will be removed to Stilbro'.'
'Straw! you must have beds and bed=
ding.
I will send my waggon directly, properly furnished; and Mr Yorke, I am sure,
will send his.'
'You guess correctly: he has
volunteered already; and Mrs Yorke - who, like you, seems disposed to regard
the rioters as martyrs, and me, and especially Mr Helstone, as murderers - =
is
at this moment, I believe, most assiduously engaged in fitting it up with
feather-beds, pillows, bolsters, blankets, etc. The victims lack no attenti=
ons
- I promise you. Mr Hall - your favourite parson - has been with them ever =
since
six o'clock, exhorting them, praying with them, and even waiting on them li=
ke
any nurse; and Caroline's good friend, Miss Ainley, that very plain old mai=
d,
sent in a stock of lint and linen, something in the proportion of another
lady's allowance of beef and wine.'
'That will do. Where is your siste=
r?'
'Well cared for. I had her securely
domiciled with Miss Mann. This very morning the two set out for Wormwood We=
lls
(a noted watering-place), and will stay there some weeks.'
'So Mr Helstone domiciled me at the
Rectory! Mighty clever you gentlemen think you are! I make you heartily wel=
come
to the idea, and hope its savour, as you chew the cud of reflection upon it,
gives you pleasure. Acute and astute, why are you not also omniscient? How =
is
it that events transpire, under your very noses, of which you have no
suspicion? It should be so, otherwise the requisite gratification of
out-manoeuvring you would be unknown. Ah! friend, you may search my
countenance, but you cannot read it.'
Moore, indeed, looked as if he cou=
ld
not.
'You think me a dangerous specimen=
of
my sex. Don't you, now?'
'A peculiar one, at least.'
'But Caroline - is she peculiar?'<= o:p>
'In her way - yes.'
'Her way! What is her way?'
'You know her as well as I do.'
'And knowing her I assert that she=
is
neither eccentric nor difficult of control: is she?'
'That depends -&=
nbsp;
- '
'However, there is nothing masculi=
ne
about her?'
'Why lay such emphasis on her? Do =
you
consider her a contrast, in that respect, to yourself?'
'You do, no doubt; but that does n=
ot
signify. Caroline is neither masculine, nor of what they call the spirited
order of women.'
'I have seen her flash out.'
'So have I - but not with manly fi=
re:
it was a short, vivid, trembling glow, that shot up, shone, vanished -&=
nbsp;
- '
'And left her scared at her own
daring. You describe others besides Caroline.'
'The point I wish to establish is,
that Miss Helstone, though gentle, tractable, and candid enough, is still
perfectly capable of defying even Mr Moore's penetration.'
'What have you and she been doing?'
asked Moore suddenly.
'Have you had any breakfast?'
'What is your mutual mystery?'
'If you are hungry, Mrs Gill will =
give
you something to eat here. Step into the oak-parlour, and ring the bell - y=
ou
will be served as if at an inn; or, if you like better, go back to the Holl=
ow.'
'The alternative is not open to me=
: I
must go back. Good-morning: the first leisure I have, I will see you again.=
'
While Shirley was talking with Moo=
re,
Caroline rejoined Mrs Pryor upstairs. She found that lady deeply depressed.=
She
would not say that Miss Keeldar's hastiness had hurt her feelings; but it w=
as
evident an inward wound galled her. To any but a congenial nature, she would
have seemed insensible to the quiet, tender attentions by which Miss Helsto=
ne
sought to impart solace; but Caroline knew that, unmoved or slightly moved =
as
she looked, she felt, valued, and was healed by them.
'I am deficient in self-confidence=
and
decision,' she said at last. 'I always have been deficient in those qualiti=
es:
yet I think Miss Keeldar should have known my character well enough by this
time, to be aware that I always feel an even painful solicitude to do right=
, to
act for the best. The unusual nature of the demand on my judgment puzzled m=
e,
especially following the alarms of the night. I could not venture to act
promptly for another: but I trust no serious harm will result from my lapse=
of
firmness.'
A gentle knock was here heard at t=
he
door: it was half-opened.
'Caroline, come here,' said a low
voice.
Miss Helstone went out: there stood
Shirley in the gallery, looking contrite, ashamed, sorry as any repentant
child.
'How is Mrs Pryor?' she asked.
'Rather out of spirits,' said
Caroline.
'I have behaved very shamefully, v=
ery
ungenerously, very ungratefully to her,' said Shirley. 'How insolent in me =
to
turn on her thus, for what after all was no fault, only an excess of
conscientiousness on her part. But I regret my error most sincerely: tell h=
er
so, and ask if she will forgive me.'
Caroline discharged the errand with
heartfelt pleasure. Mrs Pryor rose, came to the door: she did not like scen=
es;
she dreaded them as all timid people do: she said falteringly - 'Come in, my
dear.'
Shirley did come in with some
impetuosity: she threw her arms round her governess, and while she kissed h=
er
heartily, she said - 'You know you must forgive me, Mrs Pryor. I could not =
get
on at all if there was a misunderstanding between you and me.'
'I have nothing to forgive,' was t=
he
reply. 'We will pass it over now, if you please. The final result of the
incident is that it proves more plainly than ever how unequal I am to certa=
in
crises.'
And that was the painful feeling w=
hich
would remain on Mrs Pryor's mind: no effort of Shirley's or Caroline's could
efface it thence: she could forgive her offending pupil, not her innocent s=
elf.
Miss Keeldar, doomed to be in cons= tant request during the morning, was presently summoned downstairs again. The Re= ctor called first: a lively welcome and livelier reprimand were at his service; = he expected both, and, being in high spirits, took them in equally good part.<= o:p>
In the course of his brief visit, =
he
quite forgot to ask after his niece: the riot, the rioters, the mill, the
magistrates, the heiress, absorbed all his thoughts to the exclusion of fam=
ily
ties. He alluded to the part himself and curate had taken in the defence of=
the
Hollow.
'The vials of pharisaical wrath wi=
ll
be emptied on our heads, for our share in this business,' he said; 'but I d=
efy
every calumniator. I was there only to support the law, to play my part as a
man and a Briton; which characters I deem quite compatible with those of the
priest and Levite, in their highest sense. Your tenant, Moore,' he went on,
'has won my approbation. A cooler commander I would not wish to see, nor a =
more
determined. Besides, the man has shown sound judgment and good sense; first=
, in
being thoroughly prepared for the event which has taken place, and
subsequently, when his well-concerted plans had secured him success, in kno=
wing
how to use without abusing his victory. Some of the magistrates are now well
frightened, and, like all cowards, show a tendency to be cruel; Moore restr=
ains
them with admirable prudence. He has hitherto been very unpopular in the
neighbourhood; but, mark my words, the tide of opinion will now take a turn=
in
his favour: people will find out that they have not appreciated him, and wi=
ll
hasten to remedy their error; and he, when he perceives the public disposed=
to
acknowledge his merits, will show a more gracious mien than that with which=
he
has hitherto favoured us.'
Mr Helstone was about to add to th=
is
speech some half-jesting, half-serious warnings to Miss Keeldar, on the sub=
ject
of her rumoured partiality for her talented tenant, when a ring at the door,
announcing another caller, checked his raillery; and as that other caller
appeared in the form of a white-haired, elderly gentleman, with a rather
truculent countenance and disdainful eye - in short, our old acquaintance, =
and
the Rector's old enemy, Mr Yorke - the priest and Levite seized his hat, and
with the briefest of adieux to Miss Keeldar, and the sternest of nods to her
guest, took an abrupt leave.
Mr Yorke was in no mild mood, and =
in
no measured terms did he express his opinion on the transaction of the nigh=
t:
Moore, the magistrates, the soldiers, the mob-leaders, each and all came in=
for
a share of his invectives; but he reserved his strongest epithets - and real
racy Yorkshire Doric adjectives they were - for the benefit of the fighting
parsons, the 'sanguinary, demoniac' rector and curate. According to him, the
cup of ecclesiastical guilt was now full indeed.
'The Church,' he said, 'was in a
bonnie pickle now: it was time it came down when parsons took to swaggering
among soldiers, blazing away wi' bullet and gunpowder, taking the lives of =
far
honester men than themselves.'
'What would Moore have done, if no=
body
had helped him?' asked Shirley.
'Drunk as he'd brewed - eaten as h=
e'd
baked.'
'Which means, you would have left =
him
by himself to face that mob. Good. He has plenty of courage; but the greate=
st
amount of gallantry that ever garrisoned one human breast could scarce avail
against two hundred.'
'He had the soldiers; those poor
slaves who hire out their own blood and spill other folk's for money.'
'You abuse soldiers almost as much=
as
you abuse clergymen. All who wear red coats are national refuse in your eye=
s,
and all who wear black are national swindlers. Mr Moore, according to you, =
did
wrong to get military aid, and he did still worse to accept of any other ai=
d.
Your way of talking amounts to this: - he should have abandoned his mill and
his life to the rage of a set of misguided madmen, and Mr Helstone and every
other gentleman in the parish should have looked on, and seen the building
razed and its owner slaughtered, and never stirred a finger to save either.=
'
'If Moore had behaved to his men f=
rom
the beginning as a master ought to behave, they never would have entertained
their present feelings towards him.'
'Easy for you to talk,' exclaimed =
Miss
Keeldar, who was beginning to wax warm in her tenant's cause: 'you, whose
family have lived at Briarmains for six generations, to whose person the pe=
ople
have been accustomed for fifty years, who know all their ways, prejudices, =
and
preferences. Easy, indeed, for you to act so as to avoid offending them; bu=
t Mr
Moore came a stranger into the district: he came here poor and friendless, =
with
nothing but his own energies to back him; nothing but his honour, his talen=
t,
and his industry to make his way for him. A monstrous crime indeed that, un=
der
such circumstances, he could not popularise his naturally grave, quiet mann=
ers,
all at once: could not be jocular, and free, and cordial with a strange
peasantry, as you are with your fellow-townsmen! An unpardonable transgress=
ion,
that when he introduced improvements he did not go about the business in qu=
ite
the most politic way; did not graduate his changes as delicately as a rich
capitalist might have done For errors of this sort is he to be the victim of
mob-outrage? Is he to be denied even the privilege of defending himself? Are
those who have the hearts of men in their breasts (and Mr Helstone - say wh=
at
you will of him - has such a heart) to be reviled like malefactors because =
they
stand by him - because they venture to espouse the cause of one against two
hundred?'
'Come - come now - be cool,' said =
Mr
Yorke, smiling at the earnestness with which Shirley multiplied her rapid
questions.
'Cool! Must I listen coolly to
downright nonsense - to dangerous nonsense? No. I like you very well, Mr Yo=
rke,
as you know; but I thoroughly dislike some of your principles. All that can=
t -
excuse me, but I repeat the word - all that cant about soldiers and parsons=
is
most offensive in my ears. All ridiculous, irrational crying up of one clas=
s,
whether the same be aristocrat or democrat - all howling down of another cl=
ass,
whether clerical or military - all exacting injustice to individuals, wheth=
er
monarch or mendicant - is really sickening to me: all arraying of ranks aga=
inst
ranks, all party hatreds, all tyrannies disguised as liberties, I reject and
wash my hands of. You think you are a philanthropist; you think you are an
advocate of liberty; but I will tell you this - Mr Hall, the parson of Nunn=
ely,
is a better friend both of man and freedom than Hiram Yorke, the Reformer of
Briarfield.'
From a man, Mr Yorke would not have
borne this language very patiently, nor would he have endured it from some
women; but he accounted Shirley both honest and pretty, and her plainspoken=
ire
amused him: besides, he took a secret pleasure in hearing her defend her
tenant, for we have already intimated he had Robert Moore's interest very m=
uch
at heart: moreover, if he wished to avenge himself for her severity, he knew
the means lay in his power: a word, he believed, would suffice to tame and
silence her, to cover her frank forehead with the rosy shadow of shame, and
veil the glow of her eye under down-drooped lid and lash.
'What more hast thou to say?' he
inquired, as she paused, rather it appeared to take breath, than because he=
r subject
or her zeal was exhausted.
'Say, Mr Yorke!' was the answer, t=
he
speaker meantime walking fast from wall to wall of the oak-parlour. 'Say? I
have a great deal to say, if I could get it out in lucid order, which I nev=
er
can do. I have to say that your views, and those of most extreme politician=
s,
are such as none but men in an irresponsible position can advocate; that th=
ey
are purely opposition views, meant only to be talked about, and never inten=
ded
to be acted on. Make you Prime Minister of England to-morrow, and you would
have to abandon them. You abuse Moore for defending his mill: had you been =
in
Moore's place you could not with honour or sense have acted otherwise than =
he
acted. You abuse Mr Helstone for everything he does: Mr Helstone has his fa=
ults:
he sometimes does wrong, but oftener right. Were you ordained vicar of
Briarfield, you would find it no easy task to sustain all the active schemes
for the benefit of the parish planned and persevered in by your predecessor=
. I
wonder people cannot judge more fairly of each other and themselves. When I
hear Messrs. Malone and Donne chatter about the authority of the Church, the
dignity and claims of the priesthood, the deference due to them as clergyme=
n;
when I hear the outbreaks of their small spite against Dissenters; when I
witness their silly narrow jealousies and assumptions; when their palaver a=
bout
forms, and traditions, and superstitions, is sounding in my ear; when I beh=
old
their insolent carriage to the poor, their often base servility to the rich=
, I
think the Establishment is indeed in a poor way, and both she and her sons
appear in the utmost need of reformation. Turning away distressed from
minster-tower and village-spire - ay, as distressed as a churchwarden who f=
eels
the exigence of whitewash, and has not wherewithal to purchase lime - I rec=
all
your senseless sarcasms on the 'fat bishops,' the 'pampered parsons,' 'old
mother church,' etc. I remember your strictures on all who differ from you,
your sweeping condemnation of classes and individuals, without the slightest
allowance made for circumstances or temptations; and then, Mr Yorke, doubt
clutches my inmost heart as to whether men exist clement, reasonable, and j=
ust
enough to be entrusted with the task of reform. I don't believe you are of =
the
number.'
'You have an ill opinion of me, Mi=
ss
Shirley: you never told me so much of your mind before.'
'I never had an opening; but I have
sat on Jessy's stool by your chair in the back-parlour at Briarmains, for
evenings together, listening excitedly to your talk, half-admiring what you
said, and half-rebelling against it. I think you a fine old Yorkshireman, s=
ir:
I am proud to have been born in the same county and parish at yourself -
truthful, upright, independent you are, as a rock based below seas; but also
you are harsh, rude, narrow, and merciless.'
'Not to the poor, lass - nor to the
meek of the earth - only to the proud and high-minded.'
'And what right have you, sir, to =
make
such distinctions? A prouder - a higher-minded man than yourself does not
exist. You find it easy to speak comfortably to your inferiors - you are too
haughty, too ambitious, too jealous to be civil to those above you. But you=
are
all alike. Helstone also is proud and prejudiced. Moore, though juster and =
more
considerate than either you or the Rector, is still haughty, stern, and in a
public sense, selfish. It is well there are such men as Mr Hall to be found
occasionally: men of large and kind hearts, who can love their whole race, =
who
can forgive others for being richer, more prosperous, or more powerful than
they are. Such men may have less originality, less force of character than =
you,
but they are better friends to mankind.'
'And when is it to be?' said Mr Yo=
rke,
now rising.
'When is what to be?'
'The wedding.'
'Whose wedding?'
'Only that of Robert Gérard
Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Cottage, with Miss Keeldar, daughter and heiress of
the late Charles Cave Keeldar of Fieldhead Hall.'
Shirley gazed at the questioner wi=
th
rising colour; but the light in her eye was not faltering: it shone steadil=
y -
yes - it burned deeply.
'That is your revenge,' she said
slowly: then added; 'Would it be a bad match, unworthy of the late Charles =
Cave
Keeldar's representative?'
'My lass, Moore is a gentleman: his
blood is pure and ancient as mine or thine.'
'And we too set store by ancient
blood? We have family pride, though one of us at least is a Republican?'
Yorke bowed as he stood before her.
His lips were mute; but his eye confessed the impeachment. Yes - he had fam=
ily
pride - you saw it in his whole bearing.
'Moore is a gentleman,' echoed
Shirley, lifting her head with glad grace. She checked herself - words seem=
ed
crowding to her tongue, she would not give them utterance; but her look spo=
ke
much at the moment: what -
'And if Moore is a gentleman, you =
can
be only a lady, therefore - - '
'Therefore there would be no
inequality in our union?'
'None.'
'Thank you for your approbation. W= ill you give me away when I relinquish the name of Keeldar for that of Moore?'<= o:p>
Mr Yorke, instead of replying, gaz=
ed
at her much puzzled. He could not divine what her look signified; whether s=
he
spoke in earnest or in jest: there was purpose and feeling, banter and scof=
f,
playing, mingled, on her mobile lineaments.
'I don't understand thee,' he said,
turning away.
She laughed: 'Take courage, sir; y=
ou are
not singular in your ignorance: but I suppose if Moore understands me, that
will do - will it not?'
'Moore may settle his own matters
henceforward for me; I'll neither meddle nor make with them further.'
A new thought crossed her: her
countenance changed magically; with a sudden darkening of the eye, and aust=
ere
fixing of the features, she demanded - 'Have you been asked to interfere. A=
re
you questioning me as another's proxy?'
'The Lord save us! Whoever weds th=
ee
must look about him! Keep all your questions for Robert; I'll answer no mor=
e on
'em. Good-day, lassie!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. . .
The day being fine, or at least fa=
ir -
for soft clouds curtained the sun, and a dim but not chill or waterish haze
slept blue on the hills - Caroline, while Shirley was engaged with her call=
ers,
had persuaded Mrs Pryor to assume her bonnet and summer shawl, and to take a
walk with her up towards the narrow end of the Hollow.
Here, the opposing sides of the gl=
en
approaching each other, and becoming clothed with brushwood and stunted oak=
s,
formed a wooded ravine; at the bottom of which ran the millstream, in broken
unquiet course, struggling with many stones, chafing against rugged banks,
fretting with gnarled tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went. H=
ere,
when you had wandered half-a-mile from the mill, you found a sense of deep
solitude: found it in the shade of unmolested trees; received it in the sin=
ging
of many birds, for which that shade made a home. This was no trodden way: t=
he
freshness of the wood-flowers attested that foot of man seldom pressed them:
abounding wild-roses looked as if they budded, bloomed, and faded under the
watch of solitude, as in a Sultan's harem. Here you saw the sweet azure of
blue-bells, and recognised in pearl-white blossoms, spangling the grass, an
humble type of some star-lit spot in space.
Mrs Pryor liked a quiet walk: she =
ever
shunned highroads, and sought byways and lonely lanes: one companion she
preferred to total solitude, for in solitude she was nervous; a vague fear =
of
annoying encounters broke the enjoyment of quite lonely rambles; but she fe=
ared
nothing with Caroline: when once she got away from human habitations, and
entered the still demesne of nature accompanied by this one youthful friend=
, a
propitious change seem to steal over her mind and beam in her countenance. =
When
with Caroline - and Caroline only - her heart, you would have said, shook o=
ff a
burden, her brow put aside a veil, her spirits too escaped from a restraint:
with her she was cheerful; with her, at times, she was tender: to her she w=
ould
impart her knowledge, reveal glimpses of her experience, give her opportuni=
ties
for guessing what life she had lived, what cultivation her mind had receive=
d,
of what calibre was her intelligence, how and where her feelings were
vulnerable.
To-day, for instance, as they walk=
ed
along, Mrs Pryor talked to her companion about the various birds singing in=
the
trees, discriminated their species, and said something about their habits a=
nd
peculiarities. English natural history seemed familiar to her. All the wild
flowers round their path were recognised by her: tiny plants springing near
stones and peeping out of chinks in old walls - plants such as Caroline had
scarcely noticed before - received a name and an intimation of their
properties: it appeared that she had minutely studied the botany of English
fields and woods. Having reached the head of the ravine, they sat down toge=
ther
on a ledge of grey and mossy rock jutting from the base of a steep green hi=
ll,
which towered above them: she looked round her, and spoke of the neighbourh=
ood
as she had once before seen it long ago. She alluded to its changes, and
compared its aspect with that of other parts of England; revealing in quiet,
unconscious touches of description, a sense of the picturesque, an apprecia=
tion
of the beautiful or commonplace, a power of comparing the wild with the
cultured, the grand with the tame, that gave to her discourse a graphic cha=
rm
as pleasant as it was unpretending.
The sort of reverent pleasure with
which Caroline listened - so sincere, so quiet, yet so evident, stirred the
elder lady's faculties to a gentle animation. Rarely, probably, had she, wi=
th
her chill, repellent outside - her diffident mien and incommunicative habit=
s,
known what it was to excite in one whom she herself could love, feelings of
earnest affection and admiring esteem. Delightful, doubtless, was the
consciousness that a young girl towards whom it seemed - judging by the mov=
ed
expression of her eyes and features - her heart turned with almost a fond
impulse, looked up to her as an instructor, and clung to her as a friend. W=
ith
a somewhat more marked accent of interest than she often permitted herself =
to
use, she said, as she bent towards her youthful companion, and put aside fr=
om
her forehead a pale brown curl which had strayed from the confining comb - =
'I
do hope this sweet air blowing from the hill will do you good, my dear
Caroline: I wish I could see something more of colour in these cheeks - but
perhaps you were never florid?'
'I had red cheeks once,' returned =
Miss
Helstone, smiling. 'I remember a year - two years ago, when I used to look =
in
the glass, I saw a different face there to what I see now - rounder and ros=
ier.
But when we are young,' added the girl of eighteen, 'our minds are careless=
and
our lives easy.'
'Do you' - continued Mrs Pryor,
mastering by an effort that tyrant timidity which made it difficult for her,
even under present circumstances, to attempt the scrutiny of another's hear=
t -
'Do you, at your age, fret yourself with cares for the future? Believe me, =
you
had better not: let the morrow take thought for the things of itself.'
'True, dear madam: it is not over =
the
future I pine. The evil of the day is sometimes oppressive - too oppressive,
and I long to escape it.'
'That is - the evil of the day - t=
hat
is - your uncle perhaps is not - you find it difficult to understand - he d=
oes
not appreciate - - '
Mrs Pryor could not complete her
broken sentences: she could not manage to put the question whether Mr Helst=
one
was too harsh with his niece, but Caroline comprehended.
'Oh, that is nothing,' she replied;
'my uncle and I get on very well: we never quarrel - I don't call him harsh=
-
he never scolds me. Sometimes I wish somebody in the world loved me; but I
cannot say that I particularly wish him to have more affection for me than =
he
has. As a child, I should perhaps have felt the want of attention, only the
servants were very kind to me; but when people are long indifferent to us, =
we
grow indifferent to their indifference. It is my uncle's way not to care for
women and girls - unless they be ladies that he meets in company: he could =
not
alter, and I have no wish that he should alter, as far as I am concerned. I
believe it would merely annoy and frighten me were he to be affectionate
towards me now. But you know, Mrs Pryor, it is scarcely living to measure t=
ime
as I do at the Rectory. The hours pass, and I get them over somehow, but I =
do
not live. I endure existence, but I rarely enjoy it. Since Miss Keeldar and=
you
came, I have been - I was going to say - happier, but that would be untrue.'
She paused.
'How, untrue? You are fond of Miss
Keeldar, are you not, my dear?'
'Very fond of Shirley: I both like=
and
admire her: but I am painfully circumstanced: for a reason I cannot explain=
, I
want to go away from this place, and to forget it.'
'You told me before you wished to =
be a
governess; but, my dear, if you remember, I did not encourage the idea. I h=
ave
been a governess myself great part of my life. In Miss Keeldar's acquaintan=
ce,
I esteem myself most fortunate: her talents and her really sweet disposition
have rendered my office easy to me; but when I was young, before I married,=
my
trials were severe, poignant I should not like a -&=
nbsp;
- I should not like yo=
u to
endure similar ones. It was my lot to enter a family of considerable
pretensions to good birth and mental superiority, and the members of which =
also
believed that 'on them was perceptible' an usual endowment of the 'Christian
graces'; that all their hearts were regenerate, and their spirits in a pecu=
liar
state of discipline. I was early given to understand that 'as I was not the=
ir
equal,' so I could not expect 'to have their sympathy.' It was in no sort
concealed from me that I was held a 'burden and a restraint in society.' The
gentlemen, I found, regarded me as a 'tabooed woman,' to whom 'they were
interdicted from granting the usual privileges of the sex,' and yet who
'annoyed them by frequently crossing their path.' The ladies too made it pl=
ain
that they thought me 'a bore.' The servants, it was signified, 'detested me=
';
why, I could never clearly comprehend. My pupils, I was told, 'however much
they might love me, and how deep soever the interest I might take in them,
could not be my friends.' It was intimated that I must 'live alone, and nev=
er
transgress the invisible but rigid line which established the difference
between me and my employers.' My life in this house was sedentary, solitary,
constrained, joyless, toilsome. The dreadful crushing of the animal spirits,
the ever-prevailing sense of friendlessness and homelessness consequent on =
this
state of things, began ere long to produce mortal effects on my constitutio=
n -
I sickened. The lady of the house told me coolly I was the victim of 'wound=
ed vanity.'
She hinted, that if I did not make an effort to quell my 'ungodly disconten=
t,'
to cease 'murmuring against God's appointment,' and to cultivate the profou=
nd
humility befitting my station, my mind would very likely 'go to pieces' on =
the
rock that wrecked most of my sisterhood - morbid self-esteem; and that I sh=
ould
die an inmate of a lunatic asylum.
'I said nothing to Mrs Hardman; it
would have been useless: but to her eldest daughter I one day dropped a few
observations, which were answered thus: There were hardships, she allowed, =
in
the position of a governess: 'doubtless they had their trials: but,' she
averred, with a manner it makes me smile now to recall - 'but it must be so.
She (Miss H.) had neither view, hope, nor wish to see these things remedied:
for, in the inherent constitution of English habits, feelings, and prejudic=
es,
there was no possibility that they should be. Governesses,' she observed, '=
must
ever be kept in a sort of isolation: it is the only means of maintaining th=
at
distance which the reserve of English manners and the decorum of English
families exact.'
'I remember I sighed as Miss Hardm=
an
quitted my bedside: she caught the sound, and turning, said severely - 'I f=
ear,
Miss Grey, you have inherited in fullest measure the worst sin of our fallen
nature - the sin of pride. You are proud, and therefore you are ungrateful =
too.
Mamma pays you a handsome salary; and, if you had average sense, you would
thankfully put up with much that is fatiguing to do and irksome to bear, si=
nce
it is so well made worth your while.'
'Miss Hardman, my love, was a very
strong-minded young lady, of most distinguished talents: the aristocracy are
decidedly a very superior class, you know - both physically, and morally, a=
nd
mentally - as a high Tory I acknowledge that; - I could not describe the
dignity of her voice and mien as she addressed me thus: still, I fear, she =
was
selfish, my dear. I would never wish to speak ill of my superiors in rank; =
but
I think she was a little selfish.'
'I remember,' continued Mrs Pryor,
after a pause, 'another of Miss H.'s observations, which she would utter wi=
th
quite a grand air. 'We,' she would say, - 'We need the imprudences,
extravagances, mistakes, and crimes of a certain number of fathers to sow t=
he
seed from which we reap the harvest of governesses. The daughters of
tradespeople, however well-educated, must necessarily be underbred, and as =
such
unfit to be inmates of our dwellings, or guardians of our children's minds =
and
persons. We shall ever prefer to place those about our offspring, who have =
been
born and bred with somewhat of the same refinement as ourselves.'
'Miss Hardman must have thought
herself something better than her fellow- creatures, ma'am, since she held =
that
their calamities, and even crimes, were necessary to minister to her
convenience. You say she was religious: her religion must have been that of=
the
Pharisee, who thanked God that he was not as other men are, nor even as that
publican.'
'My dear, we will not discuss the
point: I should be the last person to wish to instil into your mind any fee=
ling
of dissatisfaction with your lot in life, or any sentiment of envy or
insubordination towards your superiors. Implicit submission to authorities,
scrupulous deference to our betters (under which term I, of course, include=
the
higher classes of society) are, in my opinion, indispensable to the well-be=
ing
of every community. All I mean to say, my dear, is, that you had better not
attempt to be a governess, as the duties of the position would be too severe
for your constitution. Not one word of disrespect would I breathe towards
either Mrs or Miss Hardman; only, recalling my own experience, I cannot but
feel that, were you to fall under auspices such as theirs, you would conten=
d a
while courageously with your doom: then you would pine and grow too weak for
your work; you would come home - if you still had a home - broken down. Tho=
se
languishing years would follow, of which none but the invalid and her immed=
iate
friends feel the heart-sickness and know the burden: consumption or decline
would close the chapter. Such is the history of many a life: I would not ha=
ve
it yours. My dear, we will now walk about a little, if you please.'
They both rose, and slowly paced a
green natural terrace bordering the chasm.
'My dear,' erelong again began Mrs
Pryor, a sort of timid, embarrassed abruptness marking her manner as she sp=
oke,
'the young, especially those to whom nature has been favourable - often -
frequently - anticipate - look forward to - to marriage as the end, the goa=
l of
their hopes.'
And she stopped. Caroline came to =
her
relief with promptitude, showing a great deal more self-possession and cour=
age
than herself on the formidable topic now broached.
'They do; and naturally,' she repl=
ied,
with a calm emphasis that startled Mrs Pryor. 'They look forward to marriage
with some one they love as the brightest, - the only bright destiny that can
await them. Are they wrong?'
'Oh, my dear!' exclaimed Mrs Pryor,
clasping her hands: and again she paused. Caroline turned a searching, an e=
ager
eye on the face of her friend: that face was much agitated. 'My dear,' she
murmured, 'life is an illusion.'
'But not love! Love is real: the m=
ost
real, the most lasting - the sweetest and yet the bitterest thing we know.'=
'My dear - it is very bitter. It is
said to be strong - strong as death! Most of the cheats of existence are
strong. As to their sweetness - nothing is so transitory: its date is a mom=
ent,
- the twinkling of an eye: the sting remains for ever: it may perish with t=
he
dawn of eternity, but it tortures through time into its deepest night.'
'Yes, it tortures through time,'
agreed Caroline, 'except when it is mutual love.'
'Mutual love! My dear, romances are
pernicious. You do not read them, I hope?'
'Sometimes - whenever I can get th=
em,
indeed; but romance-writers might know nothing of love, judging by the way =
in
which they treat of it.'
'Nothing whatever, my dear!' assen=
ted Mrs
Pryor eagerly; 'nor of marriage; and the false pictures they give of those
subjects cannot be too strongly condemned. They are not like reality: they =
show
you only the green tempting surface of the marsh, and give not one faithful=
or
truthful hint of the slough underneath.'
'But it is not always slough,'
objected Caroline: 'there are happy marriages. Where affection is reciprocal
and sincere, and minds are harmonious, marriage must be happy.'
'It is never wholly happy. Two peo=
ple
can never literally be as one: there is, perhaps, a possibility of content
under peculiar circumstances, such as are seldom combined; but it is as well
not to run the risk: you may make fatal mistakes. Be satisfied, my dear: let
all the single be satisfied with their freedom.'
'You echo my uncle's words!' excla=
imed
Caroline, in a tone of dismay: 'you speak like Mrs Yorke, in her most gloomy
moments; - like Miss Mann, when she is most sourly and hypochondriacally
disposed. This is terrible!'
'No, it is only true. Oh, child! y=
ou
have only lived the pleasant morning time of life: the hot, weary noon, the=
sad
evening, the sunless night, are yet to come for you! Mr Helstone, you say,
talks as I talk; and I wonder how Mrs Matthewson Helstone would have talked=
had
she been living. She died! She died!'
'And, alas! my own mother and fath=
er.
. . .' exclaimed Caroline, struck by a sombre recollection.
'What of them?'
'Did I never tell you that they we=
re
separated?
'I have heard it.'
'They must then have been very
miserable.'
'You see all facts go to prove wha=
t I
say.'
'In this case there ought to be no
such thing as marriage.'
'There ought, my dear, were it onl=
y to
prove that this life is a mere state of probation, wherein neither rest nor
recompense is to be vouchsafed.'
'But your own marriage, Mrs Pryor?=
'
Mrs Pryor shrunk and shuddered as =
if a
rude finger had pressed a naked nerve: Caroline felt she had touched what w=
ould
not bear the slightest contact.
'My marriage was unhappy,' said the
lady, summoning courage at last; 'but yet -&=
nbsp;
- ' she hesitated.
'But yet,' suggested Caroline, 'not
immitigably wretched?'
'Not in its results, at least. No,'
she added, in a softer tone; 'God mingles something of the balm of mercy ev=
en
in vials of the most corrosive woe. He can so turn events, that from the ve=
ry
same blind, rash act whence sprang the curse of half our life, may flow the
blessing of the remainder. Then, I am of a peculiar disposition, I own that:
far from facile, without address, in some points eccentric. I ought never to
have married: mine is not the nature easily to find a duplicate, or likely =
to
assimilate with a contrast. I was quite aware of my own ineligibility; and =
if I
had not been so miserable as a governess, I never should have married; and =
then
- - '
Caroline's eyes asked her to proce=
ed:
they entreated her to break the thick cloud of despair which her previous w=
ords
had seemed to spread over life.
'And then, my dear, Mr -&=
nbsp;
- that is, the gentlem=
an I
married, was, perhaps, rather an exceptional than an average character. I h=
ope,
at least, the experience of few has been such as mine was, or that few have
felt their sufferings as I felt mine. They nearly shook my mind: relief was=
so
hopeless, redress so unattainable: but, my dear, I do not wish to dishearte=
n, I
only wish to warn you, and to prove that the single should not be too anxio=
us
to change their state, as they may change for the worse.'
'Thank you, my dear madam, I quite
understand your kind intentions; but there is no fear of my falling into the
error to which you allude. I, at least, have no thoughts of marriage, and, =
for
that reason, I want to make myself a position by some other means.'
'My dear, listen to me. On what I =
am
going to say, I have carefully deliberated; having, indeed, revolved the
subject in my thoughts ever since you first mentioned your wish to obtain a
situation. You know I at present reside with Miss Keeldar in the capacity of
companion: should she marry (and that she will marry ere long, many
circumstances induce me to conclude), I shall cease to be necessary to her =
in
that capacity. I must tell you that I possess a small independency, arising
partly from my own savings, and partly from a legacy left me some years sin=
ce;
whenever I leave Fieldhead, I shall take a house of my own: I could not end=
ure
to live in solitude: I have no relations whom I care to invite to close
intimacy; for, as you must have observed, and as I have already avowed, my
habits and tastes have their peculiarities: to you, my dear, I need not say=
I
am attached; with you I am happier than I have ever been with any living th=
ing'
(this was said with marked emphasis). 'Your society I should esteem a very =
dear
privilege - an inestimable privilege, a comfort, a blessing. You shall come=
to
me then. Caroline, do you refuse me? I hope you can love me?'
And with these two abrupt questions
she stopped.
'Indeed, I do love you,' was the
reply. 'I should like to live with you: but you are too kind.'
'All I have,' went on Mrs Pryor, 'I
would leave to you: you should be provided for, but never again say I am too
kind. You pierce my heart, child!'
'But, my dear madam - this generos=
ity
- I have no claim - '
'Hush! you must not talk about it:
there are some things we cannot bear to hear. Oh! it is late to begin, but I
may yet live a few years: I can never wipe out the past, but perhaps a brief
space in the future may yet be mine!'
Mrs Pryor seemed deeply agitated: =
large
tears trembled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Caroline kissed her,=
in
her gentle caressing way, saying softly - 'I love you dearly. Don't cry.'
But the lady's whole frame seemed
shaken: she sat down, bent her head to her knee, and wept aloud. Nothing co=
uld
console her till the inward storm had had its way. At last the agony subsid=
ed
of itself.
'Poor thing!' she murmured, return=
ing
Caroline's kiss: 'poor lonely lamb! But come,' she added abruptly: 'come, we
must go home.'
For a short distance Mrs Pryor wal=
ked
very fast: by degrees, however, she calmed down to her wonted manner, fell =
into
her usual characteristic pace - a peculiar one, like all her movements - an=
d by
the time they reached Fieldhead, she had re-entered into herself: the outsi=
de
was, as usual, still and shy.
Only half of Moore's activity and
resolution had been seen in his defence of the mill: he showed the other ha=
lf
(and a terrible half it was) in the indefatigable, the relentless assiduity,
with which he pursued the leaders of the riot. The mob, the mere followers,=
he
let alone: perhaps an innate sense of justice told him that men misled by f=
alse
counsel, goaded by privations, are not fit objects of vengeance, and that he
who would visit an even violent act on the bent head of suffering, is a tyr=
ant,
not a judge. At all events, though he knew many of the number, having
recognised them during the latter part of the attack when day began to dawn=
, he
let them daily pass him on street and road without notice or threat.
The leaders he did not know. They =
were
strangers: emissaries from the large towns. Most of these were not members =
of
the operative class: they were chiefly 'downdraughts,' bankrupts, men alway=
s in
debt and often in drink - men who had nothing to lose, and much - in the wa=
y of
character, cash, and cleanliness - to gain. These persons Moore hunted like=
any
sleuth-hound; and well he liked the occupation: its excitement was of a kind
pleasant to his nature: he liked it better than making cloth.
His horse must have hated these ti=
mes,
for it was ridden both hard and often: he almost lived on the road, and the
fresh air was as welcome to his lungs as the policeman's quest to his mood:=
he
preferred it to the steam of dye-houses. The magistrates of the district mu=
st
have dreaded him: they were slow, timid men; he liked both to frighten and =
to
rouse them. He liked to force them to betray a certain fear, which made them
alike falter in resolve and recoil in action - the fear, simply, of
assassination. This, indeed, was the dread which had hitherto hampered every
manufacturer - and almost every public man in the district. Helstone alone =
had
ever repelled it. The old Cossack knew well he might be shot: he knew there=
was
risk; but such a death had for his nerves no terrors: it would have been his
chosen - might he have had a choice.
Moore likewise knew his danger: the
result was an unquenchable scorn of the quarter whence such danger was to be
apprehended. The consciousness that he hunted assassins was the spur in his
high-mettled temper's flank. As for fear, he was too proud - too hard-natur=
ed -
(if you will) - too phlegmatic a man to fear. Many a time he rode belated o=
ver
moors, moonlit or moonless as the case might be, with feelings far more ela=
te,
faculties far better refreshed, than when safety and stagnation environed h=
im
in the counting-house. Four was the number of the leaders to be accounted f=
or:
two, in the course of a fortnight, were brought to bay near Stilbro'; the
remaining two it was necessary to seek further off: their haunts were suppo=
sed
to lie near Birmingham.
Meantime the clothier did not negl= ect his battered mill: its reparation was esteemed a light task; carpenters' and glaziers' work alone being needed. The rioters not having succeeded in effe= cting an entrance, his grim, metal darlings - the machines - had escaped damage.<= o:p>
Whether, during this busy life -
whether, while stern justice and exacting business claimed his energies and
harassed his thoughts - he now and then gave one moment, dedicated one effo=
rt,
to keep alive gentler fires than those which smoulder in the fane of Nemesi=
s,
it was not easy to discover. He seldom went near Fieldhead; if he did, his
visits were brief: if he called at the Rectory, it was only to hold confere=
nces
with the Rector in his study. He maintained his rigid course very steadily.
Meantime the history of the year continued troubled; there was no lull in t=
he
tempest of war; her long hurricane still swept the Continent. There was not=
the
faintest sign of serene weather: no opening amid 'the clouds of battle-dust=
and
smoke'; no fall of pure dews genial to the olive; no cessation of the red r=
ain
which nourishes the baleful and glorious laurel. Meantime, Ruin had her sap=
pers
and miners at work under Moore's feet, and whether he rode or walked - whet=
her
he only crossed his counting-house hearth, or galloped over sullen Rushedge=
-
he was aware of a hollow echo, and felt the ground shake to his tread.
While the summer thus passed with
Moore, how did it lapse with Shirley and Caroline? Let us first visit the
heiress. How does she look? Like a love-lorn maiden, pale and pining for a
neglectful swain? Does she sit the day long bent over some sedentary task? =
Has
she for ever a book in her hand, or sewing on her knee, and eyes only for t=
hat,
and words for nothing, and thoughts unspoken?
By no means. Shirley is all right.=
If
her wistful cast of physiognomy is not gone, no more is her careless smile.=
She
keeps her dark old manor-house light and bright with her cheery presence: t=
he
gallery, and the low-ceiled chambers that open into it, have learned lively
echoes from her voice: the dim entrance-hall, with its one window, has grown
pleasantly accustomed to the frequent rustle of a silk dress, as its wearer
sweeps across from room to room, now carrying flowers to the barbarous
peach-bloom salon, now entering the dining-room to open its casements and l=
et
in the scent of mignonette and sweet- briar, anon bringing plants from the
staircase-window to place in the sun at the open porch-door.
She takes her sewing occasionally:
but, by some fatality, she is doomed never to sit steadily at it for above =
five
minutes at a time: her thimble is scarcely fitted on, her needle scarce
threaded, when a sudden thought calls her upstairs: perhaps she goes to seek
some just-then-remembered old ivory-backed needle-book, or older china-topp=
ed
workbox, quite unneeded, but which seems at the moment indispensable; perha=
ps
to arrange her hair, or a drawer which she recollects to have seen that mor=
ning
in a state of curious confusion; perhaps only to take a peep from a particu=
lar
window at a particular view, whence Briarfield Church and Rectory are visib=
le,
pleasantly bowered in trees. She has scarcely returned, and again taken up =
the
slip of cambric, or square of half-wrought canvas, when Tartar's bold scrape
and strangled whistle are heard at the porch-door, and she must run to open=
it
for him; it is a hot day; he comes in panting; she must convoy him to the
kitchen, and see with her own eyes that his water-bowl is replenished. Thro=
ugh
the open kitchen-door the court is visible, all sunny and gay, and peopled =
with
turkeys and their poults, peahens and their chicks, pearl- flecked Guinea
fowls, and a bright variety of pure white, and purple-necked, and blue and
cinnamon-plumed pigeons. Irresistible spectacle to Shirley! She runs to the
pantry for a roll, and she stands on the door-step scattering crumbs: around
her throng her eager, plump, happy, feathered vassals. John is about the
stables, and John must be talked to, and her mare looked at. She is still
petting and patting it, when the cows come in to be milked: this is importa=
nt:
Shirley must stay and take a review of them all. There are perhaps some lit=
tle
calves, some little new-yeaned lambs - it may be twins, whose mothers have
rejected them: Miss Keeldar must be introduced to them by John - must permit
herself the treat of feeding them with her own hand, under the direction of=
her
careful foreman. Meantime, John moots doubtful questions about the farming =
of
certain 'crofts,' and 'ings,' and 'holms,' and his mistress is necessitated=
to
fetch her garden-hat - a gipsy-straw - and accompany him, over stile and al=
ong
hedgerow, to hear the conclusion of the whole agricultural matter on the sp=
ot,
and with the said 'crofts,' 'ings,' and 'holms' under her eye. Bright after=
noon
thus wears into soft evening, and she comes home to a late tea, and after t=
ea
she never sews.
After tea Shirley reads, and she is
just about as tenacious of her book as she is lax of her needle. Her study =
is
the rug, her seat a footstool, or perhaps only the carpet at Mrs Pryor's fe=
et -
there she always learned her lessons when a child, and old habits have a st=
rong
power over her. The tawny and lion-like bulk of Tartar is ever stretched be=
side
her; his negro muzzle laid on his fore- paws, straight, strong, and shapely=
as
the limbs of an Alpine wolf. One hand of the mistress generally reposes on =
the
loving serf's rude head, because if she takes it away he groans and is
discontented. Shirley's mind is given to her book; she lifts not her eyes; =
she
neither stirs nor speaks; unless, indeed, it be to return a brief respectful
answer to Mrs Pryor, who addresses deprecatory phrases to her now and then.=
'My dear, you had better not have =
that
great dog so near you: he is crushing the border of your dress.'
'Oh, it is only muslin: I can put a
clean one on to-morrow.'
'My dear, I wish you could acquire=
the
habit of sitting to a table when you read.'
'I will try, ma'am, some time; but=
it
is so comfortable to do as one has always been accustomed to do.'
'My dear, let me beg of you to put
that book down: you are trying your eyes by the doubtful firelight.'
'No, ma'am, not at all: my eyes are
never tired.'
At last, however, a pale light fal=
ls
on the page from the window: she looks, the moon is up; she closes the volu=
me,
rises, and walks through the room. Her book has perhaps been a good one; it=
has
refreshed, refilled, rewarmed her heart; it has set her brain astir, furnis=
hed
her mind with pictures. The still parlour, the clean hearth, the window ope=
ning
on the twilight sky, and showing its 'sweet regent,' new throned and glorio=
us,
suffice to make earth an Eden, life a poem, for Shirley. A still, deep, inb=
orn
delight glows in her young veins; unmingled - untroubled, not to be reached=
or
ravished by human agency, because by no human agency bestowed: the pure gif=
t of
God to His creature, the free dower of Nature to her child. This joy gives =
her
experience of a genii- life. Buoyant, by green steps, by glad hills, all
verdure and light, she reaches a station scarcely lower than that whence an=
gels
looked down on the dreamer of Bethel, and her eye seeks, and her soul
possesses, the vision of life as she wishes it. No - not as she wishes it; =
she
has not time to wish: the swift glory spreads out, sweeping and kindling, a=
nd
multiplies its splendour faster than Thought can effect his combinations,
faster than Aspiration can utter her longings. Shirley says nothing while t=
he
trance is upon her - she is quite mute; but if Mrs Pryor speaks to her now,=
she
goes out quietly, and continues her walk upstairs in the dim gallery.
If Shirley were not an indolent, a
reckless, an ignorant being, she would take a pen at such moments; or at le=
ast
while the recollection of such moments was yet fresh on her spirit: she wou=
ld
seize, she would fix the apparition, tell the vision revealed. Had she a li=
ttle
more of the organ of acquisitiveness in her head - a little more of the lov=
e of
property in her nature, she would take a good-sized sheet of paper and writ=
e plainly
out, in her own queer but clear and legible hand, the story that has been
narrated, the song that has been sung to her, and thus possess what she was
enabled to create. But indolent she is, reckless she is, and most ignorant,=
for
she does not know her dreams are rare - her feelings peculiar: she does not
know, has never known, and will die without knowing, the full value of that
spring whose bright fresh bubbling in her heart keeps it green.
Shirley takes life easily: is not =
that
fact written in her eye? In her good- tempered moments, is it not as full of
lazy softness as in her brief fits of anger it is fulgent with quick-flashi=
ng
fire? Her nature is in her eye: so long as she is calm, indolence, indulgen=
ce,
humour, and tenderness possess that large grey sphere: incense her, - a red=
ray
pierces the dew, - it quickens instantly to flame.
Ere the month of July was passed, =
Miss
Keeldar would probably have started with Caroline on that northern tour they
had planned; but just as that epoch an invasion befell Fieldhead: a genteel
foraging party besieged Shirley in her castle and compelled her to surrende=
r at
discretion. An uncle, an aunt, and two cousins from the south, a Mr, Mrs, a=
nd
two Misses Sympson, of Sympson Grove, - - -shire, came down upon her in sta=
te.
The laws of hospitality obliged her to give in, which she did with a facili=
ty
which somewhat surprised Caroline, who knew her to be prompt in action and
fertile in expedient, where a victory was to be gained for her will. Miss
Helstone even asked her how it was she submitted so readily? - she answered,
old feelings had their power - she had passed two years of her early youth =
at
Sympson Grove.
'How did she like her relatives?'<= o:p>
She had nothing in common with the=
m,
she replied: little Harry Sympson, indeed, the sole son of the family, was =
very
unlike his sisters, and of him she had formerly been fond; but he was not
coming to Yorkshire: at least, not yet.
The next Sunday the Fieldhead pew =
in
Briarfield Church appeared peopled with a prim, trim, fidgety, elderly
gentleman, who shifted his spectacles and changed his position every three
minutes; a patient, placid-looking elderly lady, in brown satin, and two
pattern young ladies, in pattern attire, with pattern deportment. Shirley h=
ad
the air of a black swan, or a white crow, in the midst of this party; and v=
ery
forlorn was her aspect. Having brought her into respectable society, we will
leave her there a while, and look after Miss Helstone.
Separated from Miss Keeldar for the
present, as she could not seek her in the midst of her fine relatives; scar=
ed
away from Fieldhead by the visiting commotion which the new arrivals occasi=
oned
in the neighbourhood, Caroline was limited once more to the grey Rectory; t=
he
solitary morning walk in remote by- paths; the long, lonely afternoon sitti=
ng
in a quiet parlour which the sun forsook at noon, or in the garden alcove w=
here
it shone bright, yet sad, on the ripening red currants trained over the
trellis, and on the fair monthly roses entwined between, and through them f=
ell
chequered on Caroline sitting in her white summer dress, still as a garden
statue. There she read. old books, taken from her uncle's library; the Greek
and Latin were of no use to her; and its collection of light literature was
chiefly contained on a shelf which had belonged to her aunt Mary: some
venerable Lady's Magazines, that had once performed a sea voyage with their
owner, and undergone a storm, and whose pages were stained with salt water;
some mad Methodist Magazines, full of miracles and apparitions, of
preternatural warnings, ominous dreams, and frenzied fanaticism; the equally
mad Letters of Mrs Elizabeth Rowe from the Dead to the Living; a few old
English Classics: - from these faded flowers Caroline had in her childhood
extracted the honey, - they were tasteless to her now. By way of change, and
also of doing good, she would sew; make garments for the poor, according to
good Miss Ainley's direction. Sometimes, as she felt and saw her tears fall
slowly on her work, she would wonder how the excellent woman who had cut it=
out
and arranged it for her, managed to be so equably serene in her solitude.
'I never find Miss Ainley oppressed
with despondency, or lost in grief,' she thought; 'yet her cottage is a sti=
ll,
dim little place, and she is without a bright hope or near friend in the wo=
rld.
I remember, though, she told me once, she had tutored her thoughts to tend
upwards to Heaven. She allowed there was, and ever had been, little enjoyme=
nt
in this world for her, and she looks, I suppose, to the bliss of the world =
to
come. So do nuns - with their close cell, their iron lamp, their robe strai=
ght
as a shroud, their bed narrow as a coffin. She says, often, she has no fear=
of
death - no dread of the grave: no more, doubtless, had St. Simeon Stylites,=
lifted
up terrible on his wild column in the wilderness: no more has the Hindoo vo=
tary
stretched on his couch of iron spikes. Both these having violated nature, t=
heir
natural likings and antipathies are reversed: they grow altogether morbid. =
I do
fear death as yet, but I believe it is because I am young: poor Miss Ainley
would cling closer to life, if life had more charms for her. God surely did=
not
create us, and cause us to live, with the sole end of wishing always to die=
. I
believe, in my heart, we were intended to prize life and enjoy it, so long =
as
we retain it. Existence never was originally meant to be that useless, blan=
k,
pale, slow-trailing thing it often becomes to many, and is becoming to me,
among the rest.'
'Nobody,' she went on - 'nobody in
particular is to blame, that I can see, for the state in which things are: =
and
I cannot tell, however much I puzzle over it, how they are to be altered for
the better; but I feel there is something wrong somewhere. I believe single
women should have more to do - better chances of interesting and profitable
occupation than they possess now. And when I speak thus, I have no impressi=
on
that I displease God by my words; that I am either impious or impatient,
irreligious or sacrilegious. My consolation is, indeed, that God hears many=
a
groan, and compassionates much grief which man stops his ears against, or
frowns on with impotent contempt. I say impotent, for I observe that to such
grievances as society cannot readily cure, it usually forbids utterance, on
pain of its scorn: this scorn being only a sort of tinselled cloak to its
deformed weakness. People hate to be reminded of ills they are unable or
unwilling to remedy: such reminder, in forcing on them a sense of their own
incapacity, or a more painful sense of an obligation to make some unpleasant
effort, troubles their ease and shakes their self-complacency. Old maids, l=
ike
the houseless and unemployed poor, should not ask for a place and an occupa=
tion
in the world: the demand disturbs the happy and rich: it disturbs parents. =
Look
at the numerous families of girls in this neighbourhood: the Armitages, the
Birtwistles, the Sykes. The brothers of these girls are every one in busine=
ss
or in professions; they have something to do: their sisters have no earthly
employment, but household work and sewing; no earthly pleasure, but an
unprofitable visiting; and no hope, in all their life to come, of anything
better. This stagnant state of things makes them decline in health: they are
never well; and their minds and views shrink to wondrous narrowness. The gr=
eat
wish - the sole aim of every one of them is to be married, but the majority
will never marry: they will die as they now live. They scheme, they plot, t=
hey
dress to ensnare husbands. The gentlemen turn them into ridicule: they don't
want them; they hold them very cheap: they say - I have heard them say it w=
ith
sneering laughs many a time - the matrimonial market is overstocked. Fathers
say so likewise, and are angry with their daughters when they observe their
manoeuvres: they order them to stay at home. What do they expect them to do=
at
home? If you ask, - they would answer, sew and cook. They expect them to do
this, and this only, contentedly, regularly, uncomplainingly all their lives
long, as if they had no germs of faculties for anything else: a doctrine as
reasonable to hold, as it would be that the fathers have no faculties but f=
or
eating what their daughters cook, or for wearing what they sew. Could men l=
ive
so themselves? Would they not be very weary? And, when there came no relief=
to
their weariness, but only reproaches at its slightest manifestation, would =
not
their weariness ferment in time to frenzy? Lucretia, spinning at midnight in
the midst of her maidens, and Solomon's virtuous woman, are often quoted as=
patterns
of what 'the sex' (as they say) ought to be. I don't know: Lucretia, I dare
say, was a most worthy sort of person, much like my cousin Hortense Moore; =
but
she kept her servants up very late. I should not have liked to be amongst t=
he
number of the maidens. Hortense would just work me and Sarah in that fashio=
n,
if she could, and neither of us would bear it. The 'virtuous woman,' again,=
had
her household up in the very middle of the night; she 'got breakfast over' =
(as Mrs
Sykes says) before one o'clock A.M.; but she had something more to do than =
spin
and give out portions: she was a manufacturer - she made fine linen and sold
it: she was an agriculturist - she bought estates and planted vineyards. Th=
at
woman was a manager: she was what the matrons hereabouts call 'a clever wom=
an.'
On the whole, I like her a good deal better than Lucretia; but I don't beli=
eve
either Mr Armitage or Mr Sykes could have got the advantage of her in a
bargain: yet, I like her. 'Strength and honour were her clothing: the heart=
of
her husband safely trusted in her. She opened her mouth with wisdom; in her
tongue was the law of kindness: her children rose up and called her blessed;
her husband also praised her.' King of Israel! your model of a woman is a
worthy model! But are we, in these days, brought up to be like her? Men of
Yorkshire! do your daughters reach this royal standard? Can they reach it? =
Can
you help them to reach it? Can you give them a field in which their faculti=
es
may be exercised and grow? Men of England! look at your poor girls, many of
them fading round you, dropping off in consumption or decline; or, what is
worse, degenerating to sour old maids, - envious, backbiting, wretched, bec=
ause
life is a desert to them: or, what is worst of all, reduced to strive, by s=
carce
modest coquetry and debasing artifice, to gain that position and considerat=
ion
by marriage which to celibacy is denied. Fathers! cannot you alter these
things? Perhaps not all at once; but consider the matter well when it is
brought before you, receive it as a theme worthy of thought: do not dismiss=
it
with an idle jest or an unmanly insult. You would wish to be proud of your
daughters and not to blush for them - then seek for them an interest and an
occupation which shall raise them above the flirt, the manoeuvrer, the
mischief-making tale-bearer. Keep your girls' minds narrow and fettered - t=
hey
will still be a plague and a care, sometimes a disgrace to you: cultivate t=
hem
- give them scope and work - they will be your gayest companions in health;=
your
tenderest nurses in sickness; your most faithful prop in age.'
One fine summer day that Caroline =
had
spent entirely alone (her uncle being at Whinbury), and whose long, bright,
noiseless, breezeless, cloudless hours (how many they seemed since sunrise!)
had been to her as desolate as if they had gone over her head in the shadow=
less
and trackless wastes of Sahara, instead of in the blooming garden of an Eng=
lish
home, she was sitting in the alcove, - her task of work on her knee, her
fingers assiduously plying the needle, her eyes following and regulating th=
eir
movements, her brain working restlessly, - when Fanny came to the door, loo=
ked
round over the lawn and borders, and not seeing her whom she sought, called=
out
- 'Miss Caroline!'
A low voice answered - 'Fanny!' It
issued from the alcove, and thither Fanny hastened - a note in her hand, wh=
ich
she delivered to fingers that hardly seemed to have nerve to hold it. Miss
Helstone did not ask whence it came, and she did not look at it: she let it
drop amongst the folds of her work.
'Joe Scott's son, Harry, brought i=
t,'
said Fanny.
The girl was no enchantress, and k=
new
no magic-spell, yet what she said took almost magical effect on her young
mistress: she lifted her head with the quick motion of revived sensation; s=
he
shot - not a languid, but a lifelike, questioning glance at Fanny.
'Harry Scott! Who sent him?'
'He came from the Hollow.'
The dropped note was snatched up
eagerly - the seal was broken; it was read in two seconds. An affectionate
billet from Hortense, informing her young cousin that she was returned from
Wormwood Wells; that she was alone to-day, as Robert was gone to Whinbury
market; that nothing would give her greater pleasure than to have Caroline's
company to tea; and - the good lady added - she was sure such a change woul=
d be
most acceptable and beneficial to Caroline, who must be sadly at a loss both
for safe guidance and improving society since the misunderstanding between
Robert and Mr Helstone had occasioned a separation from her 'meilleure amie,
Hortense Gerard Moore.' In a postscript, she was urged to put on her bonnet=
and
run down directly.
Caroline did not need the injuncti=
on:
glad was she to lay by the child's brown Holland slip she was trimming with
braid for the Jew's basket, to hasten upstairs, cover her curls with her st=
raw
bonnet, and throw round her shoulders the black silk scarf, whose simple
drapery suited as well her shape as its dark hue set off the purity of her
dress and the fairness of her face; glad was she to escape for a few hours =
the
solitude, the sadness, the nightmare of her life; glad to run down the green
lane sloping to the Hollow, to scent the fragrance of hedge-flowers sweeter
than the perfume of moss-rose or lily. True, she knew Robert was not at the
cottage; but it was delight to go where he had lately been: so long, so tot=
ally
separated from him, merely to see his home, to enter the room where he had =
that
morning sat, felt like a reunion. As such it revived her; and then Illusion=
was
again following her in Peri-mask: the soft agitation of wings caressed her
cheek, and the air, breathing from the blue summer sky, bore a voice which
whispered - 'Robert may come home while you are in his house; and then, at
least, you may look in his face, - at least you may give him your hand:
perhaps, for a minute, you may sit beside him.'
'Silence!' was her austere respons=
e:
but she loved the comforter and the consolation.
Miss Moore probably caught from the
window the gleam and flutter of Caroline's white attire through the branchy
garden-shrubs, for she advanced from the cottage porch to meet her. Straigh=
t,
unbending, phlegmatic as usual, she came on: no haste or ecstasy was ever
permitted to disorder the dignity of her movements; but she smiled, well
pleased to mark the delight of her pupil, to feel her kiss, and the gentle,
genial strain of her embrace. She led her tenderly in - half deceived and
wholly flattered. Half deceived! had it not been so, she would in all
probability have put her to the wicket, and shut her out. Had she known cle=
arly
to whose account the chief share of this child-like joy was to be placed,
Hortense would most likely have felt both shocked and incensed. Sisters do =
not
like young ladies to fall in love with their brothers: it seems, if not
presumptuous, silly, weak, a delusion, an absurd mistake. They do not love
these gentlemen - whatever sisterly affection they may cherish towards them=
-
and that others should, repels them with a sense of crude romance. The first
movement, in short, excited by such discovery (as with many parents on find=
ing
their children to be in love), is one of mixed impatience and contempt. Rea=
son
- if they be rational people - corrects the false feeling in time; but if t=
hey
be irrational, it is never corrected, and the daughter or sister-in-law is
disliked to the end.
