CHAPTER XIII.
FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.
In Shirley's nature prevailed at times an easy indolence. There wereperiods when she took delight in perfect vacancy of hand andeye--moments when her thoughts, her simple existence, the fact of theworld being around and heaven above her, seemed to yield her suchfullness of happiness that she did not need to lift a finger to increasethe joy. Often, after an active morning, she would spend a sunnyafternoon in lying stirless on the turf, at the foot of some tree offriendly umbrage. No society did she need but that of Caroline, and itsufficed if she were within call; no spectacle did she ask but that ofthe deep blue sky, and such cloudlets as sailed afar and aloft acrossits span; no sound but that of the bee's hum, the leaf's whisper. Hersole book in such hours was the dim chronicle of memory or the sibylpage of anticipation. From her young eyes fell on each volume a gloriouslight to read by; round her lips at moments played a smile whichrevealed glimpses of the tale or prophecy. It was not sad, not dark.Fate had been benign to the blissful dreamer, and promised to favour heryet again. In her past were sweet passages, in her future rosy hopes.
Yet one day when Caroline drew near to rouse her, thinking she had lainlong enough, behold, as she looked down, Shirley's cheek was wet as ifwith dew; those fine eyes of hers shone humid and brimming.
"Shirley, why do _you_ cry?" asked Caroline, involuntarily laying stresson _you_.
Miss Keeldar smiled, and turned her picturesque head towards thequestioner. "Because it pleases me mightily to cry," she said. "My heartis both sad and glad. But why, you good, patient child--why do you notbear me company? I only weep tears, delightful and soon wiped away; youmight weep gall, if you choose."
"Why should I weep gall?"
"Mateless, solitary bird!" was the only answer.
"And are not you too mateless, Shirley?"
"At heart--no."
"Oh! who nestles there, Shirley?"
But Shirley only laughed gaily at this question, and alertly started up.
"I have dreamed," she said, "a mere day-dream--certainly bright,probably baseless!"
* * * * *
Miss Helstone was by this time free enough from illusions: she took asufficiently grave view of the future, and fancied she knew pretty wellhow her own destiny and that of some others were tending. Yet oldassociations retained their influence over her, and it was these and thepower of habit which still frequently drew her of an evening to thefield-style and the old thorn overlooking the Hollow.
One night, the night after the incident of the note, she had been at herusual post, watching for her beacon--watching vainly: that evening nolamp was lit. She waited till the rising of certain constellationswarned her of lateness and signed her away. In passing Fieldhead, on herreturn, its moonlight beauty attracted her glance, and stayed her stepan instant. Tree and hall rose peaceful under the night sky and clearfull orb; pearly paleness gilded the building; mellow brown gloombosomed it round; shadows of deep green brooded above its oak-wreathedroof. The broad pavement in front shone pale also; it gleamed as if somespell had transformed the dark granite to glistering Parian. On thesilvery space slept two sable shadows, thrown sharply defined from twohuman figures. These figures when first seen were motionless and mute;presently they moved in harmonious step, and spoke low in harmoniouskey. Earnest was the gaze that scrutinized them as they emerged frombehind the trunk of the cedar. "Is it Mrs. Pryor and Shirley?"
Certainly it is Shirley. Who else has a shape so lithe, and proud, andgraceful? And her face, too, is visible--her countenance careless andpensive, and musing and mirthful, and mocking and tender. Not fearingthe dew, she has not covered her head; her curls are free--they veil herneck and caress her shoulder with their tendril rings. An ornament ofgold gleams through the half-closed folds of the scarf she has wrappedacross her bust, and a large bright gem glitters on the white handwhich confines it. Yes, that is Shirley.
Her companion then is, of course, Mrs. Pryor?
Yes, if Mrs. Pryor owns six feet of stature, and if she has changed herdecent widow's weeds for masculine disguise. The figure walking at MissKeeldar's side is a man--a tall, young, stately man; it is her tenant,Robert Moore.
The pair speak softly; their words are not distinguishable. To remain amoment to gaze is not to be an eavesdropper; and as the moon shines soclearly and their countenances are so distinctly apparent, who canresist the attraction of such interest? Caroline, it seems, cannot, forshe lingers.
There was a time when, on summer nights, Moore had been wont to walkwith his cousin, as he was now walking with the heiress. Often had shegone up the Hollow with him after sunset, to scent the freshness of theearth, where a growth of fragrant herbage carpeted a certain narrowterrace, edging a deep ravine, from whose rifted gloom was heard a soundlike the spirit of the lonely watercourse, moaning amongst its wetstones, and between its weedy banks, and under its dark bower of alders.
