|
SHIRLEY
Moore placed his hand on his cousin's shoulder, stooped,
and left a kiss on her forehead.
CONTENTS.
I. |
Levitical |
3 |
II. |
The Wagons |
16 |
III. |
Mr. Yorke |
31 |
IV. |
Mr. Yorke (continued) |
40 |
V. |
Hollow's Cottage |
51 |
VI. |
Coriolanus |
66 |
VII. |
The Curates at Tea |
85 |
VIII. |
Noah and Moses |
110 |
IX. |
Briarmains |
125 |
X. |
Old Maids |
147 |
XI. |
Fieldhead |
164 |
XII. |
Shirley and Caroline |
181 |
XIII. |
Further Communications on Business |
201 |
XIV. |
Shirley Seeks to be saved by Works |
226 |
XV. |
Mr. Donne's Exodus |
239 |
XVI. |
Whitsuntide |
253 |
XVII. |
The School Feast |
264 |
XVIII. |
Which the Genteel Reader is recommended
to skip, Low Persons being
here introduced |
279 |
XIX. |
A Summer Night |
290 |
XX. |
To-morrow |
306 |
XXI. |
Mrs. Pryor |
319 |
XXII. |
Two Lives |
336 |
XXIII. |
An Evening Out |
346 |
XXIV. |
The Valley of the Shadow of Death |
365 |
XXV. |
The West Wind blows |
384 |
XXVI. |
Old Copy-books |
392 |
XXVII. |
The First Bluestocking |
410 |
XXVIII. |
Phœbe |
433 |
XXIX. |
Louis Moore |
453 |
XXX. |
Rushedge—a Confessional |
461 |
XXXI. |
Uncle and Niece |
475 |
XXXII. |
The Schoolboy and the Wood-nymph |
491 |
XXXIII. |
Martin's Tactics |
502 |
XXXIV. |
Case of Domestic Persecution—Remarkable
Instance of Pious Perseverance
in the Discharge of Religious
Duties |
513 |
XXXV. |
Wherein Matters make some Progress,
but not much |
521 |
XXXVI. |
Written in the Schoolroom |
534 |
XXXVII. |
The Winding-up |
555 |
SHIRLEY.
CHAPTER I.
LEVITICAL.
Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen
upon the north of England: they lie very thick
on the hills; every parish has one or more of them; they
are young enough to be very active, and ought to be doing
a great deal of good. But not of late years are we about
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, forget it in siesta, pass the
midday in slumber, and dream of dawn.
If you think, from this prelude, that anything like a
romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more
mistaken. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and
reverie? Do you expect passion, and stimulus, and melodrama?
Calm your expectations; reduce them to 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.
[Pg 4]
Curates were scarce then: there was no Pastoral Aid—no
Additional Curates' Society 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 not 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
night-gown 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 them, 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 superintendence 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 eyes it appear more heavy with
ennui, more cursed with monotony, than the toil of the
[Pg 5]
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 would be difficult to say. It is not
friendship, for whenever they meet they quarrel. It is not
religion—the thing is never named amongst them; theology
they may 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 toast 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 ladies of course
mean themselves, for indeed they are kept in a continual
"fry" by this 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 to a meal occasionally, without additional
charge (a privilege included in the terms on which she lets
her lodgings), has been quite sufficiently exercised of late.
The present week is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday
Mr. Malone, the curate 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.
Mr. Sweeting is mincing the slice of roast beef on his plate,
and complaining that it is very tough; Mr. Donne says
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[Pg 6]
servant, but does the work of the house herself, as her
mother did afore her; then they are always speaking 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 once a native of the land of shamrocks and potatoes.
Mrs. Gale hates Mr. Malone more 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, but 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, better
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; and 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,
too, 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
thereof, and when his mother brought down the empty
platter, he lifted up his voice and wept sore.
The curates, meantime, sat and sipped their wine, a
liquor of unpretending vintage, moderately enjoyed. Mr.
Malone, indeed, would much rather have had whisky;
but Mr. Donne, being an Englishman, did not keep the
beverage. While they sipped they argued, not on politics,
nor on philosophy, nor on literature—these topics were now,[Pg 7]
as ever, totally without interest for them—not even on
theology, practical or doctrinal, but on minute points of
ecclesiastical discipline, frivolities which seemed empty 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, said rude
things in a hectoring tone, and laughed clamorously at his
own brilliancy.
Each of his companions became in turn his butt. Malone
had a stock of jokes at their service, which he was accustomed
to serve out regularly on convivial occasions like the present,
seldom varying 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 for 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
with 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 enough now and then
to speak in the presence of the priestly Paddy, from whose
anatomy 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
phlegm, 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 rather too offensive,
which it soon did, they joined, in an attempt to turn the
tables on him by asking him how many boys had shouted
"Irish Peter!" after him as he came along the road that[Pg 8]
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. Malone, being neither
good-natured nor phlegmatic, was presently in a towering
passion. 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 taunted 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
would have thought a duel must follow such virulent abuse;
it seemed a wonder that Mr. and Mrs. Gale did not take
alarm at the noise, and send for a constable to keep 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 the 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 Malone's
fist with the mahogany plane of the parlour table, and
to the consequent start 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?"
[Pg 9]
"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; then turning to Mr.
Gale—"Have you often this sort of work?"
Mr. Gale had been a churchwarden, and 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——"
By way of finish to this sentence, he passed through
the inner door, drew it after him, and mounted the stair.
Again 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 eye, 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 stood—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 words in a voice no
longer nasal, but deep—more than deep—a voice made
purposely 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,[Pg 10]
Cappadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia,
in Egypt and in the parts of Libya 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—gospel
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 post.
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 much noise—you three alone—as
Moses Barraclough, the preaching tailor, and all 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 were 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 student 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
not, perhaps, quite the dignity most appropriate to the
occasion. Mr. Helstone, standing straight as a ramrod,
looking keen as a kite, presented, despite his clerical hat,
black coat, and gaiters, more the air of a veteran officer
[Pg 11]
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 wonder
Supplehough should have dipped sixteen adult converts in
a day—which he did 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
much harder are his knuckles than the wooden brim of his
tub; as little wonder that you, when you are left to
yourselves, without your rectors—myself, and Hall, 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 Malone.—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 Stilbro'; there are only two women left about the place.
It would be a nice opportunity for any of his well-wishers
to pay him a visit, if they knew how straight the path was
made before them."
"I am none of his well-wishers, sir. I don't care for
him."
"Soh! Malone, you are afraid."
"You know me better than that. If I really thought[Pg 12]
there was a chance of a row I would go: but Moore is a
strange, 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; if 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
Moor has resolved 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 wants nobody. Some
one, however, he must have, if it were only to bear evidence
in case anything should happen. I call him very careless.
He sits in the counting-house 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 detestation—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 heard 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
tell Mr. Hall a piece of his mind about his sermons, to denounce
the horrible tendency of his doctrine of works, and
warn him that he and all his hearers are sitting in outer
darkness."
"Well, that has nothing to do with Moore."
"Besides being an Antinomian, he is 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 strangely in murder done
on crowned heads or on any head for political reasons. I[Pg 13]
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 talk 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 should 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 crazed, 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
describe 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 visions 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 race; 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 what
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[Pg 14]
perceived they were soldiers—thousands and tens 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
still played soft and distant. On the common he 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 hour; 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 rolled, 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 more. Mike, like a wise Daniel as he is, not
only rehearsed the vision but gave the 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 did 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 substitute; 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. The mill-bell will give warning. Meantime, go—unless
(turning suddenly to Messrs. Sweeting and Donne)—unless
Davy Sweeting or Joseph Donne prefers going.—What
do you say, gentlemen? The commission is an
honourable one, not without the seasoning of a little real
peril; for the country is in a queer state, as you all know,
and Moore and his mill and his machinery are held in
sufficient odium. There are chivalric sentiments, there is
high-beating courage, under those waistcoats of yours, I
doubt not. Perhaps I am too partial to my favourite[Pg 15]
Peter. Little David shall be the champion, or spotless
Joseph.—Malone, you are but a great 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 touch anything of
the kind," said Mr. Donne.
"I am almost a stranger to Mr. Moore," 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 mother 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; Malone 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.[Pg 16]
Back to contents
CHAPTER II.
THE WAGONS.
The evening was pitch dark: star and 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 walk 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 them 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, streaming vault, all black, save where, towards
the east, the furnaces of Stilbro' ironworks threw a tremulous
lurid shimmer on the horizon—with the same sky on
an unclouded frosty night. He did not trouble himself to
ask where the constellations 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 vision
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 realized the
dream; but the company assembled in that kitchen were
Mr. Helstone's own parishioners; they all knew him. He
sighed, and passed on.
[Pg 17]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 took a direct course through them,
jumping hedge and wall. He passed but one building
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 the 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, through
which you could hear the water run. One light glimmered
in the depth. For that 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 crimson baize, a
strip of crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with
light-coloured walls and white floor, made the little interior
look clean and fresh.
"Mr. Moore is at home, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir, but he is not in."
"Not in! Where is he then?"
"At the mill—in the counting-house."
Here one of the crimson doors opened.
"Are the wagons come, Sarah?" asked 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 temples quite forbade that
supposition—but neither was it the head of a Gorgon; yet
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 him," hurried in seeming trepidation
down a short lane, across an obscure yard, towards a
huge black mill.
The work-hours were over; the "hands" 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 knocked at another door,[Pg 18]
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 uttering 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 you 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 once 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 satisfy 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 within the bars of the red grate.
"Comfortable quarters you have here, 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; the 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 specially with
one, I should think, in that quarter."
[Pg 19]"But he is specially in love with one besides, for when
I and Donne urged him to make a choice amongst the fair
bevy, 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.
Sweeting is but a little slight figure, I concluded that,
according to a frequent rule 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 Malone 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 that 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 should 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 Fieldhead 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![Pg 20]
Now, which is it? Dora, I am sure. 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 assigned
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 nowhere; 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 call in their counting-house, where our discussions
run on other topics than matrimony, 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 love-making, etc."
"I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is
one notion I hate more than another, it is that of marriage—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
it. 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, opened it, and listened. He
soon closed it. "It is only the sound of the wind rising," 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
Malone. "Helstone seems to think it will."
"I only wish the machines—the frames—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."
[Pg 21]"One despises such low scoundrels," observed Malone,
in a profound vein of reflection. "I almost wish a party
would 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 road. 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 paralyzed when they are attacked. Sykes,
for instance, when 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 the jaws of a ferret. Now I, if I know myself,
should stand by my trade, my mill, 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-party his legions."
"Yes; I abhor all these things because they ruin me.
They stand in my way. I cannot get on. I cannot execute
my plans because of them. I see myself baffled at
every turn by their untoward effects."
"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 carry 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 gossips 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[Pg 22]
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, and they naturally fancy
men's minds similarly occupied."
"Of course—of course," assented Malone; "but never
mind them." And he whistled, looked impatiently round,
and 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 feminity
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 on 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 there's the gridiron. Turn
them quickly. You know the secret of keeping the juices
in?"
"Never fear me; you shall see. Hand a knife and fork,
please."
The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, 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.
[Pg 23]"You have your household in proper order," observed
Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the
embers over which he bent, he assiduously turned the
mutton chops. "You are not under 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. When 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 himself, 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 does a spectator become aware of this
advantage till he has examined him well, for an anxious
countenance and a hollow, somewhat haggard, outline of
face disturb the idea of beauty with one of care. His eyes
are large, and grave, and gray; their expression is intent
and meditative, rather searching than soft, rather 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
charm, suggestive, whether truly or delusively, 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[Pg 24]
a studied carelessness of pronunciation and diction,
grates on a British, and especially 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 side,
and was himself born and partly reared on a foreign soil. A
hybrid in nature, it is probable he had a hybrid's feeling
on many points—patriotism for one; 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 had 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
house, and of which one of the partners, resident in Antwerp,
Robert Moore, had married Hortense Gérard, with the
prospect of his bride inheriting her father Constantine
Gérard's share in the business. She inherited, as we have
seen, but his share in the liabilities of the firm; and these
liabilities, though duly set aside by a composition with
creditors, some said her son Robert 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 by-past 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
and 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[Pg 25]
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 adjoining it for
his residence, and to add to his possessions, as pasture for
his horse, 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 narrowness 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 (figuratively) he
foamed at the mouth when the reins were drawn very
tight.
In this state of feeling, it is not 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
where 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[Pg 26]
provinces. War was then at its height. Europe was all
involved therein. England, if not weary, was worn with
long resistance—yes, and half 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, because their sight was dim with famine; and for
a morsel of meat they would have sold 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 reached 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, the 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 stopped. As to the sufferers,
whose sole inheritance was labour, and who had lost that
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 damage
science by discouraging its improvements; the war could
not be terminated; efficient relief could not be raised.
There was no help then; so the unemployed underwent
their destiny—ate the bread and drank the waters of
affliction.
Misery generates hate. These sufferers hated the machines
which they believed took their bread from them; they hated[Pg 27]
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; Gérard Moore,
in his double character of semi-foreigner and thorough-going
progressist, the man most abominated. And it perhaps
rather agreed with Moore's temperament than otherwise
to be generally hated, especially when he believed 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-house 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 alone; 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 have
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 fashion, 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 flood in
the utter silence. Moore's ear, however, caught another
sound, very distant 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. The 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 foremost wagon into the
road; a voice cried aloud, "Ay, ay, divil; all's raight!
We've smashed 'em."
[Pg 28]And there was a run. The wagons stood still; they
were now deserted.
"Joe Scott!" No Joe Scott answered. "Murgatroyd!
Pighills! Sykes!" No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern
and looked 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
shears which to-night had been expected. Speculations
most important to his interests 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
he 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 to 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 down and reflecting.
An impatient trampling of one of the 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 shivered to smash on Stilbro'
Moor, and your men are lying bound hand and foot in a
ditch 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 hear 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[Pg 29]
words 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 taken 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 lantern and help me to light up the
front."
Returning to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and stabled
them with equal speed and care, pausing occasionally,
while so occupied, as if to listen for the mill-bell. It clanged
out presently, 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 had 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 back 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
servant, lit up his mill, whose wide and long front now
glared one great illumination, 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. Malone had at length issued from the counting-house,
previously taking the precaution to dip his head
and face in the stone water-jug; and this precaution, together
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 much
at random the questions of the newly-arrived party from
the Redhouse. Mr. Moore now appeared, and was immediately
confronted by the shovel hat and the shaggy
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[Pg 30]
Boultby to finish his supper alone. But where is the
enemy? I do not see a mask or a smutted face present;
and there is not a pane of glass broken in your windows.
Have you had an attack, or do you 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 and 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 Scott and company
are left on the moor, and so are the frames. Read that
scrawl."
Mr. Helstone received and perused the document of
which the contents have before been given.
"Hum! They've only served you as they 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 your 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 volunteered 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.[Pg 31]
Back to contents
CHAPTER III.
MR. YORKE.
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-yard 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 physiognomy; and when the rector's visage was
illuminated, his hard features were revealed all agrin and
ashine with glee. Yet a drizzling night, a somewhat perilous
expedition, you would think were not circumstances calculated
to enliven those 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 party, 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 not remind me, that
it is a dreadful thing for a parson to be warlike; I am
aware that he should be a man of peace. I have some
faint outline of an idea of what a clergyman's mission is
amongst mankind, and I remember distinctly whose servant
he is, whose message he delivers, whose example he
should follow; yet, 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[Pg 32]
eyes and hands with a Supplehough, or to inflate my lungs
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.
Nor 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.
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 being 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, since 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 outcast and
alien, and having but half measure of British blood to
temper the foreign 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,[Pg 33]
and a respect for the consistency of Moore's crabbed contumacy.
As the party turned into the Stilbro' 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 that 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."
"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 humdrum 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 to 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 are 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."
"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[Pg 34]
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 ranks;
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. Few 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 rod.
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, and which
triumphed? We know that well. 'The Lord saved Israel
that day out 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 bottom 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 France 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
in a lower voice.
"Oh, in Italy he was as great as any Moses! He was
the right thing there, fit to head and organize 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; and 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 gone as far on the march
of civilization as France did, she would hardly have retreated
so shamelessly."
"You don't mean to say that besotted imperial France
is any worse than bloody republican France?" demanded
Helstone fiercely.
[Pg 35]"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 short 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 discourse to notice its approach till
it was close upon them.
"Nah, maister; did th' wagons 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 moor yonder, him and three others. What
will you give me for restoring him to you?"
"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 home 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 good as I got if they offered to do it. I said,
'Is there aught wrong anywhere?' ''Deed is there,'
somebody says, speaking out of the ground, like. 'What's
to do? Be sharp and tell me,' I ordered. 'Nobbut four
on us ligging in a ditch,' says Joe, as quiet as could be. I
telled 'em more shame to 'em, and bid them get up and
move on, or I'd lend them a lick of the gig-whip; for my
notion was they were all fresh. 'We'd ha' done that an
hour sin', 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."
[Pg 36]"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 set with lights in their pitchers, like the army
of Gideon; and as we've th' parson wi', us—good-evening,
Mr. Helstone—we'se do."
Mr. Helstone returned the salutation of the individual
in the gig very stiffly indeed. That individual proceeded,—
"We're eleven strong men, and there's both horses and
chariots amang us. If we could only fall in wi' some of
these starved ragamuffins of frame-breakers we could win
a grand victory. We could 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.
But 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 short 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. Only you would rather
they would do something worse than merely stop a wagon
before you reckon with them. Well, we'll say no more
on the subject at present. Here 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 so 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 arrival, led the way in.
[Pg 37]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 and 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 they 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 view. The subjects were all pastoral, the scenes were
all sunny. There was a guitar 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 offered him.
"E'en as you will," remarked Mr. Yorke. "I reckon
you're thinking of Eastern customs, Mr. Helstone, and
you'll not eat nor drink under my roof, feared we suld be
forced to be friends; but I am not 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."
[Pg 38]"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 doing my duty; and
in this case my duty is a thorough pleasure. To hunt
down vermin is a noble occupation, fit for an archbishop."
"Fit for ye, at ony rate. But where'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 Hollow's Mill."
"You left him a sup o' wine, I hope, 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 this. 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?" inquired the rector.
"Nay; Robert's not ready, or rather, 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 hand."
"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
back to Antwerp, where you were born and bred, mauvaise
tęte!"
"Mauvaise tęte vous-męme; je ne fais que mon devoir;
quant ŕ vos lourdauds de paysans, je m'en moque!"
"En ravanche, mon garçon, nos 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 inquičtent pas."
[Pg 39]"Tes amis! Oů sont-ils, tes amis?"
"Je fais écho, oů sont-ils? et je suis fort aise que l'écho
seul y répond. Au diable les amis! Je me souviens encore
du moment oů mon pčre et mes oncles Gérard appellčrent
autour d'eux leurs amis, et Dieu sait si les amis se
sont empressés d'accourir ŕ leur secours! Tenez, M.
Yorke, ce mot, ami, m'irrite 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
snatch my opportunity to sketch the portrait of this French-speaking
Yorkshire gentleman.[Pg 40]
Back to contents
CHAPTER IV.
MR. YORKE (continued).
A Yorkshire gentleman he was, par excellence, in every
point; about fifty-five years old, but looking at first sight
still older, for his hair was silver white. His forehead was
broad, not 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, unaristocratic
mould of visage. Fine people would perhaps have
called it vulgar; sensible people would have termed it
characteristic; shrewd people would have delighted 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 expect 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 wrong
on every point where veneration is required. Secondly,
he was without the organ of comparison—a deficiency which
strips a man of sympathy; and thirdly, he had 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[Pg 41]
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 razed, 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 dried 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 religion
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, sometimes
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 their temptations,
their defects with their disadvantages; he could not realize
the 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 equality, 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 haughty 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, his grandfather before him, could not
bear it, and his children after him never could.
The want of general benevolence made him very impatient
of imbecility, and of all faults which grated on his
strong, shrewd nature; it left no check to his cutting sarcasm.
As he was not merciful, he would sometimes wound
and wound again, without noticing how much he hurt, or
caring how deep he thrust.
[Pg 42]As to the paucity of ideality in his 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 gift of the mind?
Probably all think it so but those who possess, or fancy
they possess, it. To hear them speak, you would believe
that their hearts would be cold if that elixir did not flow
about them, that their eyes would be dim if that flame did
not refine their vision, that they would 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. An illusion, of course;
but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give
it for gold.
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 could 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 struggled,
whatever fire glowed, in his breast—if he could not have
played the man in the counting-house, of the tradesman in
the Piece Hall, might have lived despised, and died scorned,
under the eyes of Hiram Yorke.
And as there are many Hiram Yorkes 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 him, and correctly ascertain
the weight and value of the pursuits they disdain
him 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.
It 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[Pg 43]
pitied, and he is apt to laugh in his sleeve when any misguided
sympathizer whines over his wrongs. Even when
utilitarians sit in judgment on him, and pronounce him and
his art useless, he hears the sentence 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 fatherly to them.
To his workmen he was considerate and cordial. When
he dismissed them from an occupation, he would try to set
them on to something else, or, if that 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 most
influential men. His education had been good. In his
youth, before the French 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 many good paintings and tasteful rarities, with
which his residence was now adorned. 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 Yorkshire dialect, it was because
he chose to do so, preferring his native Doric to a more
refined vocabulary, "A Yorkshire burr," he affirmed,[Pg 44]
"was as much better than a cockney's lisp as a bull's bellow
than a raton's squeak."
Mr. Yorke knew every one, and was known 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 grudged
a moment to a commonplace fine gentleman or to the most
fashionable and elegant, if frivolous, lady. His preferences
on these points he carried to an extreme, 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 devoid
of intellectuality, and quite incapable of appreciating what
was intellectual in him, but which, at the same time, never
felt disgust at his rudeness, was not easily wounded by his
sarcasm, did not closely analyze his sayings, doings, 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
never 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
entertaining a faint partiality to that gentleman. It may
sound odd, but the first of these was that Moore spoke
English with a foreign, and French with a perfectly pure,
accent; and that his dark, thin face, with its fine though
rather wasted lines, had a most anti-British and anti-Yorkshire
look. These points seem frivolous, unlikely to
influence a character like Yorke's; but the fact is they recalled
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 cafés and theatres, voices like his. He[Pg 45]
was young then, and when he looked at and listened to the
alien, he seemed young again.
Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had
dealings with him. That was a more substantial, though
by no means 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.
Thirdly, 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
double antipathy—the antipathy of nature and that of
circumstances. The free-thinker hated the formalist; the
lover of liberty detested the disciplinarian. Besides, it
was said that in former years they had been rival suitors
of the same lady.
Mr. Yorke, as a general rule, was, when young, noted
for his preference of sprightly and dashing women: a
showy shape and air, a lively wit, a ready tongue, chiefly
seemed to attract him. He never, 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 everything feminine he had ever
in his whole life been known to admire. For him Mary
Cave 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[Pg 46]
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 some of the illusion
necessary to allure to the commission of matrimony, and
which 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 for 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 great
importance to him in any shape; and when she one day,
as he thought, suddenly—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
couch, 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 scandalized an old
housekeeper, and likewise a female attendant, who had
waited 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, related anecdotes, with embellishments of her
lingering decline, and its real or supposed cause. In short,
they worked each other up to some indignation against the
austere little man, who sat examining papers in an adjoining
room, unconscious of what opprobrium he was the object.
[Pg 47]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, finally, details of harsh treatment on
the part of her husband—reports grossly untrue, but not
the less eagerly received on that account. Mr. Yorke heard
them, partly believed them. Already, of course, he had
no friendly feeling to his successful rival. Though himself
a married man now, and united to a woman who seemed
a complete contrast to Mary Cave in all respects, he could
not forget the great 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
Yorke had loved Mary Cave, 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 lecture 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 country, 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
constituted authorities, the growing indisposition to bear
with patience evils he regarded as inevitable. The cures
he prescribed were vigorous government interference, strict
magisterial vigilance; when necessary, prompt military
coercion.
Mr. Yorke wished to know whether this 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 idea of inevitable evils. He
said public patience was a camel, on whose back the last[Pg 48]
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 masters, he allowed,
were truly aggrieved, but their main grievances had been
heaped on them by a "corrupt, base, and bloody" government
(these were Mr. Yorke's epithets). Madmen like Pitt,
demons like Castlereagh, mischievous idiots like 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
as a bench of bishops, such an arrogant abuse as a pampered,
persecuting established church was endured and venerated;
where a standing army was maintained, and a host of lazy
parsons and their pauper families were kept on the fat of
the land?"
Mr. Helstone, rising up and putting on his shovel-hat,
observed in reply, "that in the course of his life he had
met with two or three instances where sentiments of this
sort had been very bravely 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 afraid 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 her most rancorous
foes; he had seen such a one stricken with remorse,
solicitous to discover a place for repentance, and unable
to find any, though he sought it carefully with tears. He
must forewarn Mr. Yorke that blasphemy against God and[Pg 49]
the king was a deadly sin, and that there was such a thing
as 'judgment 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, and he was sure to light
of a verse blazing wi' a blue brimstone low that set all
straight. He knew," he said, "where some folk war
bound for, just as weel as 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, borne
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, that 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 vainglorious 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 worldly 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 blackballed each other,
and proved how cordially you detest each other, and how
wicked you think each other. For my part, my hate is
still running in such a strong current against the fellows
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 government. But really, gentlemen,
you both seem very bad by your own showing—worse than[Pg 50]
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," said 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, lighting 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 indignant thereat.[Pg 51]
Back to contents
CHAPTER V.
HOLLOW'S COTTAGE.
Moore's good spirits were still with 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 dahn, 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 yet, 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 country?"
"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 Flamand! Have I a
Flemish face—the clumsy nose standing out, the mean forehead
falling back, the pale blue eyes 'ŕ fleur de tęte'? 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."
[Pg 52]"But your father war Yorkshire, which 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 ouvričre'—that is, the working people in
Belgium—bear themselves 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 wer 'incivility;' and we like weel enough to gi'e 'em
summat to be shocked at, 'cause it's sport to us to watch
'em turn up the whites o' their een, and spreed out their
bits o' hands, like as they're flayed wi' bogards, and then
to hear 'em say, nipping off their words short like, 'Dear!
dear! Whet seveges! How very corse!'"
"You are savages, Joe. You don't suppose you're
civilized, do you?"
"Middling, middling, maister. I reckon 'at us manufacturing
lads i' th' north is a deal more intelligent, and
knaws a deal more nor th' farming folk i' th' south. Trade
sharpens wer wits; and them 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
effect, 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 aims 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 is, 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, Helstone's curate."
"You think yourself a clever fellow, 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 sublime fellow; but
you're a prig, a conceited noodle with it all, Joe! You
need not to think that because you've picked up a little[Pg 53]
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 does 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
form 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 wholly abandoned
slated houses. Let me tell you, I particularly abominate
that sort 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 that
breathes, vice and virtue are ever found blended, in smaller
or greater proportions, and that the proportion is not
determined by station. I have seen 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 realized
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
night, to penetrate with a pale ray its brown obscurity, and
give a demi-translucence 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 slowly 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 indeed, by contrast, perhaps the morning
appeared rather favourable to them than otherwise,
for they had often come to their work that winter through
snow-storms, through heavy rain, through hard frost.
Mr. Moore stood at the entrance to watch them pass.[Pg 54]
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 overlooker
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 ones. Child-torturers, slave
masters and drivers, I consign to the hands of jailers. 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 descriptions
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 persisting 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 dye-house,
and his warehouse till the sickly dawn strengthened into
day. The sun even rose—at least a white disc, clear,
tintless, and almost chill-looking as ice, peeped over the
dark crest of a hill, changed to silver the livid edge of the
cloud above it, and looked solemnly down the whole length
of the den, or narrow dale, to whose strait bounds we are
at present limited. 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, betook
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 enough to eat; it would
be a pity were it otherwise.
And now at last Mr. Moore quitted the mill-yard, and[Pg 55]
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 feeling 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 plat 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 before 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. Three 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 which 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 house at
once he fetched a spade from a little shed and began to
work in the garden. 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 déjeűnes pas ce matin?"
The answer, and the rest of the conversation, was in
French; but as this is an English book, I shall translate
it into English.
"Is breakfast ready, Hortense?"
"Certainly; it has been ready half an hour."
"Then I am ready too. I have a canine hunger."
He threw down his spade, and entered 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
before I go any farther.
[Pg 56]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 face 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 merit in so doing.
Mademoiselle had an excellent opinion 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 these qualities, and quite left out
of the account sundry little defects which accompanied
them. You could never have persuaded her that she was a
prejudiced 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, and where her prejudices were not offended,
she could be kind and friendly enough. To her two brothers
(for there was another Gérard Moore besides Robert) 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 Louis, however, she
knew less than of Robert. He had been sent to England
when a mere 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[Pg 57]
his own fortune, adopted the very arduous and very modest
career of a teacher. He had been usher in a school, and
was said now to be tutor in a private family. Hortense,
when she mentioned Louis, described him as having what
she called "des moyens," but as being too 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 others 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 portion
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 idée! to destroy them. Quelle action honteuse!
On voyait bien que les ouvriers de ce pays étaient ŕ la fois
betes et méchants. C'était 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 cannot touch it! That barrel we have in the
cellar—delightfully prepared by my own hands—she
termed a tub of hog-wash, which means food for pigs.
I am harassed 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 frčre!"
"I am afraid you are not very happy in England, Hortense."
"It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother; but
otherwise there are certainly a thousand things which make
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 and camisole preparing[Pg 58]
dinner (for you know I cannot trust Sarah to cook a single
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 claim 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 when 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! don't put on the sabots 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,
trčs propres, trčs convenables. At Mons and Leuze—cities
not very far removed from the elegant capital of
Brussels—it is very seldom that 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
camisole and jupon, I am not quite sure about them either.
I never see an English lady dressed in such garments. Ask
Caroline Helstone."
"Caroline! I ask Caroline? I consult 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."
[Pg 59]"Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat you, brother. Do not
make her of more consequence than she ought to be. At
present 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, principles—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 one who is prone to
take violent fancies, and, consequently, my friendship is
the 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 causes."
"She behaves pretty well at lessons?"
"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 clearly 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 you 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 and submissive; and there are glimpses of an unsettled
hurry in her nature, which 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 and 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 instance?"
"An example will, perhaps, be the most satisfactory
explanation. I sometimes, you are aware, make her read[Pg 60]
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 languor 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 benefit 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 ŕ la mort.' I told her this was improper language.
'Dieu!' she exclaimed, 'il n'y a donc pas deux lignes de
poësie dans toute la littérature française?' I inquired
what she meant. She begged my pardon with 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, '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 fortunate
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 she comes. That was
her shadow passed the window, I believe."
"Ah! truly. She is too early—half 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 mantle,
the folds of which were gathered with some grace round an
apparently slender figure.
"I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and[Pg 61]
how Robert was too. I was sure you would be both grieved
by what happened last night. I did not hear till this
morning. My uncle told me at breakfast."
"Ah! it is unspeakable. You sympathize with us?
Your uncle sympathizes 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'
Moor?"
"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 nobody dislikes Mr.
Yorke—at least, poor people do not dislike him."
"Therefore he would be a protection to me, who am
hated?"
"Who are misunderstood. That, probably, is the word.
Shall you be late?—Will he be late, Cousin Hortense?"
"It is too probable. He has often much business to
transact at Whinbury. Have you brought your exercise-book,
child?"
"Yes.—What time will you return, Robert?"
"I generally return at seven. Do you 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 apprehended, 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
uncle calls these times dangerous. He says, too, that mill-owners
are unpopular."
[Pg 62]"And I am 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 behind 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 purée at dinner."
With this direction she left the room.
"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 your 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 be puzzled 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 model of a Flemish school-girl.
What life are you destined for, Caroline? What will 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 themes.
There are moments now when I am not quite satisfied."
[Pg 63]"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 trade—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, while you went to market. I know you greatly
desire to be rich, in order to pay your 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 necessarily selfish, contracted,
grovelling, anxious. Now and then a poor man's
heart, when certain beams and dews visit it, may smell
like the budding vegetation in yonder garden on this spring
day, may feel ripe to evolve in foliage, perhaps 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."
"When I speak of poverty, I do not so much mean the
natural, habitual poverty of the working-man, as the embarrassed
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 truth)—in your manner—mind,
I say only manner—to these Yorkshire workpeople."
[Pg 64]"You have often wanted to tell me that, have you not?"
"Yes; often—very often."
"The faults of my manner are, I think, 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 hinder 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 for 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 mend 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 might stay at home and
dedicate this morning to you and your studies, whereas I
must spend it in Skyes'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 must 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 opening flowers—snowdrop, crocus, even primrose—bloomed
in the sunshine under the hot wall of the factory[Pg 65]
Moore plucked here and there a blossom and leaf, till 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 them 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-morning."
He went to the door, stopped, opened 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 his saddle 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 thought,
he remarked, "You have no binding engagement at home
perhaps, Caroline?"
"I never have. Some children's socks, 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 do. Forget the Jew's
basket, then, and spend the day here as a change. Your
uncle 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 rectory 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 world his master
was doing. "Good-morning," again said Moore, and
finally vanished.
Hortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to her
surprise, that Caroline had not yet commenced her exercise.[Pg 66]
Back to contents
CHAPTER VI.
CORIOLANUS.
Mademoiselle Moore had that morning a somewhat
absent-minded pupil. Caroline forgot, again and again,
the explanations 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 gift of beauty. It was
not absolutely necessary to know her in order to like her;
she 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 proportionate; her face
was expressive and gentle; her eyes were handsome, and
gifted at times with a winning beam that stole into the
heart, with a language that spoke softly 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 became her, and she possessed them in
picturesque profusion. Her style of dress announced taste
in the wearer—very unobtrusive in fashion, far from costly
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 winter 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 speak 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[Pg 67]
mixture of blood, she was, in a distant sense, the cousin of
Robert, Louis, and Hortense. Her father was the brother
of Mr. Helstone—a man of the character friends desire not
to recall, after death 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 from 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 little 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 inferior, 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 needle-work.
Mdlle. Moore, for her part, delighted in the task,
because it gave her importance; she liked to lord it a little
over 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 rapid 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 teaching. 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 her, as the[Pg 68]
most improving exercise she could devise, interminable
"analyses logiques." These "analyses" were by no means
a source of particular pleasure to Caroline; she thought
she could have learned French just as well without them,
and grudged excessively the time spent in pondering over
"propositions, principales, et incidents;" in deciding the
"incidente determinative," and the "incidente applicative;"
in examining whether the proposition was "pleine,"
"elliptique," or "implicite." Sometimes she lost herself
in the maze, 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 brain of his own.
Almost as soon as he looked at Caroline's little difficulties
they 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 grateful 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 the exercise,
or worked out the sum (for Mdlle. 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, instead
of sitting with Hortense in the parlour.
Occasionally—but this happened very 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, too, he was
at home, disengaged, free to talk with Caroline. When
this was the case, 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[Pg 69]
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-important character modulated her strains,
as it impressed her manners and moulded her countenance.
Mr. Moore, released from the business yoke, was, if not
lively himself, a willing spectator of Caroline's liveliness,
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 friendly.
The drawback was that by the next morning he was sure
to be frozen up again; and however much he seemed,
in his 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 hearing him she had received a sense of happiness
sufficient to keep her glad for the 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 teacher's dignity, and that blame, in more or less unqualified
measure, is indispensable 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 dished such stuff i' my life afore;[Pg 70]
it's not fit for dogs." Notwithstanding Sarah's scorn, it
was a savoury repast enough. The soup was a sort of
purée of dried peas, which mademoiselle had prepared
amidst bitter lamentations that in this desolate country
of England no haricot beans were to be had. Then came
a dish of meat—nature unknown, but supposed to be miscellaneous—singularly
chopped up with crumbs of bread,
seasoned uniquely though not unpleasantly, and baked in
a mould—a queer but by no means unpalatable dish.
Greens, oddly bruised, formed the accompanying vegetable;
and a pâté of fruit, conserved after a recipe devised by
Madame Gérard Moore's "grand'mčre," 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 might 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 manœuvre required management.
To have hinted that the jupon, camisole, and curl-papers
were odious objects, or indeed other than quite meritorious
points, would have been a felony. Any premature
attempt to urge their disappearance was therefore unwise,
and would be likely 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 bedroom, she persuaded her that
it was not worth while returning thither, and that she
might as well make her toilet now; and while mademoiselle
delivered a solemn homily on her own surpassing merit
in disregarding all frivolities of fashion, Caroline denuded
her of the camisole, invested her with a decent gown,
arranged her collar, hair, etc., and made her quite presentable.
But Hortense would put the finishing touches
herself, and these finishing touches consisted in a thick
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[Pg 71]
first was a positive matter of morality—it was quite improper
not to wear a fichu; 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 addition;
and my short aprons do quite as well as that very long
one. I would rather make no change."
Yet Hortense, by dint of perseverance, would probably
have compelled her to make a change, had not Mr. Moore
chanced 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 grace of her appearance. Something more
solid and homely she would have considered "beaucoup
plus convenable."
The afternoon was devoted to sewing. Mademoiselle,
like most Belgian ladies, was specially skilful with her
needle. She by no means thought it waste of time to devote
unnumbered hours to fine embroidery, sight-destroying
lace-work, marvellous netting and knitting, and, 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 troubles to be
condemned to learn this foreign style of darning, which
was done stitch by stitch, so as exactly to imitate the fabric
of the stocking itself—a wearifu' process, but considered
by Hortense Gérard, and by her ancestresses before her for
long generations back, as one of the first "duties of a
woman." She herself had had a needle, cotton, and a
fearfully torn stocking put into her hand while she yet
wore a child's coif on her little black head; her "hauts[Pg 72]
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 pity 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 every day, by way of penance for the expiation of
her sins. 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 adhered,
therefore, to the ills she knew.
All the afternoon the two ladies sat 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 pour 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 the 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 ruddy 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 will have coffee. It would be vain
to wait for him."
"I am tired. May I leave my work now, 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 goűter, 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[Pg 73]
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
against 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 whole 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, for 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 another 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
when he comes in. I hear him; he is coming."
"Miss, you are cutting the stuff wrong."
"So I am; but it is only a snip. There is no harm done."
[Pg 74]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 time 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 last 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-coat is waterproof.
Dry shoes are all I require. There—the fire is pleasant
after 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
his eyes directed towards the glittering brasses on the
shelf above. Chancing for 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 there. 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 had 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 fretting about your frames,
and your business, and the war?"
"Not just now."
"Are you positive you don't feel Hollow'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 mistaken if you think I
am anxious to curry favour with rich and great people. I
only want means—a position—a career."
[Pg 75]"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 honestly 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 good."
"How do you know it?"
"You look so, and I feel you are so."
"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 colour; his lips smiled,
and yet were compressed; his eyes laughed, and yet he
resolutely knit his brow.
"Think meanly of me, Lina," said he. "Men, in general,
are a sort of scum, very different to anything of which you
have an idea. I make no pretension to be better than my
fellows."
"If you did, I should not esteem you so much. It is
because you are modest that I have such confidence in
your merit."
"Are you flattering me?" he demanded, 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[Pg 76]
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 by 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 objected
to it.
