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.
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 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
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 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; 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 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.
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 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, 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 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."
"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 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.
"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 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 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 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.