'You would expect to find me alone,
from what I said in my note,' observed Miss Moore, as she conducted Caroline
towards the parlour; 'but it was written this morning: since dinner, compan=
y has
come in.'
And, opening the door, she made
visible an ample spread of crimson skirts overflowing the elbow-chair at the
fireside, and above them, presiding with dignity, a cap more awful than a
crown. That cap had never come to the cottage under a bonnet; no, it had be=
en
brought, in a vast bag, or rather a middle-sized balloon of black silk, held
wide with whalebone. The screed, or frill of the cap, stood a quarter of a =
yard
broad round the face of the wearer: the ribbon, flourishing in puffs and bo=
ws about
the head, was of the sort called love ribbon: there was a good deal of it, =
- I
may say, a very great deal. Mrs Yorke wore the cap - it became her: she wore
the gown also - it suited her no less.
That great lady was come in a frie=
ndly
way to take tea with Miss Moore. It was almost as great and as rare a favou=
r as
if the Queen were to go uninvited to share pot-luck with one of her subject=
s: a
higher mark of distinction she could not show, - she who, in general, scorn=
ed
visiting and tea-drinking, and held cheap and stigmatised as 'gossips' every
maid and matron of the vicinage.
There was no mistake, however; Miss
Moore was a favourite with her: she had evinced the fact more than once;
evinced it by stopping to speak to her in the churchyard on Sundays; by inv=
iting
her, almost hospitably, to come to Briarmains; evinced it to-day by the gra=
nd
condescension of a personal visit. Her reasons for the preference, as assig=
ned
by herself, were, that Miss Moore was a woman of steady deportment, without=
the
least levity of conversation or carriage; also, that, being a foreigner, she
must feel the want of a friend to countenance her. She might have added, th=
at
her plain aspect, homely precise dress, and phlegmatic unattractive manner =
were
to her so many additional recommendations. It is certain, at least, that la=
dies
remarkable for the opposite qualities of beauty, lively bearing, and elegant
taste in attire, were not often favoured with her approbation. Whatever
gentlemen are apt to admire in women, Mrs Yorke condemned; and what they
overlook or despise, she patronised.
Caroline advanced to the mighty ma=
tron
with some sense of diffidence: she knew little of Mrs Yorke; and, as a pars=
on's
niece, was doubtful what sort of a reception she might get. She got a very =
cool
one, and was glad to hide her discomfiture by turning away to take off her
bonnet. Nor, upon sitting down, was she displeased to be immediately accost=
ed
by a little personage in a blue frock and sash, who started up like some fa=
iry
from the side of the great dame's chair, where she had been sitting on a
footstool, screened from view by the folds of the wide red gown, and runnin=
g to
Miss Helstone, unceremoniously threw her arms round her neck and demanded a
kiss.
'My mother is not civil to you,' s=
aid
the petitioner, as she received and repaid a smiling salute; 'and Rose, the=
re,
takes no notice of you: it is their way. If, instead of you, a white angel,
with a crown of stars, had come into the room, mother would nod stiffly, and
Rose never lift her head at all: but I will be your friend: I have always l=
iked
you!'
'Jessy, curb that tongue of yours,=
and
repress your forwardness!' said Mrs Yorke.
'But, mother, you are so frozen!'
expostulated Jessy. 'Miss Helstone has never done you any harm: why can't y=
ou
be kind to her? You sit so stiff, and look so cold, and speak so dry - what
for? That's just the fashion in which you treat Miss Shirley Keeldar, and e=
very
other young lady who comes to our house. And Rose, there, is such an aut - =
aut -&=
nbsp;
- I have forgotten the=
word,
but it means a machine in the shape of a human being. However, between you,=
you
will drive every soul away from Briarmains - Martin often says so!'
'I am an automaton? Good! Let me a=
lone
then,' said Rose, speaking from a corner where she was sitting on the carpe=
t at
the foot of a bookcase, with a volume spread open on her knee. 'Miss Helsto=
ne -
how do you do?' she added, directing a brief glance to the person addressed,
and then again casting down her grey, remarkable eyes on the book, and
returning to the study of its pages.
Caroline stole a quiet gaze towards
her, dwelling on her young, absorbed countenance, and observing a certain
unconscious movement of the mouth as she read - a movement full of characte=
r.
Caroline had tact, and she had fine instinct: she felt that Rose Yorke was a
peculiar child - one of the unique; she knew how to treat her. Approaching
quietly, she knelt on the carpet at her side, and looked over her little
shoulder at her book. It was a romance of Mrs Radcliffe's - The Italian.
Caroline read on with her, making =
no
remark: presently Rose showed her the attention of asking, ere she turned a
leaf - 'Are you ready?'
Caroline only nodded.
'Do you like it?' inquired Rose, e=
re
long.
'Long since, when I read it as a
child, I was wonderfully taken with it.'
'Why?'
'It seemed to open with such promi=
se -
such foreboding of a most strange tale to be unfolded.'
'And in reading it, you feel as if=
you
were far away from England - really in Italy - under another sort of sky - =
that
blue sky of the south which travellers describe.'
'You are sensible of that, Rose?'<= o:p>
'It makes me long to travel, Miss
Helstone.'
'When you are a woman, perhaps, you
may be able to gratify your wish.'
'I mean to make a way to do so, if=
one
is not made for me. I cannot live always in Briarfield. The whole world is =
not
very large compared with creation: I must see the outside of our own round
planet at least.'
'How much of its outside?'
'First this hemisphere where we li=
ve;
then the other. I am resolved that my life shall be a life: not a black tra=
nce
like the toad's, buried in marble; nor a long, slow death like yours in
Briarfield Rectory.'
'Like mine! What can you mean, chi=
ld?'
'Might you not as well be tediously
dying, as for ever shut up in that glebe- house - a place that, when I pass=
it,
always reminds me of a windowed grave? I never see any movement about the d=
oor:
I never hear a sound from the wall: I believe smoke never issues from the
chimneys. What do you do there?'
'I sew, I read, I learn lessons.'<= o:p>
'Are you happy?'
'Should I be happier wandering alo=
ne
in strange countries as you wish to do?'
'Much happier, even if you did not=
hing
but wander. Remember, however, that I shall have an object in view: but if =
you
only went on and on, like some enchanted lady in a fairy tale, you might be
happier than now. In a day's wandering, you would pass many a hill, wood, a=
nd
watercourse, each perpetually altering in aspect as the sun shone out or was
overcast; as the weather was wet or fair, dark or bright. Nothing changes in
Briarfield Rectory: the plaster of the parlour-ceilings, the paper on the
walls, the curtains, carpets, chairs, are still the same.'
'Is change necessary to happiness?=
'
'Yes.'
'Is it synonymous with it?'
'I don't know; but I feel monotony=
and
death to be almost the same.'
Here Jessy spoke.
'Isn't she mad?' she asked.
'But, Rose,' pursued Caroline, 'I =
fear
a wanderer's life, for me at least, would end like that tale you are readin=
g -
in disappointment, vanity, and vexation of spirit.'
'Does The Italian so end?'
'I thought so when I read it.'
'Better to try all things and find=
all
empty, than to try nothing and leave your life a blank. To do this is to co=
mmit
the sin of him who buried his talent in a napkin - despicable sluggard!'
'Rose,' observed Mrs Yorke, 'solid
satisfaction is only to be realised by doing one's duty.'
'Right, mother! And if my Master h=
as
given me ten talents, my duty is to trade with them, and make them ten tale=
nts
more. Not in the dust of household drawers shall the coin be interred. I wi=
ll
not deposit it in a broken-spouted tea-pot, and shut it up in a china-closet
among tea-things. I will not commit it to your work-table to be smothered in
piles of woollen hose. I will not prison it in the linen press to find shro=
uds
among the sheets: and least of all, mother' - (she got up from the floor) -
'least of all will I hide it in a tureen of cold potatoes, to be ranged with
bread, butter, pastry, and ham on the shelves of the larder.'
She stopped - then went on: - 'Mot= her, the Lord who gave each of us our talents will come home some day, and will demand from all an account. The tea- pot, the old stocking-foot, the linen = rag, the willow-pattern tureen, will yield up their barren deposit in many a hou= se: suffer your daughters, at least, to put their money to the exchangers, that they may be enabled at the Master's coming to pay Him His own with usury.'<= o:p>
'Rose, did you bring your sampler =
with
you, as I told you?'
'Yes, mother.'
'Sit down, and do a line of markin=
g.'
Rose sat down promptly, and wrought
according to orders. After a busy pause of ten minutes, her mother asked - =
'Do
you think yourself oppressed now? A victim?'
'No, mother.'
'Yet, as far as I understood your
tirade, it was a protest against all womanly and domestic employment.'
'You misunderstood it, mother. I
should be sorry not to learn to sew; you do right to teach me, and to make =
me
work.'
'Even to the mending of your broth=
ers'
stockings and the making of sheets?'
'Yes.'
'Where is the use of ranting and
spouting about it, then?'
'Am I to do nothing but that? I wi=
ll
do that, and then I will do more. Now, mother, I have said my say. I am twe=
lve
years old at present, and not till I am sixteen will I speak again about
talents: for four years, I bind myself an industrious apprentice to all you=
can
teach me.'
'You see what my daughters are, Mi=
ss
Helstone,' observed Mrs Yorke: 'how precociously wise in their own conceits=
! I
would rather this - I prefer that'; such is Jessy's cuckoo-song: while Rose
utters the bolder cry, 'I will, and I will not!'
'I render a reason, mother: beside=
s,
if my cry is bold, it is only heard once in a twelvemonth. About each birth=
day,
the spirit moves me to deliver one oracle respecting my own instruction and
management: I utter it and leave it; it is for you, mother, to listen or no=
t.'
'I would advise all young ladies,'
pursued Mrs Yorke, 'to study the characters of such children as they chance=
to
meet with before they marry, and have any of their own; to consider well how
they would like the responsibility of guiding the careless, the labour of
persuading the stubborn, the constant burden and task of training the best.=
'
'But with love it need not be so v=
ery
difficult,' interposed Caroline. 'Mothers love their children most dearly -
almost better than they love themselves.'
'Fine talk! Very sentimental! Ther=
e is
the rough, practical part of life yet to come for you, young Miss!'
'But, Mrs Yorke, if I take a little
baby into my arms - any poor woman s infant for instance, - I feel that I l=
ove
that helpless thing quite peculiarly, though I am not its mother. I could do
almost anything for it willingly, if it were delivered over entirely to my =
care
- if it were quite dependent on me.'
'You feel! Yes! yes! I daresay, no=
w:
you are led a great deal by your feelings, and you think yourself a very
sensitive, refined personage, no doubt. Are you aware that, with all these
romantic ideas, you have managed to train your features into an habitually
lackadaisical expression, better suited to a novel-heroine than to a woman =
who
is to make her way in the real world by dint of common sense?'
'No; I am not at all aware of that=
, Mrs
Yorke.'
'Look in the glass just behind you.
Compare the face you see there with that of any early-rising, hard-working
milkmaid.'
'My face is a pale one, but it is =
not
sentimental, and most milkmaids, however red and robust they may be, are mo=
re
stupid and less practically fitted to make their way in the world than I am=
. I
think more and more correctly than milkmaids in general do; consequently, w=
here
they would often, for want of reflection, act weakly, I, by dint of reflect=
ion,
should act judiciously.'
'Oh, no! you would be influenced by
your feelings. You would be guided by impulse.'
'Of course, I should often be
influenced by my feelings: they were given me to that end. Whom my feelings
teach me to love, I must and shall love; and I hope, if ever I have a husba=
nd
and children, my feelings will induce me to love them. I hope, in that case,
all my impulses will be strong in compelling me to love.'
Caroline had a pleasure in saying =
this
with emphasis: she had a pleasure in daring to say it in Mrs Yorke's presen=
ce.
She did not care what unjust sarcasm might be hurled at her in reply: she
flushed, not with anger, but excitement, when the ungenial matron answered
coolly - 'Don't waste your dramatic effects. That was well said, - it was q=
uite
fine; but it is lost on two women - an old wife and an old maid; there shou=
ld
have been a disengaged gentleman present. Is Mr Robert nowhere hid behind t=
he
curtains, do you think, Miss Moore?'
Hortense, who during the chief par=
t of
the conversation had been in the kitchen superintending the preparations for
tea, did not yet quite comprehend the drift of the discourse She answered w=
ith
a puzzled air that Robert was at Whinbury. Mrs Yorke laughed her own peculi=
ar
short laugh.
'Straightforward Miss Moore!' said=
she
patronisingly. 'It is like you to understand my question so literally, and
answer it so simply. Your mind comprehends nothing of intrigue. Strange thi=
ngs
might go on around you without your being the wiser: you are not of the cla=
ss
the world calls sharp- witted.'
These equivocal compliments did not
seem to please Hortense. She drew herself up, puckered her black eyebrows, =
but
still looked puzzled.
'I have ever been noted for sagaci=
ty
and discernment from childhood,' she returned: for, indeed, on the possessi=
on
of these qualities she peculiarly piqued herself.
'You never plotted to win a husban=
d,
I'll be bound,' pursued Mrs Yorke; 'and you have not the benefit of previous
experience to aid you in discovering when others plot.'
Caroline felt this kind language w=
here
the benevolent speaker intended she should feel it - in her very heart. She
could not even parry the shafts: she was defenceless for the present: to an=
swer
would have been to avow that the cap fitted. Mrs Yorke, looking at her as s=
he
sat with troubled downcast eyes, and cheek burning painfully, and figure
expressing in its bent attitude and unconscious tremor all the humiliation =
and
chagrin she experienced, felt the sufferer was fair game. The strange woman=
had
a natural antipathy to a shrinking, sensitive character - a nervous
temperament: nor was a pretty, delicate, and youthful face a passport to her
affections. It was seldom she met with all these obnoxious qualities combin=
ed
in one individual: still more seldom she found that individual at her mercy,
under circumstances in which she could crush her well. She happened, this
afternoon, to be specially bilious and morose: as much disposed to gore as =
any
vicious 'mother of the herd': lowering her large head, she made a new charg=
e.
'Your cousin Hortense is an excell=
ent
sister, Miss Helstone: such ladies as come to try their life's luck here, at
Hollow's Cottage, may, by a very little clever female artifice, cajole the
mistress of the house, and have the game all in their own hands. You are fo=
nd
of your cousin's society, I daresay, Miss?'
'Of which cousin's?'
'Oh, of the lady's, of course.'
'Hortense is, and always has been,
most kind to me.'
'Every sister, with an eligible si=
ngle
brother, is considered most kind by her spinster friends.'
'Mrs Yorke,' said Caroline, lifting
her eyes slowly, their blue orbs at the same time clearing from trouble, and
shining steady and full, while the glow of shame left her cheek, and its hue
turned pale and settled: 'Mrs Yorke, may I ask what you mean?'
'To give you a lesson on the
cultivation of rectitude: to disgust you with craft and false sentiment.'
'Do I need this lesson?'
'Most young ladies of the present =
day
need it. You are quite a modern young lady - morbid, delicate, professing to
like retirement; which implies, I suppose, that you find little worthy of y=
our
sympathies in the ordinary world. The ordinary world - every-day, honest fo=
lks
- are better than you think them: much better than any bookish, romancing c=
hit
of a girl can be, who hardly ever puts her nose over her uncle's, the parso=
n's,
garden wall.'
'Consequently, of whom you know
nothing. Excuse me, - indeed, it does not matter whether you excuse me or n=
ot -
you have attacked me without provocation: I shall defend myself without
apology. Of my relations with my two cousins, you are ignorant: in a fit of
ill-humour you have attempted to poison them by gratuitous insinuations, wh=
ich
are far more crafty and false than anything with which you can justly charge
me. That I happen to be pale, and sometimes to look diffident, is no busine=
ss
of yours. That I am fond of books, and indisposed for common gossip, is sti=
ll
less your business. That I am a 'romancing chit of a girl' is a mere conjec=
ture
on your part: I never romanced to you, nor to anybody you know. That I am t=
he
parson's niece is not a crime, though you may be narrow- minded enough to t=
hink
it so. You dislike me: you have no just reason for disliking me; therefore =
keep
the expression of your aversion to yourself. If at any time, in future, you
evince it annoyingly, I shall answer even less scrupulously than I have done
now.'
She ceased, and sat in white and s=
till
excitement. She had spoken in the clearest of tones, neither fast nor loud;=
but
her silver accent thrilled the ear. The speed of the current in her veins w=
as
just then as swift as it was viewless.
Mrs Yorke was not irritated at the
reproof, worded with a severity so simple, dictated by a pride so quiet.
Turning coolly to Miss Moore, she said, nodding her cap approvingly - 'She =
has
spirit in her, after all. Always speak as honestly as you have done just no=
w,'
she continued, 'and you'll do.'
'I repel a recommendation so
offensive,' was the answer, delivered in the same pure key, with the same c=
lear
look. 'I reject counsel poisoned by insinuation. It is my right to speak as=
I
think proper; nothing binds me to converse as you dictate. So far from alwa=
ys
speaking as I have done just now, I shall never address any one in a tone so
stern, or in language so harsh, unless in answer to unprovoked insult.'
'Mother, you have found your match=
,'
pronounced little Jessy, whom the scene appeared greatly to edify. Rose had
heard the whole with an unmoved face. She now said, 'No: Miss Helstone is n=
ot
my mother's match - for she allows herself to be vexed: my mother would wear
her out in a few weeks. Shirley Keeldar manages better. Mother, you have ne=
ver
hurt Miss Keeldar's feelings yet. She wears armour under her silk dress that
you cannot penetrate.'
Mrs Yorke often complained that her
children were mutinous. It was strange, that with all her strictness, with =
all
her 'strong-mindedness,' she could gain no command over them: a look from t=
heir
father had more influence with them than a lecture from her.
Miss Moore - to whom the position =
of
witness to an altercation in which she took no part was highly displeasing,=
as
being an unimportant secondary post - now, rallying her dignity, prepared to
utter a discourse which was to prove both parties in the wrong, and to make=
it
clear to each disputant that she had reason to be ashamed of herself, and o=
ught
to submit humbly to the superior sense of the individual then addressing he=
r.
Fortunately for her audience, she had not harangued above ten minutes, when
Sarah's entrance with the tea-tray called her attention, first, to the fact=
of
that damsel having a gilt comb in her hair, and a red necklace round her
throat, and secondly, and subsequently to a pointed remonstrance, to the du=
ty
of making tea. After the meal, Rose restored her to good humour by bringing=
her
guitar and asking for a song, and afterwards engaging her in an intelligent=
and
sharp cross-examination about guitar-playing and music in general.
Jessy, meantime, directed her
assiduities to Caroline. Sitting on a stool at her feet, she talked to her,
first about religion and then about politics. Jessy was accustomed at home =
to
drink in a great deal of what her father said on these subjects, and afterw=
ards
in company to retail, with more wit and fluency than consistency or discret=
ion,
his opinions, antipathies, and preferences. She rated Caroline soundly for
being a member of the Established Church, and for having an uncle a clergym=
an.
She informed her that she lived on the country, and ought to work for her
living honestly, instead of passing a useless life, and eating the bread of
idleness in the shape of tithes. Thence Jessy passed to a review of the
Ministry at that time in office, and a consideration of its deserts. She ma=
de
familiar mention of the names of Lord Castlereagh and Mr Perceval. Each of
these personages she adorned with a character that might have separately su=
ited
Moloch and Belial. She denounced the war as wholesale murder, and Lord
Wellington as a 'hired butcher.'
Her auditress listened with exceed=
ing
edification. Jessy had something of the genius of humour in her nature: it =
was
inexpressibly comic to hear her repeating her sire's denunciations in her
nervous northern Doric; as hearty a little Jacobin as ever pent a free muti=
nous
spirit in a muslin frock and sash. Not malignant by nature, her language was
not so bitter as it was racy, and the expressive little face gave a piquanc=
y to
every phrase which held a beholder's interest captive.
Caroline chid her when she abused =
Lord
Wellington; but she listened delighted to a subsequent tirade against the
Prince Regent. Jessy quickly read in the sparkle of her hearer's eye, and t=
he
laughter hovering round her lips, that at last she had hit on a topic that
pleased. Many a time had she heard the fat 'Adonis of fifty' discussed at h=
er
father's breakfast-table, and she now gave Mr Yorke's comments on the theme=
-
genuine as uttered by his Yorkshire lips.
But, Jessy, I will write about you=
no
more. This is an autumn evening, wet and wild. There is only one cloud in t=
he
sky; but it curtains it from pole to pole. The wind cannot rest: it hurries
sobbing over hills of sullen outline, colourless with twilight and mist. Ra=
in
has beat all day on that church tower: it rises dark from the stony enclosu=
re
of its graveyard: the nettles, the long grass, and the tombs all drip with =
wet.
This evening reminds me too forcibly of another evening some years ago: a
howling, rainy autumn evening too - when certain who had that day performed=
a
pilgrimage to a grave new-made in a heretic cemetery sat near a wood-fire on
the hearth of a foreign dwelling. They were merry and social, but they each
knew that a gap, never to be filled, had been made in their circle. They kn=
ew
they had lost something whose absence could never be quite atoned for so lo=
ng
as they lived: and they knew that heavy falling rain was soaking into the w=
et
earth which covered their lost darling; and that the sad, sighing gale was
mourning above her buried head. The fire warmed them; Life and Friendship y=
et
blessed them; but Jessy lay cold, coffined, solitary - only the sod screeni=
ng
her from the storm.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. .
Mrs Yorke folded up her knitting, =
cut
short the music-lesson and the lecture on politics, and concluded her visit=
to
the cottage, at an hour early enough to ensure her return to Briarmains bef=
ore
the blush of sunset should quite have faded in heaven, or the path up the
fields have become thoroughly moist with evening dew.
The lady and her daughters being g=
one,
Caroline felt that she also ought to resume her scarf, kiss her cousin's ch=
eek,
and trip away homeward. If she lingered much later, dusk would draw on, and
Fanny would be put to the trouble of coming to fetch her: it was both baking
and ironing day at the Rectory, she remembered - Fanny would be busy. Still,
she could not quit her seat at the little parlour-window. From no point of =
view
could the West look so lovely as from that lattice with the garland of
jessamine round it, whose white stars and green leaves seemed now but grey =
pencil
outlines - graceful in form, but colourless in tint - against the gold
incarnadined of a summer evening - against the fire-tinged blue of an August
sky, at eight o'clock p.m.
Caroline looked at the wicket-gate,
beside which holly-oaks spired up tall; she looked at the close hedge of pr=
ivet
and laurel fencing in the garden; her eyes longed to see something more than
the shrubs, before they turned from that limited prospect: they longed to s=
ee a
human figure, of a certain mould and height, pass the hedge and enter the g=
ate.
A human figure she at last saw - nay, two: Frederick Murgatroyd went by,
carrying a pail of water; Joe Scott followed, dangling on his forefinger the
keys of the mill. They were going to lock up mill and stables for the night,
and then betake themselves home.
'So must I,' thought Caroline, as =
she
half rose and sighed.
'This is all folly - heart-breaking
folly,' she added. 'In the first place, though I should stay till dark, the=
re
will be no arrival; because I feel in my heart, Fate has written it down in
to-day's page of her eternal book, that I am not to have the pleasure I long
for. In the second place, if he stepped in this moment, my presence here wo=
uld
be a chagrin to him, and the consciousness that it must be so would turn ha=
lf my
blood to ice. His hand would, perhaps, be loose and chill, if I put mine in=
to
it: his eye would be clouded if I sought its beam. I should look up for that
kindling something I have seen in past days, when my face, or my language, =
or
my disposition had at some happy moment pleased him - I should discover only
darkness. I had better go home.'
She took her bonnet from the table
where it lay, and was just fastening the ribbon, when Hortense, directing h=
er
attention to a splendid bouquet of flowers in a glass on the same table,
mentioned that Miss Keeldar had sent them that morning from Fieldhead; and =
went
on to comment on the guests that lady was at present entertaining, on the
bustling life she had lately been leading; adding divers conjectures that s=
he
did not very well like it, and much wonderment that a person who was so fon=
d of
her own way as the heiress, did not find some means of sooner getting rid of
this cortège of relatives.
'But they say she actually will not
let Mr Sympson and his family go,' she added: 'they wanted much to return to
the south last week, to be ready for the reception of the only son, who is
expected home from a tour. She insists that her cousin Henry shall come and
join his friends here in Yorkshire. I daresay she partly does it to oblige
Robert and myself.'
'How to oblige Robert and you?'
inquired Caroline.
'Why, my child, you are dull. Don't
you know - you must often have heard -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Please, ma'am,' said Sarah, openi=
ng
the door, 'the preserves that you told me to boil in treacle - the congfite=
rs,
as you call them - is all burnt to the pan.'
'Les confitures! Elles sont
brûlées? Ah, quelle négligence coupable! Coquine de
cuisinière - fille insupportable!'
And Mademoiselle, hastily taking f=
rom
a drawer a large linen apron, and tying it over her black apron, rushed
'éperdue' into the kitchen, whence - to speak truth - exhaled an odo=
ur
of calcined sweets rather strong than savoury.
The mistress and maid had been in =
full
feud the whole day, on the subject of preserving certain black cherries, ha=
rd
as marbles, sour as sloes. Sarah held that sugar was the only orthodox
condiment to be used in that process; Mademoiselle maintained - and proved =
it
by the practice and experience of her mother, grandmother, and
great-grandmother - that treacle, 'mélasse,' was infinitely preferab=
le.
She had committed an imprudence in leaving Sarah in charge of the
preserving-pan, for her want of sympathy in the nature of its contents had
induced a degree of carelessness in watching their confection, whereof the =
result
was - dark and cindery ruin. Hubbub followed: high upbraiding, and sobs rat=
her
loud than deep or real.
Caroline, once more turning to the
little mirror, was shading her ringlets from her cheek to smooth them under=
her
cottage bonnet, certain that it would not only be useless but unpleasant to
stay longer; when, on the sudden opening of the back-door, there fell an ab=
rupt
calm in the kitchen: the tongues were checked, pulled up as with bit and
bridle. 'Was it - was it - Robert?' He often - almost always - entered by t=
he
kitchen-way on his return from market. No: it was only Joe Scott, who, havi=
ng
hemmed significantly thrice - every hem being meant as a lofty rebuke to the
squabbling womankind - said, 'Now, I thowt I heerd a crack?'
None answered.
'And,' he continued pragmatically,=
'as
t' maister's comed, and as he'll enter through this hoyle, I considered it
desirable to step in and let ye know. A household o' women is nivver fit to=
be
comed on wi'out warning. Here he is; walk forrard, sir. They war playing up
queerly, but I think I've quieted 'em.'
Another person - it was now audibl=
e -
entered. Joe Scott proceeded with his rebukes.
'What d'ye mean by being all i'
darkness? Sarah, thou quean, canst t' not light a candle? It war sundown an
hour syne. He'll brak' his shins agean some o' yer pots, and tables, and st=
uff.
Tak' tent o' this baking-bowl, sir, they've set it i' yer way, fair as if t=
hey
did it i' malice.'
To Joe's observations succeeded a
confused sort of pause, which Caroline, though she was listening with both =
her
ears, could not understand. It was very brief: a cry broke it - a sound of
surprise, followed by the sound of a kiss: ejaculations, but half articulat=
e,
succeeded.
'Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Est-ce que je=
m'y
attendais?' were the words chiefly to be distinguished.
'Et tu te portes toujours bien, bo=
nne
soeur?' inquired another voice - Robert's, certainly.
Caroline was puzzled. Obeying an
impulse, the wisdom of which she had not time to question, she escaped from=
the
little parlour, by way of leaving the coast clear, and running upstairs too=
k up
a position at the head of the banisters, whence she could make further
observations ere presenting herself. It was considerably past sunset now: d=
usk
filled the passage, yet not such deep dusk but that she could presently see
Robert and Hortense traverse it.
'Caroline! Caroline!' called Horte=
nse,
a moment afterwards, 'venez voir mon frère!'
'Strange!' commented Miss Helstone,
'passing strange! What does this unwonted excitement about such an everyday
occurrence as a return from market portend? She has not lost her senses, has
she? Surely the burnt treacle has not crazed her?'
She descended in a subdued flutter:
yet more was she fluttered when Hortense seized her hand at the parlour-doo=
r,
and leading her to Robert, who stood in bodily presence, tall and dark agai=
nst
the one window, presented her with a mixture of agitation and formality, as
though they had been utter strangers, and this was their first mutual
introduction.
Increasing puzzle! He bowed rather=
awkwardly,
and turning from her with a stranger's embarrassment, he met the doubtful l=
ight
from a window: it fell on his face, and the enigma of the dream (a dream it
seemed) was at its height: she saw a visage like and unlike, - Robert, and =
no
Robert.
'What is the matter?' said Carolin=
e.
'Is my sight wrong? Is it my cousin?'
'Certainly, it is your cousin,'
asserted Hortense.
Then who was this now coming throu=
gh
the passage, - now entering the room? Caroline, looking round, met a new Ro=
bert
- the real Robert, as she felt at once.
'Well,' said he, smiling at her
questioning, astonished face, which is which?
'Ah! this is you!' was the answer.=
He laughed. 'I believe it is me: a=
nd
do you know who he is? You never saw him before; but you have heard of him.=
'
She had gathered her senses now.
'It can be only one person: your
brother, since it is so like you: my other cousin, Louis.'
'Clever little Oedipus! - you would
have baffled the Sphynx! - but now, see us together. Change places. Change
again, to confuse her, Louis. Which is the old love now, Lina?'
'As if it were possible to make a
mistake when you speak! You should have told Hortense to ask. But you are n=
ot
so much alike: it is only your height, your figure, and complexion that are=
so
similar.'
'And I am Robert, am I not?' asked=
the
newcomer, making a first effort to overcome what seemed his natural shyness=
.
Caroline shook her head gently. A soft, expressive ray from her eye beamed on the real Robert: it said much.<= o:p>
She was not permitted to quit her
cousins soon: Robert himself was peremptory in obliging her to remain. Glad,
simple, and affable in her demeanour (glad for this night, at least), in li=
ght,
bright spirits for the time, she was too pleasant an addition to the cottage
circle to be willingly parted with by any of them. Louis seemed naturally
rather a grave, still, retiring man, but the Caroline of this evening, which
was not (as you know, reader) the Caroline of every day, thawed his reserve,
and cheered his gravity soon. He sat near her, and talked to her. She alrea=
dy
knew his vocation was that of tuition; she learned now he had for some years
been the tutor of Mr Sympson's son; that he had been travelling with him, a=
nd
had accompanied him to the north. She inquired if he liked his post, but go=
t a
look in reply which did not invite or license further question. The look wo=
ke
Caroline's ready sympathy: she thought it a very sad expression to pass ove=
r so
sensible a face as Louis's: for he had a sensible face, - though not handso=
me,
she considered, when seen near Robert's. She turned to make the comparison.
Robert was leaning against the wall, a little behind her, turning over the
leaves of a book of engravings, and probably listening, at the same time, to
the dialogue between her and Louis.
'How could I think them alike?' she
asked herself: 'I see now it is Hortense Louis resembles, not Robert.'
And this was in part true: he had =
the
shorter nose and longer upper-lip of his sister, rather than the fine trait=
s of
his brother: he had her mould of mouth and chin - all less decisive, accura=
te,
and clear than those of the young mill-owner. His air, though deliberate and
reflective, could scarcely be called prompt and acute. You felt, in sitting
near and looking up at him, that a slower and probably a more benignant nat=
ure
than that of the elder Moore shed calm on your impressions.
Robert - perhaps aware that Caroli=
ne's
glance had wandered towards and dwelt upon him, though he had neither met n=
or
answered it - put down the book of engravings, and approaching, took a seat=
at
her side. She resumed her conversation with Louis, but, while she talked to
him, her thoughts were elsewhere: her heart beat on the side from which her
face was half-averted. She acknowledged a steady, manly, kindly air in Loui=
s;
but she bent before the secret power of Robert. To be so near him - though =
he
was silent - though he did not touch so much as her scarf-fringe, or the wh=
ite
hem of her dress - affected her like a spell. Had she been obliged to speak=
to
him only, it would have quelled - but, at liberty to address another, it
excited her. Her discourse flowed freely: it was gay, playful, eloquent. The
indulgent look and placid manner of her auditor encouraged her to ease; the
sober pleasure expressed by his smile drew out all that was brilliant in her
nature. She felt that this evening she appeared to advantage, and, as Robert
was a spectator, the consciousness contented her: had he been called away,
collapse would at once have succeeded stimulus.
But her enjoyment was not long to
shine full-orbed: a cloud soon crossed it.
Hortense, who for some time had be=
en
on the move ordering supper, and was now clearing the little table of some
books, etc., to make room for the tray, called Robert's attention to the gl=
ass
of flowers, the carmine, and snow, and gold of whose petals looked radiant
indeed by candlelight.
'They came from Fieldhead,' she. s=
aid,
'intended as a gift to you, no doubt: we know who is the favourite there - =
not
I, I'm sure.'
It was a wonder to hear Hortense j=
est;
a sign that her spirits were at high- water mark indeed.
'We are to understand, then, that
Robert is the favourite?,' observed Louis.
'Mon cher,' replied Hortense, 'Rob=
ert
- c'est tout ce qu'il y a de plus précieux au monde: à
côté de lui, le reste du genre humain n'est que du rebut. N'ai=
-je
pas raison, mon enfant?' she added, appealing to Caroline.
Caroline was obliged to reply, 'Ye=
s' -
and her beacon was quenched: her star withdrew as she spoke.
'Et toi, Robert?' inquired Louis.<= o:p>
'When you shall have an opportunit=
y,
ask herself,' was the quiet answer. Whether he reddened or paled Caroline d=
id
not examine: she discovered it was late; and she must go home. Home she wou=
ld
go: not even Robert could detain her now.
The future sometimes seems to sob a
low warning of the events it is bringing us, like some gathering though yet
remote storm, which, in tones of the wind, in flushings of the firmament, in
clouds strangely torn, announces a blast strong to strew the sea with wreck=
s;
or commissioned to bring in fog the yellow taint of pestilence, covering wh=
ite
Western isles with the poisoned exhalations of the East, dimming the lattic=
es
of English homes with the breath of Indian plague. At other times this Futu=
re
bursts suddenly, as if a rock had rent, and in it a grave had opened, whence
issues the body of one that slept. Ere you are aware you stand face to face
with a shrouded and unthought-of Calamity - a new Lazarus.
Caroline Helstone went home from
Hollow's Cottage in good health, as she imagined. On waking the next morning
she felt oppressed with unwonted languor: at breakfast, at each meal of the
following day, she missed all sense of appetite: palatable food was as ashes
and sawdust to her.
'Am I ill?' she asked, and looked =
at
herself in the glass. Her eyes were bright, their pupils dilated, her cheeks
seemed rosier and fuller than usual. 'I look well; why can I not eat?'
She felt a pulse beat fast in her
temples: she felt, too, her brain in strange activity: her spirits were rai=
sed;
hundreds of busy and broken, but brilliant thoughts engaged her mind: a glow
rested on them, such as tinged her complexion.
Now followed a hot, parched, thirs=
ty,
restless night. Towards morning one terrible dream seized her like a tiger:
when she woke, she felt and knew she was ill.
How she had caught the fever (feve=
r it
was), she could not tell. Probably in her late walk home, some sweet, poiso=
ned
breeze, redolent of honey-dew and miasma, had passed into her lungs and vei=
ns,
and finding there already a fever of mental excitement, and a languor of lo=
ng
conflict and habitual sadness, had fanned the spark of flame, and left a
well-lit fire behind it.
It seemed, however, but a gentle f=
ire:
after two hot days and worried nights, there was no violence in the symptom=
s, and
neither her uncle, nor Fanny, nor the doctor, nor Miss Keeldar, when she
called, had any fear for her: a few days would restore her, every one belie=
ved.
The few days passed, and - though =
it
was still thought it could not long delay - the revival had not begun. Mrs
Pryor, who had visited her daily - being present in her chamber one morning
when she had been ill a fortnight - watched her very narrowly for some minu=
tes:
she took her hand, and placed her finger on her wrist; then, quietly leaving
the chamber, she went to Mr Helstone's study. With him she remained closete=
d a
long time - half the morning. On returning to her sick young friend, she la=
id
aside shawl and bonnet: she stood a while at the bedside, one hand placed in
the other, gently rocking herself to and fro, in an attitude and with a
movement habitual to her. At last she said - 'I have sent Fanny to Fieldhea=
d to
fetch a few things for me, such as I shall want during a short stay here: i=
t is
my wish to remain with you till you are better. Your uncle kindly permits my
attendance: will it to yourself be acceptable, Caroline?'
'I am sorry you should take such
needless trouble. I do not feel very ill, but I cannot refuse resolutely: it
will be such comfort to know you are in the house, to see you sometimes in =
the
room; but don't confine yourself on my account, dear Mrs Pryor. Fanny nurse=
s me
very well.'
Mrs Pryor - bending over the pale
little sufferer - was now smoothing the hair under her cap, and gently rais=
ing
her pillow. As she performed these offices, Caroline, smiling, lifted her f=
ace
to kiss her.
'Are you free from pain? Are you
tolerably at ease?' was inquired in a low, earnest voice, as the self-elect=
ed
nurse yielded to the caress.
'I think I am almost happy.'
'You wish to drink? Your lips are =
parched.'
She held a glass filled with some
cooling beverage to her mouth.
'Have you eaten anything to-day,
Caroline?'
'I cannot eat.'
'But soon your appetite will retur=
n:
it must return: that is, I pray God it may!'
In laying her again on the couch, =
she
encircled her in her arms; and while so doing, by a movement which seemed
scarcely voluntary, she drew her to her heart, and held her close gathered =
an
instant.
'I shall hardly wish to get well, =
that
I may keep you always,' said Caroline.
Mrs Pryor did not smile at this
speech: over her features ran a tremor, which for some minutes she was abso=
rbed
in repressing.
'You are more used to Fanny than to
me,' she remarked, ere long. 'I should think my attendance must seem strang=
e,
officious?'
'No: quite natural, and very sooth=
ing.
You must have been accustomed to wait on sick people, ma'am. You move about=
the
room so softly, and you speak so quietly, and touch me so gently.'
'I am dexterous in nothing, my dea=
r.
You will often find me awkward, but never negligent.'
Negligent, indeed, she was not. Fr=
om
that hour, Fanny and Eliza became ciphers in the sick room: Mrs Pryor made =
it
her domain: she performed all its duties; she lived in it day and night. The
patient remonstrated - faintly, however, from the first, and not at all ere
long: loneliness and gloom were now banished from her bedside; protection a=
nd
solace sat there instead. She and her nurse coalesced in wondrous union.
Caroline was usually pained to require or receive much attendance: Mrs Pryo=
r,
under ordinary circumstances, had neither the habit nor the art of performi=
ng
little offices of service; but all now passed with such ease - so naturally,
that the patient was as willing to be cherished as the nurse was bent on
cherishing; no sign of weariness in the latter ever reminded the former that
she ought to be anxious. There was, in fact, no very hard duty to perform; =
but
a hireling might have found it hard.
With all this care, it seemed stra=
nge
the sick girl did not get well; yet such was the case: she wasted like any
snow-wreath in thaw; she faded like any flower in drought. Miss Keeldar, on
whose thoughts danger or death seldom intruded, had at first entertained no
fears at all for her friend; but seeing her change and sink from time to ti=
me
when she paid her visits, alarm clutched her heart. She went to Mr Helstone=
and
expressed herself with so much energy that that gentleman was at last oblig=
ed,
however unwillingly, to admit the idea that his niece was ill of something =
more
than a migraine; and when Mrs Pryor came and quietly demanded a physician, =
he
said she might send for two if she liked. One came, but that one was an ora=
cle:
he delivered a dark saying of which the future. was to solve the mystery, w=
rote
some prescriptions, gave some directions - the whole with an air of crushing
authority - pocketed his fee, and went. Probably, he knew well enough he co=
uld
do no good; but didn't like to say so.
Still, no rumour of serious illness
got wind in the neighbourhood. At Hollow's Cottage it was thought that Caro=
line
had only a severe cold, she having written a note to Hortense to that effec=
t;
and Mademoiselle contented herself with sending two pots of currant jam, a
receipt for a tisane, and a note of advice.
Mrs Yorke being told that a physic=
ian
had been summoned', sneered at the hypochondriac fancies of the rich and id=
le,
who, she said, having nothing but themselves to think about, must needs send
for a doctor if only so much as their little finger ached.
The 'rich and idle,' represented in
the person of Caroline, were meantime falling fast into a condition of
prostration, whose quickly consummated debility puzzled all who witnessed i=
t,
except one; for that one alone reflected how liable is the undermined struc=
ture
to sink in sudden ruin.
Sick people often have fancies
inscrutable to ordinary attendants, and Caroline had one which even her ten=
der
nurse could not at first explain. On a certain day in the week, at a certain
hour, she would - whether worse or better - entreat to be taken up and dres=
sed,
and suffered to sit in her chair near the window. This station she would re=
tain
till
One Tuesday morning, as usual, she=
had
asked leave to rise, and now she sat wrapped in her white dressing-gown,
leaning forward in the easy-chair, gazing steadily and patiently from the
lattice. Mrs Pryor was seated a little behind, knitting as it seemed, but, =
in
truth, watching her. A change crossed her pale mournful brow, animating its
languor; a light shot into her faded eyes, reviving their lustre; she half =
rose
and looked earnestly out. Mrs Pryor, drawing softly near, glanced over her
shoulder. From this window was visible the churchyard, beyond it the road, =
and
there, riding sharply by, appeared a horseman. The figure was not yet too
remote for recognition; Mrs Pryor had long sight; she knew Mr Moore. Just a=
s an
intercepting rising ground concealed him from view, the clock struck twelve=
.
'May I lie down again?' asked
Caroline.
Her nurse assisted her to bed: hav=
ing
laid her down and drawn the curtain, she stood listening near. The little c=
ouch
trembled, the suppressed sob stirred the air. A contraction as of anguish
altered Mrs Pryor's features; she wrung her hands; half a groan escaped her
lips. She now remembered that Tuesday was Whinbury market-day: Mr Moore must
always pass the Rectory on his way thither, just ere
Caroline wore continually round her
neck a slender braid of silk, attached to which was some trinket. Mrs Pryor=
had
seen the bit of gold glisten; but had not yet obtained a fair view of it. H=
er
patient never parted with it: when dressed it was hidden in her bosom; as s=
he
lay in bed she always held it in her hand. That Tuesday afternoon the trans=
ient
doze - more like lethargy than sleep - which sometimes abridged the long da=
ys,
had stolen over her: the weather was hot: while turning in febrile
restlessness, she had pushed the coverlets a little aside; Mrs Pryor bent to
replace them; the small, wasted hand, lying nerveless on the sick girl's
breast, clasped as usual her jealously-guarded treasure: those fingers whose
attenuation it gave pain to see, were now relaxed in sleep: Mrs Pryor gently
disengaged the braid, drawing out a tiny locket - a slight thing it was, su=
ch
as it suited her small purse to purchase: under its crystal face appeared a
curl of black hair - too short and crisp to have been severed from a female
head.
Some agitated movement occasioned a
twitch of the silken chain: the sleeper started and woke. Her thoughts were
usually now somewhat scattered on waking; her look generally wandering.
Half-rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed - 'Don't take it from me, Rober=
t!
Don't! It is my last comfort - let me keep it. I never tell any one whose h=
air
it is - I never show it.'
Mrs Pryor had already disappeared
behind the curtain: reclining far back in a deep arm-chair by the bedside, =
she
was withdrawn from view. Caroline looked abroad into the chamber: she thoug=
ht
it empty. As her stray ideas returned slowly, each folding its weak wings on
the mind's sad shore, like birds exhausted, - beholding void, and perceiving
silence round her, she believed herself alone. Collected, she was not yet:
perhaps healthy self-possession and self-control were to be hers no more;
perhaps that world the strong and prosperous live in had already rolled from
beneath her feet for ever: so, at least, it often seemed to herself. In hea=
lth,
she had never been accustomed to think aloud; but now words escaped her lips
unawares.
'Oh! I should see him once more be=
fore
all is over! Heaven might favour me thus far?' she cried. 'God grant me a
little comfort before I die!' was her humble petition.
'But he will not know I am ill til=
l I
am gone; and he will come when they have laid me out, and I am senseless, c=
old,
and stiff.
'What can my departed soul feel th=
en?
Can it see or know what happens to the clay? Can spirits, through any mediu=
m,
communicate with living flesh? Can the dead at all revisit those they leave?
Can they come in the elements? Will wind, water, fire, lend me a path to Mo=
ore?
'Is it for nothing the wind sounds
almost articulately sometimes - sings as I have lately heard it sing at nig=
ht -
or passes the casement sobbing, as if for sorrow to come? Does nothing, the=
n,
haunt it - nothing inspire it?
'Why, it suggested to me words one
night: it poured a strain which I could have written down, only I was appal=
led,
and dared not rise to seek pencil and paper by the dim watch-light.
'What is that electricity they spe=
ak
of, whose changes make us well or ill; whose lack or excess blasts; whose e=
ven
balance revives? What are all those influences that are about us in the
atmosphere, that keep playing over our nerves like fingers on stringed
instruments, and call forth now a sweet note, and now a wail-now an exultan=
t swell,
and, anon, the saddest cadence?
'Where is the other world? In what
will another life consist? Who do I ask? Have I not cause to think that the
hour is hasting but too fast when the veil must be rent for me? Do I not kn=
ow
the Grand Mystery is likely to burst prematurely on me? Great Spirit! in wh=
ose
goodness I confide; whom, as my Father, I have petitioned night and morning
from early infancy, help the weak creation of Thy hands! Sustain me through=
the
ordeal I dread and must undergo! Give me strength! Give me patience! Give m=
e -
oh! give me faith!'
She fell back on her pillow. Mrs P=
ryor
found means to steal quietly from the room: she re-entered it soon after,
apparently as composed as if she had really not overheard this strange
soliloquy.
The next day several callers came.=
It
had become known that Miss Helstone was worse. Mr Hall and his sister Marga=
ret
arrived: both, after they had been in the sick-room, quitted it in tears; t=
hey
had found the patient more altered than they expected. Hortense Moore came.
Caroline seemed stimulated by her presence: she assured her, smiling, she w=
as
not dangerously ill; she talked to her in a low voice, but cheerfully: duri=
ng
her stay, excitement kept up the flush of her complexion: she looked better=
.
'How is Mr Robert?' asked Mrs Pryo=
r,
as Hortense was preparing to take leave.
'He was very well when he left.'
'Left! Is he gone from home?'
It was then explained that some po=
lice
intelligence about the rioters of whom he was in pursuit, had, that morning,
called him away to Birmingham, and probably a fortnight might elapse ere he
returned.
'He is not aware that Miss Helston=
e is
very ill?'
'Oh! no. He thought, like me, that=
she
had only a bad cold.' After this visit, Mrs Pryor took care not to approach
Caroline's couch for above an hour: she heard her weep, and dared not look =
on
her tears.
As evening closed in, she brought =
her
some tea. Caroline, opening her eyes from a moment's slumber, viewed her nu=
rse
with an unrecognising glance.
'I smelt the honey-suckles in the = glen this summer morning,' she said, 'as I stood at the counting-house window.'<= o:p>
Strange words like these from pall=
id
lips pierce a loving listener's heart more poignantly than steel. They sound
romantic, perhaps, in books: in real life, they are harrowing.
'My darling, do you know me?' said=
Mrs
Pryor.
'I went in to call Robert to
breakfast: I have been with him in the garden: he asked me to go: a heavy d=
ew
has refreshed the flowers: the peaches are ripening.'
'My darling! my darling!' again and
again repeated the nurse.
'I thought it was daylight - long
after sunrise: it looks dark - is the moon now set?'
That moon, lately risen, was gazing
full and mild upon her: floating in deep blue space, it watched her uncloud=
ed.
'Then it is not morning? I am not =
at
the cottage? Who is this? - I see a shape at my bedside.'
'It is myself - it is your friend -
your nurse - your - - Lean your head on my shoulder colle=
ct
yourself.' (In a lower tone.) 'Oh God, take pity! Give her life, and me
strength! Send me courage - teach me words!'
Some minutes passed in silence. The
patient lay mute and passive in the trembling arms - on the throbbing bosom=
of
the nurse.
'I am better now,' whispered Carol=
ine
at last, 'much better - I feel where I am: this is Mrs Pryor near me: I was
dreaming - I talk when I wake up from dreams: people often do in illness. H=
ow
fast your heart beats, ma'am! Do not be afraid.'
'It is not fear, child; only a lit=
tle
anxiety, which will pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary; your uncle mad=
e it
himself. You know he says he can make a better cup of tea than any housewife
can. Taste it. He is concerned to hear that you eat so little: he would be =
glad
if you had a better appetite.'
'I am thirsty: let me drink.'
She drank eagerly.
'What o'clock is it, ma'am?' she
asked.
'Past nine.'
'Not later? Oh! I have yet a long
night before me: but the tea has made me strong: I will sit up.'
Mrs Pryor raised her, and arranged=
her
pillows.
'Thank Heaven! I am not always equ=
ally
miserable, and ill, and hopeless. The afternoon has been bad since Hortense
went: perhaps the evening may be better. It is a fine night, I think? The m=
oon
shines clear.'
'Very fine: a perfect summer night.
The old church-tower gleams white almost as silver.'
'And does the churchyard look
peaceful?'
'Yes, and the garden also: dew
glistens on the foliage.'
'Can you see many long weeds and
nettles amongst the graves; or do they look turfy and flowery?'
'I see closed daisy-heads, gleaming
like pearls on some mounds. Thomas has mown down the dock-leaves and rank
grass, and cleared all away.'
'I always like that to be done: it
soothes one's mind to see the place in order: and, I dare say, within the
church just now that moonlight shines as softly as in my room. It will fall
through the east window full on the Helstone monument. When I close my eyes=
I
seem to see poor papa's epitaph in black letters on white marble. There is
plenty of room for other inscriptions underneath.'
'William Farren came to look after
your flowers this morning: he was afraid, now you cannot tend them yourself,
they would be neglected. He has taken two of your favourite plants home to
nurse for you.'
'If I were to make a will, I would
leave William all my plants; Shirley my trinkets - except one, which must n=
ot
be taken off my neck: and you, ma'am, my books.' (After a pause.) 'Mrs Pryo=
r, I
feel a longing wish for something.'
'For what, Caroline?'
'You know I always delight to hear=
you
sing: sing me a hymn just now: sing that hymn which begins:
Our God, our help in ages past, - Our hope for years to come; Our she=
lter
from the stormy blast; Our refuge, haven, home!'
Mrs Pryor at once complied.
No wonder Caroline liked to hear h=
er
sing: her voice, even in speaking, was sweet and silver clear; in song it w=
as
almost divine: neither flute nor dulcimer has tones so pure. But the tone w=
as
secondary compared to the expression which trembled through: a tender vibra=
tion
from a feeling heart.
The servants in the kitchen, heari=
ng
the strain, stole to the stair-foot to listen: even old Helstone, as he wal=
ked
in the garden, pondering over the unaccountable and feeble nature of women,
stood still amongst his borders to catch the mournful melody more distinctl=
y.
Why it reminded him of his forgotten dead wife, he could not tell; nor why =
it
made him more concerned than he had hitherto been for Caroline's fading
girlhood. He was glad to recollect that he had promised to pay Wynne, the
magistrate, a visit that evening. Low spirits and gloomy thoughts were very
much his aversions: when they attacked him he usually found means to make t=
hem
march in double-quick time. The hymn followed him faintly as he crossed the
fields: he hastened his customary sharp pace, that he might get beyond its
reach.
Thy word commands our flesh to dust, -
'Return, ye sons of men';
All nations rose from earth at first
And turn to earth again.
A thousand ages in Thy sight
Are like an evening gone
Short as the watch that ends' the night
Before the rising sun.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.
Like flowery fields, the nations stand,
Fresh in the morning light
The flowers beneath the mower's hand
Lie withering ere 'tis night.
Our God, our help in ages past, -
Our hope for years to come;
Be Thou our guard while troubles last,
O Father, be our home!
'Now sing a song - a Scottish song=
,'
suggested Caroline when the hymn was over, - 'Ye banks and braes o' bonny
Doon.'
Again Mrs Pryor obeyed, or essayed=
to
obey. At the close of the first stanza she stopped: she could get no furthe=
r:
her full heart flowed over.
'You are weeping at the pathos of =
the
air: come here and I will comfort you,' said Caroline, in a pitying accent.=
Mrs
Pryor came: she sat down on the edge of her patient's bed, and allowed the
wasted arms to encircle her.
'You often soothe me, let me soothe
you,' murmured the young girl, kissing her cheek. 'I hope,' she added, 'it =
is
not for me you weep?'
No answer followed.
'Do you think I shall not get bett=
er?
I do not feel very ill - only weak.'
'But your mind, Caroline: your min=
d is
crushed: your heart is almost broken, you have been so neglected, so repuls=
ed,
left so desolate.'
'I believe grief is, and always has
been, my worst ailment. I sometimes think, if an abundant gush of happiness
came on me, I could revive yet.'
'Do you wish to live?'
'I have no object in life.'
'You love me, Caroline?'
'Very much, - very truly, -
inexpressibly sometimes: just now I feel as if I could almost grow to your
heart.'
'I will return directly, dear,'
remarked Mrs Pryor, as she laid Caroline down.
Quitting her, she glided to the do=
or,
softly turned the key in the lock, ascertained that it was fast, and came b=
ack.
She bent over her. She threw back the curtain to admit the moonlight more
freely. She gazed intently on her face.
'Then, if you love me,' said she,
speaking quickly, with an altered voice: 'if you feel as if - to use your o=
wn
words - you could 'grow to my heart,' it will be neither shock nor pain for=
you
to know that that heart is the source whence yours was filled: that from my=
veins
issued the tide which flows in yours; that you are mine - my daughter - my =
own
child.'
'Mrs Pryor -&=
nbsp;
- '
'My own child!'
'That is - that means - you have
adopted me?'
'It means that, if I have given you
nothing else, I at least gave you life; that I bore you - nursed you; that =
I am
your true mother; no other woman can claim the title - it is mine.'
'But Mrs James Helston - but my
father's wife, whom I do not remember ever to have seen, she is my mother?'=
'She is your mother: James Helstone
was my husband. I say you are mine. I have proved it. I thought perhaps you
were all his, which would have been a cruel dispensation for me: I find it =
is
not so. God permitted me to be the parent of my child's mind; it belongs to=
me:
it is my property - my right. These features are James's own. He had a fine
face when he was young, and not altered by error. Papa, my darling, gave you
your blue eyes and soft brown hair: he gave you the oval of your face and t=
he
regularity of your lineaments; the outside he conferred; but the heart and =
the
brain are mine: the germs are from me, and they are improved, they are
developed to excellence. I esteem and approve my child as highly as I do mo=
st
fondly love her.'
'Is what I hear true? Is it no dre=
am?'
'I wish it were as true that the
substance and colour of health were restored to your cheek.'
'My own mother! is she one I can b=
e so
fond of as I can of you? People generally did not like her, so I have been
given to understand.'
'They told you that? Well, your mo=
ther
now tells you, that, not having the gift to please people generally, for th=
eir
approbation she does not care: her thoughts are centred in her child: does =
that
child welcome or reject her?'
'But if you are my mother, the wor=
ld
is all changed to me. Surely I can live - I should like to recover -&=
nbsp;
- '
'You must recover. You drew life a=
nd
strength from my breast when you were a tiny, fair infant, over whose blue =
eyes
I used to weep, fearing I beheld in your very beauty the sign of qualities =
that
had entered my heart like iron, and pierced through my soul like a sword.
Daughter! we have been long parted: I return now to cherish you again.'
She held her to her bosom: she cra=
dled
her in her arms: she rocked her softly, as if lulling a young child to slee=
p.
'My mother! My own mother!'
The offspring nestled to the paren=
t;
that parent, feeling the endearment and hearing the appeal, gathered her cl=
oser
still. She covered her with noiseless kisses: she murmured love over her, l=
ike
a cushat fostering its young.
There was silence in the room for a
long while.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. . .
'Does my uncle know?'
'Your uncle knows: I told him when=
I
first came to stay with you here.'
'Did you recognise me when we first
met at Fieldhead?'
'How could it be otherwise? Mr and
Miss Helstone being announced, I was prepared to see my child.'
'It was that then which moved you:=
I
saw you disturbed.'
'You saw nothing, Caroline, I can
cover my feelings. You can never tell what an age of strange sensation I li=
ved,
during the two minutes that elapsed between the report of your name and your
entrance. You can never tell how your look, mien, carriage, shook me.'
'Why? Were you disappointed?'
'What will she be like? I had asked
myself; and when I saw what you were like, I could have dropped.'
'Mamma, why?'
'I trembled in your presence. I sa=
id I
will never own her; she shall never know me.'
'But I said and did nothing
remarkable. I felt a little diffident at the thought of an introduction to
strangers, that was all.'
'I soon saw you were diffident; th=
at
was the first thing which reassured me: had you been rustic, clownish, awkw=
ard,
I should have been content.'
'You puzzle me.'
'I had reason to dread a fair outs=
ide,
to mistrust a popular bearing, to shudder before distinction, grace, and
courtesy. Beauty and affability had come in my way when I was recluse,
desolate, young, and ignorant: a toil-worn governess perishing of uncheered
labour, breaking down before her time. These, Caroline, when they smiled on=
me,
I mistook for angels! I followed them home, and when into their hands I had
given without reserve my whole chance of future happiness, it was my lot to
witness a transfiguration on the domestic hearth: to see the white mask lif=
ted,
the bright disguise put away, and opposite me sat down - O God! I have
suffered!'
She sank on the pillow.
'I have suffered! None saw - none
knew: there was no sympathy - no redemption - no redress!'
'Take comfort, mother: it is over
now.'
'It is over, and not fruitlessly. I
tried to keep the word of His patience: He kept me in the days of my anguis=
h. I
was afraid with terror - I was troubled: through great tribulation He broug=
ht
me through to a salvation revealed in this last time. My fear had torment -=
He
has cast it out: He has given me in its stead perfect love. . . . But, Caro=
line
- - '
Thus she invoked her daughter afte=
r a
pause.
'Mother!'
'I charge you, when you next look =
on
your father's monument, to respect the name chiselled there. To you he did =
only
good. On you he conferred his whole treasure of beauties; nor added to them=
one
dark defect. All you derived from him is excellent. You owe him gratitude.
Leave, between him and me, the settlement of our mutual account: meddle not:
God is the arbiter. This world's laws never came near us - never! They were
powerless as a rotten bulrush to protect me! - impotent as idiot babblings =
to
restrain him! As you said, it is all over now: the grave lies between us. T=
here
he sleeps - in that church! To his dust I say this night, what I have never
said before, 'James, slumber peacefully! See! your terrible debt is cancell=
ed!
Look! I wipe out the long, black account with my own hand! James, your child
atones: this living likeness of you - this thing with your perfect features=
-
this one good gift you gave me has nestled affectionately to my heart, and
tenderly called me 'mother.' Husband! rest forgiven!'