The former occupants of the kitchen now withdrew
into the parlour. Before Hortense followed them thither,
Caroline 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 mademoiselle'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 little at it, in very subdued
sort, and then, politely and calmly entreating his sister 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. Only 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 cuisiničre anversoise," with the high cap, short
petticoat, and decent sabots proper to her class—something
better, indeed, than an insolent coquette in a flounced
gown, and absolutely without cap! (For Sarah, it appears,[Pg 77]
did not partake the 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 unruly set."
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 guitar; 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. Family jarring vulgarizes;
family union elevates. Hortense, pleased with her
brother, and grateful to him, looked, as she touched her
guitar, almost graceful, almost handsome; her everyday
fretful look was gone for a moment, and was replaced 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 listened
with naďve interest; this augmented her good-humour;
and the exclamation 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[Pg 78]
vanity of wishing and the duty of trying. "As Rome,"
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 wishing 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, mademoiselle was fluent.
Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took
her knitting, and sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a
clear fire, a softly-shining lamp, gave now to the little
parlour its best, its evening charm. It is probable that
the three there present felt this charm. 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?" repeated 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 talk scandal?"
"About whom? Are we sufficiently interested in anybody
to take a pleasure in pulling their character to
pieces?"
"A question that comes to the point. For my part,
unamiable as it sounds, I must say no."
"And I too. But it is strange, though 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—though 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 graves 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 speak so sweetly, nor so
solemnly, nor so impressively as your English ancestors,[Pg 79]
Robert. To-night you shall be entirely English. You
shall read an English book."
"An old English book?"
"Yes, an old English book—one that you like; and I
will 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 minstrel
to sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William
come near and touch 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 you; 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 virtues,
but your vicious, perverse points."
"Dieu! que dit-elle?" cried Hortense, 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 talk. 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, "and there's 'Coriolanus.'
Now, read, and discover by the feelings the reading
will give you at once how low and how high you are."
"Come, then, sit near me, and correct when I mispronounce."
"I am to be the teacher then, and you my pupil?"
"Ainsi, soit-il!"
"And Shakespeare is our science, since we are going to
study?"
"It appears so."
"And you are not going to be French, and sceptical, and
sneering? You are not going to think it a sign of wisdom
to refuse to admire?"
[Pg 80]"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 and 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 lamp-light;
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!" began Hortense. Mr.
Moore, as usual, suavely interposed.
"Permit her to neglect the embroidery 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 the 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 "Coriolanus" 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 smile.
"There's a vicious point hit already," she said. "You
sympathize with that proud patrician who does not sympathize
with his famished fellow-men, 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-handed between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius
he delighted in. As he advanced, he forgot to criticise;
it was evident he appreciated the power, the truth of
each portion; 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 well; and Caroline,
taking the book out of his hand, read these parts for him.
From 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[Pg 81]
spot, and for that brief moment only. It may be remarked,
in passing, that the general character of her conversation
that evening, whether 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 other.
Before the vision of the banished man Moore's spirit seemed
to pause. He stood 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
sympathized; he was not scandalized 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 good, which
ever must be the case in a nature worthy the epithet of
noble, the rage of Aufidius at what he considered his ally's
weakness, the death of Coriolanus, 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 great?"
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,[Pg 82]
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 must not be proud to
your workpeople; you must not neglect chances of
soothing them; and you must not be of an inflexible
nature, uttering a request as austerely 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
says."
"And would you have me truckle to them?"
"No, not for the world. I never wish you to lower
yourself; but somehow I cannot help thinking it unjust
to include 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, Caroline. 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
cooking above women's comprehension, and out of their
line."
"And do you fancy you comprehend the 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 likely to win their regard than pride. If you
were proud and cold to me and Hortense, 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 both in languages and[Pg 83]
ethics, with a touch on politics; it is your turn. Hortense
tells me you were much taken by a little piece of
poetry you learned the other day, a piece by poor André
Chénier—'La Jeune Captive.' Do you remember it still?"
"I think so."
"Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind your
accent; especially let us have no English u's."
Caroline, beginning in a low, rather 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 le premiers ŕ peine.
Au banquet de la vie ŕ peine commencé,
Un instant seulement mes lčvres ont pressé
La coupe en mes mains encore pleine.
"Je ne suis qu'au printemps—je veux voir la moisson;
Et comme le soleil, de saison en saison,
Je veux achever mon année,
Brillante sur ma tige, et l'honneur du jardin
Je n'ai vu luire encore que les feux du matin,
Je veux achever ma journée!"
Moore listened at first with his eyes 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 cheek 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 shed 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 calculated to awaken not only the
calm sentiment of esteem, the distant one of admiration,
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?"
[Pg 84]"When I meet with real poetry, I cannot rest till I have
learned it by heart, and so made it 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 come 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. But 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 soon 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, but 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 watery
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."[Pg 85]
Back to contents
CHAPTER VII.
THE CURATES AT TEA.
Caroline Helstone was just eighteen years old, and at
eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to be commenced.
Before that time we sit listening to a tale, a marvellous
fiction, delightful sometimes, and sad sometimes, almost
always unreal. Before that time our world is heroic, its
inhabitants half-divine or semi-demon; its scenes are
dream-scenes; darker woods and stranger hills, brighter
skies, more dangerous waters, sweeter flowers, more tempting
fruits, wider plains, drearier deserts, sunnier fields than
are found in nature, overspread our enchanted globe. What a
moon 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 heaven—the world of gods.
At that time, at eighteen, drawing near the confines of
illusive, void dreams, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores 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 this. 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[Pg 86]
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 throughout—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
bears a rod so heavy, none with hand so inexorable draws
the novice so sternly to his 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 forbidden grounds do they
intrude, down what dread declivities are they hurled!
Caroline, having been convoyed home 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 evening 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 over, his niece, according to
her wont, stepped up to him.
"Good-night, uncle."
"Hey! You've been gadding abroad all 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
long hair loosened and falling thick, soft, and wavy to her
waist; and as, resting from the task of combing it out, she
leaned her check 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.
[Pg 87]Her thoughts were speaking with her, speaking pleasantly,
as it seemed, for she smiled as she listened. She looked
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 would 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
Robert loves me. I have thought so many a time before;
to-day I felt it. When I looked up at him after repeating
Chénier's poem, his eyes (what handsome eyes 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 more than once regretted bitterly
overflowing, superfluous words, and feared I had 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,
manly, 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 soberizing to
plain people: their own eyes are not enchanted with the
image; they are confident then that the eyes 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[Pg 88]
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 rose 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 discussed 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 beginning 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
their nests in the church-tower (Briarfield church was close
to Briarfield rectory); 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 good 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 speak of marriage
you speak of it scornfully. Do you think people shouldn't
marry?"
"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
live together?"
[Pg 89]"They tire of each other—they tire of each other in a
month. A yokefellow is not a companion; he or she is
a fellow-sufferer."
It was by no means naďve 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 were you so inconsistent
as to marry?"
"Every man is mad once or twice in his life."
"So you tired of my aunt, and my aunt 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 died?"
"Caroline," said Mr. Helstone, bringing his hand slowly
down to within an inch or two of the table, and then
smiting 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 there 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
not 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 uneasily 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 paper—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
past half-hour had revived but not generated; tumultuous
were they now, as disturbed bees in a hive, but it was years
since they had first made their cells in her brain.
She was reviewing his character, his disposition, repeating
his sentiments on marriage. Many a time had she[Pg 90]
reviewed 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 earthly—the half-remembered image of her
own father, James Helstone, 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 recollected—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, without 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, when she was
very sick he had come raving into the room, and said he
would kill her, for she was a burden to him. Her screams
had brought aid; and from the moment 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
could 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
from the lattice, whence she had been watching the starlings
(though without seeing 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, wheeled about in his chair,
and looked over his spectacles at his niece. He was taken
aback.
Her father and mother! What had put 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 were self-matured, that she had[Pg 91]
any recollections or speculations about her parents, he
could not fancy.
"Your father and mother? Who has been 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. Helstone; "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 school-time. You go to your
cousin at ten, don't you? The clock has struck."
Perhaps Caroline would have said more; 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 presently set out for the cottage.
The road from the rectory to Hollow'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 sight of the white
house, and within hearing of the thundering mill and its
rushing 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
direction 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; bonny Robert!"
She sought "bonny Robert's" presence speedily. For
his part, when she challenged his sight, I believe he would
have passed from before her eyes like a phantom, if he
could; but being a tall fact, 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
nameless charm of last night had left his manner: he was
no longer the same man: or, at any rate, the same heart[Pg 92]
did not beat in his breast. Rude disappointment, sharp
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, the result would be shame and anguish, inward remorse
for self-treachery. Nature would brand such demonstration
as a rebellion against her instincts, and would
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 martyrized; do not doubt that
your mental stomach—if you have such a thing—is strong
as an ostrich's; the stone will digest. You held out your
hand for an egg, and fate put into it a scorpion. Show no
consternation: close your fingers 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 and gay mien at first, settling down to sorrow and paleness
in time, then passing 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 Mary Lee"—that old
Scotch ballad, written I know not in what generation nor[Pg 93]
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 model heroine under her circumstances, but
they are those of a deeply-feeling, strongly-resentful peasant-girl.
Anguish has driven her from the ingle-nook 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 milk 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 n'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 is 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 told her no lie; it was she that was
to blame, if any one was. What bitterness her mind
distilled should and would be poured on her own head.
She had loved without being asked to love—a natural,
sometimes an inevitable chance, but big with misery.
Robert, indeed, had sometimes seemed 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 reason, 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[Pg 94]
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 will 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 studies under Hortense as usual, and at dinner-time
went home without lingering.
When she had dined, and found herself 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 happiness
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 than 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 stay. The few words he had spoken to her
were comforting; his manner on bidding her 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 listened.
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
write a French composition—she wrote nothing but mistakes.
Suddenly the door-bell sharply rang; her heart leaped;
she sprang to the drawing-room door, opened it softly,
peeped 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[Pg 95]
one second she exulted; but the voice asking for Mr. Helstone
undeceived her. That 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, often two more. Not that they gave
each other the rendezvous, but they were usually all on the
run at the same time; and when Donne, for instance,
sought Malone at his lodgings and found him not, he inquired
whither he had posted, and having 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 vacant 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 bringing
her four other guests—lady guests, all packed in a
pony-phaeton now rolling 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[Pg 96]
deficient in finished manner, though she had once been at
school a year. Accordingly, on this occasion, her small
white hands sadly maltreated each other, while she stood
up, waiting the entrance of Mrs. Sykes.
In stalked that lady, a tall, bilious gentlewoman, who
made an ample and not altogether insincere profession of
piety, and was greatly given to hospitality towards the
clergy. In sailed her 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 their features, which seems to say, "I know—I
do not boast of it, but I know that 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 are wrong."
Mrs. and Misses Sykes, far from being exceptions to this
observation, were pointed illustrations of its truth. Miss
Mary—a well-looked, well-meant, and, on the whole, well-dispositioned
girl—wore her complacency with some state,
though without harshness. Miss Harriet—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 religious fame.
The reception was got through somehow. 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 wavering for some seconds between it and
a large arm-chair, 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 Caroline 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 return of rheumatism, and
whether preaching twice on a Sunday fatigued him, and[Pg 97]
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 had been held at Nunnely last Thursday night.
The negative answer which truth compelled Caroline to
utter—for last Thursday evening she had been sitting 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 Mary—"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, was speaking. I felt quite
ashamed, he nodded so."
"And there was Dr. Broadbent," cried 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
listened with my eyes shut."
Miss Helstone felt her ignorance and 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
ordinary 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 she 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 that she exactly wished to resemble
the ladies before her, but she wished to become
superior to her present self, so as to feel less scared by their
dignity.
The sole means she found of reviving the flagging discourse
was by asking them if they would all stay to tea;[Pg 98]
and 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.
"The gentlemen will stay the evening, 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 Caroline. 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 will stay," remarked Mrs. Sykes.
"We shall be quite a pleasant little party. I always 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 books of engravings, or odd things
purchased from the Jew-basket. She was obliged to be a
purchaser, though she was but 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 pin-cushion.
It ought perhaps to be explained in passing, 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, dedicated to the purpose of conveying
from house to house a monster collection of pin-cushions,
needle-books, card-racks, 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 up 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 off its contents on a shrinking male public.
An exciting time it is when that turn comes round. Some
active-minded woman, with a good trading spirit, like it,
and enjoy exceedingly the fun of making hard-handed
worsted-spinners cash up, to the tune of four or five hundred[Pg 99]
per cent. above 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
that phantom basket, brought with "Mrs. Rouse's compliments;
and please, ma'am, she 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 the young mistress.
"Only three and a loaf. I wish these fine folk would
stay at home till they're asked; and I want to finish
trimming 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 have?"
"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 quickly as you can, for
the sooner we have tea over the sooner they will go—at
least, 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 it, "if
Robert would but come even now how bright all would be!
How comparatively 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, or in speaking to them. How they will
gabble when the curates come in, and how weary I shall
grow with listening to them! But I suppose I am a selfish
fool. These 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 they are different
from me."
[Pg 100]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 plates of bread and butter, varied in sorts and plentiful
in quantity. It was thought proper, too, that on the centre
plate should stand a glass dish of marmalade. 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, fortunately 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 appeared 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 whose
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. There 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 amongst 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 refuge
beside Mrs. Sykes, who, he knew, was almost as fond of
him as if he had been her son. Donne, after making his[Pg 101]
general bow with a grace all his own, and saying in a high,
pragmatical voice, "How d'ye do, Miss Helstone?"
dropped into a seat 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, inducted 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 muffins, 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:—
1stly. "Have you had a walk to-day, Miss Helstone?"
2ndly. "Have you seen your cousin Moore lately?"
3rdly. "Does your class at the Sunday 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 civilization in these districts;
murmurings against the disrespectful conduct of the lower
orders in the north 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 lady 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 when
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[Pg 102]
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 there 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 houses. These questions
were considered by all the curates as, to the last degree,
audacious and impious.
Tea was a long time in progress; all the guests gabbled
as their hostess had expected they would. Mr. Helstone,
being 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-ŕ-vis, Miss Mary; though, as Mary was the most
sensible, the least coquettish, of the three, to her the elderly
widower was the least attentive. 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 then 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 enough
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 would 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 and 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 recollection 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[Pg 103]
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 married 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 world was mistaken; every penny of the Ł5,000 inherited
by him from his father 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 lovingkindness and his tender mercies without one
scruple; and the second Mrs. Helstone, inverting the
natural order of insect existence, would have fluttered
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 were all fond of
him. He thought them magnificent girls, quite proper to
mate with 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 stately 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 competent to swallow—long,
indeed, after signs of impatience had been manifested all[Pg 104]
round 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 his 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 asked.
"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 standing 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, whereupon 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,
drawing 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
produced music-books in readiness), music was asked for.
This was Mr. Sweeting's chance for showing off. He was
eager to commence. He undertook, therefore, the arduous
task of persuading the young ladies to favour the company
with an air—a song. 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 pieces 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, glancing over his shoulder, saw, but did not
heed at all. He was persuaded their sarcasm 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[Pg 105]
distinction too, if possible, and all at once assuming the
character of a swain (which character he had endeavoured
to enact once or twice before, but in which he had not
hitherto met with the success he doubtless opined his
merits deserved), approached a sofa on which Miss Helstone
was seated, and depositing 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 devised 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
instruction in a new stitch in ornamental knitting, a favour
readily granted; and thus Peter 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 than once, in his inmost soul, had cursed an
expensive caprice which crossed his wishes.
The evening seemed long to one person in that room.
Caroline at intervals dropped her knitting on her lap, and
gave 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 inharmonious,
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
murmured close at her ear, gossip which rang the changes
on four subjects—her own health and that of the various[Pg 106]
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 clear but now low remnant of a fire still burned in
the grate. The place was empty and quiet, glasses and
decanters were 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 eyes, and rested
herself—rested at least her limbs, her senses, her hearing,
her 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, coming to see his cousin, but intent
solely on communicating a brief piece of intelligence to
the rector.
Yes, Caroline; you hear the wire of the bell vibrate;
it rings again for the fifth time this afternoon. You start,
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! she cannot let him go. In spite of herself, in spite of
her reason, she walks half across the room; she stands
ready to dart out in case the step should retreat; but he
enters the passage. "Since your master is engaged," he
says, "just show 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 dreads her unexpected presence[Pg 107]
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 cousin. 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:—
"I only left the drawing-room a minute for a little
quiet."
There was something so diffident and downcast in the
air and tone with which she said this, any one might perceive
that some saddening change had lately passed over
her prospects, and that the faculty of cheerful self-possession
had left her. Mr. Moore, probably, remembered how
she had formerly been accustomed to meet him with gentle
ardour 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 effect,
if he chose to improve it. Perhaps he found it easier to
practise that system 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, gently
kept her back. He did not ask her to stay, but he would
not let her go.
"Shall I tell my uncle you are here?" 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."
[Pg 108]"And why no, Caroline?"
"Because it will set all the neighbourhood against you
more than ever."
"That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and
defend my property. This fellow is a great scoundrel,
and ought to be incapacitated from perpetrating further
mischief."
"But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You
do not know how the people of this country bear malice.
It is the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone
in their pocket seven years, 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—"one 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 cousin. If anything
happened——" She stopped.
"Nothing will happen, Lina. To speak in your own
language, there is a Providence above all—is there not?"
"Yes, dear Robert. May He guard you!"
"And if prayers have efficacy, yours 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 heathen,
that another had asked forgiveness for my day, and safety
for my night. I don'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 only 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 strange 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[Pg 109]
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 comprehended
clearly.
"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 on, and that it
won't do for you to be romantic; but in future you must
not misunderstand 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——"
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 come 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 minute only—put down the
candle an instant—good-night. I kiss you because we
are cousins, and, being cousins, one—two—three kisses are
allowable. Caroline, good-night."[Pg 110]
Back to contents
CHAPTER VIII.
NOAH AND MOSES.
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 habit 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 charges 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 finger-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[Pg 111]
in the fields enjoying it. The door of his counting-house
stood wide open. The breeze and sunshine entered 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 from the gaunt mill-chimney.
A dark-blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh from a
dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered
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 with a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted
from the hat-crown, that it was "raight dahn warm for
Febewerry." Mr. Moore assented—at least he uttered
some slight sound, which, though inarticulate, might pass
for an assent. The visitor now carefully deposited in
the corner beside him an official-looking staff which he
bore in his hand; this done, he whistled, probably by way
of appearing at his ease.
"You have what is necessary, I suppose?" said Mr.
Moore.
"Ay, ay! all's right."
He renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading. The
paper apparently had become more interesting. Presently,
however, 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 Malone's
benefit—a tumbler, and a jug, placed them on the table,
and said to his guest,—
"Help yourself; there's water in that jar in the corner."
"I dunnut knaw that there's mich need, 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
tested it by a deep draught, sank back satisfied and bland
in his seat. Moore, chary 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 hollands.
Ye get it fro' furrin parts, I'se think?"
[Pg 112]"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 morning?" 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 addressing Harry Scott, who usually
hung about the premises from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.), "take my
horse and lead him into the stable."
Helstone came in marching nimbly and 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 now? I'll accompany
you."
"You will be spared that trouble, sir; he is coming to
seek me. I'm just now sitting in state 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
deepest 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. Helstone, a gentleman you
often speak of."
"Indeed! His name, Joe? You look well this
morning."
"Only the Rev. Moses Barraclough; t' tub orator you
call him sometimes, I think."
"Ah!" said the rector, taking out his snuff-box, and[Pg 113]
administering to himself a very long pinch—"ah! couldn't
have 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 there on horseback, that
his leg mightn't be noticed. He was the captain, and wore
a mask. The rest only had their faces blackened."
"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 things, 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," interjected Helstone.
"Howsiver, Sarah had another string to her bow.
Fred Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her; and as
women judge men by their faces—and Fred has a middling
face, while Moses is none so handsome, as we all
knaw—the lass took on wi' Fred. A two-three months
sin', Murgatroyd 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 wi'
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, they heard and saw
Moses conferring with some associates within. From their[Pg 114]
discourse it was plain he had been the leader, not only at
Stilbro' Moor, but 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 religious and peaceful spirit, is to entreat me to put
the accursed thing out of my tent. 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, comes Sykes. Mr. Helstone, you
must spirit him up. He feels timid at the thoughts of
prosecuting."
A gig was heard to roll into the yard. 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? Have you got
him? Is it over?" he asked.
"Not yet," returned Moore with phlegm. "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 law 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 and 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 made him at least word-valiant. He now
announced that he hoped he was above 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 made 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,[Pg 115]
but he—Christie 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. This was a cold morning
(Sugden had found it a warm one); it was necessary
to be careful at this season of the 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,
taken medicinally (he poured the physic into his tumbler);
he didn't make a practice of drinking spirits in a morning,
but occasionally it really was prudent to take precautions.
"Quite prudent, and take them by all 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 he, "may feel it disagreeable
to be present amidst scenes of hurry and flurry,
and, I may say, peril. I dare say your nerves won't stand
it. You're a man of peace, 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 danger that makes my heart pant. When Mrs. Sykes
is afraid of the house being attacked 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
would 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 simper 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[Pg 116]
she have acknowledged in that mischievous, sardonic
visage the same face to which she had looked up with such
love, which 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 seen 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 had, 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 anything except meanness; but meanness kills
love, cripples even natural affection; without esteem true
love cannot exist. Moore, with all his faults, might be
esteemed; for he had no moral scrofula in his mind, no
hopeless polluting taint—such, for instance, as that of
falsehood; neither was he the slave of his appetites. 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 undegraded, 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 lie; 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 "lord 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 visible from without. Their sole
comment on what they saw was a cynical smile flashed
into each other's stern eyes.
A flourishing oratorical cough was now heard, followed
by the interjection "Whisht!" designed, as it seemed,
to still 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?"
[Pg 117]"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 wants
to see him."
"He'd happen ax what for," suggested Joe. "I mught
as weel tell him that at t' same time."
"For a purpose," was the answer. Joe entered.
"Please, sir, there's twelve gentlemen wants to see ye,
'for a purpose.'"
"Good, Joe; I'm their man.—Sugden, 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 dapper strutting man with a turned-up nose; the
other a broad-shouldered fellow, distinguished no less by
his demure face and cat like, trustless eyes than by a wooden
leg and stout crutch. There was a kind of leer about his
lips; he seemed laughing in his sleeve at some person or
thing; his whole air was anything but that of a true man.
"Good-morning, Mr. Barraclough," said Moore debonairly,
for him.
"Peace be unto you!" was the answer, Mr. Barraclough
entirely closing his naturally half-shut eyes as he
delivered it.
"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 like 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" (changing
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 new Ranter's chapel,
Mr. Barraclough? Unless your errand be something of
that sort, I cannot see what you have to do with it."
[Pg 118]"I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir; 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 held 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 Moore, quite coolly and
dryly; "you don't care for showing me that you are a
double-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 same 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 look like a traitor, though he
had an exceedingly self-confident and conceited air.
"Mr. Moore," commenced he, speaking also in his
throat and nose, and enunciating each word very slowly,
as if with a view to giving his audience time to appreciate
fully the uncommon elegance 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 tradesman 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 miln,
and go without further 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?"[Pg 119]
turning round to the other members of the deputation,
who responded unanimously, "Hear, hear!"
"Brayvo, Noah o' Tim's!" murmured Joe Scott, who
stood behind Mr. Moore. "Moses'll niver beat that.
Cliffs o' Albion, and t' other hemisphere! My certy!
Did ye come fro' th' Antarctic Zone, maister? Moses is
dished."
Moses, however, refused to be dished. 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' your 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 remember 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 machines 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 you to part wi'
your infernal machinery, and tak on more hands."
"What if I don't follow your advice, 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 sympathize with the poor who are
in distress than you sympathize 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."
[Pg 120]Barraclough was going to speak.
"Silence! You have had your say, and 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
stand, and into it will I convey the best machinery inventors
can furnish. What will 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 two 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
manufacture 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. Sugden, his staff and
warrant, came on the scene.
Moore turned sharply to Barraclough. "You were at
Stilbro'," said he; "I have proof of that. You were on
the moor, 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
hidden 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 himself, he walked backwards and forwards
along the front of the mill, looking meditatively on
the ground, his hand hanging carelessly by his side, but
still 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[Pg 121]
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.
It'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—varry 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 starve 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 may 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 say 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 me 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.
[Pg 122]His last words had left a bad, harsh impression; he, at
least, had "failed in the disposing of a chance he was lord
of." By speaking kindly to William Farren—who was
a very honest man, without envy or hatred of those more
happily circumstanced than himself, thinking it 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 sympathizing 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 was no
ferocity, no malignity in his countenance; it was worn,
dejected, austere, but still patient. How could Moore
leave him thus, with the words, "I'll never give in," and not
a whisper of good-will, or hope, or aid?
Farren, as he went home to his cottage—once, in better
times, a decent, clean, pleasant place, but now, though still
clean, very dreary, because so poor—asked himself this
question. He concluded that the foreign mill-owner was
a selfish, an unfeeling, and, he thought, too, 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 out, 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 more when they had done their portion—an
application which disturbed William much. 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 broad drop or two (much more
like the "first of a thunder-shower" than those which
oozed from the wound of the gladiator) from gathering on
the lids of his gray 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 years old; he was plain-looking, dark-complexioned,
and already rather gray-haired. He stooped
a little in walking. His countenance, as he came on, wore[Pg 123]
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? Will 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
parish 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, where he had
obtained work), entered the cottage, and having greeted
the good-wife and the children, sat down. He proceeded
to talk very cheerfully about the length of time that had
elapsed since the family quitted his parish, the changes
which 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 last, glancing
hastily and anxiously round through his spectacles
(he wore spectacles, for he was short-sighted) at the bare
room, and at the meagre and wan faces of the circle about
him—for the children had come round his knee, and the
father and mother stood before him—he said abruptly,—
"And how are 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 see;
and what we're to do next, God knows."
"Has Mr. Moore turned you off?"
"He has turned us off; and I've sich an opinion of him
now that I think if he'd tak me on again to-morrow I
wouldn'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 see 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 his hand[Pg 124]
on the head of the next least; but when the small things
began to chatter 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 last long. It is the will
of God. His will be done. But He tries us to the utmost."
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' drawers, and t' clock, and
t' bit of a mahogany stand, and t' wife's bonny tea-tray
and set o' cheeney 'at 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 doing 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 what I
thought would sell, and I could begin hawking at first."
"And you know, sir," interposed Grace, "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 soberer, 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 Ł5 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 some dinner; for you've not had much to-day,
I'll be bound.—You begin, Ben. What is your name?"
Mr. Hall stayed till Grace came back; 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.[Pg 125]
Back to contents
CHAPTER IX.
BRIARMAINS.
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 said 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 happy fancies he seems
disposed to indulge."
"And where is Sugden?" demanded Moore, looking
up.
"Ah, ha!" cried Helstone. "I've not been quite idle
while you were 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 gig round; then I smuggled
Sugden and brother Moses—wooden leg and all—through
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[Pg 126]
necessary to the progress of business, but looked at him a
good deal out of the corners of his 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 wish Mr. Moore to take a
bit of a walk up th' Hollow. It would do him good."
At this recommendation Mr. Moore burst into a short
laugh, and after demanding of Joe what all this solicitude
meant, and whether he took him for a woman or a child,
seized the keys from his hand, 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? They 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
sorely changed—fair paired. 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 raight 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 summat i' that way; he understands
gardening weel. He once lived wi' a Scotchman that
tached him the mysteries o' that craft, as they say."
"Now, then, you can go, Joe. You need 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 meridian
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 made
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 guarded the gable nearest
the road, it seemed to defy a spring-night frost to harm its[Pg 127]
still bare boughs; and so did the leafless grove of walnut-trees
rising tall behind the house.
In the dusk of the moonless if starry night, lights from
windows 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, new, raw Wesleyan place of
worship, rose but a hundred yards distant; and as there
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 from 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 clamorous prayer, accompanied
by fearful groans. A shout of "I've found liberty!"
"Doad 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![Pg 128]
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 of 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, after another and longer
interregnum of shouts, yells, ejaculations, frantic cries,
agonized 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.
[Pg 129]But if Briar Chapel seemed alive, so also did Briarmains,
though certainly the mansion appeared to enjoy a quieter
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 entirely
muffle the sound of voice and laughter. We are privileged
to enter that front 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-stained
glass, purple and amber the predominant hues,
glittering round a gravely-tinted 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 blazes 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 the
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 overwhelming, 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 if any unhappy wight—especially of the female
sex—who dared in her presence to show the light of a gay
heart on a sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be
mirthful was to be profane, to be cheerful was to be frivolous.[Pg 130]
She drew no distinctions. Yet she was a very 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 have had her will, she would
not have permitted him to have any friend in the world
beside herself. All his relations were insupportable to her,
and she kept them at arm's length.
Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly well, yet he was
naturally a social, hospitable man, an advocate for family
unity; and in his youth, as has been said, he liked none
but lively, cheerful 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 sympathy 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; took 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.
Her main fault was a brooding, eternal, immitigable suspicion
of all men, things, creeds, and parties; this suspicion
was a mist before her eyes, a false guide in her path, wherever
she looked, wherever she turned.
It may be supposed that the children of such a pair were
not likely to turn out quite ordinary, commonplace beings;
and they were not. You see six of them, reader. The
youngest is a baby on the 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
her, it clings to her, it loves her above everything else in
the world. She is sure 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 himself
has a harsh face—his daughter's is not harsh, neither is it
quite pretty; it 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[Pg 131]
yet, 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 day 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 woman 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 agony
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 rod 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 gleam in her language. This idea
makes him often sadly tender to her.
He has no idea that little Jessy will die young, she is
so gay and chattering, arch, original even now; passionate
when provoked, but most affectionate if caressed; by turns
gentle and rattling; 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 now held before you,
and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they
will 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 never saw it; but
you recognize 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 through
an April day; much loved was she, much loving. She
often, in her brief life, shed 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[Pg 132]
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
landscape 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. Unknown
birds flutter round the skirts of that forest; no
European river this, on whose banks Rose sits thinking.
The little quiet Yorkshire girl is a lonely emigrant in some
region of the southern hemisphere. Will she ever come
back?
The three eldest of the family are all boys—Matthew,
Mark, and Martin. They are seated together in that corner,
engaged in some game. Observe their three heads: much
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 features 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, those quick, dark eyes,
are good points in their way. How is it that, look as long
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, and no pure, cool moonbeam ever
shone there. He has an English frame, but, apparently,
not an English mind—you would say, an Italian stiletto
in a sheath of British workmanship. He is crossed in the
game—look at his scowl. Mr. Yorke sees it, and what does
he say? In a low voice he pleads, "Mark and Martin,
don't anger 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 opposed;
they avert provocation from him as assiduously as they
would avert fire from a barrel of gunpowder. "Concede,[Pg 133]
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 see 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 most 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 his tranquillity, a somewhat heavy brow
speaks temper, and reminds you that the smoothest waters
are not always the safest. Besides, he is too still, unmoved,
phlegmatic, to be happy. Life will never have much joy in
it for Mark. By the 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.
Enthusiasm 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
believe 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 will make himself
handsome. He will wear uncouth manners till that age,
perhaps homely garments; but the chrysalis will retain
the power 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 been no open vision.
Take Mr. Yorke's family in the aggregate: there is as[Pg 134]
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 somewhat 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 steppe.
A low tap is heard at the parlour door; the boys have
been making such a noise over their game, and little Jessy,
besides, has been singing so sweet a Scotch song to her
father—who delights in Scotch and Italian songs, and has
taught his musical little daughter some of the best—that
the ring at the outer door was not observed.
"Come in," says Mrs. Yorke, in that conscientiously constrained
and solemnized voice of hers, which ever modulates
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 bid the boys hang
up their caps in the hall, or to call the girls to their sewing—"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 when
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 prevents him from marrying, or that he is a wolf in
sheep's clothing—discoveries which 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 despises conventional
smoothness quite as much as her husband does, and practises[Pg 135]
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.
Pray, 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 marrying 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 wisdom 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 standing?"
This was her way of inviting her guest 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 out to receive her.
"You talk of marrying him," said she to her mother,
quite indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee,
"and 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; their mother would allow no such "namby-pamby.")
"Ay, my little lassie, he promised; I'll bear witness.[Pg 136]
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 the 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 was always laughing, I should think he forgot promises
soon, but Mr. Moore never laughs."
"Your sentimental buck is the greatest cheat of all,
Rose," remarked Mr. Yorke.
"He's not sentimental," said Rose.
Mr. Moore turned to her with a little surprise, smiling
at the same time.
"How do you know I am not sentimental, Rose?"
"Because I heard a lady say you were not."
"Voilŕ, 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. Don't let him
hear."
"Rose, don't be too forward to talk," here interrupted
Mrs. Yorke, in her usual kill-joy fashion, "nor Jessy either.
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 leisure. 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
observations; but really it is not applicable to these little
ones. Let Rose and Jessy talk 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."
[Pg 137]"Yes, mignonne, a thousand times more 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 never 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.
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—its 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 was 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 this lady who denied
that I was sentimental," urged Mr. Moore.
Rose had no idea of tantalization, 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[Pg 138]
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 you 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 solemn 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 there 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 Miss Pearson
would like to catch you. She set her cap at you when 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-book, for she is like a
picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in
her 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 often 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 solemnly to church every Sunday, and looking
all service-time at one particular person, 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,[Pg 139]
'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 people 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, with a clear 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 little 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
about 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 Martin 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 always to hate women.
They're such dolls; they do nothing but dress themselves[Pg 140]
finely, and go swimming about to be admired. I'll never
marry. I'll be a bachelor."
"Stick to it! stick to it!—Hesther" (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 every 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. What a guy you
were, father! As to dressing, I make this vow: I'll never
dress more finely than as you see me at present.—Mr. Moore,
I'm clad in blue cloth from 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 human being's
dignity to dress himself in parti-coloured garments."
"Ten years hence, Martin, no tailor'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 vouchsafed 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 peculiarly slow, quiet voice, and with an
expression of still irony in his face not easy 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 the 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 'sentimental' in the dictionary, and I find it
to mean 'tinctured with sentiment.' On examining
further, 'sentiment' is explained to be thought, idea, 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[Pg 141]
round for admiration. He had said his say, and was
silent.
"Ma foi! mon ami," observed Mr. Moore 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 refer 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
have 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 for
three hundred years."
"Mountebank!" said Matthew.
"Lads, be silent!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke.—"Martin,
you are a mischief-maker. There would have been no
disturbance but for you."
"Indeed! Is that correct? Did I begin, 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.
[Pg 142]"I don't see why I should bear insolence from Matthew
Yorke, or what right he has to use bad language to me,"
observed Martin.
"He has no right, my lad; but forgive your brother
until seventy-and-seven times," said Mr. Yorke soothingly.
"Always alike, and theory and practice always adverse!"
murmured Martin as he turned to leave the room.
"Where art thou going, my son?" asked 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 to my withdrawing?"
he inquired.
"No. Go, my lad; but remember not to bear malice."
Martin went, and Matthew sent another 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
likely 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 times, when you know
that every master has many good workmen to whom he
cannot give full employment."
"You must oblige me by taking on this man, if possible."
"My lad, I can take on no more hands to oblige all
England."
"It does not signify; I must find him a place somewhere."
"Who is he?"
"William Farren."
"I know William. A right-down honest man is William."
[Pg 143]"He has been out of work three months. He has a
large family. We are sure they cannot live without wages.
He was one of the deputation of cloth-dressers who came
to me this morning to complain and threaten. William
did not threaten. He only asked me to give them rather
more time—to make my changes more slowly. You know
I cannot do that: straitened 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! Then 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 reckon
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'll make me use language 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 mill—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 nothing 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."
[Pg 144]"Let him have it yourself. If you are 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 showed 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 is 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 am 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 dishonest thing."
"Come, let us take a turn on the front. 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," urged 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 condition
of your affairs?"
"Yes, a second failure—which I may delay, but which,
at this moment, I see no way finally to avert—would blight
the name of Moore completely; and you are aware I had
fine intentions of paying 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 that 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 me,
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 none of it true?"
"You may well suppose that. I think 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 marriage and love are superfluities,
intended only for the rich, who live at ease, and have no[Pg 145]
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 slough 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 with
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 road."
"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 face,
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 honest, 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
mother; 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 that subject before.
Love for me? Stuff!"
"Well, then, if you are sound both in heart and head,[Pg 146]
there is no reason why you should not profit by a good
chance 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 almanac could not speak
more guardedly."
"In the meantime, I care naught about ye, Robert
Moore: ye are nothing akin to me or mine, and whether
ye lose or find a fortune it maks no difference to me. Go
home, now. It has stricken ten. Miss Hortense will be
wondering where ye are."[Pg 147]
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CHAPTER X.
OLD MAIDS.
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 its 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 ends. 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 made
they cared not.
All men, taken singly, are more or less selfish; and taken
in bodies, they are intensely so. The British merchant is
no exception to this rule: the mercantile classes illustrate
it strikingly. These classes certainly think too exclusively
of making money; they are too oblivious of every national
consideration but that of extending England's—that is,
their own—commerce. Chivalrous feeling, disinterestedness,
pride in honour, is too dead in their hearts. A land
ruled by them alone would too often make ignominious submission—not
at all from the motives Christ teaches, but
rather from those Mammon instils. During the late war,[Pg 148]
the tradesmen of England would have endured buffets from
the French on the right cheek and on the left; their cloak
they would have given to Napoleon, and then have politely
offered 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, for the sake of
the purse in its pocket. Not one spark of spirit, not one
symptom 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 bulldogs,
they would have sprung at the robber's throat, and there
they would have fastened, and there hung, inveterate, insatiable,
till the treasure had been restored. Tradesmen,
when they speak against war, always profess to hate it
because it is a bloody and barbarous proceeding. You
would think, to hear them talk, that they are peculiarly
civilized—especially gentle and kindly 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 their 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 breathe,
and to think the circumstance of their eating, drinking, and
living in decent 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 nation of shop-keepers!
We have already said that Moore was 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 urged a second time to the brink
of ruin, none struggled harder than he against the influences
which would have thrust him over. What he could do
towards stirring agitation in the north against the war he
did, and he instigated others whose 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 arming to
resist him; when he saw Russia menaced, and beheld[Pg 149]
Russia rising, incensed 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 news came from time to
time of the movements of that man then representing England
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 dispatches
in the columns of the newspapers, documents written by
modesty to the dictation of truth—Moore 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
ground to dust. It was himself he had to care for, his
hopes he had to pursue; and he would fulfil his destiny.
He fulfilled 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 letters 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 present cease; she must
give up taking French lessons. The language, he observed,
was 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
fashion 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 opposition to this order;
he expected tears. Seldom did he trouble himself about
Caroline'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,[Pg 150]
by pinching the ears of an aged black cat, which usually
shared with Miss Helstone's feet the 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 letting it purr, climb to his shoulder, and rub
its head against his cheek; though there was no ear-splitting
cracking off of firearms, no diffusion of sulphurous gunpowder
perfume, no noise, no boasting during his stay—that
still Caroline 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
eyes 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: only 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 "horsewhip;"
if you had inquired into Caroline's deserts, he would have
adjudged her a box on the ear; if you had further demanded
the reason of such chastisements, he would have stormed[Pg 151]
against flirtation and love-making, and vowed he would
have no such folly going on under his roof.
