The Complete Novels of Charlotte Brontë

by Charlotte Bronte

  “Of some women’s, but not of Shirley’s.”

  “Is she better than others of her sex?”

  “She is peculiar, and more dangerous to take as a wife — rashly.”

  “I can imagine that.”

  “She spoke of you — — “

  “Oh, she did! I thought you denied it.”

  “She did not speak in the way you fancy; but I asked her, and I would make her tell me what she thought of you, or rather how she felt towards you. I wanted to know; I had long wanted to know.”

  “So had I; but let us hear. She thinks meanly, she feels contemptuously, doubtless?”

  “She thinks of you almost as highly as a woman can think of a man. You know she can be eloquent. I yet feel in fancy the glow of the language in which her opinion was conveyed.”

  “But how does she feel?”

  “Till you shocked her (she said you had shocked her, but she would not tell me how) she felt as a sister feels towards a brother of whom she is at once fond and proud.”

  “I’ll shock her no more, Cary, for the shock rebounded on myself till I staggered again. But that comparison about sister and brother is all nonsense. She is too rich and proud to entertain fraternal sentiments for me.”

  “You don’t know her, Robert; and, somehow, I fancy now (I had other ideas formerly) that you cannot know her. You and she are not so constructed as to be able thoroughly to understand each other.”

  “It may be so. I esteem her, I admire her; and yet my impressions concerning her are harsh — perhaps uncharitable. I believe, for instance, that she is incapable of love — — “

  “Shirley incapable of love!”

  “That she will never marry. I imagine her jealous of compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power, of sharing her property.”

  “Shirley has hurt your amour propre.”

  “She did hurt it; though I had not an emotion of tenderness, nor a spark of passion for her.”

  “Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want to marry her.”

  “And very mean, my little pastor, my pretty priestess. I never wanted to kiss Miss Keeldar in my life, though she has fine lips, scarlet and round as ripe cherries; or, if I did wish it, it was the mere desire of the eye.”

  “I doubt, now, whether you are speaking the truth. The grapes or the cherries are sour — ‘hung too high.’”

  “She has a pretty figure, a pretty face, beautiful hair. I acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them, or only feel them in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was truly tempted by the mere gilding of the bait. Caroline, what a noble fellow your Robert is — great, good, disinterested, and then so pure!”

  “But not perfect. He made a great blunder once, and we will hear no more about it.”

  “And shall we think no more about it, Cary? Shall we not despise him in our heart — gentle but just, compassionate but upright?”

  “Never! We will remember that with what measure we mete it shall be measured unto us, and so we will give no scorn, only affection.”

  “Which won’t satisfy, I warn you of that. Something besides affection — something far stronger, sweeter, warmer — will be demanded one day. Is it there to give?”

  Caroline was moved, much moved.

  “Be calm, Lina,” said Moore soothingly. “I have no intention, because I have no right, to perturb your mind now, nor for months to come. Don’t look as if you would leave me. We will make no more agitating allusions; we will resume our gossip. Do not tremble; look me in the face. See what a poor, pale, grim phantom I am — more pitiable than formidable.”

  She looked shyly. “There is something formidable still, pale as you are,” she said, as her eye fell under his.

  “To return to Shirley,” pursued Moore: “is it your opinion that she is ever likely to marry?”

  “She loves.”

  “Platonically — theoretically — all humbug!”

  “She loves what I call sincerely.”

  “Did she say so?”

  “I cannot affirm that she said so. No such confession as ‘I love this man or that’ passed her lips.”

  “I thought not.”

  “But the feeling made its way in spite of her, and I saw it. She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunderstood. Her voice alone was sufficient testimony. Having wrung from her an opinion on your character, I demanded a second opinion of — another person about whom I had my conjectures, though they were the most tangled and puzzled conjectures in the world. I would make her speak. I shook her, I chid her, I pinched her fingers when she tried to put me off with gibes and jests in her queer provoking way, and at last out it came. The voice, I say, was enough; hardly raised above a whisper, and yet such a soft vehemence in its tones. There was no confession, no confidence, in the matter. To these things she cannot condescend; but I am sure that man’s happiness is dear to her as her own life.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I charged her with the fact. She did not deny, she did not avow, but looked at me. I saw her eyes by the snow-gleam. It was quite enough. I triumphed over her mercilessly.”

  “What right had you to triumph? Do you mean to say you are fancy free?”

  “Whatever I am, Shirley is a bondswoman. Lioness, she has found her captor. Mistress she may be of all round her, but her own mistress she is not.”

  “So you exulted at recognizing a fellow-slave in one so fair and imperial?”

  “I did; Robert, you say right, in one so fair and imperial.”

  “You confess it — a fellow -slave?”

  “I confess nothing; but I say that haughty Shirley is no more free than was Hagar.”