'Dearest mother, that is right! Can
papa's spirit hear us? Is he comforted to know that we still love him?'
'I said nothing of love: I spoke of
forgiveness. Mind the truth, child - I said nothing of love! On the thresho=
ld
of eternity, should he be there to see me enter, will I maintain that.'
'Oh, mother! you must have suffere=
d!'
'Oh, child! the human heart can
suffer. It can hold more tears than the ocean holds waters. We never know h=
ow
deep - how wide it is, till misery begins to unbind her clouds, and fill it
with rushing blackness.'
'Mother, forget.'
'Forget!' she said, with the stran=
gest
spectre of a laugh. 'The north pole will rush to the south, and the headlan=
ds
of Europe be locked into the bays of Australia ere I forget.'
'Hush, mother! rest! - be at peace=
!'
And the child lulled the parent, as
the parent had erst lulled the child. At last Mrs Pryor wept: she then grew
calmer. She resumed those tender cares agitation had for a moment suspended.
Replacing her daughter on the couch, she smoothed the pillow, and spread the
sheet. The soft hair whose locks were loosened, she rearranged, the damp br=
ow
she refreshed with a cool, fragrant essence.
'Mamma, let them bring a candle, t=
hat
I may see you; and tell my uncle to come into this room by-and-by: I want to
hear him say that I am your daughter: and, mamma, take your supper here; do=
n't
leave me for one minute to-night.'
'Oh, Caroline! it is well you are
gentle. You will say to me go, and I shall go; come, and I shall come; do t=
his,
and I shall do it. You inherit a certain manner as well as certain features=
. It
will be always 'mamma' prefacing a mandate: softly spoken though from you,
thank God! Well'(she added, under her breath), 'he spoke softly too, once, -
like a flute breathing tenderness; and then, when the world was not by to
listen, discords that split the nerves and curdled the blood - sounds to
inspire insanity.'
'It seems so natural, mamma, to ask
you for this and that. I shall want nobody but you to be near me, or to do
anything for me; but do not let me be troublesome: check me, if I encroach.=
'
'You must not depend on me to check
you: you must keep guard over yourself. I have little moral courage: the wa=
nt
of it is my bane. It is that which has made me an unnatural parent - which =
has
kept me apart from my child during the ten years which have elapsed since my
husband's death left me at liberty to claim her: it was that which first
unnerved my arms and permitted the infant I might have retained a while lon=
ger
to be snatched prematurely from their embrace.'
'How, mamma?'
'I let you go as a babe, because y=
ou
were pretty, and I feared your loveliness; deeming it the stamp of perversi=
ty.
They sent me your portrait, taken at eight years old; that portrait confirm=
ed
my fears. Had it shown me a sunburnt little rustic - a heavy, blunt-feature=
d,
commonplace child - I should have hastened to claim you; but there, under t=
he
silver paper, I saw blooming the delicacy of an aristocratic flower - 'litt=
le
lady' was written on every trait. I had too recently crawled from under the
yoke of the fine gentleman - escaped, galled, crushed, paralysed, dying - to
dare to encounter his still finer and most fairy-like representative. My sw=
eet
little lady overwhelmed me with dismay: her air of native elegance froze my
very marrow. In my experience I had not met with truth, modesty, good princ=
iple
as the concomitants of beauty. A form so straight and fine, I argued, must
conceal a mind warped and cruel. I had little faith in the power of educati=
on
to rectify such a mind; or rather, I entirely misdoubted my own ability to
influence it. Caroline, I dared not undertake to rear you: I resolved to le=
ave
you in your uncle's hands. Matthewson Helstone I knew, if an austere, was an
upright man. He and all the world thought hardly of me for my strange,
unmotherly resolve, and I deserved to be misjudged.'
'Mamma, why did you call yourself =
Mrs
Pryor?'
'It was a name in my mother's fami=
ly.
I adopted it that I might live unmolested. My married name recalled too viv=
idly
my married life: I could not bear it. Besides, threats were uttered of forc=
ing
me to return to bondage: it could not be; rather a bier for a bed - the gra=
ve
for a home. My new name sheltered me: I resumed under its screen my old
occupation of teaching. At first, it scarcely procured me the means of
sustaining life; but how savoury was hunger when I fasted in peace! How safe
seemed the darkness and chill of an unkindled hearth, when no lurid reflect=
ion
from terror crimsoned its desolation! How serene was solitude, when I feared
not the irruption of violence and vice.'
'But, mamma, you have been in this
neighbourhood before. How did it happen, that when you re-appeared here with
Miss Keeldar, you were not recognised?'
'I only paid a short visit, as a
bride, twenty years ago; and then I was very different to what I am now -
slender, almost as slender as my daughter is at this day: my complexion - my
very features are changed; my hair, my style of dress - everything is alter=
ed.
You cannot fancy me a slim young person, attired in scanty drapery of white
muslin, with bare arms, bracelets and necklace of beads, and hair disposed =
in
round Grecian curls above my forehead?'
'You must, indeed, have been
different. Mamma, I heard the front door open: if it is my uncle coming in,
just ask him to step upstairs, and let me hear his assurance that I am truly
awake and collected, and not dreaming or delirious.'
The Rector, of his own accord, was
mounting the stairs; and Mrs Pryor summoned him to his niece's apartment.
'She's not worse, I hope?' he inqu=
ired
hastily.
'I think her better; she is dispos=
ed
to converse - she seems stronger,'
'Good!' said he, brushing quickly =
into
the room. 'Ha, Cary! how do? Did you drink my cup of tea? I made it for you
just as I like it myself.'
'I drank it every drop, uncle: it =
did
me good - it has made me quite alive. I have a wish for company, so I begge=
d Mrs
Pryor to call you in.'
The respected ecclesiastic looked
pleased, and yet embarrassed. He was willing enough to bestow his company on
his sick niece for ten minutes, since it was her whim to wish it; but what
means to employ for her entertainment, he knew not: he hemmed - he fidgeted=
.
'You'll be up in a trice,' he
observed, by way of saying something. 'The little weakness will soon pass o=
ff;
and then you must drink port-wine - a pipe, if you can - and eat game and
oysters: I'll get them for you, if they are to be had anywhere. Bless me! w=
e'll
make you as strong as Samson before we've done with you.'
'Who is that lady, uncle, standing
beside you at the bed-foot?'
'Good God!' he ejaculated. 'She's =
not
wandering - is she, ma'am?'
Mrs Pryor smiled.
'I am wandering in a pleasant worl=
d,'
said Caroline, in a soft, happy voice, 'and I want you to tell me whether i=
t is
real or visionary. What lady is that? Give her a name, uncle?'
'We must have Dr. Rile again, ma'a=
m,
or better still, MacTurk: he's less of a humbug. Thomas must saddle the pon=
y,
and go for him.'
'No: I don't want a doctor; mamma
shall be my only physician. Now, do you understand, uncle?'
Mr Helstone pushed up his spectacl=
es
from his nose to his forehead, handled his snuff-box, and administered to
himself a portion of the contents. Thus fortified, he answered briefly - 'I=
see
daylight. You've told her then, ma'am?'
'And is it true?' demanded Carolin=
e,
rising on her pillow. 'Is she really my mother?'
'You won't cry, or make any scene,=
or
turn hysterical, if I answer Yes?'
'Cry? I'd cry if you said No. It w=
ould
be terrible to be disappointed now. But give her a name: how do you call he=
r?'
'I call this stout lady in a quaint
black dress, who looks young enough to wear much smarter raiment, if she wo=
uld
- I call her Agnes Helstone: she married my brother James, and is his widow=
.'
'And my mother?'
'What a little sceptic it is! Look=
at
her small face, Mrs Pryor, scarcely larger than the palm of my hand, alive =
with
acuteness and eagerness.' (To Caroline.) 'She had the trouble of bringing y=
ou
into the world at any rate: mind you show your duty to her by quickly getti=
ng
well, and repairing the waste of these cheeks. Heigho! she used to be plump:
what she has done with it all, I can't, for the life of me, divine.'
'If wishing to get well will help =
me,
I shall not be long sick, This morning, I had no reason and no strength to =
wish
it.'
Fanny here tapped at the door, and
said that supper was ready.
'Uncle, if you please, you may sen=
d me
a little bit of supper - anything you like, from your own plate. That is wi=
ser
than going into hysterics, - is it not?'
'It is spoken like a sage, Cary: s=
ee
if I don't cater for you judiciously. When women are sensible - and, above =
all,
intelligible - I can get on with them. It is only the vague, superfine
sensations, and extremely wire-drawn notions, that put me about. Let a woman
ask me to give her an edible or a wearable - be the same a roc's egg or the
breastplate of Aaron, a share of St. John's locusts and honey or the leathe=
rn
girdle about his loins - I can, at least, understand the demand: but when t=
hey
pine for they know not what - sympathy - sentiment - some of these indefini=
te
abstractions - I can't do it: I don't know it; I haven't got it. Madam, acc=
ept
my arm.'
Mrs Pryor signified that she should
stay with her daughter that evening. Helstone, accordingly, left them toget=
her.
He soon returned, bringing a plate in his own consecrated hand.
'This is chicken,' he said; 'but w=
e'll
have partridge tomorrow. Lift her up, and put a shawl over her. On my word,=
I
understand nursing. Now, here is the very same little silver fork you used =
when
you first came to the Rectory: that strikes me as being what you may call a
happy thought - a delicate attention. Take it, Cary, and munch away cleverl=
y.'
Caroline did her best. Her uncle
frowned to see that her powers were so limited: he prophesied, however, gre=
at
things for the future; and as she praised the morsel he had brought, and sm=
iled
gratefully in his face, he stooped over her pillow, kissed her, and said, w=
ith
a broken, rugged accent - 'Good night, bairnie! God bless thee!'
Caroline enjoyed such peaceful rest
that night, circled by her mother's arms, and pillowed on her breast, that =
she
forgot to wish for any other stay; and though more than one feverish dream =
came
to her in slumber, yet, when she woke up panting, so happy and contented a
feeling returned with returning consciousness, that her agitation was sooth=
ed
almost as soon as felt.
As to the mother, she spent the ni=
ght
like Jacob at Peniel. Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest
prayer.
Not always do those who dare such
divine conflict prevail. Night after night the sweat of agony may burst dar=
k on
the forehead; the supplicant may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the
soul utters when its appeal is to the Invisible. 'Spare my beloved,' it may
implore. 'Heal my life's life. Rend not from me what long affection entwines
with my whole nature. God of heaven - bend - hear - be clement!' And after =
this
cry and strife, the sun may rise and see him worsted. That opening morn, wh=
ich
used to salute him with the whisper of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks, may
breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips which colour and heat have
quitted - 'Oh! I have had a suffering night. This morning I am worse. I have
tried to rise. I cannot. Dreams I am unused to have troubled me.'
Then the watcher approaches the
patient's pillow, and sees a new and strange moulding of the familiar featu=
res,
feels at once that the insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God=
's
will his idol shall be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his soul to =
the
sentence he cannot avert, and scarce can bear.
Happy Mrs Pryor! She was still
praying, unconscious that the summer sun hung above the hills, when her chi=
ld
softly woke in her arms. No piteous, unconscious moaning - sound which so
wastes our strength that, even if we have sworn to be firm, a rush of
unconquerable tears sweeps away the oath - preceded her waking. No space of
deaf apathy followed. The first words spoken were not those of one becoming
estranged from this world, and already permitted to stray at times into rea=
lms
foreign to the living. Caroline evidently remembered with clearness what had
happened.
'Mamma, I have slept so well, I on=
ly
dreamed and woke twice.'
Mrs Pryor rose with a start, that =
her
daughter might not see the joyful tears called into her eyes by that
affectionate word 'mamma,' and the welcome assurance that followed it.
For many days the mother dared rej=
oice
only with trembling. That first revival seemed like the flicker of a dying
lamp: if the flame streamed up bright one moment, the next it sank dim in t=
he
socket. Exhaustion followed close on excitement.
There was always a touching endeav=
our
to appear better, but too often ability refused to second will; too often t=
he
attempt to bear up failed: the effort to eat, to talk, to look cheerful, was
unsuccessful. Many an hour passed, during which Mrs Pryor feared that the
chords of life could never more be strengthened, though the time of their
breaking might be deferred.
During this space the mother and
daughter seemed left almost alone in the neighbourhood. It was the close of
August: the weather was fine - that is to say, it was very dry and very dus=
ty,
for an arid wind had been blowing from the east this month past: very
cloudless, too, though a pale haze, stationary in the atmosphere, seemed to=
rob
of all depth of tone the blue of heaven, of all freshness the verdure of ea=
rth,
and of all glow the light of day. Almost every family in Briarfield was abs=
ent
on an excursion. Miss Keeldar and her friends were at the seaside; so were =
Mrs
Yorke's household. Mr Hall and Louis Moore, between whom a spontaneous inti=
macy
seemed to have arisen, the result, probably, of harmony of views and
temperament, were gone 'up north' on a pedestrian excursion to the Lakes. E=
ven
Hortense, who would fain have stayed at home and aided Mrs Pryor in nursing
Caroline, had been so earnestly entreated by Miss Mann to accompany her once
more to Wormwood Wells, in the hope of alleviating sufferings greatly
aggravated by the insalubrious weather, that she felt obliged to comply;
indeed, it was not in her nature to refuse a request that at once appealed =
to
her goodness of heart, - and - by a confession of dependency - flattered her
amour-propre. As for Robert, from Birmingham he had gone on to London, wher=
e he
still sojourned.
So long as the breath of Asiatic
deserts parched Caroline's lips and fevered her veins, her physical
convalescence could not keep pace with her returning mental tranquillity: b=
ut
there came a day when the wind ceased to sob at the eastern gable of the
Rectory, and at the oriel window of the church. A little cloud like a man's
hand arose in the west: gusts from the same quarter drove it on and spread =
it
wide; wet and tempest prevailed a while. When that was over the sun broke o=
ut
genially, heaven regained its azure, and earth its green; the livid
cholera-tint had vanished from the face of nature: the hills rose clear rou=
nd
the horizon, absolved from that pale malaria-haze.
Caroline's youth could now be of s=
ome
avail to her, and so could her mother's nurture: both - crowned by God's
blessing, sent in the pure west wind blowing soft as fresh through the
ever-open chamber lattice - rekindled her long- languishing energies. At la=
st Mrs
Pryor saw that it was permitted to hope - a genuine, material convalescence=
had
commenced. It was not merely Caroline's smile which was brighter, or her
spirits which were cheered, but a certain look had passed from her face and=
eye
- a look dread and indescribable, but which will easily be recalled by those
who have watched the couch of dangerous disease. Long before the emaciated
outlines of her aspect began to fill, or its departed colour to return, a m=
ore
subtle change took place: all grew softer and warmer. Instead of a marble m=
ask
and glassy eye, Mrs Pryor saw laid on the pillow a face pale and wasted eno=
ugh,
perhaps more haggard than the other appearance, but less awful; for it was a
sick, living girl - not a mere white mould, or rigid piece of statuary.
Now, too, she was not always
petitioning to drink. The words 'I am so thirsty' ceased to be her plaint.
Sometimes, when she had swallowed a morsel, she would say it had revived he=
r:
all descriptions of food were no longer equally distasteful; she could be
induced, sometimes, to indicate a preference. With what trembling pleasure =
and
anxious care did not her nurse prepare what was selected! How she watched h=
er
as she partook of it!
Nourishment brought strength. She
could sit up. Then she longed to breathe the fresh air, to revisit her flow=
ers,
to see how the fruit had ripened. Her uncle, always liberal, had bought a
garden-chair for her express use: he carried her down in his own arms, and
placed her in it himself, and William Farren was there to wheel her round t=
he
walks, to show her what he had done amongst her plants, to take her directi=
ons
for further work.
William and she found plenty to ta=
lk
about: they had a dozen topics in common; interesting to them, unimportant =
to
the rest of the world. They took a similar interest in animals, birds, inse=
cts,
and plants: they held similar doctrines about humanity to the lower creatio=
n;
and had a similar turn for minute observation on points of natural history.=
The
nest and proceedings of some ground-bees, which had burrowed in the turf un=
der
an old cherry-tree, was one subject of interest: the haunts of certain
hedge-sparrows, and the welfare of certain pearly eggs and callow fledgling=
s,
another.
Had Chambers's Journal existed in
those days, it would certainly have formed Miss Helstone's and Farren's
favourite periodical. She would have subscribed for it; and to him each num=
ber
would duly have been lent: both would have put implicit faith, and found gr=
eat
savour in its marvellous anecdotes of animal sagacity.
This is a digression; but it suffi=
ces
to explain why Caroline would have no other hand than William's to guide her
chair, and why his society and conversation sufficed to give interest to her
garden-airings.
Mrs Pryor, walking near, wondered =
how
her daughter could be so much at ease with a 'man of the people.' She found=
it
impossible to speak to him otherwise than stiffly. She felt as if a great g=
ulf
lay between her caste and his; and that to cross it, or meet him half-way,
would be to degrade herself. She gently asked Caroline - 'Are you not afrai=
d,
my dear, to converse with that person so unreservedly? He may presume, and
become troublesomely garrulous.'
'William presume, mamma? You don't
know him. He never presumes: he is altogether too proud and sensitive to do=
so.
William has very fine feelings.'
And Mrs Pryor smiled sceptically at
the naïve notion of that rough- handed, rough-headed, fustian-clad clo=
wn
having 'fine feelings.'
Farren, for his part, showed Mrs P=
ryor
only a very sulky brow. He knew when he was misjudged, and was apt to turn
unmanageable with such as failed to give him his due.
The evening restored Caroline enti=
rely
to her mother, and Mrs Pryor liked the evening; for then, alone with her
daughter, no human shadow came between her and what she loved. During the d=
ay,
she would have her stiff demeanour and cool moments, as was her wont. Betwe=
en
her and Mr Helstone a very respectful but most rigidly ceremonious intercou=
rse
was kept up: anything like familiarity would have bred contempt at once in =
one
or both these personages: but by dint of strict civility and well-maintained
distance, they got on very smoothly.
Towards the servants, Mrs Pryor's
bearing was not uncourteous, but shy, freezing, ungenial. Perhaps it was
diffidence rather than pride which made her appear so haughty; but, as was =
to
be expected, Fanny and Eliza failed to make the distinction, and she was
unpopular with them accordingly. She felt the effect produced: it tendered =
her
at times dissatisfied with herself for faults she could not help; and with =
all
else, dejected, chill, and taciturn.
This mood changed to Caroline's
influence, and to that influence alone. The dependent fondness of her nursl=
ing,
the natural affection of her child, came over her suavely: her frost fell a=
way;
her rigidity unbent: she grew smiling and pliant. Not that Caroline made any
wordy profession of love - that would ill have suited Mrs Pryor: she would =
have
read therein the proof of insincerity; but she hung on her with easy
dependence; she confided in her with fearless reliance: these things conten=
ted
the mother's heart.
She liked to hear her daughter say
'Mamma, do this.' 'Please, mamma, fetch me that.' 'Mamma, read to me.' 'Sin=
g a
little, mamma.'
Nobody else - not one living thing=
-
had ever so claimed her services, so looked for help at her hand. Other peo=
ple
were always more or less reserved and stiff with her, as she was reserved a=
nd
stiff with them; other people betrayed consciousness of and annoyance at her
weak points: Caroline no more showed 'such wounding sagacity or reproachful=
sensitiveness
now, than she had done when a suckling of three months old.
Yet Caroline could find fault. Bli=
nd
to the constitutional defects that were incurable, she had her eyes wide op=
en
to the acquired habits that were susceptible of remedy. On certain points s=
he
would quite artlessly lecture her parent; and that parent, instead of being
hurt, felt a sensation of pleasure in discovering that the girl dared lectu=
re
her; that she was so much at home with her.
'Mamma, I am determined you shall =
not
wear that old gown any more; its fashion is not becoming: it is too strait =
in
the skirt. You shall put on your black silk every afternoon; in that you lo=
ok
nice: it suits you; and you shall have a black satin dress for Sundays - a =
real
satin - not a satinet or any of the shams. And, mamma, when you get the new
one, mind you must wear it.'
'My dear, I thought of the black s=
ilk
serving me as a best dress for many years yet, and I wished to buy you seve=
ral
things.'
'Nonsense, mamma: my uncle gives me
cash to get what I want: you know he is generous enough; and I have set my
heart on seeing you in a black satin. Get it soon, and let it be made by a
dressmaker of my recommending: let me choose the pattern. You always want to
disguise yourself like a grandmother: you would persuade one that you are o=
ld
and ugly, - not at all! On the contrary, when well dressed and cheerful, you
are very comely indeed. Your smile is so pleasant, your teeth are so white,
your hair is still such a pretty light colour. And then you speak like a yo=
ung
lady, with such a clear, fine tone, and you sing better than any young lady=
I
ever heard. Why do you wear such dresses and bonnets, mamma, such as nobody
else ever wears?'
'Does it annoy you, Caroline?'
'Very much: it vexes me even. Peop=
le
say you are miserly; and yet you are not, for you give liberally to the poor
and to religious societies: though your gifts are conveyed so secretly and
quietly, that they are known to few except the receivers. But I will be your
maid myself: when I get a little stronger I will set to work, and you must =
be
good, mamma, and do as I bid you.'
And Caroline, sitting near her mot=
her,
re-arranged her muslin handkerchief, and re-smoothed her hair.
'My own mamma,' then she went on, =
as
if pleasing herself with the thought of their relationship, 'who belongs to=
me,
and to whom I belong! I am a rich girl now: I have something I can love wel=
l,
and not be afraid of loving. Mamma, who gave you this little brooch? Let me
unpin it and look at it.'
Mrs Pryor, who usually shrank from
meddling fingers and near approach, allowed the license complacently.
'Did papa give you this, mamma?'
'My sister gave it me - my only
sister, Cary. Would that your aunt Caroline had lived to see her niece!'
'Have you nothing of papa's? - no
trinket, no gift of his?'
'I have one thing.'
'That you prize?'
'That I prize.'
'Valuable and pretty?'
'Invaluable and sweet to me.'
'Show it, mamma. Is it here or at
Fieldhead?'
'It is talking to me now, leaning =
on
me: its arms are round me.'
'Ah! mamma! you mean your teasing
daughter, who will never let you alone; who, when you go into your room, ca=
nnot
help running to seek for you; who follows you upstairs and down, like a dog=
.'
'Whose features still give me such=
a
strange thrill sometimes. I half fear your fair looks yet, child.'
'You don't; you can't. Mamma, I'm
sorry papa was not good: I do so wish he had been. Wickedness spoils and
poisons all pleasant things: it kills love. If you and I thought each other
wicked, we could not love each other, could we?'
'And if we could not trust each ot=
her,
Cary?'
'How miserable we should be! Mothe=
r,
before I knew you, I had an apprehension that you were not good, that I cou=
ld
not esteem you: that dread damped my wish to see you; and now my heart is e=
late
because I find you perfect, - almost; kind, clever, nice. Your sole fault is
that you are old-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you. Mamma, put your w=
ork
down: read to me. I like your southern accent: it is so pure, so soft. It h=
as
no rugged burr, no nasal twang, such as almost every one's voice here in the
north has. My uncle and Mr Hall say that you are a fine reader, mamma. Mr H=
all
said he never heard any lady read with such propriety of expression, or pur=
ity
of accent.'
'I wish I could reciprocate the
compliment, Cary; but really the first time I heard your truly excellent fr=
iend
read and preach, I could not understand his broad, northern tongue.'
'Could you understand me, mamma? D=
id I
seem to speak roughly?'
'No: I almost wished you had, as I
wished you had looked unpolished. Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke we=
ll;
quite otherwise than your worthy uncle: correctly, gently, smoothly. You
inherit the gift.'
'Poor papal When he was so agreeab=
le,
why was he not good?'
'Why he was as he was - and, happi=
ly,
of that you, child, can form no conception - I cannot tell: it is a deep
mystery. The key is in the hands of his Maker: there I leave it.'
'Mamma, you will keep stitching,
stitching away: put down the sewing; I am an enemy to it. It cumbers your l=
ap,
and I want it for my head: it engages your eyes, and I want them for a book.
Here is your favourite - Cowper.'
These importunities were the mothe=
r's
pleasure. If ever she delayed compliance, it was only to hear them repeated,
and to enjoy her child's soft, half-playful, half-petulant urgency. And the=
n,
when she yielded, Caroline would say archly - 'You will spoil me, mamma. I
always thought I should like to be spoiled, and I find it very sweet.'
So did Mrs Pryor.
By the time the Fieldhead party
returned to Briarfield, Caroline was nearly well. Miss Keeldar, who had
received news by post of her friend's convalescence, hardly suffered an hou=
r to
elapse between her arrival at home and her first call at the Rectory.
A shower of rain was falling gentl=
y,
yet fast, on the late flowers and russet autumn shrubs, when the garden-wic=
ket
was heard to swing open, and Shirley's well-known form passed the window. On
her entrance, her feelings were evinced in her own peculiar fashion. When
deeply moved, by serious fears or joys, she was not garrulous. The strong
emotion was rarely suffered to influence her tongue; and even her eye refus=
ed
it more than a furtive and fitful conquest. She took Caroline in her arms, =
gave
her one look, one kiss, then said - 'You are better.'
And a minute after - 'I see you are
safe now, but take care. God grant your health may be called on to sustain =
no
more shocks!'
She proceeded to talk fluently abo=
ut
the journey. In the midst of vivacious discourse, her eye still wandered to
Caroline: there spoke in its light a deep solicitude, some trouble, and some
amaze.
'She may be better,' it said: 'but=
how
weak she still is! What peril she has come through!'
Suddenly her glance reverted to Mrs
Pryor: it pierced her through.
'When will my governess return to =
me?'
she asked.
'May I tell her all?' demanded
Caroline of her mother. Leave being signified by a gesture, Shirley was
presently enlightened on what had happened in her absence.
'Very good!' was the cool comment.
'Very good! But it is no news to me.'
'What! Did you know?'
'I guessed long since the whole
business. I have heard somewhat of Mrs Pryor's history - not from herself, =
but
from others. With every detail of Mr James Helstone's career and character I
was acquainted: an afternoon's sitting and conversation with Miss Mann had
rendered me familiar therewith; also he is one of Mrs Yorke's warning-examp=
les
- one of the bloodred lights she hangs out to scare young ladies from
matrimony. I believe I should have been sceptical about the truth of the
portrait traced by such fingers - both these ladies take a dark pleasure in
offering to view the dark side of life - but I questioned Mr Yorke on the
subject, and he said - 'Shirley, my woman, if you want to know aught about
yond' James Helstone, I can only say he was a man-tiger. He was handsome,
dissolute, soft, treacherous, courteous, cruel' -&=
nbsp;
- Don't cry, Cary; we'=
ll say
no more about it.'
'I am not crying, Shirley; or if I=
am,
it is nothing - go on: you are no friend if you withhold from me the truth:=
I
hate that false plan of disguising, mutilating the truth.'
'Fortunately, I have said pretty
nearly all that I have to say, except that your uncle himself confirmed Mr
Yorke's words: for he too scorns a lie, and deals in none of those conventi=
onal
subterfuges that are shabbier than lies.'
'But papa is dead: they should let=
him
alone now.'
'They should - and we will let him
alone. Cry away, Cary, it will do you good: it is wrong to check natural te=
ars;
besides, I choose to please myself by sharing an idea that at this moment b=
eams
in your mother's eye while she looks at you: every drop blots out a sin. We=
ep -
your tears have the virtue which the rivers of Damascus lacked: like Jordan,
they can cleanse a leprous memory.'
'Madam,' she continued, addressing=
Mrs
Pryor, 'did you think I could be daily in the habit of seeing you and your
daughter together - marking your marvellous similarity in many points -
observing, pardon me - your irrepressible emotions in the presence and still
more in the absence of your child, and not form my own conjectures? I formed
them, and they are literally correct. I shall begin to think myself shrewd.=
'
'And you said nothing?' observed
Caroline, who soon regained the quiet control of her feelings.
'Nothing. I had no warrant to brea=
the
a word on the subject. My business it was not: I abstained from making it
such.'
'You guessed so deep a secret, and=
did
not hint that you guessed it?'
'Is that so difficult?'
'It is not like you.'
'How do you know?'
'You are not reserved. You are fra=
nkly
communicative.'
'I may be communicative, yet know
where to stop. In showing my treasure, I may withhold a gem or two - a curi=
ous
unbought, graven stone - an amulet, of whose mystic glitter I rarely permit
even myself a glimpse. Good-day.'
Caroline thus seemed to get a view=
of
Shirley's character under a novel aspect. Erelong, the prospect was renewed=
: it
opened upon her.
No sooner had she regained suffici=
ent
strength to bear a change of scene - the excitement of a little society - t=
han
Miss Keeldar sued daily for her presence at Fieldhead. Whether Shirley had
become wearied of her honoured relatives is not known: she did not say she =
was;
but she claimed and retained Caroline with an eagerness which proved that an
addition to that worshipful company was not unwelcome.
The Sympsons were Church people: of
course, the Rectors' niece was received by them with courtesy. Mr Sympson
proved to be a man of spotless respectability, worrying temper, pious
principles, and worldly views; his lady was a very good woman, patient, kin=
d,
well-bred. She had been brought up on a narrow system of views - starved on=
a
few prejudices: a mere handful of bitter herbs; a few preferences, soaked t=
ill
their natural flavour was extracted, and with no seasoning added in the
cooking; some excellent principles, made up in a stiff raised-crust of bigo=
try,
difficult to digest: far too submissive was she to complain of this diet, o=
r to
ask for a crumb beyond it.
The daughters were an example to t=
heir
sex. They were tall, with a Roman nose apiece. They had been educated
faultlessly. All they did was well done. History, and the most solid books,=
had
cultivated their minds. Principles and opinions they possessed which could =
not
be mended. More exactly-regulated lives, feelings, manners, habits, it would
have been difficult to find anywhere. They knew by heart a certain
young-ladies'-schoolroom code of laws on language, demeanour, etc.; themsel=
ves
never deviated from its curious little pragmatical provisions; and they
regarded with secret, whispered horror, all deviations in others. The
Abomination of Desolation was no mystery to them: they had discovered that
unutterable Thing in the characteristic others call Originality. Quick were
they to recognise the signs of this evil; and wherever they saw its trace -
whether in look, word, or deed; whether they read it in the fresh vigorous
style of a book, or listened to it in interesting, unhackneyed, pure,
expressive language - they shuddered - they recoiled: danger was above their
heads - peril about their steps. What was this strange thing? Being
unintelligible, it must be bad. Let it be denounced and chained up.
Henry Sympson - the only son, and
youngest child of the family - was a boy of fifteen. He generally kept with=
his
tutor; when he left him, he sought his cousin Shirley. This boy differed fr=
om
his sisters; he was little, lame, and pale; his large eyes shone somewhat
languidly in a wan orbit: they were, indeed, usually rather dim - but they =
were
capable of illumination: at times, they could not only shine, but blaze: in=
ward
emotion could likewise give colour to his cheek and decision to his crippled
movements. Henry's mother loved him; she thought his peculiarities were a m=
ark
of election: he was not like other children, she allowed; she believed him =
regenerate
- a new Samuel - called of God from his birth: he was to be a clergyman. Mr=
and
the Misses Sympson, not understanding the youth, let him much alone. Shirley
made him her pet; and he made Shirley his playmate.
In the midst of this family circle=
-
or rather outside it - moved the tutor - the satellite.
Yes: Louis Moore was a satellite of
the house of Sympson: connected, yet apart; ever attendant - ever distant. =
Each
member of that correct family treated him with proper dignity. The father w=
as
austerely civil, sometimes irritable; the mother, being a kind woman, was
attentive, but formal; the daughters saw in him an abstraction, not a man. =
It
seemed, by their manner, that their brother's tutor did not live for them. =
They
were learned: so was he - but not for them. They were accomplished: he had
talents too, imperceptible to their senses. The most spirited sketch from h=
is
fingers was a blank to their eyes; the most original observation from his l=
ips
fell unheard on their ears. Nothing could exceed the propriety of their
behaviour.
I should have said, nothing could =
have
equalled it; but I remember a fact which strangely astonished Caroline
Helstone. It was - to discover that her cousin had absolutely no sympathisi=
ng
friend at Fieldhead: that to Miss Keeldar he was as much a mere teacher, as
little gentleman, as little a man, as to the estimable Misses Sympson.
What had befallen the kind-hearted
Shirley that she should be so indifferent to the dreary position of a
fellow-creature thus isolated under her roof? She was not, perhaps, haughty=
to
him, but she never noticed him: she let him alone. He came and went, spoke =
or
was silent, and she rarely recognised his existence.
As to Louis Moore himself, he had =
the
air of a man used to this life, and who had made up his mind to bear it for=
a
time. His faculties seemed walled up in him, and were unmurmuring in their
captivity. He never laughed; he seldom smiled; he was uncomplaining. He
fulfilled the round of his duties scrupulously. His pupil loved him; he ask=
ed
nothing more than civility from the rest of the world. It even appeared tha=
t he
would accept nothing more: in that abode at least; for when his cousin Caro=
line
made gentle overtures of friendship, he did not encourage them; he rather
avoided than sought her. One living thing alone, besides his pale, crippled
scholar, he fondled in the house, and that was the ruffianly Tartar; who,
sullen and impracticable to others, acquired a singular partiality for him:=
a
partiality so marked that sometimes, when Moore, summoned to a meal, entered
the room and sat down unwelcomed, Tartar would rise from his lair at Shirle=
y's
feet, and betake himself to the taciturn tutor. Once - but once - she notic=
ed
the desertion; and holding out her white hand, and speaking softly, tried t=
o coax
him back. Tartar looked, slavered, and sighed, as his manner was, but yet
disregarded the invitation, and coolly settled himself on his haunches at L=
ouis
Moore's side. That gentleman drew the dog's big, black-muzzled head on to h=
is
knee, patted him, and smiled one little smile to himself.
An acute observer might have remar=
ked,
in the course of the same evening, that after Tartar had resumed his allegi=
ance
to Shirley, and was once more couched near her foot-stool, the audacious tu=
tor
by one word and gesture fascinated him again. He pricked up his ears at the
word; he started erect at the gesture, and came, with head lovingly depress=
ed,
to receive the expected caress: as it was given, the significant smile again
rippled across Moore's quiet face.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. . . . .
'Shirley,' said Caroline one day, =
as
they two were sitting alone in the summer-house, 'did you know that my cous=
in
Louis was tutor in your uncle's family before the Sympsons came down here?'=
Shirley's reply was not so prompt =
as
her responses usually were, but at last she answered - 'Yes, - of course: I
knew it well.'
'I thought you must have been awar=
e of
the circumstance.'
'Well! what then?'
'It puzzles me to guess how it cha=
nces
that you never mentioned it to me.'
'Why should it puzzle you?'
'It seems odd. I cannot account for
it. You talk a great deal, - you talk freely. How was that circumstance nev=
er
touched on?'
'Because it never was.' and Shirley
laughed.
'You are a singular being!' observ=
ed
her friend: 'I thought I knew you quite well: I begin to find myself mistak=
en.
You were silent as the grave about Mrs Pryor; and now, again, here is anoth=
er
secret. But why you made it a secret is the mystery to me.'
'I never made it a secret: I had no
reason for so doing. If you had asked me who Henry's tutor was, I would have
told you: besides, I thought you knew.'
'I am puzzled about more things th=
an
one in this matter: you don't like poor Louis, - why? Are you impatient at =
what
you perhaps consider his servile position? Do you wish that Robert's brother
were more highly placed?'
'Robert's brother, indeed!' was the
exclamation, uttered in a tone like the accents of scorn; and, with a movem=
ent
of proud impatience, Shirley snatched a rose from a branch peeping through =
the
open lattice.
'Yes,' repeated Caroline, with mild
firmness; 'Robert's brother. He is thus closely related to Gérard Mo=
ore
of the Hollow, though nature has not given him features so handsome, or an =
air
so noble as his kinsman; but his blood is as good, and he is as much a
gentleman, were he free.'
'Wise, humble, pious Caroline!'
exclaimed Shirley ironically. 'Men and angels, hear her! We should not desp=
ise
plain features, nor a laborious yet honest occupation, should we? Look at t=
he
subject of your panegyric, - he is there in the garden,' she continued,
pointing through an aperture in the clustering creepers; and by that apertu=
re
Louis Moore was visible, coming slowly down the walk.
'He is not ugly, Shirley,' pleaded
Caroline; 'he is not ignoble; he is sad: silence seals his mind; but I beli=
eve
him to be intelligent, and be certain, if he had not something very commend=
able
in his disposition, Mr Hall would never seek his society as he does.'
Shirley laughed: she laughed again;
each time with a slightly sarcastic sound. 'Well, well,' was her comment. '=
On
the plea of the man being Cyril Hall's friend and Robert Moore's brother, w=
e'll
just tolerate his existence - won't we, Cary? You believe him to be
intelligent, do you? Not quite an idiot - eh? Something commendable in his
disposition! id est, not an absolute ruffian. Good! Your representations ha=
ve
weight with me; and to prove that they have, should he come this way I will
speak to him.'
He approached the summer-house:
unconscious that it was tenanted, he sat down on the step. Tartar, now his
customary companion, had followed him, and he crouched across his feet.
'Old boy!' said Louis, pulling his
tawny ear, or rather the mutilated remains of that organ, torn and chewed i=
n a
hundred battles, 'the autumn sun shines as pleasantly on us as on the faire=
st
and richest. This garden is none of ours, but we enjoy its greenness and
perfume, don't we?'
He sat silent, still caressing Tar=
tar,
who slobbered with exceeding affection. A faint twittering commenced among =
the
trees round: something fluttered down as light as leaves: they were little
birds, which, lighting on the sward at shy distance, hopped as if expectant=
.
'The small brown elves actually
remember that I fed them the other day,' again soliloquised Louis. 'They wa=
nt
some more biscuit: to-day, I forgot to save a fragment. Eager little sprite=
s, I
have not a crumb for you.'
He put his hand in his pocket and =
drew
it out empty.
'A want easily supplied,' whispered
the listening Miss Keeldar.
She took from her reticule a morse=
l of
sweet-cake: for that repository was never destitute of something available =
to
throw to the chickens, young ducks, or sparrows; she crumbled it, and bendi=
ng
over his shoulder, put the crumbs into his hand.
'There,' said she; 'there is a
Providence for the improvident.'
'This September afternoon is
pleasant,' observed Louis Moore, as - not at all discomposed - he calmly ca=
st
the crumbs on to the grass.
'Even for you?'
'As pleasant for me as for any
monarch.'
'You take a sort of harsh, solitary
triumph in drawing pleasure out of the elements, and the inanimate and lower
animate creation.'
'Solitary, but not harsh. With ani=
mals
I feel I am Adam's son: the heir of him to whom dominion was given over 'ev=
ery
living thing that moveth upon the earth.' Your dog likes and follows me; wh=
en I
go into that yard, the pigeons from your dove-cot flutter at my feet; your =
mare
in the stable knows me as well as it knows you, and obeys me better.'
'And my roses smell sweet to you, =
and
my trees give you shade.'
'And,' continued Louis, 'no caprice
can withdraw these pleasures from me: they are mine.'
He walked off: Tartar followed him=
, as
if in duty and affection bound, and Shirley remained standing on the
summer-house step. Caroline saw her face as she looked after the rude tutor=
: it
was pale, as if her pride bled inwardly.
'You see,' remarked Caroline
apologetically, 'his feelings are so often hurt, it makes him morose.'
'You see,' returned Shirley, with =
ire,
'he is a topic on which you and I shall quarrel if we discuss it often; so =
drop
it henceforward and for ever.'
'I suppose he has more than once
behaved in this way,' thought Caroline to herself; 'and that renders Shirle=
y so
distant to him: yet I wonder she cannot make allowance for character and
circumstances: I wonder the general modesty, manliness, sincerity of his
nature, do not plead with her in his behalf. She is not often so inconsider=
ate
- so irritable.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. .
The verbal testimony of two friend=
s of
Caroline's to her cousin's character augmented her favourable opinion of hi=
m.
William Farren, whose cottage he had visited in company with Mr Hall,
pronounced him a 'real gentleman': there was not such another in Briarfield=
: he
- William - 'could do aught for that man. And then to see how t' bairns lik=
ed
him, and how t' wife took to him first minute she saw him: he never went in=
to a
house but t' childer wor about him directly: them little things wor like as=
if
they'd a keener sense nor grown-up folks i' finding out folk's natures.'
Mr Hall, in answer to a question of
Miss Helstone's, as to what he thought of Louis Moore, replied promptly tha=
t he
was the best fellow he had met with since he left Cambridge
'But he is so grave,' objected
Caroline.
'Grave! The finest company in the
world! Full of odd, quiet, out of the way humour. Never enjoyed an excursio=
n so
much in my life as the one I took with him to the Lakes. His understanding =
and
tastes are so superior, it does a man good to be within their influence; an=
d as
to his temper and nature, I call them fine.'
'At Fieldhead he looks gloomy, and=
, I
believe, has the character of being misanthropical.'
'Oh! I fancy he is rather out of p=
lace
there - in a false position. The Sympsons are most estimable people, but not
the folks to comprehend him: they think a great deal about form and ceremon=
y,
which are quite out of Louis's way.'
'I don't think Miss Keeldar likes
him.'
'She doesn't know him - she doesn't
know him; otherwise, she has sense enough to do justice to his merits.'
'Well, I suppose she doesn't know
him,' mused Caroline to herself, and by this hypothesis she endeavoured to
account for what seemed else unaccountable. But such simple solution of the
difficulty was not left her long: she was obliged to refuse Miss Keeldar ev=
en
this negative excuse for her prejudice.
One day she chanced to be in the
schoolroom with Henry Sympson, whose amiable and affectionate disposition h=
ad
quickly recommended him to her regard. The boy was busied about some mechan=
ical
contrivance: his lameness made him fond of sedentary occupation: he began to
ransack his tutor's desk for a piece of wax, or twine, necessary to his wor=
k.
Moore happened to be absent. Mr Hall, indeed, had called for him to take a =
long
walk. Henry could not immediately find the object of his search: he rummaged
compartment after compartment; and, at last opening an inner drawer, he came
upon - not a ball of cord, or a lump of bees' wax - but a little bundle of
small marble-coloured cahiers, tied with tape. Henry looked at them - 'What
rubbish Mr Moore stores up in his desk!' he said: 'I hope he won't keep my =
old
exercises so carefully.'
'What is it?'
'Old copy-books.'
He threw the bundle to Caroline. T=
he
packet looked so neat externally, her curiosity was excited to see its
contents.
'If they are only copy-books, I
suppose I may open them?'
'Oh! yes; quite freely. Mr Moore's
desk is half mine - for he lets me keep all sorts of things in it - and I g=
ive
you leave.'
On scrutiny they proved to be Fren=
ch
compositions, written in a hand peculiar but compact, and exquisitely clean=
and
clear. The writing was recognisable: she scarcely needed the further eviden=
ce
of the name signed at the close of each theme to tell her whose they were. =
Yet
that name astonished her: 'Shirley Keeldar, Sympson Grove, -&=
nbsp;
- shire' (a southern county), and a date four years back.
She tied up the packet, and held i=
t in
her hand, meditating over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had
violated a confidence.
'They are Shirley's, you see,' said
Henry carelessly.
'Did you give them to Mr Moore? She
wrote them with Mrs Pryor, I suppose?'
'She wrote them in my schoolroom at
Sympson Grove, when she lived with us there. Mr Moore taught her French; it=
is
his native language.'
'I know. . . . Was she a good pupi=
l,
Henry?'
'She was a wild, laughing thing, b=
ut
pleasant to have in the room: she made lesson-time charming. She learned fa=
st -
you could hardly tell when or how. French was nothing to her: she spoke it
quick - quick; as quick as Mr Moore himself.'
'Was she obedient? Did she give tr=
ouble?'
'She gave plenty of trouble in a w=
ay:
she was giddy, but I liked her. I'm desperately fond of Shirley.'
'Desperately fond - you small
simpleton: you don't know what you say.'
'I am desperately fond of her; she=
is
the light of my eyes: I said so to Mr Moore last night.'
'He would reprove you for speaking
with exaggeration.'
'He didn't. He never reproves and
reproves, as girls' governesses do. He was reading, and he only smiled into=
his
book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than that, she was less tha=
n he
took her to be; for I was but a dim-eyed, shortsighted little chap. I'm afr=
aid
I am a poor unfortunate, Miss Caroline Helstone. I am a cripple, you know.'=
'Never mind, Henry, you are a very
nice little fellow; and if God has not given you health and strength, He has
given you a good disposition, and an excellent heart and brain.'
'I shall be despised. I sometimes
think both Shirley and you despise me.'
'Listen, Henry. Generally, I don't
like schoolboys: I have a great horror of them. They seem to me little
ruffians, who take an unnatural delight in killing and tormenting birds, and
insects, and kittens, and whatever is weaker than themselves; but you are so
different, I am quite fond of you. You have almost as much sense as a man (=
far
more, God wot,' she muttered to herself, 'than many men); you are fond of
reading, and you can talk sensibly about what you read.'
'I am fond of reading. I know I ha=
ve
sense, and I know I have feeling.'
Miss Keeldar here entered.
'Henry,' she said, 'I have brought=
your
lunch here: I shall prepare it for you myself.'
She placed on the table a glass of=
new
milk, a plate of something which looked not unlike leather, and a utensil w=
hich
resembled a toasting-fork.
'What are you two about,' she
continued, 'ransacking Mr Moore's desk?'
'Looking at your old copy-books,'
returned Caroline.
'My old copy-books?'
'French exercise-books. Look here!
They must be held precious: they are kept carefully.'
She showed the bundle. Shirley
snatched it up: 'Did not know one was in existence,' she said. 'I thought t=
he
whole lot had long since lit the kitchen- fire, or curled the maid's hair at
Sympson Grove. What made you keep them, Henry?'
'It is not my doing: I should not =
have
thought of it: it never entered my head to suppose copy-books of value. Mr
Moore put them by in the inner drawer of his desk: perhaps he forgot them.'=
'C'est cela: he forgot them, no
doubt,' echoed Shirley. 'They are extremely well written,' she observed
complacently.
'What a giddy girl you were, Shirl=
ey,
in those days! I remember you so well: a slim, light creature whom, though =
you
were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with your long, countle=
ss
curls on your shoulders, and your streaming sash. You used to make Mr Moore
lively, that is, at first: I believe you grieved him after a while.'
Shirley turned the closely-written
pages and said nothing. Presently she observed, 'That was written one winter
afternoon. It was a description of a snow-scene.'
'I remember,' said Hanry; 'Mr Moor=
e,
when he read it, cried 'Voilà le Français gagné!' He s=
aid
it was well done. Afterwards, you made him draw, in sepia, the landscape you
described.'
'You have not forgotten then, Hal?=
'
'Not at all. We were all scolded t=
hat
day for not coming down to tea when called. I can remember my tutor sitting=
at
his easel, and you standing behind him, holding the candle, and watching him
draw the snowy cliff, the pine, the deer couched under it, and the half-moon
hung above.'
'Where are his drawings, Henry?
Caroline should see them.'
'In his portfolio: but it is
padlocked: he has the key.'
'Ask him for it when he comes in.'=
'You should ask him, Shirley; you =
are
shy of him now: you are grown a proud lady to him, I noticed that.'
'Shirley, you are a real enigma,'
whispered Caroline in her ear. 'What queer discoveries I make day by day no=
w!
I, who thought I had your confidence. Inexplicable creature! even this boy
reproves you.'
'I have forgotten' Auld lang syne,
'you see, Harry,' said Miss Keeldar, answering young Sympson, and not heedi=
ng
Caroline.
'Which you never should have done.=
You
don't deserve to be a man's morning star, if you have so short a memory.'
'A man's morning star, indeed! and=
by
'a man' is meant your worshipful self, I suppose? Come, drink your new milk
while it is warm.'
The young cripple rose and limped
towards the fire; he had left his crutch near the mantelpiece.
'My poor lame darling!' murmured
Shirley, in her softest voice, aiding him.
'Whether do you like me or Mr Sam
Wynne best, Shirley?' inquired the boy, as she settled him in an arm-chair.=
'Oh Harry! Sam Wynne is my aversio=
n!
you are my pet.'
'Me or Mr Malone?'
'You again, a thousand times.'
'Yet they are great whiskered fell=
ows,
six feet high each.'
'Whereas, as long as you live, Har=
ry,
you will never be anything more than a little pale lameter.'
'Yes, I know.'
'You need not be sorrowful. Have I=
not
often told you who was almost as little, as pale, as suffering as you, and =
yet
potent as a giant, and brave as a lion?'
'Admiral Horatio?'
'Admiral Horatio, Viscount Nelson,=
and
Duke of Bronti; great at heart as a Titan; gallant and heroic as all the wo=
rld
and age of chivalry; leader of the might of England; commander of her stren=
gth
on the deep; hurler of her thunder over the flood.'
'A great man: but I am not warlike,
Shirley: and yet my mind is so restless, I burn day and night - for what - I
can hardly tell - to be - to do - to suffer, I think.'
'Harry, it is your mind, which is
stronger and older than your frame, that troubles you. It is a captive. It =
lies
in physical bondage. But it will work its own redemption yet. Study careful=
ly,
not only books but the world. You love nature; love her without fear. Be
patient - wait the course of time. You will not be a soldier or a sailor,
Henry: but, if you live, you will be - listen to my prophecy - you will be =
an
author - perhaps, a poet.'
'An author! It is a flash - a flas=
h of
light to me! I will - I will! I'll write a book that I may dedicate it to y=
ou.'
'You will write it, that you may g=
ive
your soul its natural release. Bless me! what am I saying? more than I
understand, I believe, or can make good. Here, Hal; here is your toasted
oat-cake - eat and live!'
'Willingly!' here cried a voice
outside the open window; 'I know that fragrance of meal bread. Miss Keeldar,
may I come in and partake?'
'Mr Hall' (it was Mr Hall, and with
him was Louis Moore, returned from their walk), 'there is a proper luncheon
laid out in the dining-room, and there are proper people seated round it: y=
ou
may join that society and share that fare if you please; but if your
ill-regulated tastes lead you to prefer ill-regulated proceedings, step in
here, and do as we do.'
'I approve the perfume, and theref=
ore
shall suffer myself to be led by the nose,' returned Mr Hall, who presently
entered, accompanied by Louis Moore. That gentleman's eye fell on his desk,
pillaged.
'Burglars!' said he. 'Henry, you m=
erit
the ferule.'
'Give it to Shirley and Caroline -
they did it,' was alleged with more attention to effect than truth.
'Traitor and false witness!' cried
both the girls. 'We never laid hands on a thing, except in the spirit of
laudable inquiry!'
'Exactly so,' said Moore, with his
rare smile. 'And what have you ferreted out, in your 'spirit of laudable
inquiry'?'
He perceived the inner drawer open=
.
'This is empty,' said he. 'Who has
taken - - '
'Here! here!' Caroline hastened to
say; and she restored the little packet to its place. He shut it up; he loc=
ked
it in with a small key attached to his watch-guard; he restored the other
papers to order, closed the repository, and sat down without further remark=
.
'I thought you would have scolded =
much
more, sir,' said Henry. 'The girls deserve reprimand.'
'I leave them to their own
consciences.'
'It accuses them of crimes intende=
d as
well as perpetrated, sir. If I had not been here, they would have treated y=
our
portfolio as they have done your desk; but I told them it was padlocked.'
'And will you have lunch with us?'
here interposed Shirley, addressing Moore, and desirous, as it seemed, to t=
urn
the conversation.
'Certainly, if I may.'
'You will be restricted to new milk
and Yorkshire oat-cake.'
'Va - pour le lait frais!' said Lo=
uis.
'But for your oat-cake!' - and he made a grimace.
'He cannot eat it,' said Henry: 'he
thinks it is like bran, raised with sour yeast.'
'Come, then, by special dispensati=
on,
we will allow him a few cracknels; but nothing less homely.'
The hostess rang the bell and gave=
her
frugal orders, which were presently executed. She herself measured out the
milk, and distributed the bread round the cosy circle now enclosing the bri=
ght
little schoolroom fire. She then took the post of toaster-general; and knee=
ling
on the rug, fork in hand, fulfilled her office with dexterity. Mr Hall, who
relished any homely innovation on ordinary usages, and to whom the husky oa=
t cake
was from custom suave as manna - seemed in his best spirits. He talked and
laughed gleefully - now with Caroline, whom he had fixed by his side, now w=
ith
Shirley, and again with Louis Moore. And Louis met him in congenial spirit:=
he
did not laugh much, but he uttered in the quietest tone the wittiest things.
Gravely spoken sentences, marked by unexpected turns and a quite fresh flav=
our
and poignancy, fell easily from his lips. He proved himself to be - what Mr
Hall had said he was - excellent company. Caroline marvelled at his humour,=
but
still more at his entire self- possession. Nobody there present seemed to
impose on him a sensation of unpleasant restraint: nobody seemed a bore - a
check - a chill to him; and yet there was the cool and lofty Miss Keeldar
kneeling before the fire, almost at his feet.
But Shirley was cool and lofty no
longer - at least not at this moment. She appeared unconscious of the humil=
ity
of her present position - or if conscious, it was only to taste a charm in =
its
lowliness. It did not revolt her pride that the group to whom she voluntari=
ly
officiated as handmaid should include her cousin's tutor: it did not scare =
her
that while she handed the bread and milk to the rest, she had to offer it to
him also; and Moore took his portion from her hand as calmly as if he had b=
een
her equal.
'You are overheated now,' he said,
when she had retained the fork for some time: 'let me relieve you.'
And he took it from her with a sor=
t of
quiet authority, to which she submitted passively - neither resisting him n=
or
thanking him.
'I should like to see your picture=
s,
Louis,' said Caroline, when the sumptuous luncheon was discussed. 'Would not
you, Mr Hall?'
'To please you, I should; but, for=
my
own part, I have cut him as an artist. I had enough of him in that capacity=
in
Cumberland and Westmoreland. Many a wetting we got amongst the mountains
because he would persist in sitting on a camp-stool, catching effects of
rain-clouds, gathering mists, fitful sunbeams, and what not.'
'Here is the portfolio,' said Henr=
y,
bringing it in one hand, and leaning on his crutch with the other.
Louis took it, but he still sat as=
if
he wanted another to speak. It seemed as if he would not open it unless the
proud Shirley deigned to show herself interested in the exhibition.
'He makes us wait to whet our
curiosity,' she said.
'You understand opening it,' obser=
ved
Louis, giving her the key. 'You spoiled the lock for me once - try now.'
He held it: she opened it; and,
monopolising the contents, had the first view of every sketch herself. She
enjoyed the treat - if treat it were - in silence, without a single comment.
Moore stood behind her chair and looked over her shoulder, and when she had
done, and the others were still gazing, he left his post and paced through =
the
room.
A carriage was heard in the lane -=
the
gate-bell rang; Shirley started.
'There are callers,' she said, 'an=
d I
shall be summoned to the room. A pretty figure - as they say - I am to rece=
ive
company: I and Henry have been in the garden gathering fruit half the morni=
ng.
Oh, for rest under my own vine and my own fig-tree! Happy is the slave-wife=
of
the Indian chief, in that she has no drawing-room duty to perform, but can =
sit
at ease weaving mats, and stringing beads, and peacefully flattening her
picaninny's head in an unmolested corner of her wigwam. I'll emigrate to the
western woods.'
Louis Moore laughed.
'To marry a White Cloud or a Big
Buffalo; and after wedlock to devote yourself to the tender task of digging
your lord's maize-field, while he smokes his pipe or drinks fire-water.'
Shirley seemed about to reply, but
here the schoolroom door unclosed, admitting Mr Sympson. That personage sto=
od
aghast when he saw the group around the fire.
'I thought you alone, Miss Keeldar=
,'
he said. 'I find quite a party.'
And evidently from his shocked,
scandalised air - had he not recognised in one of the party a clergyman - he
would have delivered an extempore philippic on the extraordinary habits of =
his
niece: respect for the cloth arrested him.
'I merely wished to announce,' he
proceeded coldly, 'that the family from De Walden Hall, Mr, Mrs, the Misses,
and Mr Sam Wynne, are in the drawing-room.' And he bowed and withdrew.
'The family from De Walden Hall!
Couldn't be a worse set,' murmured Shirley.
She sat still, looking a little
contumacious, and very much indisposed to stir. She was flushed with the fi=
re:
her dark hair had been more than once dishevelled by the morning wind that =
day;
her attire was a light, neatly- fitting, but amply flowing dress of muslin;=
the
shawl she had worn in the garden was still draped in a careless fold round =
her.
Indolent, wilful, picturesque, and singularly pretty was her aspect - prett=
ier
than usual, as if some soft inward emotion - stirred who knows how? - had g=
iven
new bloom and expression to her features.
'Shirley, Shirley, you ought to go=
,'
whispered Caroline.
'I wonder why?'
She lifted her eyes, and saw in the
glass over the fireplace both Mr Hall and Louis Moore gazing at her gravely=
.
'If,' she said, with a yielding sm=
ile
- 'if a majority of the present company maintain that the De Walden Hall pe=
ople
have claims on my civility, I will subdue my inclinations to my duty. Let t=
hose
who think I ought to go, hold up their hands.'
Again consulting the mirror, it
reflected an unanimous vote against her.
'You must go,' said Mr Hall, 'and
behave courteously, too. You owe many duties to society. It is not permitted
you to please only yourself.'
Louis Moore assented with a low 'H=
ear!
hear!'
Caroline, approaching her, smoothed
her wavy curls, gave to her attire a less artistic and more domestic grace,=
and
Shirley was put out of the room, protesting still, by a pouting lip, against
her dismissal.
'There is a curious charm about he=
r,'
observed Mr Hall, when she was gone. 'And now,' he added, 'I must away, for
Sweeting is off to see his mother, and there are two funerals.'
'Henry, get your books; it is
lesson-time,' said Moore, sitting down to his desk.
'A curious charm!' repeated the pu=
pil,
when he and his master were left alone. 'True. Is she not a kind of white
witch?' he asked.
'Of whom are you speaking, sir?'
'Of my cousin Shirley.'
'No irrelevant questions. Study in
silence.'
Mr Moore looked and spoke sternly -
sourly. Henry knew this mood: it was a rare one with his tutor; but when it
came he had an awe of it: he obeyed.
Miss Keeldar and her uncle had
characters that would not harmonise, - that never had harmonised. He was
irritable, and she was spirited: he was despotic, and she liked freedom; he=
was
worldly, and she, perhaps, romantic.
Not without purpose had he come do=
wn
to Yorkshire: his mission was clear, and he intended to discharge it
conscientiously: he anxiously desired to have his niece married; to make for
her a suitable match: give her in charge to a proper husband, and wash his
hands of her for ever.
The misfortune was, from infancy
upwards, Shirley and he had disagreed on the meaning of the words 'suitable'
and 'proper.' She never yet had accepted his definition; and it was doubtful
whether, in the most important step of her life, she would consent to accept
it.
The trial soon came.
Mr Wynne proposed in form for his =
son,
Samuel Fawthrop Wynne.
'Decidedly suitable! Most proper!'
pronounced Mr Sympson. 'A fine unencumbered estate: real substance; good co=
nnections.
It must be done!'
He sent for his niece to the oak
parlour; he shut himself up there with her alone; he communicated the offer=
; he
gave his opinion; he claimed her consent.
It was withheld.
'No: I shall not marry Samuel Fawt=
hrop
Wynne.'
'I ask why? I must have a reason. =
In
all respects he is more than worthy of you.'
She stood on the hearth; she was p=
ale
as the white marble slab and cornice behind her; her eyes flashed large,
dilated, unsmiling.
