Shirley

by Charlotte Bronte

  CHAPTER XI.

  FIELDHEAD.

  Yet Caroline refused tamely to succumb. She had native strength in hergirl's heart, and she used it. Men and women never struggle so hard aswhen they struggle alone, without witness, counsellor, or confidant,unencouraged, unadvised, and unpitied.

  Miss Helstone was in this position. Her sufferings were her only spur,and being very real and sharp, they roused her spirit keenly. Bent onvictory over a mortal pain, she did her best to quell it. Never had shebeen seen so busy, so studious, and, above all, so active. She tookwalks in all weathers, long walks in solitary directions. Day by day shecame back in the evening, pale and wearied-looking, yet seemingly notfatigued; for still, as soon as she had thrown off her bonnet and shawl,she would, instead of resting, begin to pace her apartment. Sometimesshe would not sit down till she was literally faint. She said she didthis to tire herself well, that she might sleep soundly at night. But ifthat was her aim it was unattained; for at night, when others slumbered,she was tossing on her pillow, or sitting at the foot of her couch inthe darkness, forgetful, apparently, of the necessity of seeking repose.Often, unhappy girl! she was crying--crying in a sort of intolerabledespair, which, when it rushed over her, smote down her strength, andreduced her to childlike helplessness.

  When thus prostrate, temptations besieged her. Weak suggestionswhispered in her weary heart to write to Robert, and say that she wasunhappy because she was forbidden to see him and Hortense, and that shefeared he would withdraw his friendship (not love) from her, and forgether entirely, and begging him to remember her, and sometimes to write toher. One or two such letters she actually indited, but she never sentthem: shame and good sense forbade.

  At last the life she led reached the point when it seemed she could bearit no longer, that she must seek and find a change somehow, or her heartand head would fail under the pressure which strained them. She longedto leave Briarfield, to go to some very distant place. She longed forsomething else--the deep, secret, anxious yearning to discover and knowher mother strengthened daily; but with the desire was coupled a doubt,a dread--if she knew her, could she love her? There was cause forhesitation, for apprehension on this point. Never in her life had sheheard that mother praised; whoever mentioned her mentioned her coolly.Her uncle seemed to regard his sister-in-law with a sort of tacitantipathy; an old servant, who had lived with Mrs. James Helstone for ashort time after her marriage, whenever she referred to her formermistress, spoke with chilling reserve--sometimes she called her "queer,"sometimes she said she did not understand her. These expressions wereice to the daughter's heart; they suggested the conclusion that it wasperhaps better never to know her parent than to know her and not likeher.

  But one project could she frame whose execution seemed likely to bringher a hope of relief: it was to take a situation, to be a governess; shecould do nothing else. A little incident brought her to the point, whenshe found courage to break her design to her uncle.

  Her long and late walks lay always, as has been said, on lonely roads;but in whatever direction she had rambled--whether along the drearskirts of Stilbro' Moor or over the sunny stretch of Nunnely Common--herhomeward path was still so contrived as to lead her near the Hollow. Sherarely descended the den, but she visited its brink at twilight almostas regularly as the stars rose over the hillcrests. Her resting-placewas at a certain stile under a certain old thorn. Thence she could lookdown on the cottage, the mill, the dewy garden-ground, the still, deepdam; thence was visible the well-known counting-house window, from whosepanes at a fixed hour shot, suddenly bright, the ray of the well-knownlamp. Her errand was to watch for this ray, her reward to catch it,sometimes sparkling bright in clear air, sometimes shimmering dimthrough mist, and anon flashing broken between slant lines of rain--forshe came in all weathers.

  There were nights when it failed to appear. She knew then that Robertwas from home, and went away doubly sad; whereas its kindling renderedher elate, as though she saw in it the promise of some indefinite hope.If, while she gazed, a shadow bent between the light and lattice, herheart leaped. That eclipse was Robert; she had seen him. She wouldreturn home comforted, carrying in her mind a clearer vision of hisaspect, a distincter recollection of his voice, his smile, his bearing;and blent with these impressions was often a sweet persuasion that, ifshe could get near him, his heart might welcome her presence yet, thatat this moment he might be willing to extend his hand and draw her tohim, and shelter her at his side as he used to do. That night, thoughshe might weep as usual, she would fancy her tears less scalding; thepillow they watered seemed a little softer; the temples pressed to thatpillow ached less.