"But I used to be closer to him," thought Caroline. "He felt noobligation to treat me with homage; I needed only kindness. He used tohold my hand; he does not touch hers. And yet Shirley is not proud whereshe loves. There is no haughtiness in her aspect now, only a little inher port--what is natural to and inseparable from her, what she retainsin 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; andhe must think it with a man's brain, not with mine. She has suchgenerous yet soft fire in her eyes. She smiles--what makes her smile sosweet? I saw that Robert felt its beauty, and he must have felt it withhis man's heart, not with my dim woman's perceptions. They look to melike two great happy spirits. Yonder silvered pavement reminds me ofthat white shore we believe to be beyond the death-flood. They havereached it; they walk there united. And what am I, standing here inshadow, shrinking into concealment, my mind darker than my hiding-place?I am one of this world, no spirit--a poor doomed mortal, who asks, inignorance and hopelessness, wherefore she was born, to what end shelives; whose mind for ever runs on the question, how she shall at lastencounter, and by whom be sustained through death.
"This is the worst passage I have come to yet; still I was quiteprepared for it. I gave Robert up, and gave him up to Shirley, the firstday 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. Shewill be far more his darling yet when they are married. The more Robertknows of Shirley the more his soul will cleave to her. They will both behappy, and I do not grudge them their bliss; but I groan under my ownmisery. Some of my suffering is very acute. Truly I ought not to havebeen born; they should have smothered me at the first cry."
Here, Shirley stepping aside to gather a dewy flower, she and hercompanion turned into a path that lay nearer the gate. Some of theirconversation became audible. Caroline would not stay to listen. Shepassed away noiselessly, and the moonlight kissed the wall which hershadow had dimmed. The reader is privileged to remain, and try what hecan make of the discourse.
"I cannot conceive why nature did not give you a bulldog's head, for youhave 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 goingabout its work. You give no warning; you come noiselessly behind, seizefast, and hold on."
"This is guess-work. You have witnessed no such feat on my part. In yourpresence 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 theirintentions. My note last night informed you that Barraclough's trial hadended in his conviction and sentence to transportation. His associateswill plot vengeance. I shall lay my plans so as to counteract or atleast be prepared for theirs--that is all. Having now given you as clearan explanation as I can, am I to understand that for what I proposed
oing 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 Ishould have acted precisely as I now intend to act, but in anotherspirit. I now feel satisfied. On the whole, I relish the position."
"I dare say you do. That is evident. You relish the work which liesbefore you still better than you would relish the execution of agovernment order for army-cloth."
"I certainly feel it congenial."
"So would old Helstone. It is true there is a shade of difference inyour motives--many shades, perhaps. Shall I speak to Mr. Helstone? Iwill, if you like."
"Act as you please. Your judgment, Miss Keeldar, will guide youaccurately. I could rely on it myself in a more difficult crisis. But Ishould inform you Mr. Helstone is somewhat prejudiced against me atpresent."
"I am aware--I have heard all about your differences. Depend upon it,they will melt away. He cannot resist the temptation of an allianceunder 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 stillexcellent."
"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 itis so calm--I even feel it warm--and society such as yours is a pleasureto me so rare. If you were wrapped in a thicker shawl----"
"I might stay longer, and forget how late it is, which would chagrinMrs. Pryor. We keep early and regular hours at Fieldhead, Mr. Moore; andso, I am sure, does your sister at the cottage."
"Yes; but Hortense and I have an understanding the most convenient inthe 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 littlerest--and when it is moonlight and mild I often haunt the Hollow tilldaybreak."
"When I was a very little girl, Mr. Moore, my nurse used to tell metales of fairies being seen in that Hollow. That was before my fatherbuilt the mill, when it was a perfectly solitary ravine. You will befalling under enchantment."
"I fear it is done," said Moore, in a low voice.
"But there are worse things than fairies to be guarded against," pursuedMiss 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 topoaching, and often goes abroad at night with his gun."
"I have already had the luck to meet him. We held a long argumenttogether one night. A strange little incident it was; I liked it."
"Liked it? I admire your taste! Michael is not sane. Where did you meethim?"
"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 nearcrazed as possible. He uttered strange blasphemy in his Antinomianfashion."
"Excuse me, but I think you must have been nearly as mad as he, to sitlistening 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 aprofligate. He solemnly informed me that hell was foreordained myinevitable portion; that he read the mark of the beast on my brow; thatI had been an outcast from the beginning. God's vengeance, he said, waspreparing for me, and affirmed that in a vision of the night he hadbeheld the manner and the instrument of my doom. I wanted to knowfurther, 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 himand Moses Barraclough, both in an advanced stage of inebriation. Theywere praying in frantic sort at the roadside. They accosted me as Satan,bid me avaunt, and clamoured to be delivered from temptation. Again, buta few days ago, Michael took the trouble of appearing at thecounting-house door, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves--his coat and castorhaving been detained at the public-house in pledge. He delivered himselfof the comfortable message that he could wish Mr. Moore to set his housein 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 borderingon delirium tremens."
"What then? He is the more likely to attempt the fulfilment of his ownprophecies."
"It would not do to permit incidents of this sort to affect one'snerves."
"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 towander in the Hollow to-night?"
"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 boththree months ago. I was then drowning, and rather wished the operationover. All at once a hand was stretched to me--such a delicate hand Iscarcely dared trust it; its strength, however, has rescued me fromruin."