'And I ask in what sense that young
man is worthy of me?'
'He has twice your money, - twice =
your
common sense; - equal connections, - equal respectability.'
'Had he my money counted five score
times, I would take no vow to love him.'
'Please to state your objections.'=
'He has run a course of despicable=
, commonplace
profligacy. Accept that as the first reason why I spurn him.'
'Miss Keeldar, you shock me!'
'That conduct alone sinks him in a
gulf of immeasurable inferiority. His intellect reaches no standard I can
esteem: - there is a second stumbling-block. His views are narrow; his feel=
ings
are blunt; his tastes are coarse; his manners vulgar.'
'The man is a respectable, wealthy
man. To refuse him is presumption on your part.'
'I refuse, point-blank! Cease to a=
nnoy
me with the subject: I forbid it!'
'Is it your intention ever to marr=
y,
or do you prefer celibacy?'
'I deny your right to claim an ans=
wer
to that question.
'May I ask if you expect some man =
of
title - some peer of the realm - to demand your hand?'
'I doubt if the peer breathes on w=
hom
I would confer it.'
'Were there insanity in the family=
, I
should believe you mad. Your eccentricity and conceit touch the verge of
frenzy.'
'Perhaps, ere I have finished, you
will see me overleap it.'
'I anticipate no less. Frantic and
impracticable girl! Take warning! - I dare you to sully our name by a
mésalliance!'
'Our name! Am I called Sympson?'
'God be thanked that you are not! =
But
be on your guard! I will not be trifled with!'
'What, in the name of common law a=
nd
common sense, would you, or could you do, if my pleasure led me to a choice=
you
disapproved?'
'Take care! take care!' (warning h=
er
with voice and hand that trembled alike.)
'Why? What shadow of power have you
over me? Why should I fear you?'
'Take care, madam!'
'Scrupulous care I will take, Mr
Sympson. Before I marry, I am resolved to esteem - to admire - to love.'
'Preposterous stuff! - indecorous!=
-
unwomanly!'
'To love with my whole heart. I kn=
ow I
speak in an unknown tongue; but I feel indifferent whether I am comprehende=
d or
not.'
'And if this love of yours should =
fall
on a beggar?'
'On a beggar it will never fall.
Mendicancy is not estimable.'
'On a low clerk, a play actor, a
play-writer, or - or - - '
'Take courage, Mr Sympson! Or what=
?'
'Any literary scrub, or shabby,
whining artist.'
'For the scrubby, shabby, whining,=
I
have no taste: for literature and the arts, I have. And there I wonder how =
your
Fawthrop Wynne would suit me? He cannot write a note without orthographical
errors; he reads only a sporting paper: he was the booby of Stilbro' grammar
school!'
'Unladylike language! Great God! -=
to
what will she come?' He lifted hands and eyes.
'Never to the altar of Hymen with =
Sam
Wynne.'
'To what will she come? Why are not
the laws more stringent, that I might compel her to hear reason?'
'Console yourself, uncle. Were Bri=
tain
a serfdom, and you the Czar, you could not compel me to this step. I will w=
rite
to Mr Wynne. Give yourself no further trouble on the subject.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. . .
Fortune is proverbially called
changeful, yet her caprice often takes the form of repeating again and agai=
n a
similar stroke of luck in the same quarter. It appeared that Miss Keeldar -=
or
her fortune - had by this time made a sensation in the district, and produc=
ed
an impression in quarters by her unthought of. No less than three offers
followed Mr Wynne's - all more or less eligible. All were in succession pre=
ssed
on her by her uncle, and all in succession she refused. Yet amongst them was
more than one gentleman of unexceptional character, as well as ample wealth.
Many besides her uncle asked what she meant, and whom she expected to entra=
p,
that she was so insolently fastidious.
At last, the gossips thought they =
had
found the key to her conduct, and her uncle was sure of it; and, what is mo=
re, the
discovery showed his niece to him in quite a new light, and he changed his
whole deportment to her accordingly.
Fieldhead had, of late, been fast
growing too hot to hold them both; the suave aunt could not reconcile them;=
the
daughters froze at the view of their quarrels: Gertrude and Isabella whispe=
red
by the hour together in their dressing-room, and became chilled with decoro=
us
dread if they chanced to be left alone with their audacious cousin. But, as=
I
have said, a change supervened: Mr Sympson was appeased and his family
tranquillised.
The village of Nunnely has been
alluded to: its old church, its forest, its monastic ruins. It had also its
Hall, called the Priory - an older, a larger, a more lordly abode than any
Briarfield or Whinbury owned; and, what is more, it had its man of title - =
its
baronet, which neither Briarfield nor Whinbury could boast. This possession=
-
its proudest and most prized - had for years been nominal only: the present
baronet, a young man hitherto resident in a distant province, was unknown on
his Yorkshire estate.
During Miss Keeldar's stay at the
fashionable watering-place of Cliffbridge, she and her friends had met with=
and
been introduced to Sir Philip Nunnely. They encountered him again and again=
on
the sands, the cliffs, in the various walks, sometimes at the public balls =
of
the place. He seemed solitary; his manner was very unpretending - too simpl=
e to
be termed affable; rather timid than proud: he did not condescend to their
society - he seemed glad of it.
With any unaffected individual,
Shirley could easily and quickly cement an acquaintance. She walked and tal=
ked
with Sir Philip; she, her aunt, and cousins, sometimes took a sail in his
yacht. She liked him because she found him kind and modest, and was charmed=
to
feel she had the power to amuse him.
One slight drawback there was - wh=
ere
is the friendship without it? - Sir Philip had a literary turn: he wrote
poetry, sonnets, stanzas, ballads. Perhaps Miss Keeldar thought him a little
too fond of reading and reciting these compositions; perhaps she wished the
rhyme had possessed more accuracy - the measure more music - the tropes more
freshness - the inspiration more fire; at any rate, she always winced when =
he
recurred to the subject of his poems, and usually did her best to divert the
conversation into another channel.
He would beguile her to take moonl=
ight
walks with him on the bridge, for the sole purpose, as it seemed, of pouring
into her ear the longest of his ballads: he would lead her away to sequeste=
red
rustic seats, whence the rush of the surf to the sands was heard soft and
soothing; and when he had her all to himself, and the sea lay before them, =
and
the scented shade of gardens spread round, and the tall shelter of cliffs r=
ose
behind them, he would pull out his last batch of sonnets, and read them in a
voice tremulous with emotion. He did not seem to know, that though they mig=
ht
be rhyme, they were not poetry. It appeared by Shirley's downcast eye and
disturbed face that she knew it, and felt heartily mortified by the single
foible of this good and amiable gentleman.
Often she tried, as gently as might
be, to wean him from this fanatic worship of the Muses: it was his monomani=
a -
on all ordinary subjects he was sensible enough; and fain was she to engage=
him
in ordinary topics. He questioned her sometimes about his place at Nunnely;=
she
was but too happy to answer his interrogatories at length: she never wearie=
d of
describing the antique Priory, the wild sylvan park, the hoary church and
hamlet; nor did she fail to counsel him to come down and gather his tenantry
about him in his ancestral halls.
Somewhat to her surprise Sir Philip
followed her advice to the letter; and actually, towards the close of
September, arrived at the Priory.
He soon made a call at Fieldhead, =
and
his first visit was not his last: he said - when he had achieved the round =
of
the neighbourhood - that under no roof had he found such pleasant shelter as
beneath the massive oak beams of the grey manor house of Briarfield: a cram=
ped,
modest dwelling enough, compared with his own - but he liked it.
Presently, it did not suffice to s=
it
with Shirley in her panelled parlour, where others came and went, and where=
he
could rarely find a quiet moment to show her the latest production of his
fertile muse; he must have her out amongst the pleasant pastures, and lead =
her
by the still waters. Tête-à- tête ramblings she shunned;=
so
he made parties for her to his own grounds, his glorious forest; to remoter
scenes - woods severed by the Wharfe, vales watered by the Aire.
Such assiduity covered Miss Keeldar
with distinction. Her uncle's prophetic soul anticipated a splendid future:=
he
already scented the time afar off when, with nonchalant air, and left foot
nursed on his right knee, he should be able to make dashingly-familiar
allusions to his 'nephew the baronet.' Now, his niece dawned upon him no lo=
nger
'a mad girl,' but a 'most sensible woman.' He termed her, in confidential
dialogues with Mrs Sympson, 'a truly superior person: peculiar, but very
clever.' He treated her with exceeding deference; rose reverently to open a=
nd
shut doors for her; reddened his face, and gave himself headaches, with
stooping to pick up gloves, handkerchiefs, and other loose property, whereof
Shirley usually held but insecure tenure. He would cut mysterious jokes abo=
ut
the superiority of woman's wit over man's wisdom; commence obscure apologies
for the blundering mistake he had committed respecting the generalship, the
tactics, of 'a personage not a hundred miles from Fieldhead:' in short, he
seemed elate as any 'midden-cock on pattens.'
His niece viewed his manoeuvres, a=
nd
received his innuendoes, with phlegm: apparently, she did not above half
comprehend to what aim they tended. When plainly charged with being the
preferred of the baronet, she said, she believed he did like her, and for h=
er
part she liked him: she had never thought a man of rank - the only son of a
proud, fond mother - the only brother of doting sisters - could have so much
goodness, and, on the whole, so much sense.
Time proved, indeed, that Sir Phil=
ip
liked her. Perhaps he had found in her that 'curious charm' noticed by Mr H=
all.
He sought her presence more and more; and, at last, with a frequency that
attested it had become to him an indispensable stimulus. About this time,
strange feelings hovered round Fieldhead; restless hopes and haggard anxiet=
ies
haunted some of its rooms. There was an unquiet wandering of some of the
inmates among the still fields round the mansion; there was a sense of
expectancy that kept the nerves strained.
One thing seemed clear. Sir Philip=
was
not a man to be despised: he was amiable; if not highly intellectual, he was
intelligent. Miss Keeldar could not affirm of him - what she had so bitterly
affirmed of Sam Wynne - that his feelings were blunt, his tastes coarse and=
his
manners vulgar There was sensibility in his nature: there was a very real, =
if
not a very discriminating, love of the arts; there was the English gentlema=
n in
all his deportment: as to his lineage and wealth, both were, of course, far
beyond her claims.
His appearance had at first elicit=
ed
some laughing, though not ill-natured, remarks from the merry Shirley. It w=
as
boyish: his features were plain and slight; his hair sandy: his stature
insignificant. But she soon checked her sarcasm on this point; she would ev=
en
fire up if any one else made uncomplimentary allusion thereto. He had 'a
pleasing countenance,' she affirmed; 'and there was that in his heart which=
was
better than three Roman noses, than the locks of Absalom, or the proportion=
s of
Saul.' A spare and rare shaft she still reserved for his unfortunate poetic
propensity: but, even here, she would tolerate no irony save her own.
In short, matters had reached a po=
int
which seemed fully to warrant an observation made about this time by Mr Yor=
ke,
to the tutor, Louis.
'Yond' brother Robert of yours see=
ms
to me to be either a fool or a madman. Two months ago, I could have sworn he
had the game all in his own hands; and there he runs the country, and quart=
ers
himself up in London for weeks together, and by the time he comes back, he'=
ll
find himself checkmated. Louis, 'there is a tide in the affairs of men, whi=
ch,
taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; but, once let slip, never returns
again.' I'd write to Robert, if I were you, and remind him of that.'
'Robert had views on Miss Keeldar?'
inquired Louis, as if the idea were new to him.
'Views I suggested to him myself, =
and
views he might have realised, for she liked him.'
'As a neighbour?'
'As more than that. I have seen her
change countenance and colour at the mere mention of his name. Write to the
lad, I say, and tell him to come home. He is a finer gentleman than this bi=
t of
a baronet, after all.'
'Does it not strike you, Mr Yorke,
that for a mere penniless adventurer to aspire to a rich woman's hand is
presumptuous - contemptible?'
'Oh! if you are for high notions, =
and
double-refined sentiment, I've naught to say. I'm a plain, practical man
myself; and if Robert is willing to give up that royal prize to a lad-rival=
- a
puling slip of aristocracy - I am quite agreeable. At his age, in his place,
with his inducements, I would have acted differently. Neither baronet, nor
duke, nor prince, should have snatched my sweetheart from me without a
struggle. But you tutors are such solemn chaps: it is almost like speaking =
to a
parson to consult with you.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. . . . .
Flattered and fawned upon as Shirl=
ey
was just now, it appeared she was not absolutely spoiled - that her better
nature did not quite leave her. Universal report had indeed ceased to couple
her name with that of Moore, and this silence seemed sanctioned by her own
apparent oblivion of the absentee; but that she had not quite forgotten him=
-
that she still regarded him, if not with love yet with interest - seemed pr=
oved
by the increased attention which at this juncture of affairs a sudden attac=
k of
illness induced her to show that tutor-brother of Robert's, to whom she
habitually bore herself with strange alternations of cool reserve and docil=
e respect:
now sweeping past him in all the dignity of the moneyed heiress and prospec=
tive
Lady Nunnely, and anon accosting him as abashed schoolgirls are wont to acc=
ost
their stern professors: bridling her neck of ivory, and curling her lip of
carmine, if he encountered her glance, one minute; and the next submitting =
to
the grave rebuke of his eye, with as much contrition as if he had the power=
to
inflict penalties in case of contumacy.
Louis Moore had perhaps caught the
fever, which for a few days laid him low, in one of the poor cottages of the
district, which he, his lame pupil, and Mr Hall, were in the habit of visit=
ing
together. At any rate he sickened, and after opposing to the malady a tacit=
urn
resistance for a day or two, was obliged to keep his chamber.
He lay tossing on his thorny bed o=
ne
evening, Henry, who would not quit him, watching faithfully beside him, whe=
n a
tap - too light to be that of Mrs Gill or the housemaid - summoned young
Sympson to the door.
'How is Mr Moore to-night?' asked a
low voice from the dark gallery.
'Come in and see him yourself.'
'Is he asleep?'
'I wish he could sleep. Come and s=
peak
to him, Shirley.'
'He would not like it.'
But the speaker stepped in, and He=
nry,
seeing her hesitate on the threshold, took her hand and drew her to the cou=
ch.
The shaded light showed Miss Keeld=
ar's
form but imperfectly, yet it revealed her in elegant attire. There was a pa=
rty
assembled below, including Sir Philip Nunnely; the ladies were now in the
drawing-room, and their hostess had stolen from them to visit Henry's tutor.
Her pure white dress, her fair arms and neck, the trembling chainlet of gold
circling her throat, and quivering on her breast, glistened strangely amid =
the
obscurity of the sickroom. Her mien was chastened and pensive: she spoke
gently.
'Mr Moore, how are you to-night?'<= o:p>
'I have not been very ill, and am =
now
better.'
'I heard that you complained of
thirst: I have brought you some grapes: can you taste one?'
'No: but I thank you for rememberi=
ng
me.'
'Just one.'
From the rich cluster that filled a
small basket held in her hand, she severed a berry and offered it to his li=
ps.
He shook his head, and turned aside his flushed face.
'But what then can I bring you
instead? You have no wish for fruit; yet I see that your lips are parched. =
What
beverage do you prefer?'
'Mrs Gill supplies me with toast a=
nd
water: I like it best.'
Silence fell for some minutes.
'Do you suffer? Have you pain?'
'Very little.'
'What made you ill?'
Silence.
'I wonder what caused this fever? =
To
what do you attribute it?'
'Miasma, perhaps - malaria. This is
autumn, a season fertile in fevers.'
'I hear you often visit the sick in
Briarfield, and Nunnely too, with Mr Hall: you should be on your guard:
temerity is not wise.'
'That reminds me, Miss Keeldar, th=
at
perhaps you had better not enter this chamber, or come near this couch. I do
not believe my illness is infectious: I scarcely fear' (with a sort of smil=
e)
'you will take it; but why should you run even the shadow of a risk? Leave =
me.'
'Patience: I will go soon; but I
should like to do something for you before I depart - any little service -&=
nbsp;
- '
'They will miss you below.'
'No, the gentlemen are still at
table.'
'They will not linger long: Sir Ph=
ilip
Nunnely is no wine-bibber, and I hear him just now pass from the dining-roo=
m to
the drawing-room.'
'It is a servant.'
'It is Sir Philip, I know his step=
.'
'Your hearing is acute.'
'It is never dull, and the sense s=
eems
sharpened at present. Sir Philip was here to tea last night. I heard you si=
ng
to him some song which he had brought you. I heard him, when he took his
departure at eleven o'clock, call you out on to the pavement, to look at the
evening star.'
'You must be nervously sensitive.'=
'I heard him kiss your hand.'
'Impossible!'
'No; my chamber is over the hall, =
the
window just above the front door, the sash was a little raised, for I felt
feverish: you stood ten minutes with him on the steps: I heard your discour=
se,
every word, and I heard the salute. Henry, give me some water.'
'Let me give it him.'
But he half rose to take the glass
from young Sympson, and declined her attendance.
'And can I do nothing?'
'Nothing: for you cannot guarantee=
me
a night's peaceful rest, and it is all I at present want.'
'You do not sleep well?'
'Sleep has left me.'
'Yet you said you were not very il=
l?'
'I am often sleepless when in high
health.'
'If I had power, I would lap you in
the most placid slumber; quite deep and hushed, without a dream.'
'Blank annihilation! I do not ask
that.'
'With dreams of all you most desir=
e.'
'Monstrous delusions! The sleep wo=
uld
be delirium, the waking death.'
'Your wishes are not so chimerical:
you are no visionary?'
'Miss Keeldar, I suppose you think=
so:
but my character is not, perhaps, quite as legible to you as a page of the =
last
new novel might be.'
'That is possible. . . But this sl=
eep:
I should like to woo it to your pillow - to win for you its favour. If I to=
ok a
book and sat down, and read some pages -&=
nbsp;
- ? I can well spare half an hour.'
'Thank you, but I will not detain
you.'
'I would read softly.'
'It would not do. I am too feverish
and excitable to bear a soft, cooing, vibrating voice close at my ear. You =
had
better leave me.'
'Well, I will go.'
'And no good-night?'
'Yes, sir, yes. Mr Moore, good-nig=
ht.'
(Exit Shirley.)
'Henry, my boy, go to bed now: it =
is
time you had some repose.'
'Sir, it would please me to watch =
at
your bedside all night.'
'Nothing less called for: I am get=
ting
better: there, go.'
'Give me your blessing, sir.'
'God bless you, my best pupil!'
'You never call me your dearest
pupil!'
'No, nor ever shall.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. . .
Possibly Miss Keeldar resented her
former teacher's rejection of her courtesy: it is certain she did not repeat
the offer of it. Often as her light step traversed the gallery in the cours=
e of
a day, it did not again pause at his door; nor did her 'cooing, vibrating
voice' disturb a second time the hush of the sickroom. A sick-room, indeed,=
it
soon ceased to be; Mr Moore's good constitution quickly triumphed over his
indisposition: in a few days he shook it off, and resumed his duties as tut=
or.
That 'Auld Lang Syne' had still its
authority both with preceptor and scholar, was proved by the manner in whic=
h he
sometimes promptly passed the distance she usually maintained between them,=
and
put down her high reserve with a firm, quiet hand.
One afternoon the Sympson family w=
ere
gone out to take a carriage airing. Shirley, never sorry to snatch a reprie=
ve
from their society, had remained behind, detained by business, as she said.=
The
business - a little letter- writing - was soon despatched after the yard-ga=
tes
had closed on the carriage: Miss Keeldar betook herself to the garden
It was a peaceful autumn day. The
gilding of the Indian summer mellowed the pastures far and wide. The russet=
woods
stood ripe to be stript, but were yet full of leaf. The purple of heath-blo=
om,
faded but not withered, tinged the hills. The beck wandered down to the Hol=
low,
through a silent district; no wind followed its course, or haunted its woody
borders. Fieldhead gardens bore the seal of gentle decay. On the walks, swe=
pt
that morning, yellow leaves had fluttered down again. Its time of flowers, =
and
even of fruits, was over; but a scantling of apples enriched the trees; onl=
y a
blossom here and there expanded pale and delicate amidst a knot of faded
leaves.
These single flowers - the last of
their race - Shirley culled as she wandered thoughtfully amongst the beds. =
She
was fastening into her girdle a hueless and scentless nosegay, when Henry
Sympson called to her as he came limping from the house.
'Shirley, Mr Moore would be glad to
see you in the schoolroom and to hear you read a little French, if you have=
no
more urgent occupation.'
The messenger delivered his commis=
sion
very simply, as if it were a mere matter of course.
'Did Mr Moore tell you to say that=
?'
'Certainly: why not? And now, do c=
ome,
and let us once more be as we were at Sympson Grove. We used to have pleasa=
nt
school-hours in those days.'
Miss Keeldar, perhaps, thought that
circumstances were changed since then; however, she made no remark, but aft=
er a
little reflection quietly followed Henry.
Entering the schoolroom, she incli=
ned
her head with a decent obeisance, as had been her wont in former times; she
removed her bonnet, and hung it up beside Henry's cap. Louis Moore sat at h=
is
desk, turning the leaves of a book, open before him, and marking passages w=
ith
his pencil; he just moved, in acknowledgment of her curtsey, but did not ri=
se.
'You proposed to read to me a few
nights ago,' said he. 'I could not hear you then; my attention is now at yo=
ur
service. A little renewed practice in French may not be unprofitable: your
accent, I have observed, begins to rust.'
'What book shall I take?'
'Here are the posthumous works of =
St.
Pierre. Read a few pages of the Fragments de l'Amazone.'
She accepted the chair which he had
placed in readiness near his own - the volume lay on his desk - there was b=
ut
one between them; her sweeping curls drooped so low as to hide the page from
him.
'Put back your hair,' he said.
For one moment, Shirley looked not
quite certain whether she would obey the request or disregard it: a flicker=
of
her eye beamed furtive on the professor's face; perhaps if he had been look=
ing
at her harshly or timidly, or if one undecided line had marked his countena=
nce,
she would have rebelled, and the lesson had ended there and then; but he was
only awaiting her compliance - as calm as marble, and as cool. She threw the
veil of tresses behind her ear. It was well her face owned an agreeable
outline, and that her cheek possessed the polish and the roundness of early
youth, or, thus robbed of a softening shade, the contours might have lost t=
heir
grace. But what mattered that in the present society? Neither Calypso nor
Eucharis cared to fascinate Mentor.
She began to read. The language had
become strange to her tongue; it faltered; the lecture flowed unevenly, imp=
eded
by hurried breath, broken by Anglicised tones. She stopped.
'I can't do it. Read me a paragrap=
h,
if you please, Mr Moore.'
What he read, she repeated: she ca=
ught
his accent in three minutes.
'Très bien,' was the approv=
ing
comment at the close of the piece.
'C'est presque le Français
rattrapé, n'est-ce pas?'
'You could not write French as you
once could, I dare say?'
'Oh! no. I should make strange wor=
k of
my concords now.'
'You could not compose the devoir =
of
La Première Femme Savante?'
'Do you still remember that rubbis=
h?'
'Every line.'
'I doubt you.'
'I will engage to repeat it word f=
or
word.'
'You would stop short at the first
line,'
'Challenge me to the experiment.'<= o:p>
'I challenge you.'
He proceeded to recite the followi=
ng:
he gave it in French, but we must translate, on pain of being unintelligibl=
e to
some readers.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. . .
'And it came to pass when men bega=
n to
multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that =
the
sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them
wives of all which they chose.'
This was in the dawn of time, befo=
re
the morning stars were set, and while they yet sang together.
The epoch is so remote, the mists =
and
dewy grey of matin twilight veil it with so vague an obscurity, that all
distinct feature of custom, all clear line of locality, evade perception and
baffle research. It must suffice to know that the world then existed; that =
men
peopled it; that man's nature, with its passions, sympathies, pains, and
pleasures, informed the planet and gave it soul.
A certain tribe colonised a certain
spot on the globe; of what race this tribe - unknown: in what region that s=
pot
- untold. We usually think of the East when we refer to transactions of that
date; but who shall declare that there was no life in the West, the South, =
the
North? What is to disprove that this tribe, instead of camping under palm-g=
roves
in Asia, wandered beneath island oak-woods rooted in our own seas of Europe=
?
It is no sandy plain, nor any
circumscribed and scant oasis I seem to realise. A forest valley, with rocky
sides and brown profundity of shade, formed by tree crowding on tree, desce=
nds
deep before me. Here, indeed, dwell human beings, but so few, and in alleys=
so
thick branched and over-arched, they are neither heard nor seen. Are they
savage? - doubtless. They live by the crook and the bow: half shepherds, ha=
lf
hunters, their flocks wander wild as their prey. Are they happy? - no: not =
more
happy than we are at this day. Are they good? - no: not better than ourselv=
es:
their nature is our nature - human both. There is one in this tribe too oft=
en
miserable - a child bereaved of both parents. None cares for this child: sh=
e is
fed sometimes, but oftener forgotten: a hut rarely receives her: the hollow
tree and chill cavern are her home. Forsaken, lost, and wandering, she lives
more with the wild beast and bird than with her own kind. Hunger and cold a=
re
her comrades: sadness hovers over, and solitude besets her round. Unheeded =
and
unvalued, she should die: but she both lives and grows: the green wilderness
nurses her, and becomes to her a mother: feeds her on juicy berry, on sacch=
arine
root and nut.
There is something in the air of t=
his
clime which fosters life kindly: there must be something, too, in its dews,
which heals with sovereign balm. Its gentle seasons exaggerate no passion, =
no
sense; its temperature tends to harmony; its breezes, you would say, bring =
down
from heaven the germ of pure thought, and purer feeling. Not grotesquely
fantastic are the forms of cliff and foliage; not violently vivid the colou=
ring
of flower and bird: in all the grandeur of these forests there is repose; in
all their freshness there is tenderness.
The gentle charm vouchsafed to flo=
wer
and tree, - bestowed on deer and dove, - has not been denied to the human
nursling. All solitary, she has sprung up straight and graceful. Nature cast
her features in a fine mould; they have matured in their pure, accurate fir=
st
lines, unaltered by the shocks of disease. No fierce dry blast has dealt ru=
dely
with the surface of her frame; no burning sun has crisped or withered her
tresses: her form gleams ivory-white through the trees; her hair flows
plenteous, long, and glossy; her eyes, not dazzled by vertical fires, beam =
in
the shade large and open, and full and dewy: above those eyes, when the bre=
eze
bares her forehead, shines an expanse fair and ample, - a clear, candid pag=
e,
whereon knowledge, should knowledge ever come, might write a golden record.=
You
see in the desolate young savage nothing vicious or vacant; she haunts the =
wood
harmless and thoughtful: though of what one so untaught can think, it is not
easy to divine.
On the evening of one summer day,
before the Flood, being utterly alone - for she had lost all trace of her
tribe, who had wandered leagues away, she knew not where, - she went up from
the vale, to watch Day take leave and Night arrive. A crag, overspread by a
tree, was her station: the oak-roots, turfed and mossed, gave a seat: the
oak-boughs, thick-leaved, wove a canopy.
Slow and grand the Day withdrew,
passing in purple fire, and parting to the farewell of a wild, low chorus f=
rom
the woodlands. Then Night entered, quiet as death: the wind fell, the birds
ceased singing. Now every nest held happy mates, and hart and hind slumbered
blissfully safe in their lair.
The girl sat, her body still, her =
soul
astir; occupied, however, rather in feeling than in thinking, - in wishing,
than hoping, - in imagining, than projecting. She felt the world, the sky, =
the
night, boundlessly mighty. Of all things, herself seemed to herself the cen=
tre,
- a small, forgotten atom of life, a spark of soul, emitted inadvertent from
the great creative source, and now burning unmarked to waste in the heart o=
f a
black hollow. She asked, was she thus to burn out and perish, her living li=
ght
doing no good, never seen, never needed, - a star in an else starless
firmament, - which nor shepherd, nor wanderer, nor sage, nor priest, tracke=
d as
a guide, or read as a prophecy? Could this be, she demanded, when the flame=
of
her intelligence burned so vivid; when her life beat so true, and real, and
potent; when something within her stirred disquieted, and restlessly assert=
ed a
God-given strength, for which it insisted she should find exercise?
She gazed abroad on Heaven and
Evening: Heaven and Evening gazed back on her. She bent down, searching ban=
k,
hill, river, spread dim below. All she questioned responded by oracles she
heard, - she was impressed; but she could not understand. Above her head she
raised her hands joined together.
'Guidance - help - comfort - come!'
was her cry.
There was no voice, nor any that
answered.
She waited, kneeling, steadfastly
looking up. Yonder sky was sealed: the solemn stars shone alien and remote.=
At last, one over-stretched chord =
of
her agony slacked: she thought Something above relented: she felt as if
Something far round drew nigher: she heard as if Silence spoke. There was no
language, no word, only a tone.
Again - a fine, full, lofty tone, a
deep, soft sound, like a storm whispering, made twilight undulate.
Once more, profounder, nearer,
clearer, it rolled harmonious.
Yet, again - a distinct voice pass=
ed
between Heaven and Earth.
'Eva!'
If Eva were not this woman's name,=
she
had none. She rose.
'Here am I.'
'Eva!'
'Oh, Night! (it can be but Night t=
hat
speaks) I am here!'
The voice, descending, reached Ear=
th.
'Eva!'
'Lord!' she cried, 'behold thine
handmaid!'
She had her religion: all tribes h=
eld
some creed.
'I come: a Comforter! Lord, come
quickly!'
The Evening flushed full of hope: =
the
Air panted; the Moon - rising before - ascended large, but her light showed=
no
shape.
'Lean towards me, Eva. Enter my ar=
ms;
repose thus.'
'Thus I lean, O Invisible, but fel=
t!
And what art thou?'
'Eva, I have brought a living drau=
ght
from heaven. Daughter of Man, drink of my cup!'
'I drink - it is as if sweetest dew
visited my lips in a full current. My arid heart revives: my affliction is
lightened: my strait and struggle are gone. And the night changes! the wood,
the hill, the moon, the wide sky - all change!'
'All change, and for ever. I take =
from
thy vision, darkness: I loosen from thy faculties, fetters! I level in thy
path, obstacles: I, with my presence, fill vacancy: I claim as mine the lost
atom of life: I take to myself the spark of soul - burning, heretofore,
forgotten!'
'Oh, take me! Oh, claim me! This i=
s a
god.'
'This is a son of God: one who fee=
ls
himself in the portion of life that stirs you: he is suffered to reclaim his
own, and so to foster and aid that it shall not perish hopeless.'
'A son of God! Am I indeed chosen?=
'
'Thou only in this land. I saw thee
that thou wert fair: I knew thee that thou wert mine. To me it is given to
rescue, to sustain, to cherish, mine own. Acknowledge in me that Seraph on
earth, named Genius.'
'My glorious Bridegroom! True
Dayspring from on high! All I would have, at last I possess. I receive a
revelation. The dark hint, the obscure whisper, which have haunted me from
childhood, are interpreted. Thou art He I sought. God-born, take me, thy
bride!'
'Unhumbled, I can take what is min=
e.
Did I not give from the altar the very flame which lit Eva's being? Come ag=
ain
into the heaven whence thou wert sent.'
That Presence, invisible, but migh=
ty,
gathered her in like a lamb to the fold; that voice, soft, but all-pervadin=
g,
vibrated through her heart like music. Her eye received no image: and yet a
sense visited her vision and her brain as of the serenity of stainless air,=
the
power of sovereign seas, the majesty of marching stars, the energy of colli=
ding
elements, the rooted endurance of hills wide based, and, above all, as of t=
he
lustre of heroic beauty rushing victorious on the Night, vanquishing its
shadows like a diviner sun.
Such was the bridal-hour of Genius=
and
Humanity. Who shall rehearse the tale of their after-union? Who shall depict
its bliss and bale? Who shall tell how He, between whom and the Woman God p=
ut
enmity, forged deadly plots to break the bond or defile its purity? Who sha=
ll
record the long strife between Serpent and Seraph? How still the Father of =
Lies
insinuated evil into good - pride into wisdom - grossness into glory - pain
into bliss - poison into passion? How the 'dreadless Angel' defied, resiste=
d,
and repelled? How, again and again, he refined the polluted cup, exalted the
debased emotion, rectified the perverted impulse, detected the lurking veno=
m,
baffled the frontless temptation - purified, justified, watched, and withst=
ood?
How, by his patience, by his strength, by that unutterable excellence he he=
ld
from God - his Origin - this faithful Seraph fought for Humanity a good fig=
ht
through time; and, when Time's course closed, and Death was encountered at =
the
end, barring with fleshless arms the portals of Eternity, how Genius still =
held
close his dying bride, sustained her through the agony of the passage, bore=
her
triumphant into his own home - Heaven; restored her, redeemed, to Jehovah -=
her
Maker; and at last, before Angel and Archangel, crowned her with the crown =
of
Immortality.
Who shall, of these things, write =
the
chronicle?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. . .
'I never could correct that
composition,' observed Shirley, as Moore concluded. 'Your censor-pencil sco=
red it
with condemnatory lines, whose signification I strove vainly to fathom.'
She had taken a crayon from the
tutor's desk, and was drawing little leaves, fragments of pillars, broken
crosses, on the margin of the book.
'French may be half-forgotten, but=
the
habits of the French lesson are retained, I see,' said Louis: 'my books wou=
ld
now, as erst, be unsafe with you. My newly bound St. Pierre would soon be l=
ike
my Racine: Miss Keeldar, her mark - traced on every page.'
Shirley dropped her crayon as if it
burned her fingers.
'Tell me what were the faults of t=
hat
devoir?' she asked. 'Were they grammatical errors, or did you object to the
substance?'
'I never said that the lines I drew
were indications of faults at all. You would have it that such was the case=
, and
I refrained from contradiction.'
'What else did they denote?'
'No matter now.'
'Mr Moore,' cried Henry, 'make Shi=
rley
repeat some of the pieces she used to say so well by heart.'
'If I ask for any, it will be Le
Cheval Dompté,' said Moore, trimming with his pen-knife the pencil M=
iss
Keeldar had worn to a stump.
She turned aside her head; the nec=
k,
the clear cheek, forsaken by their natural veil, were seen to flush warm.
'Ah! she has not forgotten, you se=
e,
sir,' said Henry, exultant. 'She knows how naughty she was.'
A smile, which Shirley would not
permit to expand, made her lip tremble; she bent her face, and hid it half =
with
her arms, half in her curls, which, as she stooped, fell loose again.
'Certainly, I was a rebel!' she
answered.
'A rebel!' repeated Henry. 'Yes: y=
ou
and papa had quarrelled terribly, and you set both him and mamma, and Mrs
Pryor, and everybody, at defiance: you said he had insulted you -&=
nbsp;
- '
'He had insulted me,' interposed
Shirley.
'And you wanted to leave Sympson G=
rove
directly. You packed your things up, and papa threw them out of your trunk;
mamma cried - Mrs Pryor cried; they both stood wringing their hands begging=
you
to be patient, and you knelt on the floor with your things and your upturned
box before you, looking, Shirley - looking - why, in one of your passions. =
Your
features, in such passions, are not distorted; they are fixed, but quite
beautiful: you scarcely look angry, only resolute, and in a certain haste; =
yet
one feels that, at such times, an obstacle cast across your path would be s=
plit
as with lightning. Papa lost heart, and called Mr Moore.'
'Enough, Henry.'
'No: it is not enough. I hardly kn=
ow
how Mr Moore managed, except that I recollect he suggested to papa that
agitation would bring on his gout; and then he spoke quietly to the ladies,=
and
got them away; and afterwards he said to you, Miss Shirley, that it was of =
no
use talking or lecturing now, but that the tea-things were just brought into
the schoolroom, and he was very thirsty, and he would be glad if you would
leave your packing for the present and come and make a cup of tea for him a=
nd
me. You came: you would not talk at first; but soon you softened and grew
cheerful. Mr Moore began to tell us about the Continent, the war, and
Bonaparte; subjects we were both fond of listening to. After tea he said we
should neither of us leave him that evening: he would not let us stray out =
of
his sight, lest we should again get into mischief. We sat one on each side =
of
him: we were so happy. I never passed so pleasant an evening. The next day =
he
gave you, missy, a lecture of an hour, and wound it up by marking you a pie=
ce
to learn in Bossuet as a punishment-lesson - Le Cheval Dompté. You
learned it instead of packing up, Shirley. We heard no more of your running=
away.
Mr Moore used to tease you on the subject for a year afterwards.'
'She never said a lesson with grea=
ter
spirit,' subjoined Moore. 'She then, for the first time, gave me the treat =
of
hearing my native tongue spoken without accent by an English girl.'
'She was as sweet as summer-cherri=
es
for a month afterwards,' struck in Henry: 'a good hearty quarrel always left
Shirley's temper better than it found it.'
'You talk of me as if I were not
present,' observed Miss Keeldar, who had not yet lifted her face.
'Are you sure you are present?' as=
ked
Moore: 'there have been moments since my arrival here, when I have been tem=
pted
to inquire of the lady of Fieldhead if she knew what had become of my former
pupil?'
'She is here now.'
'I see her, and humble enough; but=
I
would neither advise Harry, nor others, to believe too implicitly in the
humility which one moment can hide its blushing face like a modest little
child, and the next lift it pale and lofty as a marble Juno.'
'One man in times of old, it is sa=
id,
imparted vitality to the statue he had chiselled. Others may have the contr=
ary
gift of turning life to stone.'
Moore paused on this observation
before he replied to it. His look, at once struck and meditative, said, 'A
strange phrase: what may it mean?' He turned it over in his mind, with thou=
ght
deep and slow, as some German pondering metaphysics.
'You mean,' he said at last, 'that
some men inspire repugnance, and so chill the kind heart.'
'Ingenious!' responded Shirley. 'If
the interpretation pleases you, you are welcome to hold it valid. I don't
care.'
And with that she raised her head,
lofty in look, and statue-like in hue, as Louis had described it.
'Behold the metamorphosis!' he sai=
d:
'scarce imagined ere it is realised: a lowly nymph develops to an inaccessi=
ble
goddess. But Henry must not be disappointed of his recitation, and Olympia =
will
deign to oblige him. Let us begin.'
'I have forgotten the very first
line.'
'Which I have not. My memory, if a
slow, is a retentive one. I acquire deliberately both knowledge and liking:=
the
acquisition grows into my brain, and the sentiment into my breast; and it is
not as the rapid springing produce which, having no root in itself, flouris=
hes
verdurous enough for a time, but too soon falls withered away. Attention,
Henry! Miss Keeldar consents to favour you. 'Voyez ce Cheval ardent et
impétuetux,' so it commences.'
Miss Keeldar did consent to make t=
he
effort; but she soon stopped.
'Unless I heard the whole repeated=
, I
cannot continue it,' she said.
'Yet it was quickly learned, ̵=
6;soon
gained, soon gone,’' moralised the tutor. He recited the passage
deliberately, accurately, with slow, impressive emphasis.
Shirley, by degrees, inclined her =
ear
as he went on. Her face, before turned from him, returned towards him. When=
he
ceased, she took the word up as if from his lips: she took his very tone; s=
he
seized his very accent; she delivered the periods as he had delivered them:=
she
reproduced his manner, his pronunciation, his expression.
It was now her turn to petition.
'Recall Le Songe d'Athalie,' she
entreated, 'and say it.'
He said it for her; she took it fr=
om
him; she found lively excitement in the pleasure of making his language her
own: she asked for further indulgence; all the old school-pieces were reviv=
ed,
and with them Shirley's old school-days.
He had gone through some of the be=
st
passages of Racine and Corneille, and then had heard the echo of his own de=
ep
tones in the girl's voice, that modulated itself faithfully on his: - Le
Chène et le Roseau, that most beautiful of La Fontaine's fables, had
been recited, well recited by the tutor, and the pupil had animatedly avail=
ed
herself of the lesson. Perhaps a simultaneous feeling seized them now, that
their enthusiasm had kindled to a glow, which the slight fuel of French poe=
try
no longer sufficed to feed; perhaps they longed for a trunk of English oak =
to
be thrown as a Yule log to the devouring flame. Moore observed - 'And these=
are
our best pieces! And we have nothing more dramatic, nervous, natural!'
And then he smiled and was silent.=
His
whole nature seemed serenely alight: he stood on the hearth, leaning his el=
bow
on the mantelpiece, musing not unblissfully. Twilight was closing on the
diminished autumn day: the schoolroom windows - darkened with creeping plan=
ts,
from which no high October winds had as yet swept the sere foliage - admitt=
ed
scarce a gleam of sky; but the fire gave light enough to talk by.
And now Louis Moore addressed his
pupil in French; and she answered, at first, with laughing hesitation and in
broken phrase: Moore encouraged while he corrected her; Henry joined in the
lesson; the two scholars stood opposite the master, their arms round each
other's waists: Tartar, who long since had craved and obtained admission, s=
at
sagely in the centre of the rug, staring at the blaze which burst fitful fr=
om
morsels of coal among the red cinders: the group were happy enough, but
'Pleasures are like poppies spread;
You seize the flower - its bloom is shed.'
The dull, rumbling sound of wheels=
was
heard on the pavement in the yard.
'It is the carriage returned,' said
Shirley; 'and dinner must he just ready, and I am not dressed.'
A servant came in with Mr Moore's
candle and tea: for the tutor and his pupil usually dined at luncheon time.=
'Mr Sympson and the ladies are
returned,' she said, 'and Sir Philip Nunnely is with them.'
'How you did start, and how your h=
and
trembled, Shirley!' said Henry, when the maid had closed the shutter and was
gone. 'But I know why - don't you, Mr Moore? I know what papa intends. He i=
s a
little ugly man, that Sir Philip I wish he had not come: I wish sisters and=
all
of them had stayed at De Walden Hall to dine. Shirley should once more have
made tea for you and me, Mr Moore, and we would have had a happy evening of
it.'
Moore was locking up his desk, and=
putting
away his St. Pierre - 'That was your plan - was it, my boy?'
'Don't you approve it, sir?'
'I approve nothing Utopian. Look L=
ife
in its iron face: stare Reality out of its brassy countenance. Make the tea,
Henry; I shall be back in a minute.'
He left the room: so did Shirley, =
by
another door.
Shirley probably got on pleasantly
with Sir Philip that evening, for the next morning she came down in one of =
her
best moods.
'Who will take a walk with me?' she
asked, after breakfast. 'Isabella and Gertrude - will you?'
So rare was such an invitation from
Miss Keeldar to her female cousins that they hesitated before they accepted=
it.
Their mamma, however, signifying acquiescence in the project, they fetched
their bonnets, and the trio set out.
It did not suit these three person=
s to
be thrown much together: Miss Keeldar liked the society of few ladies: inde=
ed,
she had a cordial pleasure in that of none except Mrs Pryor and Caroline
Helstone. She was civil, kind, attentive even to her cousins; but still she
usually had little to say to them. In the sunny mood of this particular
morning, she contrived to entertain even the Misses Sympson. Without deviat=
ing
from her wonted rule of discussing with them only ordinary themes, she impa=
rted
to these themes an extraordinary interest: the sparkle of her spirit glanced
along her phrases.
What made her so joyous? All the c=
ause
must have been in herself. The day was not bright; it was dim - a pale, wan=
ing
autumn day: the walks through the dun woods were damp; the atmosphere was
heavy, the sky overcast; and yet, it seemed that in Shirley's heart lived a=
ll
the light and azure of Italy, as all its fervour laughed in her grey English
eye.
Some directions necessary to be gi=
ven
to her foreman, John, delayed her behind her cousins as they neared Fieldhe=
ad
on their return; perhaps an interval of twenty minutes elapsed between her
separation from them and her re-entrance into the house: in the meantime she
had spoken to John, and then she had lingered in the lane at the gate. A
summons to luncheon called her in: she excused herself from the meal, and w=
ent
upstairs.
'Is not Shirley coming to luncheon=
?'
asked Isabella: 'she said she was not hungry.'
An hour after, as she did not quit=
her
chamber, one of her cousins went to seek her there. She was found sitting at
the foot of the bed, her head resting on her hand: she looked quite pale, v=
ery
thoughtful, almost sad.
'You are not ill?' was the question
put.
'A little sick,' replied Miss Keel=
dar.
Certainly she was not a little cha=
nged
from what she had been two hours before.
This change, accounted for only by
those three words, explained no otherwise; this change - whencesoever
springing, effected in a brief ten minutes - passed like no light summer cl=
oud.
She talked when she joined her friends at dinner, talked as usual; she rema=
ined
with them during the evening; when again questioned respecting her health, =
she
declared herself perfectly recovered: it had been a mere passing faintness:=
a
momentary sensation, not worth a thought: yet it was felt there was a
difference in Shirley.
The next day - the day - the week -
the fortnight after - this new and peculiar shadow lingered on the countena=
nce,
in the manner of Miss Keeldar. A strange quietude settled over her look, her
movements, her very voice. The alteration was not so marked as to court or
permit frequent questioning, yet it was there, and it would not pass away: =
it
hung over her like a cloud which no breeze could stir or disperse. Soon it
became evident that to notice this change was to annoy her. First she shrunk
from remark; and, if persisted in, she, with her own peculiar hauteur, repe=
lled
it. 'Was she ill?' The reply came with decision.
'I am not.'
'Did anything weigh on her mind? H=
ad
anything happened to affect her spirits?'
She scornfully ridiculed the idea.
'What did they mean by spirits? She had no spirits, black or white, blue or
grey, to affect.'
'Something must be the matter - she
was so altered.'
'She supposed she had a right to a=
lter
at her ease. She knew she was plainer: if it suited her to grow ugly, why n=
eed
others fret themselves on the subject.'
'There must be a cause for the cha=
nge
- what was it?'
She peremptorily requested to be l=
et
alone.
Then she would make every effort to
appear quite gay, and she seemed indignant at herself that she could not
perfectly succeed: brief, self-spurning epithets burst from her lips when
alone. 'Fool! coward!' she would term herself. 'Poltroon!' she would say: '=
if
you must tremble - tremble in secret! Quail where no eye sees you!'
'How dare you' - she would ask her=
self
- 'how dare you show your weakness and betray your imbecile anxieties? Shake
them off: rise above them: if you cannot do this, hide them.'
And to hide them she did her best.=
She
once more became resolutely lively in company. When weary of effort and for=
ced
to relax, she sought solitude: not the solitude of her chamber - she refuse=
d to
mope, shut up between four walls - but that wilder solitude which lies out =
of
doors, and which she could chase, mounted on Zoë, her mare. She took l=
ong
rides of half a day. Her uncle disapproved, but he dared not remonstrate: it
was never pleasant to face Shirley's anger, even when she was healthy and g=
ay;
but now that her face showed thin, and her large eye looked hollow, there w=
as
something in the darkening of that face and kindling of that eye which touc=
hed
as well as alarmed.
To all comparative strangers who,
unconscious of the alterations in her spirits, commented on the alteration =
in
her looks, she had one reply =
-
'I am perfectly well: I have not an
ailment.'
And health, indeed, she must have =
had,
to be able to bear the exposure to the weather she now encountered. Wet or
fair, calm or storm, she took her daily ride over Stilbro' Moor, Tartar kee=
ping
up at her side, with his wolf-like gallop, long and untiring.
Twice - three times, the eyes of
gossips - those eyes which are everywhere: in the closet and on the hill-to=
p -
noticed that instead of turning on Rushedge, the top-ridge of Stilbro' Moor,
she rode forwards all the way to the town. Scouts were not wanting to mark =
her
destination there; it was ascertained that she alighted at the door of one =
Mr
Pearson Hall, a solicitor, related to the Vicar of Nunnely: this gentleman =
and
his ancestors had been the agents of the Keeldar family for generations bac=
k:
some people affirmed that Miss Keeldar was become involved in business
speculations connected with Hollow's Mill; that she had lost money, and was
constrained to mortgage her land: others conjectured that she was going to =
be
married, and that the settlements were preparing.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
.
Mr Moore and Henry Sympson were
together in the schoolroom: the tutor was waiting for a lesson which the pu=
pil
seemed busy in preparing.
'Henry, make haste! the afternoon =
is
getting on.'
'Is it, sir?'
'Certainly. Are you nearly ready w=
ith
that lesson?'
'No.'
'Not nearly ready?'
'I have not construed a line.'
Mr Moore looked up: the boy's tone=
was
rather peculiar.
'The task presents no difficulties,
Henry; or, if it does, bring them to me: we will work together.'
'Mr Moore, I can do no work.'
'My boy, you are ill.'
'Sir, I am not worse in bodily hea=
lth
than usual, but my heart is full.'
'Shut the book. Come hither, Harry.
Come to the fireside.'
Harry limped forward; his tutor pl=
aced
him in a chair: his lips were quivering, his eyes brimming. He laid his cru=
tch
on the floor, bent down his head, and wept.
'This distress is not occasioned by
physical pain, you say, Harry? You have a grief - tell it me.'
'Sir, I have such a grief as I nev=
er
had before. I wish it could be relieved in some way: I can hardly bear it.'=
'Who knows but, if we talk it over=
, we
may relieve it? What is the cause? Whom does it concern?'
'The cause, sir, is Shirley: it
concerns Shirley.'
'Does it? . . . You think her
changed?'
'All who know her think her change=
d:
you too, Mr Moore.'
'Not seriously, - no. I see no
alteration but such as a favourable turn might repair in a few weeks: besid=
es,
her own word must go for something: she says she is well.'
'There it is, sir: as long as she
maintained she was well, I believed her. When I was sad out of her sight, I
soon recovered spirits in her presence. Now. . . .'
'Well, Harry, now. . .? Has she sa=
id
anything to you? You and she were together in the garden two hours this
morning: I saw her talking, and you listening. Now, my dear Harry! if Miss
Keeldar has said she is ill, and enjoined you to keep her secret, do not ob=
ey
her. For her life's sake, avow everything. Speak, my boy!'
'She say she is ill! I believe, si=
r,
if she were dying, she would smile, and aver ‘Nothing ails me.’=
'
'What have you learned, then? What=
new
circumstance. . . ?'
'I have learned that she has just =
made
her will.'
'Made her will?'
The tutor and pupil were silent.
'She told you that?' asked Moore, =
when
some minutes had elapsed.
'She told me quite cheerfully: not=
as
an ominous circumstance, which I felt it to be. She said I was the only per=
son
besides her solicitor, Pearson Hall, and Mr Helstone and Mr Yorke, who knew
anything about it; and to me, she intimated, she wished specially to explain
its provisions.'
'Go on, Harry.'
'Because,' she said, looking down =
on
me with her beautiful eyes, - oh! they are beautiful, Mr Moore! I love them=
, -
I love her! She is my star! Heaven must not claim her! She is lovely in this
world, and fitted for this world. Shirley is not an angel; she is a woman, =
and
she shall live with men. Seraphs shall not have her! Mr Moore - if one of t=
he
'sons of God,' with wings wide and bright as the sky, blue and sounding as =
the
sea, having seen that she was fair, descended to claim her, his claim shoul=
d be
withstood - withstood by me - boy and cripple as I am!'
'Henry Sympson, go on, when I tell
you.'
'Because,' she said, 'if I made no
will, and died before you, Harry, all my property would go to you; and I do=
not
intend that it should be so, though your father would like it. But you,' she
said, 'will have his whole estate, which is large - larger than Fieldhead; =
your
sisters will have nothing, so I have left them some money: though I do not =
love
them, both together, half so much as I love one lock of your fair hair.' She
said these words, and she called me her 'darling,' and let me kiss her. She
went on to tell me that she had left Caroline Helstone some money too; that
this manor-house, with its furniture and books, she had bequeathed to me, as
she did not choose to take the old family place from her own blood; and that
all the rest of her property, amounting to about twelve thousand pounds,
exclusive of the legacies to my sisters and Miss Helstone, she had willed, =
not
to me, seeing I was already rich, but to a good man, who would make the best
use of it that any human being could do: a man, she said, that was both gen=
tle
and brave, strong and merciful; a man that might not profess to be pious, b=
ut
she knew he had the secret of religion pure and undefiled before God. The
spirit of love and peace was with him; he visited the fatherless and widows=
in
their affliction, and kept himself unspotted from the world. Then she asked,
'Do you approve what I have done, Harry?' I could not answer, - my tears ch=
oked
me, as they do now.'
Mr Moore allowed his pupil a momen=
t to
contend with and master his emotion: he then demanded - 'What else did she
say?'
'When I had signified my full cons=
ent
to the conditions of her will, she told me I was a generous boy, and she was
proud of me: 'And now,' she added, 'in case anything should happen, you will
know what to say to Malice when she comes whispering hard things in your ea=
r,
insinuating that Shirley has wronged you; that she did not love you. You wi=
ll
know that I did love you, Harry; that no sister could have loved you better=
, my
own treasure.' Mr Moore, sir, when I remember her voice, and recall her loo=
k,
my heart beats as if it would break its strings. She may go to heaven befor=
e me
- if God commands it, she must; but the rest of my life - and my life will =
not
be long - I am glad of that now - shall be a straight, quick, thoughtful
journey in the path her step has pressed. I thought to enter the vault of t=
he
Keeldars before her: should it be otherwise, lay my coffin by Shirley's sid=
e.'
Moore answered him with a weighty
calm, that offered a strange contrast to the boy's perturbed enthusiasm.
'You are wrong, both of you - you =
harm
each other. If youth once falls under the influence of a shadowy terror, it
imagines there will never be full sunlight again, its first calamity it fan=
cies
will last a lifetime. What more did she say? Anything more?'
'We settled one or two family poin=
ts
between ourselves.'
'I should rather like to know what=
-&=
nbsp;
- '
'But, Mr Moore, you smile - I could
not smile to see Shirley in such a mood.'
'My boy, I am neither nervous, nor
poetic, nor inexperienced. I see things as they are: you don't as yet. Tell=
me
these family points.'
'Only, sir, she asked me whether I
considered myself most of a Keeldar or a Sympson; and I answered I was Keel=
dar
to the core of the heart, and to the marrow of the bones. She said she was =
glad
of it; for, besides her, I was the only Keeldar left in England: and then we
agreed on some matters.'
'Well?'
'Well, sir, that if I lived to inh=
erit
my father's estate, and her house, I was to take the name of Keeldar, and to
make Fieldhead my residence. Henry Shirley Keeldar I said I would be called:
and I will. Her name and her manor- house are ages old, and Sympson and Sym=
pson
Grove are of yesterday.'
'Come, you are neither of you goin=
g to
heaven yet. I have the best hopes of you both, with your proud distinctions=
- a
pair of half-fledged eaglets. Now, what is your inference from all you have
told me? Put it into words.'
'That Shirley thinks she is going =
to
die.'
'She referred to her health?'
'Not once; but I assure you she is
wasting: her hands are growing quite thin, and so is her cheek.'
'Does she ever complain to your mo=
ther
or sisters?'
'Never. She laughs at them when th=
ey
question her. Mr Moore, she is a strange being - so fair and girlish: not a
manlike woman at all - not an Amazon, and yet lifting her head above both h=
elp
and sympathy.'
'Do you know where she is now, Hen=
ry?
Is she in the house, or riding out?'
'Surely not out, sir - it rains fa=
st.'
'True: which, however, is no guara=
ntee
that she is not at this moment cantering over Rushedge. Of late she has nev=
er
permitted weather to be a hindrance to her rides.'
'You remember, Mr Moore, how wet a=
nd
stormy it was last Wednesday? so wild, indeed, that she would not permit
Zoë to be saddled; yet the blast she thought too tempestuous for her m=
are,
she herself faced on foot; that afternoon she walked nearly as far as Nunne=
ly.
I asked her, when she came in, if she was not afraid of taking cold. 'Not I=
,'
she said, 'it would be too much good luck for me. I don't know, Harry; but =
the
best thing that could happen to me would be to take a good cold and fever, =
and
so pass off like other Christians.' She is reckless, you see, sir.'
'Reckless indeed! Go and find out
where she is; and if you can get an opportunity of speaking to her, without
attracting attention, request her to come here a minute.'
'Yes, sir.'
He snatched his crutch, and starte=
d up
to go.
'Harry!'
He returned.
'Do not deliver the message formal=
ly.
Word it as, in former days, you would have worded an ordinary summons to the
schoolroom.'
'I see, sir; she will be more like=
ly
to obey.'
'And Harry -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Sir?'
'I will call you when I want you: =
till
then, you are dispensed from lessons.'
He departed. Mr Moore, left alone,
rose from his desk.
'I can be very cool and very
supercilious with Henry,' he said. 'I can seem to make light of his
apprehensions, and look down 'du haut de ma grandeur' on his youthful ardou=
r.
To him I can speak as if, in my eyes, they were both children. Let me see i=
f I
can keep up the same rôle with her. I have known the moment when I se=
emed
about to forget it; when Confusion and Submission seemed about to crush me =
with
their soft tyranny; when my tongue faltered, and I have almost let the mant=
le
drop, and stood in her presence, not master - no - but something else. I tr=
ust
I shall never so play the fool: it is well for a Sir Philip Nunnely to redd=
en
when he meets her eye: he may permit himself the indulgence of submission -=
he
may even without disgrace suffer his hand to tremble when it touches hers; =
but
if one of her farmers were to show himself susceptible and sentimental, he
would merely prove his need of a strait waistcoat. So far I have always done
very well. She has sat near me, and I have not shaken - more than my desk. I
have encountered her looks and smiles like - why, like a tutor, as I am. Her
hand I never yet touched - never underwent that test. Her farmer or her foo=
tman
I am not - no serf nor servant of hers have I ever been: but I am poor, and=
it
behoves me to look to my self-respect - not to compromise an inch of it. Wh=
at
did she mean by that allusion to the cold people who petrify flesh to marbl=
e?
It pleased me - I hardly know why - I would not permit myself to inquire - I
never do indulge in scrutiny either of her language or countenance; for if I
did, I should sometimes forget Common Sense and believe in Romance. A stran=
ge,
secret ecstasy steals through my veins at moments: I'll not encourage - I'll
not remember it. I am resolved, as long as may be, to retain the right to s=
ay
with Paul - 'I am not mad, but speak forth the words of truth and soberness=
.'
He paused - listening.
'Will she come, or will she not co=
me?'
he inquired. 'How will she take the message? naively or disdainfully? like a
child or like a queen? Both characters are in her nature.
'If she comes, what shall I say to
her? How account, firstly, for the freedom of the request? Shall I apologis=
e to
her? I could in all humility; but would an apology tend to place us in the
positions we ought relatively to occupy in this matter? I must keep up the
professor, otherwise - I hear a door -&=
nbsp;
- ' He waited. Many minutes passed.
She will refuse me. Henry is
entreating her to come: she declines. My petition is presumption in her eye=
s:
let her only come, I can teach her to the contrary. I would rather she were=
a
little perverse - it will steel me. I prefer her, cuirassed in pride, armed
with a taunt. Her scorn startles me from my dreams - I stand up myself. A
sarcasm from her eyes or lips puts strength into every nerve and sinew I ha=
ve.
Some step approaches, and not Henry's. . . .'
The door unclosed; Miss Keeldar ca=
me
in. The message, it appeared, had found her at her needle: she brought her =
work
in her hand. That day she had not been riding out: she had evidently passed=
it
quietly. She wore her neat indoor dress and silk apron. This was no Thalest=
ris
from the fields, but a quiet domestic character from the fireside. Mr Moore=
had
her at advantage; he should have addressed her at once in solemn accents, a=
nd
with rigid mien; perhaps he would, had she looked saucy; but her air never
showed less of crânerie; a soft kind of youthful shyness depressed her
eyelid and mantled on her cheek. The tutor stood silent.
She made a full stop between the d=
oor
and his desk.
'Did you want me, sir?' she asked.=
'I ventured, Miss Keeldar, to send=
for
you - that is, to ask an interview of a few minutes.'
