The Complete Novels of Charlotte Brontë

by Charlotte Bronte

  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 tonight?”

  “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 goodnight!”

  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 ladylike 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.