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?"
"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 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, 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."
"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."
"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?"
"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 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 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 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 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 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?"
"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 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 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 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 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 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 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.
"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."
"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."
"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 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."
"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 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, 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.