She waited: she plied her needle.<= o:p>
'Well, sir' (not lifting her eyes)=
-
'what about?'
'Be seated first. The subject I wo=
uld
broach is one of some moment: perhaps I have hardly a right to approach it:=
it
is possible I ought to frame an apology: it is possible no apology can excu=
se
me. The liberty I have taken arises from a conversation with Henry. The boy=
is
unhappy about your health: all your friends are unhappy on that subject. It=
is
of your health I would speak.'
'I am quite well,' she said briefl=
y.
' Yet changed.'
'That matters to none but myself. =
We
all change.'
'Will you sit down? Formerly, Miss
Keeldar, I had some influence with you - have I any now? May I feel that wh=
at I
am saying is not accounted positive presumption?'
'Let me read some French, Mr Moore=
, or
I will even take a spell at the Latin grammar, and let us proclaim a truce =
to
all sanitary discussions.'
'No - no: it is time there were
discussions.'
'Discuss away, then, but do not ch=
oose
me for your text; I am a healthy subject.'
'Do you not think it wrong to affi=
rm
and reaffirm what is substantially untrue?'
'I say I am well: I have neither
cough, pain, nor fever.'
'Is there no equivocation in that
assertion? Is it the direct truth?'
'The direct truth.'
Louis Moore looked at her earnestl=
y.
'I can myself,' he said, 'trace no
indications of actual disease; but why, then, are you altered?'
'Am I altered?'
'We will try: we will seek a proof=
.'
'How?'
'I ask, in the first place, do you
sleep as you used to?'
'I do not: but it is not because I=
am
ill.'
'Have you the appetite you once ha=
d?'
'No: but it is not because I am il=
l.'
'You remember this little ring
fastened to my watch-chain? It was my mother's, and is too small to pass the
joint of my little finger. You have many a time sportively purloined it: it
fitted your fore-finger. Try now.'
She permitted the test: the ring
dropped from the wasted little hand. Louis picked it up, and re-attached it=
to
the chain. An uneasy flush coloured his brow. Shirley again said - 'It is n=
ot
because I am ill.'
'Not only have you lost sleep,
appetite, and flesh,' proceeded Moore, 'but your spirits are always at ebb:
besides, there is a nervous alarm in your eye - a nervous disquiet in your
manner: these peculiarities were not formerly yours.'
'Mr Moore, we will pause here. You
have exactly hit it: I am nervous. Now, talk of something else. What wet
weather we have! Steady, pouring rain!'
'You nervous? Yes: and if Miss Kee=
ldar
is nervous, it is not without a cause. Let me reach it. Let me look nearer.=
The
ailment is not physical: I have suspected that. It came in one moment. I kn=
ow
the day. I noticed the change. Your pain is mental.'
'Not at all: it is nothing so
dignified - merely nervous. Oh! dismiss the topic.'
'When it is exhausted: not till th=
en.
Nervous alarms should always be communicated, that they may be dissipated. I
wish I had the gift of persuasion, and could incline you to speak willingly=
. I
believe confession, in your case, would be half equivalent to cure.'
'No,' said Shirley abruptly: 'I wi=
sh
that were at all probable: but I am afraid it is not.'
She suspended her work a moment. S=
he
was now seated. Resting her elbow on the table, she leaned her head on her
hand. Mr Moore looked as if he felt he had at last gained some footing in t=
his
difficult path. She was serious, and in her wish was implied an important
admission; after that, she could no longer affirm that nothing ailed her.
The tutor allowed her some minutes=
for
repose and reflection, ere he returned to the charge: once, his lips moved =
to
speak; but he thought better of it, and prolonged the pause. Shirley lifted=
her
eye to his: had he betrayed injudicious emotion, perhaps obstinate persiste=
nce
in silence would have been the result; but he looked calm, strong, trustwor=
thy.
'I had better tell you than my aun=
t,'
she said, 'or than my cousins, or my uncle: they would all make such a bust=
le -
and it is that very bustle I dread; the alarm, the flurry, the éclat=
: in
short, I never liked to be the centre of a small domestic whirlpool. You can
bear a little shock - eh?'
'A great one, if necessary.'
Not a muscle of the man's frame mo=
ved,
and yet his large heart beat fast in his deep chest. What was she going to =
tell
him? Was irremediable mischief done?
'Had I thought it right to go to y=
ou,
I would never have made a secret of the matter one moment,' she continued: =
'I
would have told you at once, and asked advice.'
'Why was it not right to come to m=
e?'
'It might be right - I do not mean that; but I could not do it. I seemed to have no title to trouble you: the mishap concerned me only - I wanted to keep it to myself, and people will n= ot let me. I tell you, I hate to be an object of worrying attention, or a theme for village gossip. Besides, it may pass away without result - God knows!'<= o:p>
Moore, though tortured with suspen=
se,
did not demand a quick explanation; he suffered neither gesture, glance, nor
word, to betray impatience. His tranquillity tranquillised Shirley; his
confidence reassured her.
'Great effects may spring from tri=
vial
causes,' she remarked, as she loosened a bracelet from her wrist; then,
unfastening her sleeve, and partially turning it up - 'Look here, Mr Moore.=
'
She showed a mark on her white arm;
rather a deep though healed-up indentation: something between a burn and a =
cut.
'I would not show that to any one =
in
Briarfield but you, because you can take it quietly.'
'Certainly there is nothing in the
little mark to shock: its history will explain.'
'Small as it is, it has taken my s=
leep
away, and made me nervous, thin, and foolish; because, on account of that
little mark, I am obliged to look forward to a possibility that has its
terrors.'
The sleeve was readjusted; the
bracelet replaced.
'Do you know that you try me?' he
said, smiling. 'I am a patient sort of man, but my pulse is quickening.'
'Whatever happens, you will befrie=
nd
me, Mr Moore. You will give me the benefit of your self-possession, and not
leave me at the mercy of agitated cowards?'
'I make no promise now. Tell me the
tale, and then exact what pledge you will.'
'It is a very short tale. I took a
walk with Isabella and Gertrude one day, about three weeks ago. They reached
home before me: I stayed behind to speak to John. After leaving him, I plea=
sed
myself with lingering in the lane, where all was very still and shady: I was
tired of chattering to the girls, and in no hurry to rejoin them. As I stood
leaning against the gate-pillar, thinking some very happy thoughts about my
future life - for that morning I imagined that events were beginning to tur=
n as
I had long wished them to turn -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Ah! Nunnely had been with her the
evening before!' thought Moore parenthetically.
'I heard a panting sound; a dog ca=
me
running up the lane. I know most of the dogs in this neighbourhood; it was
Phoebe, one of Mr Sam Wynne's pointers. The poor creature ran with her head
down, her tongue hanging out; she looked as if bruised and beaten all over.=
I
called her; I meant to coax her into the house, and give her some water and
dinner; I felt sure she had been ill-used: Mr Sam often flogs his pointers
cruelly. She was too flurried to know me; and when I attempted to pat her h=
ead,
she turned and snatched at my arm. She bit it so as to draw blood, then ran
panting on. Directly after, Mr Wynne's keeper came up, carrying a gun. He a=
sked
if I had seen a dog; I told him I had seen Phoebe.
'You had better chain up Tartar,
ma'am,' he said, 'and tell your people to keep within the house; I am after
Phoebe to shoot her, and the groom is gone another way. She is raging mad.'=
Mr Moore leaned back in his chair,=
and
folded his arms across his chest; Miss Keeldar resumed her square of silk
canvas, and continued the creation of a wreath of Parmese violets.
'And you told no one, sought no he=
lp,
no cure: you would not come to me?'
'I got as far as the schoolroom do=
or;
there my courage failed: I preferred to cushion the matter.'
'Why! What can I demand better in =
this
world than to be of use to you?'
'I had no claim.'
'Monstrous! And you did nothing?'<= o:p>
'Yes: I walked straight into the
laundry, where they are ironing most of the week, now that I have so many g=
uests
in the house. While the maid was busy crimping or starching, I took an Ital=
ian
iron from the fire, and applied the light scarlet glowing tip to my arm: I
bored it well in: it cauterised the little wound. Then I went upstairs.'
'I dare say you never once groaned=
?'
'I am sure I don't know. I was very
miserable. Not firm or tranquil at all, I think: there was no calm in my mi=
nd.'
'There was calm in your person. I
remember listening the whole time we sat at luncheon, to hear if you moved =
in
the room above: all was quiet.'
'I was sitting at the foot of the =
bed,
wishing Phoebe had not bitten me.'
'And alone! You like solitude.'
'Pardon me.'
'You disdain sympathy.'
'Do I, Mr Moore?'
'With your powerful mind, you must
feel independent of help, of advice, of society.'
'So be it - since it pleases you.'=
She smiled. She pursued her embroi=
dery
carefully and quickly; but her eyelash twinkled, and then it glittered, and
then a drop fell.
Mr Moore leaned forward on his des=
k,
moved his chair, altered his attitude.
'If it is not so,' he asked, with a
peculiar, mellow change in his voice, 'how is it, then?'
'I don't know.'
'You do know, but you won't speak:=
all
must be locked up in yourself.'
'Because it is not worth sharing.'=
'Because nobody can give the high
price you require for your confidence. Nobody is rich enough to purchase it.
Nobody has the honour, the intellect, the power you demand in your adviser.
There is not a shoulder in England on which you would rest your hand for
support - far less a bosom which you would permit to pillow your head. Of
course you must live alone.'
'I can live alone, if need be. But=
the
question is not how to live - but how to die alone. That strikes me in a mo=
re
grisly light.'
'You apprehend the effects of the
virus? You anticipate an indefinitely threatening, dreadful doom?'
She bowed.
'You are very nervous and womanish=
.'
'You complimented me two minutes s=
ince
on my powerful mind.'
'You are very womanish. If the who=
le
affair were coolly examined and discussed, I feel assured it would turn out
that there is no danger of your dying at all.'
'Amen! I am very willing to live, =
if
it please God. I have felt life sweet.'
'How can it be otherwise than sweet
with your endowments and nature? Do you truly expect that you will be seized
with hydrophobia, and die raving mad?'
'I expect it, and have feared it. =
Just
now, I fear nothing.'
'Nor do I, on your account. I doubt
whether the smallest particle of virus mingled with your blood: and if it d=
id,
let me assure you that - young, healthy, faultlessly sound as you are - no =
harm
will ensue. For the rest, I shall inquire whether the dog was really mad. I
hold she was not mad.'
'Tell nobody that she bit me.'
'Why should I, when I believe the =
bite
innocuous as a cut of this penknife? Make yourself easy: I am easy, though I
value your life as much as I do my own chance of happiness in eternity. Look
up.'
'Why, Mr Moore?'
'I wish to see if you are cheered.=
Put
your work down, raise your head.'
'There -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Look at me. Thank you! And is the
cloud broken?'
'I fear nothing.'
'Is your mind restored to its own
natural sunny clime?'
'I am very content: but I want your
promise.'
'Dictate.'
'You know, in case the worst I have
feared should happen, they will smother me. You need not smile: they will -
they always do. My uncle will be full of horror, weakness, precipitation; a=
nd
that is the only expedient which will suggest itself to him. Nobody in the
house will be self-possessed but you: now promise to befriend me - to keep =
Mr
Sympson away from me - not to let Henry come near, lest I should hurt him. =
Mind
- mind that you take care of yourself, too: but I shall not injure you, I k=
now
I shall not. Lock the chamber-door against the surgeons - turn them out, if
they get in. Let neither the young nor the old MacTurk lay a finger on me; =
nor Mr
Greaves, their colleague; and, lastly, if I give trouble, with your own hand
administer to me a strong narcotic: such a sure dose of laudanum as shall l=
eave
no mistake. Promise to do this.'
Moore left his desk, and permitted
himself the recreation of one or two turns round the room. Stopping behind
Shirley's chair, he bent over her, and said, in a low emphatic voice - 'I
promise all you ask - without comment, without reservation.'
'If female help is needed, call in=
my
housekeeper, Mrs Gill: let her lay me out, if I die. She is attached to me.=
She
wronged me again and again, and again and again I forgave her. She now loves
me, and would not defraud me of a pin: confidence has made her honest;
forbearance has made her kind-hearted. At this day, I can trust both her
integrity, her courage, and her affection. Call her; but keep my good aunt =
and
my timid cousins away. Once more, promise.'
'I promise.'
'That is good in you,' she said,
looking up at him as he bent over her, and smiling.
'Is it good? Does it comfort?'
'Very much.'
'I will be with you - I and Mrs Gi=
ll
only - in any, in every extremity where calm and fidelity are needed. No ra=
sh
or coward hand shall meddle.'
'Yet you think me childish?'
'I do.'
'Ah! you despise me.'
'Do we despise children?'
'In fact, I am neither so strong, =
nor
have I such pride in my strength, as people think, Mr Moore; nor am I so
regardless of sympathy; but when I have any grief, I fear to impart it to t=
hose
I love, lest it should pain them; and to those whom I view with indifferenc=
e, I
cannot condescend to complain. After all, you should not taunt me with being
childish; for if you were as unhappy as I have been for the last three week=
s,
you too would want some friend.'
'We all want a friend, do we not?'=
'All of us that have anything good=
in
our natures.'
'Well, you have Caroline Helstone.=
'
'Yes. . . . And you have Mr Hall.'=
'Yes. . . . Mrs Pryor is a wise, g=
ood
woman: she can counsel you when you need counsel.'
'For your part, you have your brot=
her
Robert.'
'For any right-hand defections, th=
ere
is the Rev. Matthewson Helstone, M.A., to lean upon; for any left-hand fall=
ings
off, there is Hiram Yorke, Esq. Both elders pay you homage.'
'I never saw Mrs Yorke so motherly=
to
any young man as she is to you. I don't know how you have won her heart; but
she is more tender to you than she is to her own sons, You have, besides, y=
our
sister, Hortense.'
'It appears we are both well
provided.'
'It appears so.'
'How thankful we ought to be!'
'Yes.'
'How contented!'
'Yes.'
'For my part, I am almost contented
just now, and very thankful. Gratitude is a divine emotion: it fills the he=
art,
but not to bursting: it warms it, but not to fever. I like to taste leisure=
ly
of bliss: devoured in haste, I do not know its flavour.'
Still leaning on the back of Miss
Keeldar's chair, Moore watched the rapid motion of her fingers, as the green
and purple garland grew beneath them. After a prolonged pause, he again ask=
ed,
'Is the shadow quite gone?'
'Wholly. As I was two hours since,=
and
as I am now, are two different states of existence. I believe, Mr Moore, gr=
iefs
and fears nursed in silence grow like Titan infants.'
'You will cherish such feelings no
more in silence?'
'Not if I dare speak.'
'In using the word 'dare,' to whom=
do
you allude?'
'To you.'
'How is it applicable to me?'
'On account of your austerity and
shyness.'
'Why am I austere and shy?'
'Because you are proud.'
'Why am I proud?'
'I should like to know; will you be
good enough to tell me?'
'Perhaps, because I am poor, for o=
ne
reason: poverty and pride often go together.'
'That is such a nice reason: I sho=
uld
be charmed to discover another that would pair with it. Mate that turtle, Mr
Moore.'
'Immediately. What do you think of
marrying to sober Poverty many-tinted Caprice?'
'Are you capricious?'
'You are.'
'A libel. I am steady as a rock: f=
ixed
as the Polar Star.'
'I look out at some early hour of =
the
day, and see a fine, perfect rainbow, bright with promise, gloriously spann=
ing
the beclouded welkin of life. An hour afterwards I look again - half the ar=
ch
is gone, and the rest is faded. Still later, the stern sky denies that it e=
ver
wore so benign a symbol of hope.'
'Well, Mr Moore, you should contend
against these changeful humours: they are your besetting sin. One never kno=
ws
where to have you.'
'Miss Keeldar, I had once - for two
years - a pupil who grew very dear to me. Henry is dear, but she was dearer.
Henry never gives me trouble; she - well - she did. I think she vexed me
twenty-three hours out of the twenty-four -&=
nbsp;
- '
'She was never with you above three
hours, or at the most six at a time.'
'She sometimes spilled the draught
from my cup, and stole the food from my plate; and when she had kept me unf=
ed
for a day (and that did not suit me, for I am a man accustomed to take my m=
eals
with reasonable relish, and to ascribe due importance to the rational enjoy=
ment
of creature comforts) - - '
'I know you do. I can tell what so=
rt
of dinners you like best - perfectly well. I know precisely the dishes you
prefer - - '
'She robbed these dishes of flavou=
r,
and made a fool of me besides. I like to sleep well. In my quiet days, when=
I
was my own man, I never quarrelled with the night for being long, nor curse=
d my
bed for its thorns. She changed all this.'
'Mr Moore -&=
nbsp;
- '
'And having taken from me peace of
mind, and ease of life, she took from me herself; quite coolly - just as if,
when she was gone, the world would be all the same to me. I knew I should s=
ee
her again at some time. At the end of two years, it fell out that we
encountered again under her own roof, where she was mistress. How do you th=
ink
she bore herself towards me, Miss Keeldar?'
'Like one who had profited well by
lessons learned from yourself.'
'She received me haughtily: she me=
ted
out a wide space between us, and kept me aloof by the reserved gesture, the
rare and alienated glance, the word calmly civil.'
'She was an excellent pupil! Having
seen you distant, she at once learned to withdraw. Pray, sir, admire in her
hauteur a careful improvement on your own coolness.'
'Conscience, and honour, and the m=
ost
despotic necessity, dragged me apart from her, and kept me sundered with
ponderous fetters. She was free: she might have been clement.'
'Never free to compromise her
self-respect: to seek where she had been shunned.'
'Then she was inconsistent: she
tantalised as before. When I thought I had made up my mind to seeing in her
only a lofty stranger, she would suddenly show me such a glimpse of loving
simplicity - she would warm me with such a beam of reviving sympathy, she w=
ould
gladden an hour with converse so gentle, gay, and kindly - that I could no =
more
shut my heart on her image, than I could close that door against her presen=
ce.
Explain why she distressed me so.'
'She could not bear to be quite
outcast; and then she would sometimes get a notion into her head, on a cold,
wet day, that the schoolroom was no cheerful place, and feel it incumbent on
her to go and see if you and Henry kept up a good fire; and once there she
liked to stay.'
'But she should not be changeful: =
if
she came at all, she should come oftener.'
'There is such a thing as intrusio=
n.'
'To-morrow, you will not be as you=
are
to-day.'
'I don't know. Will you?'
'I am not mad, most noble Berenice=
! We
may give one day to dreaming, but the next we must awake; and I shall awake=
to
purpose the morning you are married to Sir Philip Nunnely. The fire shines =
on
you and me, and shows us very clearly in the glass, Miss Keeldar; and I have
been gazing on the picture all the time I have been talking. Look up! What a
difference between your head and mine! - I look old for thirty!'
'You are so grave; you have such a
square brow; and your face is sallow. I never regard you as a young man, no=
r as
Robert's junior.'
'Don't you? I thought not. Imagine
Robert's clear-cut, handsome face looking over my shoulder. Does not the
apparition make vividly manifest the obtuse mould of my heavy traits? There=
!'
(he started) 'I have been expecting that wire to vibrate this last half-hou=
r.'
The dinner-bell rang, and Shirley
rose.
'Mr Moore,' she said, as she gathe=
red
up her silks, 'have you heard from your brother lately? Do you know what he
means by staying in town so long? Does he talk of returning?'
'He talks of returning; but what h=
as
caused his long absence I cannot tell. To speak the truth, I thought none in
Yorkshire knew better than yourself why he was reluctant to come home.'
A crimson shadow passed across Miss
Keeldar's cheek.
'Write to him and urge him to come=
,'
she said. 'I know there has been no impolicy in protracting his absence thus
far: it is good to let the mill stand, while trade is so bad; but he must n=
ot
abandon the county.'
'I am aware,' said Louis, 'that he=
had
an interview with you the evening before he left, and I saw him quit Fieldh=
ead
afterwards. I read his countenance, or tried to read it. He turned from me.=
I
divined that he would be long away. Some fine, slight fingers have a wondro=
us
knack at pulverising a man's brittle pride. I suppose Robert put too much t=
rust
in his manly beauty and native gentlemanhood. Those are better off who, bei=
ng
destitute of advantage, cannot cherish delusion. But I will write, and say =
you
advise his return.'
'Do not say I advise his return, b=
ut
that his return is advisable.'
The second bell rang, and Miss Kee=
ldar
obeyed its call.
Louis Moore was used to a quiet li=
fe:
being a quiet man, he endured it better than most men would: having a large
world of his own in his own head and heart, he tolerated confinement to a
small, still corner of the real world very patiently.
How hushed is Fieldhead this eveni= ng All but Moore - Miss Keeldar, the whole family of the Sympsons, even Henry - are gone to Nunnely. Sir Philip would have them come: he wished to make them acquainted with his mother and sisters, who are now at the Priory. Kind gen= tleman as the Baronet is, he asked the tutor too; but the tutor would much sooner = have made an appointment with the ghost of the Earl of Huntingdon to meet him, a= nd a shadowy ring of his merry men, under the canopy of the thickest, blackest, oldest oak in Nunnely Forest. Yes, he would rather have appointed tryst wit= h a phantom abbess, or mist-pale nun, among the wet and weedy relics of that ru= ined sanctuary of theirs, mouldering in the core of the wood. Louis Moore longs = to have something near him to-night: but not the boy-baronet, nor his benevole= nt but stern mother, nor his patrician sisters, nor one soul of the Sympsons.<= o:p>
This night is not calm: the equinox
still struggles in its storms. The wild rains of the day are abated: the gr=
eat
single cloud disparts and rolls away from heaven, not passing and leaving a=
sea
all sapphire, but tossed buoyant before a continued, long-sounding,
high-rushing moonlight tempest. The Moon reigns glorious, glad of the gale;=
as
glad as if she gave herself to his fierce caress with love. No Endymion will
watch for his goddess to-night: there are no flocks out on the mountains; a=
nd
it is well, for to-night she welcomes Aeolus.
Moore - sitting in the schoolroom -
heard the storm roar round the other gable, and along the hall-front: this =
end
was sheltered. He wanted no shelter; he desired no subdued sounds or screen=
ed
position.
'All the parlours are empty,' said=
he:
'I am sick at heart of this cell.'
He left it, and went where the
casements, larger and freer than the branch- screened lattice of his own
apartment, admitted unimpeded the dark-blue, the silver-fleeced, the stirri=
ng
and sweeping vision of the autumn night-sky. He carried no candle: unneeded=
was
lamp or fire: the broad and clear, though cloud crossed and fluctuating bea=
m of
the moon shone on every floor and wall.
Moore wanders through all the room=
s:
he seems following a phantom from parlour to parlour. In the oak-room he st=
ops;
this is not chill, and polished, and fireless like the salon: the hearth is=
hot
and ruddy; the cinders tinkle in the intense heat of their clear glow; near=
the
rug is a little work-table, a desk upon it, a chair near it.
Does the vision Moore has tracked
occupy that chair? You would think so, could you see him standing before it.
There is as much interest now in his eye, and as much significance in his f=
ace,
as if in this household solitude he had found a living companion, and was g=
oing
to speak to it.
He makes discoveries. A bag, a sma=
ll
satin bag, hangs on the chair-back. The desk is open, the keys are in the l=
ock;
a pretty seal, a silver pen, a crimson berry or two of ripe fruit on a green
leaf, a small, clean, delicate glove - these trifles at once decorate and
disarrange the stand they strew. Order forbids details in a picture: she pu=
ts
them tidily away; but details give charm.
Moore spoke.
'Her mark,' he said: 'here she has
been - careless, attractive thing! - called away in haste, doubtless, and
forgetting to return and put all to rights. Why does she leave fascination =
in
her footprints? Whence did she acquire the gift to be heedless, and never
offend? There is always something to chide in her, and the reprimand never
settles in displeasure on the heart; but, for her lover or her husband, whe=
n it
had trickled a while in words, would naturally melt from his lips in a kiss.
Better pass half-an-hour in remonstrating with her, than a day in admiring =
or
praising any other woman alive. Am I muttering? - soliloquising? Stop that.=
'
He did stop it. He stood thinking;=
and
then he made an arrangement for his evening's comfort.
He dropped the curtains over the b=
road
window and regal moon: he shut out Sovereign and Court and Starry Armies; he
added fuel to the hot but fast-wasting fire; he lit a candle, of which there
were a pair on the table; he placed another chair opposite that near the
work-stand, and then he sat down. His next movement was to take from his po=
cket
a small, thick book of blank paper; to produce a pencil; and to begin to wr=
ite
in a cramp, compact hand. Come near, by all means, reader: do not be shy: s=
toop
over his shoulder fearlessly, and read as he scribbles.
'It is nine o'clock; the carriage =
will
not return before eleven, I am certain. Freedom is mine till then: till the=
n, I
may occupy her room; sit opposite her chair rest my elbow on her table; have
her little mementoes about me.
'I used rather to like Solitude - =
to
fancy her a somewhat quiet and serious, yet fair nymph; an Oread, descendin=
g to
me from lone mountain-passes; something of the blue mist of hills in her ar=
ray
and of their chill breeze in her breath - but much, also, of their solemn
beauty in her mien. I once could court her serenely, and imagine my heart
easier when I held her to it - all mute, but majestic.
'Since that day I called S. to me =
in
the schoolroom, and she came and sat so near my side; since she opened the
trouble of her mind to me - asked my protection - appealed to my strength:
since that hour I abhor Solitude. Cold abstraction - fleshless skeleton -
daughter - mother - and mate of Death!
'It is pleasant to write about wha=
t is
near and dear as the core of my heart: none can deprive me of this little b=
ook,
and through this pencil, I can say to it what I will - say what I dare utte=
r to
nothing living - say what I dare not think aloud.
'We have scarcely encountered each=
other
since that evening. Once, when I was alone in the drawing-room, seeking a b=
ook
of Henry's, she entered, dressed for a concert at Stilbro'. Shyness - her
shyness, not mine - drew a silver veil between us. Much cant have I heard a=
nd
read about 'maiden modesty'; but, properly used, and not hackneyed, the wor=
ds
are good and appropriate words: as she passed to the window, after tacitly =
but
gracefully recognising me, I could call her nothing in my own mind save
'stainless virgin': to my perception, a delicate splendour robed her, and t=
he
modesty of girlhood was her halo. I may be the most fatuous, as I am one of=
the
plainest, of men; but, in truth, that shyness of hers touched me exquisitel=
y:
it flattered my finest sensations. I looked a stupid block, I dare say: I w=
as
alive with a life of Paradise, as she turned her glance from my glance, and
softly averted her head to hide the suffusion of her cheek.
'I know this is the talk of a drea=
mer
- of a rapt, romantic lunatic: I do dream: I will dream now and then; and if
she has inspired romance into my prosaic composition, how can I help it?
'What a child she is sometimes! Wh=
at
an unsophisticated, untaught thing! I see her now, looking up into my face,=
and
entreating me to prevent them from smothering her, and to be sure and give =
her
a strong narcotic: I see her confessing that she was not so self-sufficing,=
so
independent of sympathy, as people thought: I see the secret tear drop quie=
tly
from her eyelash. She said I thought her childish - and I did. She imagined=
I despised
her. - Despised her! it was unutterably sweet to feel myself at once near h=
er
and above her: to be conscious of a natural right and power to sustain her,=
as
a husband should sustain his wife.
'I worship her perfections; but it=
is
her faults, or at least her foibles, that bring her near to me - that nestle
her to my heart - that fold her about with my love - and that for a most
selfish, but deeply-natural reason; these faults are the steps by which I m=
ount
to ascendancy over her. If she rose a trimmed, artificial mound, without
inequality, what vantage would she offer the foot? It is the natural hill, =
with
its mossy breaks and hollows, whose slope invites ascent - whose summit it =
is
pleasure to gain.
'To leave metaphor. It delights my=
eye
to look on her: she suits me: if I were a king, and she the housemaid that
swept my palace-stairs - across all that space between us - my eye would
recognise her qualities; a true pulse would beat for her in my heart, thoug=
h an
unspanned gulf made acquaintance impossible. If I were a gentleman, and she
waited on me as a servant, I could not help liking that Shirley. Take from =
her
her education - take her ornaments, her sumptuous dress - all extrinsic
advantages - take all grace, but such as the symmetry of her form renders
inevitable; present her to me at a cottage-door, in a stuff- gown: let her
offer me there a draught of water, with that smile - with that warm goodwill
with which she now dispenses manorial hospitality - I should like her. I sh=
ould
wish to stay an hour: I should linger to talk with that rustic. I should not
feel as I now do. I should find in her nothing divine; but whenever I met t=
he
young peasant, it would be with pleasure - whenever I left her, it would be
with regret.
'How culpably careless in her to l=
eave
her desk open, where I know she has money! In the lock hang the keys of all=
her
repositories, of her very jewel- casket. There is a purse in that little sa=
tin
bag: I see the tassel of silver beads hanging out. That spectacle would pro=
voke
my brother Robert: all her little failings would, I know, be a source of
irritation to him; if they vex me it is a most pleasurable vexation: I deli=
ght
to find her at fault, and were I always resident with her, I am aware she w=
ould
be no niggard in thus ministering to my enjoyment. She would just give me
something to do; to rectify: a theme for my tutor-lectures. I never lecture
Henry: never feel disposed to do so: if he does wrong, - and that is very
seldom, dear excellent lad! - a word suffices: often I do no more than shak=
e my
head; but the moment her 'minois mutin' meets my eye, expostulatory words c=
rowd
to my lips: from a taciturn man, I believe she would transform me into a
talker. Whence comes the delight I take in that talk? It puzzles myself
sometimes; the more crâne, malin, taquin is her mood, consequently the
clearer occasion she gives me for disapprobation, the more I seek her, the
better I like her. She is never wilder than when equipped in her habit and =
hat:
never less manageable than when she and Zoë come in fiery from a race =
with
the wind on the hills: and I confess it - to this mute page I may confess i=
t -
I have waited an hour in the court, for the chance of witnessing her return,
and for the dearer chance of receiving her in my arms from the saddle. I ha=
ve
noticed (again, it is to this page only I would make the remark) that she w=
ill
never permit any man but myself to render her that assistance. I have seen =
her
politely decline Sir Philip Nunnely's aid: she is always mighty gentle with=
her
young baronet; mighty tender of his feelings, forsooth, and of his very
thin-skinned amour-propre: I have marked her haughtily reject Sam Wynne's. =
Now
I know - my heart knows it, for it has felt it - that she resigns herself t=
o me
unreluctantly: is she conscious how my strength rejoices to serve her? I my=
self
am not her slave - I declare it, - but my faculties gather to her beauty, l=
ike
the genii to the glisten of the Lamp. All my knowledge, all my prudence, al=
l my
calm, and all my power, stand in her presence humbly waiting a task. How gl=
ad
they are when a mandate comes! What joy they take in the toils she assigns.
Does she know it?
'I have called her careless: it is
remarkable that her carelessness never compromises her refinement; indeed,
through this very loophole of character, the reality, depth, genuineness of
that refinement may be ascertained: a whole garment sometimes covers meagre=
ness
and malformation; through a rent sleeve, a fair round arm may be revealed. I
have seen and handled many of her possessions, because they are frequently
astray. I never saw anything that did not proclaim the lady: nothing sordid,
nothing soiled; in one sense she is as scrupulous as, in another, she is
unthinking: as a peasant girl, she would go ever trim and cleanly. Look at =
the pure
kid of this little glove, - at the fresh, unsullied satin of the bag.
'What a difference there is betwee=
n S.
and that pearl C. H.! Caroline, I fancy, is the soul of conscientious
punctuality and nice exactitude; she would precisely suit the domestic habi=
ts
of a certain fastidious kinsman of mine: so delicate, dexterous, quaint, qu=
ick,
quiet; all done to a minute, all arranged to a straw-breadth: she would suit
Robert; but what could I do with anything so nearly faultless? She is my eq=
ual;
poor as myself; she is certainly pretty: a little Raffaelle head hers;
Raffaelle in feature, quite English in expression: all insular grace and
purity; but where is there anything to alter, anything to endure, anything =
to
reprimand, to be anxious about? There she is, a lily of the valley, untinte=
d,
needing no tint. What change could improve her? What pencil dare to paint? =
My
sweetheart, if I ever have one, must bear nearer affinity to the rose: a sw=
eet,
lively delight guarded with prickly peril. My wife, if I ever marry, must s=
tir
my great frame with a sting now and then; she must furnish use to her husba=
nd's
vast mass of patience. I was not made so enduring to be mated with a lamb: I
should find more congenial responsibility in the charge of a young lioness =
or
leopardess. I like few things sweet, but what are likewise pungent; few thi=
ngs
bright, but what are likewise hot. I like the summer-day, whose sun makes f=
ruit
blush and corn blanch. Beauty is never so beautiful as when, if I tease it,=
it
wreathes back on me with spirit. Fascination is never so imperial as when,
roused and half ireful, she threatens transformation to fierceness. I fear I
should tire of the mute, monotonous innocence of the lamb; I should erelong
feel as burdensome the nestling dove which never stirred in my bosom: but my
patience would exult in stilling the flutterings and training the energies =
of
the restless merlin. In managing the wild instincts of the scarce manageabl=
e ‘bête
fauve,’ my powers would revel.
'Oh, my pupil! Oh, Peri! too mutin=
ous
for heaven - too innocent for hell! never shall I do more than see, and
worship, and wish for thee. Alas! knowing I could make thee happy, will it =
be
my doom to see thee possessed by those who have not that power?
'However kindly the hand - if it is
feeble, it cannot bend Shirley; and she must be bent: it cannot curb her; a=
nd
she must be curbed.
'Beware! Sir Philip Nunnely! I nev=
er
see you walking or sitting at her side, and observe her lips compressed, or=
her
brow knit, in resolute endurance of some trait of your character which she
neither admires nor likes; in determined toleration of some weakness she
believes atoned for by a virtue, but which annoys her, despite that belief:=
I
never mark the grave glow of her face, the unsmiling sparkle of her eye, the
slight recoil of her whole frame when you draw a little too near, and gaze a
little too expressively, and whisper a little too warmly: I never witness t=
hese
things, but I think of the fable of Semele reversed.
'It is not the daughter of Cadmus I
see: nor do I realise her fatal longing to look on Jove in the majesty of h=
is
godhead. It is a priest of Juno that stands before me, watching late and lo=
ne
at a shrine in an Argive temple. For years of solitary ministry, he has liv=
ed
on dreams: there is divine madness upon him: he loves the idol he serves, a=
nd
prays day and night that his frenzy may be fed, and that the Ox-eyed may sm=
ile
on her votary. She has heard; she will be propitious. All Argos slumbers. T=
he
doors of the temple are shut: the priest waits at the altar.
'A shock of heaven and earth is fe=
lt -
not by the slumbering city; only by that lonely watcher, brave and unshaken=
in
his fanaticism. In the midst of silence, with no preluding sound, he is wra=
pt
in sudden light. Through the roof - through the rent, wide-yawning, vast,
white-blazing blue of heaven above, pours a wondrous descent - dread as the
down-rushing of stars. He has what he asked: withdraw - forbear to look - I=
am
blinded. I hear in that fane an unspeakable sound - would that I could not =
hear
it! I see an insufferable glory burning terribly between the pillars. Gods =
be
merciful and quench it!
'A pious Argive enters to make an
early offering in the cool dawn of morning. There was thunder in the night:=
the
bolt fell here. The shrine is shivered: the marble pavement round, split and
blackened. Saturnia's statue rises chaste, grand, untouched: at her feet, p=
iled
ashes lie pale. No priest remains: he who watched will be seen no more.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
.
'There is the carriage! Let me loc=
k up
the desk and pocket the keys: she will be seeking them to-morrow: she will =
have
to come to me. I hear her - 'Mr Moore, have you seen my keys?'
'So she will say, in her clear voi=
ce,
speaking with reluctance, looking ashamed, conscious that this is the twent=
ieth
time of asking. I will tantalise her: keep her with me, expecting, doubting;
and when I do restore them, it shall not be without a lecture. Here is the =
bag,
too, and the purse; the glove - pen - -seal. She shall wring them all out o=
f me
slowly and separately: only by confession, penitence, entreaty. I never can
touch her hand, or a ringlet of her head, or a ribbon of her dress, but I w=
ill
make privileges for myself: every feature of her face, her bright eyes, her
lips, shall go through each change they know, for my pleasure: display each
exquisite variety of glance and curve, to delight - thrill - perhaps, more
hopelessly to enchain me. If I must be her slave, I will not lose my freedom
for nothing.'
He locked the desk, pocketed all t=
he
property, and went.
Everybody said it was high time fo=
r Mr
Moore to return home: all Briarfield wondered at his strange absence, and
Whinbury and Nunnely brought each its separate contribution of amazement.
Was it known why he stayed away? Y=
es:
it was known twenty - forty times over; there being, at least, forty plausi=
ble
reasons adduced to account for the unaccountable circumstance. Business it =
was
not - that the gossips agreed: he had achieved the business on which he dep=
arted
long ago: his four ringleaders he had soon scented out and run down: he had
attended their trial, heard their conviction and sentence, and seen them sa=
fely
shipped prior to transportation.
This was known at Briarfield: the
newspapers had reported it: the Stilbro' Courier had given every particular,
with amplifications. None applauded his perseverance, or hailed his success;
though the mill-owners were glad of it, trusting that the terrors of Law
vindicated would henceforward paralyse the sinister valour of disaffection.
Disaffection, however, was still heard muttering to himself. He swore omino=
us
oaths over the drugged beer of ale- houses, and drank strange toasts in fie=
ry
British gin.
One report affirmed that Moore dar=
ed
not come to Yorkshire; he knew his life was not worth an hour's purchase, i=
f he
did.
'I'll tell him that,' said Mr York=
e,
when his foreman mentioned the rumour; 'and if that does not bring him home
full-gallop - nothing will.'
Either that or some other motive
prevailed, at last, to recall him. He announced to Joe Scott the day he sho=
uld
arrive at Stilbro', desiring his hackney to be sent to the 'George' for his
accommodation; and Joe Scott having informed Mr Yorke, that gentleman made =
it
in his way to meet him.
It was market-day: Moore arrived in
time to take his usual place at the market-dinner. As something of a strang=
er -
and as a man of note and action - the assembled manufacturers received him =
with
a certain distinction. Some - who in public would scarcely have dared to
acknowledge his acquaintance, lest a little of the hate and vengeance laid =
up
in store for him should perchance have fallen on them - in private hailed h=
im
as in some sort their champion. When the wine had circulated, their respect
would have kindled to enthusiasm, had not Moore's unshaken nonchalance held=
it
in a damp, low, smouldering state.
Mr Yorke - the permanent president=
of
these dinners - witnessed his young friend's bearing with exceeding
complacency. If one thing could stir his temper or excite his contempt more
than another, it was to see a man befooled by flattery, or elate with
popularity. If one thing smoothed, soothed, and charmed him especially, it =
was
the spectacle of a public character incapable of relishing his publicity:
incapable, I say; disdain would but have incensed - it was indifference that
appeased his rough spirit.
Robert, leaning back in his chair,
quiet and almost surly, while the clothiers and blanket-makers vaunted his
prowess and rehearsed his deeds - many of them interspersing their flatteri=
es
with coarse invectives against the operative class - was a delectable sight=
for
Mr Yorke. His heart tingled with the pleasing conviction that these gross
eulogiums shamed Moore deeply, and made him half-scorn himself and his work=
. On
abuse, on reproach, on calumny, it is easy to smile; but painful indeed is =
the
panegyric of those we contemn. Often had Moore gazed with a brilliant
countenance over howling crowds from a hostile hustings: he had breasted the
storm of unpopularity with gallant bearing and soul elate; but he drooped h=
is
head under the half-bred tradesmen's praise, and shrank chagrined before th=
eir
congratulations.
Yorke could not help asking him ho=
w he
liked his supporters, and whether he did not think they did honour to his
cause. 'But it is a pity, lad,' he added, 'that you did not hang these four
samples of the Unwashed. If you had managed that feat, the gentry here would
have riven the horses out of the coach, yoked to a score of asses, and drawn
you into Stilbro' like a conquering general.'
Moore soon forsook the wine, broke
from the party, and took the road. In less than five minutes Mr Yorke follo=
wed
him: they rode out of Stilbro' together.
It was early to go home, but yet it
was late in the day: the last ray of the sun had already faded from the
cloud-edges, and the October night was casting over the moorlands the shado=
w of
her approach.
Mr York - moderately exhilarated w=
ith
his moderate libations, and not displeased to see young Moore again in
Yorkshire, and to have him for his comrade during the long ride home - took=
the
discourse much to himself. He touched briefly, but scoffingly, on the trials
and the conviction: he passed thence to the gossip of the neighbourhood, an=
d,
ere long, he attacked Moore on his own personal concerns.
'Bob, I believe you are worsted; a=
nd
you deserve it. All was smooth. Fortune had fallen in love with you: she had
decreed you the first prize in her wheel - twenty thousand pounds: she only
required that you should hold your hand out and take it. And what did you d=
o?
You called for a horse and rode a-hunting to Warwickshire. Your sweetheart -
Fortune, I mean - was perfectly indulgent. She said, 'I'll excuse him: he's
young.' She waited like 'Patience on a monument,' till the chase was over, =
and
the vermin-prey run down. She expected you would come back then, and be a g=
ood
lad: you might still have had her first prize.
'It capped her beyond expression, =
and
me too, to find that, instead of thundering home in a breakneck gallop, and
laying your assize-laurels at her feet, you coolly took coach up to London.
What you have done there, Satan knows: nothing in this world, I believe, but
sat and sulked: your face was never lily- fair, but it is olive-green now.
You're not as bonnie as you were, man.'
'And who is to have this prize you
talk so much about?'
'Only a baronet: that is all. I ha=
ve
not a doubt in my own mind you've lost her: she will be Lady Nunnely before
Christmas.'
'Hem! Quite probable.'
'But she need not to have been. Fo=
ol
of a lad! I swear you might have had her!'
'By what token, Mr Yorke?'
'By every token. By the light of h=
er
eyes, the red of her cheeks: red they grew when your name was mentioned, th=
ough
of custom they are pale.'
'My chance is quite over, I suppos=
e?'
'It ought to be; but try: it is wo=
rth
trying. I call this Sir Philip milk and water. And then he writes verses, t=
hey
say - tags rhymes. You are above that, Bob, at all events.'
'Would you advise me to propose, l=
ate
as it is, Mr Yorke? at the eleventh hour?'
'You can but make the experiment,
Robert. If she has a fancy for you - and, on my conscience, I believe she h=
as,
or had - she will forgive much. But, my lad, you are laughing: is it at me?=
You
had better grin at your own perverseness. I see, however, you laugh at the
wrong side of your mouth: you have as sour a look at this moment as one need
wish to see.'
'I have so quarrelled with myself,
Yorke. I have so kicked against the pricks, and struggled in a strait
waistcoat, and dislocated my wrists with wrenching them in handcuffs, and
battered my hard head, by driving it against a harder wall.'
'Ha! I'm glad to hear that. Sharp
exercise yon! I hope it has done you good; ta'en some of the self-conceit o=
ut
of you?'
'Self-conceit! What is it?
Self-respect, self-tolerance, even, what are they? Do you sell the articles=
? Do
you know anybody who does? Give an indication: they would find in me a libe=
ral
chapman. I would part with my last guinea this minute to buy.'
'Is it so with you, Robert? I find
that spicy. I like a man to speak his mind. What has gone wrong?'
'The machinery of all my nature; t=
he
whole enginery of this human mill: the boiler, which I take to be the heart=
, is
fit to burst.'
'That suld be putten i' print: it's
striking. It's almost blank verse. Ye'll be jingling into poetry just e'now=
. If
the afflatus comes, give way, Robert; never heed me: I'll bear it this whet
(time).'
'Hideous, abhorrent, base blunder!=
You
may commit in a moment, what you may rue for years - what life cannot cance=
l.'
'Lad, go on. I call it pie, nuts,
sugar-candy. I like the taste uncommonly. Go on: it will do you good to tal=
k:
the moor is before us now, and there is no life for many a mile round.'
'I will talk. I am not ashamed to
tell. There is a sort of wild cat in my breast, and I choose that you shall
hear how it can yell.'
'To me it is music. What grand voi=
ces
you and Louis have! When Louis sings - tones off like a soft, deep bell, I'=
ve
felt myself tremble again. The night is still: it listens: it is just leani=
ng
down to you, like a black priest to a blacker penitent. Confess, lad: smooth
naught down: be candid as a convicted, justified, sanctified Methody at an
experience-meeting. Make yourself as wicked as Beelzebub: it will ease your
mind.'
'As mean as Mammon, you would say.
Yorke, if I got off horseback and laid myself down across the road, would y=
ou
have the goodness to gallop over me - backwards and forwards - about twenty
times?'
'Wi' all the pleasure in life, if
there were no such thing as a coroner's inquest.'
'Hiram Yorke, I certainly believed=
she
loved me. I have seen her eyes sparkle radiantly when she has found me out =
in a
crowd: she has flushed up crimson when she has offered me her hand, and sai=
d,
'How do you do, Mr Moore?'
'My name had a magical influence o=
ver
her: when others uttered it, she changed countenance, - I know she did. She
pronounced it herself in the most musical of her many musical tones. She was
cordial to me; she took an interest in me; she was anxious about me; she wi=
shed
me well; she sought, she seized every opportunity to benefit me. I consider=
ed,
paused, watched, weighed, wondered: I could come to but one conclusion - th=
is
is love.
'I looked at her, Yorke: I saw, in
her, youth and a species of beauty. I saw power in her. Her wealth offered =
me
the redemption of my honour and my standing. I owed her gratitude. She had
aided me substantially and effectually by a loan of five thousand pounds. C=
ould
I remember these things? Could I believe she loved me? Could I hear wisdom =
urge
me to marry her, and disregard every dear advantage, disbelieve every
flattering suggestion, disdain every well-weighed counsel, turn and leave h=
er?
Young, graceful, gracious, - my benefactress, attached to me, enamoured of =
me,
- I used to say so to myself; dwell on the word; mouth it over and over aga=
in;
swell over it with a pleasant, pompous complacency, - with an admiration
dedicated entirely to myself, and unimpaired even by esteem for her; indeed=
, I
smiled in deep secrecy at her naïveté and simplicity, in being =
the
first to love, and to show it. That whip of yours seems to have a good heavy
handle, Yorke: you can swing it about your head and knock me out of the sad=
dle,
if you choose. I should rather relish a loundering whack.'
'Tak' patience, Robert, till the m=
oon
rises, and I can see you. Speak plain out, - did you love her or not? I cou=
ld
like to know: I feel curious.'
'Sir . . . Sir - I say - she is ve=
ry
pretty, in her own style, and very attractive. She has a look, at times, of=
a
thing made out of fire and air, at which I stand and marvel, without a thou=
ght
of clasping and kissing it. I felt in her a powerful magnet to my interest =
and
vanity: I never felt as if nature meant her to be my other and better self.
When a question on that head rushed upon me, I flung it off, saying brutall=
y, I
should be rich with her, and ruined without her: vowing I would be practica=
l,
and not romantic.'
'A very sensible resolve. What
mischief came of it, Bob?'
'With this sensible resolve, I wal=
ked
up to Fieldhead one night last August: it was the very eve of my departure =
for
Birmingham - for - you see - I wanted to secure fortune's splendid prize: I=
had
previously despatched a note, requesting a private interview. I found her at
home, and alone.
'She received me without
embarrassment, for she thought I came on business: I was embarrassed enough,
but determined. I hardly know how I got the operation over; but I went to w=
ork
in a hard, firm fashion, - frightful enough, I dare say. I sternly offered
myself - my fine person - with my debts, of course, as a settlement.
'It vexed me; it kindled my ire, to
find that she neither blushed, trembled, nor looked down. She responded - 'I
doubt whether I have understood you, Mr Moore.'
'And I had to go over the whole
proposal twice, and word it as plainly as A B C, before she would fully tak=
e it
in. And then, what did she do? Instead of faltering a sweet Yes, or maintai=
ning
a soft, confused silence (which would have been as good) she started up, wa=
lked
twice fast through the room, in the way that she only does, and no other wo=
man,
and ejaculated - 'God bless me!'
'Yorke, I stood on the hearth, bac=
ked
by the mantelpiece; against it I leaned, and prepared for anything -
everything. I knew my doom, and I knew myself. There was no misunderstanding
her aspect and voice. She stopped and looked at me.
'God bless me!' she piteously
repeated, in that shocked, indignant, yet saddened accent. 'You have made a
strange proposal - strange from you; and if you knew how strangely you word=
ed
it, and looked it, you would be startled at yourself. You spoke like a brig=
and
who demanded my purse, rather than like a lover who asked my heart.'
'A queer sentence, was it not, Yor=
ke?
and I knew, as she uttered it, it was true as queer. Her words were a mirro=
r in
which I saw myself.
'I looked at her, dumb and wolfish:
she at once enraged and shamed me.
'Gérard Moore, you know you
don't love Shirley Keeldar.' I might have broken out into false swearing: v=
owed
that I did love her; but I could not lie in her pure face: I could not perj=
ure
myself in her truthful presence. Besides, such hollow oaths would have been
vain as void: she would no more have believed me than she would have believ=
ed
the ghost of Judas, had he broken from the night and stood before her. Her
female heart had finer perceptions than to be cheated into mistaking my hal=
f-coarse,
half-cold admiration, for true-throbbing, manly love.
'What next happened? you will say,=
Mr
Yorke.
'Why, she sat down in the window-s=
eat
and cried. She cried passionately: her eyes not only rained, but lightened.
They flashed, open, large, dark, haughty, upon me: they said - 'You have pa=
ined
me: you have outraged me: you have deceived me.'
'She added words soon to looks.
'I did respect - I did admire - I =
did
like you,' she said: 'yes - as much as if you were my brother: and you - you
want to make a speculation of me. You would immolate me to that mill - your
Moloch!'
'I had the common sense to abstain
from any word of excuse - any attempt at palliation: I stood to be scorned.=
'Sold to the devil for the time be=
ing,
I was certainly infatuated: when I did speak, what do you think I said?
'Whatever my own feelings were, I =
was
persuaded you loved me, Miss Keeldar.'
'Beautiful! - was it not? She sat
quite confounded. 'Is it Robert Moore that speaks?' I heard her mutter. 'Is=
it
a man - or something lower?'
'Do you mean,' she asked aloud - '=
do
you mean you thought I loved you as we love those we wish to marry?'
'It was my meaning; and I said so.=
'You conceived an idea obnoxious t=
o a
woman's feelings,' was her answer: 'you have announced it in a fashion revo=
lting
to a woman's soul. You insinuate that all the frank kindness I have shown y=
ou
has been a complicated, a bold, and an immodest manoeuvre to ensnare a husb=
and:
you imply that at last you come here out of pity to offer me your hand, bec=
ause
I have courted you. Let me say this: - Your sight is jaundiced: you have se=
en
wrong. Your mind is warped: you have judged wrong. Your tongue betrays you:=
you
now speak wrong. I never loved you. Be at rest there. My heart is as pure of
passion for you as yours is barren of affection for me.'
'I hope I was answered, Yorke?
'I seem to be a blind besotted sor=
t of
person,' was my remark.
'Loved you I' she cried. 'Why, I h=
ave
been as frank with you as a sister - never shunned you - never feared you. =
You
cannot,' she affirmed triumphantly - 'you cannot make me tremble with your
coming, nor accelerate my pulse by your influence.'
'I alleged that often, when she sp=
oke
to me, she blushed, and that the sound of my name moved her.
'Not for your sake!' she declared
briefly: I urged explanation, but could get none.
'When I sat beside you at the
school-feast, did you think I loved you then? When I stopped you in Maythorn
Lane, did you think I loved you then? When I called on you in the
counting-house - when I walked with you on the pavement - did you think I l=
oved
you then?'
'So she questioned me; and I said I
did.
'By the Lord! Yorke - she rose - s=
he
grew tall - she expanded and refined almost to flame: there was a trembling=
all
through her, as in live coal, when its vivid vermilion is hottest.
'That is to say, that you have the
worst opinion of me: that you deny me the possession of all I value most. T=
hat
is to say, that I am a traitor to all my sisters: that I have acted as no w=
oman
can act, without degrading herself and her sex: that I have sought where the
incorrupt of my kind naturally scorn and abhor to seek.' She and I were sil=
ent
for many a minute. 'Lucifer - Star of the Morning!' she went on, 'thou art
fallen. You - once high in my esteem - are hurled down: you - once intimate=
in my
friendship - are cast out. Go!'
'I went not: I had heard her voice
tremble - seen her lip quiver: I knew another storm of tears would fall; and
then, I believed, some calm and some sunshine must come, and I would wait f=
or
it.
'As fast, but more quietly than
before, the warm rain streamed down: there was another sound in her weeping=
- a
softer, more regretful sound. While I watched, her eyes lifted to me a gaze
more reproachful than haughty - more mournful than incensed.
'Oh, Moore!' said she: it was wors=
e than
'Et tu, Brute!'
'I relieved myself by what should =
have
been a sigh, but it became a groan. A sense of Cain-like desolation made my
breast ache.
'There has been error in what I ha=
ve
done,' I said, 'and it has won me bitter wages: which I will go and spend f=
ar
from her who gave them.'
'I took my hat. All the time, I co=
uld
not have borne to depart so; and I believed she would not let me. Nor would
she, but for the mortal pang I had given her pride, that cowed her compassi=
on
and kept her silent.
'I was obliged to turn back of my =
own
accord when I reached the door, to approach her and to say, 'Forgive me.'
'I could, if there was not myself =
to
forgive, too,' was her reply; 'but to mislead a sagacious man so far, I must
have done wrong.'
'I broke out suddenly with some
declamation I do not remember: I know that it was sincere, and that my wish=
and
aim were to absolve her to herself: in fact, in her case, self-accusation w=
as a
chimera.
'At last, she extended her hand. F=
or
the first time I wished to take her in my arms and kiss her. I did kiss her
hand many times.
'Some day we shall be friends agai=
n,'
she said, 'when you have had time to read my actions and motives in a true
light, and not so horribly to misinterpret them. Time may give you the right
key to all: then, perhaps, you will comprehend me; and then we shall be
reconciled.'
'Farewell drops rolled slow down h=
er
cheeks: she wiped them away.
'I am sorry for what has happened -
deeply sorry,' she sobbed. So was I, God knows! Thus were we severed.'
'A queer tale!' commented Mr Yorke=
.
'I'll do it no more,' vowed his
companion: 'never more will I mention marriage to a woman, unless I feel lo=
ve.
Henceforth, Credit and Commerce may take care of themselves. Bankruptcy may
come when it lists. I have done with slavish fear of disaster. I mean to wo=
rk
diligently, wait patiently, bear steadily. Let the worst come - I will take=
an
axe and an emigrant's berth, and go out with Louis to the West - he and I h=
ave
settled it. No woman shall ever again look at me as Miss Keeldar looked - e=
ver
again feel towards me as Miss Keeldar felt: in no woman's presence will I e=
ver
again stand at once such a fool and such a knave - such a brute and such a
puppy.'
'Tut!' said the imperturbable York=
e,
'you make too much of it; but still, I say, I am capped: firstly, that she =
did
not love you; and, secondly, that you did not love her. You are both young;=
you
are both handsome; you are both well enough for wit, and even for temper - =
take
you on the right side: what ailed you, that you could not agree?'
'We never have been - never could =
be
at home with each other, Yorke. Admire each other as we might at a distance,
still we jarred when we came very near. I have sat at one side of a room and
observed her at the other; perhaps in an excited, genial moment, when she h=
ad
some of her favourites round her - her old beaux, for instance, yourself and
Helstone, with whom she is so playful, pleasant, and eloquent. I have watch=
ed
her when she was most natural, most lively, and most lovely: my judgment ha=
s pronounced
her beautiful: beautiful she is, at times, when her mood and her array part=
ake
of the splendid. I have drawn a little nearer, feeling that our terms of
acquaintance gave me the right of approach; I have joined the circle round =
her
seat, caught her eye, and mastered her attention; then we have conversed; a=
nd
others - thinking me, perhaps, peculiarly privileged - have withdrawn by
degrees, and left us alone. Were we happy thus left? For myself, I must say,
No. Always a feeling of constraint came over me; always I was disposed to be
stern and strange. We talked politics and business: no soft sense of domest=
ic
intimacy ever opened our hearts, or thawed our language, and made it flow e=
asy
and limpid. If we had confidences, they were confidences of the counting-ho=
use,
not of the heart. Nothing in her cherished affection in me - made me better,
gentler: she only stirred my brain and whetted my acuteness: she never crept
into my heart or influenced its pulse; and for this good reason, no doubt,
because I had not the secret of making her love me.'
'Well, lad, it is a queer thing. I
might laugh at thee, and reckon to despise thy refinements; but as it is da=
rk
night and we are by ourselves, I don't mind telling thee that thy talk brin=
gs
back a glimpse of my own past life. Twenty- five years ago, I tried to pers=
uade
a beautiful woman to love me, and she would not. I had not the key to her
nature: she was a stone wall to me, doorless and windowless.'
'But you loved her, Yorke: you
worshipped Mary Cave: your conduct, after all, was that of a man - never of=
a
fortune-hunter.'
'Ay! I did love her: but then she =
was
beautiful as the moon we do not see to- night; there is nought like her in
these days: Miss Helstone, maybe, has a look of her, but nobody else.'
'Who has a look of her?'
'That black-coated tyrant's niece;
that quiet, delicate Miss Helstone. Many a time I have put on my spectacles=
to
look at the lassie in church, because she has gentle blue een, wi' long las=
hes;
and, when she sits in shadow, and is very still and very pale, and is, happ=
en,
about to fall asleep wi' the length of the sermon and the heat of the biggi=
n' -
she is as like one of Canova's marbles as aught else.'
'Was Mary Cave in that style?'
'Far grander! Less lass-like and
flesh-like. You wondered why she hadn't wings and a crown. She was a statel=
y,
peaceful angel - was Mary.'
'And you could not persuade her to
love you?'
'Not with all I could do; though I
prayed Heaven many a time, on my bended knees, to help me.'
'Mary Cave was not what you think =
her,
York - I have seen her picture at the Rectory. She is no angel, but a fair,
regular-featured, taciturn-looking woman - rather too white and lifeless fo=
r my
taste. But - supposing she had been something better than she was -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Robert,' interrupted Yorke, 'I co=
uld
fell you off your horse at this moment. However, I'll hold my hand. Reason
tells me you are right, and I am wrong. I know well enough that the passion=
I
still have is only the remnant of an illusion. If Miss Cave had possessed
either feeling or sense, she could not have been so perfectly impassible to=
my
regard as she showed herself - she must have preferred me to that copper-fa=
ced
despot.'
'Supposing, Yorke, she had been
educated (no women were educated in those days); supposing she had possesse=
d a
thoughtful, original mind) a love of knowledge, a wish for information, whi=
ch
she took an artless delight in receiving from your lips, and having measured
out to her by your hand; supposing her conversation - when she sat at your =
side
- was fertile, varied, imbued with a picturesque grace and genial interest,
quiet flowing but clear and bounteous; supposing that when you stood near h=
er
by chance, or when you sat near her by design, comfort at once became your
atmosphere, and content your element; supposing that whenever her face was
under your gaze, or her idea filled your thoughts, you gradually ceased to =
be
hard and anxious, and pure affection, love of home, thirst for sweet discou=
rse,
unselfish longing to protect and cherish, replaced the sordid, cankering
calculations of your trade; supposing - with all this - that many a time, w=
hen
you had been so happy as to possess your Mary's little hand, you had felt it
tremble as you held it - just as a warm little bird trembles when you take =
it
from its nest; supposing you had noticed her shrink into the background on =
your
entrance into a room, yet if you sought her in her retreat she welcomed you
with the sweetest smile that ever lit a fair virgin face, and only turned h=
er
eyes from the encounter of your own, lest their clearness should reveal too
much; supposing, in short, your Mary had been - not cold, but modest; not
vacant, but reflective; not obtuse, but sensitive; not inane, but innocent;=
not
prudish, but pure - would you have left her to court another woman for her
wealth?'