  The shortest path from the Hollow to the rectory wound near a certainmansion, the same under whose lone walls Malone passed on thatnight-journey mentioned in an early chapter of this work--the old andtenantless dwelling yclept Fieldhead. Tenantless by the proprietor ithad been for ten years, but it was no ruin. Mr. Yorke had seen it keptin good repair, and an old gardener and his wife had lived in it,cultivated the grounds, and maintained the house in habitable condition.

  If Fieldhead had few other merits as a building, it might at least betermed picturesque. Its regular architecture, and the gray and mossycolouring communicated by time, gave it a just claim to this epithet.The old latticed windows, the stone porch, the walls, the roof, thechimney-stacks, were rich in crayon touches and sepia lights and shades.The trees behind were fine, bold, and spreading; the cedar on the lawnin front was grand; and the granite urns on the garden wall, the frettedarch of the gateway, were, for an artist, as the very desire of the eye.

  One mild May evening Caroline, passing near about moonrise, and feeling,though weary, unwilling yet to go home, where there was only the bed ofthorns and the night of grief to anticipate, sat down on the mossyground near the gate, and gazed through towards cedar and mansion. Itwas a still night--calm, dewy, cloudless; the gables, turned to thewest, reflected the clear amber of the horizon they faced; the oaksbehind were black; the cedar was blacker. Under its dense, raven boughsa glimpse of sky opened gravely blue. It was full of the moon, whichlooked solemnly and mildly down on Caroline from beneath that sombrecanopy.

  She felt this night and prospect mournfully lovely. She wished she couldbe happy; she wished she could know inward peace; she wonderedProvidence had no pity on her, and would not help or console her.Recollections of happy trysts of lovers, commemorated in old ballads,returned on her mind; she thought such tryst in such scene would beblissful. Where now was Robert? she asked. Not at the Hollow; she hadwatched for his lamp long, and had not seen it. She questioned withinherself whether she and Moore were ever destined to meet and speakagain. Suddenly the door within the stone porch of the hall opened, andtwo men came out--one elderly and white-headed, the other young,dark-haired, and tall. They passed across the lawn, out through a portalin the garden wall. Caroline saw them cross the road, pass the stile,descend the fields; she saw them disappear. Robert Moore had passedbefore her with his friend Mr. Yorke. Neither had seen her.

  The apparition had been transient--scarce seen ere gone; but itselectric passage left her veins kindled, her soul insurgent. It foundher despairing, it left her desperate--two different states.

  "Oh, had he but been alone! had he but seen me!" was her cry. "He wouldhave said something. He would have given me his hand. He _does_, he_must_, love me a little. He would have shown some token of affection.In his eye, on his lips, I should have read comfort; but the chance islost. The wind, the cloud's shadow, does not pass more silently, moreemptily than he. I have been mocked, and Heaven is cruel!"

  Thus, in the utter sickness of longing and disappointment, she wenthome.

  The next morning at breakfast, where she appeared white-cheeked andmiserable-looking as one who had seen a ghost, she inquired of Mr.Helstone, "Have you any objection, uncle, to my inquiring for asituation in a family?"

  Her uncle, ignorant as the table supporting his coffee-cup of all hisniece had undergone and was undergoing, scarcel
y believed his ears.

  "What whim now?" he asked. "Are you bewitched? What can you mean?"

  "I am not well, and need a change," she said.

  He examined her. He discovered she had _experienced_ a change, at anyrate. Without his being aware of it, the rose had dwindled and faded toa mere snowdrop; bloom had vanished, flesh wasted; she sat before himdrooping, colourless, and thin. But for the soft expression of her browneyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flowing abundance ofher hair, she would no longer have possessed a claim to the epithetpretty.