  “And who, pray, is the Abraham, the hero of a patriarch who has achieved such a conquest?”

  “You still speak scornfully, and cynically, and sorely; but I will make you change your note before I have done with you.”

  “We will see that. Can she marry this Cupidon?”

  “Cupidon! he is just about as much a Cupidon as you are a Cyclops.”

  “Can she marry him?”

  “You will see.”

  “I want to know his name, Cary.”

  “Guess it.”

  “Is it any one in this neighbourhood?”

  “Yes, in Briarfield parish.”

  “Then it is some person unworthy of her. I don’t know a soul in Briarfield parish her equal.”

  “Guess.”

  “Impossible. I suppose she is under a delusion, and will plunge into some absurdity, after all.”

  Caroline smiled.

  “Do you approve the choice?” asked Moore.

  “Quite, quite.”

  “Then I am puzzled; for the head which owns this bounteous fall of hazel curls is an excellent little thinking machine, most accurate in its working. It boasts a correct, steady judgment, inherited from ‘mamma,’ I suppose.”

  “And I quite approve, and mamma was charmed.”

  “‘Mamma’ charmed — Mrs. Pryor! It can’t be romantic, then?”

  “It is romantic, but it is also right.”

  “Tell me, Cary — tell me out of pity; I am too weak to be tantalized.”

  “You shall be tantalized — it will do you no harm; you are not so weak as you pretend.”

  “I have twice this evening had some thoughts of falling on the floor at your feet.”

  “You had better not. I shall decline to help you up.”

  “And worshipping you downright. My mother was a Roman Catholic. You look like the loveliest of her pictures of the Virgin. I think I will embrace her faith and kneel and adore.”

  “Robert, Robert, sit still; don’t be absurd. I will go to Hortense if you commit extravagances.”

  “You have stolen my senses. Just now nothing will come into my mind but les litanies de la sainte Vièrge. Rose céleste, reine des anges!”

  “Tour d’ivoire, maison d’or — is not that the jargon? Well, sit down quietly, and guess your riddle.”

  “But
‘mamma’ charmed — there’s the puzzle.”

  “I’ll tell you what mamma said when I told her. ‘Depend upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the happiness of Miss Keeldar’s life.’”

  “I’ll guess once, and no more. It is old Helstone. She is going to be your aunt.”

  “I’ll tell my uncle; I’ll tell Shirley!” cried Caroline, laughing gleefully. “Guess again, Robert; your blunders are charming.”

  “It is the parson — Hall.”

  “Indeed, no; he is mine, if you please.”

  “Yours! Ay, the whole generation of women in Briarfield seem to have made an idol of that priest. I wonder why; he is bald, sand-blind, gray-haired.”

  “Fanny will be here to fetch me before you have solved the riddle, if you don’t make haste.”

  “I’ll guess no more — I am tired; and then I don’t care. Miss Keeldar may marry le grand Turc for me.”

  “Must I whisper?”

  “That you must, and quickly. Here comes Hortense; come near, a little nearer, my own Lina. I care for the whisper more than the words.”

  She whispered. Robert gave a start, a flash of the eye, a brief laugh. Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed behind, with information that Fanny was come. The hour of converse was over.

  Robert found a moment to exchange a few more whispered sentences. He was waiting at the foot of the staircase as Caroline descended after putting on her shawl.

  “Must I call Shirley a noble creature now?” he asked.

  “If you wish to speak the truth, certainly.”

  “Must I forgive her?”

  “Forgive her? Naughty Robert! Was she in the wrong, or were you?”

  “Must I at length love her downright, Cary?”

  Caroline looked keenly up, and made a movement towards him, something between the loving and the petulant.

  “Only give the word, and I’ll try to obey you.”

  “Indeed, you must not love her; the bare idea is perverse.”

  “But then she is handsome, peculiarly handsome. Hers is a beauty that grows on you. You think her but graceful when you first see her; you discover her to be beautiful when you have known her for a year.”

  “It is not you who are to say these things. Now, Robert, be good.”

  “O Cary, I have no love to give. Were the goddess of beauty to woo me, I could not meet her advances. There is no heart which I can call mine in this breast.”

  “So much the better; you are a great deal safer without. Goodnight.”

  “Why must you always go, Lina, at the very instant when I most want you to stay?”

  “Because you most wish to retain when you are most certain to lose.”

  “Listen; one other word. Take care of your own heart — do you hear me?”

  “There is no danger.”

  “I am not convinced of that. The Platonic parson, for instance.”

  “Who — Malone?”

  “Cyril Hall. I owe more than one twinge of jealousy to that quarter.”

  “As to you, you have been flirting with Miss Mann. She showed me the other day a plant you had given her. — Fanny, I am ready.”

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  WRITTEN IN THE SCHOOLROOM.