"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 toMichael Hartley; and good-night!"
* * * * *
Miss Helstone was under a promise to spend the evening of the next dayat Fieldhead. She kept her promise. Some gloomy hours had she spent inthe interval. Most of the time had been passed shut up in her ownapartment, only issuing from it, indeed, to join her uncle at meals, andanticipating inquiries from Fanny by telling her that she was busyaltering a dress, and preferred sewing upstairs, to avoid interruption.
She did sew. She plied her needle continuously, ceaselessly, but herbrain worked faster than her fingers. Again, and more intensely thanever, she desired a fixed occupation, no matter how onerous, howirksome. Her uncle must be once more entreated, but first she wouldconsult Mrs. Pryor. Her head laboured to frame projects as diligently asher hands to plait and stitch the thin texture of the muslin summerdress spread on the little white couch at the foot of which she sat. Nowand then, while thus doubly occupied, a tear would fill her eyes andfall on her busy hands; but this sign of emotion was rare and quicklyeffaced. The sharp pang passed; the dimness cleared from her vision. Shewould re-thread her needle, rearrange tuck and trimming, and work on.
Late in the afternoon she dressed herself. She reached Fieldhead, andappeared in the oak parlour just as tea was brought in. Shirley askedher why she came so late.
"Because I have been making my dress," said she. "These fine sunny daysbegan to make me ashamed of my winter merino, so I have furbished up alighter garment."
"In which you look as I like to see you," said Shirley. "You are alady-like 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 occasionshe only swept Caroline's curls from her cheek as she took a seat nearher, caressed the oval outline, and observed, "You get somewhat thin, mylove, and somewhat pale. Do you sleep well? your eyes have a languidlook." And she gazed at her anxiously.
"I sometimes dream melanch
oly dreams," answered Caroline; "and if I lieawake for an hour or two in the night, I am continually thinking of therectory 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 theout-kitchens there were once enclosed in the churchyard, and that thereare 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 thingsunder a darker aspect than I used to do. I have fears I never used tohave--not of ghosts, but of omens and disastrous events; and I have aninexpressible weight on my mind which I would give the world to shakeoff, 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 mepleasure," continued Caroline. "Calm evenings are not calm to me.Moonlight, which I used to think mild, now only looks mournful. Is thisweakness of mind, Mrs. Pryor, or what is it? I cannot help it. I oftenstruggle against it. I reason; but reason and effort make nodifference."
"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 purposelessexcursion or visit. I wish to be a governess, as you have been. It wouldoblige me greatly if you would speak to my uncle on the subject."
"Nonsense!" broke in Shirley. "What an idea! Be a governess! Better be aslave at once. Where is the necessity of it? Why should you dream ofsuch a painful step?"
"My dear," said Mrs. Pryor, "you are very young to be a governess, andnot sufficiently robust. The duties a governess undertakes are oftensevere."
"And I believe I want severe duties to occupy me."
"Occupy you!" cried Shirley. "When are you idle? I never saw a moreindustrious girl than you. You are always at work. Come," shecontinued--"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 findanother friend so dear."
At which words Miss Keeldar put her hand into Caroline's with animpulsively affectionate movement, which was well seconded by theexpression of her face.
"If you think so, you had better make much of me," she said, "and notrun away from me. I hate to part with those to whom I am becomeattached. Mrs. Pryor there sometimes talks of leaving me, and says Imight make a more advantageous connection than herself. I should as soonthink of exchanging an old-fashioned mother for something modish andstylish. As for you--why, I began to flatter myself we were thoroughlyfriends; that you liked Shirley almost as well as Shirley likes you, andshe does not stint her regard."
"I _do_ like Shirley. I like her more and more every day. But that doesnot make me strong or happy."
"And would it make you strong or happy to go and live as a dependentamongst utter strangers? It would not. And the experiment must not betried; I tell you it would fail. It is not in your nature to bear thedesolate life governesses generally lead; you would fall ill. I won'thear of it."
And Miss Keeldar paused, having uttered this prohibition very decidedly.Soon she recommenced, still looking somewhat _courroucee_, "Why, it ismy daily pleasure now to look out for the little cottage bonnet and thesilk scarf glancing through the trees in the lane, and to know that myquiet, 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 tolet alone, as she and I please. This may be a selfish sort oflanguage--I know it is--but it is the language which naturally rises tomy 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, andstay at home."
Miss Helstone shook her head and sighed. She felt what difficulty shewould have to persuade any one to assist or sanction her in making thatchange in her life which she believed desirable. Might she only followher own judgment, she thought she should be able to find perhaps a harshbut an effectual cure for her sufferings. But this judgment, founded oncircumstances she could fully explain to none, least of all to Shirley,seemed, in all eyes but her own, incomprehensible and fantastic, andwas opposed accordingly.