  "What on earth is the matter with you?" he asked. "What is wrong? Howare you ailing?"

  No answer; only the brown eyes filled, the faintly-tinted lips trembled.

  "Look out for a situation, indeed! For what situation are you fit? Whathave you been doing with yourself? You are not well."

  "I should be well if I went from home."

  "These women are incomprehensible. They have the strangest knack ofstartling you with unpleasant surprises. To-day you see them bouncing,buxom, red as cherries, and round as apples; to-morrow they exhibitthemselves effete as dead weeds, blanched and broken down. And thereason of it all? That's the puzzle. She has her meals, her liberty, agood house to live in, and good clothes to wear, as usual. A while sincethat sufficed to keep her handsome and cheery, and there she sits now apoor, little, pale, puling chit enough. Provoking! Then comes thequestion, What is to be done? I suppose I must send for advice. Will youhave a doctor, child?"

  "No, uncle, I don't want one. A doctor could do me no good. I merelywant change of air and scene."

  "Well, if that be the caprice, it shall be gratified. You shall go to awatering-place. I don't mind the expense. Fanny shall accompany you."

  "But, uncle, some day I must do something for myself; I have no fortune.I had better begin now."

  "While I live, you shall not turn out as a governess, Caroline. I willnot have it said that my niece is a governess."

  "But the later in life one makes a change of that sort, uncle, the moredifficult and painful it is. I should wish to get accustomed to the yokebefore any habits of ease and independence are formed."

  "I beg you will not harass me, Caroline. I mean to provide for you. Ihave always meant to provide for you. I will purchase an annuity. Blessme! I am but fifty-five; my health and constitution are excellent.There is plenty of time to save and take measures. Don't make yourselfanxious respecting the future. Is that what frets you?"

  "No, uncle; but I long for a change."

  He laughed. "There speaks the woman!" cried he, "the very woman! Achange! a change! Always fantastical and whimsical! Well, it's in hersex."

  "But it is not fantasy and whim, uncle."

  "What is it then?"

  "Necessity, I think. I feel weaker than formerly. I believe I shouldhave more to do."

  "Admirable! She feels weak, and _therefore_ she should be set to hardlabour--'clair comme le jour,' as Moore--confound Moore! You shall go toCliff Bridge; and there are two guineas to buy a new frock. Come, Cary,never fear. We'll find balm in Gilead."

  "Uncle, I wish you were less generous and more----"

  "More what?"

  Sympathizing was the word on Caroline's lips, but it was not uttered.She checked herself in time. Her uncle would indeed have laughed if thatnamby-pamby word had escaped her. Finding her silent, he said, "The factis, you don't know precisely what you want."

  "Only to be a governess."

  "Pooh! mere nonsense! I'll not hear of governessing. Don't mention itagain. It is rather too feminine a fancy. I have finished breakfast.Ring the bell. Put all crotchets out of your head, and run away andamuse yourself."

  "What with? My doll?" asked Caroline to herself as she quitted the room.

  A week or two passed; her bodily and mental health neither grew worsenor better. She was now precisely in that state when, if herconstitution had contained the seeds of consumption, decline, or slowfever, those diseases would have been rapidly developed, and would soonhave carried her quietly from the world. People never die of love orgrief alone, though some die of inherent maladies which the tortures ofthose passions prematurely force into destructive action. The sound bynature undergo these tortures, and are racked, shaken, shattered; theirbeauty and bloom perish, but life remains untouched. They are brought toa certain point of dilapidation; they are reduced to pallor, debility,and emaciation. People think, as they see them gliding languidly about,that they will soon withdraw to sick-beds, perish there, and cease fromamong the healthy and happy. This does not happen. They live on; andthough they cannot regain youth and gaiety, they may regain strength andserenity. The blossom which the March wind nips, but fails to sweepaway, may survive to hang a withered apple on the tree late into autumn:having braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the first ofwinter.