Mr Yorke raised his hat, wiped his
forehead with his handkerchief.
'The moon is up,' was his first not
quite relevant remark, pointing with his whip across the moor. 'There she i=
s,
rising into the haze, staring at us wi' a strange red glower. She is no more
silver than old Helstone's brow is ivory. What does she mean by leaning her
cheek on Rushedge i' that way, and looking at us wi' a scowl and a menace?'=
'Yorke, if Mary had loved you
silently, yet faithfully - chastely, yet fervently - as you would wish your
wife to love, would you have left her?'
'Robert!' he lifted his arm: he he=
ld
it suspended, and paused. 'Robert! this is a queer world, and men are made =
of
the queerest dregs that Chaos churned up in her ferment. I might swear soun=
ding
oaths - oaths that would make the poachers think there was a bittern boomin=
g in
Bilberry Moss - that, in the case you put, Death only should have parted me
from Mary. But I have lived in the world fifty-five years; I have been forc=
ed
to study human nature; and - to speak a dark truth - the odds are, if Mary =
had
loved and not scorned me; if I had been secure of her affection, certain of=
her
constancy, been irritated by no doubts, stung by no humiliations - the odds
are' (he let his hand fall heavy on the saddle) - 'the odds are, I should h=
ave
left her!'
They rode side by side in silence.=
Ere
either spoke again, they were on the other side of Rushedge: Briarfield lig=
hts
starred the purple skirt of the moor. Robert, being the youngest, and having
less of the past to absorb him than his comrade, recommenced first.
'I believe - I daily find it prove=
d -
that we can get nothing in this world worth keeping, not so much as a princ=
iple
or a conviction, except out of purifying flame, or through strengthening pe=
ril.
We err; we fall; we are humbled - then we walk more carefully. We greedily =
eat
and drink poison out of the gilded cup of vice, or from the beggar's wallet=
of
avarice; we are sickened, degraded; everything good in us rebels against us;
our souls rise bitterly indignant against our bodies; there is a period of
civil war; if the soul has strength, it conquers and rules thereafter.'
'What art thou going to do, Robert?
What are thy plans?'
'For my private plans, I'll keep t=
hem
to myself; which is very easy, as at present I have none: no private life is
permitted a man in my position, a man in debt. For my public plans, my views
are a little altered. While I was in Birmingham, I looked a little into
reality, considered closely, and at their source, the causes of the present
troubles of this country; I did the same in London. Unknown, I could go whe=
re I
pleased, mix with whom I would. I went where there was want of food, of fue=
l,
of clothing; where there was no occupation and no hope. I saw some, with
naturally elevated tendencies and good feelings, kept down amongst sordid
privations and harassing griefs. I saw many originally low, and to whom lac=
k of
education left scarcely anything but animal wants, disappointed in those wa=
nts,
ahungered, athirst, and desperate as famished animals: I saw what taught my
brain a new lesson, and filled my breast with fresh feelings. I have no
intention to profess more softness or sentiment than I have hitherto profes=
sed;
mutiny and ambition I regard as I have always regarded them: I should resis=
t a
riotous mob, just as heretofore; I should open on the scent of a runaway
ringleader as eagerly as ever, and run him down as relentlessly, and follow=
him
up to condign punishment as rigorously; but I should do it now chiefly for =
the
sake and the security of those he misled. Something there is to look to, Yo=
rke,
beyond a man's personal interest: beyond the advancement of well-laid schem=
es;
beyond even the discharge of dishonouring debts. To respect himself, a man =
must
believe he renders justice to his fellow- men. Unless I am more considerate=
to
ignorance, more forbearing to suffering, than I have hitherto been, I shall
scorn myself as grossly unjust. What now?' he said, addressing his horse,
which, hearing the ripple of water, and feeling thirsty, turned to a wayside
trough, where the moonbeam was playing in a crystal eddy.
'Yorke,' pursued Moore, 'ride on: I
must let him drink.'
Yorke accordingly rode slowly
forwards, occupying himself as he advanced, in discriminating, amongst the =
many
lights now spangling the distance, those of Briarmains. Stilbro' Moor was l=
eft
behind; plantations rose dusk on either hand; they were descending the hill;
below them lay the valley with its populous parish: they felt already at ho=
me.
Surrounded no longer by heath, it =
was
not startling to Mr Yorke to see a hat rise, and to hear a voice speak behi=
nd
the wall. The words, however, were peculiar.
'When the wicked perisheth, there =
is
shouting,' it said; and added, 'As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked =
no
more' (with a deeper growl); 'terrors take hold of him as waters; hell is n=
aked
before him. He shall die without knowledge.'
A fierce flash and sharp crack
violated the calm of night. Yorke, ere he turned, knew the four convicts of
Birmingham were avenged.
The die was cast. Sir Philip Nunne=
ly
knew it: Shirley knew it: Mr Sympson knew it. That evening, when all the
Fieldhead family dined at Nunnely Priory, decided the business.
Two or three things conduced to br=
ing
the Baronet to a point. He had observed that Miss Keeldar looked pensive and
delicate. This new phase in her demeanour smote him on his weak or poetic s=
ide:
a spontaneous sonnet brewed in his brain; and while it was still working th=
ere,
one of his sisters persuaded his lady-love to sit down to the piano and sin=
g a
ballad - one of Sir Philip's own ballads. It was the least elaborate, the l=
east
affected - out of all comparison the best of his numerous efforts.
It chanced that Shirley, the moment
before, had been gazing from a window down on the park; she had seen that
stormy moonlight which 'le Professeur Louis' was perhaps at the same instant
contemplating from her own oak-parlour lattice; she had seen the isolated t=
rees
of the domain - broad, strong, spreading oaks, and high-towering heroic bee=
ches
- wrestling with the gale. Her ear had caught the full roar of the forest l=
ower
down; the swift rushing of clouds, the moon, to the eye, hasting swifter st=
ill,
had crossed her vision: she turned from sight and sound - touched, if not r=
apt,
- wakened, if not inspired.
She sang, as requested. There was =
much
about love in the ballad: faithful love that refused to abandon its object;
love that disaster could not shake; love that, in calamity, waxed fonder, in
poverty clung closer. The words were set to a fine old air - in themselves =
they
were simple and sweet: perhaps, when read, they wanted force; when well sun=
g,
they wanted nothing. Shirley sang them well: she breathed into the feeling,
softness; she poured round the passion, force: her voice was fine that even=
ing;
its expression dramatic: she impressed all, and charmed one.
On leaving the instrument, she wen=
t to
the fire, and sat down on a seat - semi-stool, semi-cushion: the ladies were
round her - none of them spoke. The Misses Sympson and the Misses Nunnely
looked upon her, as quiet poultry might look on an egret, an ibis, or any o=
ther
strange fowl. What made her sing so? They never sang so. Was it proper to s=
ing
with such expression, with such originality - so unlike a school-girl?
Decidedly not: it was strange, it was unusual. What was strange must be wro=
ng;
what was unusual must be improper. Shirley was judged.
Moreover, old Lady Nunnely eyed her
stonily from her great chair by the fireside: her gaze said - 'This woman is
not of mine or my daughters' kind: I object to her as my son's wife.'
Her son catching the look, read its
meaning: he grew alarmed: what he so wished to win, there was danger he mig=
ht
lose. He must make haste.
The room they were in had once bee=
n a
picture-gallery. Sir Philip's father - Sir Monckton - had converted it into=
a
saloon; but still it had a shadowy, long- withdrawing look. A deep recess w=
ith
a window - a recess that held one couch, one table, and a fairy cabinet, fo=
rmed
a room within a room. Two persons standing there might interchange a dialog=
ue,
and, so it were neither long nor loud, none be the wiser.
Sir Philip induced two of his sist=
ers
to perpetrate a duet; he gave occupation to the Misses Sympson: the elder
ladies were conversing together. He was pleased to remark that, meantime,
Shirley rose to look at the pictures. He had a tale to tell about one
ancestress, whose dark beauty seemed as that of a flower of the south: he
joined her, and began to tell it.
There were mementos of the same la=
dy
in the cabinet adorning the recess; and while Shirley was stooping to exami=
ne
the missal and the rosary on the inlaid shelf, and while the Misses Nunnely
indulged in a prolonged screech, guiltless of expression, pure of originali=
ty,
perfectly conventional and absolutely unmeaning, Sir Philip stooped too, and
whispered a few hurried sentences. At first, Miss Keeldar was struck so sti=
ll,
you might have fancied that whisper a charm which had changed her to a stat=
ue;
but she presently looked up and answered. They parted. Miss Keeldar returne=
d to
the fire, and resumed her seat: the Baronet gazed after her, then went and
stood behind his sisters. Mr Sympson - Mr Sympson only - had marked the
pantomime.
That gentleman drew his own
conclusions. Had he been as acute as he was meddling, as profound as he was
prying, he might have found that in Sir Philip's face whereby to correct his
inference. Ever shallow, hasty, and positive, he went home quite cock-a-hoo=
p.
He was not a man that kept secrets
well: when elate on a subject, he could not avoid talking about it. The next
morning, having occasion to employ his son's tutor as his secretary, he must
needs announce to him, in mouthing accents, and with much flimsy pomp of
manner, that he had better hold himself prepared for a return to the south,=
at
an early day, as the important business which had detained him (Mr Sympson)=
so
long in Yorkshire, was now on the eve of fortunate completion: his anxious =
and
laborious efforts were likely, at last, to be crowned with the happiest
success: a truly eligible addition was about to be made to the family
connections.
'In Sir Philip Nunnely?' Louis Moo=
re
conjectured.
Whereupon Mr Sympson treated himse=
lf
simultaneously to a pinch of snuff and a chuckling laugh, checked only by a
sudden choke of dignity, and an order to the tutor to proceed with business=
.
For a day or two, Mr Sympson conti=
nued
as bland as oil, but also he seemed to sit on pins, and his gait, when he
walked, emulated that of a hen treading a hot gridle. He was for ever looki=
ng
out of the window, and listening for chariot-wheels: Bluebeard's wife -
Sisera's mother - were nothing to him. He waited when the matter should be
opened in form; when himself should be consulted; when lawyers should be
summoned; when settlement discussions, and all the delicious worldly fuss,
should pompously begin.
At last there came a letter: he
himself handed it to Miss Keeldar out of the bag: he knew the handwriting; =
he
knew the crest on the seal. He did not see it opened and read, for Shirley =
took
it to her own room; nor did he see it answered, for she wrote her reply shut
up, - and was very long about it, - the best part of a day. He questioned h=
er
whether it was answered; she responded, 'Yes.'
Again he waited - waited in silenc=
e -
absolutely not daring to speak: kept mute by something in Shirley's face, -=
a
very awful something - inscrutable to him as the writing on the wall to
Belshazzar. He was moved more than once to call Daniel, in the person of Lo=
uis
Moore, and to ask an interpretation: but his dignity forbade the familiarit=
y.
Daniel himself, perhaps, had his own private difficulties connected with th=
at
baffling bit of translation: he looked like a student for whom grammars are
blank, and dictionaries dumb.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
.
Mr Sympson had been out, to while =
away
an anxious hour in the society of his friends at De Walden Hall. He returne=
d a
little sooner than was expected; his family and Miss Keeldar were assembled=
in
the oak-parlour; addressing the latter, he requested her to step with him i=
nto
another room: he wished to have with her a 'strictly private interview.'
She rose, asking no questions, and
professing no surprise.
'Very well, sir,' she said in the =
tone
of a determined person, who is informed that the dentist is come to extract
that large double tooth of his, from which he has suffered such a purgatory
this month past. She left her sewing and her thimble in the window-seat, and
followed her uncle where he led.
Shut into the drawing-room, the pa=
ir
took seats, each in an arm-chair, placed opposite, a few yards between them=
.
'I have been to De Walden Hall,' s=
aid Mr
Sympson. He paused. Miss Keeldar's eyes were on the pretty white and green
carpet. That information required no response: she gave none.
'I have learned,' he went on slowl=
y, -
'I have learned a circumstance which surprises me.'
Resting her cheek on her forefinge=
r,
she waited to be told what circumstance.
'It seems that Nunnely Priory is s=
hut
up; that the family are gone back to their place in -&=
nbsp;
- shire. It seems that the baronet - that the baronet - that Sir Phi=
lip
himself has accompanied his mother and sisters.'
'Indeed!' said Shirley.
'May I ask if your share the amaze=
ment
with which I received this news?'
'No, sir.'
'Is it news to you?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I mean - I mean' - pursued Mr
Sympson, now fidgeting in his chair, quitting his hitherto brief and tolera=
bly
clear phraseology, and returning to his customary wordy, confused, irritable
style; 'I mean to have a thorough explanation. I will not be put off. I - I=
-
shall insist on being heard; and on - on having my own way. My questions mu=
st
be answered. I will have clear, satisfactory replies. I am not to be trifled
with. (Silence.)
'It is a strange and an extraordin=
ary
thing - a very singular - a most odd thing! I thought all was right: knew no
other: and there - the family are gone!'
'I suppose, sir, they had a right =
to
go.'
'Sir Philip is gone!' (with emphas=
is).
Shirley raised her brows: 'Bon
voyage!' said she.
'This will not do: this must be
altered, ma'am.'
He drew his chair forward; he push=
ed
it back; he looked perfectly incensed, and perfectly helpless.
'Come, come, now, uncle,' expostul=
ated
Shirley, 'do not begin to fret and fume, or we shall make no sense of the
business. Ask me what you want to know: I am as willing to come to an
explanation as you: I promise you truthful replies.'
'I want - I demand to know, Miss
Keeldar, whether Sir Philip has made you an offer?'
'He has.'
'You avow it?'
'I avow it. But now, go on: consid=
er
that point settled.'
'He made you an offer that night we
dined at the Priory?'
'It is enough to say that he made =
it.
Go on.'
'He proposed in the recess - in the
room that used to be a picture gallery - that Sir Monckton converted into a
saloon?'
No answer.
'You were both examining a cabinet=
: I
saw it all: my sagacity was not at fault - it never is. Subsequently, you
received a letter from him. On what subject - of what nature were the
contents?'
'No matter.'
'Ma'am, is that the way in which y=
ou
speak to me?'
Shirley's foot tapped quick on the
carpet.
'There you sit, silent and sullen -
you who promised truthful replies
'Sir, I have answered you thus far:
proceed.'
'I should like to see that letter.=
'
'You cannot see it.'
'I must and shall, ma'am. I am your
guardian.'
'Having ceased to be a ward, I hav=
e no
guardian.'
'Ungrateful being! Reared by me as=
my
own daughter - '
'Once more, uncle, have the kindne=
ss
to keep to the point. Let us both remain cool. For my part, I do not wish to
get into a passion; but, you know, once drive me beyond certain bounds, I c=
are
little what I say: I am not then soon checked. Listen! You have asked me
whether Sir Philip made me an offer: that question is answered. What do you
wish to know next?'
'I desire to know whether you acce=
pted
or refused him? and know it I will.'
'Certainly: you ought to know it. I
refused him.'
'Refused him! You - you, Shirley
Keeldar, refused Sir Philip Nunnely?'
'I did.'
The poor gentleman bounced from his
chair, and first rushed, and then trotted, through the room.
'There it is! There it is! There it
is!'
'Sincerely speaking, I am sorry,
uncle, you are so disappointed.'
Concession - contrition, never do =
any
good with some people. Instead of softening and conciliating, they but embo=
lden
and harden them: of that number was Mr Sympson.
'I disappointed? What is it to me?
Have I an interest in it? You would insinuate, perhaps, that I have motives=
?'
'Most people have motives, of some
sort, for their actions.'
'She accuses me to my face! I - th=
at
have been a parent to her - she charges with bad motives!'
'Bad motives, I did not say.'
'And now you prevaricate. You have=
no
principles!'
'Uncle, you tire me: I want to go
away.'
'Go you shall not! I will be answe=
red.
What are your intentions, Miss Keeldar?'
'In what respect?'
'In respect of matrimony.'
'To be quiet - and to do just as I
please.'
'Just as you please! The words are=
to
the last degree indecorous.'
'Mr Sympson, I advise you not to
become insulting: you know I will not bear that.'
'You read French. Your mind is
poisoned with French novels. You have imbibed French principles.'
'The ground you are treading now
returns a mighty hollow sound under your feet. Beware!'
'It will end in infamy, sooner or
later: I have foreseen it all along.'
'Do you assert, sir, that somethin=
g in
which I am concerned will end in infamy?'
'That it will - that it will. You =
said
just now you would act as you please. You acknowledge no rules - no
limitations.'
'Silly stuff! and vulgar as silly!=
'
'Regardless of decorum, you are
prepared to fly in the face of propriety.'
'You tire me, uncle.'
'What, madam - what could be your
reasons for refusing Sir Philip?'
'At last, there is another sensible
question: I shall be glad to reply to it. Sir Philip is too young for me: I
regard him as a boy: all his relations - his mother especially - would be
annoyed if he married me: such a step would embroil him with them: I am not=
his
equal in the world's estimation.'
'Is that all?'
'Our dispositions are not compatib=
le.'
'Why, a more amiable gentleman nev=
er
breathed.'
'He is very amiable - very excelle=
nt -
truly estimable, but not my master; not in one point. I could not trust mys=
elf
with his happiness: I would not undertake the keeping of it for thousands: I
will accept no hand which cannot hold me in check.'
'I thought you liked to do as you =
please:
you are vastly inconsistent.'
'When I promise to obey, it shall =
be
under the conviction that I can keep that promise: I could not obey a youth
like Sir Philip. Besides, he would never command me: he would expect me alw=
ays
to rule - to guide, and I have no taste whatever for the office.'
'You no taste for swaggering, and
subduing, and ordering, and ruling?'
'Not my husband: only my uncle.'
'Where is the difference?'
'There is a slight difference: tha=
t is
certain. And I know full well, any man who wishes to live in decent comfort
with me as a husband must be able to control me.'
'I wish you had a real tyrant.'
'A tyrant would not hold me for a =
day
- not for an hour. I would rebel - break from him - defy him.'
'Are you not enough to bewilder on=
e's
brain with your self- contradiction?'
'It is evident I bewilder your bra=
in.'
'You talk of Sir Philip being youn=
g:
he is two-and-twenty.'
'My husband must be thirty, with t=
he
sense of forty.'
'You had better pick out some old =
man
- some white-headed or bald-headed swain.'
'No, thank you.'
'You could lead some doting fool: =
you
might pin him to your apron.'
'I might do that with a boy: but i=
t is
not my vocation. Did I not say I prefer a master? One in whose presence I s=
hall
feel obliged and disposed to be good. One whose control my impatient temper
must acknowledge. A man whose approbation can reward - whose displeasure pu=
nish
me. A man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and very possible to fear=
.'
'What is there to hinder you from
doing all this with Sir Philip? He is a baronet; a man of rank, property,
connections, far above yours. If you talk of intellect, he is a poet: he wr=
ites
verses: which you, I take it, cannot do, with all your cleverness.'
'Neither his title, wealth, pedigr=
ee,
nor poetry, avail to invest him with the power I describe. These are
featherweights: they want ballast: a measure of sound, solid practical sense
would have stood him in better stead with me.'
'You and Henry rave about poetry! =
you
used to catch fire like tinder on the subject when you were a girl.'
'Oh! uncle, there is nothing really
valuable in this world, there is nothing glorious in the world to come, tha=
t is
not poetry!'
'Marry a poet, then, in God's name=
!'
'Show him me, and I will.'
'Sir Philip.'
'Not at all. You are almost as goo=
d a
poet as he.'
'Madam, you are wandering from the
point.'
'Indeed, uncle, I wanted to do so;=
and
I shall be glad to lead you away with me. Do not let us get out of temper w=
ith
each other: it is not worth while.'
'Out of temper, Miss Keeldar! I sh=
ould
be glad to know who is out of temper?'
'I am not, yet.'
'If you mean to insinuate that I a=
m, I
consider that you are guilty of impertinence.'
'You will be soon, if you go on at
that rate.'
'There it is With your pert tongue,
you would try the patience of a Job.'
'I know I should.'
'No levity, miss! This is not a
laughing matter. It is an affair I am resolved to probe thoroughly, convinc=
ed
that there is mischief at the bottom. You described just now, with far too =
much
freedom for your years and sex, the sort of individual you would prefer as a
husband. Pray, did you paint from the life?'
Shirley opened her lips; but inste=
ad
of speaking she only glowed rose- red.
'I shall have an answer to that
question,' affirmed Mr Sympson, assuming vast courage and consequence on the
strength of this symptom of confusion.
'It was an historical picture, unc=
le,
from several originals.'
'Several originals! Bless my heart=
!'
'I have been in love several times=
.'
'This is cynical.'
'With heroes of many nations,'
'What next -&=
nbsp;
- '
'And philosophers.'
'She is mad -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Don't ring the bell, uncle; you w=
ill
alarm my aunt.'
'Your poor dear aunt, what a niece=
she
has!'
'Once I loved Socrates.'
'Pooh! No trifling, ma'am.'
'I admired Themistocles, Leonidas,
Epaminondas.'
'Miss Keeldar -&=
nbsp;
- '
'To pass over a few centuries,
Washington was a plain man, but I liked him: but, to speak of the actual
present - - '
'Ah! the actual present -&=
nbsp;
- '
'To quit crude school-girl fancies,
and come to realities.'
'Realities! That is the test to wh=
ich
you shall be brought, ma'am.'
'To avow before what altar I now k=
neel
- to reveal the present idol of my soul -&=
nbsp;
- '
'You will make haste about it, if =
you
please; it is near luncheon time, and confess you shall.'
'Confess, I must: my heart is full=
of
the secret; it must be spoken: I only wish you were Mr Helstone instead of =
Mr
Sympson, you would sympathise with me better.'
'Madam - it is a question of common
sense and common prudence, not of sympathy and sentiment, and so on. Did you
say it was Mr Helstone?'
'Not precisely, but as near as may=
be:
they are rather alike.'
'I will know the name - I will have
particulars.'
'They positively are rather alike;
their very faces are not dissimilar - a pair of human falcons - and dry,
direct, decided both. But my hero is the mightier of the two: his mind has =
the
clearness of the deep sea, the patience of its rocks, the force of its
billows.'
'Rant and fustian!'
'I daresay he can be harsh as a
saw-edge, and gruff as a hungry raven.'
'Miss Keeldar, does the person res=
ide
in Briarfield? answer me that.'
'Uncle - I am going to tell you - =
his
name is trembling on my tongue.'
'Speak, girl!'
'That was well said, uncle. 'Speak,
girl!' it is quite tragic. England has howled savagely against this man, un=
cle;
and she will one day roar exultingly over him. He has been unscared by the
howl, and he will be unelated by the shout.'
'I said she was mad - she is.'
'This country will change and chan=
ge
again in her demeanour to him: he will never change in his duty to her. Com=
e,
cease to chafe, uncle, I'll tell you his name.'
'You shall tell me, or -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Listen! Arthur Wellesley, Lord
Wellington.'
Mr Sympson rose up furious: he bou=
nced
out of the room, but immediately bounced back again, shut the door, and res=
umed
his seat.
'Ma'am, you shall tell me this: wi=
ll
your principles permit you to marry a man without money - a man below you?'=
'Never a man below me.'
(In a high voice.) 'Will you, Miss
Keeldar, marry a poor man?'
'What right have you, Mr Sympson, =
to
ask me?'
'I insist upon knowing.'
'You don't go the way to know.'
'My family respectability shall no=
t be
compromised.'
'A good resolution: keep it.'
'Madam, it is you who shall keep i=
t.'
'Impossible, sir, since I form no =
part
of your family.'
'Do you disown us?'
'I disdain your dictatorship.'
'Whom will you marry, Miss Keeldar=
?'
'Not Mr Sam Wynne, because I scorn
him: not Sir Philip Nunnely, because I only esteem him.'
'Whom have you in your eye?'
'Four rejected candidates.'
'Such obstinacy could not be, unle=
ss
you were under improper influence.'
'What do you mean? There are certa=
in
phrases potent to make my blood boil - improper influence! What old woman's
cackle is that?'
'Are you a young lady?'
'I am a thousand times better: I a=
m an
honest woman, and as such I will be treated.'
'Do you know' (leaning mysteriously
forward, and speaking with ghastly solemnity), 'do you know the whole
neighbourhood teems with rumours respecting you and a bankrupt tenant of yo=
urs
- the foreigner Moore?'
'Does it?'
'It does. Your name is in every
mouth.'
'It honours the lips it crosses, a=
nd I
wish to the gods it may purify them.'
'Is it that person who has power to
influence you?'
'Beyond any whose cause you have
advocated.'
'Is it he you will marry?'
'He is handsome, and manly, and
commanding.'
'You declare it to my face! The
Flemish knave! The low trader!'
'He is talented, and venturous, and
resolute. Prince is on his brow, and ruler in his bearing.'
'She glories in it! She conceals
nothing! No shame, no fear!'
'When we speak the name of Moore,
shame should be forgotten and fear discarded: the Moores know only honour a=
nd
courage.'
'I say she is mad.'
'You have taunted me till my blood=
is
up. You have worried me till I turn again.'
'That Moore is the brother of my s=
on's
tutor. Would you let the Usher call you Sister?'
Bright and broad shone Shirley's e=
ye,
as she fixed it on her questioner now.
'No: no. Not for a province of
possession - not for a century of life.'
'You cannot separate the husband f=
rom
his family.'
'What then?'
'Mr Louis Moore's sister you will =
be.'
'Mr Sympson . . . I am sick at hea=
rt
with all this weak trash: I will bear no more. Your thoughts are not my
thoughts, your aims are not my aims, your gods are not my gods. We do not v=
iew
things in the same light; we do not measure them by the same standard; we
hardly speak in the same tongue. Let us part.'
'It is not,' she resumed, much exc=
ited
- 'It is not that I hate you; you are a good sort of man: perhaps you mean =
well
in your way; but we cannot suit: we are ever at variance. You annoy me with
small meddling, with petty tyranny; you exasperate my temper, and make and =
keep
me passionate. As to your small maxims, your narrow rules, your little
prejudices, aversions, dogmas, bundle them off: Mr Sympson - go, offer them=
a
sacrifice to the deity you worship; I'll none of them: I wash my hands of t=
he
lot. I walk by another creed, light, faith, and hope than you.'
'Another creed! I believe she is an
infidel.'
'An infidel to your religion; an
atheist to your god.'
'An - atheist!!!'
'Your god, sir, is the World. In my
eyes, you too, if not an infidel, are an idolater. I conceive that you
ignorantly worship: in all things you appear to me too superstitious. Sir, =
your
god, your great Bel, your fish-tailed Dagon, rises before me as a demon. Yo=
u,
and such as you, have raised him to a throne, put on him a crown, given him=
a
sceptre. Behold how hideously he governs! See him busied at the work he lik=
es
best - making marriages. He binds the young to the old, the strong to the
imbecile. He stretches out the arm of Mezentius and fetters the dead to the
living. In his realm there is hatred - secret hatred: there is disgust -
unspoken disgust: there is treachery - family treachery: there is vice - de=
ep,
deadly, domestic vice. In his dominions, children grow unloving between par=
ents
who have never loved: infants are nursed on deception from their very birth;
they are reared in an atmosphere corrupt with lies. Your god rules at the
bridal of kings - look at your royal dynasties! your deity is the deity of
foreign aristocracies - analyse the blue blood of Spain! Your god is the Hy=
men
of France - what is French domestic life? All that surrounds him hastens to
decay: all declines and degenerates under his sceptre. Your god is a masked
Death.'
'This language is terrible! My
daughters and you must associate no longer, Miss Keeldar: there is danger in
such companionship. Had I known you a little earlier - but, extraordinary a=
s I
thought you, I could not have believed -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Now, sir, do you begin to be aware
that it is useless to scheme for me? That, in doing so, you but sow the win=
d to
reap the whirlwind? I sweep your cobweb projects from my path, that I may p=
ass
on unsullied. I am anchored on a resolve you cannot shake. My heart, my
conscience shall dispose of my hand - they only. Know this at last.'
Mr Sympson was becoming a little
bewildered.
'Never heard such language!' he
muttered again and again. 'Never was so addressed in my life - never was so
used.'
'You are quite confused, sir. You =
had
better withdraw, or I will.'
He rose hastily.
'We must leave this place: they mu=
st
pack up at once.'
'Do not hurry my aunt and cousins:
give them time.'
'No more intercourse: she's not
proper.'
He made his way to the door; he ca=
me
back for his handkerchief; he dropped his snuff-box; leaving the contents
scattered on the carpet, he stumbled out; Tartar lay outside across the mat=
- Mr
Sympson almost fell over him: in the climax of his exasperation he hurled an
oath at the dog, and a coarse epithet at his mistress.
'Poor Mr Sympson! He is both feeble
and vulgar,' said Shirley to herself. 'My head aches, and I am tired,' she
added; and leaning her head upon a cushion, she softly subsided from excite=
ment
to repose. One, entering the room a quarter of an hour afterwards, found her
asleep. When Shirley had been agitated, she generally took this natural
refreshment. it would come at her call.
The intruder paused in her unconsc=
ious
presence, and said - 'Miss Keeldar.'
Perhaps his voice harmonised with =
some
dream into which she was passing - it did not startle, it hardly roused her,
without opening her eyes, she but turned her head a little, so that her che=
ek
and profile, before hidden by her arm, became visible: she looked rosy, hap=
py,
half-smiling, but her eyelashes were wet: she had wept in slumber; or perha=
ps,
before dropping asleep, a few natural tears had fallen after she had heard =
that
epithet; no man - no woman is always strong, always able to bear up against=
the
unjust opinion - the vilifying word: calumny, even from the mouth of a fool,
will sometimes cut into unguarded feelings. Shirley looked like a child that
had been naughty and punished, but was now forgiven and at rest.
'Miss Keeldar,' again said the voi=
ce:
this time it woke her; she looked up and saw at her side Louis Moore - not
close at her side, but standing, with arrested step, two or three yards from
her.
'Oh, Mr Moore!' she said; 'I was
afraid it was my uncle again: he and I have quarelled.'
'Mr Sympson should let you alone,'=
was
the reply: 'can he not see that you are yet far from strong?'
'I assure you he did not find me w=
eak:
I did not cry when he was here.'
'He is about to evacuate Fieldhead=
-
so he says. He is now giving orders to his family: he has been in the
schoolroom issuing commands in a manner which, I suppose, was a continuatio=
n of
that which he has harassed you.'
'Are you and Henry to go?'
'I believe, as far as Henry is
concerned, that was the tenor of his scarcely- intelligible directions; but=
he
may change all to-morrow: he is just in that mood when you cannot depend on=
his
consistency for two consecutive hours: I doubt whether he will leave you for
weeks yet. To myself he addressed some words which will require a little
attention and comment by-and-by, when I have time to bestow on them. At the
moment he came in, I was busied with a note I have got from Mr Yorke - so f=
ully
busied that I cut short the interview with him somewhat abruptly: I left him
raving: here is the note - I wish you to see it - it refers to my brother
Robert.' And he looked at Shirley.
'I shall be glad to hear news of h=
im:
is he coming home?'
'He is come: he is in Yorkshire: Mr
Yorke went yesterday to Stilbro' to meet him.'
'Mr Moore - something is wrong
'Did my voice tremble? He is now at
Briarmains - and I am going to see him.'
'What has occurred?'
'If you turn so pale I shall be so=
rry
I have spoken. It might have been worse: Robert is not dead, but much hurt.=
'
'Oh! sir; it is you who are pale. =
Sit
down near me.'
'Read the note - let me open it.'<= o:p>
Miss Keeldar read the note: it bri=
efly
signified that last night Robert Moore had been shot at from behind the wal=
l of
Milldean Plantation, at the foot of the Brow; that he was wounded severely,=
but
it was hoped not fatally: of the assassin, or assassins, nothing was known -
they had escaped. 'No doubt,' Mr Yorke observed, 'it was done in revenge: it
was a pity ill-will had ever been raised; but that could not be helped now.=
'
'He is my only brother,' said Loui=
s,
as Shirley returned the note. 'I cannot hear unmoved that ruffians have lai=
d in
wait for him, and shot him down like some wild beast from behind a wall.'
'Be comforted: be hopeful. He will=
get
better - I know he will.'
Shirley, solicitous to soothe, held
her hand over Mr Moore's, as it lay on the arm of the chair: she just touch=
ed
it lightly, scarce palpably.
'Well, give me your hand,' he said;
'it will be for the first time: it is in a moment of calamity - give it me.=
'
Awaiting neither consent nor refus=
al,
he took what he asked.
'I am going to Briarmains now,' he
went on. 'I want you to step over to the Rectory, and tell Caroline Helstone
what has happened: will you do this? she will hear it best from you.'
'Immediately,' said Shirley, with
docile promptitude. 'Ought I to say that there is no danger?'
'Say so.'
'You will come back soon, and let =
me
know more?'
'I will either come or write.'
'Trust me for watching over Caroli=
ne.
I will communicate with your sister, too; but, doubtless, she is already wi=
th
Robert?'
'Doubtless; or will be soon. Good
morning, now,'
'You will bear up, come what may? =
' We
shall see that.'
Shirley's fingers were obliged to
withdraw from the tutor's: Louis was obliged to relinquish that hand folded,
clasped, hidden in his own.
'I thought I should have had to
support her,' he said, as he walked towards Briarmains, 'and it is she who =
has
made me strong. That look of pity - that gentle touch! No down was ever sof=
ter
- no elixir more potent! It lay like a snowflake: it thrilled like lightnin=
g. A
thousand times I have longed to possess that hand - to have it in mine. I h=
ave
possessed it - for five minutes I held it. Her fingers and mine can never be
strangers more - having met once, they must meet again.'
Briarmains being nearer than the
Hollow, Mr Yorke had conveyed his young comrade there. He had seen him laid=
in
the best bed of the house, as carefully as if he had been one of his own so=
ns.
The sight of his blood, welling from the treacherously-inflicted wound, made
him indeed the son of the Yorkshire gentleman's heart. The spectacle of the
sudden event: of the tall, straight shape prostrated in its pride across the
road: of the fine southern head laid low in the dust; of that youth in prime
flung at once before him pallid, lifeless, helpless - this was the very
combination of circumstances to win for the victim Mr Yorke's liveliest
interest.
No other hand was there to raise -= to aid; no other voice to question kindly; no other brain to concert measures:= he had to do it all himself. This utter dependence of the speechless, bleeding youth (as a youth he regarded him) on his benevolence, secured that benevol= ence most effectually. Well did Mr Yorke like to have power, and to use it: he h= ad now between his hands power over a fellow- creature's life: it suited him.<= o:p>
No less perfectly did it suit his
saturnine better-half: the incident was quite in her way, and to her taste.
Some women would have been terror-struck to see a gory man brought in over
their threshold, and laid down in their hall in the 'howe of the night.' Th=
ere,
you would suppose, was subject-matter for hysterics. No: Mrs Yorke went into
hysterics when Jessy would not leave the garden to come to her knitting, or
when Martin proposed starting for Australia, with a view to realise freedom,
and escape the tyranny of Matthew; but an attempted murder near her door - a
half-murdered man in her best bed - set her straight, cheered her spirits, =
gave
her cap the dash of a turban.
Mrs Yorke was just the woman who,
while rendering miserable the drudging life of a simple maid-servant, would
nurse like a heroine an hospital full of plague patients. She almost loved
Moore: her tough heart almost yearned towards him, when she found him commi=
tted
to her charge, - left in her arms, as dependent on her as her youngest-born=
in
the cradle. Had she seen a domestic, or one of her daughters, give him a
draught of water, or smooth his pillow, she would have boxed the intruder's
ears. She chased Jessy and Rose from the upper realm of the house: she forb=
ade
the housemaids to set their foot in it.
Now, if the accident had happened =
at
the Rectory gates, and old Helstone had taken in the martyr, neither Yorke =
nor
his wife would have pitied him: they would have adjudged him right served f=
or
his tyranny and meddling: as it was, he became, for the present, the apple =
of
their eye.
Strange! Louis Moore was permitted=
to
come, - to sit down on the edge of the bed, and lean over the pillow, - to =
hold
his brother's hand, and press his pale forehead with his fraternal lips; an=
d Mrs
Yorke bore it well. She suffered him to stay half the day there; she once
suffered him to sit up all night in the chamber; she rose herself at five
o'clock of a wet November morning, and with her own hands lit the kitchen f=
ire,
and made the brothers a breakfast, and served it to them herself. Majestica=
lly
arrayed in a boundless flannel wrapper, a shawl, and her nightcap, she sat =
and
watched them eat, as complacently as a hen beholds her chickens feed. Yet s=
he
gave the cook warning that day for venturing to make and carry up to Mr Moo=
re a
basin of sago-gruel; and the housemaid lost her favour because, when Mr Lou=
is
was departing, she brought him his surtout aired from the kitchen, and, lik=
e a
'forward piece,' as she was, helped him on with it, and accepted, in return=
, a
smile, a 'thank you, my girl,' and a shilling. Two ladies called one day, p=
ale
and anxious, and begged earnestly, humbly, to be allowed to see Mr Moore one
instant: Mrs Yorke hardened her heart, and sent them packing, - not without
opprobrium.
But how was it when Hortense Moore came? - Not so bad as might have been expected: the whole family of the Moo= res really seemed to suit Mrs Yorke so as no other family had ever suited her. Hortense and she possessed an exhaustless mutual theme of conversation in t= he corrupt propensities of servants. Their views of this class were similar: t= hey watched them with the same suspicion, and judged them with the same severit= y. Hortense, too, from the very first showed no manner of jealousy of Mrs York= e's attentions to Robert; she let her keep the post of nurse with little interference: and, for herself, found ceaseless occupation in fidgeting abo= ut the house, holding the kitchen under surveillance, reporting what passed th= ere, and, in short, making herself generally useful. Visitors, they both of them agreed in excluding sedulously from the sick-room. They held the young millowner captive, and hardly let the air breathe or the sun shine on him.<= o:p>
Mr MacTurk, the surgeon to whom
Moore's case had been committed, pronounced his wound of a dangerous, but, =
he
trusted, not of a hopeless character. At first he wished to place with him a
nurse of his own selection; but this neither Mrs Yorke nor Hortense would h=
ear
of: they promised faithful observance of directions. He was left, therefore,
for the present, in their hands.
Doubtless, they executed the trust=
to
the best of their ability; but something got wrong: the bandages were
displaced, or tampered with; great loss of blood followed. MacTurk, being
summoned, came with steed afoam. He was one of those surgeons whom it is
dangerous to vex: abrupt in his best moods; in his worst, savage. On seeing
Moore's state, he relieved his feelings by a little flowery language, with
which it is not necessary to strew the present page. A bouquet or two of the
choicest blossoms fell on the unperturbed head of one Mr Graves, a stony yo=
ung
assistant he usually carried about with him; with a second nosegay he gifted
another young gentleman in his train - an interesting fac- simile of himsel=
f,
being, indeed, his own son; but the full corbeille of blushing bloom fell to
the lot of meddling womankind, en masse.
For the best part of one winter ni=
ght,
himself and satellites were busied about Moore. There, at his bedside, shut=
up
alone with him in his chamber, they wrought and wrangled over his exhausted
frame. They three were on one side of the bed, and Death on the other. The
conflict was sharp: it lasted till day broke, when the balance between the
belligerents seemed so equal that both parties might have claimed the victo=
ry.
At dawn, Graves and young MacTurk =
were
left in charge of the patient, while the senior went himself in search of
additional strength, and secured it in the person of Mrs Horsfall, the best
nurse on his staff. To this woman he gave Moore in charge, with the sternest
injunctions respecting the responsibility laid on her shoulders. She took t=
his
responsibility stolidly, as she did also the easy chair at the bed-head. Th=
at
moment she began her reign.
Mrs Horsfall had one virtue, - ord=
ers
received from MacTurk she obeyed to the letter: the Ten Commandments were l=
ess
binding in her eyes than her surgeon's dictum. In other respects, she was no
woman, but a dragon. Hortense Moore fell effaced before her; Mrs Yorke with=
drew
- crushed; yet both these women were personages of some dignity in their own
estimation, and of some bulk in the estimation of others. Perfectly cowed by
the breadth, the height, the bone, and the brawn of Mrs Horsfall, they
retreated to the back-parlour. She, for her part, sat upstairs when she lik=
ed,
and downstairs when she preferred it: she took her dram three times a day, =
and
her pipe of tobacco four times.
As to Moore, no one now ventured to
inquire about him: Mrs Horsfall had him at dry-nurse: it was she who was to=
do
for him; and the general conjecture now ran that she did for him accordingl=
y.
Morning and evening MacTurk came to
see him: his case, thus complicated by a new mischance, was become one of
interest in the surgeon's eyes: he regarded him as a damaged piece of
clock-work, which it would be creditable to his skill to set a-going again.
Graves and young MacTurk - Moore's sole other visitors - contemplated him in
the light in which they were wont to contemplate the occupant for the time
being of the dissecting-room at Stilbro' Infirmary.
Robert Moore had a pleasant time of
it: in pain; in danger; too weak to move; almost too weak to speak; a sort =
of
giantess his keeper; the three surgeons his sole society. Thus he lay throu=
gh
the diminishing days and lengthening nights of the whole drear month of
November.
In the commencement of his captivi=
ty,
Moore used feebly to resist Mrs Horsfall: he hated the sight of her rough b=
ulk,
and dreaded the contact of her hard hands; but she taught him docility in a
trice. She made no account whatever of his six feet - his manly thews and
sinews: she turned him in his bed as another woman would have turned a babe=
in
its cradle. When he was good, she addressed him as 'my dear,' and 'honey'; =
and
when he was bad, she sometimes shook him. Did he attempt to speak when MacT=
urk
was there, she lifted her hand and bade him 'hush!' like a nurse checking a
forward child. If she had not smoked - if she had not taken gin, it would h=
ave
been better, he thought; but she did both. Once - in her absence - he intim=
ated
to MacTurk, that 'that woman was a dram-drinker.'
'Pooh! my dear sir; they are all s=
o,'
was the reply he got for his pains. 'But Horsfall has this virtue,' added t=
he
surgeon, - 'drunk or sober, she always remembers to obey me.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. .
At length the latter autumn passed;
its fogs, its rains withdrew from England their mourning and their tears; i=
ts
winds swept on to sigh over lands far away. Behind November came deep winte=
r;
clearness, stillness, frost accompanying.
A calm day had settled into a crys=
talline
evening: the world wore a North Pole colouring: all its lights and tints lo=
oked
like the 'reflets' of white, or violet, or pale green gems. The hills wore a
lilac blue; the setting sun had purple in its red; the sky was ice, all
silvered azure; when the stars rose, they were of white crystal - not gold;
grey, or cerulean, or faint emerald hues - cool, pure, and transparent - ti=
nged
the mass of the landscape.
What is this by itself in a wood no
longer green, no longer even russet; a wood, neutral tint - this dark blue
moving object? Why, it is a schoolboy - a Briarfield grammar-schoolboy - who
has left his companions, now trudging home by the high road, and is seeking=
a
certain tree, with a certain mossy mound at its root - convenient as a seat.
Why is he lingering here? - the air is cold, and the time wears late. He si=
ts
down: what is he thinking about? Does be feel the chaste charm Nature wears
to-night? A pearl-white moon smiles through the green trees: does he care f=
or
her smile?
Impossible to say; for he is silen=
t,
and his countenance does not speak: as yet, it is no mirror to reflect
sensation, but rather a mask to conceal it. This boy is a stripling of fift=
een
- slight, and tall of his years; in his face there is as little of amenity =
as
of servility: his eye seems prepared to note any incipient attempt to contr=
ol
or overreach him, and the rest of his features indicate faculties alert for
resistance. Wise ushers avoid unnecessary interference with that lad. To br=
eak
him in by severity would be a useless attempt; to win him by flattery would
Êbe an effort worse than useless. He is best let alone. Time will
educate, and experience train him.
Professedly, Martin Yorke (it is a
young Yorke, of course) tramples on the name of poetry: talk sentiment to h=
im,
and you would be answered by sarcasm. Here he is, wandering alone, waiting
duteously on Nature, while she unfolds a page of stern, of silent, and of
solemn poetry, beneath his attentive gaze.
Being seated, he takes from his
satchel a book - not the Latin but a contraband volume of fairy tales; there
will be light enough yet for an hour to serve his keen young vision: beside=
s,
the moon waits on him - her beam, dim and vague as yet, fills the glade whe=
re
he sits.
He reads: he is led into a solitary
mountain region; all round him is rude and desolate, shapeless, and almost
colourless. He hears bells tinkle on the wind: forthriding from the formless
folds of the mist, dawns on him the brightest vision - a green-robed lady, =
on a
snow-white palfrey; he sees her dress, her gems, and her steed; she arrests=
him
with some mysterious questions: he is spell-bound, and must follow her into
Fairyland.
A second legend bears him to the
sea-shore: there tumbles in a strong tide, boiling at the base of dizzy cli=
ffs:
it rains and blows. A reef of rocks, black and rough, stretches far into the
sea; all along, and among, and above these crags, dash and flash, sweep and
leap, swells, wreaths, drifts of snowy spray. Some lone wanderer is out on
these rocks, treading, with cautious step, the wet, wild sea-weed; glancing
down into hollows where the brine lies fathoms deep and emerald-clear, and
seeing there wilder and stranger, and huger vegetation, than is found on la=
nd,
with treasure of shells - some green, some purple, some pearly - clustered =
in
the curls of the snaky plants. He hears a cry. Looking up, and forward, he
sees, at the bleak point of the reef, a tall, pale thing - shaped like man,=
but
made of spray - transparent, tremulous, awful: it stands not alone: they are
all human figures that wanton in the rocks - a crowd of foam- women - a ban=
d of
white, evanescent Nereides.
Hush: - shut the book: hide it in =
the
satchel: - Martin hears a tread. He listens: No - yes: once more the dead
leaves, lightly crushed, rustle on the wood-path. Martin watches: the trees
part, and a woman issues forth.
She is a lady dressed in dark silk=
, a
veil covering her face. Martin never met a lady in this wood before - nor a=
ny
female, save, now and then, a village- girl come to gather nuts. To-night, =
the
apparition does not displease him. He observes, as she approaches, that she=
is
neither old nor plain, but, on the contrary, very youthful; and, but that he
now recognises her for one whom he has often wilfully pronounced ugly, he w=
ould
deem that he discovered traits of beauty behind the thin gauze of that veil=
.
She passes him, and says nothing. =
He
knew she would: all woman are proud monkeys - and he knows no more conceited
doll than that Caroline Helstone. The thought is hardly hatched in his mind,
when the lady retraces those two steps she had got beyond him, and raising =
her
veil, reposes her glance on his face, while she softly asks - 'Are you one =
of Mr
Yorke's sons?'
No human evidence would ever have =
been
able to persuade Martin Yorke that he blushed when thus addressed; yet blus=
h he
did, to the ears.
'I am,' he said bluntly; and
encouraged himself to wonder, superciliously, what would come next.
'You are Martin, I think?' was the
observation that followed.
It could not have been more
felicitous: it was a simple sentence-very artlessly, a little timidly,
pronounced; but it chimed in harmony to the youth's nature: it stilled him =
like
a note of music.
Martin had a keen sense of his
personality: he felt it right and sensible that the girl should discriminate
him from his brothers. Like his father, he hated ceremony: it was acceptabl=
e to
hear a lady address him as 'Martin,' and not Mr Martin or Master Martin, wh=
ich
form would have lost her good graces for ever. Worse, if possible, than
ceremony, was the other extreme of slipshod familiarity: the slight tone of
bashfulness-the scarcely perceptible hesitation- was considered perfectly in
place.
'I am Martin,' he said.
'Are your father and mother well?'=
-
(it was lucky she did not say papa and mamma: that would have undone all) -
'and Rose and Jessy?'
'I suppose so.'
'My cousin Hortense is still at
Briarmains?'
'Oh, yes!'
Martin gave a comic half-smile and
demi-groan: the half-smile was responded to by the lady, who could guess in
what sort of odour Hortense was likely to be held by the young Yorkes.
'Does your mother like her?'
'They suit so well about the serva=
nts,
they can't help liking each other!'
'It is cold to-night.'
'Why are you out so late?'
'I lost my way in this wood.'
Now, indeed, Martin allowed himsel=
f a
refreshing laugh of scorn.
'Lost your way in the mighty fores=
t of
Briarmains! You deserve never more to find it.'
'I never was here before, and I
believe I am trespassing now: you might inform against me if you chose, Mar=
tin,
and have me fined: it is your father's wood.'
'I should think I knew that; but s=
ince
you are so simple as to lose your way, I will guide you out.'
'You need not: I have got into the
track now: I shall be right. Martin' (a little quickly), 'how is Mr Moore?'=
Martin had heard certain rumours: =
it
struck him that it might be amusing to make an experiment.
'Going to die. Nothing can save hi=
m.
All hope flung overboard!'
She put her veil aside. She looked
into his eyes, and said - 'To die!'
'To die. All along of the women, my
mother and the rest: they did something about his bandages that finished
everything: he would have got better but for them. I am sure they should be
arrested, cribbed, tried, and brought in for Botany Bay, at the very least.=
'
The questioner, perhaps, did not h=
ear
this judgment: she stood motionless. In two minutes, without another word, =
she
moved forwards: no good-night, no further inquiry. This was not amusing, nor
what Martin had calculated on: he expected something dramatic and
demonstrative: it was hardly worth while to frighten the girl, if she would=
not
entertain him in return. He called - 'Miss Helstone!'
She did not hear or turn. He haste=
ned
after and overtook her.
'Come. Are you uneasy about what I
said?'
'You know nothing about death, Mar=
tin:
you are too young for me to talk to concerning such a thing.'
'Did you believe me? It's all
flummery! Moore eats like three men: they are always making sago or tapioca=
, or
something good for him: I never go into the kitchen, but there is a saucepa=
n on
the fire, cooking him some dainty. I think I will play the old soldier, and=
be
fed on the fat of the land like him.'
'Martin! Martin!' Here her voice
trembled, and she stopped.
'It is exceedingly wrong of you,
Martin: you have almost killed me.'
Again she stopped; she leaned agai=
nst
a tree, trembling, shuddering, and as pale as death.
Martin contemplated her with
inexpressible curiosity. In one sense it was, as he would have expressed it,
'nuts' to him to see this: it told him so much, and he was beginning to hav=
e a
great relish for discovering secrets; in another sense, it reminded him of =
what
he had once felt when he had heard a blackbird lamenting for her nestlings,
which Matthew had crushed with a stone, and that was not a pleasant feeling.
Unable to find anything very appropriate to say, in order to comfort her, he
began to cast about in his mind what he could do: he smiled: the lad's smile
gave wondrous transparency to his physiognomy.
'Eureka!' he cried. 'I'll set all
straight by-and-by. You are better now, Miss Caroline; walk forward,' he ur=
ged.
Not reflecting that it would be mo=
re
difficult for Miss Helstone than for himself to climb a wall or penetrate a
hedge, he piloted her by a short cut which led to no gate. The consequence =
was
he had to help her over some formidable obstacles, and, while he railed at =
her
for helplessness, he perfectly liked to feel himself of use.
'Martin, before we separate, assur=
e me
seriously, and on your word of honour, that Mr Moore is better.'
'How very much you think of that
Moore!'
'No - but - many of his friends may
ask me, and I wish to be able to give an authentic answer.'
'You may tell them he is well enou=
gh,
only idle: you may tell them that he takes mutton-chops for dinner, and the
best of arrowroot for supper. I intercepted a basin myself one night on its=
way
upstairs, and ate half of it.'
'And who waits on him, Martin? Who
nurses him?'
'Nurses him? - the great baby! Why=
, a
woman as round and big as our largest water-butt - a rough, hard-favoured o=
ld
girl. I make no doubt she leads him a rich life: nobody else is let near hi=
m:
he is chiefly in the dark. It is my belief she knocks him about terribly in
that chamber. I listen at the wall sometimes when I am in bed, and I think I
hear her thumping him. You should see her fist: she could hold half-a-dozen
hands like yours in her one palm. After all, notwithstanding the chops and
jellies he gets, I would not be in his shoes. In fact, it is my private opi=
nion
that she eats most of what goes up on the tray to Mr Moore. I wish she may =
not
be starving him.'
Profound silence and meditation on
Caroline's part, and a sly watchfulness on Martin's.
'You never see him, I suppose,
Martin?'
'I? No: I don't care to see him, f=
or
my own part.'
Silence again.
'Did not you come to our house once
with Mrs Pryor, about five weeks since, to ask after him?' again inquired
Martin.
'Yes.'
'I daresay you wished to be shown
upstairs?'
'We did wish it: we entreated it; =
but
your mother declined.'
'Aye! she declined. I heard it all:
she treated you as it is her pleasure to treat visitors now and then: she
behaved to you rudely and harshly.'
'She was not kind; for, you know,
Martin, we are relations, and it is natural we should take an interest in Mr
Moore. But here we must part: we are at your father's gate.'
'Very well - what of that? I shall
walk home with you?'
'They will miss you, and wonder wh=
ere
you are.'
'Let them. . . . I can take care of
myself, I suppose.'
Martin knew that he had already
incurred the penalty of a lecture, and dry bread for his tea. No matter, the
evening had furnished him with an adventure: it was better than muffins and
toast.
He walked home with Caroline. On t=
he
way he promised to see Mr Moore, in spite of the dragon who guarded his
chamber, and appointed an hour on the next day, when Caroline was to come to
Briarmains Wood and get tidings of him: he would meet her at a certain tree.
The scheme led to nothing: still he liked it.
Having reached home, the dry bread=
and
the lecture were duly administered to him, and he was dismissed to bed at an
early hour. He accepted his punishment with the toughest stoicism.
Ere ascending to his chamber he pa=
id a
secret visit to the dining-room, a still, cold, stately apartment, seldom u=
sed;
for the family customarily dined in the back-parlour. He stood before the m=
antelpiece,
and lifted his candle to two pictures hung above - female heads: one, a typ=
e of
serene beauty - happy and innocent; the other, more lovely - but forlorn and
desperate.
'She looked like that,' he said,
gazing on the latter sketch, 'when she sobbed, turned white, and leaned aga=
inst
the tree.'
'I suppose,' he pursued, when he w=
as
in his room, and seated on the edge of his pallet-bed - 'I suppose she is w=
hat
they call, 'in love'; yes, in love with that long thing in the next chamber.
Whist! is that Horsfall clattering him? I wonder he does not yell out. It
really sounds as if she had fallen on him tooth and nail; but I suppose she=
is
making the bed. I saw her at it once - she hit into the mattresses as if she
was boxing. It is queer, Zillah (they call her Zillah) - Zillah Horsfall is=
a
woman, and Caroline Helstone is a woman: they are two individuals of the sa=
me
species - not much alike though. Is she a pretty girl, that Caroline? I sus=
pect
she is - very nice to look at - something so clear in her face - so soft in=
her
eyes. I approve of her looking at me; it does me good. She has long eyelash=
es:
their shadow seems to rest where she gazes, and to instil peace and thought=
. If
she behaves well, and continues to suit me, as she has suited me to-day, I =
may do
her a good turn. I rather relish the notion of circumventing my mother and =
that
ogress, old Horsfall. Not that I like humouring Moore; but whatever I do I'=
ll
be paid for, and in coin of my own choosing: I know what reward I will clai=
m -
one displeasing to Moore, and agreeable to myself.'
He turned into bed.
It was necessary to the arrangemen=
t of
Martin's plan, that he should stay at home that day. Accordingly, he found =
no
appetite for breakfast; and, just about school-time, took a severe pain abo=
ut
his heart, which rendered it advisable that, instead of setting out to the
grammar-school with Mark, he should succeed to his father's arm-chair by the
fireside, and also to his morning-paper. This point being satisfactorily se=
ttled,
and Mark being gone to Mr Summer's class, and Matthew and Mr Yorke withdraw=
n to
the counting-house, three other exploits, nay four, remained to be achieved=
.
The first of these was to realise =
the
breakfast he had not yet tasted, and with which his appetite of fifteen cou=
ld
ill afford to dispense; the second, third, fourth, to get his mother, Miss
Moore and Mrs Horsfall successively, out of the way before four o'clock that
afternoon.
The first was, for the present, the
most pressing, since the work before him demanded an amount of energy which=
the
present empty condition of his youthful stomach did not seem likely to supp=
ly.
Martin knew the way to the larder;=
and
knowing this way, he took it. The servants were in the kitchen, breakfasting
solemnly with closed doors; his mother and Miss Moore were airing themselve=
s on
the lawn, and discussing the closed doors aforesaid: Martin, safe in the
larder, made fastidious selection from its stores. His breakfast had been
delayed - he was determined it should be recherché: it appeared to h=
im
that a variety on his usual somewhat insipid fare of bread and milk was both
desirable and advisable: the savoury and the salutary he thought might be
combined. There was store of rosy apples laid in straw upon a shelf; he pic=
ked
out three. There was pastry upon a dish; he selected an apricot-puff and a
damson tart. On the plain household bread his eye did not dwell; but he
surveyed with favour some currant tea-cakes, and condescended to make choic=
e of
one. Thanks to his clasp-knife, he was able to appropriate a wing of fowl a=
nd a
slice of ham; a cantlet of cold custard-pudding he thought would harmonise =
with
these articles; and having made this final addition to his booty, he at len=
gth
sallied forth into the hall.
He was already half-way across - t=
hree
steps more would have anchored him in the harbour of the back-parlour - when
the front door opened, and there stood Matthew. Better far had it been the =
Old
Gentleman, in full equipage of horns, hoofs, and tail.
Matthew, sceptic and scoffer, had
already failed to subscribe a prompt belief in that pain about the heart: he
had muttered some words, amongst which the phrase 'shamming Abraham' had be=
en
very distinctly audible; and the succession to the arm-chair and newspaper =
had
appeared to affect him with mental spasms: the spectacle now before him, the
apples, the tarts, the tea-cake, the fowl, ham, and pudding, offered eviden=
ce
but too well calculated to inflate his opinion of his own sagacity.
Martin paused 'interdit' one minut=
e,
one instant; the next he knew his ground, and pronounced all well. With the
true perspicacity 'des êmes élites,' he at once saw how this -=
at
first sight untoward event - might be turned to excellent account: he saw h=
ow
it might be so handled as to secure the accomplishment of his second task,
viz., the disposal of his mother. He knew that a collision between him and
Matthew always suggested to Mrs Yorke the propriety of a fit of hysterics; =
he
further knew that, on the 'principle of calm succeeding to storm, after a
morning of hysterics his mother was sure to indulge in an afternoon of bed.
This would accommodate him perfectly.
The collision duly took place in t=
he
hall. A dry laugh, an insulting sneer, a contemptuous taunt, met by a
nonchalant but most cutting reply, were, the signals. They rushed at it.
Martin, who usually made little noise on these occasions, made a great deal
now. In flew the servants, Mrs Yorke, Miss Moore: no female hand could sepa=
rate
them. Mr Yorke was. summoned.
'Sons,' said he, 'one of you must
leave my roof if this occurs again: I will have no Cain and Abel strife her=
e.'
Martin now allowed himself to be t=
aken
off: he had been hurt; he was the youngest and slightest: he was quite cool=
, in
no passion: he even smiled, content that the most difficult part of the lab=
our
he had set himself was over.