There really was no present pecuniary need for her to leave acomfortable home and "take a situation;" and there was every probabilitythat her uncle might, in some way, permanently provide for her. So herfriends thought, and, as far as their lights enabled them to see, theyreasoned correctly; but of Caroline's strange sufferings, which shedesired so eagerly to overcome or escape, they had no idea, of herracked nights and dismal days no suspicion. It was at once impossibleand hopeless to explain; to wait and endure was her only plan. Many thatwant food and clothing have cheerier lives and brighter prospects thanshe had; many, harassed by poverty, are in a strait less afflictive.
"Now, is your mind quieted?" inquired Shirley. "Will you consent to stayat home?"
"I shall not leave it against the approbation of my friends," was thereply; "but I think in time they will be obliged to think as I do."
During this conversation Mrs. Pryor looked far from easy. Her extremehabitual reserve would rarely permit her to talk freely or tointerrogate others closely. She could think a multitude of questions shenever ventured to put, give advice in her mind which her tongue neverdelivered. Had she been alone with Caroline, she might possibly havesaid something to the point: Miss Keeldar's presence, accustomed as shewas to it, sealed her lips. Now, as on a thousand other occasions,inexplicable nervous scruples kept her back from interfering. She merelyshowed her concern for Miss Helstone in an indirect way, by asking herif the fire made her too warm, placing a screen between her chair andthe hearth, closing a window whence she imagined a draught proceeded,and often and restlessly glancing at her. Shirley resumed: "Havingdestroyed your plan," she said, "which I hope I have done, I shallconstruct a new one of my own. Every summer I make an excursion. Thisseason I propose spending two months either at the Scotch lochs or theEnglish lakes--that is, I shall go there provided you consent toaccompany me. If you refuse, I shall not stir a foot."
"You are very good, Shirley."
"I would be very good if you would let me. I have every disposition tobe good. It is my misfortune and habit, I know, to think of myselfparamount to anybody else; but who is not like me in that respect?However, when Captain Keeldar is made comfortable, accommodated with allhe wants, including a sensible, genial comrade, it gives him a thoroughpleasure to devote his spare efforts to making that comrade happy. Andshould we not be happy, Caroline, in the Highlands? We will go to theHighlands. We will, if you can bear a sea-voyage, go to the Isles--theHebrides, the Shetland, the Orkney Islands. Would you not like that? Isee you would.--Mrs. Pryor, I call you to witness. Her face is allsunshine at the bare mention of it."
"I should like it much," returned Caroline, to whom, indeed, the notionof such a tour was not only pleasant, but gloriously reviving. Shirleyrubbed her hands.
"Come; I can bestow a benefit," she exclaimed. "I can do a good deedwith my cash. My thousand a year is not merely a matter of dirtybank-notes and jaundiced guineas (let me speak respectfully of both,though, for I adore them), but, it may be, health to the drooping,strength to the weak, consolation to the sad. I was determined to makesomething of it better than a fine old house to live in, than satingowns to wear, better than deference from acquaintance and homage fromthe poor. Here is to begin. This summer, Caroline, Mrs. Pryor and I goout into the North Atlantic, beyond the Shetland, perhaps to the FaroeIsles. We will see seals in Suderoe, and, doubtless, mermaids inStromoe.--Caroline is laughing, Mrs. Pryor. _I_ made her laugh; _I_ havedone her good."
"I shall like to go, Shirley," again said Miss Helstone. "I long to hearthe sound of waves--ocean-w
aves--and to see them as I have imagined themin dreams, like tossing banks of green light, strewed with vanishing andreappearing wreaths of foam, whiter than lilies. I shall delight to passthe shores of those lone rock-islets where the sea-birds live and breedunmolested. We shall be on the track of the old Scandinavians--of theNorsemen. We shall almost see the shores of Norway. This is a very vaguedelight that I feel, communicated by your proposal, but it _is_ adelight."
"Will you think of Fitful Head now when you lie awake at night, of gullsshrieking round it, and waves tumbling in upon it, rather than of thegraves under the rectory back-kitchen?"
"I will try; and instead of musing about remnants of shrouds, andfragments of coffins, and human bones and mould, I will fancy sealslying in the sunshine on solitary shores, where neither fisherman norhunter ever come; of rock crevices full of pearly eggs bedded inseaweed; of unscared birds covering white sands in happy flocks."
"And what will become of that inexpressible weight you said you had onyour mind?"
"I will try to forget it in speculation on the sway of the whole greatdeep above a herd of whales rushing through the livid and liquid thunderdown from the frozen zone--a hundred of them, perhaps, wallowing,flashing, rolling in the wake of a patriarch bull, huge enough to havebeen spawned before the Flood, such a creature as poor Smart had in hismind when he said,--
'Strong against tides, the enormous whale Emerges as he goes.'"
"I hope our bark will meet with no such shoal, or herd as you term it,Caroline. (I suppose you fancy the sea-mammoths pasturing about thebases of the 'everlasting hills,' devouring strange provender in thevast valleys through and above which sea-billows roll.) I should notlike to be capsized by the patriarch bull."
"I suppose you expect to see mermaids, Shirley?"