These private considerations, combined 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 full 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; nor during the
same space of time had that personage made his appearance
at the rectory. Some suspicion of clandestine meetings
haunted his mind. Having but an indifferent opinion of
women, he always suspected them. He thought they needed
constant watching. It was in a tone dryly significant he
desired her to cease her daily visits to the Hollow. He
expected a start, a look of depreciation. 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 what I say?"
"Yes, certainly."
"And there must be no letter-scribbling 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 and love had quitted that little
tenement, for Robert seemed to have deserted its 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, he 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 chance of seeing him,
and there she rarely looked at him. It was both too much[Pg 152]
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 awhile on its 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 sympathize. Nothing that
they had ever talked of together was now in his mind: he
was wrapt 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 realize the state of mind of a "man of
business," to enter into it, feel what he would feel, aspire
to what he would 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.
"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 years the predominant emotion of my
heart—always there, always awake, always astir. 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[Pg 153]
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 coming, 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 could 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 house. The double door
of the study muffled the voices of the gentlemen. The
servants 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 read 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 full 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 ripe blackberries—a wild
dessert which it was her morning's pleasure to collect 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 with 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 rain-drop had fallen. She returned from
an enchanted region 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[Pg 154]
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 her 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 declining—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. How 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 appears," she continued. "I
suppose, as Robert does not care for me, I shall never have
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 now I perceive plainly I may have been mistaken.
Probably I shall be an old maid. 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 world?"
She mused again.
"Ah! I see," she pursued presently; "that is the
question which most old maids are puzzled to solve. Other
people solve it for them by saying, 'Your place is to do
good to others, to be helpful whenever help is wanted.'
That is right in some measure, and a very convenient doctrine
for the people who hold it; but I perceive that certain
sets of human 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. Each human being has his share of
rights. I suspect it would conduce to the happiness and[Pg 155]
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 little 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 stem; 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 mediating 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 hereafter 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 strain—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 that 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 fine, and she ought to take a walk, she only
said, "It is cold."
"You are very diligent at that sewing, Miss Caroline,"
continued the girl, approaching her little table.
"I am tired of it, Fanny."
"Then why do you go on with it? Put it down. Read,
or do something to amuse you."
"It is solitary in this house, Fanny. 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[Pg 156]
yourself smart, and go and take tea, in a friendly way,
with Miss Mann or Miss Ainley. I am certain either 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 step-mother 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 she 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 wrong
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 what 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 mirror before her, and she
thought there were some signs. She could see that she
was 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 dejected—she
was not, in short, so pretty or so fresh as she used to
be. She distantly 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 rosier than ever. Having given this
assurance, Fanny showed singular zeal in wrapping her up
in warm shawls and handkerchiefs, till Caroline, nearly
smothered with the weight, was fain to resist further
additions.
[Pg 157]She paid her visits—first to Miss Mann, for this was the
most difficult point. Miss Mann was certainly not quite
a lovable person. Till now, Caroline had always unhesitatingly
declared she disliked her, and more than once
she had joined her cousin Robert in laughing 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 twice 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
shrivelled 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
its 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 straight nose, white forehead, and those
soft eyes. I suppose, too, you will keep your 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 which 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 wooes the primrose 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 maids 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 table, a bright
fire in the grate. She herself sat primly and somewhat[Pg 158]
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, bade her be seated with
austerity, and when she got her placed opposite, she fixed
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 never
forgotten the circumstance.
He considered it quite equal to anything Medusa could
do. He professed to doubt whether, since that infliction,
his flesh had been quite what it was before—whether there
was not something 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 formidable 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.
[Pg 159]Censorious she certainly was. Caroline 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 lifeless 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 reports. It was not her heart so
much as her temper that was wrong.
Caroline made this discovery for the 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 softly, not in sympathizing words, but
with a sympathizing voice. The loneliness of her condition
struck her visitor in a new light, as did also the
character of her ugliness—a bloodless pallor of complexion,
and deeply worn lines of feature. The girl pitied the solitary
and afflicted woman; her looks told what she felt.
A sweet countenance is never so sweet as when the moved
heart animates it with compassionate tenderness. Miss
Mann, seeing such a countenance raised to her, 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 confidante shed tears as she heard her speak,
for she told of cruel, slow-wasting, obstinate sufferings.
Well might she be corpse-like; well might 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 Miss Mann was rather to be admired
for fortitude than blamed for moroseness. Reader! when
you behold an aspect for whose constant gloom and frown
you cannot account, whose unvarying cloud exasperates you
by its apparent causelessness, be sure that there is a canker
somewhere, and a canker not the less deeply corroding
because concealed.
Miss Mann felt that she was understood partly, and[Pg 160]
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 starved, 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 house—Divine
mercy remembers the mourner, and a shower of manna falls
for lips that earthly nutriment is to pass no more. Biblical
promises, heard first in health, but then unheeded, come
whispering to the couch of sickness; it is felt that 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 sick the malady that now poisoned her own life
owed its origin; that to one wretched relative she had
been a support and succour in the depths of self-earned
degradation, 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 laugh at her plainness;
and, above all things, not to neglect her, but to come
once a week, and to offer her, from one human heart at
least, the homage of affection and respect. She felt she
could now sincerely give her a small tribute of each
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[Pg 161]
on herself, and had only the occasional assistance of a little
girl who lived in a cottage near.
Not only was Miss Ainley poorer, but she was even
plainer than the other old maid. In her first youth she
must have 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 the 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—knew 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 others. 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 judging character, would certainly
have esteemed a proper subject for satire, a matter for
mimicry and laughter. They would have been hugely
mistaken for their pains. 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 miserable misfortune to laugh in the wrong place,[Pg 162]
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 little 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 sacrifices and
their own. Many ladies, however, respected her deeply.
They could not help it. One gentleman—one only—gave
her his friendship and perfect confidence. This was Mr.
Hall, the vicar of Nunnely. He said, and said truly, that
her life came nearer the life of Christ than that of any
other human being he had ever met with. You must not
think, reader, that ill 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
old 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 her deeper power of thought,
what her wider capacity to comprehend, compared to the
practical excellence of this good woman? Momently, they
seemed only beautiful forms of selfish delight; mentally,
she trod them under foot.
It is true she still felt with pain that the life which made
Miss Ainley happy could not make her happy. Pure and
active as it was, in her heart she deemed it deeply dreary,
because it was so loveless—to her ideas, so forlorn. Yet,[Pg 163]
doubtless, she reflected, it needed only habit to make it
practicable and agreeable to any one. It was despicable,
she felt, to pine sentimentally, to cherish secret griefs,
vain memories, to 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 Miss 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 that 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; not 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 was
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 satisfaction chequered
her gray life here and there when she found she had done
good, imparted pleasure, or allayed suffering.
Yet I must speak truth. These efforts brought her
neither health of body nor continued peace of mind. With
them all 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 constantly
in her ear; a funereal inward cry haunted and harassed
her; the heaviness of 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.[Pg 164]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XI.
FIELDHEAD.
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 roused
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 would 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 aim 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 Robert,
and say that she was unhappy because she was forbidden
to see him and Hortense, and that she feared he would
withdraw his friendship (not love) from her, and forget
her entirely, and begging him to remember her, and sometimes
to write to her. One or two such letters she actually
indited, but she never sent them: shame and good sense
forbade.
[Pg 165]At last the life she led reached the point when it seemed
she could bear it no longer, that she must seek and find 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 cause for hesitation,
for apprehension on this point. Never in her life had she
heard 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 understand
her. These expressions were ice to the daughter's heart;
they suggested the conclusion that it was perhaps better
never to know her parent than to know her and not like her.
But one project could she frame whose 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
twilight almost as regularly as the stars rose over the hillcrests.
Her resting-place was at a certain stile under a
certain old thorn. Thence she could look down 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 hour shot, suddenly
bright, the ray of the well-known lamp. Her errand was
to watch for this ray, her reward to catch it, sometimes
sparkling bright in clear air, sometimes shimmering dim
through mist, and anon flashing broken between slant 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[Pg 166]
sad; whereas its kindling rendered her elate, as though
she saw in it the promise 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 bearing; and blent with these impressions
was often a sweet persuasion that, if she could 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 softer; 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 work—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 regular architecture,
and the gray and mossy colouring communicated by time,
gave it a just claim to this epithet. The old
latticed
windows, the stone porch, the walls, the roof, 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 front 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, passing near about moonrise,
and feeling, though weary, unwilling yet to go home,
where 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 mansion. It
was a still night—calm, dewy, cloudless; the gables,
turned to the west, 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[Pg 167]
looked solemnly and mildly down on Caroline from beneath
that sombre canopy.
She felt this night and prospect mournfully lovely. She
wished she could be happy; she wished she could know
inward peace; she wondered Providence had no pity on
her, and would not help or console her. Recollections of
happy trysts of lovers, commemorated in old ballads, returned
on her mind; she thought such tryst in such scene
would be blissful. Where now was Robert? she asked.
Not at the Hollow; she had watched for his lamp long, and
had not seen it. She questioned within herself whether
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 Moore 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
chance 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 longing and disappointment,
she went home.
The next morning at breakfast, where she appeared
white-cheeked and miserable-looking as one who had seen
a ghost, she inquired of Mr. Helstone, "Have you any
objection, uncle, to my inquiring 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[Pg 168]
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 abundance 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 filled, 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 while 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 doctor 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.
Fanny 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;[Pg 169]
my health and constitution are excellent. There is
plenty of time to save and take measures. Don't make
yourself anxious respecting the future. Is that what frets
you?"
"No, uncle; but I long for a change."
He laughed. "There speaks the woman!" 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 jour,' 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 Gilead."
"Uncle, I wish you were less generous and more——"
"More what?"
Sympathizing was the word on Caroline's lips, but it was
not uttered. She checked herself in time. Her uncle
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 hear 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 Caroline to herself as
she quitted the room.
A week or two passed; her bodily and 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, and would soon have carried
her quietly from the world. People never die of love or
grief alone, though some die of inherent maladies which the
tortures of those passions prematurely force into destructive
action. The sound by nature undergo 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[Pg 170]
gliding languidly about, that they will soon withdraw 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 gaiety, they may
regain strength and serenity. The blossom which the March
wind nips, but fails to sweep away, may survive to hang a
withered apple on the tree late into autumn: having braved
the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the first of winter.
Every one noticed the change in Miss 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 the 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 never 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 observed 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 certain.
Commonplace young ladies can be quite 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 and
projects of others on the subject of love similar to their
own, and judge them 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.
[Pg 171]One morning her uncle came into the parlour, where she
sat endeavouring to find some pleasure in painting a little
group of wild flowers, gathered under a hedge at the top of
the Hollow fields, 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, and
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 me."
"With you, uncle?"
This question was asked in a tone of surprise. She was
not accustomed to make calls with her uncle. She never
rode or walked out with him on any occasion.
"Quick! quick! I am always busy, you 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 coming 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 reside 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[Pg 172]
presume to give herself airs with the rector of her parish,
however rich she might be."
"No. But how did she behave to other people?"
"Didn't observe. She holds her head high, and probably
can be saucy enough where she dare. She wouldn't
be a woman 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'
heads, 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 virtue 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,
this 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 beeswaxed
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 barbarian who had painted
another and larger apartment of Fieldhead—the drawing-room,[Pg 173]
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
silvan thrones, and in one of these sat a lady. But if this
were Miss Keeldar, she must have come 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 disposed to set down the wearer
as somewhat eccentric at once.
This lady received the visitors with 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, sympathized with the stranger, 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 moment 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 reasonably 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 looking at
them both, looking especially at the strange lady with his[Pg 174]
sarcastic, keen eye, that clearly expressed impatience of her
chilly ceremony, and annoyance at her want of aplomb.
His hard gaze and rasping voice discomfited the lady more
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 found himself somewhat
deaf. Whatever she said he affected not to hear
distinctly, 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 manner, and so old Helstone
felt when an erect, slight girl walked up to him,
retaining with her left hand her little silk apron full of
flowers, and, giving 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," she 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 theology 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 such
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 circumstances,
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."
[Pg 175]"Difference of age and difference of temperament occasion
difference of sentiment," was the reply. "It can
scarcely be expected that the eager and young should hold
the opinions of the cool and middle-aged."
"Oh! oh! we are independent; we think for ourselves!"
cried Mr. Helstone. "We are a little Jacobin,
for anything I know—a little freethinker, in good earnest.
Let us have a confession of faith on the spot."
And he took the heiress's two hands—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 bulldog,
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 litter,
he was turning round preparatory to depositing his tawny
bulk upon them, when 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 Christian 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[Pg 176]
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 gray (no green lights in them—transparent, pure,
neutral gray), and her hair of the darkest brown. Her
features were distinguished—by which I do not mean that
they were high, bony, 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 chick," observed Mr.
Helstone.
"She looks young—younger than I.—How old are
you?" she inquired in a manner that would have been
patronizing 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 placed 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 towards 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 temple, and brushed in
a glossy sweep above the forehead, whence it fell in curls
that 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.
[Pg 177]"She used to be as rosy as the reddest 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. Meantime, 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."
"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. You are
distinguished more than you think. This morning, as soon
as you are gone, 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 foresee a
favourable answer to my inquiries.—Do I not guess rightly,
Mrs. Pryor?"
"My dear, you said but now you would 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 tantalized, 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 a 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. Moore of the Hollow?" she asked Mr. Helstone.
"Ay! ay! Your tenant—so he is. You have seen
a good deal of him, no doubt, since you came?"
"I have been obliged to see him. There 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 esquire! Shirley Keeldar,
Esquire, ought to be my style and title. They gave me[Pg 178]
a man'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 gentlemanlike. 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 justice 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 signatures
with my name. But you were speaking of Moore?"
"Ah! yes. I find it a little difficult 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, and 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 spoken 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 had spoken, and coloured to the
eyes.
"What are Moore's politics?" inquired Shirley.
"Those of a tradesman," returned the rector—"narrow,
selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is eternally writing and
speaking against the continuance of the war. I have no
patience with him."
"The war hurts his trade. I remember he remarked
that only yesterday. But what other objection have you
to him?"
"That is enough."
"He looks the gentleman, in my sense 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[Pg 179]
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 about 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 proceeded 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
acquainted. 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 homage of a salute on the hand in
return.
"Be sure you wear it for my sake," said she.
"Next my heart, of course," responded Helstone.—"Mrs.
Pryor, take care of this future magistrate, this churchwarden
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 old mill and the
white cottage are each admirable in its way."
"And the counting-house, Mr. Keeldar?"
"The counting-house is better than my bloom-coloured
drawing-room. I adore the counting-house."
"And the trade? The cloth, the greasy 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[Pg 180]
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 course. Half my income
comes from the works in that Hollow."
"Don't enter into partnership—that'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.[Pg 181]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XII.
SHIRLEY AND CAROLINE.
Shirley showed she had been sincere 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 Helstone was slow to make fresh acquaintance.
She was always held back by the idea that 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 families 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, yet, it
appeared, she found none amongst them very genial: she
fraternized 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 disposed to request to become Mrs. Keeldar,
lady of the manor. This declaration she made 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 alluding 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 lady
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 quietly[Pg 182]
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;
ere long 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 while 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 coming
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 gray-haired. My two venerable favourites, Mr.
Helstone and Mr. Yorke, it is true, are fine old beaus, infinitely
better than any of the stupid young ones."
Mrs. Pryor was silent.
"You do not like Mr. Helstone, ma'am?"
"My dear, Mr. Helstone's office secures him from criticism."
"You generally contrive to leave the room when he is
announced."
"Do you walk out this morning, my dear?"
"Yes, I shall go to the rectory, and 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 dear, have the goodness
to remind Miss Helstone to wrap up well, as there is a fresh
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 restraint upon you. I am
stout, and cannot walk so quickly as you would wish to do."
Shirley easily persuaded Caroline to go with her, and
when they were fairly out on the quiet road, traversing[Pg 183]
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 said 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 summer. They journeyed from
noon till sunset, over what seemed a boundless waste of
deep heath, and nothing had they seen but wild sheep,
nothing heard but the cries of wild birds.
"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 edges 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 into 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 being
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 hour 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 such 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 now, 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 varied meads, some pearled with daisies, and some
golden with king-cups. To-day all this young verdure[Pg 184]
smiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber
gleams played over it. On Nunnwood—the sole remnant
of antique British forest in a region whose lowlands were
once all silvan 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 blues, 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 bonny island," said Shirley, "and
Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks."
"You are a Yorkshire girl too?"
"I am—Yorkshire in blood and birth. 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 hand, 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 mementos of him 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 centre?"
"Yes, distinctly."
"That break is a dell—a deep, hollow 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[Pg 185]
the brink of this dell. 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 day
there. We can take pencils and sketch-books, and any
interesting reading book 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 the 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 know certain lonely, quite
untrodden glades, carpeted with strange mosses, some
yellow as if gilded, some a sober gray, some gem-green.
I know groups of trees 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 shrouds of ivy. Miss Keeldar, I could guide
you."
"You would be dull with me alone?"
"I should not. I think we should suit; 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 Caroline.
"I agree with you—quite a different thing to what we
were proposing."
"We were going simply to see the old trees, the old
ruins; to pass a day in old times, surrounded by olden
silence, 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,
like 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 hardly 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[Pg 186]
joy with which, if we had been content to worship her
only, she would 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 good 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 tedious and absurd;
and I have gone quite alone, or accompanied but by Fanny,
who sat in the woodman's hut and sewed, or talked to the
goodwife, while I roamed about and made sketches, or read;
and I have enjoyed much happiness of a quiet 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——"
"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. That 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 elderly
gentleman. I am always glad to see his brown, keen,
sensible old face, either in my own house or any other.
Are you fond of him? Is he kind to you? Now, speak
the truth."
"He has brought me up from childhood, 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[Pg 187]
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 fireside;
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 than 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 their 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 your doubts. I ponder
over similar ones myself sometimes. But, to tell you a
secret, if I were convinced that they are necessarily and
universally different from us—fickle, soon petrifying, unsympathizing—I
would never marry. I should not 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 than 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 married."
"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[Pg 188]
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
wisdom 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 fool, or, at
any rate, as doing a foolish thing."
"But, Caroline, men are not all like your uncle. Surely
not. I hope not."
She paused and mused.
"I suppose we each find an exception 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
passion 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 children, 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 when 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?"
"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."
"Mrs. Yorke and Miss Mann would darkly suggest ditto."
"If they are true oracles, it is good never to fall in love."
"Very good, if you can avoid it."
"I choose to doubt their truth."
"I am afraid that proves you are already caught."
"Not I. But if I were, do you know what soothsayers
I would consult?"
[Pg 189]"Let me hear."
"Neither man nor woman, elderly nor young: the little
Irish beggar that comes barefoot to my door; the mouse
that steals out of the cranny in the wainscot; the bird
that in frost and snow pecks at my window for a crumb;
the dog that licks my hand and sits beside my knee."
"Did you ever see 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 dog at the rectory.
I know somebody to whose knee that black cat loves to
climb, against whose shoulder and cheek it likes to purr.
The old dog always comes out of his kennel and wags his
tail, and whines affectionately when somebody passes."
"And what does that somebody do?"
"He quietly strokes the cat, and lets her sit while he
conveniently can; and when he must disturb her by rising,
he puts her softly down, and never flings her from him
roughly. He always whistles to the dog and gives him a
caress."
"Does he? It is not Robert?"
"But it is Robert."
"Handsome fellow!" said Shirley, with enthusiasm.
Her eyes sparkled.
"Is he not handsome? Has he not fine eyes and well-cut
features, and a clear, princely forehead?"
"He has all that, Caroline. Bless him! he is both
graceful and good."
"I was sure you would see that he was. When I first
looked at your face I knew you would."
"I was well inclined to him before I saw him. I liked
him when I did see him. I admire him now. There is
charm in beauty for itself, Caroline; when it is blent with
goodness, there is a powerful charm."
"When mind is added, Shirley?"
"Who can resist it?"
"Remember my uncle, Mesdames Pryor, Yorke, and
Mann."
"Remember the croaking of the frogs of Egypt. He is
a noble being. I tell you when they are good they are the
lords 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."
[Pg 190]"Above us?"
"I would scorn to contend for empire with him—I would
scorn it. Shall my left hand dispute for precedence with
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 day. The higher above
me, so much the better. It degrades to stoop; it is glorious
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 are
what at present to me you seem, you and I will suit. I
have never in my whole 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 weather had flushed
her, and she seemed fluttered too by the circumstance of
entering 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 the sofa,
trembling, fanning herself with her handkerchief, and seeming
to contend 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[Pg 191]
heat of the sun, etc., as reasons for her temporary indisposition;
and still as, with more hurry than coherence, she
again and again enumerated these causes of exhaustion,
Caroline gently sought to relieve her by opening her shawl
and removing her bonnet. Attentions of this sort Mrs.
Pryor would not have accepted from every one. In general
she recoiled 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 light 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 mantelpiece, that of a
lady; the two others, male portraits.
"That is a beautiful face," said Mrs. Pryor, interrupting
a brief pause which had followed half an hour's animated
conversation. "The features may be termed perfect; no
statuary's chisel could improve them. It is a portrait from
the life, I presume?"
"It is a portrait of Mrs. Helstone."
"Of Mrs. Matthewson Helstone? Of your 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 still, silent person."
"One would scarcely have expected, my dear, that your
uncle's choice should have fallen on a partner of that description.
Is he not fond of being amused by lively
chat?"
"In company he is. But he always says he could never
do with a talking wife. He must have quiet at home.[Pg 192]
You go out to gossip, he affirms; you come home to read
and reflect."
"Mrs. Matthewson lived but a few years 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 up 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 such kindness.
"I hope to have frequent conversations with you. I
should wish to be of use to you."
Again Miss Helstone returned thanks. 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 explained: "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
the different mould of the brow and mouth."
"What difference?" inquired Caroline, accompanying
her to the door. "James Helstone—that is, my father—is
generally considered the best-looking of the two. Strangers,
I remark, always exclaim, 'What a handsome man!' Do
you think his picture handsome, Mrs. Pryor?"
"It is much softer or finer featured than that of your
uncle."
"But where or what is the difference of character to
which you alluded? Tell me. I wish to see if you guess
right."
"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 afraid of offending
me. I always like the truth."
"Do you like the truth? It is well for you. Adhere[Pg 193]
to that preference—never swerve thence. The other, my
dear, if 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 inestimable value
in principle?"
"I am sure no character can have true 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, though 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 stand in the air of the door; you
will take cold. Good-afternoon."
Miss Helstone's new acquaintance soon became of value
to her: their society was acknowledged a privilege. She
found 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 given 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, abated 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 took 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 residence of her young pupil, where she filled with[Pg 194]
such quiet independency a very dependent post; but she
soon found that it needed but to know both ladies to comprehend
fully the enigma. Every one, it seemed to her,
must like, must love, must prize 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,
none 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 was a safe sense of equality
experienced in her society, never known in that of the
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 manor, and having tenants and an estate.
She was especially tickled with an agreeable 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 soul: 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 seemed
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
expected 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
reveille of a dry sally or two risked by herself; and more[Pg 195]
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 women 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,
curious, clever, learned, perhaps, haply even tinged with
the fascinating hues of fancy, but, God knows, as different
from real poetry as the gorgeous and massy vase of mosaic
is from the little cup of pure metal; or, to give the reader
a choice of similes, as the milliner's artificial wreath is from
the fresh-gathered lily of the field.
Caroline, she found, felt the value 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 alone 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 twilight 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 bloom 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 fitful 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 room, her figure just discernible by the ruby[Pg 196]
shine of the flameless fire, was pacing to and fro, muttering
to herself fragments of well-remembered poetry. She spoke
very low, but Shirley heard her; and while singing softly,
she listened. This was the strain:—
"Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left."
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 all, say it all."
And as it was nearly dark, and, after 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 realized by her; and more
vividly was realized 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 cried from the
depths where he struggled,—
"No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone,
When, snatched from all effectual aid,
We perished—each alone!
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelmed 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[Pg 197]
allay emotions when their strength threatens harm. It
seems 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
impulse 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 perfection. You
managed to recite it with a steady voice, Caroline. I
wonder thereat."
"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 deadly spasm
passed from his heart, that he wept abundantly, and was
comforted."
Shirley resumed her ballad minstrelsy. 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 kind of natures in
the world—and very noble, elevated natures too—whom
love never 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 sense of the impossible, the incongruous, as the crew were
borne from their drowning comrade by 'the furious blast.'"
"You may be right. Who told you this?"
"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 Moore?"
"Why should anybody have told me? Have I not an
instinct? Can I not divine by analogy? Moore never[Pg 198]
talked to me either about Cowper, or Rousseau, or love.
The voice we hear in solitude told me all I know on these
subjects."
"Do you like characters of the Rousseau order, Caroline?"
"Not at all, as a whole. I sympathize intensely with
certain qualities they possess. Certain divine sparks in
their nature dazzle my eyes, and make my soul glow. Then,
again, I scorn them. They 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 tolerant 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 Robert 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 Shirley, who had lately
got a habit of introducing Moore's name into the conversation,
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 taught 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
tolerated 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 had 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 reference
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 void. There[Pg 199]
was something wanting; Briarfield was duller. Of course,
I had my usual 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 magician 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 view 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 thoughts."
"Can labour alone make a human being 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, weary, 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 utmost 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 broke 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."
[Pg 200]"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 therefrom 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 from 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 looked 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 ones. 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 alone,
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 the 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.[Pg 201]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XIII.
FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.
In Shirley's nature prevailed at times an easy indolence.
There were periods when she took delight in perfect vacancy
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 fullness 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 society 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
had 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 near 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 soon wiped
away; you might weep gall, if you choose."
"Why should I weep gall?"
[Pg 202]"Mateless, solitary bird!" was the only answer.
"And are not you too mateless, Shirley?"
"At heart—no."
"Oh! who nestles there, Shirley?"
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 were 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
evening to the field-style 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 beacon—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 passing Fieldhead, on her return,
its moonlight beauty attracted her glance, and stayed her
step an instant. Tree and hall rose peaceful under the
night sky and clear 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 transformed 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 step, and spoke low in harmonious
key. Earnest was the gaze that scrutinized them
as they emerged from behind the trunk of the cedar. "Is
it Mrs. Pryor and Shirley?"
Certainly it is Shirley. Who else has a shape so lithe,
and proud, and graceful? And her face, too, is visible—her
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 free—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[Pg 203]
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, young, 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 eavesdropper;
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 scent 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
heard 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 think, 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 Robert 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 silvered 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,[Pg 204]
how she shall at last encounter, 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 up to Shirley, the first day I heard she was come, the
first moment I saw her—rich, 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 knows 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 gather 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 what I propose doing I have
your approbation?"
"I shall stand by you so long as you remain on the
defensive. Yes."
[Pg 205]"Good! Without any aid—even opposed or disapproved
by you—I believe I should have acted precisely
as I now intend to act, but in another spirit. I now feel
satisfied. On the whole, I relish the position."
"I dare say you do. That is evident. 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
more difficult crisis. But I should inform you Mr. Helstone
is somewhat prejudiced 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 rusty somewhat, but the edge and
temper still excellent."
"Well, you shall have him, Mr. Moore—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 several 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
society such as yours is a pleasure to me so rare. If you
were wrapped in a thicker shawl——"
"I might stay longer, and forget how 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."
[Pg 206]"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
often 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, in a low voice.
"But there are worse things than fairies to be guarded
against," pursued Miss Keeldar.
"Things more perilous," he subjoined.
"Far more so. For instance, how would you like to
meet Michael Hartley, that mad Calvinist and Jacobin
weaver? They say he is addicted to poaching, and often
goes abroad at night with his gun."
"I have already had the luck to meet 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 was 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 have 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 beast 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 had 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?"
[Pg 207]"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 trouble
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."
"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 incidents of this sort to
affect one's nerves."
"Mr. Moore, go home!"
"So soon?"
"Pass straight down the fields, not round by the lade
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 you 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, has 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[Pg 208]
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 uncle at meals,
and anticipating inquiries 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. Again,
and more intensely than ever, she desired a fixed occupation,
no matter how 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 dress," said she.
"These fine sunny days began to make me ashamed of
my winter merino, 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 not,
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 languid look." And she gazed at her anxiously.
"I sometimes dream melancholy dreams," 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 very near the churchyard.
The back part of the house is extremely ancient, and it is
said that the out-kitchens there were once enclosed in the[Pg 209]
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 do. 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, pleasant scenes, are
powerless to give me pleasure," continued Caroline. "Calm
evenings 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," said 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 from home, but not
on any purposeless excursion or visit. I wish to be a
governess, as you have been. It would oblige me greatly
if you would speak to my uncle on the subject."
"Nonsense!" broke in Shirley. "What 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 duties to occupy
me."
"Occupy you!" cried Shirley. "When are you idle?
I never saw a more industrious girl than you. You are
always at work. Come," she continued—"come and sit
by my side, and take some tea to refresh 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[Pg 210]
with an impulsively affectionate movement, which was
well seconded by the expression of her face.
"If you think so, you had better make 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, and 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 stylish. 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 stint 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 happy 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
assist or sanction her in making that change in her life
which she believed desirable. Might she only follow her
own judgment, she thought she should be able to find
perhaps a harsh but an effectual cure for her sufferings.
But this judgment, founded on circumstances she could
fully explain to none, least of all to Shirley, seemed, in all[Pg 211]
eyes but her own, incomprehensible and fantastic, and
was opposed accordingly.
There really was no present pecuniary 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, they 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 explain; 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 poverty, are in a strait less
afflictive.
"Now, is your mind quieted?" inquired 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 tongue 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 it, 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. Shirley 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 English 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[Pg 212]
habit, I know, 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
with 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 should 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 merely a matter of dirty bank-notes and jaundiced
guineas (let me speak respectfully 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. Here 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 seals 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," again 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 light, strewed with vanishing and reappearing
wreaths of foam, whiter than lilies. I shall delight
to pass the shores of those lone rock-islets where the sea-birds
live and breed unmolested. We shall be on the track
of the old Scandinavians—of the Norsemen. We shall almost
see the shores of Norway. This is a very vague 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 tumbling
in upon it, rather than of the graves under the rectory
back-kitchen?"
[Pg 213]"I will try; and instead of musing about remnants of
shrouds, and fragments of coffins, and human bones and
mould, 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 bedded in seaweed; 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 rushing
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 mermaids, 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 to be walking by myself on deck, rather late of an
August evening, watching and being 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 human 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[Pg 214]
the colder enchantress; being women, we stand safe,
though not dreadless. She comprehends 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 revealed on the dark wave-ridge. Temptress-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."
"My dears," here interrupted Mrs. Pryor, "does it not
strike you that your conversation for the last ten minutes
has been rather fanciful?"
"But there is no harm in our fancies; 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
speaking of a nonentity?"
"I don't know," said Shirley.
"My dear, I think there is an arrival. 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 animated
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 whom 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 impart 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[Pg 215]
finished tea. Are you English enough to relish tea, or do
you faithfully adhere to coffee?"
Moore accepted tea.
"I am learning to be a naturalized 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 compared
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 reply, 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,
soon 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 Miss 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 are 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[Pg 216]
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."
He produced letters and journals, and laid them before
Miss Keeldar. While she perused them he took his tea
quietly; 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 range 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 behind. Shirley's clear cheek was tinted
yet with the colour which had risen into it 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 feelings
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 manœuvre 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[Pg 217]
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
unflushed, 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 compared with
a vivid painting. Since Robert had seen her last a great
change had been 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 being unemployed.
She misses you."
"Tell her that I miss her, and that I write and read
a portion of French every day."
"She will ask if you sent your love; 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 glad to hear from her."
"What if I forget? I am not the surest 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 tears. She is tenderhearted
on the subject of her pupil; yet she reproaches
you sometimes for obeying your uncle's injunctions too
literally. Affection, like 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
have 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 dear 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, must 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[Pg 218]
pleased, in dread that it might annoy him, she received the
boon of the meeting as an imprisoned bird would the admission
of sunshine to its cage. It was of no use arguing, contending
against 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 these menacing tidings?"
she inquired of her tenant.
"Not precisely either; but I certainly 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 bloodshed."
He then inquired if she had observed some particular
paragraph, to which she replied in the negative, and he rose
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. Moore, took a tone at
once animated and dignified, confidential and self-respecting.
When, however, the candles were brought in, and the
fire was stirred up, and the fullness of light thus produced
rendered the expression of her countenance legible, you
could see that she was all interest, life, and earnestness.
There was nothing coquettish in her demeanour; whatever
she felt for Moore she felt it seriously. And serious, too,
were his feelings, and settled were his views, 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 tone 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[Pg 219]
tried not to suffer, but suffered sharply nevertheless. She
suffered, indeed, miserably. A few minutes before her
famished heart had tasted a drop and crumb 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 embroidery,
the scissors, the thimble into her bag. She bade Mrs.
Pryor a quiet good-night, receiving from that lady a warmer
pressure of the hand than usual. She stepped up to Miss
Keeldar.
"Good-night, Shirley!"
Shirley started up. "What! so soon? 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 light 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 indicated.
"Good-night!" she said, shaking like 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 step 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. Caroline spoke of unnecessary
trouble; he told her to put on her bonnet and
shawl. She 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.
[Pg 220]"You may run on, Fanny," he said to the housemaid;
"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 she 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 sincere. 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 should 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—not 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 effect. '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 fields 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."
[Pg 221]"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 spoken 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 face 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
you."
"When I walk out along the hedgerows in the evening
after the mill is shut, or at night when I take the watchman'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. Lina,
you will haunt me."
"I will never be where you would not wish me to be,
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."
[Pg 222]"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
from 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
drawn, 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 you. 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 hand, to chide you for 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 almost 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, Lina, 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 than 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
that 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 perpetually[Pg 223]
trouble the mariner's course; he dare not dismiss from
his mind the expectation 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 best of me, but I
will take her words for a propitious omen. I will consider
that in meeting her to-night I have met with one of those
birds whose appearance is 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 that 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 few minutes in the church
porch, if the girl had not been with us. It is so fine 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 now, 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 take 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 have! Go! go!" added
Caroline hastily. "I hear the front door——"
"I don't want to go; on the contrary, 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."
[Pg 224]"Diable! It is strange—what a pertinacious wish I
feel to stay!"
"You remember what he did to Fanny's—" began Caroline,
and stopped abruptly short. "Sweetheart" was the
word that ought to have followed, but she could not utter
it. It seemed calculated to suggest ideas she had no intention
to suggest—ideas delusive and disturbing. Moore
was less scrupulous. "Fanny's sweetheart?" he said at
once. "He gave him a shower-bath under the pump,
did he not? He'd do as much for me, I dare say, with
pleasure. I should like to provoke the old Turk—not,
however, 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 garden 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
hands an instant with his, answered her upward by a downward
gave, gaze said "Good-night!" 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, his hat off,
his curls bare to the dew, his dark eye shining, and his lips
parted with 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. Helstone had no suspicion
whatever on his mind; for being usually but vaguely informed
of his niece's movements, not thinking it worth while
to follow them closely, he was not aware that she had been
out at all that day, and imagined her then occupied with
book or work in her chamber—where, indeed, she was by
this time, though not absorbed in the tranquil employment
he ascribed to her, but standing at her window with fast-throbbing
heart, peeping anxiously from behind the blind,[Pg 225]
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 gray and calm, and clear in moonlight.
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 sound 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 momentarily
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."
With returning silence, with the lull 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 approached, 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
interest, 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 gray, confronted with the
red of sunrise. It wasted. She was left solitary at last.
She crept to her couch, chill and dejected.[Pg 226]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XIV.
SHIRLEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WORKS.
"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 when 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? Where shall I turn? My Robert! I wish I could
justly call him mine. But I am poverty and incapacity;
Shirley is wealth and power. And she is beauty too, and
love. 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 shall be nothing to him. As for being his sister, and all
that stuff, I despise it. 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 feelings, 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 wide 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[Pg 227]
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 a 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 entered 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 bonnet, without being asked."
And this she did, and then stood on the rug with her
hands behind her.
"A pretty expression you have in your countenance,"
she went on, still gazing keenly, though not inimically—rather
indeed pityingly—at Caroline. "Wonderfully
self-supported you look, you solitude-seeking, wounded
deer. Are you afraid Shirley will worry you if she discovers
that you are hurt, and that you bleed?"
"I never do fear Shirley."
"But sometimes you dislike her; often 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.[Pg 228]
I feel desperately irritated. I felt so last night, and have
felt it all day."
"You don't ask me why," she proceeded, 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 evening with dire intent.
I have pistols, and can use them."
"Stuff, Shirley! Which would you have 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—I have no patience
with 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 credit 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
as he went out at my gate."
"That is nothing. I am not a stranger, 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 manœuvres.
He keeps intruding between you and me. Without him
we should be good friends; but that six feet of puppyhood
makes a perpetually-recurring eclipse of our friendship.
Again and again he crosses and obscures the disc I want
always to see clear; ever and anon he renders me to you
a mere bore and nuisance."
[Pg 229]"No, Shirley, no."
"He does. You did not want my society this afternoon,
and I feel it hard. You are naturally somewhat
reserved, but I am a social personage, who cannot live
alone. If we were but left unmolested, 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 say as much respecting
me."
"Shirley, I can say anything you wish. Shirley, I like
you."
"You will wish me at Jericho to-morrow, Lina."
"I shall not. I am every day growing 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—you are so different to every-day
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 you
look, there is both a force and a depth somewhere within
not easily reached or appreciated. Then you certainly
are not happy."
"And unhappy people are rarely good. Is that what
you mean?"
"Not at all. I mean rather that unhappy people are
often preoccupied, 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—you 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 may spring more freshly when the pressure
is removed; affection that no passion can ultimately
outrival, with which even love itself cannot do more than
compete 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[Pg 230]
is, you only—are near, Shirley. Do you believe me
now?"
"I am always easy of belief when the creed pleases
me. We really are friends, then, Lina, in spite of the black
eclipse?"
"We really are," returned the other, drawing Shirley
towards her, and making her sit down, "chance what
may."
"Come, then; we will talk of something 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 alluded 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 clutch 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 fear,
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 charitable. I
have no idea how to begin, but you must give me some advice.
We will talk more 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
tuition. 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 scandalized
at my ignorance about clothing societies and such
things."
On the morrow Caroline found Shirley sitting gravely
at her desk, with an account-book, a bundle of banknotes,
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[Pg 231]
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 practical part
I could retrench nothing. I had not firmness to take off a
single pound 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 whatever. 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 calculated 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 calm dignity, no true
courage about me."
"Shirley, what fit of self-injustice 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 never 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. You, whom no persuasion
can induce to pass a bull, however quiet he looks, would
have firmly shown my housekeeper she had done wrong;
then you would have gently and wisely admonished her;
and at last, I dare say, 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[Pg 232]
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, think 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, free-handed
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 Miss
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 feel 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. They say that there are some
families almost starving to death in Briarfield. Some of
my own cottagers are in wretched circumstances. I must
and will help them."
"Some people say we shouldn't give alms to the poor,
Shirley."
"They are great fools for their pains. 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 the neighbourhood, and my property
is attacked, I shall defend it like a tigress—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 impulses to resist and quell. If once
the poor gather and rise in the form of the mob, 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."