  Every one noticed the change in Miss Helstone's appearance, and mostpeople said she was going to die. She never thought so herself. She feltin no dying case; she had neither pain nor sickness. Her appetite wasdiminished; she knew the reason. It was because she wept so much atnight. Her strength was lessened; she could account for it. Sleep wascoy and hard to be won; dreams were distressing and baleful. In the farfuture she still seemed to anticipate a time when this passage of miseryshould be got over, and when she should once more be calm, thoughperhaps never again happy.

  Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit, to comply with the frequentinvitations of their acquaintance. This she evaded doing. She could notbe cheerful in company; she felt she was observed there with morecuriosity than sympathy. Old ladies were always offering her theiradvice, recommending this or that nostrum; young ladies looked at her ina way she understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said theyknew she had been "disappointed," as custom phrases it; by whom, theywere not certain.

  Commonplace young ladies can be quite as hard as commonplace younggentlemen--quite as worldly and selfish. Those who suffer should alwaysavoid them. Grief and calamity they despise; they seem to regard them asthe judgments of God on the lowly. With them, to "love" is merely tocontrive a scheme for achieving a good match; to be "disappointed" is tohave their scheme seen through and frustrated. They think the feelingsand projects of others on the subject of love similar to their own, andjudge them accordingly.

  All this Caroline knew, partly by instinct, partly by observation. Sheregulated her conduct by her knowledge, keeping her pale face and wastedfigure as much out of sight as she could. Living thus in completeseclusion, she ceased to receive intelligence of the little transactionsof the neighbourhood.

  One morning her uncle came into the parlour, where she sat endeavouringto find some pleasure in painting a little group of wild flowers,gathered under a hedge at the top of the Hollow fields, and said to herin his abrupt manner, "Come, child, you are always stooping overpalette, or book, or sampler; leave that tinting work. By-the-bye, doyou put your pencil to your lips when you paint?"

  "Sometimes, uncle, when I forget."

  "Then it is that which is poisoning you. The paints are deleterious,child. There is white lead and red lead, and verdigris, and gamboge, andtwenty other poisons in those colour cakes. Lock them up! lock them up!Get your bonnet on. I want you to make a call with me."

  "With _you_, uncle?"

  This question was asked in a tone of surprise. She was not accustomed tomake calls with her uncle. She never rode or walked out with him on anyoccasion.

  "Quick! quick! I am always busy, you know. I have no time to lose."

  She hurriedly gathered up her materials, asking, meantime, where theywere going.

  "To Fieldhead."

  "Fieldhead! What! to see old James Booth, the gardener? Is he ill?"

  "We are going to see Miss Shirley Keeldar."

  "Miss Keeldar! Is she coming to Yorkshire? Is she at Fieldhead?"

  "She is. She has been there a week. I met her at a party lastnight--that party to which you would not go. I was pleased with her. Ichoose that you shall make h
er acquaintance. It will do you good."

  "She is now come of age, I suppose?"

  "She is come of age, and will reside for a time on her property. Ilectured her on the subject; I showed her her duty. She is notintractable. She is rather a fine girl; she will teach you what it is tohave a sprightly spirit. Nothing lackadaisical about _her_."

  "I don't think she will want to see me, or to have me introduced to her.What good can I do her? How can I amuse her?"

  "Pshaw! Put your bonnet on."

  "Is she proud, uncle?"

  "Don't know. You hardly imagine she would show her pride to me, Isuppose? A chit like that would scarcely presume to give herself airswith the rector of her parish, however rich she might be."

  "No. But how did she behave to other people?"

  "Didn't observe. She holds her head high, and probably can be saucyenough where she dare. She wouldn't be a woman otherwise. There! Awaynow for your bonnet at once!"

  Not naturally very confident, a failure of physical strength and adepression of spirits had not tended to increase Caroline's presence ofmind and ease of manner, or to give her additional courage to facestrangers, and she quailed, in spite of self-remonstrance, as she andher uncle walked up the broad, paved approach leading from the gatewayof Fieldhead to its porch. She followed Mr. Helstone reluctantly throughthat porch into the sombre old vestibule beyond.

