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 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 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
_fête_--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 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 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 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 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, 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. 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 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 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!