[Pg 233]"I feel like Robert, only more fierily. Let them meddle
with Robert, or Robert's mill, or Robert's interests, and
I shall hate them. At present I am no patrician, nor do
I regard the poor around me as plebeians; but if once they
violently wrong me or mine, and then 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 insolence."
"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
you can be, I would stand by him, as you mean to stand
by him, till death."
"And now, Lina, though your eyes don't flash, they
glow. You drop your lids; but I saw a kindled spark.
However, it 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 against
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
nor 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
informed, better read, a deeper thinker than Miss Ainley,
but of administrative energy, of executive activity, she had
none. She would subscribe her own modest mite 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, that was out of the question. This
Shirley knew, and therefore she did not trouble 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[Pg 234]
to Fieldhead to deliberate on projects so congenial
to her; when she was seated with all honour and deference
at a table with paper, pen, ink, and—what was best of all—cash
before her, and requested to draw 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 gladdened 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 answers how much and what
serviceable knowledge she had acquired of the condition
of her fellow-creatures around her.
Shirley placed at her disposal Ł300, 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 she must consult the clergy. Yes, on that
point she was peremptory. Mr. Helstone, 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 unauthorized
by them.
The clergy were sacred beings in Miss 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 arrogance, 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 money, that their meddling fingers were not to be
inserted into the pie. The rectors, of course, must be paramount,
and they might be trusted. They had some experience,[Pg 235]
some sagacity, and Mr. Hall, at least, had sympathy
and loving-kindness for his fellow-men; but as for the youth
under them, they must be set aside, kept down, and taught
that subordination and silence best became 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 slices of sponge-cake and
glasses of cowslip or primrose wine she had at different times
administered to Sweeting, when he came to see her in her
little cottage, were ever offered with sentiments of truly
motherly regard. The same innocuous 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 where 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. She herself had taken in hand Dr.
Boultby and Mr. Helstone. The first was a stubborn old
Welshman, hot, opinionated, and obstinate, but withal
a man who did a great 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
Helstone; and it cost her no trouble to be quite delightful to
them. She took them round 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 every party where
she and he happened to be. He was not in general a lady's[Pg 236]
man, though all ladies liked him; something of a book-worm
he was, near-sighted, 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 little 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 order—quiet as the beauty of
a ground-loving hedge-flower. He was a fluent, cheerful,
agreeable talker. Caroline could talk too in a tęte-ŕ-tęte. 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 Hall was forty-five years
old, slightly bald, and slightly gray, 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 sort of filial
respect; he could not have brought himself to attempt
to give another colour to her sentiments, and his serene
mind could glass a fair image without 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 which 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 being knew.
[Pg 237]Shirley opened the business and showed the plan.
"I know the hand which drew up that," said Mr. Hall,
glancing at Miss Ainley, and smiling benignantly. His
approbation 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 scheme is nothing," said she carelessly.
"It is only an outline—a mere suggestion. 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 install 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 manœuvres don't blind
me."
"Oh!" said Shirley, dipping the pen in the ink, and
putting it into his hand, "you must regard me as Captain
Keeldar to-day. This is quite a gentleman's affair—yours
and mine entirely, doctor" (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 began 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 gray pates of the priests. In the discussion
which ensued, all three gentlemen, to their infinite
credit, showed a thorough acquaintance with the poor of
their parishes—an even minute knowledge of their separate
wants. Each rector knew where clothing was needed, where
food would be most acceptable, where money could be
bestowed with a probability of it being judiciously laid out.
Wherever their memories fell short, Miss Ainley or Miss Hall,
if applied to, could help them out; but both ladies took care[Pg 238]
not to speak unless spoken to. Neither of them wanted to be
foremost, but each sincerely desired to be useful; and useful
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 significant—too significant to be generally
thought amiable. Men rarely like such of their 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 eyes, 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, take its sentinel-survey of life. I remember
once seeing a pair of blue eyes, that 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 the 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 Ł50 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 most decorous relish. Captain Keeldar
was complimented on his taste; the compliment charmed
him. It had been his aim to gratify and satisfy his priestly
guests. He had succeeded, and was radiant with glee.[Pg 239]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XV.
MR. DONNE'S EXODUS.
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 circle of gentlemen," said
she. "It is amusing to observe how they enjoy a judiciously
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
naďveté 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 baffled 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, his 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 piques me singularly. How does it affect
you?"
This question was a specimen of one of Shirley's sharp,[Pg 240]
sudden turns. Caroline used to be fluttered by them at
first, but she had now got into the way of parrying these
home-thrusts like a little Quakeress.
"Pique you? In what way does it pique 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 thing 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 hunt, then, except in couples?
You may have one, Lina, and you may take your choice.
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 mistress 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 will be
frightened. They don't know old Tartar as I do. They are
not aware his uproars 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 tumult.
"O 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 fleeing up the oak staircase,
making for refuge in the gallery or chambers in hot
haste; another was backing fast to the stairfoot, wildly
flourishing a knotty stick, at the same time reiterating,
"Down! down! down!" while the tawny dog 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[Pg 241]
against his fellow—nothing so merciless as terror. But the
other fugitive 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 character. 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?" continued 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. Donne to evacuate. I shall have
the greatest pleasure in receiving him in a lower room."
"Ha! ha!" cried Malone, in hollow laughter, quitting
the door, and leaning over the massive balustrade. "Really
that animal 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 down, 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 polished oak. The caution
came a little late for Malone. He had slipped already in
his stately descent, and was only saved from falling by a
clutch at the banisters, 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 look 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;[Pg 242]
he could scarcely bring himself to bend to her. He glared on
both the ladies. He looked as if, had either of them been 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 ceased 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 that, 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 presently 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 appeared, 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
enthronization, nor yet near the fireside, to which Caroline,
by a friendly sign, 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 intensely commonplace. He sighed deeply,
significantly, at the close of every sentence; he sighed in
each pause; he sighed ere he opened his mouth. At last,
finding 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 what 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 ladies graces of action
possessing at least the charm of novelty. He sat on the chair
with his athletic Irish legs crossed, and these legs, in that
attitude, he circled with the bandana and bound firmly together.[Pg 243]
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 screen the smile mantling
on her features. Miss Helstone, indeed, was amused
by more 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 Ł5,000 he supposed
her likely one day to inherit were not to be weighed in the
balance 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 succeed in his chase himself best knew; certainly
not by skilful management.
From the length of time that elapsed, 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 the 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, how 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 notion 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 drink of the best, and be a great
man. You would not have suspected his intentions when 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."
[Pg 244]"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 lap-dogs."
"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 me 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 bedroom; you were a
long time there."
"No; I bore up that I might hold the door fast. I
was determined not to let any one enter. I thought I
would keep 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 day 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 bulldog 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 sprang 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.
[Pg 245]"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 him. He snuffed both
the gentlemen round, and then, as if concluding that they
were harmless, and might be allowed to pass, he withdrew
to the sunny front of the 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. Hall 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 when
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 that 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 quiet one. Miss Keeldar gathered handfuls of the
profusely blooming flowers whose perfume filled the enclosure.
She gave some to Caroline, telling her to choose 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 never 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[Pg 246]
them with native awkwardness. Malone seemed
specially at a loss, when a bouquet filled one hand, while
his shillelah occupied the other. Donne's "Thank you!"
was rich to hear. It was the most fatuous and arrogant of
sounds, implying that he considered this offering a 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 buttonhole.
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. Ere long he reappeared,
carrying a round table, which he placed under the cedar;
then he collected six garden-chairs from various nooks and
bowers in the grounds, and 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 quite
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 wine-glass; 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.
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 Briarfield, Whinbury, and Nunnely were to take
place. Caroline, he knew, would be at her post as teacher,[Pg 247]
he said, and he hoped Miss Keeldar would not be wanting.
He hoped she would make her first public appearance amongst
them at that time. Shirley 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 told 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," said he.—"I have occupied
the place on her right hand at these monster tea-drinkings
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 first time she had to 'take a tray,' as the phrase is,
and make tea in public, there was some piteous trembling
and flushing. I observed the speechless panic, the cups
shaking in the little hand, and the overflowing teapot filled
too full 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 majority
of little ladies of twelve, whom you may help and caress
for ever without their 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, Miss 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 summoned 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
thing 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[Pg 248]
me hand 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 moment,
"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 flower I gathered from
the grass; and—to be still more sentimental—let me take
two 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 the
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, also 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 notice what passed at the other end of
the table), "I hope you are laughing at this trait of 'exaltation'
in the old gray-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,
when requested to be sentimental, I am obedient."
"He is naturally rather sentimental," 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 human perceptions[Pg 249]
looks spotless as we fancy angels, is to Him but frailty,
needing 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 recognize.
And it is not youth, 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 tongues flatter you, remember that, in the sight
of her Maker, Mary Ann Ainley—a woman whom neither
glass nor lips have ever panegyrized—is fairer and better
than either of you. She is indeed," he added, after a pause—"she
is indeed. You young things, wrapt up in yourselves
and in earthly hopes, scarcely live 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 heart and due reverence, treads
close in her Redeemer's steps."
Here the harsh voice of Donne broke in on the mild tones
of Mr. Hall. "Ahem!" he began, clearing his throat
evidently for a speech of some importance—"ahem! Miss
Keeldar, your attention an instant, 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 morning 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,
which 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 Shirley, 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 contribute in this case. The[Pg 250]
population of Ecclefigg are a parcel of brutes; we want to
civilize 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; but we must have money.
There is the paper. Pray give a handsome sum."
When asked for money, Shirley rarely held back. She
put down her name for Ł5. After the Ł300 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 you 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 approve,
and in no sort to his curate, who seems ill-advised
in his manner of applying for, or rather extorting, subscriptions—bounty,
I repeat, which, but for 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
knew 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! They would be scouted in the
south."
Shirley leaned forwards on the table, her nostrils dilating[Pg 251]
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 their incomes ought to live. You scarsley"—(you
must excuse Mr. Donne's pronunciation, reader; it was
very choice; he considered it genteel, and prided himself
on his southern accent; northern ears received with singular
sensations his utterance of certain words)—"you scarsley
ever see a fam'ly where a propa carriage or a reg'la butla
is kep; and as to the poor—just look at them when 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-combers' aprons, the women in
mob-caps and bed-gowns. They positively deserve that
one should turn a mad cow in amongst them to rout their
rabble-ranks. He-he! what 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 impression. Had he not expressed disdain of
everything in Yorkshire? What more conclusive proof
could be given that he was better than anything there?
And yet here was he about to be turned like a dog out of
a Yorkshire garden! Where, under such circumstances,
was the "concatenation accordingly"?
"Rid me of you instantly—instantly!" reiterated Shirley,
as he lingered.
"Madam—a clergyman! turn out a clergyman!"
"Off! Were you an archbishop you have 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.[Pg 252]
There was evidently nothing for it but to go, and Donne
made his exodus, the heiress sweeping him a deep curtsy
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
observation on the circumstance, as she returned to the
table.
Ere long the little party broke up; Miss Keeldar's ruffled
and darkened brow, curled lip, and incensed eye gave no
invitation to further social enjoyment.[Pg 253]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XVI.
WHITSUNTIDE.
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 Ainley 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
past no cloth had been destroyed; no outrage on mill
or mansion had been committed in the three parishes.
Shirley was sanguine that the evil she wished to avert was
almost escaped, that the threatened storm was passing over.
With the approach of summer she felt certain that trade
would improve—it always did; 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 from 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
ground 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 that shall
occur. Three months ago this was impossible to me; I
had exhausted both credit and capital. You well know
who came to my rescue, from what hand I received the loan[Pg 254]
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 never 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 me 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 tranquillized 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 correspondence
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
without mature deliberation. In sultry weather you have
seen the sky threaten thunder 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 the moral and physical atmosphere."
"Well, Mr. Moore" (so these conferences always ended),
"take care of yourself. If you think that I have ever
done you any good, reward me by promising to take care
of yourself."
"I do; I will take close and watchful 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 that I like better than seraph or cherub glide
across remote vistas."
"Do you? Pray, what vision?"
"I see——"
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[Pg 255]
moon, it cleared again. A fresh wind swept off the silver-white,
deep-piled rain-clouds, bearing them, mass on mass,
to the eastern horizon, on whose verge they dwindled, and
behind whose rim they disappeared, leaving the vault behind
all pure blue space, ready for the reign of the summer
sun. That sun rose broad on Whitsuntide. The gathering
of the schools was signalized by splendid weather.
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, whitewashed, repainted, and decorated with flowers
and evergreens—some from the rectory garden, two cartloads
from Fieldhead, and a wheel-barrowful from the more
stingy domain of De Walden, the residence of Mr. Wynne.
In these schoolrooms twenty tables, each calculated to
accommodate twenty guests, were 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 amidst 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 schools. 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 were 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 fęte—should be explained. It was not
because it was the largest or most populous parish—Whinbury
far outdid 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 would
not, dispute a point of precedence with their resolute and
imperious brother. They let him lead and rule.
This notable anniversary had always hitherto been a
trying day to Caroline Helstone, because it dragged her[Pg 256]
perforce into public, compelling her to face all that was
wealthy, respectable, 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 niece, 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 the countenance
of mother, aunt, or other chaperon—she, meantime, being a
nervous 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 with 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 courage only to
look at her. The only fear was lest the heiress should not
be punctual to tryst. She often had a careless way of
lingering behind time, and Caroline 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 would fail her.
Whit-Tuesday saw her rise almost with 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. Then 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
return for which she had indeed given him a set of cambric
bands in a handsome case—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 trimmed 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 dazzle,
but fair enough to interest; not brilliantly striking, but[Pg 257]
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 appeared 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 very sequestered fields
and through some quite hidden lanes, to Fieldhead. She
glided quickly under the green hedges and across the greener
leas. There was no dust, no moisture, to soil the hem of
her stainless garment, or to damp her 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 Shirley 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 urging her to rise and dress. Caroline
wasted no words. She immediately took the book from
her, and with her own hands commenced the business of
disrobing and rerobing 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 eyes, she found leisure to chide
her, saying she was very naughty to be so unpunctual, that
she looked even now the picture of incorrigible carelessness;
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[Pg 258]
her well. The attention to fashion, the tasteful 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 smile about her lips, like her shaft-straight
carriage and lightsome step. Caroline took her hand when
she was dressed, hurried her downstairs, out of doors; and
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 promptitude, they arrived in
good time. While yet trees hid the church, they heard the
bell 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 undergone 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 when the regiment has
marched by. The churchyard is full of children and teachers,
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
will work miracles. The poverty which reduces an Irish
girl to rags is impotent to rob the English girl of the neat[Pg 259]
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 them 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
occasion. 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, practicable 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, but the rectory garden
is also thronged. Pairs and parties of ladies and gentlemen
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 must be
managed handsomely. "Shabby doings" of any description
were not endured under his sanction. From the
erection of a public building, a church, school, 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 the three parlours,[Pg 260]
conversed and smiled, absolutely spoke once or twice ere
she was spoken to, and, in short, seemed a new creature.
It was Shirley's presence which thus transformed her;
the view of Miss Keeldar's air and manner did her 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 coarse presumption did
not render positively offensive, were welcome enough to
her—some much more so than others, of course; but,
generally speaking, till a man 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 profiteers by her good-nature
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 him, and she bowed and smiled good-humouredly.
The disposition of the man was then 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 hide 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 moral weapon. But he must come near me no more.[Pg 261]
I don't like him. He irritates me. There is not even
amusement to be had out of him. Malone is better
sport."
It seemed as if Malone wished to justify the preference,
for the words were scarcely out of the speaker's mouth
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 bunch of cabbage-roses,
five or six in full blow. These he presented to the heiress
with a grace to which the most cunning pencil could do
but defective justice. 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 but a faint type of Peter bearing
the roses. He must have thought this himself, for he
seemed amazed at what he had done. He backed without
a word; he was going away with a husky chuckle of self-satisfaction;
then he bethought himself to stop and turn,
to ascertain by ocular testimony that he really had presented
a bouquet. Yes, there were the six red cabbages
on the purple satin lap, a very 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 thunder-cloud. When Shirley looked up, a fell eye was
fastened on her. Malone, at least, had energy enough 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 church, and were now coming to take some little
refreshment for the body, ere the march 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 Shirley, 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[Pg 262]
and a plate of macaroons. Boultby's churchwardens,
patrons of the Sunday school both, 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 would 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 wine 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. Thomas 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 them afar off,
but ventured not nigh.
Mr. Helstone produced his watch. "Ten 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 drawn up in three
bodies of four hundred souls each; in the rear of each
regiment was stationed a band; between every twenty[Pg 263]
there was an interval, wherein Helstone 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 Keeldar head Briarfield."
Then again he gave command,—
"Mr. Donne to Whinbury; Mr. Sweeting to Nunnely;
Mr. Malone to Briarfield."
And these gentlemen stepped up before the lady-generals.
The rectors passed to the full front; 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 sounding bands, flute spoke and clarion answered,
deep rolled the drums, and away they marched.
The broad white road unrolled before 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 was 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 would
be badly off without them. Britain would miss her church,
if that church fell. God save it! God also reform it![Pg 264]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XVII.
THE SCHOOL FEAST.
Not on combat bent, nor of foemen in search, was this
priest-led and woman-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 laughed,
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 fire 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
what reality will not give me. We are not soldiers—bloodshed
is not my desire—or 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 believe 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 pulse, 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 Caroline. "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[Pg 265]
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 our 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 now."
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 walk 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 demand.
He pointed with his staff to the end 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 could 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 sternly, 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 churchwoman 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 schools, 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," suggested Mr. Hall, who was
ever for peace; "not an example of rudeness."
[Pg 266]Old Helstone moved on. Quickening his step, he
marched some yards in advance of his company. He had
nearly reached 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 Helstone; "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 Miss Keeldar, both
of whom watched any deviation with lynx-eyed vigilance,
and were ready, the one with his cane, the other with her
parasol, to rebuke the slightest breach of orders, the least
independent or irregular demonstration—that the body of
Dissenters were first amazed, then alarmed, then borne
down and pressed back, and at last forced to turn tail and
leave the outlet from Royd Lane free. Boultby suffered
in the onslaught, but Helstone and Malone, between them,
held 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 quiet comments to each other afterwards on the
incident. Miss Keeldar and Mr. Helstone shook hands
heartily when they had fairly got the whole party through
the lane. The curates began to exult, but Mr. Helstone[Pg 267]
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 was none of their managing.
About half-past three the procession 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 great 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 children. Their young voices sounded
melodious, even touching, in the open air. Large currant
buns and hot, well-sweetened tea were then administered
in the proper 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 age, sickness, or other impediment prevented
from coming to the feast. Buns and beer circulated,
meantime, amongst the musicians and church-singers;
afterwards the benches were removed, and they
were left to unbend their spirits in licensed play.
A bell summoned the teachers, patrons, and patronesses
to the schoolroom. Miss Keeldar, Miss Helstone, and
many other 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 teapots 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
birds sang shrill in their high-hung cages.
Caroline, as the rector's niece, took 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[Pg 268]
company were 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 rearranged the cups and
spoons before her, whispered to him in a low voice remarks
on the events of the day. He looked a little grave about
what had taken place in Royd Lane, and she tried 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 satin dress over an undue portion of the bench, or laid
her gloves or her embroidered handkerchief upon it. Caroline
noticed this mančge 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 characterized her tones when what she
said tended even remotely to stir some 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 our table. He won't fail me, I feel certain;
but I apprehend his coming too late, and being separated
from us. Here is a fresh batch arriving; every place will
be taken. Provoking!"
In fact, Mr. Wynne the magistrate, his 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 Keeldar's comfort, Mr.
Sam Wynne inducted himself into the very vacancy she
had kept for Moore, planting himself solidly on her gown,
her gloves, and her handkerchief. Mr. Sam was one of the
objects of her aversion, and the more so because he showed
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 delightfully contagious—a malapropism
which rumour had not failed to repeat to Shirley.
[Pg 269]Caroline's ears yet rung with that thrilling whisper, "I
expect Mr. Moore," her heart yet beat and her cheek yet
glowed with 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 sung
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
ladies and several gentlemen standing about yet unaccommodated
with seats. Amidst a group she recognized her
spinster friend, Miss Mann, whom the fine weather had
tempted, or some urgent friend had persuaded, to leave
her drear solitude for one hour of social enjoyment. Miss
Mann looked tired of standing; a lady in a yellow bonnet
brought her a chair. Caroline knew well that chapeau en
satin jaune; she knew the black hair, and the kindly
though rather opinionated and froward-looking face under
it; she knew that robe de soie noire, she knew even that
schall gris de lin; she knew, in short, Hortense Moore, and
she wanted to jump up and run to her and kiss her—to
give her one embrace for her own sake and two for her
brother's. She half rose, indeed, with a smothered exclamation,
and perhaps—for the impulse was very strong—she
would have run across the room and actually saluted
her; but a hand replaced her in her seat, and a voice behind
her whispered, "Wait till after tea, Lina, and then
I'll bring her to you."
And when she could look up she did, and there was
Robert himself close behind, smiling at her eagerness,
looking better than she had ever seen him look—looking,
indeed, to her partial eyes, so very handsome that she
dared not trust herself to hazard a second glance; for his
image struck on her vision with painful brightness, and
pictured itself on her memory as vividly as if there daguerreotyped
by a pencil of keen lightning.
He moved on, and spoke to Miss Keeldar. Shirley, irritated
by some unwelcome attentions from Sam Wynne,
and by the fact of that gentleman being still seated on
her gloves and handkerchief—and probably, also, by Moore's
want of punctuality—was by no means in good humour.
She first shrugged her shoulders at him, and then she said
a bitter word or two about his "insupportable tardiness."
Moore neither apologized nor retorted. He stood near her[Pg 270]
quietly, as if waiting to see whether she would recover her
temper; which she did in little more than three minutes,
indicating the change by offering him her hand. Moore took
it with a smile, half-corrective, half-grateful. The slightest
possible shake of the head delicately marked the former
quality; it is probable a gentle pressure indicated the latter.
"You may sit where you can now, Mr. Moore," said
Shirley, also smiling. "You see there is not an inch of
room for you here; but I discern plenty of space at Mrs.
Boultby's table, between Miss Armitage and Miss Birtwhistle.
Go! John Sykes will be your vis-ŕ-vis, and you
will sit with your back towards us."
Moore, however, preferred lingering about where he was.
He now and then took a turn down the long room, pausing
in his walk to interchange greetings with other gentlemen
in his own placeless predicament; but still he came back
to the magnet, Shirley, bringing with him, each time he
returned, observations it was necessary to whisper in her ear.
Meantime poor Sam Wynne looked far from comfortable.
His fair neighbour, judging from her movements, appeared
in a mood the most unquiet and unaccommodating. She
would not sit still two seconds. She was hot; she fanned
herself; complained of want of air and space. She remarked
that, in her opinion, when people had finished their
tea they ought to leave the tables, and announced distinctly
that she expected to faint if the present state of things continued.
Mr. Sam offered to accompany her into the open
air; just the way to give her her death of cold, she alleged.
In short, his post became untenable; and having swallowed
his quantum of tea, he judged it expedient to evacuate.
Moore should have been at hand, whereas he was quite
at the other extremity of the room, deep in conference
with Christopher Sykes. A large corn-factor, Timothy
Ramsden, Esq., happened to be nearer; and feeling himself
tired of standing, he advanced to fill the vacant seat.
Shirley's expedients did not fail her. A sweep of her scarf
upset her teacup: its contents were shared between the
bench and her own satin dress. Of course, it became
necessary to call a waiter to remedy the mischief. Mr.
Ramsden, a stout, puffy gentleman, as large in person as
he was in property, held aloof from the consequent commotion.
Shirley, usually almost culpably indifferent to slight
accidents affecting dress, etc., now made a commotion that
might have become the most delicate and nervous of her[Pg 271]
sex. Mr. Ramsden opened his mouth, withdrew slowly,
and, as Miss Keeldar again intimated her intention to
"give way" and swoon on the spot, he turned on his heel,
and beat a heavy retreat.
Moore at last returned. Calmly surveying the bustle,
and somewhat quizzically scanning Shirley's enigmatical-looking
countenance, he remarked that in truth this was
the hottest end of the room, that he found a climate there
calculated to agree with none but cool temperaments like
his own; and putting the waiters, the napkins, the satin
robe—the whole turmoil, in short—to one side, he installed
himself where destiny evidently decreed he should sit.
Shirley subsided; her features altered their lines; the
raised knit brow and inexplicable curve of the mouth became
straight again; wilfulness and roguery gave place to
other expressions; and all the angular movements with
which she had vexed the soul of Sam Wynne were conjured
to rest as by a charm. Still no gracious glance was cast on
Moore. On the contrary, he was accused of giving her a
world of trouble, and roundly charged with being the cause
of depriving her of the esteem of Mr. Ramsden and the
invaluable friendship of Mr. Samuel Wynne.
"Wouldn't have offended either gentleman for the world,"
she averred. "I have always been accustomed to treat
both with the most respectful consideration, and there,
owing to you, how they have been used! I shall not be
happy till I have made it up. I never am happy till I am
friends with my neighbours. So 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 oatcake to
give to Mr. Sam's favourite pointers."
"You know the surest path to the heart 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 phlegm 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 thought, to look at him,
that he was a poor, struggling man seated beside a rich
woman; 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[Pg 272]
her, you would have fancied his station towered
above hers as much 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 hers. You read, in its soft
yet eager expression, that it solicited clearer replies. 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 room 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 Miss 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 offended
by Mr. Helstone's proceedings, and had all along considered
Caroline to blame in obeying her uncle too literally.
"You are a very great stranger," she 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 pass, sure that her natural bonté (I
use this French word because it expresses just what I mean—neither
goodness nor good-nature, but something between
the 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 Caroline; and besides,
that young person's white dress and lively look were displeasing
in the eyes of Miss Mann. The everyday garb[Pg 273]
of brown stuff or gray gingham, and the everyday air of
melancholy, suited the solitary spinster better; she would
hardly know her young friend to-night, and quitted her
with a cool nod. Hortense having promised to accompany
her home, they departed together.
Caroline now looked round for Shirley. She saw the rainbow
scarf and purple dress in the centre of a throng of
ladies, all well known to herself, but all of the order whom
she systematically avoided 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, stand 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 liked her, yet she was
shy even with them out of school. They were not more
in awe of her than she of them. She drew near them now,
rather to find protection in their company than to patronize
them with her presence. By some instinct they knew her
weakness, and with natural politeness they respected it.
Her knowledge 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 our own English sensibility to
be guilty of the coarse error. They stood round her still,
civil, friendly, receiving her slight smiles and rather hurried
efforts 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 younger
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 side.
"Let us go to the top of the fields," 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."
[Pg 274]"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 for 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 resemble
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 something 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 secret of her eagle
acuteness might be read in her dark gray irides, 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 him 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
speaking to my uncle, and they are shaking hands. They
are then reconciled."
"Reconciled not without good reason, depend on it—making
common cause against some common foe. And
why, think you, are Messrs. Wynne and Sykes, and
Armitage and Ramsden, gathered in such a close circle
round them? And why is Malone beckoned to join them?
Where 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."
[Pg 275]"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 me. We seldom converse
tęte-ŕ-tęte but I am made to feel that the basis of his
character is not of eider down."
"Yet he seemed to talk to you softly."
"Did he not? Very gentle tones and quiet manner.
Yet the man is peremptory and secret: his secrecy vexes
me."
"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 suppose I am not considered iron-souled
enough to be trusted in a crisis."
"He fears, probably, to occasion you 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 movements 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," added Shirley, "as if
they were ratifying some solemn league and covenant."
They saw Robert quit the group, pass 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 they
seemed to imply. An unbidden suffusion for one moment
both softened and brightened her eyes.
"Oh, that is soon remedied!" exclaimed Shirley: "we'll
make him bid us good-bye."
[Pg 276]"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 was 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 foot 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
plant; she only heard the wicket opening at one end, and
knew Robert was approaching. The long sprays of the
hawthorns, shooting out before them, served as a screen.
They saw him before he observed them. At a glance Caroline
perceived that his social hilarity was gone; he had left
it behind him in the joy-echoing fields round the school.
What remained now was his dark, quiet, business countenance.
As Shirley had said, a certain hardness characterized
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 much; 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 here. 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."
[Pg 277]Moore glanced from one to the other without unbending
his aspect. "Days of fęte have their privileges, and so
have days of hazard," observed he gravely.
"Come, don't moralize. 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 were interest 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 frank. 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
make amends for delay by candour."
"But are you going home?"
"Yes."
"Not to leave it any more to-night?"
"Certainly not. At present, farewell 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 both.
"There! it is over," said Shirley when he was gone.
"We have made him bid us good-night, and yet not lost
ground in his esteem, I think, Cary."
"I hope not," was the brief reply.
[Pg 278]"I consider you very timid and undemonstrative," remarked
Miss Keeldar. "Why did you not give Moore your
hand when he offered you his? He is your cousin; you
like him. Are you ashamed to let him perceive your affection?"
"He perceives all of it that interests him. No need to
make a display of feeling."
"You are laconic; you would be stoical 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
singularly irrelevant."
"Good!" pronounced Shirley.
The two girls paced the green lane in silence. Caroline
first resumed.
"Obtrusiveness is a crime, forwardness is a crime, and
both disgust; but love! no purest angel need blush to
love. And when I see or hear either man or woman couple
shame with love, I know their minds are coarse, their
associations debased. Many who think themselves refined
ladies and gentlemen, and on whose lips the word 'vulgarity'
is for ever hovering, cannot mention 'love' without
betraying their own innate and imbecile degradation. It
is a low feeling in their estimation, connected only with low
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 mounting from Tophet."
The sudden and joyous clash of bells here stopped the
dialogue by summoning all to the church.[Pg 279]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XVIII.
WHICH THE GENTEEL READER IS RECOMMENDED TO SKIP,
LOW PERSONS BEING HERE INTRODUCED.
The evening was still and warm; close and sultry it even
promised to become. Round the descending sun the clouds
glowed purple; summer tints, rather Indian than English,
suffused the horizon, and cast rosy reflections on hillside,
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 wrath; 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 gray church and grayer tombs look divine with
this crimson gleam 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 fair
night for mariners at sea, for travellers in deserts, for lambs
on moors, and 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 repeat. 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[Pg 280]
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 their 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 was his cook that he
saw; or it was Mrs. Gill, as I have seen her, making custards,
in the heat of summer, in the cool dairy, with rose-trees and
nasturtiums about the latticed window, preparing a cold
collation for the rectors—preserves 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 bring 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——"
"Pagan that you are! what does that signify?"
"I say, there were giants on the earth 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, the 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 cheated by a snake;
but you have got such a hash of Scripture and mythology
into your 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[Pg 281]
air spreads to the outskirts of the heath, where yonder
flock 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 zone, 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 than
the early moon, risen long before dark gathers. She reclines
her bosom on the ridge 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 son."
"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 her bosom,
and showing me her heart. Hush, Caroline! You will see
her and feel 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, paced to and fro
beneath the rectory garden wall, dreaming too in her way.
Shirley had mentioned the word "mother." That word
suggested to Caroline's imagination 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 crib,
and which fear of its fallacy had of late years almost extinguished,
relit suddenly, and glowed warm in her heart,[Pg 282]
that her mother might come some happy day, and send for
her to her presence, look upon her fondly with loving eyes,
and say to her tenderly, in a sweet voice, "Caroline, my
child, I have a home for you; you shall live with me. All
the love you have needed, and not tasted, from infancy,
I have saved for you carefully. Come; it shall cherish you
now."
A noise on the road roused Caroline from her filial hopes,
and Shirley from her Titan visions. They listened, and
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, plume 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 quiet hour, while the people are at
church. Did I not say we should see unusual things ere
long?"
Scarcely were sight and sound of the soldiers lost, when
another and somewhat different disturbance broke the
night-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 years 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, soon 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 side.
"Good-evening, William," said Shirley, after due scrutiny
of the man. He had seen her before, and apparently was
waiting to be recognized. 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[Pg 283]
Helstone, for instance—William was often a little dogged;
with proud or insolent ladies, too, he was quite unmanageable,
sometimes very resentful; but he was most sensible
of, most tractable to, good-humour and civility. His nature—a
stubborn one—was repelled by inflexibility in other
natures; for 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.
Miss Keeldar's frank, hospitable manners were perfectly
charming to him. Caroline 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 you 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, and so is t' wife. They've
no manners. They talk to poor folk fair as if they thought
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 like 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,[Pg 284]
I believe you would rather have 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 that day
ye came to our house, and called me to t' door, and offered
me five shillings, which I doubt ye could ill spare—for
ye've no fortin', I know—that day I war fair a rebel, a
radical, an insurrectionist; and ye made me so. I thought
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 think 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 forgave 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 little 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 proud to do aught for theirseln; 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 beneath them;
we can hardly bide to tak an uncivil word fro' them that
thinks themseln 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 off. 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 pride makes me find means
to have an odd pound now and then against rainy days;
for I think I'd die afore I'd come to t' parish; and me and[Pg 285]
mine is content. But t' 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 can I do, for
instance?"
"Do? Ye can do not mich, poor young lass! Ye've
gi'en your brass; ye've done well. If ye could transport
your tenant, 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, "supposing 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 nought about the people, and is
as insincere as Lucifer. I've lived aboon forty year in the
world, and I believe that 'the people' will never have any
true friends but theirseln 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 nought but selfishness. It
is but excessive few, it is but just an exception here and
there, now and then, sich as ye two young uns and me, that,
being in a different sphere, can understand 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 patronized nor misled for 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."
[Pg 286]"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 theirseln."
"Ay, we'se look after werseln," said another voice. Joe
Scott had sauntered forth from the church to get a breath
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 Shirley, to whom the
overlooker's somewhat pragmatical manners were familiar,
and who was often at war with him; for Joe, holding supercilious
theories about women 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 felt as wormwood and gall certain business visits of the
heiress to the Hollow's counting-house.
"Because there is nought agate that fits women to be
consarned in."
"Indeed! There is prayer and preaching agate in that
church. Are we not concerned in that?"
"Ye have been present neither at the prayer nor preaching,
ma'am, if I have observed aright. What I alluded to
was 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 like?"
"I read the leading articles, Joe, and the foreign intelligence,
and I look over the market prices. In short, I read
just what gentlemen read."
Joe looked as if he thought this talk 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, which 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 more flimsier article still. It is the Tories
that carries on the war and ruins trade; and if I be of any[Pg 287]
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, who 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, too; 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 measures injurious to the farmers, Joe,
I think?"
"The dews at this hour is unwholesome 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 short-sighted in our views, and 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."
"Maybe not. We've all our own ways."
"Joe, do you seriously think all the wisdom in the world
is lodged in male skulls?"
"I think that women are a kittle and 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[Pg 288]
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, "Adam 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 runs may read."
"He may read it in his own fashion," remarked Caroline,
now joining in the dialogue for the first time. "You allow
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 husbands' opinion, both
in politics and religion. It's wholesomest for them."
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed both Shirley and Caroline.
"To be sure; no doubt on't," persisted the stubborn
overlooker.
"Consider yourself groaned down, and cried shame over,
for such a stupid observation," said Miss Keeldar. "You
might as well say men are to take the opinions of their
priests without examination. Of what value would a religion
so adopted be? It would be mere blind, besotted
superstition."
"And what is your reading, Miss Helstone, o' these words
o' St. Paul's?"
"Hem! I—I account for them in this way. He wrote
that chapter for a particular congregation of Christians,
under peculiar circumstances; and besides, I dare say, if
I could read the original 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[Pg 289]
person, and always were. I like William better
than you."
"Joe is well enough in his own house," 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 dogmatize to his wife."
"My wife is a hard-working, plain woman; time and
trouble has ta'en all the conceit out of her. But that is
not the case with you, young misses. And then you reckon
to have so much knowledge; 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 our counting-house when I war packing up summat
behind t' great desk, and she didn't see me, and she brought
a slate wi' a sum on it to t' maister. It war 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 what 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
must 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. Gill's store-room."[Pg 290]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XIX.
A SUMMER NIGHT.
The hour was now that of dusk. A clear 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; Fanny 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 seeing 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 their 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 Shirley did, a lecture on not
having been visible at church. Other subjects, however,
occupied the rector's mind.
"I shall not sleep at home to-night," he continued. "I
have just met with an old friend, and promised to accompany[Pg 291]
him. I shall return probably about noon to-morrow.
Thomas, the clerk, is engaged, and I cannot get him to
sleep in the house, as I usually do when I am absent for a
night. Now——"
"Now," interrupted Shirley, "you want 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 post 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 will 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 society.
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 lock,
the cutting out of a pane of glass, a stealthy tread of steps
about the house (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 post
of honour, you must give me arms. What weapons are
there in your stronghold?"
"You could not wield a sword?"
"No; I could manage the carving-knife better."
"You will find a good one in the dining-room sideboard—a
lady's knife, light to handle, and as sharp-pointed as a
poniard."
"It will suit Caroline. But you must 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
of my study in cloth cases."
"Loaded?"
"Yes, but not on the cock. Cock them before you go
to bed. It is paying you a great compliment, captain, to[Pg 292]
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 come, Lina," she continued, "let
us go in and have some supper. I was too much vexed at
tea with the vicinage of Mr. Sam Wynne to be able to
eat, and now I am really 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 distant 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 rang 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 silence.
Caroline rose once to remove to the window-sill a glass of
flowers which stood on the sideboard, the exhalation from
the blossoms being somewhat too powerful for the sultry
room. In returning she half opened a drawer, and took
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 direct this against a fellow-creature. It is difficult
to fancy that 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 look pale? She was
never florid.
The milk sipped and the bread eaten, 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 backwards and[Pg 293]
forwards with trays. Ere long the maids' chamber door
was heard to close. Caroline took a candle and went
quietly all over the house, seeing that every 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 bedtime; 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 longer?" 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 efforts to listen."
"Do you listen towards the Hollow?"
"Yes; it is the only quarter whence 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 the
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[Pg 294]
that you and I are now asleep in our beds, unconscious."
"Caring nothing about them—hoping and fearing nothing
for them," added Caroline.
Both kept silent 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 they had removed, and again
watched.
Towards midnight the teasing, monotonous bark of the
house-dog disturbed the quietude of their vigil. Caroline
rose, and made her way noiselessly through the dark passages
to the kitchen, intending to appease him with a piece
of bread. She succeeded. On returning to the dining-room
she found it all dark, Miss Keeldar having extinguished
the candle. The outline of her shape was visible near the
still open window, leaning out. Miss Helstone asked no
questions; she stole to her side. The dog recommenced
barking furiously. Suddenly he stopped, and seemed to
listen. The occupants of the dining-room listened too,
and not merely now to the flow of the mill-stream. There
was a nearer, though a muffled, sound on the road below
the churchyard—a measured, beating, approaching sound—a
dull tramp of marching feet.
It drew near. Those who listened by degrees comprehended
its extent. It was not the tread of two, nor of a
dozen, 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 road. 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,
which was, in fact, a glass door, stole down the walk to
the garden wall, and stood listening under the lilacs.[Pg 295]
Caroline would not have quitted the house had she been
alone, but where Shirley went she would go. She glanced
at the weapon on the sideboard, 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 two servants."
"Do you know where they sleep?"
"The lasses behind; the niece in a front room."
"And Helstone?"