  Very sombre it was--long, vast, and dark; one latticed window lit it butdimly. The wide old chimney contained now no fire, for the present warmweather needed it not; it was filled instead with willow-boughs. Thegallery on high, opposite the entrance, was seen but in outline, soshadowy became this hall towards its ceiling. Carved stags' heads, withreal antlers, looked down grotesquely from the walls. This was neither agrand nor a comfortable house; within as without it was antique,rambling, and incommodious. A property of a thousand a year belonged toit, which property had descended, for lack of male heirs, on a female.There were mercantile families in the district boasting twice theincome, but the Keeldars, by virtue of their antiquity, and theirdistinction of lords of the manor, took the precedence of all.

  Mr. and Miss Helstone were ushered into a parlour. Of course, as was tobe expected in such a Gothic old barrack, this parlour was lined withoak: fine, dark, glossy panels compassed the walls gloomily and grandly.Very handsome, reader, these shining brown panels are, very mellow incolouring and tasteful in effect, but--if you know what a "spring clean"is--very execrable and inhuman. Whoever, having the bowels of humanity,has seen servants scrubbing at these polished wooden walls withbeeswaxed cloths on a warm May day must allow that they are "intolerableand not to be endured;" and I cannot but secretly applaud the benevolentbarbarian who had painted another and larger apartment of Fieldhead--thedrawing-room, to wit, formerly also an oak-room--of a delicate pinkywhite, thereby earning for himself the character of a Hun, but mightilyenhancing the cheerfulness of that portion of his abode, and savingfuture housemaids a world of toil.

  The brown-panelled parlour was furnished all in old style, and with realold furniture. On each side of the high mantelpiece stood two antiquechairs of oak, solid as silvan thrones, and in one of these sat a lady.But if this were Miss Keeldar, she must have come of age at least sometwenty years ago. She was of matronly form, and though she wore no cap,and possessed hair of quite an undimmed auburn, shading small andnaturally young-looking features, she had no youthful aspect, norapparently the wish to assume it. You could have wished her attire of anewer fashion. In a well-cut, well-made gown hers would have been nouncomely presence. It puzzled you to guess why a garment of handsomematerials should be arranged in such scanty folds, and devised aftersuch an obsolete mode. You felt disposed to set down the wearer assomewhat eccentric at once.

  This lady received the visitors with a mixture of ceremony anddiffidence quite English. No middle-aged matron who was not anEnglishwoman _could_ evince precisely the same manner--a manner souncertain of herself, of her own merits, of her power to please, and yetso anxious to be proper, and, if possible, rather agreeable thanotherwise. In the present instance, however, more embarrassment wasshown than is usual even with diffident Englishwomen. Miss Helstone feltthis, sympathized with the stranger, and knowing by experience what wasgood for the timid, took a seat quietly near her, and began to talk toher with a gentle ease, communicated for the moment by the presence ofone less self-possessed than herself.

  She and this lady would, if alone, have at once got on extremely welltogether. The lady had the clearest voice imaginable--infinitely softerand more tuneful than could have been reasonably expected from fortyyears--and a form decidedly inclined to _embonpoint_. This voiceCaroline liked; it atoned for the formal, if correct, accent andlanguage. The lady would soon have discovered she liked it and her, andin ten minutes they would have been friends. But Mr. Helstone stood onthe rug looking at them both, looking especially at the strange ladywith his sarcastic, keen eye, that clearly expressed impatience of herchilly ceremony, and annoyance at her want of _aplomb_. His hard gazeand rasping voice discomfited the lady more and more. She tried,however, to get up little speeches about the weather, the aspect of thecountry, etc.; but the impracticable Mr. Helstone presently foundhimself somewhat deaf. Whatever she said he affected not to heardistinctly, and she was obliged to go over each elaborately-constructednothing twice. The effort soon became too much for her. She was justrising in a perplexed flutter, nervously murmuring that she knew notwhat detained Miss Keeldar, that she would go and look for her, whenMiss Keeldar saved her the trouble by appearing. It was to be presumedat least that she who now came in through a glass door from the gardenowned that name.

