The Complete Novels of Charlotte Brontë

by Charlotte Bronte

  “Well, lad, it is a queer thing. I might laugh at thee, and reckon to despise thy refinements; but as it is dark night and we are by ourselves, I don’t mind telling thee that thy talk brings back a glimpse of my own past life. Twenty-five years ago I tried to persuade a beautiful woman to love me, and she would not. I had not the key to her nature; she was a stone wall to me, doorless and windowless.”

  “But you loved her, Yorke; you worshipped Mary Cave. Your conduct, after all, was that of a man — never of a fortune-hunter.”

  “Ay, I did love her; but then she was beautiful as the moon we do not see tonight. There is naught like her in these days. Miss Helstone, maybe, has a look of her, but nobody else.”

  “Who has a look of her?”

  “That black-coated tyrant’s niece — that quiet, delicate Miss Helstone. Many a time I have put on my spectacles to look at the lassie in church, because she has gentle blue een, wi’ long lashes; and when she sits in shadow, and is very still and very pale, and is, happen, about to fall asleep wi’ the length of the sermon and the heat of the biggin’, she is as like one of Canova’s marbles as aught else.”

  “Was Mary Cave in that style?”

  “Far grander! — less lass-like and flesh-like. You wondered why she hadn’t wings and a crown. She was a stately, peaceful angel was my Mary.”

  “And you could not persuade her to love you?”

  “Not with all I could do, though I prayed Heaven many a time, on my bended knees, to help me.”

  “Mary Cave was not what you think her, Yorke. I have seen her picture at the rectory. She is no angel, but a fair, regular-featured, taciturn-looking woman — rather too white and lifeless for my taste. But, supposing she had been something better than she was — — “

  “Robert,” interrupted Yorke, “I could fell you off your horse at this moment. However, I’ll hold my hand. Reason tells me you are right and I am wrong. I know well enough that the passion I still have is only the remnant of an illusion. If Miss Cave had possessed either feeling or sense, she could not have been so perfectly impassible to my regard as she showed herself; she must have preferred me to that copper-faced despot.”

  “Supposing, Yorke, she had been educated (no women were educated in those days); supposing she had possessed a thoughtful, original mind, a love of knowledge, a wish for information, which she took an artless delight in receiving from your lips, and having measured out to her by your hand; supposing her conversation, when she sat at your side, was fertile, varied, imbued with a picturesque grace and genial interest, quiet flowing but clear and bounteous; supposing that when you stood near her by chance, or when you sat near her by design, comfort at once became your atmosphere, and content your element; supposing that whenever her face was under your gaze, or her idea filled your thoughts, you gradually ceased to be hard and anxious, and pure affection, love of home, thirst for sweet discourse, unselfish longing to protect and cherish, replaced the sordid, cankering calculations of your trade; supposing, with all this, that many a time, when you had been so happy as to possess your Mary’s little hand, you had felt it tremble as you held it, just as a warm little bird trembles when you take it from its nest; supposing you had noticed her shrink into the background on your entrance into a room, yet if you sought her in her retreat she welcomed you with the sweetest smile that ever lit a fair virgin face, and only turned her eyes from the encounter of your own lest their clearness should reveal too much; supposing, in short, your Mary had been not cold, but modest; not vacant, but reflective; not obtuse, but sensitive; not inane, but innocent; not prudish, but pure, — would you have left her to court another woman for her wealth?”

  Mr. Yorke raised his hat, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “The moon is up,” was his first not quite relevant remark, pointing with his whip across the moor. “There she is, rising into the haze, staring at us wi’ a strange red glower. She is no more silver than old Helstone’s brow is ivory. What does she mean by leaning her cheek on Rushedge i’ that way, and looking at us wi’ a scowl and a menace?”

  “Yorke, if Mary had loved you silently yet faithfully, chastely yet fervently, as you would wish your wife to love, would you have left her?”

  “Robert!” — he lifted his arm, he held it suspended, and paused — “Robert! this is a queer world, and men are made of the queerest dregs that Chaos churned up in her ferment. I might swear sounding oaths — oaths that would make the poachers think there was a bittern booming in Bilberry Moss — that, in the case you put, death only should have parted me from Mary. But I have lived in the world fifty-five years; I have been forced to study human nature; and, to speak a dark truth, the odds are, if Mary had loved and not scorned me, if I had been secure of her affection, certain of her constancy, been irritated by no doubts, stung by no humiliations — the odds are” (he let his hand fall heavy on the saddle) — “the odds are I should have left her!”

  They rode side by side in silence. Ere either spoke again they were on the other side of Rushedge. Briarfield lights starred the purple skirt of the moor. Robert, being the youngest, and having less of the past to absorb him than his comrade, recommenced first.

  “I believe — I daily find it proved — that we can get nothing in this world worth keeping, not so much as a principle or a conviction, except out of purifying flame or through strengthening peril. We err, we fall, we are humbled; then we walk more carefully. We greedily eat and drink poison out of the gilded cup of vice or from the beggar’s wallet of avarice. We are sickened, degraded; everything good in us rebels against us; our souls rise bitterly indignant against our bodies; there is a period of civil war; if the soul has strength, it conquers and rules thereafter.”