Once he seemed to flag in the cour=
se
of the morning.
'It is not worth while to bother
myself for that Caroline,' he remarked. But, a quarter of an hour afterward=
s,
he was again in the dining-room, looking at the head with dishevelled tress=
es,
and eyes turbid with despair.
'Yes,' he said, 'I made her sob,
shudder, almost faint: I'll see her smile before I've done with her: beside=
s, I
want to outwit all these womenites.'
Directly after dinner, Mrs Yorke
fulfilled her son's calculation, by withdrawing to her chamber. Now for
Hortense.
That lady was just comfortably set=
tled
to stocking-mending in the back parlour, when Martin - laying down a book
which, stretched on the sofa (he was still indisposed, according to his own
account), he had been perusing in all the voluptuous ease of a yet callow p=
acha
- lazily introduced some discourse about Sarah, the maid at the Hollow. In =
the
course of much verbal meandering, he insinuated information that this damse=
l was
said to have three suitors, Frederic Murgatroyd, Jeremiah Pighills, and
John-of-Mally's-of-Hannah's-of-Deb's; and that Miss Mann had affirmed she k=
new
for a fact, that, now the girl was left in sole charge of the cottage, she
often had her swains to meals, and entertained them with the best the house
afforded.
It needed no more. Hortense could =
not
have lived another hour without betaking herself to the scene of these
nefarious transactions, and inspecting the state of matters in person. Mrs
Horsfall remained.
Martin, master of the field now,
extracted from his mother's work-basket a bunch of keys; with these he open=
ed
the sideboard cupboard, produced thence a black bottle and a small glass,
placed them on the table, nimbly mounted the stairs, made for Mr Moore's do=
or,
tapped, the nurse opened.
'If you please, ma'am, you are inv=
ited
to step into the back-parlour, and take some refreshment: you will not be
disturbed: the family are out.'
He watched her down; he watched her
in; himself shut the door: he knew she was safe.
The hard work was done; now for the
pleasure. He snatched his cap, and away for the wood.
It was yet but half-past three; it=
had
been a fine morning, but the sky looked dark now: it was beginning to snow;=
the
wind blew cold; the wood looked dismal; the old tree grim. Yet Martin appro=
ved
the shadow on his path: he found a charm in the spectral aspect of the dodd=
ered
oak.
He had to wait; to and fro he walk=
ed,
while the flakes fell faster; and the wind, which at first had but moaned,
pitifully howled.
'She is long in coming,' he mutter=
ed,
as he glanced along the narrow track. 'I wonder,' he subjoined, 'what I wis=
h to
see her so much for? She is not coming for me. But I have power over her, a=
nd I
want her to come that I may use that power.'
He continued his walk.
'Now,' he resumed, when a further
period had elapsed, 'if she fails to come, I shall hate and scorn her.'
It struck four: he heard the
church-clock far away. A step so quick, so light, that, but for the rustlin=
g of
leaves, it would scarcely have sounded on the wood-walk, checked his
impatience. The wind blew fiercely now, and the thickened white storm waxed
bewildering: but on she came, and not dismayed.
'Well, Martin,' she said eagerly, =
'how
is he?'
'It is queer how she thinks of him=
,'
reflected Martin: 'the blinding snow and bitter cold are nothing to her, I
believe: yet she is but a 'chitty-faced creature,' as my mother would say. I
could find in my heart to wish I had a cloak to wrap her in.'
Thus meditating to himself, he
neglected to answer Miss Helstone.
'You have seen him?'
'No.'
'Oh! You promised you would.'
'I mean to do better by you than t=
hat.
Didn't I say I don't care to see him?'
'But now it will be so long before=
I
get to know anything certain about him, and I am sick of waiting. Martin, do
see him, and give him Caroline Helstone's regards, and say she wished to kn=
ow
how he was, and if anything could be done for his comfort.'
'I won't.'
'You are changed: you were so frie=
ndly
last night.'
'Come: we must not stand in this w=
ood;
it is too cold.'
'But, before I go, promise me to c=
ome
again to-morrow with news.'
'No such thing; I am much too deli=
cate
to make and keep such appointments in the winter season if you knew what a =
pain
I had in my chest this morning, and how I went without breakfast, and was
knocked down besides, you'd feel the impropriety of bringing me here in the
snow, Come, I say.'
'Are you really delicate, Martin?'=
'Don't I look so?'
'You have rosy cheeks.'
'That's hectic. Will you come - or=
you
won't?'
'Where?'
'With me. I was a fool not to brin=
g a
cloak: I would have made you cosy.'
'You are going home! my nearest ro=
ad
lies in the opposite direction.'
'Put your arm through mine. I'll t=
ake
care of you.'
'But, the wall - the hedge - it. is
such hard work climbing, and you are too slender and young to help me witho=
ut
hurting yourself.'
'You shall go through the gate.'
'But -&=
nbsp;
- '
'But! - but! Will you trust me or
not?'
She looked into his face.
'I think I will. Anything rather t=
han
return as anxious as I came.'
'I can't answer for that. This, however, I promise you; be ruled by me, and you shall see Moore yourself.'<= o:p>
'See him myself?'
'Yourself.'
'But, dear Martin, does he know?'<= o:p>
'Ah! I'm dear now. No: he doesn't
know.'
'And your mother and the others?'<= o:p>
'All is right.'
Caroline fell into a long silent f=
it
of musing, but still she walked on with her guide: they came in sight of
Briarmains.
'Have you made up your mind?' he
asked.
She was silent.
'Decide. We are just on the spot. I
won't see him - that I tell you - except to announce your arrival.'
'Martin, you are a strange boy, and
this is a strange step; but all I feel is and has been, for a long time,
strange. I will see him.'
'Having said that, you will neither
hesitate nor retract?'
'No.'
'Here we are, then. Do not be afra=
id
of passing the parlour-window: no one will see you. My father and Matthew a=
re
at the mill; Mark is at school; the servants are in the back-kitchen; Miss
Moore is at the cottage; my mother in her bed; and Mrs Horsfall in Paradise.
Observe - I need not ring: I open the door; the hall is empty; the staircase
quiet; so is the gallery: the whole house and all its inhabitants are under=
a
spell, which I will not break till you are gone.'
'Martin, I trust you.'
'You never said a better word. Let=
me
take your shawl: I will shake off the snow and dry it for you. You are cold=
and
wet: never mind; there is a fire upstairs. Are you ready?'
'Yes.'
'Follow me.'
He left his shoes on the mat; moun=
ted
the stair unshod; Caroline stole after, with noiseless step: there was a ga=
llery,
and there was a passage; at the end of that passage Martin paused before a =
door
and tapped: he had to tap twice - thrice: a voice, known to one listener, at
last said - 'Come in.'
The boy entered briskly.
'Mr Moore, a lady called to inquire
after you: none of the women were about: it is washing day, and the maids a=
re
over the crown of the head in soap-suds in the back-kitchen; so I asked her=
to
step up.'
'Up here, sir?'
'Up here; sir: but if you object, =
she
shall go down again.'
'Is this a place, or am I a person=
to
bring a lady to, you absurd lad?'
'No: so I'll take her off.'
'Martin, you will stay here. Who is
she?'
'Your grandmother from that
château on the Scheldt Miss Moore talks about.'
'Martin,' said the softest whisper=
at
the door, 'don't be foolish.'
'Is she there?' inquired Moore
hastily. He had caught an imperfect sound.
'She is there, fit to faint: she is
standing on the mat, shocked at your want of filial affection.'
'Martin, you are an evil cross bet=
ween
an imp and a page. What is she like?'
'More like me than you; for she is
young and beautiful.'
'You are to show her forward. Do y=
ou
hear?'
'Come, Miss Caroline.'
'Miss Caroline!' repeated Moore.
And when Miss Caroline entered, she
was encountered in the middle of the chamber by a tall, thin, wasted figure,
who took both her hands.
'I give you a quarter of an hour,'
said Martin as he withdrew: 'no more. Say what you have to say in that time:
till it is past, I will wait in the gallery: nothing shall approach: I'll s=
ee
you safe away. Should you persist in staying longer, I leave you to your fa=
te.'
He shut the door. In the gallery he
was as elate as a king: he had never been engaged in an adventure he liked =
so
well; for no adventure had ever invested him with so much importance or
inspired him with so much interest.
'You are come at last,' said the
meagre man, gazing on his visitress with hollow eyes.
'Did you expect me before?'
'For a month - near two months, we
have been very near; and I have been in sad pain, and danger, and misery,
Cary.'
'I could not come.'
'Couldn't you? But the Rectory and
Briarmains are very near: not two miles apart.'
There was pain - there was pleasur=
e in
the girl's face as she listened to these implied reproaches: it was sweet -=
it
was bitter to defend herself.
'When I say I could not come, I me=
an I
could not see you; for I came with mamma the very day we heard what had
happened. Mr MacTurk then told us it was impossible to admit any stranger.'=
'But afterwards - every fine after=
noon
these many weeks past I have waited and listened. Something here, Cary' (la=
ying
his hand on his breast), 'told me it was impossible but that you should thi=
nk
of me. Not that I merit thought; but we are old acquaintance; we are cousin=
s.'
'I came again, Robert: mamma and I
came again.'
'Did you? Come, that is worth hear=
ing:
since you came again, we will sit down and talk about it.'
They sat down. Caroline drew her c=
hair
up to his. The air was now dark with snow: an Iceland blast was driving it
wildly. This pair neither heard the long 'wuthering' rush, nor saw the white
burden it drifted: each seemed conscious but of one thing - the presence of=
the
other.
'And so mamma and you came again?'=
'And Mrs Yorke did treat us strang=
ely.
We asked to see you. 'No,' said she; 'not in my house. I am at present resp=
onsible
for his life: it shall not be forfeited for half-an hour's idle gossip.' Bu=
t I
must not tell you all she said: it was very disagreeable. However, we came =
yet
again - mamma, Miss Keeldar, and I. This time we thought we should conquer,=
as
we were three against one, and Shirley was on our side. But Mrs Yorke opened
such a battery.'
Moore smiled. 'What did she say?'<= o:p>
'Things that astonished us. Shirley
laughed at last; I cried; mamma was seriously annoyed we were all three dri=
ven
from the field. Since that time I have only walked once a day past the hous=
e,
just for the satisfaction of looking up at your window, which I could
distinguish by the drawn curtains. I really dared not come in.'
'I have wished for you, Caroline.'=
'I did not know that. I never drea=
mt
one instant that you thought of me. If I had but most distantly imagined su=
ch a
possibility - - '
'Mrs Yorke would still have beaten
you.'
'She would not. Stratagem should h=
ave
been tried, if persuasion failed. I would have come to the kitchen-door; the
servant should have let me in; and I would have walked straight upstairs. In
fact, it was far more the fear of intrusion - the fear of yourself, that
baffled me, than the fear of Mrs Yorke.'
'Only last night, I despaired of e=
ver
seeing you again. Weakness has wrought terrible depression in me - terrible
depression.'
'And you sit alone?'
'Worse than alone.'
'But you must be getting better, s=
ince
you can leave your bed?'
'I doubt whether I shall live: I s=
ee
nothing for it, after such exhaustion, but decline.'
'You - you shall go home to the
Hollow.'
'Dreariness would accompany - noth=
ing
cheerful come near me.'
'I will alter this: this shall be
altered, were there ten Mrs Yorkes to do battle with.'
'Cary, you make me smile.'
'Do smile: smile again. Shall I te=
ll
you what I should like?'
'Tell me anything - only keep talk=
ing.
I am Saul: but for music I should perish.'
'I should like you to be brought to
the Rectory, and given to me and mamma.'
'A precious gift! I have not laugh=
ed
since they shot me till now.'
'Do you suffer pain, Robert?'
'Not so much pain now; but I am
hopelessly weak, and the state of my mind is inexpressible - dark, barren,
impotent. Do you not read it all in my face? I look a mere ghost.'
'Altered, yet I should have known =
you
anywhere: but I understand your feelings: I experienced something like it S=
ince
we met, I too have been very ill.'
'Very ill?'
'I thought I should die. The tale =
of
my life seemed told. Every night, just at midnight, I used to wake from awf=
ul
dreams - and the book lay open before me at the last page, where was written
'Finis.' I had strange feelings.'
'You speak my experience.'
'I believed I should never see you
again; and I grew so thin - as thin as you are now: I could do nothing for
myself - neither rise nor lie down; and I could not eat - yet, you see I am
better.'
'Comforter! sad as sweet: I am too
feeble to say what I feel; but, while you speak, I do feel.'
'Here, I am at your side, where I
thought never more to be; here I speak to you - I see you listen to me will=
ingly
- look at me kindly. Did I count on that? I despaired.'
Moore sighed - a sigh so deep, it =
was
nearly a groan: he covered his eyes with his hand.
'May I be spared to make some
atonement.'
Such was his prayer.
'And for what?
'We will not touch on it now, Cary;
unmanned as I am, I have not the power to cope with such a topic. Was Mrs P=
ryor
with you during your illness?'
'Yes' (Caroline smiled brightly) -
'you know she is mamma?'
'I have heard: Hortense told me; b=
ut
that tale, too, I will receive from yourself. Does she add to your happines=
s?'
'What! mamma? She is dear to me; h=
ow
dear I cannot say. I was altogether weary, and she held me up.'
'I deserve to hear that in a moment
when I can scarce lift my hand to my head. I deserve it.'
'It is no reproach against you.'
'It is a coal of fire heaped on my
head; and so is every word you address to me, and every look that lights yo=
ur
sweet face. Come still nearer, Lina; and give me your hand - if my thin fin=
gers
do not scare you.'
She took those thin fingers between
her two little hands - she bent her head 'et les effleura de ses lèv=
res'
(I put that in French, because the word 'effleurer' is an exquisite word).
Moore was much moved: a large tear or two coursed down his hollow cheek.
'I'll keep these things in my hear=
t,
Cary; that kiss I will put by, and you shall hear of it again some day.'
'Come out!' cried Martin, opening =
the
door. 'Come away - you have had twenty minutes instead of a quarter of an
hour.'
'She will not stir yet - you
hempseed.'
'I dare not stay longer, Robert.'<= o:p>
'Can you promise to return?'
'No, she can't,' responded Martin.
'The thing mustn't become customary: I can't be troubled. It's very well for
once: I'll not have it repeated.'
'You'll not have it repeated.'
'Hush! don't vex him - we could not
have met to-day but for him: but I will come again, if it is your wish that=
I
should come.'
'It is my wish - my one wish - alm=
ost
the only wish I can feel.'
'Come this minute: my mother has
coughed, got up, set her feet on the floor. Let her only catch you on the
stairs, Miss Caroline: you're not to bid him good- bye' (stepping between h=
er
and Moore), - 'you are to march.'
'My shawl, Martin.'
'I have it. I'll put it on for you
when you are in the hall.'
He made them part: he would suffer=
no
farewell but what could be expressed in looks: he half carried Caroline down
the stairs. In the hall he wrapped her shawl round her, and - but that his
mother's tread then creaked in the gallery, and but that a sentiment of
diffidence - the proper, natural, therefore the noble impulse of his boy's
heart, held him back, he would have claimed his reward - he would have said,
'Now, Miss Caroline, for all this give me one kiss.' But ere the words had
passed his lips, she was across the snowy road, rather skimming than wading=
the
drifts.
'She is my debtor, and I will be
paid.'
He flattered himself that it was
opportunity, not audacity, which had failed him: he misjudged the quality of
his own nature, and held it for something lower than it was.
Martin, having known the taste of
excitement, wanted a second draught; having felt the dignity of power, he
loathed to relinquish it. Miss Helstone - that girl he had always called ug=
ly,
and whose face was now perpetually before his eyes, by day and by night, in
dark and in sunshine - had once come within his sphere: it fretted him to t=
hink
the visit might never be repeated.
Though a schoolboy, he was no ordi=
nary
schoolboy: he was destined to grow up an original. At a few years later dat=
e,
he took great pains to pare and polish himself down to the pattern of the r=
est
of the world, but he never succeeded: an unique stamp marked him always. He=
now
sat idle at his desk in the grammar- school, casting about in his mind for =
the
means of adding another chapter to his commenced romance: he did not yet kn=
ow
how many commenced life-romances are doomed never to get beyond the first -=
or,
at most, the second chapter. His Saturday half-holiday he spent in the wood
with his book of fairy legends, and that other unwritten book of his
imagination.
Martin harboured an irreligious
reluctance to see the approach of Sunday. His father and mother - while
disclaiming community with the Establishment - failed not duly, once on the
sacred day, to fill their large pew in Briarfield church with the whole of
their blooming family. Theoretically, Mr Yorke placed all sects and churche=
s on
a level: Mrs Yorke awarded the palm to Moravians and Quakers, on account of
that crown of humility by these worthies worn: neither of them were ever kn=
own,
however, to set foot in a conventicle.
Martin, I say, disliked Sunday,
because the morning service was long, and the sermon usually little to his
taste: this Saturday afternoon, however, his woodland musings disclosed to =
him
a new-found charm in the coming day.
It proved a day of deep snow: so d=
eep,
that Mrs Yorke, during breakfast, announced her conviction that the childre=
n,
both boys and girls, would he better at home; and her decision that, instea=
d of
going to church, they should sit silent for two hours in the back-parlour,
while Rose and Martin alternately read a succession of sermons - John Wesle=
y's
Sermons: John Wesley, being a Reformer and an Agitator, had a place both in=
her
own and her husband's favour.
'Rose will do as she pleases,' said
Martin, not looking up from the book which, according to his custom then an=
d in
after life, he was studying over his bread and milk.
'Rose will do as she is told, and
Martin too,' observed the mother.
'I am going to church.'
So her son replied, with the ineff=
able
quietude of a true Yorke, who knows his will and means to have it, and who,=
if
pushed to the wall, will let himself be crushed to death, provided no way o=
f escape
can be found - but will never capitulate.
'It is not fit weather,' said the
father.
No answer: the youth read studious=
ly;
he slowly broke his bread and sipped his milk.
'Martin hates to go to church, but=
he
hates still more to obey,' said Mrs Yorke.
'I suppose I am influenced by pure
perverseness?'
'Yes - you are.'
'Mother - I am not.'
'By what, then, are you influenced=
?'
'By a complication of motives; the
intricacies of which I should as soon think of explaining to you as I shoul=
d of
turning myself inside out to exhibit the internal machinery of my frame.'
'Hear Martin! Hear him!' cried Mr
Yorke. 'I must see and have this lad of mine brought up to the Bar: Nature
meant him to live by his tongue. Hesther, your third son must certainly be a
lawyer: he has the stock in trade - brass, self-conceit, and words - words -
words.'
'Some bread, Rose, if you please,'
requested Martin with intense gravity, serenity, phlegm: the boy had natura=
lly
a low, plaintive voice, which, in his 'dour moods,' rose scarcely above a
lady's whisper: the more inflexibly stubborn the humour, the softer, the sa=
dder
the tone. He rang the bell, and gently asked for his walking-shoes.
'But, Martin,' urged his sire, 'th=
ere
is drift all the way - a man could hardly wade through it. However, lad,' he
continued, seeing that the boy rose as the church-bell began to toll, 'this=
is
a case wherein I would by no means balk the obdurate chap of his will. Go to
church by all means. There is a pitiless wind, and a sharp, frozen sleet,
besides the depth under foot. Go out into it, since thou prefers it to a wa=
rm
fireside.'
Martin quietly assumed his cloak,
comforter, and cap, and deliberately went out.
'My father has more sense than my
mother,' he pronounced. 'How women miss it! They drive the nail into the fl=
esh,
thinking they are hammering away at insensate stone.'
He reached church early.
'Now, if the weather frightens her
(and it is a real December tempest), or if that Mrs Pryor objects to her go=
ing
out, and I should miss her after all, it will vex me: but, tempest or torna=
do,
hail or ice, she ought to come; and, if she has a mind worthy of her eyes a=
nd
features, she will come: she will be here for the chance of seeing me, as I=
am
here for the chance of seeing her: she will want to get a word respecting h=
er
confounded sweetheart, as I want to get another flavour of what I think the
essence of life: a taste of existence, with the spirit preserved in it, and=
not
evaporated. Adventure is to stagnation what champagne is to flat porter.'
He looked round. The church was co=
ld,
silent, empty, but for one old woman. As the chimes subsided, and the single
bell tolled slowly, another and another elderly parishioner came dropping i=
n,
and took a humble station in the free sittings. It is always the frailest, =
the oldest,
and the poorest that brave the worst weather, to prove and maintain their
constancy to dear old mother Church: this wild morning not one affluent fam=
ily
attended, not one carriage party appeared - all the lined and cushioned pews
were empty; only on the bare oaken seats sat ranged the grey-haired elders =
and
feeble paupers.
'I'll scorn her, if she doesn't co=
me,'
muttered Martin shortly and savagely to himself. The Rector's shovel-hat had
passed the porch: Mr Helstone and his clerk were in the vestry.
The bells ceased - the reading-desk
was filled - the doors were closed - the service commenced: void stood the
Rectory pew - she was not there: Martin scorned her.
'Worthless thing! Vapid thing!
Commonplace humbug! Like all other girls - weakly, selfish, shallow!'
Such was Martin's liturgy.
'She is not like our picture: her =
eyes
are not large and expressive: her nose is not straight, delicate, Hellenic:=
her
mouth has not that charm I thought it had - which, I imagined, could beguil=
e me
of sullenness in my worst moods. What is she? A thread-paper, a doll, a toy=
- a
girl, in short.'
So absorbed was the young cynic, he
forgot to rise from his knees at the proper place, and was still in an
exemplary attitude of devotion when - the litany over - the first hymn was
given out. To be so caught did not contribute to soothe him: he started up =
red
(for he was as sensitive to ridicule as any girl). To make the matter worse,
the church-door had re-opened, and the aisles were filling: patter, patter,
patter, a hundred little feet trotted in. It was the Sunday-scholars. Accor=
ding
to Briarfield winter custom, these children had till now been kept where th=
ere
was a warm stove, and only led into church just before the Communion and
Sermon.
The little ones were settled first=
, and
at last, when the boys and the younger girls were all arranged - when the o=
rgan
was swelling high, and the choir and congregation were rising to uplift a
spiritual song - a tall class of young women came quietly in, closing the
procession. Their teacher, having seen them seated, passed into the
Rectory-pew. The French-grey cloak and small beaver bonnet were known to
Martin: it was the very costume his eyes had ached to catch. Miss Helstone =
had
not suffered the storm to prove an impediment: after all, she was come to
church. Martin probably whispered his satisfaction to his hymn-book; at any
rate, he therewith hid his face two minutes.
Satisfied or not, he had time to g=
et
very angry with her again before the sermon was over; she had never once lo=
oked
his way: at least, he had not been so lucky as to encounter a glance.
'If,' he said - 'if she takes no
notice of me; if she shows I am not in her thoughts, I shall have a worse, a
meaner opinion of her than ever. Most despicable would it be to come for the
sake of those sheep-faced Sunday scholars, and not for my sake, or that long
skeleton Moore's.'
The sermon found an end; the
benediction was pronounced; the congregation dispersed: she had not been ne=
ar
him.
Now, indeed, as Martin set his face
homeward, he felt that the sleet was sharp, and the east wind cold.
His nearest way lay through some
fields: it was a dangerous, because an untrodden way: he did not care; he w=
ould
take it. Near the second stile rose a clump of trees: was that an umbrella
waiting there? Yes: an umbrella held with evident difficulty against the bl=
ast:
behind it fluttered a French-grey cloak. Martin grinned as he toiled up the
steep encumbered field, difficult to the foot as a slope in the upper realm=
s of
Etna. There was an inimitable look in his face when, having gained the stil=
e,
he seated himself coolly thereupon, and thus opened a conference which, for=
his
own part, he was willing to prolong indefinitely.
'I think you had better strike a
bargain: exchange me for Mrs Pryor.'
'I was not sure whether you would =
come
this way, Martin; but I thought I would run the chance: there is no such th=
ing
as getting a quiet word spoken in the church or churchyard.'
'Will you agree? Make over Mrs Pry=
or
to my mother, and put me in her skirts?'
'As if I could understand you! What
puts Mrs Pryor into your head?'
'You call her 'mamma,' don't you?'=
'She is my mamma.'
'Not possible - or so inefficient,=
so
careless a mamma - I should make a five times better one. You may laugh: I =
have
no objection to see you laugh: your teeth - I hate ugly teeth; but yours ar=
e as
pretty as a pearl necklace, and a necklace, of which the pearls are very fa=
ir,
even, and well matched too.'
'Martin, what now? I thought the
Yorkes never paid compliments?'
'They have not done till this gene=
ration;
but I feel as if it were my vocation to turn out a new variety of the Yorke
species. I am rather tired of my own ancestors: we have traditions going ba=
ck
for four ages - tales of Hiram, which was the son of Hiram which was the so=
n of
Samuel, which was the son of John, which was the son of Zerubbabel Yorke. A=
ll,
from Zerubbabel down to the last Hiram, were such as you see my father. Bef=
ore
that, there was a Godfrey: we have his picture; it hangs in Moore's bedroom=
: it
is like me. Of his character we know nothing; but I am sure it was differen=
t to
his descendants: he has long curling dark hair; he is carefully and cavalie=
rly
dressed. Having said that he is like me, I need not add that he is handsome=
.'
'You are not handsome, Martin.'
'No; but wait a while: just let me
take my time: I mean to begin from this day to cultivate, to polish, - and =
we
shall see.'
'You are a very strange - a very
unaccountable boy, Martin; but don't imagine you ever will be handsome: you
cannot.'
'I mean to try. But we were talking
about Mrs Pryor: she must be the most unnatural mamma in existence, coolly =
to
let her daughter come out in this weather. Mine was in such a rage, because=
I
would go to church: she was fit to fling the kitchen-brush after me.'
'Mamma was very much concerned abo=
ut
me; but I am afraid I was obstinate: I would go.'
'To see me?'
'Exactly: I thought of nothing els=
e. I
greatly feared the snow would hinder you from coming: you don't know how
pleased I was to see you all by yourself in the pew.'
'I came to fulfil my duty, and set=
the
parish a good example. And so you were obstinate, were you? I should like to
see you obstinate, I should. Wouldn't I have you in good discipline if I ow=
ned
you? Let me take the umbrella.'
'I can't stay two minutes: our din=
ner
will be ready.'
'And so will ours; and we have alw=
ays
a hot dinner on Sundays. Roast goose to-day, with apple-pie and rice-puddin=
g. I
always contrive to know the bill of fare: well, I like these things uncommo=
nly:
but I'll make the sacrifice, if you will.'
'We have a cold dinner: my uncle w=
ill
allow no unnecessary cooking on the Sabbath. But I must return: the house w=
ould
be in commotion, if I failed to appear.'
'So will Briarmains, bless you! I
think I hear my father sending out the overlooker and five of the dyers, to
look in six directions for the body of his prodigal son in the snow; and my
mother repenting her of her many misdeeds towards me, now I am gone.'
'Martin, how is Mr Moore?'
'That is what you came for - just =
to
say that word.'
'Come, tell me quickly.'
'Hang him! he is no worse; but as
ill-used as ever - mewed up, kept in solitary confinement. They mean to make
either an idiot or a maniac of him, and take out a commission of lunacy.
Horsfall starves him: you saw how thin he was.'
'You were very good the other day,
Martin.'
'What day? I am always good - a
model.'
'When will you be so good again?'<= o:p>
'I see what you are after; but you=
'll
not wheedle me: I am no cat's-paw.'
'But it must be done: it is quite a
right thing, and a necessary thing.'
'How you encroach! Remember, I man=
aged
the matter of my own free will before.'
'And you will again.'
'I won't: the business gave me far=
too
much trouble; I like my ease.'
'Mr Moore wishes to see me, Martin;
and I wish to see him.'
'I dare say' (coolly).
'It is too bad of your mother to
exclude his friends.'
'Tell her so.'
'His own relations.'
'Come and blow her up.'
'You know that would advance nothi=
ng.
Well, I shall stick to my point. See him I will. If you won't help me, I'll
manage without help.'
'Do: there is nothing like
self-reliance - self-dependence.'
'I have no time to reason with you
now; but I consider you provoking. Good- morning.'
Away she went - the umbrella shut;=
for
she could not carry it against the wind.
'She is not vapid; she is not
shallow,' said Martin. 'I shall like to watch, and mark how she will work h=
er
way without help. If the storm were not of snow, but of fire - such as came
refreshingly down on the cities of the plain - she would go through it to
procure five minutes' speech with that Moore. Now, I consider I have had a
pleasant morning: the disappointments got time on: the fears and fits of an=
ger
only made that short discourse pleasanter, when it came at last. She expect=
ed
to coax me at once: she'll not manage that in one effort: she shall come ag=
ain,
again, and yet again. It would please me to put her in a passion - to make =
her
cry: I want to discover how far she will go - what she will do and dare - to
get her will. It seems strange and new to find one human being thinking so =
much
about another as she thinks about Moore. But it is time to go home; my appe=
tite
tells me the hour: won't I walk into that goose? - and we'll try whether
Matthew or I shall get the largest cut of the apple-pie to- day.
Martin had planned well: he had la=
id
out a dexterously concerted scheme for his private amusement; but older and
wiser schemers than he are often doomed to see their finest-spun projects s=
wept
to annihilation by the sudden broom of Fate - that fell housewife, whose red
arm none can control. In the present instance this broom was manufactured o=
ut
of the tough fibres of Moore's own stubborn purpose, bound tight with his w=
ill.
He was now resuming his strength, and making strange head against Mrs Horsf=
all.
Each morning he amazed that matron with a fresh astonishment. First, he
discharged her from her valet-duties; he would dress himself. Then, he refu=
sed
the coffee she brought him: he would breakfast with the family. Lastly, he
forbade her his chamber. On the same day, amidst the outcries of all the wo=
men
in the place, he put his head out of doors. The morning after, he followed =
Mr
Yorke to his counting-house, and requested an envoy to fetch a chaise from =
the
Red-House Inn. He was resolved, he said, to return home to the Hollow that =
very
afternoon. Mr Yorke, instead of opposing, aided and abetted him: the chaise=
was
sent for, though Mrs Yorke declared the step would be his death. It came.
Moore, little disposed to speak, made his purse do duty for his tongue: he
expressed his gratitude to the servants and to Mrs Horsfall, by the chink of
his coin. The latter personage approved and understood this language perfec=
tly;
it made amends for all previous contumacy: she and her patient parted the b=
est
friends in the world.
The kitchen visited and soothed, M=
oore
betook himself to the parlour; he had Mrs Yorke to appease; not quite so ea=
sy a
task as the pacification of her housemaids. There she sat plunged in sullen
dudgeon; the gloomiest speculations on the depths of man's ingratitude
absorbing her thoughts. He drew near and bent over her; she was obliged to =
look
up, if it were only to bid him 'avaunt.' There was beauty still in his pale
wasted features; there was earnestness, and a sort of sweetness - for he was
smiling - in his hollow eyes.
'Good-bye!' he said; and, as he sp=
oke,
the smile glittered and melted. He had no iron mastery of his sensations no=
w: a
trifling emotion made itself apparent in his present weak state.
'And what are you going to leave us
for?' she asked; 'we will keep you, and do anything in the world for you, if
you will only stay till you are stronger.'
'Good-bye!' he again said: and add=
ed,
'you have been a mother to me: give your wilful son one embrace.'
Like a foreigner, as he was, he
offered her first one cheek, then the other: she kissed him.
'What a trouble - what a burden I =
have
been to you!' he muttered.
'You are the worst trouble now,
headstrong youth!' was the answer. 'I wonder who is to nurse you at Hollow's
Cottage? your sister Hortense knows no more about such matters than a child=
.'
'Thank God! for I have had nursing
enough to last me my life.'
Here the little girls came in; Jes=
sy
crying, Rose quiet, but grave. Moore took them out into the hall to soothe,
pet, and kiss them. He knew it was not in their mother's nature to bear to =
see
any living thing caressed but herself: she would have felt annoyed had he
fondled a kitten in her presence.
The boys were standing about the
chaise as Moore entered it; but for them he had no farewell. To Mr Yorke he
only said - 'You have a good riddance of me: that was an unlucky shot for y=
ou,
Yorke; it turned Briarmains into an hospital. Come and see me at the cottage
soon.'
He drew up the glass; the chaise
rolled away. In half-an-hour he alighted at his own garden-wicket. Having p=
aid
the driver and dismissed the vehicle, he leaned on that wicket an instant, =
at
once to rest and to muse.
'Six months ago I passed out of th=
is
gate,' said he, 'a proud, angry, disappointed man: I come back sadder and w=
iser:
weakly enough, but not worried. A cold, grey, yet quiet world lies around -=
a
world where, if I hope little, I fear nothing. All slavish terrors of
embarrassment have left me: let the worst come, I can work, as Joe Scott do=
es,
for an honourable living: in such doom I yet see some hardship, but no
degradation. Formerly, pecuniary ruin was equivalent in my eyes to personal
dishonour. It is not so now: I know the difference. Ruin is an evil; but one
for which I am prepared; the day of whose coming I know, for I have calcula=
ted.
I can yet put it off six months - not an hour longer; if things by that time
alter - which is not probable; if fetters, which now seem indissoluble, sho=
uld
be loosened from our trade (of all things the most unlikely to happen) - I =
might
conquer in this long struggle yet - I might -&=
nbsp;
- Good God! what might=
I not
do? But the thought is a brief madness: let me see things with sane eyes. R=
uin
will come, lay her axe to my fortune's roots, and hew them down. I shall sn=
atch
a sapling, I shall cross the sea, and plant it in American woods. Louis wil=
l go
with me. Will none but Louis go? I cannot tell - I have no right to ask.'
He entered the house.
It was afternoon, twilight yet out=
of
doors: starless and moonless twilight; for, though keenly freezing with a d=
ry,
black frost, heaven wore a mask of clouds congealed and fast-locked. The
mill-dam too was frozen: the Hollow was very still: indoors it was already
dark. Sarah had lit a good fire in the parlour; she was preparing tea in the
kitchen.
'Hortense,' said Moore, as his sis=
ter
bustled up to help him off with his cloak, 'I am pleased to come home.'
Hortense did not feel the peculiar
novelty of this expression coming from her brother, who had never before ca=
lled
the cottage his home, and to whom its narrow limits had always heretofore
seemed rather restrictive than protective: still, whatever contributed to h=
is
happiness pleased her; and she expressed herself to that effect.
He sat down, but soon rose again: =
he
went to the window; he came back to the fire.
'Hortense!'
'Mon frère?'
'This little parlour looks very cl=
ean
and pleasant: unusually bright, somehow.'
'It is true, brother: I have had t=
he
whole house thoroughly and scrupulously cleaned in your absence.'
'Sister, I think on this first day=
of
my return home, you ought to have a friend or so to tea; if it were only to=
see
how fresh and spruce you have made the little place.'
'True, brother: if it were not lat=
e I
might send for Miss Mann.'
'So you might; but it really is too
late to disturb that good lady; and the evening is much too cold for her to
come out.'
'How thoughtful in you, dear
Géard! We must put it off till another day.'
'I want some one to-day, dear sist=
er;
some quiet guest, who would tire neither of us,'
'Miss Ainley?'
'An excellent person, they say; but
she lives too far off. Tell Harry Scott to step up to the Rectory with a
request from you that Caroline Helstone should come and spend the evening w=
ith
you.'
'Would it not be better to-morrow,
dear brother?'
'I should like her to see the plac=
e as
it is just now; its brilliant cleanliness and perfect neatness are so much =
to
your credit.'
'It might benefit her in the way of
example.'
'It might and must: she ought to
come.'
He went into the kitchen.
'Sarah, delay tea half-an-hour.' H=
e then
commissioned her to despatch Harry Scott to the Rectory, giving her a twist=
ed
note hastily scribbled in pencil by himself, and addressed 'Miss Helstone.'=
Scarcely had Sarah time to get
impatient under the fear of damage to her toast already prepared, when the
messenger returned; and with him the invited guest.
She entered through the kitchen,
quietly tripped up Sarah's stairs to take off her bonnet and furs, and came
down as quietly, with her beautiful curls nicely smoothed; her graceful mer=
ino
dress and delicate collar all trim and spotless; her gay little work-bag in=
her
hand. She lingered to exchange a few kindly words with Sarah; and to look at
the new tortoise-shell kitten basking on the kitchen hearth; and to speak to
the canary-bird, which a sudden blaze from the fire had startled on its per=
ch;
and then she betook herself to the parlour.
The gentle salutation, the friendly
welcome, were interchanged in such tranquil sort as befitted cousins meetin=
g; a
sense of pleasure, subtle and quiet as a perfume, diffused itself through t=
he
room; the newly-kindled lamp burnt up bright; the tray and the singing urn =
were
brought in.
'I am pleased to come home,' repea=
ted Mr
Moore.
They assembled round the table.
Hortense chiefly talked. She congratulated Caroline on the evident improvem=
ent
in her health: her colour and her plump cheeks were returning, she remarked=
. It
was true. There was an obvious change in Miss Helstone: all about her seemed
elastic; depression, fear, forlornness, were withdrawn: no longer crushed, =
and
saddened, and slow, and drooping, she looked like one who had tasted the
cordial of heart's-ease, and been lifted on the wing of hope.
After tea, Hortense went upstairs:=
she
had not rummaged her drawers for a month past, and the impulse to perform t=
hat
operation was now become resistless. During her absence, the talk passed in=
to
Caroline's hands: she took it up with ease; she fell into her best tone of
conversation. A pleasing facility and elegance of language gave fresh charm=
to
familiar topics; a new music in the always soft voice gently surprised and
pleasingly captivated the listener; unwonted shades and lights of expression
elevated the young countenance with character, and kindled it with animatio=
n.
'Caroline, you look as if you had
heard good tidings,' said Moore, after earnestly gazing at her for some
minutes.
'Do I?'
'I sent for you this evening that I
might be cheered; but you cheer me more than I had calculated.'
'I am glad of that. And I really c=
heer
you?'
'You look brightly, move buoyantly,
speak musically.'
'It is pleasant to be here again.'=
'Truly it is pleasant: I feel it s=
o.
And to see health on your cheek, and hope in your eye, is pleasant, Cary; b=
ut
what is this hope, and what is the source of this sunshine I perceive about
you?'
'For one thing, I am happy in mamm=
a: I
love her so much, and she loves me. Long and tenderly she nursed me; now, w=
hen
her care has made me well, I can occupy myself for and with her all the day=
. I
say it is my turn to attend to her; and I do attend to her: I am her waiting
woman, as well as her child: I like - you would laugh if you knew what plea=
sure
I have in making dresses and sewing for her. She looks so nice now, Robert:=
I
will not let her be old- fashioned. And then, she is charming to talk to: f=
ull
of wisdom; ripe in judgment; rich in information; exhaustless in stores her
observant faculties have quietly amassed. Every day that I live with her, I
like her better; I esteem her more highly; I love her more tenderly.'
'That for one thing, then, Cary: y=
ou
talk in such a way about 'mamma,' it is enough to make one jealous of the o=
ld
lady.'
'She is not old, Robert.'
'Of the young lady, then.'
'She does not pretend to be young.=
'
'Well - of the matron. But you sai=
d,
'mamma's' affection was one thing that made you happy; now for the other
thing.'
'I am glad you are better.'
'What besides?'
'I am glad we are friends.'
'You and I?'
'Yes: I once thought we never shou=
ld
be.'
'Cary, some day I mean to tell you=
a
thing about myself that is not to my credit, and, consequently, will not pl=
ease
you.'
'Ah! - don't! I cannot bear to thi=
nk
ill of you.'
'And I cannot bear that you should
think better of me than I deserve.'
'Well, but I half know your 'thing=
':
indeed, I believe I know all about it.'
'You do not.'
'I believe I do.'
'Whom does it concern besides me?'=
She coloured; she hesitated; she w=
as
silent.
'Speak, Cary! - whom does it conce=
rn?'
She tried to utter a name and could
not.
'Tell me: there is none present but
ourselves: be frank,'
'But if I guess wrong?'
'I will forgive. Whisper, Cary.'
He bent his ear to her lips: still=
she
would not, or could not, speak clearly to the point. Seeing that Moore wait=
ed,
and was resolved to hear something, she at last said - 'Miss Keeldar spent a
day at the Rectory about a week since. The evening came on very wintry, and=
we
persuaded her to stay all night.'
'And you and she curled your hair
together?'
'How do you know that?'
'And then you chatted; and she told
you - - '
'It was not at curling-hair time; =
so
you are not as wise as you think: and besides, she didn't tell me.'
'You slept together afterwards?'
'We occupied the same room and bed=
. We
did not sleep much: we talked the whole night through.'
'I'll be sworn you did! and then it
all come out - tant pis. I would rather you had heard it from myself.'
'You are quite wrong: she did not =
tell
me what you suspect: she is not the person to proclaim such things; but yet=
I
inferred something from parts of her discourse: I gathered more from rumour,
and I made out the rest by instinct.'
'But if she did not tell you that I
wanted to marry her for the sake of her money, and that she refused me
indignantly and scornfully (you need neither start nor blush; nor yet need =
you
prick your trembling fingers with your needle: that is the plain truth, whe=
ther
you like it or not) - if such was not the subject of her august confidences=
, on
what point did they turn? You say you talked the whole night through: what
about?'
'About things we never thoroughly
discussed before, intimate friends as we have been; but you hardly expect I
should tell you?'
'Yes, yes, Cary - you will tell me:
you said we were friends; and friends should always confide in each other.'=
'But are you sure you won't repeat
it?'
'Quite sure.'
'Not to Louis?'
'Not even to Louis? What does Louis
care for young ladies' secrets?'
'Robert - Shirley is a curious,
magnanimous being.'
'I dare say: I can imagine there a=
re
both odd points and grand points about her.'
'I have found her chary in showing=
her
feelings; but when they rush out, river-like, and pass full and powerful be=
fore
you - almost without leave from her - you gaze, wonder, you admire, and - I
think - love her.'
'You saw this spectacle?'
'Yes: at dead of night; when all t=
he
house was silent, and starlight, and the cold reflection from the snow
glimmered in our chamber, - then I saw Shirley's heart.'
'Her heart's core? Do you think she
showed you that?'
'Her heart's core.'
'And how was it?'
'Like a shrine, - for it was holy;
like snow, - for it was pure; like flame, - for it was warm; like death, - =
for
it was strong.'
'Can she love? Tell me that.'
'What think you?'
'She has loved none that have loved
her yet.'
'Who are those that have loved her=
?'
He named a list of gentlemen, clos=
ing
with Sir Philip Nunnely.
'She has loved none of these.'
'Yet some of them were worthy of a
woman's affection.'
'Of some women's; but not of
Shirley's.'
'Is she better than others of her
sex?'
'She is peculiar, and more dangero=
us
to take as a wife - rashly.'
'I can imagine that.'
'She spoke of you -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Oh! she did! I thought you denied
it.'
'She did not speak in the way you
fancy; but I asked her, and I would make her tell me what she thought of yo=
u,
or rather, how she felt towards you. I wanted to know: I had long wanted to
know.'
'So had I; but let us hear: she th=
inks
meanly - she feels contemptuously, doubtless?'
'She thinks of you almost as highl=
y as
a woman can think of a man. You know she can be eloquent: I yet feel in fan=
cy
the glow of the language in which her opinion was conveyed.'
'But how does she feel?'
'Till you shocked her (she said you
had shocked her, but she would not tell me how), she felt as a sister feels
towards a brother of whom she is at once fond and proud.'
'I'll shock her no more, Cary, for=
the
shock rebounded on myself till I staggered again: but that comparison about
sister and brother is all nonsense: she is too rich and proud to entertain
fraternal sentiments for me.'
'You don't know her, Robert; and
somehow, I fancy now (I had other ideas formerly), that you cannot know her:
you and she are not so constructed as to be able thoroughly to understand e=
ach
other.'
'It may be so. I esteem her; I adm=
ire
her; and yet my impressions concerning her are harsh - perhaps uncharitable=
. I
believe, for instance, that she is incapable of love -&=
nbsp;
- '
'Shirley incapable of love!'
'That she will never marry: I imag=
ine
her jealous of compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power) of shari=
ng
her property.'
'Shirley has hurt your amour-propr=
e.'
'She did hurt it - though I had no=
t an
emotion of tenderness, not a spark of passion for her.'
'Then, Robert, it was very wicked =
in
you to want to marry her.'
'And very mean, my little pastor, =
my
pretty priestess. I never wanted to kiss Miss Keeldar in my life, though she
has fine lips, scarlet and round, as ripe cherries; or, if I did wish it' it
was the mere desire of the eye.'
'I doubt, now, whether you are
speaking the truth: the grapes or the cherries are sour - ‘hung too h=
igh.’
'She has a pretty figure, a pretty
face, beautiful hair; I acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them; or
only feel them in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was truly tempted, by
the mere gilding of the bait. Caroline, what a noble fellow your Robert is -
great, good, disinterested, and then so pure!'
'But not perfect: he made a great
blunder once, and we will hear no more about it.'
'And shall we think no more about =
it,
Cary? Shall we not despise him in our heart, gentle but just, compassionate=
but
upright?'
'Never! We will remember that with
what measure we mete it shall he measured unto us, and so we will give no s=
corn
- only affection.'
'Which won't satisfy, I warn you of
that. Something besides affection - something far stronger, sweeter, warmer=
-
will be demanded one day: is it there to give?'
Caroline was moved - much moved.
'Be calm, Lina,' said Moore
soothingly; 'I have no intention, because I have no right, to perturb your =
mind
now, nor for months to come: don't look as if you would leave me: we will m=
ake
no more agitating allusions: we will resume our gossip. Do not tremble: loo=
k me
in the face: see what a poor, grim phantom I am - more pitiable than
formidable.'
She looked shyly. 'There is someth=
ing
formidable still, pale as you are,' she said, as her eye fell under his.
'To return to Shirley,' pursued Mo=
ore;
'is it your opinion that she is ever likely to marry?'
'She loves.'
'Platonically - theoretically - all
humbug!'
'She loves, what I call, sincerely=
:'
'Did she say so?'
'I cannot affirm that she said so:=
no
such confession as, I love this man or that, passed her lips.'
'I thought not.'
'But the feeling made its way in s=
pite
of her, and I saw it. She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunderst=
ood:
her voice alone was sufficient testimony, Having wrung from her an opinion =
on
your character, I demanded a second opinion of - another person about whom I
had my conjectures; though they were the most tangled and puzzled conjectur=
es
in the world. I would make her speak: I shook her, I chid her, I pinched her
fingers when she tried to put me off with gibes and jests in her queer,
provoking way, and at last, out it came: the voice, I say, was enough; hard=
ly
raised above a whisper, and yet such a soft vehemence in its tones. There w=
as
no confession - no confidence in the matter: to these things she cannot
condescend but I am sure that man's happiness is dear to her as her own lif=
e.'
'Who is it?'
'I charged her with the fact; she =
did
not deny; she did not avow, but looked at me: I saw her eyes by the snow-gl=
eam.
It was quite enough: I triumphed over her - mercilessly.'
'What right had you to triumph? Do=
you
mean to say you are fancy-free?'
'Whatever I am, Shirley is a
bondswoman. Lioness! She has found her captor Mistress she may be of all ro=
und
her - but her own mistress she is not.'
'So you exulted at recognising a
fellow-slave in one so fair and imperial?'
'I did; Robert, you say right, in =
one
so fair and imperial.'
'You confess it - a fellow-slave?'=
'I confess nothing, but I say that
haughty Shirley is no more free than was Hagar.'
'And who, pray, is the Abraham the
hero of a patriarch who has achieved such a conquest?'
'You still speak scornfully and
cynically and sorely; but I will make you change your note before I have do=
ne
with you.'
'We will see that: can she marry t=
his
Cupidon?'
'Cupidon! he is just about as much=
a
Cupidon as you are a Cyclops.'
'Can she marry him?'
'You will see.'
'I want to know his name, Cary.'
'Guess it.'
'Is it any one in this neighbourho=
od?'
'Yes, in Briarfield parish.'
'Then it is some person unworthy of
her. I don't know a soul in Briarfield parish her equal.'
'Guess.'
'Impossible. I suppose she is unde=
r a
delusion, and will plunge into some absurdity after all.'
Caroline smiled.
'Do you approve the choice? ' asked
Moore.
'Quite, quite.'
'Then I am puzzled; for the head w=
hich
owns this bounteous fall of hazel curls is an excellent little thinking
machine, most accurate in its working: it boasts a correct, steady judgment,
inherited from 'mamma,' I suppose.'
'And I quite approve, and mamma was
charmed.'
'Mamma' charmed! Mrs Pryor. It can=
't
be romantic then?'
'It is romantic, but it is also
right.'
'Tell me, Cary. Tell me out of pit=
y: I
am too weak to be tantalised.'
'You shall be tantalised: it will =
do
you no harm: you are not so weak as you pretend.'
'I have twice this evening had some
thought of falling on the floor at your feet.'
'You had better not: I shall decli=
ne
to help you up.'
'And worshipping you downright. My
mother was a Roman Catholic; you look like the loveliest of her pictures of=
the
Virgin: I think I will embrace her faith, and kneel and adore.'
'Robert, Robert; sit still; don't =
be
absurd: I will go to Hortense, if you commit extravagances.'
'You have stolen my senses: just n=
ow
nothing will come into my mind but 'les litanies de la sainte Vierge. Rose
céleste, reine des Anges!'
'Tour d'ivoire, maison d'or': is n=
ot
that the jargon? Well, sit down quietly, and guess your riddle.'
'But, 'mamma' charmed! There's the
puzzle.'
'I'll tell you what mamma said whe=
n I
told her: 'Depend upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the happiness o=
f Miss
Keeldar's life.'
'I'll guess once, and no more. It =
is
old Helstone. She is going to be your aunt.'
'I'll tell my uncle, I'll tell
Shirley!' cried Caroline, laughing gleefully. 'Guess again, Robert; your
blunders are charming.'
'It is the parson, Hall.'
'Indeed, no: he is mine, if you
please.'
'Yours! Ay! the whole generation of
women in Briarfield seem to have made an idol of that priest: I wonder why;=
he
is bald, sand-blind, grey-haired.'
'Fanny will be here to fetch me,
before you have solved the riddle, if you don't make haste.'
'I'll guess no more, I am tired: a=
nd
then I don't care. Miss Keeldar may marry ‘le grand Turc’ for m=
e.'
'Must I whisper?'
'That you must, and quickly: here
comes Hortense; come near, a little nearer, my own Lina: I care for the whi=
sper
more than the words.'
She whispered: Robert gave a start=
, a
flash of the eye, a brief laugh: Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed beh=
ind,
with information that Fanny was come. The hour of converse was over.
Robert found a moment to exchange =
a few
more whispered sentences: he was waiting at the foot of the staircase, as
Caroline descended after putting on her shawl.
'Must I call Shirley a noble creat=
ure
now?' he asked.
'If you wish to speak the truth,
certainly.'
'Must I forgive her?'
'Forgive her? Naughty Robert! Was =
she
in the wrong, or were you?'
'Must I at length love her downrig=
ht,
Cary?'
Caroline looked keenly up, and mad=
e a
movement towards him, something between the loving and the petulant.
'Only give the word, and I'll try =
to
obey you.'
'Indeed, you must not love her: the
bare idea is perverse.'
'But then she is handsome, peculia=
rly
handsome: hers is a beauty that grows on you: you think her but graceful, w=
hen
you first see her; you discover her to be beautiful when you have known her=
for
a year.'
'It is not you who are to say these
things. Now, Robert, be good.'
'O Cary, I have no love to give. W=
ere
the goddess of beauty to woo me, I could not meet her advances: there is no
heart which I can call mine in this breast.'
'So much the better: you are a gre=
at
deal safer without: good-night.'
'Why must you always go, Lina, at =
the
very instant when I most want you to stay?'
'Because you most wish to retain w=
hen
you are most certain to lose.'
'Listen; one other word. Take care=
of
your own heart: do you hear me?'
'There is no danger.'
'I am not convinced of that: the
Platonic parson, for instance.'
'Who? Malone?'
'Cyril Hall: I owe more than one
twinge of jealousy to that quarter.'
'As to you, you have been flirting
with Miss Mann: she showed me the other day a plant you had given her. - Fa=
nny,
I am ready.'
Louis Moore's doubts, respecting t=
he
immediate evacuation of Fieldhead by Mr Sympson, turned out to be perfectly
well founded. The very next day after the grand quarrel about Sir Philip
Nunnely, a sort of reconciliation was patched up between uncle and niece:
Shirley, who could never find it in her heart to be or to seem inhospitable
(except in the single instance of Mr Donne), begged the whole party to stay=
a
little longer: she begged in such earnest, it was evident she wished it for
some reason. They took her at her word: indeed, the uncle could not bring
himself to leave her quite unwatched - at full liberty to marry Robert Moor=
e,
as soon as that gentleman should be able (Mr Sympson piously prayed this mi=
ght
never be the case) to reassert his supposed pretensions to her hand They all
stayed.
In his first rage against all the
house of Moore,.Mr Sympson had so conducted himself towards Mr Louis, that =
that
gentleman - patient of labour or suffering, but intolerant of coarse insole=
nce
- had promptly resigned his post, and could now be induced to resume and re=
tain
it only till such time as the family should quit Yorkshire: Mrs Sympson's
entreaties prevailed with him thus far; his own attachment to his pupil
constituted an additional motive for concession; and probably he had a third
motive, stronger than either of the other two: probably he would have found=
it
very hard indeed to leave Fieldhead just now.
Things went on, for some time, pre=
tty
smoothly; Miss Keeldar's health was re- established; her spirits resumed th=
eir
flow; Moore had found means to relieve her from every nervous apprehension;
and, indeed, from the moment of giving him her confidence, every fear seeme=
d to
have taken wing: her heart became as lightsome, her manner as careless, as
those of a little child, that, thoughtless of its own life or death, trusts=
all
responsibility to its parents. He and William Farren - through whose medium=
he
made inquiries concerning the state of Phoebe - agreed in asserting that the
dog was not mad: that it was only ill- usage which had driven her from home:
for it was proved that her master was in the frequent habit of chastising h=
er
violently. Their assertion might, or might not, be true: the groom and
gamekeeper affirmed to the contrary; both asserting that, if hers was not a
clear case of hydrophobia, there was no such disease. But to this evidence
Louis Moore turned an incredulous ear: he reported to Shirley only what was
encouraging: she believed him: and, right or wrong, it is certain that in h=
er
case the bite proved innocuous.
November passed: December came: the
Sympsons were now really departing; it was incumbent on them to be at home =
by
Christmas; their packages were preparing; they were to leave in a few days.=
One
winter evening, during the last week of their stay, Louis Moore again took =
out
his little blank book, and discoursed with it as follows:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. .
'She is lovelier than ever. Since =
that
little cloud was dispelled, all the temporary waste and wanness have vanish=
ed.
It was marvellous to see how soon the magical energy of youth raised her
elastic, and revived her blooming.
'After breakfast this morning, whe=
n I
had seen her, and listened to her, and - so to speak - felt her, in every
sentient atom of my frame, I passed from her sunny presence into the chill
drawing-room. Taking up a little gilt volume, I found it to contain a selec=
tion
of lyrics. I read a poem or two: whether the spell was in me or in the vers=
e, I
know not, but my heart filled genially - my pulse rose: I glowed,
notwithstanding the frost air. I, too, am young as yet: though she said she
never considered me young, I am barely thirty; there are moments when life -
for no other reason than my own youth - beams with sweet hues upon me.
'It was time to go to the schoolro=
om:
I went. That same schoolroom is rather pleasant in a morning; the sun then
shines through the low lattice; the books are in order; there are no papers
strewn about; the fire is clear and clean; no cinders have fallen, no ashes
accumulated. I found Henry there, and he had brought with him Miss Keeldar:
they were together.
'I said she was lovelier than ever:
she is. A fine rose, not deep but delicate, opens on her cheek; her eye, al=
ways
dark, clear, and speaking, utters now a language I cannot render - it is the
utterance, seen not heard, through which angels must have communed when the=
re
was 'silence in heaven.' Her hair was always dusk as night, and fine as sil=
k;
her neck was always fair, flexible, polished - but both have now a new char=
m:
the tresses are soft as shadow, the shoulders they fall on wear a
goddess-grace. Once I only saw her beauty, now I feel it.
'Henry was repeating his lesson to=
her
before bringing it to me - one of her hands was occupied with the book, he =
held
the other: that boy gets more than his share of privileges; he dares caress=
and
is caressed. What indulgence and compassion she shows him! Too much: if this
went on, Henry, in a few years, when his soul was formed, would offer it on=
her
altar, as I have offered mine.
'I saw her eyelid flitter when I c=
ame
in, but she did not look up: now she hardly ever gives me a glance. She see=
ms
to grow silent too - to me she rarely speaks, and, when I am present, she s=
ays
little to others. In my gloomy moments, I attribute this change to
indifference, - aversion, - what not? In my sunny intervals I give it anoth=
er
meaning. I say, were I her equal, I could find in this shyness - coyness, a=
nd in
that coyness - love. As it is, dare I look for it? What could I do with it,=
if
found?
'This morning I dared, at least,
contrive an hour's communion for her and me; I dared not only wish - but wi=
ll
an interview with her: I dared summon solitude to guard us. Very decidedly I
called Henry to the door; without hesitation, I said, 'Go where you will, my
boy, but, till I call you, return not here.'
'Henry, I could see, did not like =
his
dismissal: that boy is young, but a thinker; his meditative eye shines on m=
e strangely
sometimes: he half feels what links me to Shirley; he half guesses that the=
re
is a dearer delight in the reserve with which I am treated, than in all the
endearments he is allowed. The young, lame, half-grown lion would growl at =
me
now and then, because I have tamed his lioness and am her keeper, did not t=
he
habit of discipline and the instinct of affection hold him subdued. Go, Hen=
ry;
you must learn to take your share of the bitter of life with all of Adam's =
race
that have gone before, or will come after you; your destiny can be no excep=
tion
to the common lot: be grateful that your love is overlooked thus early, bef=
ore
it can claim any affinity to passion: an hour's fret, a pang of envy, suffi=
ce
to express what you feel: Jealousy, hot as the sun above the line, Rage,
destructive as the tropic storm, the clime of your sensations ignores - as =
yet.
'I took my usual seat at the desk,
quite in my usual way: I am blessed in that power to cover all inward
ebullition with outward calm. No one who looks at my slow face can guess the
vortex sometimes whirling in my heart, and engulfing thought, and wrecking
prudence. Pleasant is it to have the gift to proceed peacefully and powerfu=
lly
in your course without alarming by one eccentric movement. It was not my pr=
esent
intention to utter one word of love to her, or to reveal one glimpse of the
fire in which I wasted. Presumptuous, I never have been; presumptuous, I ne=
ver
will be: rather than even seem selfish and interested, I would resolutely r=
ise,
gird my loins, part and leave her, and seek, on the other side of the globe=
, a
new life, cold and barren as the rock the salt tide daily washes. My design
this morning was to take of her a near scrutiny - to read a line in the pag=
e of
her heart: before I left I determined to know what I was leaving.
'I had some quills to make into pe=
ns:
most men's hands would have trembled when their hearts were so stirred; mine
went to work steadily, and my voice, when I called it into exercise, was fi=
rm.
'This day-week you will be alone at
Fieldhead, Miss Keeldar.'
'Yes: I rather think my uncle's
intention to go is a settled one now.'
'He leaves you dissatisfied.'
'He is not pleased with me.'
'He departs as he came - no better=
for
his journey: this is mortifying.'
'I trust the failure of his plans =
will
take from him all inclination to lay new ones.'