  There is real grace in ease of manner, and so old Helstone felt when anerect, slight girl walked up to him, retaining with her left hand herlittle silk apron full of flowers, and, giving him her right hand, saidpleasantly, "I knew you would come to see me, though you _do_ think Mr.Yorke has made me a Jacobin. Good-morning."

  "But we'll not have you a Jacobin," returned he. "No, Miss Shirley; theyshall not steal the flower of my parish from me. Now that you areamongst us, you shall be my pupil in politics and religion; I'll teachyou sound doctrine on both points."

  "Mrs. Pryor has anticipated you," she replied, turning to the elderlady. "Mrs. Pryor, you know, was my governess, and is still my friend;and of all the high and rigid Tories she is queen; of all the stanchchurchwomen she is chief. I have been well drilled both in theology andhistory, I assure you, Mr. Helstone."

  The rector immediately bowed very low to Mrs. Pryor, and expressedhimself obliged to her.

  The ex-governess disclaimed skill either in political or religiouscontroversy, explained that she thought such matters little adapted forfemale minds, but avowed herself in general terms the advocate of orderand loyalty, and, of course, truly attached to the Establishment. Sheadded she was ever averse to change under any circumstances, andsomething scarcely audible about the extreme danger of being too readyto take up new ideas closed her sentence.

  "Miss Keeldar thinks as you think, I hope, madam."

  "Difference of age and difference of temperament occasion difference ofsentiment," was the reply. "It can scarcely be expected that the eagerand young should hold the opinions of the cool and middle-aged."

  "Oh! oh! we are independent; we think for ourselves!" cried Mr.Helstone. "We are a little Jacobin, for anything I know--a littlefreethinker, in good earnest. Let us have a confession of faith on thespot."

  And he took the heiress's two hands--causing her to let fall her wholecargo of flowers--and seated her by him on the sofa.

  "Say your creed," he ordered.

  "The Apostles' Creed?"

  "Yes."

  She said it like a child.

  "Now for St. Athanasius's. That's the test!"

  "Let me gather up my flowers. Here is Tartar coming; he will tread uponthem."

  Tartar was a rather large, strong, and fierce-looking dog, very ugly,being of a breed between mastiff and bulldog, who at this
moment enteredthrough the glass door, and posting directly to the rug, snuffed thefresh flowers scattered there. He seemed to scorn them as food; butprobably thinking their velvety petals might be convenient as litter, hewas turning round preparatory to depositing his tawny bulk upon them,when Miss Helstone and Miss Keeldar simultaneously stooped to therescue.

  "Thank you," said the heiress, as she again held out her little apronfor Caroline to heap the blossoms into it. "Is this your daughter, Mr.Helstone?" she asked.

  "My niece Caroline."

  Miss Keeldar shook hands with her, and then looked at her. Caroline alsolooked at her hostess.

  Shirley Keeldar (she had no Christian name but Shirley: her parents, whohad wished to have a son, finding that, after eight years of marriage,Providence had granted them only a daughter, bestowed on her the samemasculine family cognomen they would have bestowed on a boy, if with aboy they had been blessed)--Shirley Keeldar was no ugly heiress. She wasagreeable to the eye. Her height and shape were not unlike MissHelstone's; perhaps in stature she might have the advantage by an inchor two. She was gracefully made, and her face, too, possessed a charm aswell described by the word grace as any other. It was pale naturally,but intelligent, and of varied expression. She was not a blonde, likeCaroline. Clear and dark were the characteristics of her aspect as tocolour. Her face and brow were clear, her eyes of the darkest gray (nogreen lights in them--transparent, pure, neutral gray), and her hair ofthe darkest brown. Her features were distinguished--by which I do notmean that they were high, bony, and Roman, being indeed rather small andslightly marked than otherwise, but only that they were, to use a fewFrench words, "fins, gracieux, spirituels"--mobile they were andspeaking; but their changes were not to be understood nor their languageinterpreted all at once. She examined Caroline seriously, inclining herhead a little to one side, with a thoughtful air.