  “What art thou going to do now, Robert? What are thy plans?”

  “For my private plans, I’ll keep them to myself — which is very easy, as at present I have none. No private life is permitted a man in my position — a man in debt. For my public plans, my views are a little altered. While I was in Birmingham I looked a little into reality, considered closely and at their source the causes of the present troubles of this country. I did the same in London. Unknown, I could go where I pleased, mix with whom I would. I went where there was want of food, of fuel, of clothing; where there was no occupation and no hope. I saw some, with naturally elevated tendencies and good feelings, kept down amongst sordid privations and harassing griefs. I saw many originally low, and to whom lack of education left scarcely anything but animal wants, disappointed in those wants, ahungered, athirst, and desperate as famished animals. I saw what taught my brain a new lesson, and filled my breast with fresh feelings. I have no intention to profess more softness or sentiment than I have hitherto professed; mutiny and ambition I regard as I have always regarded them. I should resist a riotous mob just as heretofore; I should open on the scent of a runaway ringleader as eagerly as ever, and run him down as relentlessly, and follow him up to condign punishment as rigorously; but I should do it now chiefly for the sake and the security of those he misled. Something there is to look to, Yorke, beyond a man’s personal interest, beyond the advancement of well-laid schemes, beyond even the discharge of dishonouring debts. To respect himself, a man must believe he renders justice to his fellow-men. Unless I am more considerate to ignorance, more forbearing to suffering, than I have hitherto been, I shall scorn myself as grossly unjust. — What now?” he said, addressing his horse, which, hearing the ripple of water, and feeling thirsty, turned to a wayside trough, where the moonbeam was playing in a crystal eddy.

  “Yorke,” pursued Moore, “ride on; I must let him drink.”

  Yorke accordingly rode slowly forwards, occupying himself as he advanced in discriminating, amongst the many lights now spangling the distance, those of Briarmains. Stilbro’ Moor was left behind; plantations rose dusk on either hand; they were descending the hill; below them lay the valley with its populous parish: they felt already at home.

  Surrounded no longer by heath,
it was not startling to Mr. Yorke to see a hat rise, and to hear a voice speak behind the wall. The words, however, were peculiar.

  “When the wicked perisheth there is shouting,” it said; and added, “As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more” (with a deeper growl): “terrors take hold of him as waters; hell is naked before him. He shall die without knowledge.”

  A fierce flash and sharp crack violated the calm of night. Yorke, ere he turned, knew the four convicts of Birmingham were avenged.

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  UNCLE AND NIECE.

  Table of Contents

  The die was cast. Sir Philip Nunnely knew it; Shirley knew it; Mr. Sympson knew it. That evening, when all the Fieldhead family dined at Nunnely Priory, decided the business.

  Two or three things conduced to bring the baronet to a point. He had observed that Miss Keeldar looked pensive and delicate. This new phase in her demeanour smote him on his weak or poetic side. A spontaneous sonnet brewed in his brain; and while it was still working there, one of his sisters persuaded his lady-love to sit down to the piano and sing a ballad — one of Sir Philip’s own ballads. It was the least elaborate, the least affected — out of all comparison the best of his numerous efforts.

  It chanced that Shirley, the moment before, had been gazing from a window down on the park. She had seen that stormy moonlight which “le Professeur Louis” was perhaps at the same instant contemplating from her own oak-parlour lattice; she had seen the isolated trees of the domain — broad, strong, spreading oaks, and high-towering heroic beeches — wrestling with the gale. Her ear had caught the full roar of the forest lower down; the swift rushing of clouds, the moon, to the eye, hasting swifter still, had crossed her vision. She turned from sight and sound — touched, if not rapt; wakened, if not inspired.

  She sang, as requested. There was much about love in the ballad — faithful love that refused to abandon its object; love that disaster could not shake; love that in calamity waxed fonder, in poverty clung closer. The words were set to a fine old air; in themselves they were simple and sweet. Perhaps, when read, they wanted force; when well sung, they wanted nothing. Shirley sang them well. She breathed into the feeling softness; she poured round the passion force. Her voice was fine that evening, its expression dramatic. She impressed all, and charmed one.

  On leaving the instrument she went to the fire, and sat down on a seat — semi-stool, semi-cushion. The ladies were round her; none of them spoke. The Misses Sympson and the Misses Nunnely looked upon her as quiet poultry might look on an egret, an ibis, or any other strange fowl. What made her sing so? They never sang so. Was it proper to sing with such expression, with such originality — so unlike a schoolgirl? Decidedly not. It was strange, it was unusual. What was strange must be wrong ; what was unusual must be improper. Shirley was judged.

  Moreover, old Lady Nunnely eyed her stonily from her great chair by the fireside. Her gaze said, “This woman is not of mine or my daughters’ kind. I object to her as my son’s wife.”

  Her son, catching the look, read its meaning. He grew alarmed. What he so wished to win there was danger he might lose. He must make haste.