"Yonder is his chamber. He was 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 shrieked, 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?"
"Firearms, allus—and allus loadened."
"Then you're a fool to stop us here. 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 barked 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 the 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.
[Pg 296]"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 it. 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 entered, 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 could not have effectually protected
either you, myself, or the two poor women asleep under
that roof. Therefore I again earnestly thank God for
insult and peril escaped."
After a second pause she continued: "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 me?"
"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 windows, 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."
"Is that all? And are you so obedient 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 aspen 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 Moore's sake—to see if
we can be of use to him, to make an effort to warn him of
what is coming."
"To be sure! I am a blind, weak fool, and you are[Pg 297]
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 risk 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 surefooted and agile; she
could 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 rough 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 Miss 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 foaming
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 aglow with bonfires, would not
have stopped them, nor would Calder or Aire thundering
in flood. Yet one sound made them pause. Scarce had[Pg 298]
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 similar signals boomed in the east and west.
"I thought we were dead at the first 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 was an explanation. Those are
signals—it is their way—the attack must be near. 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 that 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 power. 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.
[Pg 299]"How?—by inspiring him with heroism? 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 him."
"Off then—I let you go—seek Moore. You'll not find
him."
She loosened her hold. Caroline sped like levelled shaft
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 Helstone 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 not 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 had 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 the counting-house
toute éperdue, and to have found oneself in presence
of Messrs. Armitage and Ramsden smoking, Malone swaggering,
your uncle sneering, 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?"
[Pg 300]"No; but my heart throbs fast. I have a difficulty
in standing. I will sit down. Do you feel unmoved?"
"Hardly that; but I am glad I came. 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-dealer 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 come 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—could
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——"
A crash—smash—shiver—stopped their whispers. A
simultaneously hurled volley of stones had saluted the
broad front 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 that 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 hyena; 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.
[Pg 301]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 the 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 rioters. 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 Shirley, "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.
They broke his gates and his windows. They fired at his
garrison before he repelled 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
movement. 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 defenders
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 order again.
"Welcome! we shall have you there!" 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 Moore'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 above the
rational human being.
Both the girls felt their faces glow and their pulses throb;[Pg 302]
both knew they would do no good by rushing down into
the męlée. 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
scene—from the mass of cloud, of smoke, the musket-lightning—for
the world.
"How and when would it end?" was the 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 satirize 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 had 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. Those 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 organized, 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 coolly 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 their 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 fields,
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 girls who had watched this conflict would now wish to
hasten to the victors, on whose side all their interest had
been enlisted; but they only very cautiously approached
the now battered mill, and when suddenly a number of
soldiers and gentlemen appeared at the great door opening[Pg 303]
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, broken loose in the night from
control, had beaten the ground with his stamping hoofs,
and left it waste and pulverized. 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,
muskets 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, and 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 its blaze is sunk, its warmth failed, and
its glow faded.
"This is what I wished to prevent," she said, in a voice
whose cadence betrayed the altered impulse of her heart.
"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
within the mill hurt, I wonder? Is that your uncle?"
"It is, and there is Mr. Malone; and, O 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!"
[Pg 304]"But I must go to him. I wish to go 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
hour hence, and so would Robert."
"You think he would not like it, Shirley?"
"Far less than he would like our stopping him to say
good-night, 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 hurt 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. Helstone went round
the yard, examining each prostrate form. They then gave
directions 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. Helstone'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 liked 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; he 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
arises. I can understand that you should exult in Robert's[Pg 305]
greatness and goodness; so do I, in one sense, but in another
I feel so miserable. I am too far removed from him.
I used to be nearer. Let me alone, Shirley. Do let me
cry a few minutes; it relieves me."
Miss Keeldar, feeling her tremble in every limb, ceased
to expostulate with her. She went out of the shed, and
left her to weep in peace. It was the best plan. In a few
minutes Caroline rejoined 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 been or what we have seen to-night;
neither taunt nor misconstruction can consequently molest
us. To-morrow 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."[Pg 306]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XX.
TO-MORROW.
The two girls met no living soul on their way back to the
rectory. They let themselves in noiselessly; they stole
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 enviable portion. Though
warm-hearted 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
emotion, so every night yielded her recreating rest. Caroline
now watched her sleeping, 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 even 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, having
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;[Pg 307]
calls on all these gods for aid, calls vainly—is unheard, unhelped,
and languishes.
Caroline was a Christian; therefore in trouble she framed
many a prayer after the Christian creed, preferred it with
deep earnestness, begged for patience, strength, relief. This
world, however, 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 unheard 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 hearts have truly sickened within them. This
is a terrible hour, but it is often that 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 winter and the prophecy of coming spring.
The perishing birds, however, cannot thus understand the
blast before which they shiver; and as little can the suffering
soul recognize, in the climax of its affliction, the dawn
of its deliverance. 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."
These words are true, and should not be forgotten.
The household was astir at last; the 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 arrange
her hair and attire that nothing of the forlornness she felt
at heart should 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 undergo 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.[Pg 308]
They imagined we little knew where they were to-night.
We know they little conjectured where we were. Men, 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 fastened 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 thing, 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 spoke all I think on this point, if I gave my real
opinion of some first-rate female 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
authoresses' heroes."
"Not at all. Women read men more truly 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 Hortense Moore have
passed the night," said Caroline, as she made the coffee.
"Selfish 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 Hortense 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[Pg 309]
Mann. 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
apprised by the butcher's boy that the mill was burnt to
the ground. Both women rushed into the parlour to announce
these terrible facts to the ladies, terminating their
clear and accurate narrative by the assertion that they were
sure master must have been in it all. He and Thomas, the
clerk, they were confident, must 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 wife and family were in the greatest distress,
wondering what had become of their head.
Scarcely was this information imparted when a knock at
the kitchen door announced the Fieldhead errand-boy,
arrived in hot haste, bearing a billet from Mrs. Pryor. It
was hurriedly written, and urged 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 and 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'[Pg 310]
into energetic measures. I only hope they will not be too
severe—not pursue the discomfited 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 and plantation path
to Fieldhead, they saw the distant highway already alive
with an unwonted flow of equestrians and pedestrians, tending
in the direction of the usually solitary Hollow. On
reaching the hall, they found the backyard gates open, and
the court and kitchen seemed crowded with excited milk-fetchers—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
estate to receive their supplies of milk and butter from the
dairy of the manor house, 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,
Craven cows, reared on the sweet herbage and clear waters
of bonny Airedale; and very proud she was of their sleek
aspect and high condition.) Seeing now the state 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 manner 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 they 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!" said Shirley. "It
is a queer thing all the world is so fond of talking over
events. 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 very
much; honest abuse they enjoy. They call it speaking
plainly, and take a sincere delight in being the objects[Pg 311]
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 should 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 never 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 your 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 five
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 futile 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 was all unnerved; her naturally sanguine
complexion was pale; her usually placid, though timid,
blue eye was wandering, unsettled, alarmed. She did not,
however, 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,[Pg 312]
and yet the most conscientious anxiety to avoid exaggeration
in what she was about to say, "that a body of rioters
has attacked Mr. Moore'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 delay may have been
injurious in some instances; but this is not my house. You
were absent, my dear Miss Keeldar. What could I do?"
"Were no refreshments sent?" asked Shirley, while her
countenance, hitherto so clear, propitious, and quiet, even
while she was rating the milk-fetchers, suddenly turned
dark and warm.
"I think not, my dear."
"And nothing for the wounded—no linen, no wine, no
bedding?"
"I think not. I cannot tell what Mrs. Gill did; but
it seemed impossible to me, at the moment, to venture to
dispose 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 not think
of allowing them to pillage the house, as it were. I intended
to do what 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 property: 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 rang through the thick oak of the hall and kitchen doors
more effectually than a bell's summons. Mrs. Gill, who was
deep in bread-making, 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[Pg 313]
by, encouraging their animals, while hers was unbefriended.
Then indeed she had 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 after informing the carriers that she held
them far less of men than the three brutes 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 essay of choking it from Tartar's torn and
bleeding eye, just above and below which organ the vengeful
fangs were inserted. Five or six men were presently
on the 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 anybody 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 feet. She wept furtively over him sometimes,
and murmured the softest words of pity 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 voice 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 her haughty spirit to the
quick; and the revolt of its pride was seen in the heaving
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.
[Pg 314]"Let the contents of the larder and the wine-cellar be
brought up, put into the hay-carts, and driven down to the
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 can. The truth is, Shirley will blame
herself more than you before the day is over."
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 there when things were settled, Caroline left her
to see, as she said, "if she could be useful." She presently
found that she could be very useful; for the retinue of
servants at Fieldhead was by no means numerous, and just
now their mistress 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 brought
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 Shirley
to an answering smile directly. The former was carrying
a heavy basket up the 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 revived 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 this morning?" he said,
examining with rather significant scrutiny her still flushed
face.
She gave him a look, and then again bent to her employment[Pg 315]
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 enough," was the answer;
"and so is Mr. Moore too, I dare say. To speak truth, I
am not 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 characterize it by a
more exact epithet. Meantime, may I ask what brings
him here?"
"Mr. Helstone and I have just received 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 not 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
Miss 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
appetites 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.—"Now,"
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 destined you to
carry."
As the vehicle rumbled out of the yard, Shirley, rallying
her spirits, demanded what had become of the wounded.
"There was not a single man hurt on our side," was the
answer.
[Pg 316]"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."
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?" asked Moore.
"By rumour, no doubt. But it is too good in her to
trouble herself about you. For my part, it was of your
victims I was thinking when I inquired after the wounded.
What damage have your opponents 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 wagons and some clean straw, they will be
removed to Stilbro'."
"Straw! You must have beds and bedding. I will
send my wagon 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 attentions, 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 like any nurse; and Caroline's
good friend, Miss Ainley, that very plain old maid, 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 sister?"
"Well cared for. I had her securely domiciled with
Miss Mann. This very morning the two set out for Wormwood[Pg 317]
Wells [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
welcome 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 exquisite
gratification of outmanœuvring you would be unknown.
Ah, friend, you may search my countenance, but you cannot
read it."
Moore, indeed, looked as if he could not.
"You think me a dangerous specimen of my sex. Don't
you now?"
"A peculiar one, at least."
"But Caroline—is she peculiar?"
"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——"
"However, there is nothing masculine 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 not 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 fire. It was a short,
vivid, trembling glow, that shot up, shone, vanished——"
"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.[Pg 318]
You will be served as if at an inn; or, if you like better,
go back to the Hollow."
"The alternative is not open to me; I must go back.
Good-morning. The first leisure I have I will see you
again."[Pg 319]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXI.
MRS. PRYOR.
While Shirley was talking with Moore, 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 was 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 Helstone
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 qualities.
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 me,
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 the 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, very 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 her 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 scenes;[Pg 320]
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 her
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 the 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 certain crises."
And that was the painful feeling which 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 self.
Miss Keeldar, doomed to be in constant request during
the morning, was presently summoned downstairs again.
The rector 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.
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
family ties. He alluded to the part himself and curate
had taken in the defence of the Hollow.
"The vials of pharisaical wrath will be emptied on our
heads for our share in this business," he said; "but I defy
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 knowing 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
restrains 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 will hasten to remedy their error; and he, when he[Pg 321]
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 this speech some half-jesting,
half-serious warnings to Miss Keeldar on the subject
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 adieus
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
night. 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 bonny pickle now. It
was time it came down when parsons took to swaggering
amang soldiers, blazing away wi' bullet and gunpowder,
taking the lives of far honester men than themselves."
"What would Moore have done if nobody had helped
him?" asked Shirley.
"Drunk as he'd brewed, eaten as he'd baked."
"Which means you would have left him by himself to
face that mob. Good! He has plenty of courage, but the
greatest 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
eyes, 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 aid. 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[Pg 322]
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 from 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 people 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.
But 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 talent, and his
industry to make his way for him. A monstrous crime
indeed that, under such circumstances, he could not popularize
his naturally grave, quiet manners all at once; could
not be jocular, and free, and cordial with a strange peasantry,
as you are with your fellow-townsmen! An unpardonable
transgression that when he introduced improvements
he did not go about the business in quite 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 what 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.
Yorke, as you know, but I thoroughly dislike some of your
principles. All that cant—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 class, whether the same be aristocrat or democrat—all
howling down of another class, whether clerical or
military—all exacting injustice to individuals, whether
monarch or mendicant—is really sickening to me; all
arraying of ranks against ranks, all party hatreds, all[Pg 323]
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 Nunnely, 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 plain-spoken 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 much 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
her subject or her zeal was exhausted.
"Say, Mr. Yorke!" was the answer, the 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 never can do. I have to say that your
views, and those of most extreme politicians, are such as
none but men in an irresponsible position can advocate;
that they are purely opposition views, meant only to be
talked about, and never intended 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 faults; 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 clergymen; when I hear the outbreaks of their
small spite against Dissenters; when I witness their[Pg 324]
silly, narrow jealousies and assumptions; when their palaver
about forms, and traditions, and superstitions is sounding
in my ear; when I behold 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 feels the exigence of white-wash
and has not wherewithal to purchase lime—I recall
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 just 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, Miss 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, sir. I am proud to have
been born in the same county and parish as 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."
[Pg 325]"And when is it to be?" said Mr. Yorke, 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 with rising colour. But
the light in her eye was not faltering; it shone steadily—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 two 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 family
pride; you saw it in his whole bearing.
"Moore is a gentleman," echoed Shirley, lifting her head
with glad grace. She checked herself. Words seemed
crowding to her tongue. She would not give them utterance;
but her look spoke much at the moment. What,
Yorke tried to read, but could not. The language was there,
visible, but untranslatable—a poem, a fervid lyric, in an
unknown tongue. It was not a plain story, however, no
simple gush of feeling, no ordinary love-confession—that
was obvious. It was something other, deeper, more intricate
than he guessed at. He felt his revenge had not
struck home. He felt that Shirley triumphed. She held
him at fault, baffled, puzzled. She enjoyed the moment,
not he.
"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. Will you give me
away when I relinquish the name of Keeldar for that of
Moore?"
Mr. Yorke, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled.
He could not divine what her look signified—whether she
spoke in earnest or in jest. There were purpose and feeling,
banter and scoff, playing, mingled, on her mobile lineaments.
[Pg 326]"I don't understand thee," he said, turning away.
She laughed. "Take courage, sir; you 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 austere
fixing of the features she demanded, "Have you been
asked to interfere? Are you questioning me as another's
proxy?"
"The Lord save us! Whoever weds thee must look
about him! Keep all your questions for Robert; I'll
answer no more on 'em. Good-day, lassie!"
The day being fine, or at least fair—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 callers, 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 glen, approaching each
other and becoming clothed with brushwood and stunted
oaks, formed a wooded ravine, at the bottom of which ran
the mill-stream, in broken, unquiet course, struggling with
many stones, chafing against rugged banks, fretting with
gnarled tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went.
Here, 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 singing of many
birds, for which that shade made a home. This was no
trodden way. The freshness of the wood flowers attested
that foot of man seldom pressed them; the abounding
wild roses looked as if they budded, bloomed, and faded
under the watch of solitude, as if in a sultan's harem. Here
you saw the sweet azure of blue-bells, and recognized in
pearl-white blossoms, spangling the grass, a humble type
of some starlit spot in space.
Mrs. Pryor liked a quiet walk. She ever shunned high-roads,
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 feared
nothing with Caroline. When once she got away from human[Pg 327]
habitations, and entered the still demesne of nature accompanied
by this one youthful friend, a propitious change
seemed to steal over her mind and beam in her countenance.
When with Caroline—and Caroline only—her heart, you
would have said, shook off 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 would impart her knowledge, reveal glimpses of her
experience, give her opportunities for guessing what life
she had lived, what cultivation her mind had received, of
what calibre was her intelligence, how and where her feelings
were vulnerable.
To-day, for instance, as they walked along, Mrs. Pryor
talked to her companion about the various birds singing
in the trees, discriminated their species, and said something
about their habits and peculiarities. English natural
history seemed familiar to her. All the wild flowers round
their path were recognized 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 together on a ledge of gray and mossy rock jutting
from the base of a steep green hill which towered
above them. She looked round her, and spoke of the
neighbourhood 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 appreciation 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 charm 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 gentle animation. Rarely, probably,
had she, with her chill, repellent outside, her diffident mien,
and incommunicative habits, 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 moved expression of her eyes and features,
her heart turned with almost a fond impulse, looked up to[Pg 328]
her as an instructor, and clung to her as a friend. With
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 from 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 rosier. 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 heart—"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—that is—your uncle perhaps
is not—you find it difficult to understand—he does
not appreciate——"
Mrs. Pryor could not complete her broken sentences;
she could not manage to put the question whether Mr.
Helstone 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[Pg 329]
time 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 have been a governess myself great part of my
life. In Miss Keeldar's acquaintance 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—— I should not like you 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
unusual endowment of the 'Christian graces;' that all
their hearts were regenerate, and their spirits in a peculiar
state of discipline. I was early given to understand that
'as I was not their 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
plain 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 never 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 constitution. I
sickened. The lady of the house told me coolly I was the[Pg 330]
victim of 'wounded vanity.' She hinted that if I did not
make an effort to quell my 'ungodly discontent,' to cease
'murmuring against God's appointment,' and to cultivate
the profound 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 should
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 prejudices 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 that distance which the reserve of
English manners and the decorum of English families exact.'
"I remember I sighed as Miss Hardman quitted my
bedside. She caught the sound, and turning, said severely,
'I fear, 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, since 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, and 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
with quite a grand air. 'We,' she would say—'we need
the imprudences, extravagances, mistakes, and crimes of
a certain number of fathers to sow the seed from which we
reap the harvest of governesses. The daughters of trades-people,
however well educated, must necessarily be underbred,[Pg 331]
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 feeling
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-being
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 contend 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. Those languishing
years would follow of which none but the invalid and her
immediate 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 have 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," ere long again began Mrs. Pryor, a sort of
timid, embarrassed abruptness marking her manner as she
spoke, "the young, especially those to whom nature has
been favourable, often—frequently—anticipate—look forward
to—to marriage as the end, the goal of their hopes."
And she stopped. Caroline came to her relief with
promptitude, showing a great deal more self-possession[Pg 332]
and courage than herself on the formidable topic now
broached.
"They do, and naturally," she replied, 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 eager 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 most 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 moment, the twinkling of an eye. The sting remains for
ever. It may perish with the 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 them, indeed. But
romance-writers might know nothing of love, judging by
the way in which they treat of it."
"Nothing whatever, my dear," assented 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 people 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!" exclaimed Caroline, in
a tone of dismay. "You speak like Mrs. Yorke in her most[Pg 333]
gloomy moments, like Miss Mann when she is most sourly
and hypochondriacally disposed. This is terrible!"
"No, it is only true. O child, you 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 father——" exclaimed
Caroline, struck by a sombre recollection.
"What of them?"
"Did I never tell you that they were separated?"
"I have heard it."
"They must, then, have been very miserable."
"You see all facts go to prove what I say."
"In this case there ought to be no such thing as marriage."
"There ought, my dear, were it only 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 shrank and shuddered as if a rude finger had
pressed a naked nerve. Caroline felt she had touched
what would not bear the slightest contact.
"My marriage was unhappy," said the lady, summoning
courage at last; "but yet——" 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 even
in vials of the most corrosive woe. He can so turn events
that from the very 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 proceed. They entreated
her to break the thick cloud of despair which her previous
words had seemed to spread over life.
"And then, my dear, Mr.—that is, the gentleman I
married—was, perhaps, rather an exceptional than an[Pg 334]
average character. I hope, 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 dishearten; I only wish to warn
you, and to prove that the single should not be too anxious
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 since. Whenever
I leave Fieldhead I shall take a house of my own.
I could not endure 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 thing" (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 generosity—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[Pg 335]
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
could console her till the inward storm had had its way.
At last the agony subsided of itself.
"Poor thing!" she murmured, returning Caroline's
kiss, "poor lonely lamb! But come," she added abruptly—"come;
we must go home."
For a short distance Mrs. Pryor walked 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—and by the time they reached Fieldhead
she had re-entered into herself. The outside was, as usual,
still and shy.[Pg 336]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXII.
TWO LIVES.
Only half of Moore's activity and resolution had been seen
in his defence of the mill; he showed the other half (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 false
counsel and 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 tyrant, not a judge. At all
events, though he knew many of the number, having recognized
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 "down-draughts,"
bankrupts, men always in debt and often in
drink, men who had nothing to lose, and much, in the way
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 times, 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 must 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[Pg 337]
well he might be shot. He knew there was risk; but such
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-natured (if you will),
too phlegmatic a man to fear. Many a time he rode belated
over the moors, moonlit or moonless as the case might be,
with feelings far more elate, faculties far better refreshed,
than when safety and stagnation environed him in the
counting-house. Four was the number of the leaders to be
accounted for. Two, in the course of a fortnight, were
brought to bay near Stilbro'; the remaining two it was
necessary to seek farther off. Their haunts were supposed
to lie near Birmingham.
Meantime the clothier did not neglect his battered mill.
Its reparation was esteemed a light task, carpenters' and
glaziers' work alone being needed. The rioters not having
succeeded in effecting an entrance, his grim metal darlings—the
machines—had escaped damage.
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 effort, to keep alive gentler fires than those which
smoulder in the fane of Nemesis, 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
conferences 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 the
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 rain which nourishes the baleful and glorious laurel.
Meantime, Ruin had her sappers and miners at work under
Moore's feet, and whether he rode or walked, whether 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[Pg 338]
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
that, 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. The 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 let
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-topped
work-box, quite unneeded, but which seems at the
moment indispensable; perhaps to arrange her hair, or
a drawer which she recollects to have seen that morning
in a state of curious confusion; perhaps only to take a
peep from a particular window at a particular view, whence
Briarfield church and rectory are visible, 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. Through the open kitchen door the court is
visible, all sunny and gay, and people 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[Pg 339]
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 important; Shirley
must stay and take a review of them all. There are perhaps
some little 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 "holmes," and his mistress is
necessitated to fetch her garden-hat—a gipsy straw—and
accompany him, over stile and along hedgerow, to hear
the conclusion of the whole agricultural matter on the spot,
and with the said "crofts," "ings," and "holms" under
her eye. Bright afternoon thus wears into soft evening,
and she comes home to a late tea, and after tea 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 feet: there she always learned her lessons
when a child, and old habits have a strong power over her.
The tawny and lionlike bulk of Tartar is ever stretched
beside 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."
[Pg 340]At last, however, a pale light falls on the page from
the window. She looks; the moon is up. She closes the
volume, 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, furnished
her mind with pictures. The still parlour, the clean hearth,
the window opening on the twilight sky, and showing its
"sweet regent," new throned and glorious, suffice to make
earth an Eden, life a poem, for Shirley. A still, deep, inborn
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 gift 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 angels 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, and multiplies
its splendours faster than Thought can effect his combinations,
faster than Aspiration can utter her longings. Shirley
says nothing while the 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 least
while the recollection of such moments was yet fresh on
her spirit. She would seize, she would fix the apparition,
tell the vision revealed. Had she a little more of the organ
of acquisitiveness in her head, a little more of the love of
property in her nature, she would take a good-sized sheet
of paper and write 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[Pg 341]
quick-flashing fire? Her nature is in her eye. So long
as she is calm, indolence, indulgence, humour, and tenderness
possess that large gray sphere; incense her, a red ray
pierces the dew, it quickens instantly to flame.
Ere the month of July was past, Miss Keeldar would
probably have started with Caroline on that northern tour
they had planned; but just at that epoch an invasion
befell Fieldhead. A genteel foraging party besieged Shirley
in her castle, and compelled her to surrender at discretion.
An uncle, an aunt, and two cousins from the south—a
Mr., Mrs., and two Misses Sympson, of Sympson Grove,
——shire—came down upon her in state. The laws of hospitality
obliged her to give in, which she did with a facility
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?"
She had nothing in common with them, 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 had the air of
a black swan or a white crow in the midst of this party,
and very 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, scared
away from Fieldhead by the visiting commotion which
the new arrivals occasioned in the neighbourhood, Caroline
was limited once more to the gray rectory, the solitary
morning walk in remote by-paths, the long, lonely afternoon
sitting in a quiet parlour which the sun forsook at noon, or
in the garden alcove where it shone bright, yet sad, on the
ripening red currants trained over the trellis, and on the[Pg 342]
fair monthly roses entwined between, and through them fell
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 still, dim
little place, and she is without a bright hope or near friend
in the world. 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 enjoyment 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 strait 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 Hindu votary stretched on his couch
of iron spikes. Both these having violated nature, their
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,[Pg 343]
blank, 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 impression 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, like the houseless and unemployed
poor, should not ask for a place and an occupation
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 Birtwhistles, the
Sykeses. The brothers of these girls are every one in
business 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 great 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, they 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
with sneering laughs many a time—the matrimonial market
is overstocked. Fathers say so likewise, and are angry
with their daughters when they observe their manœuvres—they
order them to stay at home. What do they expect[Pg 344]
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 for eating what their
daughters cook or for wearing what they sew. Could men
live 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 it 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 the
number of the maidens. Hortense would just work me
and Sarah in that fashion, 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. That woman was a manager.
She was what the matrons hereabouts call 'a clever woman.'
On the whole, I like her a good deal better than Lucretia;
but I don't believe 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 faculties may be exercised and grow? Men of England!
look at your poor girls, many of them fading around
you, dropping off in consumption or decline; or, what is
worse, degenerating to sour old maids—envious, back-biting,
wretched, because life is a desert to them; or, what[Pg 345]
is worst of all, reduced to strive, by scarce modest coquetry
and debasing artifice, to gain that position and consideration
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 manœuvrer, the mischief-making
tale-bearer. Keep your girls' minds narrow and
fettered; they will still be a plague and a care, sometimes
a disgrace to you. Cultivate them—give them scope and
work; they will be your gayest companions in health,
your tenderest nurses in sickness, your most faithful prop
in age."[Pg 346]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXIII.
AN EVENING OUT.
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 shadowless and trackless
wastes of Sahara, instead of in the blooming garden of an
English 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 their movements, her
brain working restlessly—when Fanny came to the door,
looked 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,
which 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 it," said Fanny.
The girl was no enchantress, and knew 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; she 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 quite sure
such a change would be most acceptable and beneficial to[Pg 347]
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 Gérard Moore." In a
postscript she was urged to put on her bonnet and run down
directly.
Caroline did not need the injunction. Glad was she to
lay by the brown holland child's slip she was trimming with
braid for the Jew's basket, to hasten upstairs, cover her
curls with her straw 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 totally 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 response; 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. Straight, 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 clearly to whose account the chief share of this
childlike joy was to be placed, Hortense would most likely
have felt both shocked and incensed. Sisters do not like[Pg 348]
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 finding their children to be in
love) is one of mixed impatience and contempt. Reason—if
they be rational people—corrects the false feeling in time;
but if they 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, company 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 been 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 bows 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 friendly way to take tea
with Miss Moore. It was almost as great and as rare a
favour as if the queen were to go uninvited to share pot-luck
with one of her subjects. A higher mark of distinction
she could not show—she who in general scorned visiting and
tea-drinking, and held cheap and stigmatized 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 inviting her, almost hospitably, to
come to Briarmains; evinced it to-day by the grand condescension
of a personal visit. Her reasons for the preference,
as assigned 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[Pg 349]
might have added that her plain aspect, homely, precise
dress, and phlegmatic, unattractive manner were to her so
many additional recommendations. It is certain, at least,
that ladies 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 patronized.
Caroline advanced to the mighty matron with some sense
of diffidence. She knew little of Mrs. Yorke, and, as a
parson'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
accosted by a little personage in a blue frock and sash,
who started up like some fairy 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
running to Miss Helstone, unceremoniously threw her arms
round her neck and demanded a kiss.
"My mother is not civil to you," said the petitioner,
as she received and repaid a smiling salute, "and Rose
there 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 liked
you."
"Jessie, curb that tongue of yours, and repress your
forwardness!" said Mrs. Yorke.
"But, mother, you are so frozen!" expostulated Jessie.
"Miss Helstone has never done you any harm; why can't
you 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 every other young lady
who comes to our house. And Rose there is such an aut—aut—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 alone, then," said
Rose, speaking from a corner where she was sitting on the
carpet at the foot of a bookcase, with a volume spread open
on her knee.—"Miss Helstone, how do you do?" she
added, directing a brief glance to the person addressed,[Pg 350]
and then again casting down her gray, 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 character. 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 the leaf, "Are you ready?"
Caroline only nodded.
"Do you like it?" inquired Rose ere long.
"Long since, when I read it as a child, I was wonderfully
taken with it."
"Why?"
"It seemed to open with such promise—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?"
"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 live; then the other.
I am resolved that my life shall be a life. Not a black
trance like the toad's, buried in marble; nor a long, slow
death like yours in Briarfield rectory."
"Like mine! what can you mean, child?"
"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 door. I never hear a sound from the
wall. I believe smoke never issues from the chimneys.
What do you do there?"
[Pg 351]"I sew, I read, I learn lessons."
"Are you happy?"
"Should I be happy wandering alone in strange countries
as you wish to do?"
"Much happier, even if you did nothing 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, and 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 Jessie 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 reading—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
commit the sin of him who buried his talent in a napkin—despicable
sluggard!"
"Rose," observed Mrs. Yorke, "solid satisfaction is only
to be realized by doing one's duty."
"Right, mother! And if my Master has given me ten
talents, my duty is to trade with them, and make them
ten talents more. Not in the dust of household drawers
shall the coin be interred. I will not deposit it in a broken-spouted
teapot, 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 shrouds 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."
[Pg 352]She stopped, then went on, "Mother, the Lord who gave
each of us our talents will come home some day, and will
demand from all an account. The teapot, the old stocking-foot,
the linen rag, the willow-pattern tureen will yield up
their barren deposit in many a house. 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."
"Rose, did you bring your sampler with you, as I told
you?"
"Yes, mother."
"Sit down, and do a line of marking."
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 brothers' 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 will do that, and
then I will do more. Now, mother, I have said my say.
I am twelve 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, Miss Helstone,"
observed Mrs. Yorke; "how precociously wise in their
own conceits! 'I would rather this, I prefer that'—such
is Jessie's cuckoo song; while Rose utters the bolder cry,
'I will, and I will not!'"
"I render a reason, mother; besides, if my cry is bold,
it is only heard once in a twelvemonth. About each birthday
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 not."
"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[Pg 353]
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 very difficult," interposed
Caroline. "Mothers love their children most dearly—almost
better than they love themselves."
"Fine talk! very sentimental! There 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 love
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 dare say, now. You are led
a great deal by your feelings, and you think yourself a very
sensitive 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
more 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, where they
would often, for want of reflection, act weakly, I, by dint
of reflection, 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 husband 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 presence.
She did not care what unjust sarcasm might be
hurled at her in reply. She flushed, not with anger but[Pg 354]
excitement, when the ungenial matron answered coolly,
"Don't waste your dramatic effects. That was well said—it
was quite fine; but it is lost on two women—an old wife
and an old maid. There should have been a disengaged
gentleman present.—Is Mr. Robert nowhere hid behind
the curtains, do you think, Miss Moore?"
Hortense, who during the chief part 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, with a puzzled air, that Robert was at Whinbury.
Mrs. Yorke laughed her own peculiar short laugh.
"Straightforward Miss Moore!" said she patronizingly.
"It is like you to understand my question so literally and
answer it so simply. Your mind comprehends nothing of
intrigue. Strange things might go on around you without
your being the wiser; you are not of the class 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 sagacity and discernment
from childhood," she returned; for, indeed, on the possession
of these qualities she peculiarly piqued herself.
"You never plotted to win a husband, 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 where 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 answer would have been to avow that
the cap fitted. Mrs. Yorke, looking at her as she 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 combined 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[Pg 355]
of the herd." Lowering her large head she made a new
charge.
"Your cousin Hortense is an excellent 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 fond of your cousin's
society, I dare say, 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 single 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 your sympathies in the ordinary world.
The ordinary world—every-day honest folks—are better
than you think them, much better than any bookish,
romancing chit of a girl can be who hardly ever puts her
nose over her uncle the parson's garden wall."
"Consequently of whom you know nothing. Excuse
me—indeed, it does not matter whether you excuse me or
not—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,
which 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 business of
yours; that I am fond of books, and indisposed for common
gossip, is still less your business; that I am a 'romancing
chit of a girl' is a mere conjecture on your part. I never
romanced to you nor to anybody you know. That I am
the parson's niece is not a crime, though you may be narrow-minded
enough to think it so. You dislike me. You have[Pg 356]
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 still excitement. She
had spoken in the clearest of tones, neither fast nor loud;
but her silver accents thrilled the ear. The speed of the
current in her veins was 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 now," she continued, "and you'll
do."
"I repel a recommendation so offensive," was the answer,
delivered in the same pure key, with the same clear 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 always 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
Jessie, whom the scene appeared greatly to edify. Rose
had heard the whole with an unmoved face. She now said,
"No; Miss Helstone is not 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 never 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 their 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
ought to submit humbly to the superior sense of the individual
then addressing her. Fortunately for her audience,[Pg 357]
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 duty 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.
Jessie, meantime, directed her assiduities to Caroline.
Sitting on a stool at her feet, she talked to her, first about
religion and then about politics. Jessie was accustomed
at home to drink in a great deal of what her father said on
these subjects, and afterwards in company to retail, with
more wit and fluency than consistency or discretion, his
opinions, antipathies, and preferences. She rated Caroline
soundly for being a member of the Established Church,
and for having an uncle a clergyman. 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 Jessie
passed to a review of the ministry at that time in office,
and a consideration of its deserts. She made familiar mention
of the names of Lord Castlereagh and Mr. Perceval.
Each of these personages she adorned with a character
that might have separately suited Moloch and Belial. She
denounced the war as wholesale murder, and Lord Wellington
as a "hired butcher."
Her auditress listened with exceeding edification. Jessie
had something of the genius of humour in her nature. It
was inexpressibly comic to hear her repeating her sire's
denunciations in his nervous northern Doric; as hearty a
little Jacobin as ever pent a free mutinous 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 piquancy 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. Jessie quickly read, in the sparkle of
her hearer's eye and the 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
her father's breakfast-table, and she now gave Mr. Yorke's[Pg 358]
comments on the theme—genuine as uttered by his Yorkshire
lips.
But, Jessie, I will write about you no more. This is an
autumn evening, wet and wild. There is only one cloud
in the 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. Rain has beat all day
on that church tower. It rises dark from the stony enclosure
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 knew they had lost something whose absence could
never be quite atoned for so long as they lived; and they
knew that heavy falling rain was soaking into the wet
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 yet blessed them;
but Jessie lay cold, coffined, solitary—only the sod screening
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 before 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 gone, Caroline felt
that she also ought to resume her scarf, kiss her cousin's
cheek, 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
gray pencil outlines—graceful in form, but colourless in
tint—against the gold incarnadined of a summer evening—against[Pg 359]
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 privet
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 see a human figure,
of a certain mould and height, pass the hedge and enter
the gate. 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 there 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 would be a
chagrin to him, and the consciousness that it must be so
would turn half my blood to ice. His hand would, perhaps,
be loose and chill if I put mine into 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
her 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 she did not very well like it, and
much wonderment that a person who was so fond of her
own way as the heiress did not find some means of sooner
getting rid of this cortége 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[Pg 360]
insists that her cousin Henry shall come and join his friends
here in Yorkshire. I dare say 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——"
"Please, ma'am," said Sarah, opening the door, "the
preserves that you told me to boil in treacle—the congfiters,
as you call them—is all burnt to the pan."
"Les confitures! Elles sont brűlées? Ah, quelle négligence
coupable! Coquine de cuisiničre, fille insupportable!"
And mademoiselle, hastily taking from a drawer a large
linen apron, and tying it over her black apron, rushed
éperdue into the kitchen, whence, to speak truth, exhaled
an odour 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,
hard 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 preferable.
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 rather 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 abrupt 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 the kitchen way on his return from market.
No; it was only Joe Scott, who, having 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'[Pg 361]
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 quietened 'em."
Another person, it was now audible, 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 stuff.—Tak tent o' this baking-bowl, sir;
they've set it i' yer way, fair as if they 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 articulate, 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, bonne sœur?" 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 took up a position at the head of the
banisters, whence she could make further observations ere
presenting herself. It was considerably past sunset now;
dusk filled the passage, yet not such deep dusk but that
she could presently see Robert and Hortense traverse it.
"Caroline! Caroline!" called Hortense, a moment afterwards,
"venez voir mon frčre!"
"Strange," commented Miss Helstone, "passing strange!
What does this unwonted excitement about such an every-day
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 door,
and leading her to Robert, who stood in bodily presence,
tall and dark against 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 light from the window. It fell on his face,[Pg 362]
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 Caroline. "Is my sight
wrong? Is it my cousin?"
"Certainly it is your cousin," asserted Hortense.
Then who was this now coming through the passage—now
entering the room? Caroline, looking round, met a
new Robert—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. And 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 Œdipus! you would have baffled the
Sphinx! 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 not 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.
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 light, 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 already
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, and had accompanied[Pg 363]
him to the north. She inquired if he liked his post, but
got a look in reply which did not invite or license further
question. The look woke Caroline's ready sympathy. She
thought it a very sad expression to pass over so sensible a
face as Louis's; for he had a sensible face, though not handsome,
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 traits of
his brother. He had her mould of mouth and chin—all
less decisive, accurate, 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 nature than that of the elder Moore shed
calm on your impressions.
Robert—perhaps aware that Caroline's glance had wandered
towards and dwelt upon him, though he had neither
met nor 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 Louis; 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 white 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.
[Pg 364]Hortense, who for some time had been 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 glass of flowers, the carmine and snow and
gold of whose petals looked radiant indeed by candlelight.
"They came from Fieldhead," she said, "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 jest—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, "Robert—c'est tout ce
qu'il y a de plus précieux au monde; ŕ 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, "Yes," and her beacon
was quenched. Her star withdrew as she spoke.
"Et toi, Robert?" inquired Louis.
"When you shall have an opportunity, ask herself," was
the quiet answer. Whether he reddened or paled Caroline
did not examine. She discovered that it was late, and she
must go home. Home she would go; not even Robert
could detain her now.[Pg 365]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
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 wrecks; or commissioned to
bring in fog the yellow taint of pestilence covering white
Western isles with the poisoned exhalations of the East,
dimming the lattices of English homes with the breath of
Indian plague. At other times this future 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 raised;
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, thirsty, 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 (fever it was) she could
not tell. Probably in her late walk home, some sweet,
poisoned breeze, redolent of honey-dew and miasma, had[Pg 366]
passed into her lungs and veins, and finding there already a
fever of mental excitement, and a languor of long conflict
and habitual sadness, had fanned the spark to flame, and
left a well-lit fire behind it.
It seemed, however, but a gentle fire. After two hot
days and worried nights, there was no violence in the
symptoms, 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 believed.
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 minutes. 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 closeted a long time—half the
morning. On returning to her sick young friend, she laid
aside shawl and bonnet. She stood awhile 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 Fieldhead to fetch
a few things for me, such as I shall want during a short stay
here. It 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 nurses me very well."
Mrs. Pryor, bending over the pale little sufferer, was now
smoothing the hair under her cap, and gently raising her
pillow. As she performed these offices, Caroline, smiling,
lifted her face to kiss her.