  "You see she is only a feeble chick," observed Mr. Helstone.

  "She looks young--younger than I.--How old are you?" she inquired in amanner that would have been patronizing if it had not been extremelysolemn and simple.

  "Eighteen years and six months."

  "And I am twenty-one."

  She said no more. She had now placed her flowers on the table, and wasbusied in arranging them.

  "And St. Athanasius's Creed?" urged the rector. "You believe it all,don't you?"

  "I can't remember it quite all. I will give you a nosegay, Mr. Helstone,when I have given your niece one."

  She had selected a little bouquet of one brilliant and two or threedelicate flowers, relieved by a spray of dark verdure. She tied it withsilk from her work-box, and placed it on Caroline's lap; and then sheput her hands behind her, and stood bending slightly towards her guest,still regarding her, in the attitude and with something of the aspect ofa grave but gallant little cavalier. This temporary expression of facewas aided by the style in which she wore her hair, parted on one temple,and brushed in a glossy sweep above the forehead, whence it fell incurls that looked natural, so free were their wavy undulations.

  "Are you tired with your walk?" she inquired.

  "No--not in the least. It is but a short distance--but a mile."

  "You look pale.--Is she always so pale?" she asked, turning to therector.

  "She used to be as rosy as the reddest of your flowers."

  "Why is she altered? What has made her pale? Has she been ill?"

  "She tells me she wants a change."

  "She ought to have one. You ought to give her one. You should send herto the sea-coast."

  "I will, ere summer is over. Meantime, I intend her to make acquaintancewith you, if you have no objection."

  "I am sure Miss Keeldar will have no objection," here observed Mrs.Pryor. "I think I may take it upon me to say that Miss Helstone'sfrequent presence at Fieldhead will be esteemed a favour."

  "You speak my sentiments precisely, ma'am," said Shirley, "and I thankyou for anticipating me.--Let me tell you," she continued, turning againto Caroline, "that you also ought to thank my governess. It is not everyone she would welcome as she has welcomed you. You are distinguishedmore than you think. This morning, as soon as you are gone, I shall askMrs. Pryor's opinion of you. I am apt to rely on her judgment ofcharacter, for hitherto I have found it wondrous accurate. Already Iforesee a favourable answer to my inquiries.--Do I not guess rightly,Mrs. Pryor?"

  "My dear, you said but now you would ask my opinion when Miss Helstonewas gone. I am scarcely likely to give it in her presence."

  "No; and perhaps it will be long enough before I obtain it.--I amsometimes sadly tantalized, Mr. Helstone, by Mrs. Pryor's extremecaution. Her judgments ought to be correct when they come, for they areoften as tardy of delivery as a Lord Chancellor's. On some people'scharacters I cannot get her to pronounce a sentence, entreat as I may."

  Mrs. Pryor here smiled.

  "Yes," said her pupil, "I know what that smile means. You are thinkingof my gentleman-tenant.--Do you know Mr. Moore of the Hollow?" she askedMr. Helstone.

  "Ay! ay! Your tenant--so he is. You have seen a good deal of him, nodoubt, since you came?"

  "I have been obliged to see him. There was business to transact.Business! Really the word makes me conscious I am indeed no longer agirl, but quite a woman and something more. I am an esquire! ShirleyKeeldar, Esquire, ought to be my style and title. They gave me a man'sname; I hold a man's position. It is enough to inspire me with a touchof manhood; and when I see such people as that statelyAnglo-Belgian--that Gerard Moore--before me, gravely talking to me ofbusiness, really I feel quite gentlemanlike. You must choose me for yourchurchwarden, Mr. Helstone, the next time you elect new ones. They oughtto make me a magistrate and a captain of yeomanry. Tony Lumpkin's motherwas a colonel, and his aunt a justice of the peace. Why shouldn't I be?"