"One of them, at any rate--I do not bargain for less--and she is toappear in some such fashion as this. I am to be walking by myself ondeck, rather late of an August evening, watching and being watched by afull harvest moon. Something is to rise white on the surface of the sea,over which that moon mounts silent and hangs glorious. The objectglitters and sinks. It rises again. I think I hear it cry with anarticulate voice; I call you up from the cabin; I show you an image,fair as alabaster, emerging from the dim wave. We both see the longhair, the lifted and foam-white arm, the oval mirror brilliant as astar. It glides nearer; a human face is plainly visible--a face in thestyle of yours--whose straight, pure (excuse the word, it isappropriate)--whose straight, pure lineaments paleness does notdisfigure. It looks at us, but not with your eyes. I see a preternaturallure in its wily glance. It beckons. Were we men, we should spring atthe sign--the cold billow would be dared for the sake of the colderenchantress; being women, we stand safe, though not dreadless. Shecomprehends our unmoved gaze; she feels herself powerless; anger crossesher front; she cannot charm, but she will appal us; she rises high, andglides all revealed on the dark wave-ridge. Temptress-terror! monstrouslikeness of ourselves! Are you not glad, Caroline, when at last, andwith a wild shriek, she dives?"
"But, Shirley, she is not like us. We are neither temptresses, norterrors, nor monsters."
"Some of our kind, it is said, are all three. There are men who ascribeto 'woman,' in general, such attributes."
"My dears," here interrupted Mrs. Pryor, "does it not strike you thatyour conversation for the last ten minutes has been rather fanciful?"
"But there is no harm in our fancies; is there, ma'am?"
"We are aware that mermaids do not exist; why speak of them as if theydid? How can you find interest in speaking of a nonentity?"
"I don't know," said Shirley.
"My dear, I think there is an arrival. I heard a step in the lane whileyou were talking; and is not that the garden-gate which creaks?"
Shirley stepped to the window.
"Yes, there is some one," said she, turning quietly away; and as sheresumed her seat a sensitive flush animated her face, while a tremblingray at once kindled and softened her eye. She raised her hand to herchin, cast her gaze down, and seemed to think as she waited.
The servant announced Mr. Moore, and Shirley turned round when Mr. Mooreappeared at the door. His figure seemed very tall as he entered, andstood in contrast with the three ladies, none of whom could boast astature much beyond the average. He was looking well, better than he hadbeen known to look for the past twelve months. A sort of renewed youthglowed in his eye and colour, and an invigorated hope and settledpurpose sustained his bearing. Firmness his countenance still indicated,but not austerity. It looked as cheerful as it was earnest.
"I am just returned from Stilbro'," he said to Miss Keeldar, as hegreeted her; "and I thought I would call to impart to you the result ofmy mission."
"You did right not to keep me in suspense," she said, "and your visit iswell timed. Sit down. We have not finished tea. Are you English enoughto relish tea, or do you faithfully adhere to coffee?"
Moore accepted tea.
"I am learning to be a naturalized Englishman," said he; "my foreignhabits are leaving me one by one."
And now he paid his respects to Mrs. Pryor, and paid them well, with agrave modesty that became his age compared with hers. Then he looked atCaroline--not, however, for the first time: his glance had fallen uponher before. He bent towards her as she sat, gave her his hand, and askedher how she was. The light from the window did not fall upon MissHelstone; her back was turned towards it. A quiet though rather lowreply, a still demeanour, and the friendly protection of early twilightkept out of view each traitorous symptom. None could affirm that she hadtrembled or blushed, that her heart had quaked or her nerves thrilled;none could prove emotion; a greeting showing less effusion was neverinterchanged. Moore took the empty chair near her, opposite MissKeeldar. He had placed himself well. His neighbour, screened by the verycloseness of his vicinage from his scrutiny, and sheltered further bythe dusk which deepened each moment, soon regained not merely _seeming_but _real_ mastery of the feelings which had started into insurrectionat the first announcement of his name.
He addressed his conversation to Miss Keeldar.
"I went to the barracks," he said, "and had an interview with ColonelRyde. He approved my plans, and promised the aid I wanted. Indeed, heoffered a more numerous force than I require--half a dozen will suffice.I don't intend to be swamped by redcoats. They are needed for appearancerather than anything else. My main reliance is on my own civilians."
"And on their captain," interposed Shirley.
"What, Captain Keeldar?" inquired Moore, slightly smiling, and notlifting his eyes. The tone of raillery in which he said this was veryrespectful and suppressed.
"No," returned Shirley, answering the smile; "Captain Gerard Moore, whotrusts much to the prowess of his own right arm, I believe."
"Furnished with his counting-house ruler," added Moore. Resuming hisusual gravity, he went on: "I received by this evening's post a notefrom the Home Secretary in answer to mine. It appears they are uneasy atthe state of matters here in the north; they especially condemn thesupineness and pusillanimity of the mill-owners. They say, as I havealways said, that inaction, under present circumstances, is criminal,and that cowardice is cruelty, since both can only encourage disorder,and lead finally to sanguinary outbreaks. There is the note--I broughtit for your perusal; and there is a batch of newspapers, containingfurther accounts of proceedings in Nottingham, Manchester, andelsewhere."