  Table of Contents

  Louis Moore’s doubts respecting the immediate evacuation of Fieldhead by Mr. Sympson turned out to be perfectly well founded. The very next day after the grand quarrel about Sir Philip Nunnely a sort of reconciliation was patched up between uncle and niece. Shirley, who could never find it in her heart to be or to seem inhospitable (except in the single instance of Mr. Donne), begged the whole party to stay a little longer. She begged in such earnest it was evident she wished it for some reason. They took her at her word. Indeed, the uncle could not bring himself to leave her quite unwatched — at full liberty to marry Robert Moore as soon as that gentleman should be able (Mr. Sympson piously prayed this might never be the case) to reassert his supposed pretensions to her hand. They all stayed.

  In his first rage against all the house of Moore, Mr. Sympson had so conducted himself towards Mr. Louis that that gentleman — patient of labour or suffering, but intolerant of coarse insolence — had promptly resigned his post, and could now be induced to resume and retain it only till such time as the family should quit Yorkshire. Mrs. Sympson’s entreaties prevailed with him thus far; his own attachment to his pupil constituted an additional motive for concession; and probably he had a third motive, stronger than either of the other two. Probably he would have found it very hard indeed to leave Fieldhead just now.

  Things went on for some time pretty smoothly. Miss Keeldar’s health was re-established; her spirits resumed their flow. Moore had found means to relieve her from every nervous apprehension; and, indeed, from the moment of giving him her confidence, every fear seemed to have taken wing. Her heart became as lightsome, her manner as careless, as those of a little child, that, thoughtless of its own life or death, trusts all responsibility to its parents. He and William Farren — through whose medium he made inquiries concerning the state of Phœbe — agreed in asserting that the dog was not mad, that it was only ill-usage which had driven her from home; for it was proved that her master was in the frequent habit of chastising her violently. Their assertion might or might not be true. The groom and gamekeeper affirmed to the contrary — both asserting that, if hers was not a clear case of hydrophobia, there was no such disease. But to this evidence Louis Moore turned an incredulous ear. He reported to Shirley only what was encouraging. She believed him; and, right or wrong, it is certain that in her case the bite proved innocuous.

  November passed; December came. The Sympsons were now really departing. It was incumbent on them to be at home by Christmas. Their packages were preparing; they were to leave in a few days. One winter evening, during the last week of their stay, Louis Moore again took out his little blank book, and discoursed with it as follows: —

  “She is lovelier than ever. Since that little cloud was dispelled all the temporary waste and wanness have vanished. It was marvellous to see how soon the magical energy of youth raised her elastic and revived her blooming.

  “After breakfast this morning, when I had seen her, and listened to her, and, so to speak, felt her, in every sentient atom of my frame, I passed from her sunny presence into the chill drawing-room. Taking up a little gilt volume, I found it to contain a selection of lyrics. I read a poem or two; whether the spell was in me or in the verse I know not, but my heart filled genially, my pulse rose. I glowed, notwithstanding the frost air. I, too, am young as yet. Though she said she never considered me young, I am barely thirty. There are moments when life, for no other reason than my own youth, beams with sweet hues upon me.

  “It was time to go to the schoolroom. I went. That same schoolroom is rather pleasant in a morning. The sun then shines through the low lattice; the books are in order; there are no papers strewn about; the fire is clear and clean; no cinders have fallen, no ashes accumulated. I found Henry there, and he had brought with him Miss Keeldar. They were together.

  “I said she was lovelier than ever. She is. A fine rose, not deep but delicate, opens on her cheek. Her eye, always dark, clear, and speaking, utters now a language I cannot render; it is the utterance, seen not heard, through which angels must have communed when there was ‘silence in heaven.’ Her hair was always dusk as night and fine as silk, her neck was always fair, flexible, polished; but both have now a new charm. The tresses are soft as shadow, the shoulders they fall on wear a goddess grace. Once I only saw her beauty, now I feel it.

  “Henry was repeating his lesson to her before bringing it to me. One of her hands was occupied with the book; he held the other. That boy gets more than his share of privileges; he dares caress and is caressed. What indulgence and compassion she shows him! Too much. If this went on, Henry in a few years, when his soul was formed, would offer it on her altar, as I have offered mine.

  “I saw her eyelid flitter when I came in, but she did not look
up; now she hardly ever gives me a glance. She seems to grow silent too; to me she rarely speaks, and when I am present, she says little to others. In my gloomy moments I attribute this change to indifference, aversion, what not? In my sunny intervals I give it another meaning. I say, were I her equal, I could find in this shyness coyness, and in that coyness love. As it is, dare I look for it? What could I do with it if found?

  “This morning I dared at least contrive an hour’s communion for her and me; I dared not only wish but will an interview with her. I dared summon solitude to guard us. Very decidedly I called Henry to the door. Without hesitation I said, ‘Go where you will, my boy; but, till I call you, return not here.’