"Are you free from pain? Are you tolerably at ease?"
was inquired in a low, earnest voice, as the self-elected 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."
[Pg 367]"But soon your appetite will return; 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 absorbed
in repressing.
"You are more used to Fanny than to me," she remarked
ere long. "I should think my attendance must seem
strange, officious?"
"No; quite natural, and very soothing. 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 dear. You will often
find me awkward, but never negligent."
Negligent, indeed, she was not. From 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
and solace sat there instead. She and her nurse coalesced
in wondrous union. Caroline was usually pained to require
or receive much attendance. Mrs. Pryor, under ordinary
circumstances, had neither the habit nor the art of performing
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 strange 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 time
when she paid her visits, alarm clutched her heart. She
went to Mr. Helstone and expressed herself with so much[Pg 368]
energy that that gentleman was at last obliged, 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 oracle.
He delivered a dark saying of which the future was to
solve the mystery, wrote some prescriptions, gave some
directions—the whole with an air of crushing authority—pocketed
his fee, and went. Probably he knew well enough
he could 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 Caroline
had only a severe cold, she having written a note to
Hortense to that effect; and mademoiselle contented herself
with sending two pots of currant jam, a recipe for a
tisane, and a note of advice.
Mrs. Yorke being told that a physician had been summoned,
sneered at the hypochondriac fancies of the rich
and idle, 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 it except one; for that one alone reflected how
liable is the undermined structure to sink in sudden ruin.
Sick people often have fancies inscrutable to ordinary
attendants, and Caroline had one which even her tender
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 dressed, and suffered to sit
in her chair near the window. This station she would retain
till noon was past. Whatever degree of exhaustion or
debility her wan aspect betrayed, she still softly put off
all persuasion to seek repose until the church clock had
duly tolled midday. The twelve strokes sounded, she grew
docile, and would meekly lie down. Returned to the couch,
she usually buried her face deep in the pillow, and drew the
coverlets close round her, as if to shut out the world and
sun, of which she was tired. More than once, as she thus
lay, a slight convulsion shook the sick-bed, and a faint sob
broke the silence round it. These things were not unnoted
by Mrs. Pryor.
One Tuesday morning, as usual, she had asked leave to[Pg 369]
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 as 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. Having laid her down
and drawn the curtain, she stood listening near. The little
couch 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 noon of that day.
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. Her patient never parted with it. When
dressed it was hidden in her bosom; as she lay in bed she
always held it in her hand. That Tuesday afternoon the
transient doze—more like lethargy than sleep—which sometimes
abridged the long days, 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, such 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[Pg 370]
generally wandering. Half rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed,
"Don't take it from me, Robert! Don't! It is
my last comfort; let me keep it. I never tell any one
whose hair 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 thought 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 health she had never been accustomed to think
aloud, but now words escaped her lips unawares.
"Oh, I should see him once more before 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 till I am gone, and he
will come when they have laid me out, and I am senseless,
cold, and stiff.
"What can my departed soul feel then? Can it see or
know what happens to the clay? Can spirits, through any
medium, 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 Moore?
"Is it for nothing the wind sounds almost articulately
sometimes—sings as I have lately heard it sing at night—or
passes the casement sobbing, as if for sorrow to come?
Does nothing, then, 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 appalled,
and dared not rise to seek pencil and paper by the
dim watch-light.
"What is that electricity they speak of, whose changes
make us well or ill, whose lack or excess blasts, whose even
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 exultant swell,
and anon the saddest cadence?
[Pg 371]"Where is the other world? In what will another life
consist? Why 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 know the Grand Mystery is likely to
burst prematurely on me? Great Spirit, in whose 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
me—oh, give me faith!"
She fell back on her pillow. Mrs. Pryor 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
Margaret arrived. Both, after they had been in the sickroom,
quitted it in tears; they had found the patient more
altered than they expected. Hortense Moore came. Caroline
seemed stimulated by her presence. She assured her,
smiling, she was not dangerously ill; she talked to her in
a low voice, but cheerfully. During her stay, excitement
kept up the flush of her complexion; she looked better.
"How is Mr. Robert?" asked Mrs. Pryor, 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 police 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 Helstone 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
nurse with an unrecognizing glance.
"I smelt the honeysuckles in the glen this summer morning,"
she said, "as I stood at the counting-house window."
Strange words like these from pallid lips pierce a loving
listener's heart more poignantly than steel. They sound[Pg 372]
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 dew
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 unclouded.
"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. Collect yourself." In a
lower tone—"O 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 Caroline 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. How fast your heart beats,
ma'am! Do not be afraid."
"It is not fear, child—only a little anxiety, which will
pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary. Your uncle
made 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 equally 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 moon shines clear."
[Pg 373]"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 the 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 not
be taken off my neck; and you, ma'am, my books." After
a pause—"Mrs. Pryor, 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 shelter from the stormy blast,
Our refuge, haven, home!'"
Mrs. Pryor at once complied.
No wonder Caroline liked to hear her sing. Her voice,
even in speaking, was sweet and silver clear; in song it
was almost divine. Neither flute nor dulcimer has tones
so pure. But the tone was secondary, compared to the
expression which trembled through—a tender vibration from
a feeling heart.
The servants in the kitchen, hearing the strain, stole to
the stair-foot to listen. Even old Helstone, as he walked
in the garden, pondering over the unaccountable and feeble
nature of women, stood still amongst his borders to catch
the mournful melody more distinctly. Why it reminded[Pg 374]
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 aversion. When they attacked him he usually found
means to make them 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' bonnie
Doon.'"
Again Mrs. Pryor obeyed, or essayed to obey. At the
close of the first stanza she stopped. She could get no
further. 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?"
[Pg 375]No answer followed.
"Do you think I shall not get better? I do not feel
very ill—only weak."
"But your mind, Caroline—your mind is crushed. Your
heart is almost broken; you have been so neglected, so
repulsed, 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 door, softly turned the key
in the lock, ascertained that it was fast, and came back.
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 own 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——"
"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 Helstone—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[Pg 376]
hair; he gave you the oval of your face and the 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 most fondly
love her."
"Is what I hear true? Is it no dream?"
"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 be 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 mother now tells
you that, not having the gift to please people generally,
for their 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 world is all changed to
me. Surely I can live. I should like to recover——"
"You must recover. You drew life and 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 cradled her in her arms;
she rocked her softly, as if lulling a young child to sleep.
"My mother—my own mother!"
The offspring nestled to the parent; that parent, feeling
the endearment and hearing the appeal, gathered her closer
still. She covered her with noiseless kisses; she murmured
love over her, like 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 recognize 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.[Pg 377]
You can never tell what an age of strange sensation I
lived, 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 said, 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. That was the first
thing which reassured me. Had you been rustic, clownish,
awkward, I should have been content."
"You puzzle me."
"I had reason to dread a fair outside, 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
lifted, 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 anguish.
I was afraid with terror—I was troubled. Through great
tribulation He brought 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,
Caroline——"
Thus she invoked her daughter after 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[Pg 378]
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. There 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
cancelled! 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 threshold
of eternity, should he be there to see me enter, will I maintain
that."
"O mother, you must have suffered!"
"O child, the human heart can suffer! It can hold
more tears than the ocean holds waters. We never know
how 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 strangest spectre of a
laugh. "The north pole will rush to the south, and the
headlands 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 brow she refreshed with a cool, fragrant essence.
"Mamma, let them bring a candle, that 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,[Pg 379]
mamma, take your supper here. Don't leave me for one
minute to-night."
"O Caroline, it is well you are gentle! You will say
to me, Go, and I shall go; Come, and I shall come; Do
this, and I shall do it. You inherit a certain manner as
well as certain features. It will always be '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 want 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 longer to be snatched
prematurely from their embrace."
"How, mamma?"
"I let you go as a babe, because you were pretty, and
I feared your loveliness, deeming it the stamp of perversity.
They sent me your portrait, taken at eight years
old; that portrait confirmed my fears. Had it shown
me a sunburnt little rustic—a heavy, blunt-featured,
commonplace child—I should have hastened to claim you;
but there, under the silver paper, I saw blooming the
delicacy of an aristocratic flower—'little lady' was written
on every trait. I had too recently crawled from under the
yoke of the fine gentleman—escaped galled, crushed,
paralyzed, dying—to dare to encounter his still finer and
most fairy-like representative. My sweet 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 principle 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 education
to rectify such a mind; or rather, I entirely misdoubted
my own ability to influence it. Caroline, I dared[Pg 380]
not undertake to rear you. I resolved to leave 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 family. I adopted it
that I might live unmolested. My married name recalled
too vividly my married life; I could not bear it. Besides,
threats were uttered of forcing me to return to bondage.
It could not be. Rather a bier for a bed, the grave 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 reflection 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 reappeared
here with Miss Keeldar you were not recognized?"
"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 altered. 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 inquired hastily.
"I think her better. She is disposed 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."
[Pg 381]"I drank it every drop, uncle. It did me good; it has
made me quite alive. I have a wish for company, so I
begged 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 off; 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! we'll make you as strong
as Samson before we're 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 world," said Caroline,
in a soft, happy voice, "and I want you to tell me whether
it is real or visionary. What lady is that? Give her a
name, uncle."
"We must have Dr. Rile again, ma'am; or better still,
MacTurk. He's less of a humbug. Thomas must saddle
the pony 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 spectacles 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 Caroline, 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 would be terrible
to be disappointed now. But give her a name. How do
you call her?"
"I call this stout lady in a quaint black dress, who looks
young enough to wear much smarter raiment, if she would—I
call her Agnes Helstone. She married my brother
James, and is his widow."
[Pg 382]"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 you into the world at any rate.
Mind you show your duty to her by quickly getting well,
and repairing the waste of these cheeks.—Heigh-ho! 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 send me a little bit of
supper—anything you like, from your own plate. That
is wiser than going into hysterics, is it not?"
"It is spoken like a sage, Cary. See 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 leathern girdle about his loins—I can, at least,
understand the demand; but when they pine for they
know not what—sympathy, sentiment, some of these
indefinite abstractions—I can't do it; I don't know it;
I haven't got it.—Madam, accept my arm."
Mrs. Pryor signified that she should stay with her daughter
that evening. Helstone, accordingly, left them together.
He soon returned, bringing a plate in his own consecrated
hand.
"This is chicken," he said, "but we'll have partridge to-morrow.—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
cleverly."
Caroline did her best. Her uncle frowned to see that
her powers were so limited. He prophesied, however, great
things for the future; and as she praised the morsel he had
brought, and smiled gratefully in his face, he stooped over[Pg 383]
her pillow, kissed her, and said, with 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 soothed
almost as soon as felt.
As to the mother, she spent the night like Jacob at Peniel.
Till break of day she wrestled with God in earnest prayer.[Pg 384]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXV.
THE WEST WIND BLOWS.
Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail.
Night after night the sweat of agony may burst dark 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, which
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 features,
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 child
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 realms foreign to the
living. Caroline evidently remembered with clearness what
had happened.
"Mamma, I have slept so well. I only dreamed and
woke twice."
[Pg 385]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 rejoice 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 the socket. Exhaustion followed
close on excitement.
There was always a touching endeavour to appear better,
but too often ability refused to second will; too often the
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 dusty, 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 earth, and of all glow the light of day. Almost
every family in Briarfield was absent 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 intimacy seemed to have arisen—the
result, probably, of harmony of views and temperament—were
gone "up north" on a pedestrian excursion
to the Lakes. Even 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, where 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;
but there came a day when the wind ceased to sob at the[Pg 386]
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 out genially, heaven regained its azure, and
earth its green; the livid cholera-tint had vanished from
the face of nature; the hills rose clear round the horizon,
absolved from that pale malaria-haze.
Caroline's youth could now be of some 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 last 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 more subtle change took place;
all grew softer and warmer. Instead of a marble mask and
glassy eye, Mrs. Pryor saw laid on the pillow a face pale and
wasted enough, 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 her. 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 her as she partook of it!
Nourishment brought strength. She could sit up. Then
she longed to breathe the fresh air, to revisit her flowers, 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 the walks, to
show her what he had done amongst her plants, to take her
directions for further work.
William and she found plenty to talk about. They had
a dozen topics in common—interesting to them, unimportant[Pg 387]
to the rest of the world. They took a similar interest in
animals, birds, insects, and plants; they held similar
doctrines about humanity to the lower creation, 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 under an old cherry-tree,
was one subject of interest; the haunts of certain hedge-sparrows,
and the welfare of certain pearly eggs and callow
fledglings, 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 number would duly have been lent; both would have
put implicit faith and found great savour in its marvellous
anecdotes of animal sagacity.
This is a digression, but it suffices 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 gulf 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 afraid, 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 naďve notion
of that rough-handed, rough-headed, fustian-clad clown
having "fine feelings."
Farren, for his part, showed Mrs. Pryor 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 entirely 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 day she would have her stiff
demeanour and cool moments, as was her wont. Between
her and Mr. Helstone a very respectful but most rigidly[Pg 388]
ceremonious intercourse 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 rendered
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 nursling,
the natural affection of her child, came over her suavely.
Her frost fell away, 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 contented the mother's heart.
She liked to hear her daughter say, "Mamma, do this;"
"Please, mamma, fetch me that;" "Mamma, read to me;"
"Sing a little, mamma."
Nobody else—not one living thing—had ever so claimed
her services, so looked for help at her hand. Other people
were always more or less reserved and stiff with her, as
she was reserved and 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. Blind to the constitutional
defects that were incurable, she had her eyes wide
open to the acquired habits that were susceptible of remedy.
On certain points she would quite artlessly lecture her
parent; and that parent, instead of being hurt, felt a
sensation of pleasure in discovering that the girl dared
lecture 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 look nice; it suits you. And you
shall have a black satin dress for Sundays—a real satin,[Pg 389]
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 silk serving me as a
best dress for many years yet, and I wished to buy you
several 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 old 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 young 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. People 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 lady's-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 mother, rearranged her
muslin handkerchief and resmoothed 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 well, 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?"
[Pg 390]"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, cannot 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 am 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 other, Cary?"
"How miserable we should be! Mother, before I knew
you I had an apprehension that you were not good—that
I could not esteem you. That dread damped my wish to
see you. And now my heart is elate 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 work down; read to me. I like your
southern accent; it is so pure, so soft. It has 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. Hall said he never heard any
lady read with such propriety of expression or purity of
accent."
"I wish I could reciprocate the compliment, Cary; but,
really, the first time I heard your truly excellent friend read
and preach I could not understand his broad northern
tongue."
"Could you understand me, mamma? Did I seem to
speak roughly?"
"No. I almost wished you had, as I wished you had
looked unpolished. Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke
well, quite otherwise than your worthy uncle—correctly,
gently, smoothly. You inherit the gift."
"Poor papa! When he was so agreeable, why was he
not good?"
"Why he was as he was—and happily of that you, child,[Pg 391]
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
lap, 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 mother'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 then, 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.[Pg 392]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXVI.
OLD COPY-BOOKS.
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 hour to elapse between her arrival at home and her
first call at the rectory.
A shower of rain was falling gently, yet fast, on the late
flowers and russet autumn shrubs, when the garden wicket
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 refused 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 about 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[Pg 393]
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
examples—one of the blood-red 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——' 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
conventional 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
tears. Besides, I choose to please myself by sharing an
idea that at this moment beams in your mother's eye while
she looks at you. Every drop blots out a sin. Weep!
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 breathe a word on the
subject. My business it was not; I abstained from making
it such."
[Pg 394]"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 frankly communicative."
"I may be communicative, yet know where to stop.
In showing my treasure I may withhold a gem or two—a
curious, 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. Ere long the prospect was renewed;
it opened upon her.
No sooner had she regained sufficient strength to bear a
change of scene—the excitement of a little society—than
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 rector's
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, kind, 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 till their natural flavour was extracted,
and with no seasoning added in the cooking; some excellent
principles, made up in a stiff raised crust of bigotry difficult
to digest. Far too submissive was she to complain of this
diet or to ask for a crumb beyond it.
The daughters were an example to their 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.; themselves never deviated from
its curious little pragmatical provisions, and they regarded
with secret whispered horror all deviations in others. The[Pg 395]
Abomination of Desolation was no mystery to them; they
had discovered that unutterable Thing in the characteristic
others call Originality. Quick were they to recognize 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 from 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. Inward 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 mark 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 was 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 his fingers was a blank to their eyes; the most
original observation from his lips 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[Pg 396]
Helstone. It was—to discover that her cousin had absolutely
no sympathizing friend at Fieldhead; that to Miss
Keeldar he was as much a mere teacher, as little a 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 recognized 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
asked nothing more than civility from the rest of the world.
It even appeared that he would accept nothing more—in
that abode at least; for when his cousin Caroline 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 Shirley's feet
and betake himself to the taciturn tutor. Once—but once—she
noticed the desertion, and holding out her white hand,
and speaking softly, tried to 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 Louis Moore's side. That gentleman drew the dog's
big, black-muzzled head on to his knee, patted him, and
smiled one little smile to himself.
An acute observer might have remarked, in the course
of the same evening, that after Tartar had resumed his
allegiance to Shirley, and was once more couched near her
footstool, the audacious tutor 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
depressed, to receive the expected caress. As it was given,
the significant smile again rippled across Moore's quiet face.
[Pg 397]
"Shirley," said Caroline one day, as they two were sitting
alone in the summer-house, "did you know that my
cousin 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 aware of the circumstance."
"Well! what then?"
"It puzzles me to guess how it chanced 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
never touched on?"
"Because it never was," and Shirley laughed.
"You are a singular being!" observed her friend. "I
thought I knew you quite well; I begin to find myself
mistaken. You were silent as the grave about Mrs. Pryor,
and now again here is another 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 than 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 movement
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 Moore 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 despise
plain features, nor a laborious yet honest occupation, should
we? Look at the subject of your panegyric. He is there
in the garden," she continued, pointing through an aperture[Pg 398]
in the clustering creepers; and by that aperture 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 believe
him to be intelligent; and be certain, if he had not something
very commendable 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, we'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 have 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 couched
across his feet.
"Old boy!" said Louis, pulling his tawny ear, or rather
the mutilated remains of that organ, torn and chewed in
a hundred battles, "the autumn sun shines as pleasantly
on us as on the fairest and richest. This garden is none of
ours, but we enjoy its greenness and perfume, don't we?"
He sat silent, still caressing Tartar, 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 soliloquized Louis. "They
want some more biscuit. To-day I forgot to save a fragment.
Eager little sprites, 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 morsel 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 bending over his shoulder, put the crumbs
into his hand.
"There," said she—"there is a providence for the improvident."
[Pg 399]"This September afternoon is pleasant," observed Louis
Moore, as, not at all discomposed, he calmly cast 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 animals I feel I am
Adam's son, the heir of him to whom dominion was given
over 'every living thing that moveth upon the earth.'
Your dog likes and follows me. When I go into that yard,
the pigeons from your dovecot 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," retorted 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 Shirley 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 inconsiderate, so
irritable."
The verbal testimony of two friends of Caroline's to her
cousin's character augmented her favourable opinion of
him. 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 liked him, and how t' wife took to him[Pg 400]
first minute she saw him. He never went into 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
our folk's natures."
Mr. Hall, in answer to a question of Miss Helstone's as
to what he thought of Louis Moore, replied promptly that
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 excursion
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; and 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 place 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 ceremony, 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 even this negative excuse for her
prejudice.
One day she chanced to be in the schoolroom with Henry
Sympson, whose amiable and affectionate disposition had
quickly recommended him to her regard. The boy was
busied about some mechanical 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 work. 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 beeswax, but a little bundle of small marble-coloured
cahiers, tied with tape. Henry looked at them.[Pg 401]
"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. The 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 give
you leave."
On scrutiny they proved to be French compositions,
written in a hand peculiar but compact, and exquisitely
clean and clear. The writing was recognizable. She scarcely
needed the further evidence 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,
——shire" (a southern county), and a date four years back.
She tied up the packet, and held it 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 pupil, Henry?"
"She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have
in the room. She made lesson-time charming. She learned
fast—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 trouble?"
"She gave plenty of trouble, in a way. 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[Pg 402]
his book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than
that, she was less than he took her to be; for I was but a
dim-eyed, short-sighted little chap. I'm afraid 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 have 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
which 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
the 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.[Pg 403]
"They are extremely well written," she observed complacently.
"What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, 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, countless 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 Henry. "Mr. Moore, when he read
it, cried, 'Voilŕ le Français gagné!' He said 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 that 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, Harry? 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 notice that."
"Shirley, you are a real enigma," whispered Caroline in
her ear. "What queer discoveries I make day by day
now!—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
heeding 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.
[Pg 404]"Whether do you like me or Mr. Sam Wynne best,
Shirley?" inquired the boy, as she settled him in an arm-chair.
"O Harry, Sam Wynne is my aversion; you are my pet."
"Me or Mr. Malone?"
"You again, a thousand times."
"Yet they are great whiskered fellows, six feet high each."
"Whereas, as long as you live, Harry, 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 Bronte;
great at heart as a Titan; gallant and heroic as all the
world and age of chivalry; leader of the might of England;
commander of her strength 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 carefully 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 flash of light to me! I
will—I will! I'll write a book that I may dedicate it to
you."
"You will write it that you may give 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 oatcake; 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. You may join that society and[Pg 405]
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 therefore 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 merit 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
locked 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 intended as well as perpetrated,
sir. If I had not been here, they would have treated
your 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
turn the conversation.
"Certainly, if I may."
"You will be restricted to new milk and Yorkshire oatcake."
"Va—pour le lait frais!" said Louis. "But for your
oatcake!" 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 dispensation 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[Pg 406]
the milk, and distributed the bread round the cosy circle
now enclosing the bright little schoolroom fire. She then
took the post of toaster-general; and kneeling 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 oatcake 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 with 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 flavour 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 humility
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 voluntarily 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 been 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 sort of quiet authority,
to which she submitted passively, neither resisting him nor
thanking him.
"I should like to see your pictures, 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."
[Pg 407]"Here is the portfolio," said Henry, 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," observed Louis, giving
her the key. "You spoiled the lock for me once; try now."
He held it. She opened it, and, monopolizing 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, "and I shall be summoned
to the room. A pretty figure—as they say—I am to receive
company. I and Henry have been in the garden gathering
fruit half the morning. 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 pickaninny'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
stood 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, scandalized air, had he
not recognized 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[Pg 408]
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 fire. 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—prettier than usual, as if some soft
inward emotion, stirred who knows how, had given 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 smile—"if a majority
of the present company maintain that the De Walden Hall
people have claims on my civility, I will subdue my inclinations
to my duty. Let those 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 "Hear, 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 her," 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 pupil, 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?"
[Pg 409]"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.[Pg 410]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE FIRST BLUESTOCKING.
Miss Keeldar and her uncle had characters that would
not harmonize, that never had harmonized. 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 down 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 connections. 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 Fawthrop 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 pale 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?"
[Pg 411]"He has twice your money, twice your common sense,
equal connections, equal respectability."
"Had he my money counted fivescore 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 feelings 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 annoy me with the
subject; I forbid it!"
"Is it your intention ever to marry; or do you prefer
celibacy?"
"I deny your right to claim an answer 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 whom 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 over-leap
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 and common sense,
would you or could you do if my pleasure led me to a choice
you disapproved?"
"Take care! take care!" warning her 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."
[Pg 412]"Preposterous stuff! indecorous, unwomanly!"
"To love with my whole heart. I know I speak in an
unknown tongue; but I feel indifferent whether I am comprehended
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 Britain a serfdom and
you the Czar, you could not compel me to this step. I
will write 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 again 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 produced 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
pressed on her by her uncle, and all in succession she
refused. Yet amongst them was more than one gentleman
of unexceptionable character as well as ample wealth.
Many besides her uncle asked what she meant, and whom
she expected to entrap, 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
more, 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[Pg 413]
daughters froze at the view of their quarrels. Gertrude
and Isabella whispered by the hour together in their dressing-room,
and became chilled with decorous 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 tranquillized.
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
simple 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 talked
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—where 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 moonlight 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 sequestered rustic seats, whence the rush of
the surf to the sands was heard soft and soothing; and[Pg 414]
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 rose 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
might 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 monomania;
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 wearied of describing the antique priory, the wild
silvan 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 gray manor-house of Briarfield; a cramped, modest
dwelling enough compared with his own, but he liked it.
Presently it did not suffice to sit 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.
Tęte-ŕ-tęte 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 allusion to his
"nephew the baronet." Now his niece dawned upon him
no longer "a mad girl," but a "most sensible woman."[Pg 415]
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 and 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
about 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 manœuvres and 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 her 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 Philip liked her. Perhaps
he had found in her that "curious charm" noticed by Mr.
Hall. 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
anxieties 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 gentleman in all his deportment.
As to his lineage and wealth, both were, of course, far beyond
her claims.
His appearance had at first elicited some laughing though
not ill-natured remarks from the merry Shirley. It was
boyish. His features were plain and slight, his hair sandy,[Pg 416]
his stature insignificant. But she soon checked her sarcasm
on this point; she would even 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 proportions 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 point which seemed
fully to warrant an observation made about this time by
Mr. Yorke to the tutor, Louis.
"Yond' brother Robert of yours seems 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 quarters 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, which, 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 was new to him.
"Views I suggested to him myself, and views he might
have realized, 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 bit 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 Shirley was just now, it[Pg 417]
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 proved by the increased attention which
at this juncture of affairs a sudden attack 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 docile respect—now sweeping past him in all
the dignity of the moneyed heiress and prospective Lady
Nunnely, and anon accosting him as abashed school-girls
are wont to accost 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 visiting together. At any rate he sickened,
and after opposing to the malady a taciturn resistance for
a day or two, was obliged to keep his chamber.
He lay tossing on his thorny bed one evening, Henry,
who would not quit him, watching faithfully beside him,
when 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 speak to him, Shirley."
"He would not like it."
But the speaker stepped in, and Henry, seeing her hesitate
on the threshold, took her hand and drew her to the couch.
The shaded light showed Miss Keeldar's form but imperfectly;
yet it revealed her in elegant attire. There was
a party 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,[Pg 418]
glistened strangely amid the obscurity of the sickroom.
Her mien was chastened and pensive. She spoke gently.
"Mr. Moore, how are you to-night?"
"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 remembering 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 lips.
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-and-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, that 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 smile—"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——"
"They will miss you below."
"No; the gentlemen are still at table."
"They will not linger long. Sir Philip Nunnely is no
wine-bibber, and I hear him just now pass from the dining-room
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 seems sharpened at[Pg 419]
present. Sir Philip was here to tea last night. I heard
you sing 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 discourse, 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 ill?"
"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 desire."
"Monstrous delusions! The sleep would 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 sleep—I should like to woo
it to your pillow, to win for you its favour. If I took a
book and sat down and read some pages? 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."
[Pg 420]"And no good-night?"
"Yes, sir, yes. Mr. Moore, good-night." (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 getting 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 course 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 sickroom, 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 tutor.
That "auld lang syne" had still its authority both with
preceptor and scholar was proved by the manner in which
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 were gone out to
take a carriage airing. Shirley, never sorry to snatch a
reprieve from their society, had remained behind, detained
by business, as she said. The business—a little letter-writing—was
soon dispatched after the yard gates 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 stripped, but were yet full
of leaf. The purple of heath-bloom, faded but not
withered, tinged the hills. The beck wandered down to
the Hollow, 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, swept that
morning, yellow leaves had fluttered down again. Its time
of flowers, and even of fruits, was over; but a scantling[Pg 421]
of apples enriched the trees. Only 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 commission 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 come, and let
us once more be as we were at Sympson Grove. We used
to have pleasant school-hours in those days."
Miss Keeldar perhaps thought that circumstances were
changed since then; however, she made no remark, but
after a little reflection quietly followed Henry.
Entering the schoolroom, she inclined 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 his desk, turning the leaves of
a book, open before him, and marking passages with his
pencil. He just moved, in acknowledgment of her curtsy,
but did not rise.
"You proposed to read to me a few nights ago," said he.
"I could not hear you then. My attention is now at your
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 but
one between them; her sweeping curls dropped 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 looking at her harshly or timidly, or if one
undecided line had marked his countenance, she would have
rebelled, and the lesson had ended there and then; but he[Pg 422]
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 their 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,
impeded by hurried breath, broken by Anglicized tones.
She stopped.
"I can't do it. Read me a paragraph, if you please,
Mr. Moore."
What he read she repeated. She caught his accent in
three minutes.
"Trčs bien," was the approving 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 work of my concords
now."
"You could not compose the devoir of 'La Premičre
Femme Savante'?"
"Do you still remember that rubbish?"
"Every line."
"I doubt you."
"I will engage to repeat it word for word."
"You would stop short at the first line."
"Challenge me to the experiment."
"I challenge you."
He proceeded to recite the following. He gave it in
French, but we must translate, on pain of being unintelligible
to some readers.
"And it came to pass, when men began 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, before the morning stars
were set, and while they yet sang together.
The epoch is so remote, the mists and dewy gray of[Pg 423]
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 colonized a certain spot on the globe;
of what race this tribe—unknown; in what region that
spot—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 groves 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 realize. A forest valley, with rocky sides
and brown profundity of shade, formed by tree crowding
on tree, descends deep before me. Here, indeed, dwell
human beings, but so few, and in alleys so thick branched
and overarched, they are neither heard nor seen. Are they
savage? Doubtless. They live by the crook and the bow;
half shepherds, half 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
ourselves. Their nature is our nature—human both. There
is one in this tribe too often miserable—a child bereaved
of both parents. None cares for this child. She 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
are 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
saccharine root and nut.
There is something in the air of this 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 colouring of flower and bird. In all the[Pg 424]
grandeur of these forests there is repose; in all their freshness
there is tenderness.
The gentle charm vouchsafed to flower 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 first lines, unaltered by the shocks
of disease. No fierce dry blast has dealt rudely 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
breeze bares her forehead, shines an expanse fair and ample—a
clear, candid page, 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 from
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 centre—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 of a black hollow. She asked, was
she thus to burn out and perish, her living light doing no good,
never seen, never needed—a star in an else starless firmament,
which nor shepherd, nor wanderer, nor sage, nor
priest tracked as a guide or read as a prophecy? Could this[Pg 425]
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
asserted 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
bank, 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 overstretched 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 passed between Heaven
and Earth.
"Eva!"
If Eva were not this woman's name, she had none. She
rose. "Here am I."
"Eva!"
"O Night (it can be but Night that speaks), I am here!"
The voice, descending, reached Earth.
"Eva!"
"Lord," she cried, "behold thine handmaid!"
She had her religion—all tribes held 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 arms; repose
thus."
"Thus I lean, O Invisible but felt! And what art thou?"
"Eva, I have brought a living draught from heaven.
Daughter of Man, drink of my cup!"
[Pg 426]"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!"
"O take me! O claim me! This is a god."
"This is a son of God—one who feels 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.
Godborn, take me, thy bride!"
"Unhumbled, I can take what is mine. Did I not
give from the altar the very flame which lit Eva's being?
Come again into the heaven whence thou wert
sent."
That Presence, invisible but mighty, gathered her in
like a lamb to the fold; that voice, soft but all-pervading,
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 colliding
elements, the rooted endurance of hills wide based, and,
above all, as of the 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 put enmity forged deadly plots
to break the bond or defile its purity? Who shall record[Pg 427]
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, resisted, and repelled?
How again and again he refined the polluted cup, exalted
the debased emotion, rectified the perverted impulse, detected
the lurking venom, baffled the frontless temptation—purified,
justified, watched, and withstood? How, by his
patience, by his strength, by that unutterable excellence
he held from God—his Origin—this faithful Seraph fought
for Humanity a good fight through time; and, when Time's
course closed, and Death was encountered at the end,
barring with fleshless arm 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 scored
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 would now, as erst, be unsafe with you. My newly-bound
St. Pierre would soon be like 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 that 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 Shirley repeat some
of the pieces she used to say so well by heart."
"If I ask for any, it will be 'Le Cheval Dompté,'"[Pg 428]
said Moore, trimming with his penknife the pencil Miss
Keeldar had worn to a stump.
She turned aside her head; the neck, the clear cheek,
forsaken by their natural veil, were seen to flush warm.
"Ah! she has not forgotten, you see, 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; you 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——"
"He had insulted me," interposed Shirley.
"And you wanted to leave Sympson Grove 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 up-turned
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 split as with lightning. Papa lost heart, and
called Mr. Moore."
"Enough, Henry."
"No, it is not enough. I hardly know 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 and 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[Pg 429]
an evening. The next day he gave you, missy, a lecture of
an hour, and wound it up by marking you a piece 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 greater 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 cherries 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?" asked Moore. "There
have been moments since my arrival here when I have been
tempted 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 said, imparted vitality
to the statue he had chiselled; others may have the contrary
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 thought 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 said; "scarce imagined
ere it is realized: a lowly nymph develops to an inaccessible
goddess. But Henry must not be disappointed[Pg 430]
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, flourishes verdurous
enough for a time, but too soon falls withered away.
Attention, Henry! Miss Keeldar consents to favour
you. 'Voyez ce cheval ardent et impétueux,' so it commences."
Miss Keeldar did consent to make the effort; but she
soon stopped.
"Unless I heard the whole repeated I cannot continue
it," she said.
"Yet it was quickly learned—'soon gained, soon gone,'"
moralized 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; she 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 from 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 revived, and with them Shirley's old
school days.
He had gone through some of the best passages of Racine
and Corneille, and then had heard the echo of his own
deep tones in the girl's voice, that modulated itself faithfully
on his. "Le chęne et le Roseau," that most beautiful
of La Fontaine's fables, had been recited, well recited, by
the tutor, and the pupil had animatedly availed 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 poetry 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,[Pg 431]
"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 elbow on the mantelpiece, musing not unblissfully.
Twilight was closing on the diminished autumn day.
The schoolroom windows—darkened with creeping plants,
from which no high October winds had as yet swept the
sere foliage—admitted 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,
sat sagely in the centre of the rug, staring at the blaze which
burst fitful from 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 be 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 hand 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 is 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?"
[Pg 432]"Don't you approve it, sir?"
"I approve nothing utopian. Look Life 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.[Pg 433]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXVIII.
PHŒBE.
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 young persons to be thrown
much together. Miss Keeldar liked the society of few
ladies; indeed, 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 deviating from her wonted rule of
discussing with them only ordinary themes, she imparted
to these themes an extraordinary interest; the sparkle of
her spirit glanced along her phrases.
What made her so joyous? All the cause must have
been in herself. The day was not bright. It was dim—a
pale, waning 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
all the light and azure of Italy, as all its fervour laughed
in her gray English eye.
Some directions necessary to be given to her foreman,
John, delayed her behind her cousins as they neared Fieldhead
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[Pg 434]
gate. A summons to luncheon called her in. She excused
herself from the meal, and went upstairs.
"Is not Shirley coming to luncheon?" asked Isabella.
"She said she was 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, very thoughtful, almost sad.
"You are not ill?" was the question put.
"A little sick," replied Miss Keeldar.
Certainly she was not a little changed 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
cloud. She talked when she joined her friends at dinner,
talked as usual. She remained 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 countenance,
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 shrank from remark; and, if
persisted in, she, with her own peculiar hauteur, repelled it.
"Was she ill?" The reply came with decision.
"I am not."
"Did anything weigh on her mind? Had 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 gray, to affect."
"Something must be the matter—she was so altered."
"She supposed she had a right to alter at her ease.
She knew she was plainer. If it suited her to grow ugly,
why need others fret themselves on the subject?"
"There must be a cause for the change. What was
it?"
[Pg 435]She peremptorily requested to be let 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 herself—"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 forced to relax, she sought solitude—not the
solitude of her chamber (she refused 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 long 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 gay; but now that her face showed thin, and her large
eye looked hollow, there was something in the darkening
of that face and kindling of that eye which touched 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 keeping 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-top—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 back. Some people affirmed
that Miss Keeldar was become involved in business speculations
connected with Hollow's Mill—that she had lost money,[Pg 436]
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
pupil seemed busy in preparing.
"Henry, make haste. The afternoon is getting on."
"Is it, sir?"
"Certainly. Are you nearly ready with 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 health than usual, but
my heart is full."
"Shut the book. Come hither, Harry. Come to the
fireside."
Harry limped forward. His tutor placed him in a chair;
his lips were quivering, his eyes brimming. He laid his
crutch 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 never 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 changed—you too, Mr.
Moore."
"Not seriously—no. I see no alteration but such as
a favourable turn might repair in a few weeks; besides,
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 said anything to you?
You and she were together in the garden two hours this[Pg 437]
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 obey her. For her
life's sake, avow everything. Speak, my boy."
"She say she is ill! I believe, sir, 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 person
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 the '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
should 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[Pg 438]
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 gentle
and brave, strong and merciful—a man that might not
profess to be pious, but 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 choked me,
as they do now."
Mr. Moore allowed his pupil a moment to contend with
and master his emotion. He then demanded, "What else
did she say?"
"When I had signified my full consent 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 ear, insinuating
that Shirley has wronged you, that she did not love you.
You will 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 look,
my heart beats as if it would break its strings. She
may go to heaven before 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 the Keeldars before her. Should it be
otherwise, lay my coffin by Shirley's side."
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 fancies will last a lifetime. What more
did she say? Anything more?"
"We settled one or two family points between ourselves."
"I should rather like to know what——"
"But, Mr. Moore, you smile. I could not smile to see
Shirley in such a mood."
[Pg 439]"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
Keeldar 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 inherit 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 Sympson
Grove are of yesterday."
"Come, you are neither of you going 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 grown quite thin, and so is her cheek."
"Does she ever complain to your mother or sisters?"
"Never. She laughs at them when they question her.
Mr. Moore, she is a strange being, so fair and girlish—not
a man-like woman at all, not an Amazon, and yet
lifting her head above both help and sympathy."
"Do you know where she is now, Henry? Is she in
the house, or riding out?"
"Surely not out, sir. It rains fast."
"True; which, however, is no guarantee that she is not
at this moment cantering over Rushedge. Of late she has
never permitted weather to be a hindrance to her rides."
"You remember, Mr. Moore, how wet and 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 mare she herself faced on foot; that afternoon
she walked nearly as far as Nunnely. 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[Pg 440]
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 started up to go.
"Harry!"
He returned.
"Do not deliver the message formally. Word it as, in
former days, you would have worded an ordinary summons
to the schoolroom."
"I see, sir. She will be more likely to obey."
"And, Harry——"
"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 ardour.
To him I can speak as if, in my eyes, they were both children.
Let me see if I can keep up the same rôle with her. I have
known the moment when I seemed 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 mantle drop, and stood in her presence,
not master—no—but something else. I trust I shall never
so play the fool. It is well for a Sir Philip Nunnely to redden
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 footman 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. What did she mean by that
allusion to the cold people who petrify flesh to marble?[Pg 441]
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
strange, 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 say 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 come?" he inquired.
"How will she take the message? Naďvely 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 apologize
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."
He waited. Many minutes passed.
"She will refuse me. Henry is entreating her to come;
she declines. My petition is presumption in her eyes.
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 have. Some step approaches, and not
Henry's."
The door unclosed; Miss Keeldar came 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 Thalestris
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, and 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 door and his desk.
"Did you want me, sir?" she asked.