He produced letters and journals, and laid them before Miss Keeldar.While she perused them he took his tea quietly; but though his tonguewas still, his observant faculties seemed by no means off duty. Mrs.Pryor, sitting in the background, did not come within the range of hisglance, but the two younger ladies had the full benefit thereof.
Miss Keeldar, placed directly opposite, was seen without effort. She wasthe object his eyes, when lifted, naturally met first; and as whatremained of daylight--the gilding of the west--was upon her, her shaperose in relief from the dark panelling behind. Shirley's clear cheek wasti
nted yet with the colour which had risen into it a few minutes since.The dark lashes of her eyes looking down as she read, the dusk yetdelicate line of her eyebrows, the almost sable gloss of her curls, madeher heightened complexion look fine as the bloom of a red wild flower bycontrast. There was natural grace in her attitude, and there wasartistic effect in the ample and shining folds of her silk dress--anattire simply fashioned, but almost splendid from the shiftingbrightness of its dye, warp and woof being of tints deep and changing asthe hue on a pheasant's neck. A glancing bracelet on her arm producedthe contrast of gold and ivory. There was something brilliant in thewhole picture. It is to be supposed that Moore thought so, as his eyedwelt long on it, but he seldom permitted his feelings or his opinionsto exhibit themselves in his face. His temperament boasted a certainamount of phlegm, and he preferred an undemonstrative, not ungentle, butserious aspect to any other.
He could not, by looking straight before him, see Caroline, as she wasclose at his side. It was necessary, therefore, to manoeuvre a little toget her well within the range of his observation. He leaned back in hischair, and looked down on her. In Miss Helstone neither he nor any oneelse could discover brilliancy. Sitting in the shade, without flowersor ornaments, her attire the modest muslin dress, colourless but for itsnarrow stripe of pale azure, her complexion unflushed, unexcited, thevery brownness of her hair and eyes invisible by this faint light, shewas, compared with the heiress, as a graceful pencil sketch comparedwith a vivid painting. Since Robert had seen her last a great change hadbeen wrought in her. Whether he perceived it might not be ascertained.He said nothing to that effect.
"How is Hortense?" asked Caroline softly.
"Very well; but she complains of being unemployed. She misses you."
"Tell her that I miss her, and that I write and read a portion of Frenchevery day."
"She will ask if you sent your love; she is always particular on thatpoint. You know she likes attention."
"My best love--my very best. And say to her that whenever she has timeto write me a little note I shall be glad to hear from her."
"What if I forget? I am not the surest messenger of compliments."
"No, don't forget, Robert. It is no compliment; it is in good earnest."
"And must, therefore, be delivered punctually."
"If you please."
"Hortense will be ready to shed tears. She is tenderhearted on thesubject of her pupil; yet she reproaches you sometimes for obeying youruncle's injunctions too literally. Affection, like love, will be unjustnow and then."
And Caroline made no answer to this observation; for indeed her heartwas troubled, and to her eyes she would have raised her handkerchief ifshe had dared. If she had dared, too, she would have declared how thevery flowers in the garden of Hollow's Cottage were dear to her; how thelittle parlour of that house was her earthly paradise; how she longed toreturn to it, as much almost as the first woman, in her exile, must havelonged to revisit Eden. Not daring, however, to say these things, sheheld her peace; she sat quiet at Robert's side, waiting for him to saysomething more. It was long since this proximity had been hers--longsince his voice had addressed her; could she, with any show ofprobability, even of possibility, have imagined that the meeting gavehim pleasure, to her it would have given deep bliss. Yet, even in doubtthat it pleased, in dread that it might annoy him, she received theboon of the meeting as an imprisoned bird would the admission ofsunshine to its cage. It was of no use arguing, contending against thesense of present happiness; to be near Robert was to be revived.
Miss Keeldar laid down the papers.
"And are you glad or sad for all these menacing tidings?" she inquiredof her tenant.
"Not precisely either; but I certainly am instructed. I see that ouronly plan is to be firm. I see that efficient preparation and a resoluteattitude are the best means of averting bloodshed."
He then inquired if she had observed some particular paragraph, to whichshe replied in the negative, and he rose to show it to her. He continuedthe conversation standing before her. From the tenor of what he said, itappeared evident that they both apprehended disturbances in theneighbourhood of Briarfield, though in what form they expected them tobreak out was not specified. Neither Caroline nor Mrs. Pryor askedquestions. The subject did not appear to be regarded as one ripe forfree discussion; therefore the lady and her tenant were suffered to keepdetails to themselves, unimportuned by the curiosity of their listeners.