  The room they were in had once been a picture-gallery. Sir Philip’s father — Sir Monckton — had converted it into a saloon; but still it had a shadowy, long-withdrawing look. A deep recess with a window — a recess that held one couch, one table, and a fairy cabinet — formed a room within a room. Two persons standing there might interchange a dialogue, and, so it were neither long nor loud, none be the wiser.

  Sir Philip induced two of his sisters to perpetrate a duet. He gave occupation to the Misses Sympson. The elder ladies were conversing together. He was pleased to remark that meantime Shirley rose to look at the pictures. He had a tale to tell about one ancestress, whose dark beauty seemed as that of a flower of the south. He joined her, and began to tell it.

  There were mementoes of the same lady in the cabinet adorning the recess; and while Shirley was stooping to examine the missal and the rosary on the inlaid shelf, and while the Misses Nunnely indulged in a prolonged screech, guiltless of expression, pure of originality, perfectly conventional and absolutely unmeaning, Sir Philip stooped too, and whispered a few hurried sentences. At first Miss Keeldar was struck so still you might have fancied that whisper a charm which had changed her to a statue; but she presently looked up and answered. They parted. Miss Keeldar returned to the fire, and resumed her seat. The baronet gazed after her, then went and stood behind his sisters. Mr. Sympson — Mr. Sympson only — had marked the pantomime.

  That gentleman drew his own conclusions. Had he been as acute as he was meddling, as profound as he was prying, he might have found that in Sir Philip’s face whereby to correct his inference. Ever shallow, hasty, and positive, he went home quite cock-a-hoop.

  He was not a man that kept secrets well. When elate on a subject, he could not avoid talking about it. The next morning, having occasion to employ his son’s tutor as his secretary, he must needs announce to him, in mouthing accents, and with much flimsy pomp of manner, that he had better hold himself prepared for a return to the south at an early day, as the important business which had detained him (Mr. Sympson) so long in Yorkshire was now on the eve of fortunate completion. His anxious and laborious efforts were likely, at last, to be crowned with the happiest success. A truly eligible addition was about to be made to the family connections.

  “In Sir Philip Nunnely?” Louis Moore conjectured.

  Whereupon Mr. Sympson treated himself simultaneously to a pinch of snuff and a chuckling laugh, checked only by a sudden choke of dignity, and an order to the tutor to proceed with business.

  For a day or two Mr. Sympson continued as bland as oil, but also he seemed to sit on pins, and his gait, when he walked, emulated that of a hen treading a hot girdle. He was for ever looking out of the window and listening for chariot-wheels. Bluebeard’s wife — Sisera’s mother — were nothing to him. He waited when the matter should be opened in form, when himself should be consulted, when lawyers should be summoned, when settlement discussions and all the delicious worldly fuss should pompously begin.

  At last there came a letter. He himself handed it to Miss Keeldar out of the bag. He knew the handwriting; he knew the crest on the seal. He did not see it opened and read, for Shirley took it to her own room; nor did he see it answered, for she wrote her reply shut up, and was very long about it — the best part of a day. He questioned her whether it was answered; she responded, “Yes.”

  Again he waited — waited in silence, absolutely not daring to speak, kept mute by something in Shirley’s face — a very awful something — inscrutable to him as the writing on the wall to Belshazzar. He was moved more than once to call Daniel, in the person of Louis Moore, and to ask an interpretation; but his dignity forbade the familiarity. Daniel himself, perhaps, had his own private difficulties connected with that baffling bit of translation; he looked like a student for whom grammars are blank and dictionaries dumb.

  Mr. Sympson had been out, to while away an anxious hour in the society of his friends at De Walden Hall. He returned a little sooner than was expected. His family and Miss Keeldar were assembled in the oak parlour. Addressing the latter, he requested her to step with him into another room. He wished to have with her a “ strictly private interview.”

  She rose, asking no questions and professing no surprise.

  “Very well, sir,” she said, in the tone of a determined person who is informed that the dentist is come to extract that large double tooth of his, from which he has suffered such a purgatory this month past. She left her sewing and her thimble in the window-seat, and followed her uncle where he led.

  Shut into the drawing-room, the pair took seats, each in an armchair, placed opposite, a few yards between them.

  “I have been to De Walden Hall,” said Mr. Sympson. He paused. Miss Keeldar’s eyes were on the pretty white-and-green carpet. That information required no response. She gave none.

&nbs
p; “I have learned,” he went on slowly — “I have learned a circumstance which surprises me.”

  Resting her cheek on her forefinger, she waited to be told what circumstance.

  “It seems that Nunnely Priory is shut up — that the family are gone back to their place in — — shire. It seems that the baronet — that the baronet — that Sir Philip himself has accompanied his mother and sisters.”

  “Indeed!” said Shirley.

  “May I ask if you share the amazement with which I received this news?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is it news to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean — I mean,” pursued Mr. Sympson, now fidgeting in his chair, quitting his hitherto brief and tolerably clear phraseology, and returning to his customary wordy, confused, irritable style — “I mean to have a thorough explanation. I will not be put off. I — I — shall insist on being heard, and on — on having my own way. My questions must be answered. I will have clear, satisfactory replies. I am not to be trifled with. (Silence.)