[Pg 442]"I ventured, Miss Keeldar, to send for you—that is,
to ask an interview of a few minutes."
She waited; she plied her needle.
"Well, sir" (not lifting her eyes), "what about?"
"Be seated first. The subject I would 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 excuse 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 briefly.
"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 what 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 choose me for your
text. I am a healthy subject."
"Do you not think it wrong to affirm 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 earnestly.
"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 had?"
"No; but it is not because I am ill."
"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."
[Pg 443]She permitted the test. The ring dropped from the
wasted little hand. Louis picked it up, and reattached it
to the chain. An uneasy flush coloured his brow. Shirley
again said, "It is not 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 Keeldar 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 know 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 then. 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 wish that were at all
probable; but I am afraid it is not."
She suspended her work a moment. She 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 this 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 persistence
in silence would have been the result; but he
looked calm, strong, trustworthy.
"I had better tell you than my aunt," she said, "or
than my cousins, or my uncle. They would all make such
a bustle, and it is that very bustle I dread—the alarm, the
flurry, the éclat. In short, I never liked to be the centre[Pg 444]
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 moved, 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 you, 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 me?"
"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 not 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!"
Moore, though tortured with suspense, did not demand
a quick explanation. He suffered neither gesture, glance,
nor word to betray impatience. His tranquillity tranquillized
Shirley; his confidence reassured her.
"Great effects may spring from trivial 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 in 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 sleep 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 befriend 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[Pg 445]
and Gertrude one day, about three weeks ago. They
reached home before me; I stayed behind to speak to John.
After leaving him, I pleased 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 turn as I had
long wished them to turn——"
"Ah! Nunnely had been with her the evening before!"
thought Moore parenthetically.
"I heard a panting sound; a dog came running up the
lane. I know most of the dogs in this neighbourhood.
It was Phœbe, 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 head, 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 asked if I had seen
a dog. I told him I had seen Phœbe.
"'You had better chain up Tartar, ma'am,' he said,
'and tell your people to keep within the house. I am
after Phœbe 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 help, no cure? You
would not come to me?"
"I got as far as the schoolroom door; 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?"
"Yes. I walked straight into the laundry, where they
are ironing most of the week, now that I have so many
guests in the house. While the maid was busy crimping
or starching, I took an Italian iron from the fire, and applied[Pg 446]
the light scarlet glowing tip to my arm. I bored it well
in. It cauterized 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
mind."
"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 Phœbe
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 embroidery carefully and
quickly, but her eyelash twinkled, and then it glittered,
and then a drop fell.
Mr. Moore leaned forward on his desk, 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
more grisly light."
"You apprehend the effects of the virus? You anticipate
an indefinitely threatening, dreadful doom?"
She bowed.
"You are very nervous and womanish."
[Pg 447]"You complimented me two minutes since on my
powerful mind."
"You are very womanish. If the whole 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 did, 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——"
"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; and 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 know 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[Pg 448]
administer to me a strong narcotic—such a sure dose of
laudanum as shall leave no mistake. Promise to do this."
Moore left his desk, and permitted himself the recreation
of one or two turns through 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. Gill only—in any,
in every extremity where calm and fidelity are needed.
No rash 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 those I love, lest it should pain them;
and to those whom I view with indifference 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 weeks, 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, good woman. She can
counsel you when you need counsel."
"For your part, you have your brother Robert."
"For any right-hand defections, there is the Rev. Matthewson[Pg 449]
Helstone, M.A., to lean upon; for any left-hand
fallings-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, your 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 heart, but not to bursting; it warms it, but not to
fever. I like to taste leisurely 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 asked, "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,
griefs 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 one reason. Poverty
and pride often go together."
"That is such a nice reason. I should 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?"
[Pg 450]"You are."
"A libel. I am steady as a rock, fixed as the polar
star."
"I look out at some early hour of the day, and see a fine,
perfect rainbow, bright with promise, gloriously spanning
the beclouded welkin of life. An hour afterwards I look
again: half the arch is gone, and the rest is faded. Still
later, the stern sky denies that it ever wore so benign a
symbol of hope."
"Well, Mr. Moore, you should contend against these
changeful humours. They are your besetting sin. One
never knows 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——"
"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 unfed for a day (and that did not suit me, for I am a
man accustomed to take my meals with reasonable relish,
and to ascribe due importance to the rational enjoyment of
creature comforts)——"
"I know you do. I can tell what sort of dinners you
like best—perfectly well. I know precisely the dishes
you prefer——"
"She robbed these dishes of flavour, 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 cursed my bed for its thorns. She
changed all this."
"Mr. Moore——"
"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 see 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
think she bore herself towards me, Miss Keeldar?"
"Like one who had profited well by lessons learned from
yourself."
"She received me haughtily. She meted out a wide[Pg 451]
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 most 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 tantalized 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 would 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 presence. 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 intrusion."
"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,
nor 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[Pg 452]
of my heavy traits? There!" (he started), "I have been
expecting that wire to vibrate this last half-hour."
The dinner-bell rang, and Shirley rose.
"Mr. Moore," she said, as she gathered 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 has 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 not 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
Fieldhead 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 wondrous
knack at pulverizing a man's brittle pride. I suppose
Robert put too much trust in his manly beauty and native
gentlemanhood. Those are better off who, being destitute
of advantage, cannot cherish delusion. But I will write,
and say you advise his return."
"Do not say I advise his return, but that his return
is advisable."
The second bell rang, and Miss Keeldar obeyed its call.[Pg 453]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXIX.
LOUIS MOORE.
Louis Moore was used to a quiet life. 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 evening! 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 gentleman 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, and 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 with a phantom abbess, or mist-pale nun,
among the wet and weedy relics of that ruined 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 benevolent but stern mother, nor his
patrician sisters, nor one soul of the Sympsons.
This night is not calm; the equinox still struggles in
its storms. The wild rains of the day are abated; the great
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; and it is well, for to-night she welcomes
Ćolus.
Moore, sitting in the schoolroom, heard the storm roar
round the other gable and along the hall-front. This[Pg 454]
end was sheltered. He wanted no shelter; he desired
no subdued sounds or screened 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 stirring 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
beam of the moon shone on every floor and wall.
Moore wanders through all the rooms. He seems following
a phantom from parlour to parlour. In the oak
room he stops. 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 face, as if in this household solitude
he had found a living companion, and was going to speak
to it.
He makes discoveries. A bag—a small satin bag—hangs
on the chair-back. The desk is open, the keys are
in the lock. 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
puts 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, when 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?
soliloquizing? Stop that."
[Pg 455]He did stop it. He stood thinking, and then he made
an arrangement for his evening's comfort.
He dropped the curtains over the broad 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 workstand;
and then he sat down. His next movement was to take from
his pocket a small, thick book of blank paper, to produce
a pencil, and to begin to write in a cramp, compact hand.
Come near, by all means, reader. Do not be shy. Stoop
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
then 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, descending
to me from lone mountain-passes, something of
the blue mist of hills in her array 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 what is near and dear
as the core of my heart. None can deprive me of this little
book, and through this pencil I can say to it what I will—say
what I dare utter 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 book 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 and read about
'maiden modesty,' but, properly used, and not hackneyed,
the words are good and appropriate words. As she passed
to the window, after tacitly but gracefully recognizing me,
I could call her nothing in my own mind save 'stainless[Pg 456]
virgin.' To my perception, a delicate splendour robed her,
and the 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 exquisitely; it
flattered my finest sensations. I looked a stupid block, I
dare say. I was 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 dreamer—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! What 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 quietly 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
her 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 mount to ascendency 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 recognize her qualities; a true
pulse would beat for her in my heart, though 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[Pg 457]
smile, with that warm good-will with which she now dispenses
manorial hospitality—I should like her. I should
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 the young peasant, it would be
with pleasure; whenever I left her, it would be with regret.
"How culpably careless in her to leave 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 satin bag; I see the tassel of silver
beads hanging out. That spectacle would provoke 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 delight to find her at fault; and
were I always resident with her, I am aware she would 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 shake my head. But the moment her minois
mutin meets my eye, expostulatory words crowd 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 it—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 have noticed (again it is to this
page only I would make the remark) that she will 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 for 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 to me unreluctantly. Is she
conscious how my strength rejoices to serve her? I myself
am not her slave—I declare it—but my faculties gather to[Pg 458]
her beauty, like the genii to the glisten of the lamp. All
my knowledge, all my prudence, all my calm, and all my
power stand in her presence humbly waiting a task. How
glad 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 meagreness 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 between S. and that pearl
C. H.! Caroline, I fancy, is the soul of conscientious punctuality
and nice exactitude. She would precisely suit the
domestic habits of a certain fastidious kinsman of mine—so
delicate, dexterous, quaint, quick, quiet—all done to a
minute, all arranged to a strawbreadth. She would suit
Robert. But what could I do with anything so nearly
faultless? She is my equal, 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, untinted, 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 sweet, lively delight guarded with prickly
peril. My wife, if I ever marry, must stir my great
frame with a sting now and then; she must furnish use
to her husband'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 things bright but what are likewise hot.
I like the summer day, whose sun makes fruit 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[Pg 459]
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 ere long
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 manageable
bęte fauve my powers would revel.
"O my pupil! O Peri! too mutinous 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;
and she must be curbed.
"Beware, Sir Philip Nunnely! I never 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 these
things but I think of the fable of Semele reversed.
"It is not the daughter of Cadmus I see, nor do I realize
her fatal longing to look on Jove in the majesty of his god-head.
It is a priest of Juno that stands before me, watching
late and lone at a shrine in an Argive temple. For years
of solitary ministry he has lived on dreams. There is
divine madness upon him. He loves the idol he serves,
and prays day and night that his frenzy may be fed, and
that the Ox-eyed may smile on her votary. She has heard;
she will be propitious. All Argos slumbers. The doors
of the temple are shut; the priest waits at the altar.
"A shock of heaven and earth is felt—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 wrapped 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 downrushing of stars. He has what he asked.[Pg 460]
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 piled ashes lie
pale. No priest remains; he who watched will be seen no
more.
"There is the carriage! Let me lock 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 voice, speaking with reluctance,
looking ashamed, conscious that this is the twentieth
time of asking. I will tantalize 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 of 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 will 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 the property, and went.[Pg 461]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXX.
RUSHEDGE—A CONFESSIONAL.
Everybody said it was high time for 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? Yes. It was
known twenty—forty times over, there being at least
forty plausible reasons adduced to account for the unaccountable
circumstance. Business it was not—that the
gossips agreed. He had achieved the business on which
he departed 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 safely
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 paralyze the sinister valour of disaffection.
Disaffection, however, was still heard muttering to himself.
He swore ominous oaths over the drugged beer of alehouses,
and drank strange toasts in fiery British gin.
One report affirmed that Moore dared not come to Yorkshire;
he knew his life was not worth an hour's purchase
if he did.
"I'll tell him that," said Mr. Yorke, 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 should
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.
[Pg 462]It was market-day. Moore arrived in time to take his
usual place at the market dinner. As something of a stranger,
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 him 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 flatteries 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 his head
under the half-bred tradesmen's praise, and shrank chagrined
before their congratulations.
Yorke could not help asking him how 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,[Pg 463]
and took the road. In less than five minutes Mr. Yorke
followed 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 shadow of her approach.
Mr. Yorke, moderately exhilarated with 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, and ere
long he attacked Moore on his own personal concerns.
"Bob, I believe you are worsted, and 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 do? 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 good 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 bonny as you were, man."
"And who is to have this prize you talk so much about?"
"Only a baronet; that is all. I have 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. Fool of a lad! I
swear you might have had her."
"By what token, Mr. Yorke?"
"By every token—by the light of her eyes, the red of
her cheeks. Red they grew when your name was mentioned,
though of custom they are pale."
"My chance is quite over, I suppose?"
[Pg 464]"It ought to be. But try; it is worth trying. I call this
Sir Philip milk and water. And then he writes verses, they
say—tags rhymes. You are above that, Bob, at all events."
"Would you advise me to propose, late 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
has 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
out 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 liberal 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; the 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 will rue for years—what life
cannot cancel."
"Lad, go on. I call it pie, nuts, sugar-candy. I like
the taste uncommonly. Go on. It will do you good to
talk. 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."
[Pg 465]"To me it is music. What grand voices 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 leaning 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 you 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 said, 'How do you do, Mr.
Moore?'
"My name had a magical influence over 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 wished
me well; she sought, she seized every opportunity to benefit
me. I considered, paused, watched, weighed, wondered.
I could come to but one conclusion—this 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. Could 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 her?
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 again; 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
naďveté and simplicity in being the first to love, and to
show it. That whip of yours seems to have a good heavy[Pg 466]
handle, Yorke; you can swing it about your head and
knock me out of the saddle, if you choose. I should rather
relish a loundering whack."
"Tak patience, Robert, till the moon rises and I can
see you. Speak plain out—did you love her or not? I
could like to know. I feel curious."
"Sir—sir—I say—she is very 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 thought 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 brutally I should be rich with her and ruined without
her—vowing I would be practical, and not romantic."
"A very sensible resolve. What mischief came of it,
Bob?"
"With this sensible resolve I walked 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 dispatched 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 work 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 take
it in. And then, what did she do? Instead of faltering
a sweet Yes, or maintaining a soft, confused silence (which
would have been as good), she started up, walked twice fast
through the room, in the way that she only does, and no other
woman, and ejaculated, 'God bless me!'
"Yorke, I stood on the hearth, backed 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.
[Pg 467]"'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 worded it and looked it, you would be startled at yourself.
You spoke like a brigand who demanded my purse
rather than like a lover who asked my heart.'
"A queer sentence, was it not, Yorke? And I knew,
as she uttered it, it was true as queer. Her words were
a mirror 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—vowed
that I did love her; but I could not lie in her pure
face. I could not perjure 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
believed 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 half-coarse, half-cold
admiration for true-throbbing, manly love.
"What next happened? you will say, Mr. Yorke.
"Why, she sat down in the window-seat and cried.
She cried passionately. Her eyes not only rained but
lightened. They flashed, open, large, dark, haughty, upon
me. They said, 'You have pained 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 being, 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.
[Pg 468]"'You conceived an idea obnoxious to a woman's feelings,'
was her answer. 'You have announced it in a fashion
revolting to a woman's soul. You insinuate that all the
frank kindness I have shown you has been a complicated,
a bold, and an immodest manœuvre to ensnare a husband.
You imply that at last you come here out of pity to offer
me your hand, because I have courted you. Let me say
this: Your sight is jaundiced; you have seen 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 sort of person,' was
my remark.
"'Loved you!' she cried. 'Why, I have 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 spoke 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 loved you then?'
"So she questioned me; and I said I did.
"By the Lord! Yorke, she rose, she 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.
That is to say that I am a traitor to all my sisters; that
I have acted as no woman 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
silent 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!'
[Pg 469]"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 for 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.
"'O Moore!' said she. It was worse 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 have done,' I said,
'and it has won me bitter wages, which I will go and spend
far from her who gave them.'
"I took my hat. All the time I could 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 compassion 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 was a chimera.
"At last she extended her hand. For 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 again,' 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 her 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.
[Pg 470]"I'll do it no more," vowed his companion; "never
more will I mention marriage to a woman unless I feel
love. 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 work diligently,
wait patiently, bear steadily. Let the worst come, I will
take my axe and an emigrant's berth, and go out with
Louis to the West; he and I have settled it. No woman
shall ever again look at me as Miss Keeldar looked, ever
again feel towards me as Miss Keeldar felt. In no woman's
presence will I ever again stand at once such a fool and
such a knave, such a brute and such a puppy."
"Tut!" said the imperturbable Yorke, "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 had 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 watched her when she was most natural,
most lively, and most lovely; my judgment has pronounced
her beautiful. Beautiful she is at times, when her mood
and her array partake 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; and 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 domestic intimacy
ever opened our hearts, or thawed our language and made
it flow easy and limpid. If we had confidences, they were
confidences of the counting-house, not of the heart. Nothing
in her cherished affection in me, made me better,
gentler; she only stirred my brain and whetted my acuteness.[Pg 471]
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 dark
night and we are by ourselves, I don't mind telling thee
that thy talk brings back a glimpse of my own past life.
Twenty-five years ago I tried to persuade 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 naught 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 lashes; and when she sits in shadow, and is
very still and very pale, and is, happen, about to fall asleep
wi' the length of the sermon and the heat of the biggin',
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
stately, peaceful angel was my 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, Yorke. 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 for my taste. But, supposing she
had been something better than she was——"
"Robert," interrupted Yorke, "I could 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[Pg 472]
to my regard as she showed herself; she must have preferred
me to that copper-faced despot."
"Supposing, Yorke, she had been educated (no women
were educated in those days); supposing she had possessed
a thoughtful, original mind, a love of knowledge, a wish for
information, which 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 her 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 discourse,
unselfish longing to protect and cherish, replaced the
sordid, cankering calculations of your trade; supposing,
with all this, that many a time, when 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 her 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 is,
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 held it suspended,
and paused—"Robert! this is a queer world, and men[Pg 473]
are made of the queerest dregs that Chaos churned up
in her ferment. I might swear sounding oaths—oaths
that would make the poachers think there was a bittern
booming 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 forced
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 have left her!"
They rode side by side in silence. Ere either spoke again
they were on the other side of Rushedge. Briarfield lights
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 proved—that we can get
nothing in this world worth keeping, not so much as a
principle or a conviction, except out of purifying flame
or through strengthening peril. 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 now, Robert? What are
thy plans?"
"For my private plans, I'll keep them 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 where I pleased, mix with whom I would.
I went where there was want of food, of fuel, 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 lack of education
left scarcely anything but animal wants, disappointed in[Pg 474]
those wants, 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
professed; mutiny and ambition I regard as I have always
regarded them. I should resist 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, Yorke,
beyond a man's personal interest, beyond the advancement
of well-laid schemes, 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 left 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 home.
Surrounded no longer by heath, it was not startling to
Mr. Yorke to see a hat rise, and to hear a voice speak behind
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 naked 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.[Pg 475]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXXI.
UNCLE AND NIECE.
The die was cast. Sir Philip Nunnely 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 bring 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 side. A spontaneous
sonnet brewed in his brain; and while it was still working
there, one of his sisters persuaded his lady-love to sit
down to the piano and sing a ballad—one of Sir Philip's
own ballads. It was the least elaborate, the least
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 trees of the
domain—broad, strong, spreading oaks, and high-towering
heroic beeches—wrestling with the gale. Her ear had
caught the full roar of the forest lower down; the swift
rushing of clouds, the moon, to the eye, hasting swifter
still, had crossed her vision. She turned from sight and
sound—touched, if not rapt; 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 sung, they wanted nothing. Shirley
sang them well. She breathed into the feeling softness;
she poured round the passion force. Her voice was fine[Pg 476]
that evening, its expression dramatic. She impressed all,
and charmed one.
On leaving the instrument she went 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 other strange fowl.
What made her sing so? They never sang so. Was it
proper to sing with such expression, with such originality—so
unlike a school-girl? Decidedly not. It was strange,
it was unusual. What was strange must be wrong; 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 might lose. He must make haste.
The room they were in had once been 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 with a window—a recess that held
one couch, one table, and a fairy cabinet—formed a room
within a room. Two persons standing there might interchange
a dialogue, and, so it were neither long nor loud,
none be the wiser.
Sir Philip induced two of his sisters 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 mementoes of the same lady in the cabinet
adorning the recess; and while Shirley was stooping to
examine the missal and the rosary on the inlaid shelf, and
while the Misses Nunnely indulged in a prolonged screech,
guiltless of expression, pure of originality, perfectly conventional
and absolutely unmeaning, Sir Philip stooped
too, and whispered a few hurried sentences. At first
Miss Keeldar was struck so still you might have fancied
that whisper a charm which had changed her to a statue;
but she presently looked up and answered. They parted.[Pg 477]
Miss Keeldar returned 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-hoop.
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 Moore conjectured.
Whereupon Mr. Sympson treated himself 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 continued 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 girdle.
He was for ever looking 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
her whether it was answered; she responded,
"Yes."
[Pg 478]Again he waited—waited in silence, 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 Louis Moore,
and to ask an interpretation; but his dignity forbade the
familiarity. Daniel himself, perhaps, had his own private
difficulties connected with that 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
returned 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
into 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 pair took seats, each
in an arm-chair, placed opposite, a few yards between
them.
"I have been to De Walden Hall," said 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 slowly—"I have learned
a circumstance which surprises me."
Resting her cheek on her forefinger, she waited to be
told what circumstance.
"It seems that Nunnely Priory is shut up—that the
family are gone back to their place in ——shire. It seems
that the baronet—that the baronet—that Sir Philip himself
has accompanied his mother and sisters."
"Indeed!" said Shirley.
"May I ask if you share the amazement with which I
received this news?"
"No, sir."
[Pg 479]"Is it news to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I mean—I mean," pursued Mr. Sympson, now fidgeting
in his chair, quitting his hitherto brief and tolerably
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
must be answered. I will have clear, satisfactory replies.
I am not to be trifled with. (Silence.)
"It is a strange and an extraordinary 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 emphasis).
Shirley raised her brows. "Bon voyage!" said she.
"This will not do; this must be altered, ma'am."
He drew his chair forward; he pushed it back; he
looked perfectly incensed, and perfectly helpless.
"Come, come now, uncle," expostulated 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. Consider 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 it
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 you speak to me?"
Shirley's foot tapped quick on the carpet.
[Pg 480]"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 have no guardian."
"Ungrateful being! Reared by me as my own
daughter——"
"Once more, uncle, have the kindness 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 care 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 accepted 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
embolden 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, that 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 answered. What are
your intentions, Miss Keeldar?"
"In what respect?"
[Pg 481]"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 something 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 compatible."
"Why, a more amiable gentleman never breathed."
"He is very amiable—very excellent—truly estimable;
but not my master—not in one point. I could not trust
myself 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 always to rule—to guide—and I have no
taste whatever for the office."
[Pg 482]"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—that 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 one's brain with your
self-contradiction?"
"It is evident I bewilder your brain."
"You talk of Sir Philip being young. He is two-and-twenty."
"My husband must be thirty, with the 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 it is not my vocation.
Did I not say I prefer a master—one in whose presence I
shall feel obliged and disposed to be good; one whose
control my impatient temper must acknowledge; a man
whose approbation can reward, whose displeasure punish
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 writes verses; which you, I take it, cannot
do, with all your cleverness."
"Neither his title, wealth, pedigree, nor poetry avail
to invest him with the power I describe. These are feather-weights;
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."
"O uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this world,
there is nothing glorious in the world to come that is not
poetry!"
"Marry a poet, then, in God's name!"
[Pg 483]"Show him me, and I will."
"Sir Philip."
"Not at all. You are almost as good 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
with each other; it is not worth while."
"Out of temper, Miss Keeldar! I should be glad to know
who is out of temper."
"I am not, yet."
"If you mean to insinuate that I am, 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, convinced
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 instead 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, uncle, 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——"
"And philosophers."
"She is mad——"
"Don't ring the bell, uncle; you will alarm my aunt."
"Your poor dear aunt, what a niece has she!"
"Once I loved Socrates."
"Pooh! no trifling, ma'am."
"I admired Themistocles, Leonidas, Epaminondas."
"Miss Keeldar——"
"To pass over a few centuries, Washington was a
plain man, but I liked him; but to speak of the actual
present——"
[Pg 484]"Ah! the actual present."
"To quit crude schoolgirl fancies, and come to realities."
"Realities! That is the test to which you shall be
brought, ma'am."
"To avow before what altar I now kneel—to reveal the
present idol of my soul——"
"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 sympathize 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 dare say he can be harsh as a saw-edge and gruff as a
hungry raven."
"Miss Keeldar, does the person reside 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, uncle, 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 change again in her
demeanour to him; he will never change in his duty to
her. Come, cease to chafe, uncle, I'll tell you his name."
"You shall tell me, or——"
"Listen! Arthur Wellesley, Lord Wellington."
Mr. Sympson rose up furious. He bounced out of the
room, but immediately bounced back again, shut the door,
and resumed his seat.
[Pg 485]"Ma'am, you shall tell me this. Will 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 not be compromised."
"A good resolution; keep it."
"Madam, it is you who shall keep it."
"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 unless you were under
improper influence."
"What do you mean? There are certain 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 am 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 yours, the foreigner Moore?"
"Does it?"
"It does. Your name is in every mouth."
"It honours the lips it crosses, and 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."
[Pg 486]"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 and 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 son's tutor. Would
you let the usher call you sister?"
Bright and broad shone Shirley's eye 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 from his family."
"What then?"
"Mr. Louis Moore's sister you will be."
"Mr. Sympson, I am sick at heart 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 view 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 excited—"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 the
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. You, 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[Pg 487]
work he likes 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—deep, deadly domestic vice. In his dominions
children grow unloving between parents 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;
analyze the blue blood of Spain! Your god is the Hymen
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 as I thought you, I could not have
believed——"
"Now, sir, do you begin to be aware that it is useless
to scheme for me; that in doing so you but sow the wind
to reap the whirlwind? I sweep your cobweb projects
from my path, that I may pass 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
must 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 came 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,"[Pg 488]
she added; and leaning her head upon a cushion, she softly
subsided from excitement 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 unconscious presence, and
said, "Miss Keeldar."
Perhaps his voice harmonized 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 cheek and profile, before hidden by her
arm, became visible. She looked rosy, happy, half smiling,
but her eyelashes were wet. She had wept in slumber; or
perhaps, 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 voice. 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.
"O Mr. Moore!" she said. "I was afraid it was my
uncle again: he and I have quarrelled."
"Mr. Sympson should let you alone," was the reply.
"Can he not see that you are as yet far from strong?"
"I assure you he did not find me weak. 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 continuation of that with 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[Pg 489]
note I had got from Mr. Yorke—so fully 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 him. 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 sorry I have spoken.
It might have been worse. Robert is not dead, but much
hurt."
"O sir, it is you who are pale. Sit down near me."
"Read the note. Let me open it."
Miss Keeldar read the note. It briefly signified that
last night Robert Moore had been shot at from behind
the wall 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 Louis, as Shirley returned
the note. "I cannot hear unmoved that ruffians
have laid 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 touched
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 refusal, 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?"
[Pg 490]"Say so."
"You will come back soon, and let me know more?"
"I will either come or write."
"Trust me for watching over Caroline. I will communicate
with your sister too; but doubtless she is already
with 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 softer, no elixir more potent! It lay
like a snowflake; it thrilled like lightning. A thousand
times I have longed to possess that hand—to have it in
mine. I have possessed it; for five minutes I held it. Her
fingers and mine can never be strangers more. Having met
once they must meet again."[Pg 491]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE SCHOOLBOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPH.
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 sons. 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 benevolence most effectually.
Well did Mr. Yorke like to have power, and to use it. He
had now between his hands power over a fellow-creature's
life. It suited him.
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." There, you would suppose, was
subject-matter for hysterics. No. Mrs. Yorke went into
hysterics when Jessie would not leave the garden to come to
her knitting, or when Martin proposed starting for Australia,
with a view to realize 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[Pg 492]
nurse like a heroine a hospital full of plague patients. She
almost loved Moore. Her tough heart almost yearned
towards him when she found him committed 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 Jessie
and Rose from the upper realm of the house; she forbade
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 for 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; and 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 fire, and made the brothers a
breakfast, and served it to them herself. Majestically
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 she gave the cook
warning that day for venturing to make and carry up to
Mr. Moore a basin of sago-gruel; and the housemaid lost
her favour because, when Mr. Louis was departing, she
brought him his surtout aired from the kitchen, and, like
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, pale 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 Moores 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 the corrupt
propensities of servants. Their views of this class were
similar; they watched them with the same suspicion, and
judged them with the same severity. Hortense, too, from[Pg 493]
the very first showed no manner of jealousy of Mrs. Yorke's
attentions to Robert—she let her keep the post of nurse with
little interference; and, for herself, found ceaseless occupation
in fidgeting about the house, holding the kitchen under
surveillance, reporting what passed there, and, in short,
making herself generally useful. Visitors they both of them
agreed in excluding sedulously from the sickroom. They
held the young mill-owner captive, and hardly let the air
breathe or the sun shine on him.
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 hear 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 young assistant
he usually carried about with him; with a second nosegay he
gifted another young gentleman in his train—an interesting
fac-simile of himself, 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 night 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 victory.
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[Pg 494]
the responsibility laid on her shoulders. She took this
responsibility stolidly, as she did also the easy-chair at the
bedhead. That moment she began her reign.
Mrs. Horsfall had one virtue—orders received from
MacTurk she obeyed to the letter. The ten commandments
were less 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 withdrew—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 liked, 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 accordingly.
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 clockwork, which it would be creditable
to his skill to set agoing 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 through the diminishing days and lengthening
nights of the whole drear month of November.
In the commencement of his captivity Moore used feebly
to resist Mrs. Horsfall. He hated the sight of her rough
bulk, 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 MacTurk
was there, she lifted her hand and bade him "Hush!" like[Pg 495]
a nurse checking a forward child. If she had not smoked,
if she had not taken gin, it would have been better, he
thought; but she did both. Once, in her absence, he intimated
to MacTurk that "that woman was a dram-drinker."
"Pooh! my dear sir, they are all so," was the reply
he got for his pains. "But Horsfall has this virtue,"
added the 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;
its winds swept on to sigh over lands far away. Behind
November came deep winter—clearness, stillness, frost
accompanying.
A calm day had settled into a crystalline evening. The
world wore a North Pole colouring; all its lights and tints
looked like the reflets[A] 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; gray, or cerulean,
or faint emerald hues—cool, pure, and transparent—tinged
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-school
boy—who has left his companions, now trudging
home by the highroad, 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 sits down. What is he thinking about?
Does he feel the chaste charm Nature wears to-night? A
pearl-white moon smiles through the gray trees; does he
care for her smile?
Impossible to say; for he is silent, 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 fifteen—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 control or overreach him,
and the rest of his features indicate faculties alert for resistance.
Wise ushers avoid unnecessary interference with[Pg 496]
that lad. To break him in by severity would be a useless
attempt; to win him by flattery would be 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 him,
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 grammar, but a contraband volume of fairy
tales. There will be light enough yet for an hour to serve
his keen young vision. Besides, the moon waits on him; her
beam, dim and vague as yet, fills the glade where 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. Forth-riding
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 question. 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 cliffs.
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 seaweed;
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 land, 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 band of white, evanescent Nereids.
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.
[Pg 497]She is a lady dressed in dark silk, a veil covering her face.
Martin never met a lady in this wood before—nor any 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 recognizes
her for one whom he has often wilfully pronounced ugly,
he would 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 women 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
blush 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 acceptable to hear a lady address him as "Martin,"
and not Mr. Martin or Master Martin, which form would
have lost her his 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 Jessie?"
"I suppose so."
"My cousin Hortense is still at Briarmains?"
"Oh yes."
Martin gave a comic half-smile and demi-groan. The[Pg 498]
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 servants 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 himself a refreshing laugh
of scorn.
"Lost your way in the mighty forest 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, Martin,
and have me fined. It is your father's wood."
"I should think I knew that. But since 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 him. 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 nor hear 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 hastened after and overtook
her.
"Come; are you uneasy about what I said?"
"You know nothing about death, Martin; you are
too young for me to talk to concerning such a thing."
[Pg 499]"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 saucepan 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 against 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 have 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 urged.
Not reflecting that it would be more 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, assure 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 enough, 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[Pg 500]
old girl. I make no doubt she leads him a rich
life. Nobody else is let near him. 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 opinion 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, for 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 dare say you wished to be shown upstairs?"
"We did wish it. We entreated it; but your mother
declined."
"Ay! 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 where 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 the 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.
[Pg 501]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 paid a secret visit to
the dining-room, a still, cold, stately apartment, seldom
used, for the family customarily dined in the back parlour.
He stood before the mantelpiece, and lifted his candle to
two pictures hung above—female heads: one, a type 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 against
the tree."
"I suppose," he pursued, when he was in his room,
and seated on the edge of his pallet-bed—"I suppose she
is what they call 'in love'—yes, in love with that long thing
in the next chamber. Whisht! 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 same
species—not much alike though. Is she a pretty girl,
that Caroline? I suspect 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 eyelashes.
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 claim—one
displeasing to Moore, and agreeable to myself."
He turned into bed.[Pg 502]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXXIII.
MARTIN'S TACTICS.
It was necessary to the arrangement 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 about 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 settled, and Mark being gone to Mr.
Summer's class, and Matthew and Mr. Yorke withdrawn
to the counting-house, three other exploits—nay, four—remained
to be achieved.
The first of these was to realize the breakfast he had not
yet tasted, and with which his appetite of fifteen could ill
afford to dispense; the second, third, fourth, to get his
mother, Miss Moore, and Mrs. Horsfall successfully 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 supply.
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 themselves 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 him 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 picked out three. There was
pastry upon a dish; he selected an apricot puff and a[Pg 503]
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 choice of one. Thanks
to his clasp-knife, he was able to appropriate a wing of fowl
and a slice of ham; a cantlet of cold custard-pudding he
thought would harmonize with these articles; and having
made this final addition to his booty, he at length sallied
forth into the hall.
He was already half-way across—three 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 been very distinctly audible,
and the succession to the armchair and newspaper had
appeared to affect him with mental spasms. The spectacle
now before him—the apples, the tarts, the tea-cakes,
the fowl, ham, and pudding—offered evidence but too
well calculated to inflate his opinion of his own sagacity.
Martin paused interdit one minute, one instant; the
next he knew his ground, and pronounced all well. With
the true perspicacity des âmes élites, he at once saw how
this at first sight untoward event might be turned to excellent
account. He saw how it might be so handled as to
secure the accomplishment of his second task—namely,
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 the 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
separate 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
here."
[Pg 504]Martin now allowed himself to be taken 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 labour he had set himself
was over.
Once he seemed to flag in the course of the morning.
"It is not worth while to bother myself for that Caroline,"
he remarked. But a quarter of an hour afterwards
he was again in the dining-room, looking at the head with
dishevelled tresses, 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; besides, 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 settled 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 pacha—lazily introduced
some discourse about Sarah, the maid at the Hollow. In
the course of much verbal meandering he insinuated information
that this damsel 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 knew 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
opened 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 door, tapped;
the nurse opened.
"If you please, ma'am, you are invited 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.
[Pg 505]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 approved the shadow on his
path. He found a charm in the spectral aspect of the
doddered oak.
He had to wait. To and fro he walked, while the flakes
fell faster; and the wind, which at first had but moaned,
pitifully howled.
"She is long in coming," he muttered, as he glanced
along the narrow track. "I wonder," he subjoined,
"what I wish to see her so much for? She is not coming
for me. But I have power over her, and 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 rustling of leaves,
it would scarcely have sounded on the wood-walk, checked
his impatience. The wind blew fiercely now, and the
thickening 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 that. Didn't I say
I don't care to see him?"
"But now it will be so long before I get to know any
thing 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 know how he was, and if anything could
be done for his comfort."
"I won't."
[Pg 506]"You are changed. You were so friendly last night."
"Come, we must not stand in this wood; it is too cold."
"But before I go promise me to come again to-morrow
with news."
"No such thing. I am much too delicate 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 bring a cloak. I would
have made you cosy."
"You are going home; my nearest road lies in the
opposite direction."
"Put your arm through mine; I'll take care of you."
"But the wall—the hedge—it is such hard work climbing,
and you are too slender and young to help me without
hurting yourself."
"You shall go through the gate."
"But——"
"But, but—will you trust me or not?"
She looked into his face.
"I think I will. Anything rather than 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."
"See him myself?"
"Yourself."
"But, dear Martin, does he know?"
"Ah! I'm dear now. No, he doesn't know."
"And your mother and the others?"
"All is right."
Caroline fell into a long, silent fit 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."
[Pg 507]"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 afraid of passing the
parlour window; no one will see you. My father and
Matthew are 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, mounted the stair unshod.
Caroline stole after, with noiseless step. There was a
gallery, 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 are 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."
[Pg 508]"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 between 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 you 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 see you safe away. Should you persist in
staying longer, I leave you to your fate."
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 and there was pleasure 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 mean 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 afternoon these many weeks
past I have waited and listened. Something here, Cary"—laying
his hand on his breast—"told me it was impossible
but that you should think of me. Not that I merit
thought; but we are old acquaintance—we are cousins."
"I came again, Robert; mamma and I came again."
[Pg 509]"Did you? Come, that is worth hearing. Since you
came again, we will sit down and talk about it."
They sat down. Caroline drew her chair 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.
"So mamma and you came again?"
"And Mrs. Yorke did treat us strangely. We asked to
see you. 'No,' said she, 'not in my house. I am at
present responsible for his life; it shall not be forfeited
for half an hour's idle gossip.' But 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?"
"Things that astonished us. Shirley laughed at last;
I cried; mamma was seriously annoyed. We were all
three driven from the field. Since that time I have only
walked once a day past the house, 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 dreamt one instant that
you thought of me. If I had but most distantly imagined
such a possibility——"
"Mrs. Yorke would still have beaten you."
"She would not. Stratagem should have been tried,
if persuasion failed. I would have come to the kitchen
door; the servants 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 ever 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, since you can leave
your bed?"
[Pg 510]"I doubt whether I shall live. I see nothing for it, after
such exhaustion, but decline."
"You—you shall go home to the Hollow."
"Dreariness would accompany, nothing 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 tell you what I should
like?"
"Tell me anything—only keep talking. 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 laughed 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. Since 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
awful 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 willingly—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."
[Pg 511]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. Pryor with you during your illness?"
"Yes"—Caroline smiled brightly—"you know she is
mamma?"
"I have heard—Hortense told me; but that tale too
I will receive from yourself. Does she add to your happiness?"
"What! mamma? She is dear to me; how 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 your
sweet face. Come still nearer, Lina; and give me your
hand—if my thin fingers do not scare you."
She took those thin fingers between her two little hands;
she bent her head et les effleura de ses lčvres. (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 heart, Cary; that kiss I
will put by, and you shall hear of it again one 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."
"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—almost 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[Pg 512]
stairs, Miss Caroline. You're not to bid him good-bye"—stepping
between her 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.[Pg 513]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CASE OF DOMESTIC PERSECUTION—REMARKABLE INSTANCE OF PIOUS PERSEVERANCE
IN THE DISCHARGE OF RELIGIOUS
DUTIES.
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 ugly, 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 think the visit might never be repeated.
Though a schoolboy he was no ordinary schoolboy;
he was destined to grow up an original. At a few years'
later date he took great pains to pare and polish himself
down to the pattern of the rest 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 know 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 churches 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 known, 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.[Pg 514]
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 deep that Mrs. Yorke
during breakfast announced her conviction that the children,
both boys and girls, would be better at home; and her
decision that, instead 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
Wesley'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 and
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 ineffable 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 of escape can be found, but will never
capitulate.
"It is not fit weather," said the father.
No answer. The youth read studiously; 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 should 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
naturally a low, plaintive voice, which in his "dour moods"
rose scarcely above a lady's whisper. The more inflexibly[Pg 515]
stubborn the humour, the softer, the sadder the tone. He
rang the bell, and gently asked for his walking-shoes.