Miss Keeldar, in speaking to Mr. Moore, took a tone at once animated anddignified, confidential and self-respecting. When, however, the candleswere brought in, and the fire was stirred up, and the fullness of lightthus produced rendered the expression of her countenance legible, youcould see that she was all interest, life, and earnestness. There wasnothing coquettish in her demeanour; whatever she felt for Moore shefelt it seriously. And serious, too, were his feelings, and settled werehis views, apparently, for he made no petty effort to attract, dazzle,or impress. He contrived, notwithstanding, to command a little; becausethe deeper voice, however mildly modulated, the somewhat harder mind,now and then, though involuntarily and unintentionally, bore down bysome peremptory phrase or tone the mellow accents and susceptible, ifhigh, nature of Shirley. Miss Keeldar looked happy in conversing withhim, and her joy seemed twofold--a joy of the past and present, ofmemory and of hope.
What I have just said are Caroline's ideas of the pair. She felt whathas just been described. In thus feeling she tried not to suffer, butsuffered sharply nevertheless. She suffered, indeed, miserably. A fewminutes before her famished heart had tasted a drop and crumb ofnourishment, that, if freely given, would have brought back abundance oflife where life was failing; but the generous feast was snatched fromher, spread before another, and she remained but a bystander at thebanquet.
The clock struck nine; it was Caroline's time for going home. Shegathered up her work, put the embroidery, the scissors, the thimble intoher bag. She bade Mrs. Pryor a quiet good-night, receiving from thatlady a warmer pressure of the hand than usual. She stepped up to MissKeeldar.
"Good-night, Shirley!"
Shirley started up. "What! so soon? Are you going already?"
"It is past nine."
"I never heard the clock. You will come again to-morrow, and you will behappy to-night, will you not? Remember our plans."
"Yes," said Caroline; "I have not forgotten."
Her mind misgave her that neither those plans nor any other couldpermanently restore her mental tranquillity. She turned to Robert, whostood close behind her. As he looked up, the light of the candles on themantelpiece fell full on her face. All its paleness, all its change, allits forlorn meaning were clearly revealed. Robert had good eyes, andmight have seen it if he would; whether he did see it, nothingindicated.
"Good-night!" she said, shaking like a leaf, offering her thin handhastily, anxious to part from him quickly.
"You are going home?" he asked, not touching her hand.
"Yes."
"Is Fanny come for you?"
"Yes."
"I may as well accompany you a step of the way; not up to the rectory,though, lest my old friend Helstone should shoot me from the window."
He laughed, and took his hat. Caroline spoke of unnecessary trouble; hetold her to put on her bonnet and shawl. She was quickly ready, and theywere soon both in the open air. Moore drew her hand under his arm, justin his old manner--that manner which she ever felt to be so kind.
"You may run on, Fanny," he said to the housemaid; "we shall overtakeyou." And when the girl had got a little in advance, he enclosedCaroline's hand in his, and said he was glad to find she was a familiarguest at Fieldhead. He hoped her intimacy with Miss Keeldar wouldcontinue; such society would be both pleasant and improving.
Caroline replied that she liked Shirley.
"And there is no doubt the liking is mutual," said Moore. "If sheprofesses friendship, be certain she is sincere. She cannot feign; shescorns hypocrisy. And, Caroline, are we never to see you
at Hollow'sCottage again?"
"I suppose not, unless my uncle should change his mind."
"Are you much alone now?"
"Yes, a good deal. I have little pleasure in any society but MissKeeldar's."
"Have you been quite well lately?"
"Quite."
"You must take care of yourself. Be sure not to neglect exercise. Do youknow I fancied you somewhat altered--a little fallen away, and pale. Isyour uncle kind to you?"
"Yes; he is just as he always is."
"Not too tender, that is to say--not too protective and attentive. Andwhat ails you, then? Tell me, Lina."
"Nothing, Robert." But her voice faltered.
"That is to say, nothing that you will tell me. I am not to be takeninto confidence. Separation is then quite to estrange us, is it?"
"I do not know. Sometimes I almost fear it is."
"But it ought not to have that effect. 'Should auld acquaintance beforgot, and days o' lang syne?'"
"Robert, I don't forget."
"It is two months, I should think, Caroline, since you were at thecottage."
"Since I was _within_ it--yes."
"Have you ever passed that way in your walk?"
"I have come to the top of the fields sometimes of an evening and lookeddown. Once I saw Hortense in the garden watering her flowers, and I knowat what time you light your lamp in the counting-house. I have waitedfor it to shine out now and then, and I have seen you bend between itand the window. I knew it was you; I could almost trace the outline ofyour form."
"I wonder I never encountered you. I occasionally walk to the top of theHollow's fields after sunset."
"I know you do. I had almost spoken to you one night, you passed so nearme."
"Did I? I passed near you, and did not see you! Was I alone?"
"I saw you twice, and neither time were you alone."
"Who was my companion? Probably nothing but Joe Scott, or my own shadowby moonlight."
"No; neither Joe Scott nor your shadow, Robert. The first time you werewith Mr. Yorke; and the second time what you call your shadow was ashape with a white forehead and dark curls, and a sparkling necklaceround its neck. But I only just got a glimpse of you and that fairyshadow; I did not wait to hear you converse."