  "With all my heart. If you choose to get up a requisition on thesubject, I promise to head the list of signatures with my name. But youwere speaking of Moore?"

  "Ah! yes. I find it a little difficult to understand Mr. Moore, to knowwhat to think of him, whether to like him or not. He seems a tenant ofwhom any proprietor might be proud--and proud of him I am, in thatsense; but as a neighbour, what is he? Again and again I have entreatedMrs. Pryor to say what she thinks of him, but she still evades returninga direct answer. I hope you will be less oracular, Mr. Helstone, andpronounce at once. Do you like him?"

  "Not at all, just now. His name is entirely blotted from my good books."

  "What is the matter? What has he done?"

  "My uncle and he disagree on politics," interposed the low voice ofCaroline. She had better not have spoken just then. Having scarcelyjoined in the conversation before, it was not apropos to do it now. Shefelt this with nervous acuteness as soon as she had spoken, and colouredto the eyes.

  "What are Moore's politics?" inquired Shirley.

  "Those of a tradesman," returned the rector--"narrow, selfish, andunpatriotic. The man is eternally writing and speaking against thecontinuance of the war. I have no patience with him."

  "The war hurts his trade. I remember he remarked that only yesterday.But what other objection have you to him?"

  "That is enough."

  "He looks the gentleman, in my sense of the term," pursued Shirley, "andit pleases me to think he is such."

  Caroline rent the Tyrian petals of the one brilliant flower in herbouquet, and answered in distinct tones, "Decidedly he is." Shirley,hearing this courageous affirmation, flashed an arch, searching glanceat the speaker from her deep, expressive eyes.

  "_You_ are his friend, at any rate," she said. "You defend him in hisabsence."

  "I am both his friend and his relative," was the prompt reply. "RobertMoore is my cousin."

  "Oh, then, you can tell me all about him. Just give me a sketch of hischaracter."

  Insuperable embarrassment seized Caroline when this demand was made. Shecould not, and did not, attempt to comply with it. Her silence wasimmediately covered by Mrs. Pryor, who proceeded to address sundryque
stions to Mr. Helstone regarding a family or two in theneighbourhood, with whose connections in the south she said she wasacquainted. Shirley soon withdrew her gaze from Miss Helstone's face.She did not renew her interrogations, but returning to her flowers,proceeded to choose a nosegay for the rector. She presented it to him ashe took leave, and received the homage of a salute on the hand inreturn.

  "Be sure you wear it for my sake," said she.

  "Next my heart, of course," responded Helstone.--"Mrs. Pryor, take careof this future magistrate, this churchwarden in perspective, thiscaptain of yeomanry, this young squire of Briarfield, in a word. Don'tlet him exert himself too much; don't let him break his neck in hunting;especially, let him mind how he rides down that dangerous hill near theHollow."

  "I like a descent," said Shirley; "I like to clear it rapidly; andespecially I like that romantic Hollow with all my heart."

  "Romantic, with a mill in it?"

  "Romantic with a mill in it. The old mill and the white cottage are eachadmirable in its way."

  "And the counting-house, Mr. Keeldar?"

  "The counting-house is better than my bloom-coloured drawing-room. Iadore the counting-house."

  "And the trade? The cloth, the greasy wool, the polluting dyeing-vats?"

  "The trade is to be thoroughly respected."

  "And the tradesman is a hero? Good!"

  "I am glad to hear you say so. I thought the tradesman looked heroic."

  Mischief, spirit, and glee sparkled all over her face as she thusbandied words with the old Cossack, who almost equally enjoyed the tilt.

  "Captain Keeldar, you have no mercantile blood in your veins. Why areyou so fond of trade?"

  "Because I am a mill-owner, of course. Half my income comes from theworks in that Hollow."

  "Don't enter into partnership--that's all."

  "You've put it into my head! you've put it into my head!" she exclaimed,with a joyous laugh. "It will never get out. Thank you." And waving herhand, white as a lily and fine as a fairy's, she vanished within theporch, while the rector and his niece passed out through the archedgateway.