"But, Martin," urged his sire, "there 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 warm 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 flesh, 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 going out,
and I should miss her after all, it will vex me; but, tempest
or tornado, hail or ice, she ought to come, and if she has
a mind worthy of her eyes and 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 her 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 cold, silent, empty,
but for one old woman. As the chimes subsided and
the single bell tolled slowly, another and another elderly
parishioner came dropping in, 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 family attended, not one
carriage party appeared—all the lined and cushioned pews
were empty; only on the bare oaken seats sat ranged the
gray-haired elders and feeble paupers.
"I'll scorn her if she doesn't come," 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.
[Pg 516]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 beguile 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 reopened, and the aisles were filling: patter,
patter, patter, a hundred little feet trotted in. It was the
Sunday scholars. According to Briarfield winter custom,
these children had till now been kept where there 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
organ 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-gray 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 get very angry with her
again before the sermon was over. She had never once
looked 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[Pg 517]
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
near 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 would 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 blast;
behind it fluttered a French-gray cloak. Martin grinned
as he toiled up the steep, encumbered field, difficult to the
foot as a slope in the upper realms of Etna. There was an
inimitable look in his face when, having gained the stile, 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 thing as getting a quiet word spoken in the church or
churchyard."
"Will you agree?—make over Mrs. Pryor 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 are as pretty as a pearl necklace,
and a necklace of which the pearls are very fair, even, and
well matched too."
"Martin, what now? I thought the Yorkes never paid
compliments?"
"They have not done till this generation; 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 back for four ages—tales of
Hiram, which was the son of Hiram, which was the son of[Pg 518]
Samuel, which was the son of John, which was the son of
Zerubbabel Yorke. All, from Zerubbabel down to the last
Hiram, were such as you see my father. Before 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 different to his descendants. He has
long, curling dark hair; he is carefully and cavalierly
dressed. Having said that he is like me, I need not add
that he is handsome."
"You are not handsome, Martin."
"No; but wait awhile—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 about me; but
I am afraid I was obstinate. I would go."
"To see me?"
"Exactly; I thought of nothing else. 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 owned you? Let me take the umbrella."
"I can't stay two minutes; our dinner will be ready."
"And so will ours; and we have always a hot dinner on
Sundays. Roast goose to-day, with apple-pie and rice-pudding.
I always contrive to know the bill of fare. Well,
I like these things uncommonly; but I'll make the sacrifice,
if you will."
"We have a cold dinner. My uncle will allow no unnecessary
cooking on the Sabbath. But I must return;
the house would 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[Pg 519]
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?"
"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 managed 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 nothing. 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 her
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 of that Moore. Now, I consider I have had a pleasant[Pg 520]
morning. The disappointments got time on; the fears
and fits of anger only made that short discourse pleasanter,
when it came at last. She expected to coax me at once.
She'll not manage that in one effort. She shall come again,
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 appetite 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."[Pg 521]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHEREIN MATTERS MAKE SOME PROGRESS, BUT NOT MUCH.
Martin had planned well. He had laid 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 swept 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
out of the tough fibres of Moore's own stubborn
purpose, bound tight with his will. He was now resuming
his strength, and making strange head against Mrs. Horsfall.
Each morning he amazed that matron with a fresh astonishment.
First he discharged her from her valet duties; he
would dress himself. Then he refused 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 women 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 perfectly; it made amends for all
previous contumacy. She and her patient parted the best
friends in the world.
The kitchen visited and soothed, Moore betook himself
to the parlour. He had Mrs. Yorke to appease; not quite
so easy 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.[Pg 522]
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 spoke the smile glittered
and melted. He had no iron mastery of his sensations
now; 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 added, "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—Jessie 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 you, 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
paid 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 at this gate," said he,
"a proud, angry, disappointed man. I come back sadder
and wiser; weakly enough, but not worried. A cold, gray,
yet quiet world lies round—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[Pg 523]
does, 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 calculated. 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,
should be loosened from our trade (of all things the
most unlikely to happen), I might conquer in this long
struggle yet—I might—good God! what might I not do?
But the thought is a brief madness; let me see things with
sane eyes. Ruin will come, lay her axe to my fortune's
roots, and hew them down. I shall snatch a sapling, I shall
cross the sea, and plant it in American woods. Louis will
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 dry, 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 sister 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
called the cottage his home, and to whom its narrow limits
had always heretofore seemed rather restrictive than protective.
Still, whatever contributed to his 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 frčre?"
"This little parlour looks very clean and pleasant—unusually
bright, somehow."
"It is true, brother; I have had the whole house thoroughly
and scrupulously cleaned in your absence."
"Sister, I think on this first day of your 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."
[Pg 524]"True, brother. If it were not late 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 Gérard! We must put
it off till another day."
"I want some one to-day, dear sister—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 with you."
"Would it not be better to-morrow, dear brother?"
"I should like her to see the place 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." He then commissioned
her to dispatch Harry Scott to the rectory, giving
her a twisted 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 merino 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 perch; and then she
betook herself to the parlour.
The gentle salutation, the friendly welcome, were interchanged
in such tranquil sort as befitted cousins meeting;
a sense of pleasure, subtle and quiet as a perfume,
diffused itself through the room; the newly-kindled lamp
burnt up bright; the tray and the singing urn were brought
in.
[Pg 525]"I am pleased to come home," repeated Mr. Moore.
They assembled round the table. Hortense chiefly
talked. She congratulated Caroline on the evident improvement
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 that operation was now become resistless.
During her absence the talk passed into 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 animation.
"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 cheer you?"
"You look brightly, move buoyantly, speak musically."
"It is pleasant to be here again."
"Truly it is pleasant; I feel it so. And to see health
on your cheek and hope in your eye is pleasant, Cary; but
what is this hope, and what is the source of this sunshine
I perceive about you?"
"For one thing, I am happy in mamma. I love her
so much, and she loves me. Long and tenderly she nursed
me. Now, when 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 pleasure 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—full
of wisdom, ripe in judgment, rich in information, exhaustless
in stores her observant faculties have quietly amassed.[Pg 526]
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. You talk in such a
way about 'mamma' it is enough to make one jealous of
the old lady."
"She is not old, Robert."
"Of the young lady, then."
"She does not pretend to be young."
"Well, of the matron. But you said '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 should be."
"Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself
that is not to my credit, and consequently will not
please you."
"Ah, don't! I cannot bear to think 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 was silent.
"Speak, Cary! Whom does it concern?"
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
waited 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 chattered, 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."
[Pg 527]"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 came 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, whether 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 you are 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 are 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
before 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 the 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[Pg 528]
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, closing 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 dangerous to take as a wife—rashly."
"I can imagine that."
"She spoke of you——"
"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 you,
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 thinks meanly, she
feels contemptuously, doubtless?"
"She thinks of you almost as highly as a woman can
think of a man. You know she can be eloquent. I yet
feel in fancy 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 each other."
"It may be so. I esteem her, I admire her; and yet
my impressions concerning her are harsh—perhaps uncharitable.
I believe, for instance, that she is incapable
of love——"
"Shirley incapable of love!"
[Pg 529]"That she will never marry. I imagine her jealous
of compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power, of
sharing her property."
"Shirley has hurt your amour propre."
"She did hurt it; though I had not an emotion of
tenderness, nor 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 high.'"
"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 be measured unto us, and so we will give
no scorn, 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 make no more agitating allusions;
we will resume our gossip. Do not tremble; look me in
the face. See what a poor, pale, grim phantom I am—more
pitiable than formidable."
She looked shyly. "There is something formidable still,
pale as you are," she said, as her eye fell under his.
"To return to Shirley," pursued Moore: "is it your
opinion that she is ever likely to marry?"
"She loves."
[Pg 530]"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 spite of her, and I saw
it. She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunderstood.
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 conjectures 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; hardly raised above a whisper, and yet such
a soft vehemence in its tones. There was 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 life."
"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-gleam. 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
round her, but her own mistress she is not."
"So you exulted at recognizing 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 done
with you."
"We will see that. Can she marry this Cupidon?"
[Pg 531]"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 neighbourhood?"
"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 under 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 which 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 pity; I am too weak to
be tantalized."
"You shall be tantalized—it will do you no harm; you
are not so weak as you pretend."
"I have twice this evening had some thoughts of falling
on the floor at your feet."
"You had better not. I shall decline 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 now nothing will
come into my mind but les litanies de la sainte Vičrge.
Rose céleste, reine des anges!"
"Tour d'ivoire, maison d'or—is not that the jargon?
Well, sit down quietly, and guess your riddle."
[Pg 532]"But 'mamma' charmed—there's the puzzle."
"I'll tell you what mamma said when I told her. 'Depend
upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the happiness of
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, gray-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; and then I don't care.
Miss Keeldar may marry le grand Turc for me."
"Must I whisper?"
"That you must, and quickly. Here comes Hortense;
come near, a little nearer, my own Lina. I care for the
whisper more than the words."
She whispered. Robert gave a start, a flash of the eye,
a brief laugh. Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed
behind, 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 creature 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 downright, Cary?"
Caroline looked keenly up, and made 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, peculiarly handsome. Hers
is a beauty that grows on you. You think her but graceful
when you first see her; you discover her to be beautiful
when you have known her for a year."
[Pg 533]"It is not you who are to say these things. Now,
Robert, be good."
"O Cary, I have no love to give. Were 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 great 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 when 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.—Fanny,
I am ready."[Pg 534]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXXVI.
WRITTEN IN THE SCHOOLROOM.
Louis Moore's doubts respecting the 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 Moore as soon as that gentleman should
be able (Mr. Sympson piously prayed this might 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 insolence—had promptly resigned his
post, and could now be induced to resume and retain 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 pretty smoothly. Miss
Keeldar's health was re-established; her spirits resumed
their flow. Moore had found means to relieve her from
every nervous apprehension; and, indeed, from the moment
of giving him her confidence, every fear seemed 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[Pg 535]
and William Farren—through whose medium he made
inquiries concerning the state of Phœbe—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 her
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 her 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 vanished.
It was marvellous to see how soon the magical energy of
youth raised her elastic and revived her blooming.
"After breakfast this morning, when 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 selection of lyrics. I read
a poem or two; whether the spell was in me or in the verse
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 schoolroom. 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[Pg 536]
rose, not deep but delicate, opens on her cheek. Her eye,
always 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 there
was 'silence in heaven.' Her hair was always dusk as
night and fine as silk, her neck was always fair, flexible,
polished; but both have now a new charm. 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 came in, but she did
not look up; now she hardly ever gives me a glance. She
seems to grow silent too; to me she rarely speaks, and
when I am present, she says little to others. In my gloomy
moments I attribute this change to indifference, aversion,
what not? In my sunny intervals I give it another meaning.
I say, were I her equal, I could find in this shyness
coyness, and 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 will
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 me strangely sometimes. He half feels what links me
to Shirley; he half guesses that there 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 the habit of discipline
and the instinct of affection hold him subdued.
Go, Henry; 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 exception
to the common lot; be grateful that your love is overlooked[Pg 537]
thus early, before it can claim any affinity to passion. An
hour's fret, a pang of envy, suffice 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
powerfully in your course without alarming by one eccentric
movement. It was not my present 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 never will be. Rather than even seem selfish
and interested, I would resolutely rise, 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 page of her heart. Before
I left I determined to know what I was leaving.
"I had some quills to make into pens. 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 firm.
"'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 defence 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[Pg 538]
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 other)
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 guard. I was sure,
in your calm way, you would be prepared for sudden mutation.
I always think you stand in the world like a solitary
but watchful, thoughtful archer in a wood. And the quiver
on your shoulder holds more arrows than one; your bow is
provided with a second string. Such too is your brother's
wont. You two might 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 Blackfeet or Flatheads would
afford us a bride, perhaps?'
"'No' (hesitating), 'I think not. The savage is sordid.
I think—that is, I hope—you would neither of you share
your hearth with that to which you could not give your
heart.'
"'What suggested the wild West to your 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 tapers—a
spill, as it is called—into fragments. She threw morsel
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 discovering them now.
I spoke at hazard.'
"'Your hazard sounds like divination. A tutor I will
never be again; never take a pupil after Henry and yourself;
not again will I sit habitually at another man's table—no
more be the appendage 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[Pg 539]
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
slave—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.'
"She could not hear me speak so unmoved, and she
was moved. It was right—I meant to move her. She
could not 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 was waking to empire. She sat down. There
was that in her face which I could read. 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 sovereign 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! death before treachery!
"I, for my part, said, 'If she 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 side. Love looks and longs, and dares not; Passion
hovers round, and is kept at bay; 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
difficult.'
"Difficult or not, something must be done, something
must be said. I could not, and would not, sit silent with
all that beauty modestly mute in my presence. I spoke
thus, and still I spoke with calm. Quiet as my words were,
I could hear they fell in a tone distinct, round, 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[Pg 540]
a divorce. These Oreads are peculiar. They come upon
you with an unearthly charm, like some starlight evening;
they inspire a wild but not warm delight; their beauty
is the beauty 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 feels frozen to my touch. I am not a poet;
I cannot live with abstractions. You, Miss Keeldar, have
sometimes, in your laughing satire, called me a material
philosopher, and implied that I live sufficiently for the
substantial. Certainly 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 her
through the soft human eyes of a loved and lovely wife than
through the wild orbs of the highest goddess of Olympus.'
"'Juno could not cook a buffalo steak 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
find such a one—pretty enough for me to love, with something
of the mind and heart 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 which nothing acquired can rival; any temper
Fate wills—I can manage the hottest. To such a creature
as this I should like to be first tutor and then husband. 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 but a spark—seen,
flown upward, and gone?'
"'I must find my orphan girl. Tell me how, Miss
Keeldar.'
"'Advertise; and be sure you add, when you describe
the qualifications, she must be a good plain cook.'
[Pg 541]"'I must find her; and when I do find her I shall marry
her.'
"'Not you!' and her voice took a sudden accent of
peculiar scorn.
"I liked this. I had roused her from the pensive mood
in which I had first found her. I would stir her further.
"'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—waxing 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 such an opinion,
Miss Keeldar.'
"'How will you manage to marry, I wonder?'
"'I shall manage it with ease and speed 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!'
"'No; you cannot give what I already have. Celibacy
has been mine for thirty years. If you wish to offer
me a gift, 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 court to save your
modesty, and thrust herself upon you to spare your scruples.'
"'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 these 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.'
[Pg 542]"'And you far haughtier. Yours is the monstrous pride
which counterfeits humility.'
"'I am a dependant; I know my place.'
"'I am a woman; I know mine.'
"'I am poor; I must be proud.'
"'I have received ordinances, and own obligations
stringent as yours.'
"We had reached a critical point now, and we halted
and looked at each other. She would not give in, I felt.
Beyond this I neither felt nor saw. A few moments yet
were mine. The end was coming—I heard its rush—but
not come. I would dally, wait, talk, and when impulse
urged I would act. I am never in a hurry; I never was in
a hurry in my whole life. Hasty people drink the nectar
of existence scalding hot; I taste it cool 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 offers, 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 is 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, quick, fiery leopard.'
"'And you would mate me with a kid—the millennium
being yet millions of centuries from mankind; being
yet, indeed, an archangel high in the seventh heaven, uncommissioned
to descend? 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[Pg 543]
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 and 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 else we
part.'
"'God knows it is needed!'
"'What do you mean by that, Mr. Moore?'
"'What I say. Improvement is imperatively needed.'
"'If you were a woman you would school monsieur,
votre mari, charmingly. It would just suit you; schooling
is your vocation.'
"'May I ask whether, in your present 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. You are sore about
your poverty; you brood over that.'
"'With having nothing but a very plain person to
offer the woman who may master my heart?'
"'Exactly. You have a habit of calling yourself plain.
You are sensitive about the cut of your features because
they are not quite on an Apollo pattern. You abase 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 great 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 him as a man can be like a dog.'
"'Tartar is your dear companion. In summer, when[Pg 544]
you rise early, and run out into the fields to wet your feet
with 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 you learned from
me. In the solitude of your wood, when you think nobody
but Tartar 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 flows 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 stars 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 much from your penniless
and friendless young orphan girl, when you find her.'
"'Oh could I find her such as I image 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, eventually, 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 would watch on the threshold
for my coming home of an evening; she would run into
my arms; she would 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, Miss 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 now let her part[Pg 545]
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 speak it.'
"'May I pass?'
"'No; I guard the door. I would almost rather die
than let you leave me just now, without speaking the word
I demand.'
"'What dare you expect me to say?'
"'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 usual 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 loosen, 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
girlhood.
"'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[Pg 546]
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
rather, they are hardly so stern as virtues—that I
love you—love you with my life 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 the answer I
got, uttered in a tone that would have been petulant if it
had not faltered.
"'Have you nothing to say to me? Have you no love
for me?'
"'A little bit.'
"'I am not to be tortured. I will not even play at
present.'
"'I don't want to play; I want to go.'
"'I wonder you dare speak of going at this moment.
You go! What! with my heart in your hand, to lay it
on your toilet and pierce it with your pins? From my
presence you do not stir, out of my reach you do not stray,
till I receive a hostage—pledge for pledge—your heart for
mine.'
"'The thing you want is mislaid—lost 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 live for you?'
"'Do as you please. Far be it from me to dictate your
choice.'
"'You shall tell me with your own lips whether you doom
me to exile or call me to hope.'
"'Go; I can bear to be left.'
[Pg 547]"'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 be, I have chosen my wife. If I stay in England,
in England you will stay; if I cross 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 tyrannize?'
"'Will you let me breathe, and not bewilder me? You
must not smile at present. The world swims and changes
round me. The sun is a dizzying scarlet blaze, the sky a
violet vortex whirling over me.'
"I am a strong man, but I staggered 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 her voice—pitilessly sweet. She
would not subdue one of her charms in compassion. 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; only 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
enough 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 hasten 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.'
[Pg 548]"And at last she gave it.
"'Dear Louis, be faithful to me; never 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
maddening 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
misery; and then, indeed, she caressed me. Blent with
torment, I experienced rapture.
"'Mr. Moore,' said she, looking up with 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. Your 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 conscientious. 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 before discovery
and explanation. My manner must have betrayed something,
or my looks. I was quiet, but I forgot to be guarded
sometimes. I stayed longer in the room than usual; I
could not bear to be out of her presence; I returned to it,
and 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, and 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 flashed him back[Pg 549]
full payment for his spying gaze. She curled her lip and
tossed her 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 call commun, plat, bas—vilain et un peu méchant. His
ideas are not clean, 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 her 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 as she felt I respected her mood, and enjoyed the
gentle content of the moment.
"The distance between us shrank, and the light hoar-frost
thawed insensibly. Ere an hour elapsed I was at
her side, 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 rested
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 started from her, she would[Pg 550]
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—trčs 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, Miss Keeldar, and
alone with Mr. Moore?'
"'Yes, a very long time. We both came down early;
it was scarcely light.'
"'The proceeding is improper——'
"'It was at first, I was rather cross, and not civil;
but you will perceive that we are now friends.'
"'I perceive more than you would wish 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 fond 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
cognomen of Mr. Sympson's Lares. When hard pressed
he always invokes this idol.
"'Come forward, uncle; you shall hear 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 know whom I meant[Pg 551]
to marry. My intention was then formed, but not mature
for communication. Now it is ripe, sun-mellowed, perfect.
Take the crimson peach—take Louis Moore!'
"'But' (savagely) 'you shall not have 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 shook 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 assured me. I kissed her; and then, if I were to
perish, I cannot give a clear account 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 room; 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 think.
I held Sympson before me crushed into a chair, and my hand
was on his cravat. 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 Inn 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 would 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 cared 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 alarm, without daring
to offer defence. I had then been obliged to protect his
family and his abode by mastering himself—and I had
succeeded. I now remained with 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[Pg 552]
daughters to come. I said they should 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 deed. 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 tyrannizes
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 never 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 lifted
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 tears start to her eyes.
She will but the more zealously advocate my cause because
she has left me in anger. I am glad of this—not for my
own sake, but for that of my life and idol—my Shirley."
Once again he writes, a week after:—"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 tantalized,
sometimes tortured. To see her now, one would
think she had never pressed her cheek to my shoulder, or
clung to me with tenderness or trust. I feel unsafe; she
renders me miserable. I am shunned when I visit her;
she withdraws from my reach. Once 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 pinings
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 there is risk I shall
lose her. No; final loss I do not fear, but long delay——
"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.[Pg 553]
How closely she glided against the banisters! How shyly
shone her large eyes upon me! How evanescent, fugitive,
fitful she looked—slim and swift as a northern streamer!
"I followed her into the drawing-room. Mrs. Pryor
and Caroline Helstone were both there; she has summoned
them to bear 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 raindrop—a thing never to be overtaken,
arrested, fixed. I wished I could avoid following her with
my gaze as she moved here and there, but it was impossible.
I talked 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 moonlit hall, with the design of getting a
word as she returned; nor in this 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 deportment—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
me 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, liquid name—not soon
forgotten.'
"'Be cordial to Louis, then; approach him—let him
approach.'
[Pg 554]"'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 suited 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 patient! 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, inarticulate yet expressive;
darted, or melted, from my arms—and I lost her."[Pg 555]
Back to contents
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE WINDING-UP.
Yes, reader, we must settle accounts now. I have only
briefly to narrate the final fates of some of the personages
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 the much-loved, though
long-neglected. Come forward, modest merit! Malone,
I see, 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. Whenever 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 product 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 way 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[Pg 556]
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
being in circumstances to give Dora a handsome portion.
They lived long and happily 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 admirably—far better than
either you or I could possibly have expected, reader. He,
too, 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
school, 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! There 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-fisted 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 would 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[Pg 557]
good with the cash. He was useful 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
parish (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, with 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—— This last epithet
I choose to suppress, because it would let the cat out of the
bag. He laboured faithfully in the parish. The schools,
both Sunday and day schools, flourished under his sway
like green bay trees. Being human, of course he had his
faults. 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
his hat in the church, the thought of an unbaptized fellow-creature
being interred with Christian rites—these things
could make strange havoc in Mr. Macarthey's physical and
mental economy. Otherwise he was sane and rational,
diligent and charitable.
I doubt not a justice-loving public will have remarked,
ere this, that I have thus far shown a criminal remissness
in pursuing, catching, and bringing to condign punishment
the would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore. Here
was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance, at
once decorous and exciting—a dance of law and gospel,
of the dungeon, the dock, and the "dead-thraw." You
might have liked it, reader, but I should not. I and my
subject would presently have quarrelled, and then I should
have broken down. I was happy to find that facts perfectly
exonerated me from the attempt. The murderer
was never punished, for the good reason that he was never
caught—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, and sneering with every feature of his pale, foreign
face, they considered better of it, and after fulfilling certain[Pg 558]
indispensable forms, prudently resolved 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.
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 adolescence; the Titan boy uproots mountains
in his game, and hurls rocks in his wild sport. This
summer Bonaparte is in the saddle; he and his host scour
Russian deserts. 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 boundless ruin rolling on. He puts
his trust in a snow-cloud; the wilderness, the wind, and the
hail-storm are his refuge; his allies are the elements—air,
fire, water. And what are these? Three terrible
archangels ever stationed before the throne 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 treasures of the snow?
or hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have
reserved 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 assumed the reins in Spain.[Pg 559]
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 San Sebastian;
in this year he won Salamanca.
Men of Manchester, I beg your pardon for this slight
résumé of warlike facts, but it is of no consequence. Lord
Wellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now.
I rather think 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
like you have a right to trample on what is mortal in a demigod.
Scoff at your ease; 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 quietly.
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 1812 the Orders
in Council were repealed, and the blockaded ports thrown
open. You know very well—such of you as are old enough
to remember—you made Yorkshire 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 difficulties,
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 rose; 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
month of June, many a solid fortune was realized.
When a whole province rejoices, the humblest of its
inhabitants tastes a festal feeling; the sound of public
bells rouses the most secluded abode, as if with a call to
be gay. And so Caroline Helstone thought, when she[Pg 560]
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 worn at the altar. She chose various
robes and fashions for more ordinary occasions, without
much reference to the bride's opinion—that lady, indeed,
being in a somewhat impracticable mood.
Louis had presaged difficulties, and 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 month, 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-shock to bring her to
the point; but there she was at last, fettered to a fixed
day. 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
cheer 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
virtually 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 assume 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 learned to rule if she had not ceased
to govern. The incapacity of the sovereign had developed
the powers of the premier."
It had been intended that Miss Helstone should act as[Pg 561]
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
was a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the
back of the house. This 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,
perhaps, 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
was 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 was warm; the bell-music was joyous; the blue
smoke of the fires looked soft, their red flame bright. Above
them, in the sky whence the sun had vanished, twinkled a
silver point—the star of love.
Caroline was not unhappy that evening—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 drawn 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 pedestal.
"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 naughty as ever, Robert.
She will neither say Yes nor No to any question put. She
sits 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.[Pg 562]
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
those bells ringing?"
"For the repeal of your terrible law—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 face—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 Council 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 a broad, firm foundation, on which, for the first
time in my life, I can securely build."
Caroline devoured his words; she held 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 looked up devoutly.
"Now I can take more workmen, give better wages,
lay wiser and more liberal plans, do some good, be less
selfish. 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.
[Pg 563]"And now," he resumed—"now I can think of marriage,
now I can seek a wife."
This was no moment for her to speak. She did not
speak.
"Will Caroline, who meekly hopes to 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 she 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 now 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 gray 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
which, of myself, I am a stranger."
Suddenly Caroline was troubled; her lip quivered.
"What flutters my dove?" asked Moore, as she nestled
to and then uneasily shrank from him.
"Poor mamma! I am all mamma has. Must 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 ceaselessly."
[Pg 564]"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 pride that reminded
me of somebody else."
"She is not at all interfering, and incapable of gossip."
"I know her, Cary. But if, instead of being the personification
of reserve and discretion, she were something
quite opposite, I should not fear her."
"Yet she will be your mother-in-law?" 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 the matter,
Robert."
"Oh, implicitly! Jesting apart, I feel that she and I
will suit—on ne peut mieux. Hortense, you know, is exquisitely
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,
Robert, to the bone, and nowhere so perfect a gentleman
as at your own fireside."
"A eulogium I like; it is very sweet. 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.'"
[Pg 565]"'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 never speak of you. But,
Robert——"
"Well, what now? What is the new thought?"
"You have not seen my uncle yet?"
"I have. 'Mamma' called him into the room. He
consents conditionally. If I prove that I can keep a
wife, I may have her; and I can keep her better than he
thinks—better than I choose to boast."
"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 learned 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 England and America,
but that will not last. What would you think if, one day—perhaps
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
own of no trifling calibre. His mind is slow but strong.
It must work. It may work deliberately, but it will work
well. He will be made magistrate of the district—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 the 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 for 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[Pg 566]
for him. She will one day see him as universally
beloved 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 their
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 five 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 you, 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 find salaries for a master and mistress, and
the squire or the clothier shall give 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 Moore, with a sigh
and smile, "yet perhaps we may realize some of them.[Pg 567]
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 voice
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
solemnized 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., rector of Briarfield.
The ceremony, in the first instance, 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 youthful 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 saw 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 queer 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. The two Mr.
Moores made a great stir about it. They were there, and
a deal of fine folk besides, and both their ladies; very
bonny and grand they looked. But Mrs. Louis was the
grandest; she always wore such handsome dresses. Mrs.
Robert was quieter like. Mrs. Louis smiled when she talked.
She had a real, happy, glad, good-natured look; but she
had een that pierced a body through. There is no such
ladies nowadays."
[Pg 568]"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 evening, fifty years syne, my mother coming
running in just at the edge of dark, almost 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 countryside (though they've been heard within
these forty years). A lonesome spot it was, and a bonny
spot, full of oak trees and nut trees. It is altered now."
The story is told. I think I now see the judicious reader
putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It would
be an insult to his sagacity to offer directions. I only say,
God speed him in the quest!
THE END.
Back to contents
Established 1798
T. NELSON
AND SONS
PRINTERS AND
PUBLISHERS
[Pg III]
THE
NELSON CLASSICS.
Uniform with this Volume and Same Price.
Jack Sheppard. |
Harrison Ainsworth. |
Masterman Ready. |
Captain Marryat. |
Michael Strogoff. |
Jules Verne. |
The Wide Wide World. |
Eliz. Wetherell. |
This famous American novel has for many years been
a classic in every home. It is a masterpiece of the best
type of domestic fiction. |
Hereward the Wake. |
Charles Kingsley. |
This brilliant romance tells of the last stand of the great
English leader, Hereward, against the advance of the
Normans. The scene is largely laid in the Fen country,
and every page is a record of fierce strife. The fall of Hereward
is one of the greatest death scenes in literature. |
[Pg IV]
David Copperfield—I. |
Charles Dickens. |
David Copperfield—II. |
Charles Dickens. |
"David Copperfield" is, by general consent, Dickens's masterpiece,
showing, as it does, all his peculiar merits in their highest form. It
is the most autobiographical of his novels, and the one into which he
put most of his philosophy of life. |
Jane Eyre. |
Charlotte Brontë. |
"Jane Eyre" is Charlotte Brontë's first and most famous work. It
was the first realistic novel, in the modern sense of the word, in English
literature, and its influence has been beyond reckoning. It ranks as
one of the great novels of the nineteenth century. |
Verdant Green. |
Cuthbert Bede. |
This is the humorous classic of Oxford life. Published more than
half a century ago, its humour is as fresh to-day as ever. |
Pickwick Papers—I. |
Charles Dickens. |
Pickwick Papers—II. |
Charles Dickens. |
Every year sees a new edition of "Pickwick," and the world still
asks for more. It is one of the world's greatest romances of the road,
where adventures fall to those who seek them. It is also a faithful
and loving picture of an older England, from which we have travelled
far to-day. We may become a wiser people, but we shall never again
be so humorous. |
Windsor Castle. |
Harrison Ainsworth. |
The romances of Harrison Ainsworth need no advertisement. In
this, as in his "Tower of London" and "Old St. Paul's," he has taken
one of England's great historical sites, and woven around it an appropriate
romance. |
Peg Woffington. |
Charles Reade. |
"Peg Woffington" was the first of Charles Reade's romances, and
was founded upon his comedy, "Masks and Faces." The story of the
famous Irish actress who dazzled London in the eighteenth century, and
with whom Garrick was in love, has been made the foundation of a
charming romance. |
[Pg V]
Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character. |
Dean Ramsay. |
The only book of jests that has ever attained an honourable place in
literature. Its wealth of genuine humour is a perpetual refutation of
the old slander that Scots joke "wi' deeficulty." |
Parables from Nature. |
Mrs. Gatty. |
This is one of the great children's books of the world. It was a classic
in our grandmothers' time, and possesses that imperishable charm which
makes it as attractive to-day as when it was first written. |
Lavengro. |
George Borrow. |
The greatest romance of the road in English literature, telling of all
the byways and humours of that older England which is fast disappearing. |
Little Women. |
Louisa M. Alcott. |
This delightful book has become a possession of childhood and youth.
It has captured the affections of millions of young people in two continents,
and is certainly the finest piece of work in the whole range of
Miss Alcott's breezy, hopeful, genial, and tender writings. |
Pride and Prejudice. |
Jane Austen. |
Sense and Sensibility. |
Jane Austen. |
Sir Walter Scott was among the earliest to detect the merits of Miss
Austen's work, and of recent years her humour and her keen insight
into human nature have been abundantly recognized, so that to-day she
is probably the most read novelist of her period. In Sir Walter Scott's
phrase she possesses "the exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace
things and characters interesting." |
Toilers of the Sea. |
Victor Hugo. |
The Laughing Man. |
Victor Hugo. |
Les Misérables—I. |
Victor Hugo. |
Les Misérables—II. |
Victor Hugo.[Pg VI] |
'Ninety-Three. |
Victor Hugo. |
Victor Hugo took the romantic novel as invented by Sir Walter Scott
and gave it a new and philosophic interest. All his great romances
have a purpose. "Les Misérables" exposes the tyranny of human
laws; "The Toilers of the Sea" shows the conflict of man with nature;
"The Laughing Man" expounds the tyranny of the aristocratic ideal
as exemplified in England. But being a great artist as well as a great
thinker, he never turned his romances into pamphlets. Drama is always
his aim, and no novelist has attained more often the supreme dramatic
moment. |
The Heir of Redclyffe. |
C. M. Yonge. |
This is a reprint of Miss Yonge's most famous tale. It has been
said of her that she domesticated the historical romance, which owed
its origin to Sir Walter Scott, and her characters were for long the
ideal figures of most English households. |
Wild Wales. |
George Borrow. |
This book was the result of Borrow's wanderings after the publication
of "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye." He tramped on foot
throughout the country, and the work is a classic of description, both
of the scenery and people. |
The Cloister and the Hearth. |
Charles Reade. |
There are many who think this the greatest of all historical novels,
and it is certain that there are few better. It is not a story so much as
a vast and varied transcript of life. It is also a delightful romance, and
Gerard and Margaret are among the immortals of fiction. |
Romola. |
George Eliot. |
This is the only novel of George Eliot's in which the scene is laid
outside her own country. It is a story of Florence during the time of
the Renaissance, a marvellous picture of the intellectual and moral
ferment which the New Learning created. With amazing learning and
insight the author portrays the souls of men and women, and her study
of a weak man and a strong woman has rarely been surpassed in English
literature for dramatic power and moral truth. |
Silas Marner. |
George Eliot. |
This, the shortest and the most exquisite of George Eliot's tales,
represents her great powers at their best. In the picture of the hero she
shows a profound understanding of human nature, and the feelings which
were then moving rural and industrial England. |
[Pg VII]
The Abbot. |
Sir Walter Scott. |
One of the Waverley novels which has always been deservedly
popular. |
Bride of Lammermoor. |
Sir Walter Scott. |
The story is a tragedy on the lines of Greek drama, and the ending
has been pronounced by great critics to be the most moving in prose
literature. In the Master of Ravenswood, Scott has drawn perhaps his
greatest tragic figure, and in Caleb Balderstone one of his most humorous
creations. |
The Black Tulip. |
Alexandre Dumas. |
This was the last of Dumas' great stories. It is a veritable tour de
force, for in it the reader follows with consuming interest the vicissitudes
of a tulip, and the human element in the story is quite subsidiary.
Nevertheless, it contains such strongly-drawn characters as Cornelius
van Baerle, the guardian of the tulip, and Rosa, the jailer's daughter. |
Tom Cringle's Log. |
Michael Scott. |
A brilliant story of West Indian life by an author who combined
abundant personal experience with keen observation, sprightly temper,
and delightful humour. "Tom Cringle's Log" has been many times
reprinted, and has lost nothing of its popularity and power to please. |
Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. |
Tens of thousands of readers have been led to Shakespeare by the
charmingly told stories which Charles and Mary Lamb, about a hundred
years ago, extracted from the plays of the greatest dramatist of all time.
Though produced by Lamb at the very outset of his literary career,
these stories betray that unique and finished art, that delightful freshness
and rare sympathy, which are the characteristics of his mature
work. |
The Scarlet Letter. |
Nathaniel Hawthorne. |
This is one of the most powerful and affecting stories ever conceived.
On its first appearance, in 1850, it immediately leaped high into public
favour, and attained the distinction of an unmistakable classic. The
tragedy of Hester Prynne and Arthur Dimmesdale is wrought out in the
midst of an austere Puritan community, which exacts the bitterest expiation
for sin. |
[Pg VIII]
THE NELSON CLASSICS.
Uniform with this Volume and Same Price.
CONDENSED LIST.
1. A Tale of Two Cities. |
44. Great Expectations. |
2. Tom Brown's Schooldays. |
45. Guy Mannering. |
3. The Deerslayer. |
46. Modern Painters (Selections. |
4. Henry Esmond. |
47. Les Misérables—I. |
5. Hypatia. |
48. Les Misérables—II. |
6. The Mill on the Floss. |
49. The Monastery. |
7. Uncle Tom's Cabin. |
50. Romola. |
8. The Last of the Mohicans. |
51. The Vicar of Wakefield. |
9. Adam Bede. |
52. Emma. |
10. The Old Curiosity Shop. |
53. Lavengro. |
11. Oliver Twist. |
54. Emerson's Essays. |
12. Kenilworth. |
55. The Bride of Lammermoor. |
13. Robinson Crusoe. |
56. The Abbot. |
14. The Last Days of Pompeii. |
57. Tom Cringle's Log. |
15. Cloister and the Hearth. |
58. Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. |
16. Ivanhoe. |
59. The Scarlet Letter. |
17. East Lynne. |
60. Old Mortality. |
18. Cranford. |
61. The Romany Rye. |
19. John Halifax, Gentleman. |
62. Hans Andersen. |
20. The Pathfinder. |
63. The Black Tulip. |
21. Westward Ho. |
64. Little Women. |
22. The Three Musketeers. |
65. The Talisman. |
23. The Channings. |
66. Scottish Life and Character. |
24. The Pilgrim's Progress. |
67. The Woman in White. |
25. Pride and Prejudice. |
68. Tales of Mystery. |
26. Quentin Durward. |
69. Fair Maid of Perth. |
27. Villette. |
70. Parables from Nature. |
28. Hard Times. |
71. Peg Woffington. |
29. Child's History of England. |
72. Windsor Castle. |
30. The Bible in Spain. |
73. Edmund Burke. |
31. Gulliver's Travels. |
74. Ingoldsby Legends. |
32. Sense and Sensibility. |
75. Pickwick Papers.—I. |
33. Kate Coventry. |
76. Pickwick Papers.—II. |
34. Silas Marner. |
77. Verdant Green. |
35. Notre Dame. |
78. The Heir of Redclyffe. |
36. Old St. Paul's. |
79. Wild Wales. |
37. Waverley. |
80. Two Years Before the Mast. |
38. 'Ninety-Three. |
81. Jane Eyre. |
39. Eothen. |
82. David Copperfield.—I. |
40. Toilers of the Sea. |
83. David Copperfield.—II. |
41. Children of the New Forest. |
84. Hereward the Wake. |
42. The Laughing Man. |
85. Wide Wide World. |
43. A Book of Golden Deeds. |
86. Michael Strogoff. |
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS.
Transcriber's Note:
Variations in hyphenated words have been retained as
they appear in the original publication. Changes to the original have
been made as follows:
Page 30 with some inpatience changed to
with some impatience
Page 48 very bravely mantained changed to
very bravely maintained
Page 120 Sudgen, his staff; and Sudgen arrest him changed to
Sugden, his staff; and Sugden arrest him
Page 166 The old atticed changed to
The old latticed
Page 175 Let as have changed to
Let us have
Page 185 Mrs. Gill, my houskeeper changed to
Mrs. Gill, my housekeeper
Page 224 by a downward gave changed to
by a downward gaze
Page 242 gently invired him changed to
gently invited him
Page 245 a smiling Melancthon changed to
a smiling Melanchthon
Page 255 Sentinels of Nunwood changed to
Sentinels of Nunnwood
Page 260 only the profiters changed to
only the profiteers
Page 274 dark gray irids changed to
dark gray irides
Page 297 alight and alow changed to
alight and aglow
Page 380 my old accupation changed to
my old occupation
Page 492 not without approbrium changed to
not without opprobrium
Punctuation has been changed as follows:
Page 119 Mr Moore, we lived changed to
Mr. Moore, we lived
Page 145 stones on the road? changed to
stones on the road.
Page 393 "Shirley, my woman changed to
'Shirley, my woman
Page 540 reward her!" changed to
reward her!'"
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