'In his way, Mr Sympson honestly
wished you well. All he has done, or intended to do, he believed to be for =
the
best.'
'You are kind to undertake the def=
ence
of a man who has permitted himself to treat you with so much insolence.'
'I never feel shocked at, or bear
malice for, what is spoken in character; and most perfectly in character was
that vulgar and violent onset against me, when he had quitted you worsted.'=
'You cease now to be Henry's tutor=
?'
'I shall be parted from Henry for a
while - (if he and I live we shall meet again somehow, for we love each oth=
er)
- and be ousted from the bosom of the Sympson family for ever. Happily this
change does not leave me stranded: it but hurries into premature execution
designs long formed.'
'No change finds you off your guar=
d: I
was sure, in your calm way, you would be prepared for sudden mutation. I al=
ways
think you stand in the world like a solitary but watchful, thoughtful arche=
r in
a wood; and the quiver on your shoulder holds more arrows than one; your bo=
w is
provided with a second string. Such too is your brother's wont. You two mig=
ht
go forth homeless hunters to the loneliest western wilds; all would be well
with you. The hewn tree would make you a hut, the cleared forest yield you
fields from its stripped bosom, the buffalo would feel your rifle-shot, and
with lowered horns and hump pay homage at your feet.'
'And any Indian tribe of Black-fee=
t,
or Flat-heads, would afford us a bride, perhaps?'
'No' (hesitatingly): 'I think not.=
The
savage is sordid: I think, - that is, I hope, - you would neither of you sh=
are
your hearth with that to which you could not give your heart.'
'What suggested the wild West to y=
our
mind, Miss Keeldar? Have you been with me in spirit when I did not see you?
Have you entered into my day-dreams, and beheld my brain labouring at its
scheme of a future?'
'She had separated a slip of paper=
for
lighting papers - a spill, as it is called - into fragments: she threw mors=
el
by morsel into the fire, and stood pensively watching them consume. She did=
not
speak.
'How did you learn what you seem to
know about my intentions?'
'I know nothing: I am only discove=
ring
them now: I spoke at hazard.'
'Your hazard sounds like divinatio= n. A tutor I will never be again: never take a pupil after Henry and yourself: n= ot again will I sit habitually at another man's table - no more be the appenda= ge of a family. I am now a man of thirty: I have never been free since I was a= boy of ten. I have such a thirst for freedom - such a deep passion to know her = and call her mine - such a day- desire and night-longing to win her and possess her, I will not refuse to cross the Atlantic for her sake: her I will follow deep into virgin woods. Mine it shall not be to accept a savage girl as a s= lave - she could not be a wife. I know no white woman whom I love that would accompany me; but I am certain Liberty will await me; sitting under a pine: when I call her she will come to my loghouse, and she shall fill my arms.'<= o:p>
'She could not hear me speak so
unmoved, and she was moved. It was right - I meant to move her. She could n=
ot
answer me, nor could she look at me: I should have been sorry if she could =
have
done either. Her cheek glowed as if a crimson flower, through whose petals =
the
sun shone, had cast its light upon it. On the white lid and dark lashes of =
her
downcast eye, trembled all that is graceful in the sense of half-painful
half-pleasing shame.
'Soon she controlled her emotion, =
and
took all her feelings under command. I saw she had felt insurrection, and w=
as
waking to empire - she sat down. There was that in her face which I could r=
ead:
it said, I see the line which is my limit - nothing shall make me pass it. I
feel - I know how far I may reveal my feelings, and when I must clasp the
volume. I have advanced to a certain distance, as far as the true and sover=
eign
and undegraded nature of my kind permits - now here I stand rooted. My heart
may break if it is baffled: let it break - it shall never dishonour me - it
shall never dishonour my sisterhood in me. Suffering before degradation! de=
ath
before treachery!
'I, for my part, said, ‘If s=
he
were poor, I would be at her feet. If she were lowly, I would take her in my
arms. Her Gold and her Station are two griffins, that guard her on each sid=
e.
Love looks and longs, and dares not: Passion hovers round, and is kept at b=
ay:
Truth and Devotion are scared. There is nothing to lose in winning her - no
sacrifice to make - it is all clear gain, and therefore unimaginably diffic=
ult.’'
'Difficult or not, something must =
be
done; something must be said. I could not, and would not, sit silent with a=
ll
that beauty modestly mute in my presence. I spoke thus; and still I spoke w=
ith
calm: quiet as my words were, I could hear they fell in a tone distinct, ro=
und,
and deep.
'Still, I know I shall be strangely
placed with that mountain nymph, Liberty. She is, I suspect, akin to that
Solitude which I once wooed, and from which I now seek a divorce. These Ore=
ads
are peculiar: they come upon you with an unearthly charm, like some starlig=
ht
evening; they inspire a wild but not warm delight; their beauty is the beau=
ty
of spirits: their grace is not the grace of life, but of seasons or scenes =
in
nature: theirs is the dewy bloom of morning - the languid flush of evening -
the peace of the moon - the changefulness of clouds. I want and will have
something different. This elfish splendour looks chill to my vision, and fe=
els
frozen to my touch. I am not a poet: I cannot live on abstractions. You, Mi=
ss
Keeldar, have sometimes, in your laughing satire, called me a material
philosopher, and implied that I live sufficiently for the substantial. Cert=
ain
I feel material from head to foot; and glorious as Nature is, and deeply as=
I
worship her with the solid powers of a solid heart, I would rather behold h=
er
through the soft human eyes of a loved and lovely wife, than through the wi=
ld
orbs of the highest goddess of Olympus.'
'Juno could not cook a buffalo ste=
ak
as you like it,' said she.
'She could not: but I will tell you
who could - some young, penniless, friendless orphan-girl. I wish I could f=
ind
such a one: pretty enough for me to love, with something of the mind and he=
art
suited to my taste: not uneducated - honest and modest. I care nothing for
attainments; but I would fain have the germ of those sweet natural powers w=
hich
nothing acquired can rival; any temper Fate wills, - I can manage the hotte=
st.
To such a creature as this, I should like to be first tutor and then husban=
d. I
would teach her my language, my habits, and my principles, and then I would
reward her with my love.'
'Reward her! lord of the creation!
Reward her!' ejaculated she, with a curled lip.
'And be repaid a thousandfold.'
'If she willed it, Monseigneur.'
'And she should will it.'
'You have stipulated for any temper
Fate wills. Compulsion is flint and a blow to the metal of some souls.'
'And love the spark it elicits.'
'Who cares for the love that is bu=
t a
spark - seen, flown upward, and gone?'
'I must find my orphan-girl. Tell =
me
how, Miss Keeldar.'
'Advertise; and be sure you add, w=
hen
you describe the qualifications, she must be a good plain cook.'
'I must find her; and when I do fi=
nd
her, I shall marry her.'
'Not you!' and her voice took a su=
dden
accent of peculiar scorn.
'I liked this: I had roused her fr= om the pensive mood in which I had first found her: I would stir her further.<= o:p>
'Why doubt it?'
'You marry!'
'Yes, - of course: nothing more
evident than that I can, and shall.'
'The contrary is evident, Mr Moore=
.'
'She charmed me in this mood: waxi=
ng
disdainful, half insulting, pride, temper, derision, blent in her large fine
eye, that had, just now, the look of a merlin's.
'Favour me with your reasons for s=
uch
an opinion, Miss Keeldar.'
'How will you manage to marry, I
wonder?'
'I shall manage it with ease and s=
peed
when I find the proper person.'
'Accept celibacy!' (and she made a gesture with her hand as if she gave me something) 'take it as your doom!'<= o:p>
'No: you cannot give what I already
have. Celibacy has been mine for thirty years. If you wish to offer me a gi=
ft,
a parting present, a keepsake, you must change the boon.'
'Take worse, then!'
'How? What?'
'I now felt, and looked, and spoke
eagerly. I was unwise to quit my sheet- anchor of calm even for an instant:=
it
deprived me of an advantage and transferred it to her. The little spark of
temper dissolved in sarcasm, and eddied over her countenance in the ripples=
of
a mocking smile.
'Take a wife that has paid you cou= rt to save your modesty, and thrust herself upon you to spare your scruples.'<= o:p>
'Only show me where.'
'Any stout widow that has had a few
husbands already, and can manage these things.'
'She must not be rich then. Oh the=
se
riches!'
'Never would you have gathered the
produce of the gold-bearing garden. You have not courage to confront the
sleepless dragon! you have not craft to borrow the aid of Atlas!'
'You look hot and haughty.'
'And you far haughtier. Yours is t=
he
monstrous pride which counterfeits humility.'
'I am a dependent: I know my place=
,'
'I am a woman: I know mine.'
'I am poor: I must be proud.'
'I have received ordinances, and o=
wn
obligations stringent as yours.'
'We had reached a critical point n=
ow,
and we halted and looked at each other. She would not give in, I felt. Beyo=
nd
this, I neither felt nor saw. A few moments yet were mine: the end was comi=
ng -
I heard its rush - but not come; I would daily, wait, talk, and when impulse
urged, I would act. I am never in a hurry: I never was in a hurry in my who=
le
life. Hasty people drink the nectar of existence scalding hot: I taste it c=
ool
as dew. I proceeded: 'Apparently, Miss Keeldar, you are as little likely to
marry as myself: I know you have refused three, nay, four advantageous offe=
rs,
and, I believe, a fifth. Have you rejected Sir Philip Nunnely?'
'I put this question suddenly and
promptly.
'Did you think I should take him?'=
'I thought you might.'
'On what grounds, may I ask?'
'Conformity of rank; age; pleasing
contrast of temper, for he is mild and amiable; harmony of intellectual
tastes.'
'A beautiful sentence! Let us take=
it
to pieces. 'Conformity of rank.' - He is quite above me: compare my grange =
with
his palace, if you please: I am disdained by his kith and kin. 'Suitability=
of
age.' - We were born in the same year; consequently, he still a boy, while =
I am
a woman: ten years his senior to all intents and purposes. 'Contrast of
temper.' - Mild and amiable, is he: I - - - what? Tell me.'
'Sister of the spotted, bright, qu=
ick,
fiery leopard.'
'And you would mate me with a kid -
the Millennium being yet millions of centuries from mankind; being yet, ind=
eed,
an archangel high in the seventh heaven, uncommissioned to descend -&=
nbsp;
- ? Unjust barbarian! 'Harmony of intellectual tastes.' - He is fond=
of
poetry, and I hate it - - '
'Do you? That is news.'
'I absolutely shudder at the sight=
of
metre or at the sound of rhyme, whenever I am at the Priory or Sir Philip at
Fieldhead. Harmony, indeed! When did I whip up syllabub sonnets, or string
stanzas fragile as fragments of glass? and when did I betray a belief that
those penny-beads were genuine brilliants?'
'You might have the satisfaction of
leading him to a higher standard - of improving his tastes.'
'Leading and improving! teaching a=
nd
tutoring! bearing and forbearing! Pah! My husband is not to be my baby. I am
not to set him his daily lesson and see that he learns it, and give him a
sugar-plum if he is good, and a patient, pensive, pathetic lecture if he is
bad. But it is like a tutor to talk of the 'satisfaction of teaching.' - I
suppose you think it the finest employment in the world. I don't - I reject=
it.
Improving a husband! No. I shall insist upon my husband improving me, or el=
se
we part.'
'God knows it is needed!'
'What do you mean by that, Mr Moor=
e?'
'What I say. Improvement is
imperatively needed.'
'If you were a woman you would sch=
ool
Monsieur, votre mari, charmingly: it would just suit you; schooling is your
vocation.'
'May I ask, whether, in your prese=
nt
just and gentle mood, you mean to taunt me with being a tutor?'
'Yes - bitterly; and with anything
else you please: any defect of which you are painfully conscious.'
'With being poor, for instance?'
'Of course; that will sting you; y=
ou
are sore about your poverty: you brood over that.'
'With having nothing but a very pl=
ain
person to offer the woman who may master my heart?'
'Exactly. You have a habit of call=
ing
yourself plain. You are sensitive about the cut of your features, because t=
hey
are not quite on an Apollo-pattern. You abuse them more than is needful, in=
the
faint hope that others may say a word in their behalf - which won't happen.
Your face is nothing to boast, of certainly: not a pretty line, nor a pretty
tint, to be found therein.'
'Compare it with your own.'
'It looks like a god of Egypt: a g=
reat
sand-buried stone head; or rather I will compare it to nothing so lofty: it
looks like Tartar: you are my mastiff's cousin: I think you as much like hi=
m as
a man can be like a dog.'
'Tartar is your dear companion. In
summer, when you rise early, and run out into the fields to wet your feet w=
ith
the dew, and freshen your cheek and uncurl your hair with the breeze, you
always call him to follow you: you call him sometimes with a whistle that y=
ou
learned from me. In the solitude of your wood, when you think nobody but Ta=
rtar
is listening, you whistle the very tunes you imitated from my lips, or sing=
the
very songs you have caught up by ear from my voice; I do not ask whence flo=
ws
the feeling which you pour into these songs, for I know it flows out of your
heart, Miss Keeldar. In the winter evenings, Tartar lies at your feet: you
suffer him to rest his head on your perfumed lap; you let him couch on the
borders of your satin raiment: his rough hide is familiar with the contact =
of
your hand; I once saw you kiss him on that snow- white beauty-spot which st=
ars
his broad forehead. It is dangerous to say I am like Tartar; it suggests to=
me
a claim to be treated like Tartar.'
'Perhaps, sir, you can extort as m=
uch
from your penniless and friendless young orphan-girl, when you find her.'
'Oh! could I find her such as I im=
age
her. Something to tame first, and teach afterwards: to break in and then to
fondle. To lift the destitute proud thing out of poverty; to establish power
over, and then to be indulgent to the capricious moods that never were
influenced and never indulged before; to see her alternately irritated and
subdued about twelve times in the twenty-four hours; and perhaps, eventuall=
y,
when her training was accomplished, to behold her the exemplary and patient
mother of about a dozen children, only now and then lending little Louis a
cordial cuff by way of paying the interest of the vast debt she owes his
father. Oh!' (I went on) 'my orphan-girl would give me many a kiss; she wou=
ld
watch on the threshold for my coming home of an evening; she would run into=
my
arms; should keep my hearth as bright as she would make it warm. God bless =
the
sweet idea! Find her I must.'
'Her eyes emitted an eager flash, =
her
lips opened; but she reclosed them, and impetuously turned away.
'Tell me, tell me where she is, Mi=
ss
Keeldar!'
'Another movement: all haughtiness,
and fire, and impulse.
'I must know. You can tell me. You
shall tell me.'
'I never will.'
'She turned to leave me. Could I n=
ow
let her part as she had always parted from me? No: I had gone too far not to
finish. I had come too near the end not to drive home to it. All the
encumbrance of doubt, all the rubbish of indecision must be removed at once,
and the plain truth must be ascertained. She must take her part, and tell me
what it was. I must take mine and adhere to it.
'A minute, madam,' I said, keeping=
my
hand on the door-handle before I opened it. 'We have had a long conversation
this morning, but the last word has not been spoken yet: it is yours to spe=
ak
it.'
'May I pass?'
'No. I guard the door. I would alm=
ost
rather die than let you leave me just now, without speaking the word I dema=
nd.'
'What dare you expect me to say?'<= o:p>
'What I am dying and perishing to
hear; what I must and will hear; what you dare not now suppress.'
'Mr Moore, I hardly know what you
mean: you are not like yourself.'
'I suppose I hardly was like my us=
ual
self, for I scared her; that I could see: it was right; she must be scared =
to
be won.
'You do know what I mean, and for =
the
first time I stand before you myself. I have flung off the tutor, and beg to
introduce you to the man: and remember, he is a gentleman.'
'She trembled. She put her hand to
mine as if to remove it from the lock; she might as well have tried to loos=
en,
by her soft touch, metal welded to metal. She felt she was powerless, and
receded; and again she trembled.
'What change I underwent I cannot
explain; but out of her emotion passed into me a new spirit. I neither was
crushed nor elated by her lands and gold; I thought not of them, cared not =
for
them: they were nothing: dross that could not dismay me. I saw only herself;
her young beautiful form; the grace, the majesty, the modesty of her girlho=
od.
'My pupil,' I said.
'My master,' was the low answer.
'I have a thing to tell you.'
'She waited with declined brow, and
ringlets drooped.
'I have to tell you, that for four
years you have been growing into your tutor's heart, and that you are rooted
there now. I have to declare that you have bewitched me, in spite of sense =
and
experience, and difference of station and estate: you have so looked, and
spoken, and moved; so shown me your faults and your virtues - beauties rath=
er;
they are hardly so stern as virtues - that I love you - love you with my li=
fe
and strength. It is out now.'
'She sought what to say, but could=
not
find a word: she tried to rally, but vainly. I passionately repeated that I
loved her.
'Well, Mr Moore, what then?' was t=
he
answer I got, uttered in a tone that would have been petulant if it had not
faltered.
'Have you nothing to say to me: Ha=
ve
you no love for me?'
'A little bit.'
'I am not to be tortured: I will n=
ot
even play at present.'
'I don't want to play; I want to g=
o.'
'I wonder you dare speak of going =
at
this moment. You go! What! with my heart in your hand, to lay it on your to=
ilet
and pierce it with your pins! From my presence you do not stir; out of my r=
each
you do not stray, till I receive a hostage - pledge for pledge - your heart=
for
mine.'
'The thing you want is mislaid - l=
ost
some time since: let me go and seek it.'
'Declare that it is where your keys
often are - in my possession.'
'You ought to know. And where are =
my
keys, Mr Moore? indeed and truly, I have lost them again; and Mrs Gill wants
some money, and I have none, except this sixpence.'
'She took the coin out of her
apron-pocket, and showed it in her palm. I could have trifled with her; but=
it
would not do: life and death were at stake. Mastering at once the sixpence,=
and
the hand that held it, I demanded - 'Am I to die without you, or am I to li=
ve
for you?'
'Do as you please: far be it from =
me
to dictate your choice.'
'You shall tell me with your own l=
ips,
whether you doom me to exile, or call me to hope.'
'Go. I can bear to be left.'
'Perhaps, I too can bear to leave =
you:
but reply, Shirley, my pupil, my sovereign - reply.'
'Die without me if you will. Live =
for
me if you dare.'
'I am not afraid of you, my
leopardess: I dare live for and with you, from this hour till my death. Now,
then, I have you: you are mine: I will never let you go. Wherever my home b=
e, I
have chosen my wife. If I stay in England, in England you will stay; if I c=
ross
the Atlantic, you will cross it also: our lives are riveted; our lots
intertwined.'
'And are we equal then, sir? Are we
equal at last?'
'You are younger, frailer, feebler,
more ignorant than I.'
'Will you be good to me, and never
tyrannise?'
'Will you let me breathe, and not
bewilder me? You must not smile at present. The world swims and changes rou=
nd
me. The sun is a dizzying scarlet blaze, the sky a violet vortex whirling o=
ver
me.'
'I am a strong man, but I staggere=
d as
I spoke. All creation was exaggerated: colour grew more vivid: motion more
rapid; life itself more vital. I hardly saw her for a moment; but I heard h=
er
voice - pitilessly sweet. She would not subdue one of her charms in compass=
ion:
perhaps she did not know what I felt.
'You name me leopardess: remember,=
the
leopardess is tameless,' said she.
'Tame or fierce, wild or subdued, =
you
are mine.'
'I am glad I know my keeper, and am
used to him. Only his voice will I follow; only his hand shall manage me; o=
nly
at his feet will I repose.'
'I took her back to her seat, and =
sat
down by her side: I wanted to hear her speak again: I could never have enou=
gh
of her voice and her words.
'How much do you love me?' I asked=
.
'Ah! you know: I will not gratify =
you:
I will not flatter.'
'I don't know half enough: my heart
craves to be fed. If you knew how hungry and ferocious it is, you would has=
ten
to stay it with a kind word or two.'
'Poor Tartar!' said she, touching =
and
patting my hand: 'poor fellow; stalwart friend; Shirley's pet and favourite,
lie down!'
'But I will not lie down till I am=
fed
with one sweet word.'
'And at last she gave it.
'Dear Louis, be faithful to me: ne=
ver
leave me. I don't care for life, unless I may pass it at your side.'
'Something more.'
'She gave me a change: it was not =
her
way to offer the same dish twice.
'Sir!' she said, starting up, 'at =
your
peril you ever again name such sordid things as money, or poverty, or
inequality. It will be absolutely dangerous to torment me with these madden=
ing
scruples. I defy you to do it.'
'My face grew hot. I did once more
wish I were not so poor, or she were not so rich. She saw the transient mis=
ery;
and then, indeed, she caressed me. Blent with torment, I experienced raptur=
e.
'Mr Moore,' said she, looking up w=
ith
a sweet, open, earnest countenance, 'teach me and help me to be good. I do =
not
ask you to take off my shoulders all the cares and duties of property; but I
ask you to share the burden, and to show me how to sustain my part well. Yo=
ur
judgment is well balanced; your heart is kind; your principles are sound. I
know you are wise; I feel you are benevolent; I believe you are conscientio=
us.
Be my companion through life; be my guide where I am ignorant: be my master
where I am faulty; be my friend always!'
'So help me God, I will!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. . .
Yet again, a passage from the blank
book, if you like, reader; if you don't like it, pass it over:
'The Sympsons are gone; but not be=
fore
discovery and explanation. My manner must have betrayed something, or my lo=
oks:
I was quiet, but I forgot to be guarded sometimes. I stayed longer in the r=
oom
than usual; I could not bear to be out of her presence; I returned to it, a=
nd
basked in it, like Tartar in the sun. If she left the oak-parlour,
instinctively I rose, and left it too. She chid me for this procedure more =
than
once: I did it with a vague, blundering idea of getting a word with her in =
the
hall or elsewhere. Yesterday towards dusk, I had her to myself for five
minutes, by the hall-fire: we stood side by side; she was railing at me, an=
d I
was enjoying the sound of her voice: the young ladies passed, and looked at=
us;
we did not separate: ere long, they repassed, and again looked. Mrs Sympson
came; we did not move: Mr Sympson opened the dining-room door; Shirley flas=
hed
him back full payment for his spying gaze: she curled her lip, and tossed h=
er
tresses. The glance she gave was at once explanatory and defiant; it said -=
'I
like Mr Moore's society, and I dare you to find fault with my taste.'
'I asked, 'Do you mean him to
understand how matters are?'
'I do,' said she; 'but I leave the
development to chance. There will be a scene. I neither invite it nor fear =
it -
only, you must be present; for I am inexpressibly tired of facing him solus=
. I
don't like to see him in a rage; he then puts off all his fine proprieties =
and
conventional disguises, and the real human being below is what you would ca=
ll
'commun, plat, bas - vilain et un peu méchant.' His ideas are not cl=
ean,
Mr Moore; they want scouring with soft soap and fuller's earth. I think, if=
he
could add his imagination to the contents of Mrs Gill's bucking-basket, and=
let
her boil it in her copper, with rain-water and bleaching-powder (I hope you
think me a tolerable laundress), it would do him incalculable good.'
'This morning, fancying I heard her
descend somewhat early, I was down instantly. I had not been deceived: there
she was, busy at work in the breakfast-parlour, of which the housemaid was
completing the arrangement and dusting. She had risen betimes to finish some
little keepsake she intended for Henry. I got only a cool reception; which I
accepted till the girl was gone, taking my book to the window-seat very
quietly. Even when we were alone, I was slow to disturb her: to sit with he=
r in
sight was happiness, and the proper happiness, for early morning - serene,
incomplete, but progressive. Had I been obtrusive, I knew I should have
encountered rebuff. 'Not at home to suitors,' was written on her brow;
therefore, I read on - stole, now and then, a look; watched her countenance
soften and open, and she felt I respected her mood, and enjoyed the gentle
content of the moment.
'The distance between us shrank, a=
nd
the light hoar-frost thawed insensibly: ere an hour elapsed, I was at her s=
ide,
watching her sew, gathering her sweet smiles and her merry words, which fell
for me abundantly. We sat as we had a right to sit, side by side: my arm re=
sted
on her chair; I was near enough to count the stitches of her work, and to
discern the eye of her needle. The door suddenly opened.
'I believe, if I had just then sta=
rted
from her, she would have despised me: thanks to the phlegm of my nature, I
rarely start. When I am well off, bien, comfortable, I am not soon stirred:
bien I was - très bien - consequently, immutable: no muscle moved. I
hardly looked to the door.
'Good morning, uncle,' said she,
addressing that personage; who paused on the threshold in a state of
petrifaction.
'Have you been long downstairs, Mi=
ss
Keeldar, and alone with Mr Moore?'
'Yes, a very long time: we both ca=
me
down early; it was scarcely light.'
'The proceeding is improper -&=
nbsp;
- '
'It was at first: I was rather cro=
ss,
and not civil; but you will perceive that we are now friends.'
'I perceive more than you would wi=
sh
me to perceive.'
'Hardly, sir,' said I: 'we have no
disguises. Will you permit me to intimate, that any further observations you
have to make may as well be addressed to me. Henceforward, I stand between =
Miss
Keeldar and all annoyance.'
'You! What have you to do with Miss
Keeldar?'
'To protect, watch over, serve her=
.'
'You, sir? - you, the tutor?'
'Not one word of insult, sir,'
interposed she: 'not one syllable of disrespect to Mr Moore, in this house.=
'
'Do you take his part?'
'His part? Oh, yes!'
'She turned to me with a sudden, f=
ond
movement, which I met by circling her with my arm. She and I both rose.
'Good Ged!' was the cry from the
morning-gown standing quivering at the door. Ged, I think, must be the cogn=
omen
of Mr Sympson's Lares: when hard pressed, he always invokes this idol.
'Come forward, uncle: you shall he=
ar
all. Tell him all, Louis.'
'I dare him to speak! The beggar! =
the
knave! the specious hypocrite! the vile, insinuating, infamous menial! Stand
apart from my niece, sir: let her go!'
'She clung to me with energy. 'I am
near my future husband,' she said: 'who dares touch him or me?'
'Her husband!' he raised and spread
his hands: he dropped into a seat.
'A while ago, you wanted much to k=
now
whom I meant to marry: my intention was then formed, but not mature for
communication; now it is ripe, sun-mellowed, perfect: take the crimson-peac=
h -
take Louis Moore!'
'But' (savagely) 'you shall not ha=
ve
him - he shall not have you.'
'I would die before I would have
another. I would die if I might not have him.'
'He uttered words with which this =
page
shall never be polluted.
'She turned white as death: she sh=
ook
all over: she lost her strength. I laid her down on the sofa: just looked to
ascertain that she had not fainted - of which, with a divine smile, she ass=
ured
me; I kissed her, and then, if I were to perish, I cannot give a clear acco=
unt
of what happened in the course of the next five minutes: she has since -
through tears, laughter, and trembling - told me that I turned terrible, and
gave myself to the demon; she says I left her, made one bound across the ro=
om -
that Mr Sympson vanished through the door as if shot from a cannon - I also
vanished, and she heard Mrs Gill scream.
'Mrs Gill was still screaming when=
I
came to my senses; I was then in another apartment - the oak-parlour, I thi=
nk:
I held Sympson before me crushed into a chair, and my hand was on his crava=
t:
his eyes rolled in his head - I was strangling him, I think: the housekeeper
stood wringing her hands, entreating me to desist; I desisted that moment, =
and
felt at once as cool as stone. But I told Mrs Gill to fetch the Red-House I=
nn
chaise instantly, and informed Mr Sympson he must depart from Fieldhead the
instant it came: though half frightened out of his wits, he declared he wou=
ld
not. Repeating the former order, I added a commission to fetch a constable.=
I
said - 'you shall go - by fair means or foul.'
'He threatened prosecution - I car=
ed
for nothing: I had stood over him once before, not quite so fiercely as now,
but full as austerely. It was one night when burglars attempted the house at
Sympson Grove; and in his wretched cowardice he would have given a vain ala=
rm,
without daring to offer defence: I had then been obliged to protect his fam=
ily
and his abode by mastering himself - and I had succeeded. I now remained wi=
th
him till the chaise came: I marshalled him to it, he scolding all the way. =
He
was terribly bewildered, as well as enraged; he would have resisted me, but
knew not how: he called for his wife and daughters to come. I said they sho=
uld
follow him as soon as they could prepare: the smoke, the fume, the fret of =
his
demeanour was inexpressible, but it was a fury incapable of producing a dee=
d:
that man, properly handled, must ever remain impotent. I know he will never
touch me with the law: I know his wife, over whom he tyrannises in trifles,
guides him in matters of importance. I have long since earned her undying
mother's gratitude by my devotion to her boy: in some of Henry's ailments I
have nursed him - better, she said, than any woman could nurse: she will ne=
ver
forget that. She and her daughters quitted me to-day, in mute wrath and
consternation - but she respects me. When Henry clung to my neck, as I lift=
ed
him into the carriage and placed him by her side - when I arranged her own
wrapping to make her warm, though she turned her head from me, I saw the te=
ars
start to her eyes. She will but the more zealously advocate my cause, becau=
se
she has left me in anger. I am glad of this: not for my own sake, but for t=
hat
of my life and idol - my Shirley.'
Once again he writes - a week afte=
r:
'I am now at Stilbro': I have taken up my temporary abode with a friend - a
professional man - in whose business I can be useful. Every day I ride over=
to
Fieldhead. How long will it be before I can call that place my home, and its
mistress mine? I am not easy - not tranquil: I am tantalised - sometimes
tortured. To see her now, one would think she had never pressed her cheek t=
o my
shoulder, or clung to me with tenderness or trust. I feel unsafe: she rende=
rs
me miserable: I am shunned when I visit her: she withdraws from my reach. O=
nce,
this day, I lifted her face, resolved to get a full look down her deep, dark
eyes: difficult to describe what I read there! Pantheress! - beautiful
forest-born! - wily, tameless, peerless nature! She gnaws her chain: I see =
the
white teeth working at the steel! She has dreams of her wild woods, and pin=
ings
after virgin freedom. I wish Sympson would come again, and oblige her again=
to
entwine her arms about me. I wish there was danger she should lose me, as t=
here
is risk I shall lose her. No: final loss I do not fear; but long delay -&=
nbsp;
-
'It is now night - midnight. I have
spent the afternoon and evening at Fieldhead. Some hours ago she passed me,
coming down the oak-staircase to the hall: she did not know I was standing =
in
the twilight, near the staircase- window, looking at the frost-bright
constellations. How closely she glided against the banisters! How shyly sho=
ne
her large eyes upon me I How evanescent, fugitive, fitful, she looked, - sl=
im
and swift as a Northern Streamer!
'I followed her into the drawing-r=
oom:
Mrs Pryor and Caroline Helstone were both there: she has summoned them to b=
ear
her company awhile. In her white evening dress; with her long hair flowing =
full
and wavy; with her noiseless step, her pale cheek, her eye full of night and
lightning, she looked I thought, spirit-like, - a thing made of an element,=
-
the child of a breeze and a flame, - the daughter of ray and rain-drop, - a
thing never to be overtaken, arrested, fixed. I wished I could avoid follow=
ing
her with my gaze, as she moved here and there, but it was impossible. I tal=
ked
with the other ladies as well as I could, but still I looked at her. She was
very silent: I think she never spoke to me, - not even when she offered me =
tea.
It happened that she was called out a minute by Mrs Gill. I passed into the
moon-lit hall, with the design of getting a word as she returned; nor in th=
is
did I fail.
'Miss Keeldar, stay one instant! '
said I, meeting her.
'Why? - the hall is too cold.'
'It is not cold for me: at my side=
, it
should not be cold for you.'
'But I shiver.'
'With fear, I believe. What makes =
you
fear me? You are quiet and distant: why?'
'I may well fear what looks like a
great dark goblin meeting me in the moonlight.'
'Do not - do not pass! - stay with=
me
awhile: let us exchange a few quiet words. It is three days since I spoke to
you alone: such changes are cruel.'
'I have no wish to be cruel,' she
responded, softly enough; indeed, there was softness in her whole deportmen=
t -
in her face, in her voice: but there was also reserve, and an air fleeting,
evanishing, intangible.
'You certainly give me pain,' said=
I.
'It is hardly a week since you called me your future husband, and treated m=
e as
such; now I am once more the tutor for you: I am addressed as Mr Moore, and
Sir; your lips have forgotten Louis.'
'No, Louis, no: it is an easy, liq=
uid
name; not soon forgotten.'
'Be cordial to Louis, then: approa=
ch
him - let him approach.'
'I am cordial,' said she, hovering
aloof like a white shadow.'
'Your voice is very sweet and very
low,' I answered, quietly advancing: 'you seem subdued, but still startled.=
'
'No - quite calm, and afraid of
nothing,' she assured me.
'Of nothing but your votary,'
'I bent a knee to the flags at her
feet.
'You see I am in a new world, Mr
Moore. I don't know myself, - I don't know you: but rise; when you do so, I
feel troubled and disturbed.'
'I obeyed; it would not have suite=
d me
to retain that attitude long. I courted serenity and confidence for her, and
not vainly: she trusted, and clung to me again.
'Now, Shirley,' I said, 'you can
conceive I am far from happy in my present uncertain, unsettled state.'
'Oh, yes; you are happy!' she cried
hastily: 'you don't know how happy you are! - any change will be for the
worse!'
'Happy or not, I cannot bear to go=
on
so much longer: you are too generous to require it.'
'Be reasonable, Louis, - be patien=
t! I
like you because you are patient.'
'Like me no longer, then, - love me
instead: fix our marriage-day. Think of it to-night, and decide.'
'She breathed a murmur, inarticula=
te
yet expressive: darted or melted from my arms - and I lost her.'
Yes, reader, we must settle accoun=
ts
now. I have only briefly to narrate the final fates of some of the personag=
es
whose acquaintance we have made in this narrative, and then you and I must
shake hands, and for the present separate.
Let us turn to the Curates, - to t=
he
much-loved, though long-neglected. Come forward, modest merit! Malone, I se=
e,
promptly answers the invocation: he knows his own description when he hears=
it.
No, Peter Augustus, we can have
nothing to say to you: it won't do. Impossible to trust ourselves with the
touching tale of your deeds and destinies. Are you not aware, Peter, that a
discriminating public has its crotchets: that the unvarnished truth does not
answer; that plain facts will not digest? Do you not know that the squeak of
the real pig is no more relished now than it was in days of yore? Were I to
give the catastrophe of your life and conversation, the public would sweep =
off
in shrieking hysterics, and there would be a wild cry for sal-volatile and
burnt feathers. 'Impossible!' would be pronounced here: 'untrue!' would be
responded there, 'Inartistic!' would be solemnly decided. Note well I Whene=
ver
you present the actual, simple truth, it is, somehow, always denounced as a
lie: they disown it, cast it off, throw it on the parish; whereas the produ=
ct
of your own imagination, the mere figment, the sheer fiction, is adopted,
petted, termed pretty, proper, sweetly natural: the little spurious wretch =
gets
all the comfits, - the honest, lawful bantling all the cuffs. Such is the w=
ay
of the world, Peter; and, as you are the legitimate urchin, rude, unwashed,=
and
naughty, you must stand down.
Make way for Mr Sweeting.
Here he comes, with his lady on his
arm; the most splendid and the weightiest woman in Yorkshire: Mrs Sweeting,
formerly Miss Dora Sykes. They were married under the happiest auspices; Mr
Sweeting having been just inducted to a comfortable living, and Mr Sykes be=
ing
in circumstances to give Dora a handsome portion. They lived long and happi=
ly
together, beloved by their parishioners and by a numerous circle of friends=
.
There! I think the varnish has been
put on very nicely.
Advance, Mr Donne.
This gentleman turned out admirabl=
y:
far better than either you or I could possibly have expected, reader. He, t=
oo,
married a most sensible, quiet, lady- like little woman: the match was the
making of him: he became an exemplary domestic character, and a truly active
parish-priest (as a pastor, he, to his dying day, conscientiously refused to
act). The outside of the cup and platter he burnished up with the best
polishing-powder; the furniture of the altar and temple he looked after with
the zeal of an upholsterer - the care of a cabinet- maker. His little schoo=
l,
his little church, his little parsonage, all owed their erection to him; and
they did him credit: each was a model in its way: if uniformity and taste in
architecture had been the same thing as consistency and earnestness in
religion, what a shepherd of a Christian flock Mr Donne would have made! Th=
ere
was one art in the mastery of which nothing mortal ever surpassed Mr Donne =
- it
was that of begging. By his own unassisted efforts, he begged all the money=
for
all his erections. In this matter he had a grasp of plan, a scope of action
quite unique: he begged of high and low - of the shoeless cottage-brat and =
the
coroneted duke: he sent out begging-letters far and wide - to old Queen
Charlotte, to the princesses her daughters, to her sons the royal dukes, to=
the
Prince Regent, to Lord Castlereagh, to every member of the Ministry then in
office; and, what is more remarkable, he screwed something out of every one=
of
these personages. It is on record that he got five pounds from the close-fi=
sted
old lady, Queen Charlotte, and two guineas from the royal profligate, her
eldest son. When Mr Donne set out on begging expeditions, he armed himself =
in a
complete suit of brazen mail: that you had given a hundred pounds yesterday,
was, with him, no reason why you should not give two hundred to-day: he wou=
ld
tell you so to your face, and, ten to one, get the money out of you: people
gave to get rid of him. After all, he did some good with the cash; he was u=
seful
in his day and generation.
Perhaps I ought to remark, that on=
the
premature and sudden vanishing of Mr Malone from the stage of Briarfield pa=
rish
(you cannot know how it happened, reader; your curiosity must be robbed to =
pay
your elegant love of the pretty and pleasing), there came as his successor
another Irish curate, Mr Macarthey. I am happy to be able to inform you, wi=
th
truth, that this gentleman did as much credit to his country as Malone had =
done
it discredit: he proved himself as decent, decorous, and conscientious, as
Peter was rampant, boisterous, and -&=
nbsp;
- (this last epithet I
choose to suppress, because it would let the cat out of the bag). He labour=
ed
faithfully in the parish: the schools, both Sunday and day- schools, flouri=
shed
under his sway like green bay-trees. Being human, of course he had his faul=
ts;
these, however, were proper, steady-going, clerical faults; what many would
call virtues: the circumstance of finding himself invited to tea with a
dissenter would unhinge him for a week; the spectacle of a Quaker wearing h=
is
hat in the church, the thought of an unbaptised fellow-creature being inter=
red
with Christian rites - these things could make strange havoc in Mr Macarthe=
y's
physical and mental economy; otherwise he was sane and rational, diligent a=
nd
charitable.
I doubt not a justice-loving public
will have remarked, ere this, that I have thus far shown a criminal remissn=
ess
in pursuing, catching, and bringing to condign punishment the would-be assa=
ssin
of Mr Robert Moore: here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a da=
nce,
at once decorous and exciting: a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon, t=
he
dock, and the 'dead-thraw.' You might have liked it, reader, but I should n=
ot:
I and my subject would presently have quarrelled, and then I should have br=
oken
down: I was happy to find that facts perfectly exonerated me from the attem=
pt.
The murderer was never punished; for the good reason that he was never caug=
ht;
the result of the further circumstance that he was never pursued. The
magistrates made a shuffling, as if they were going to rise and do valiant
things; but, since Moore himself, instead of urging and leading them as
heretofore, lay still on his little cottage-couch, laughing in his sleeve a=
nd
sneering with every feature of his pale, foreign face, they considered bett=
er
of it; and, after fulfilling certain indispensable forms, prudently resolve=
d to
let the matter quietly drop, which they did.
Mr Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew; it was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver once before alluded to, a frantic Antinomian in religion, and a mad leveller in politics; the poor soul died of delirium tremens, a year after = the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.<= o:p>
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
.
The winter is over and gone: spring
has followed with beamy and shadowy, with flowery and showery flight: we are
now in the heart of summer - in mid-June, - the June of 1812.
It is burning weather: the air is =
deep
azure and red gold: it fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present
spirit of the nations. The nineteenth century wantons in its giant adolesce=
nce:
the Titan-boy uproots mountains in his game, and hurls rocks in his wild sp=
ort.
This summer, Bonaparte is in the saddle: he and his host scour Russian dese=
rts:
he has with him Frenchmen and Poles, Italians and children of the Rhine, six
hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow: under old Moscow's walls=
the
rude Cossack waits him. Barbarian stoic! he waits without fear of the bound=
less
ruin rolling on. He puts his trust in a snow-cloud: the Wilderness, the Win=
d,
the Hail-Storm are his refuge: his allies are the elements - Air, Fire, Wat=
er.
And what are these? Three terrible archangels ever stationed before the thr=
one
of Jehovah. They stand clothed in white, girdled with golden girdles; they
uplift vials, brimming with the wrath of God. Their time is the day of
vengeance; their signal, the word of the Lord of Hosts, 'thundering with the
voice of His excellency.'
'Hast thou entered into the treasu=
res
of the snow? or hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have rese=
rved
against the time of trouble, against the day of battle and war?
'Go your ways: pour out the vials =
of
the wrath of God upon the earth.'
It is done: the earth is scorched =
with
fire: the sea becomes 'as the blood of a dead man': the islands flee away; =
the
mountains are not found.
In this year, Lord Wellington assu=
med
the reins in Spain: they made him Generalissimo, for their own salvation's
sake. In this year, he took Badajos, he fought the field of Vittoria, he
captured Pampeluna, he stormed St. Sebastian; in this year, he won Salamanc=
a.
Men of Manchester! I beg your pard=
on
for this slight résumé of warlike facts: but it is of no cons=
equence.
Lord Wellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now: I rather thi=
nk
some of you have called him a 'dotard' - you have taunted him with his age,=
and
the loss of his physical vigour. What fine heroes you are yourselves! Men l=
ike
you have a right to trample on what is mortal in a demigod. Scoff at your e=
ase
- your scorn can never break his grand, old heart.
But come, friends, whether Quakers=
or
Cotton-printers, let us hold a Peace- Congress, and let out our venom quiet=
ly.
We have been talking with unseemly zeal about bloody battles and butchering
generals; we arrive now at a triumph in your line. On the 18th of June, 181=
2,
the Orders in Council were repealed, and the blockaded ports thrown open. Y=
ou
know very well - such of you as are old enough to remember - you made Yorks=
hire
and Lancashire shake with your shout on that occasion: the ringers cracked a
bell in Briarfield belfry; it is dissonant to this day. The Association of
Merchants and Manufacturers dined together at Stilbro', and one and all went
home in such a plight as their wives would never wish to witness more.
Liverpool started and snorted like a river-horse roused amongst his reeds by
thunder. Some of the American merchants felt threatenings of apoplexy, and =
had
themselves bled: all, like wise men, at this first moment of prosperity,
prepared to rush into the bowels of speculation, and to delve new difficult=
ies,
in whose depths they might lose themselves at some future day. Stocks, which
had been accumulating for years, now went off in a moment, in the twinkling=
of
an eye; warehouses were lightened, ships were laden; work abounded, wages r=
ose;
the good time seemed come. These prospects might be delusive, but they were
brilliant - to some they were even true. At that epoch, in that single mont=
h of
June, many a solid fortune was realised.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
.
When a whole province rejoices, the
humblest of its inhabitants tastes a festal feeling: the sound of public be=
lls
rouses the most secluded abode, as if with a call to be gay. And so Caroline
Helstone thought, when she dressed herself more carefully than usual on the=
day
of this trading triumph, and went, attired in her neatest muslin, to spend =
the
afternoon at Fieldhead, there to superintend certain millinery preparations=
for
a great event: the last appeal in these matters being reserved for her
unimpeachable taste. She decided on the wreath, the veil, the dress to be w=
orn
at the altar: she chose various robes and fashions for more ordinary occasi=
ons,
without much reference to the bride's opinion; that lady, indeed, being in a
somewhat impracticable mood.
Louis had presaged difficulties, a=
nd
he had found them: in fact, his mistress had shown herself exquisitely
provoking; putting off her marriage day by day, week by week, month by mont=
h.
At first coaxing him with soft pretences of procrastination, and in the end
rousing his whole deliberate but determined nature to revolt against her
tyranny, at once so sweet and so intolerable.
It had needed a sort of tempest-sh=
ock
to bring her to the point; but there she was at last, fettered to a fixed d=
ay:
there she lay, conquered by love, and bound with a vow.
Thus vanquished and restricted, she
pined, like any other chained denizen of deserts. Her captor alone could ch=
eer
her; his society only could make amends for the lost privilege of liberty: =
in
his absence, she sat or wandered alone; spoke little, and ate less.
She furthered no preparations for =
her
nuptials; Louis was himself obliged to direct all arrangements: he was virt=
ually
master of Fieldhead, weeks before he became so nominally: the least
presumptuous, the kindest master that ever was; but with his lady absolute.=
She
abdicated without a word or a struggle. 'Go to Mr Moore; ask Mr Moore,' was=
her
answer when applied to for orders. Never was wooer of wealthy bride so
thoroughly absolved from the subaltern part; so inevitably compelled to ass=
ume
a paramount character.
In all this, Miss Keeldar partly
yielded to her disposition; but a remark she made a year afterwards proved =
that
she partly also acted on system. 'Louis,' she said, 'would never have learn=
ed
to rule, if she had not ceased to govern: the incapacity of the sovereign h=
ad
developed the powers of the premier.'
It had been intended that Miss
Helstone should act as bridesmaid at the approaching nuptials; but Fortune =
had
destined her another part.
She came home in time to water her
plants. She had performed this little task. The last flower attended. to wa=
s a
rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of the house. Th=
is
plant had received the refreshing shower: she was now resting a minute. Near
the wall stood a fragment of sculptured stone - a monkish relic; once, perh=
aps,
the base of a cross: she mounted it, that she might better command the view=
. She
had still the watering- pot in one hand; with the other, her pretty dress w=
as
held lightly aside, to avoid trickling drops: she gazed over the wall, along
some lonely fields; beyond three dusk trees, rising side by side against the
sky; beyond a solitary thorn, at the head of a solitary lane far off: she
surveyed the dusk moors, where bonfires were kindling: the summer-evening w=
as
warm; the bell-music was joyous; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft; t=
heir
red flame bright; above them, in the sky whence the sun had vanished, twink=
led
a silver point - the Star of Love.
Caroline was not unhappy that even=
ing;
far otherwise: but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled
her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she knew who had dra=
wn
near: she received the touch unstartled.
'I am looking at Venus, mamma: see,
she is beautiful. How white her lustre is, compared with the deep red of the
bonfires!'
The answer was a closer caress; and
Caroline turned, and looked, not into Mrs Pryor's matron face, but up at a =
dark
manly visage. She dropped her watering-pot, and stepped down from the pedes=
tal.
'I have been sitting with 'mamma' =
an
hour,' said the intruder. 'I have had a long conversation with her. Where,
meantime, have you been?'
'To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naugh=
ty
as ever, Robert: she will neither say Yes nor No to any question put. She s=
its
alone: I cannot tell whether she is melancholy or nonchalant: if you rouse =
her,
or scold her, she gives you a look half wistful, half reckless, which sends=
you
away as queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her, I cannot
tell: for my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I would not dare undertake
her.'
'Never mind them: they were cut out
for each other. Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these
freaks: he will manage her, if any one can. She tries him, however: he has =
had
a stormy courtship for such a calm character; but you see it all ends in
victory for him. Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are th=
ose bells
ringing?'
'For the repeal of your terrible l=
aw;
the Orders you hate so much. You are pleased, are you not?'
'Yesterday evening at this time, I=
was
packing some books for a sea-voyage: they were the only possessions, except
some clothes, seeds, roots, and tools, which I felt free to take with me to
Canada. I was going to leave you.'
'To leave me? To leave me?'
Her little fingers fastened on his
arm: she spoke and looked affrighted.
'Not now - not now. Examine my fac=
e;
yes, look at me well; is the despair of parting legible thereon?'
She looked into an illuminated
countenance, whose characters were all beaming, though the page itself was
dusk: this face, potent in the majesty of its traits, shed down on her hope,
fondness, delight.
'Will the repeal do you good; much
good - immediate good?' she inquired.
'The repeal of the Orders in Counc=
il
saves me. Now I shall not turn bankrupt; now I shall not give up business; =
now
I shall not leave England; now I shall be no longer poor; now I can pay my
debts; now all the cloth I have in my warehouses will be taken off my hands,
and commissions given me for much more; this day lays for my fortunes abroa=
d,
firm foundation; on which, for the first time in my life, I can securely
build.'
Caroline devoured his words: she h=
eld
his hand in hers; she drew a long breath.
'You are saved? Your heavy
difficulties are lifted?'
'They are lifted: I breathe: I can
act.'
'At last! Oh! Providence is kind.
Thank Him, Robert.'
'I do thank Providence.'
'And I also, for your sake!' She l=
ooked
up devoutly.
'Now, I can take more workmen; give
better wages; lay wiser and more liberal plans; do some good; be less selfi=
sh:
now, Caroline, I can have a house - a home which I can truly call mine - and
now' - -
He paused; for his deep voice was =
checked.
'And now,' he resumed - 'now I can
think of marriage, now I can seek a wife.'
This was no moment for her to spea=
k:
she did not speak.
'Will Caroline, who meekly hopes t=
o be
forgiven as she forgives - will she pardon all I have made her suffer - all=
that
long pain I have wickedly caused her - all that sickness of body and mind s=
he
owed to me? Will she forget what she knows of my poor ambition - my sordid
schemes? Will she let me expiate these things? Will she suffer me to prove
that, as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly, injured basely, I can n=
ow
love faithfully, cherish fondly, treasure tenderly?'
His hand was in Caroline's still: a
gentle pressure answered him.
'Is Caroline mine?'
'Caroline is yours.'
'I will prize her: the sense of her
value is here, in my heart; the necessity for her society is blended with my
life: not more jealous shall I be of the blood whose flow moves my pulses, =
than
of her happiness and well-being.'
'I love you, too, Robert, and will
take faithful care of you.'
'Will you take faithful care of me=
? -
faithful care! as if that rose should promise to shelter from tempest this
hard, grey stone? But she will care for me, in her way: these hands will be=
the
gentle ministrants of every comfort I can taste. I know the being I seek to
entwine with my own will bring me a solace - a charity - a purity - to whic=
h,
of myself, I am a stranger.'
Suddenly, Caroline was troubled; h=
er
lip quivered.
'What flutters my dove?' asked Moo=
re,
as she nestled to, and then uneasily shrank from him.
'Poor mamma! I am all mamma has: m=
ust
I leave her?'
'Do you know, I thought of that
difficulty: I and 'mamma' have discussed it.'
'Tell me what you wish - what you
would like - and I will consider if it is possible to consent; but I cannot
desert her, even for you: I cannot break her heart, even for your sake.'
'She was faithful when I was false=
-
was she not? I never came near your sick-bed, and she watched it ceaselessl=
y.'
'What must I do? Anything but leave
her.'
'At my wish, you never shall leave
her.'
'She may live very near us?'
'With us - only she will have her =
own
rooms and servant: for this she stipulates herself.'
'You know she has an income, that,
with her habits, makes her quite independent?'
'She told me that, with a gentle p=
ride
that reminded me of somebody else.'
'She is not at all interfering, and
incapable of gossip.'
'I know her, Cary: but if - instea=
d of
being the personification of reserve and discretion - she were something qu=
ite
opposite, I should not fear her.'
'Yet she will be your mother-in-la=
w?'
The speaker gave an arch little nod: Moore smiled.
'Louis and I are not of the order =
of
men who fear their mothers-in-law, Cary: our foes never have been, nor will=
be,
those of our own household. I doubt not, my mother-in-law will make much of
me.'
'That she will - in her quiet way,=
you
know. She is not demonstrative; and when you see her silent, or even cool, =
you
must not fancy her displeased - it is only a manner she has. Be sure to let=
me
interpret for her, whenever she puzzles you; always believe my account of t=
he
matter, Robert.'
'Oh, implicitly! Jesting apart, I =
feel
that she and I will suit - on ne peut mieux. Hortense, you know, is exquisi=
tely
susceptible - in our French sense of the word - and not, perhaps, always
reasonable in her requirements; yet - dear, honest girl - I never painfully
wounded her feelings, or had a serious quarrel with her, in my life.'
'No: You are most generously
considerate - indeed, most tenderly indulgent to her; and you will be
considerate with mamma. You are a gentleman all through, to the bone, and
nowhere so perfect a gentleman as at your own fireside.'
'An eulogium I like: it is very sw=
eet.
I am well pleased my Caroline should view me in this light.'
'Mamma just thinks of you as I do.=
'
'Not quite, I hope?'
'She does not want to marry you -
don't be vain; but she said to me the other day, 'My dear, Mr Moore has
pleasing manners; he is one of the few gentlemen I have seen who combine
politeness with an air of sincerity.'
'Mamma' is rather a misanthropist,=
is
she not? Not the best opinion of the sterner sex?'
'She forbears to judge them as a
whole, but she has her exceptions whom she admires. Louis and Mr Hall, and,=
of
late - yourself. She did not like you once: I knew that because she would n=
ever
speak of you. But, Robert - - '
'Well, what now? What is the new
thought?'
'You have not seen my uncle yet?'<= o:p>
'I have: 'mamma' called him into t=
he
room. He consents conditionally: if I prove that I can keep a wife, I may h=
ave
her; and I can keep her better than he thinks - better than I choose to boa=
st.'
'If you get rich, you will do good
with your money, Robert?'
'I will do good; you shall tell me
how: indeed, I have some schemes of my own, which you and I will talk about=
on
our own hearth one day. I have seen the necessity of doing good: I have lea=
rned
the downright folly of being selfish, Caroline, I foresee what I will now
foretell. This war must ere long draw to a close: Trade is likely to prosper
for some years to come: there may be a brief misunderstanding between Engla=
nd
and America, but that will not last. What would you think if, one day - per=
haps
ere another ten years elapse - Louis and I divide Briarfield parish betwixt=
us?
Louis, at any rate, is certain of power and property: he will not bury his
talents: he is a benevolent fellow, and has, besides, an intellect of his o=
wn
of no trifling calibre. His mind is slow but strong: it must work: it may w=
ork
deliberately, but it will work well. He will be made magistrate of the dist=
rict
- Shirley says he shall: she would proceed impetuously and prematurely to
obtain for him this dignity, if he would let her, but he will not; as usual=
, he
will be in no haste: ere he has been master of Fieldhead a year, all the
district will feel his quiet influence, and acknowledge his unassuming
superiority: a magistrate is wanted - they will, in time, invest him with t=
he
office voluntarily and unreluctantly. Everybody admires his future wife: and
everybody will, in time, like him: he is of the 'pâte' generally
approved, 'bon comme le pain' - daily bread for the most fastidious; good f=
or
the infant and the aged, nourishing for the poor, wholesome for the rich.
Shirley, in spite of her whims and oddities, her dodges and delays, has an
infatuated fondness for him: she will one day see him as universally belove=
d as
even she could wish: he will also be universally esteemed, considered,
consulted, depended on - too much so: his advice will be always judicious, =
his
help always good-natured - ere long, both will be in inconvenient request: =
he will
have to impose restrictions. As for me, if I succeed as I intend to do, my
success will add to his and Shirley's income: I can double the value of the=
ir
mill-property: I can line yonder barren Hollow with lines of cottages, and =
rows
of cottage-gardens - - '
'Robert? And root up the copse?'
'The copse shall be firewood ere f=
ive
years elapse: the beautiful wild ravine shall be a smooth descent; the green
natural terrace shall be a paved street: there shall be cottages in the dark
ravine, and cottages on the lonely slopes: the rough pebbled track shall be=
an
even, firm, broad, black, sooty road, bedded with the cinders from my mill:=
and
my mill, Caroline - my mill shall fill its present yard.'
'Horrible You will change our blue
hill-country air into the Stilbro' smoke atmosphere.'
'I will pour the waters of Pactolus
through the valley of Briarfield,'
'I like the beck a thousand times
better.'
'I will get an act for enclosing
Nunnely Common, and parcelling it out into farms.'
'Stilbro' Moor, however, defies yo=
u,
thank Heaven! What can you grow in Bilberry Moss? What will flourish on
Rushedge?'
'Caroline, the houseless, the
starving, the unemployed, shall come to Hollow's Mill from far and near; and
Joe Scott shall give them work, and Louis Moore, Esq., shall let them a
tenement, and Mrs Gill shall mete them a portion till the first pay-day.'
She smiled up in his face.
'Such a Sunday-school as you will
have, Cary! such collections as you will get! such a day-school as you and
Shirley, and Miss Ainley, will have to manage between you! The mill shall f=
ind
salaries for a master and mistress, and the Squire or the Clothier shall gi=
ve a
treat once a quarter.'
She mutely offered a kiss, an offer
taken unfair advantage of, to the extortion of about a hundred kisses.
'Extravagant day-dreams!' said Moo=
re,
with a sigh and smile, 'yet perhaps we may realise some of them. Meantime, =
the
dew is falling: Mrs Moore, I shall take you in.'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . =
. .
. .
It is August: the bells clash out
again, not only through Yorkshire but through England: from Spain, the voic=
e of
a trumpet has sounded long: it now waxes louder and louder; it proclaims
Salamanca won. This night is Briarfield to be illuminated. On this day the
Fieldhead tenantry dine together; the Hollow's Mill workpeople will be
assembled for a like festal purpose; the schools have a grand treat. This
morning there were two marriages solemnised in Briarfield church. - Louis
Gérard Moore, Esq., late of Antwerp, to Shirley, daughter of the late
Charles Cave Keeldar, Esq., of Fieldhead. Robert Gérard Moore, Esq.,=
of
Hollow's Mill, to Caroline, niece of the Rev. Matthewson Helstone, M.A., Re=
ctor
of Briarfield.
The ceremony, in the first instanc=
e,
was performed by Mr Helstone; Hiram Yorke, Esq., of Briarmains, giving the
bride away. In the second instance, Mr Hall, Vicar of Nunnely, officiated.
Amongst the bridal train, the two most noticeable personages were the youth=
ful
bridesmen, Henry Sympson, and Martin Yorke.
I suppose Robert Moore's prophecies
were, partially, at least, fulfilled. The other day I passed up the Hollow,
which tradition says was once green, and lone, and wild; and there I saw the
manufacturer's day-dreams embodied in substantial stone and brick and ashes=
-
the cinder-black highway, the cottages, and the cottage gardens; there I sa=
w a
mighty mill, and a chimney, ambitious as the tower of Babel. I told my old
housekeeper when I came home where I had been.
'Ay!' said she; 'this world has qu=
eer
changes. I can remember the old mill being built - the very first it was in=
all
the district; and then, I can remember it being pulled down, and going with=
my
lake-lasses (companions) to see the foundation-stone of the new one laid: t=
he
two Mr Moores made a great stir about it; they were there, and a deal of fi=
ne
folk beside, and both their ladies; very bonnie and grand they looked; but =
Mrs
Louis was the grandest, she always wore such handsome dresses: Mrs Robert w=
as
quieterlike. Mrs Louis smiled when she talked: she had a real, happy, glad,
good-natured look; but she had been that pierced a body through: there is no
such ladies now-a-days.'
'What was the Hollow like then,
Martha?'
'Different to what it is now; but I
can tell of it clean different again: when there was neither mill, nor cot,=
nor
hall, except Fieldhead, within two miles of it. I can tell, one summer even=
ing,
fifty years syne, my mother coming running in just at the edge of dark, alm=
ost
fleyed out of her wits, saying she had seen a fairish (fairy) in Fieldhead
Hollow; and that was the last fairish that ever was seen on this country si=
de
(though they've been heard within these forty years). A lonesome spot it wa=
s -
and a bonnie spot - full of oak trees and nut trees. It is altered now.'
The story is told. I think I now s=
ee
the judicious reader putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It wo=
uld
be an insult to his sagacity to offer directions. I only say, God speed him=
in
the quest!
The End