"It appears you walk invisible. I noticed a ring on your hand thisevening; can it be the ring of Gyges? Henceforth, when sitting in thecounting-house by myself, perhaps at dead of night, I shall permitmyself to imagine that Caroline may be leaning over my shoulder readingwith me from the same book, or sitting at my side engaged in her ownparticular task, and now and then raising her unseen eyes to my face toread there my thoughts."
"You need fear no such infliction. I do not come near you; I only standafar off, watching what may become of you."
"When I walk out along the hedgerows in the evening after the mill isshut, or at night when I take the watchman's place, I shall fancy theflutter of every little bird over its nest, the rustle of every leaf, amovement made by you; tree-shadows will take your shape; in the whitesprays of hawthorn I shall imagine glimpses of you. Lina, you will hauntme."
"I will never be where you would not wish me to be, nor see nor hearwhat you would wish unseen and unheard."
"I shall see you in my very mill in broad daylight. Indeed, I have seenyou there once. But a week ago I was standing at the top of one of mylong rooms; girls were working at the other end, and amongst half adozen of them, moving to and fro, I seemed to see a figure resemblingyours. It was some effect of doubtful light or shade, or of dazzlingsunbeam. I walked up to this group. What I sought had glided away; Ifound myself between two buxom lasses in pinafores."
"I shall not follow you into your mill, Robert, unless you call methere."
"Nor is that the only occasion on which imagination has played me atrick. One night, when I came home late from market, I walked into thecottage parlour thinking to find Hortense; but instead of her I thoughtI found you. There was no candle in the room; my sister had taken thelight upstairs with her. The window-blind was not drawn, and broadmoonbeams poured through the panes. There you were, Lina, at thecasement, shrinking a little to one side in an attitude not unusual withyou. You were dressed in white, as I have seen you dressed at an eveningparty. For half a second your fresh, living face seemed turned towardsme, looking at me; for half a second my idea was to go and take yourhand, to chide you for your long absence, and welcome your presentvisit. Two steps forward broke the spell. The drapery of the dresschanged outline; the tints of the complexion dissolved, and wereformless. Positively, as I reached the spot, there was nothing left butthe sweep of a white muslin curtain, and a balsam plant in a flower-pot,covered with a flush of bloom. 'Sic transit,' et cetera."
"It was not my wraith, then? I almost thought it was."
"No; only gauze, crockery, and pink blossom--a sample of earthlyillusions."
"I wonder you have time for such illusions, occupied as your mind mustbe."
"So do I. But I find in myself, Lina, two natures--one for the world andbusiness, and one for home and leisure. Gerard Moore is a hard dog,brought up to mill and market; the person you call your cousin Robert issometimes a dreamer, who lives elsewhere than in Cloth-hall andcounting-house."
"Your two natures agree with you. I think you are looking in goodspirits and health. You have quite lost that harassed air which it oftenpained one to see in your face a few months ago."
"Do you observe that? Certainly I am disentangled of some difficulties.I have got clear of some shoals, and have more sea-room."
"And, with a fair wind, you may now hope to make a prosperous voyage?"
"I may _hope_ it--yes--but hope is deceptive. There is no controllingwind or wave. Gusts and swells perpetually trouble the mariner'scourse; he dare not dismiss from his mind the expectation of tempest."
"But you are ready for a breeze; you are a good seaman, an ablecommander. You are a skilful pilot, Robert; you will weather the storm."
"My kinswoman always thinks the best of me, but I will take her wordsfor a propitious omen. I will consider that in meeting her to-night Ihave met with one of those birds whose appearance is to the sailor theharbinger of good luck."
"A poor harbinger of good luck is she who can do nothing, who has nopower. I feel my incapacity. It is of no use saying I have the will toserve you when I cannot prove it. Yet I have that will. I wish yousuccess. I wish you high fortune and true happiness."
"When did you ever wish me anything else? What is Fanny waiting for? Itold her to walk on. Oh! we have reached the churchyard. Then we are topart here, I suppose. We might have sat a few minutes in the churchporch, if the girl had not been with us. It is so fine a night, sosummer-mild and still, I have no particular wish to return yet to theHollow."
"But we cannot sit in the porch now, Robert."
Caroline said this because Moore was turning her round towards it.
"Perhaps not. But tell Fanny to go in. Say we are coming. A few minuteswill make no difference."
The church clock struck ten.
"My uncle will be coming out to take his usual sentinel round, and healways surveys the church and churchyard."
"And if he does? If it were not for Fanny, who knows we are here, Ishould find pleasure in dodging and eluding him. We could be under theeast window when he is at the porch; as he came round to the north sidewe could wheel off to the south; we might at a pinch hide behind some ofthe monuments. That tall erection of the Wynnes would screen uscompletely."
"Robert, what good spirits you have! Go! go!" added Caroline hastily. "Ihear the front door----"
"I don't want to go; on the contrary, I want to stay."
"You know my uncle will be terribly angry. He forbade me to see youbecause you are a Jacobin."
"A queer Jacobin!"
"Go, Robert, he is coming; I hear him cough."
"Diable! It is strange--what a pertinacious wish I feel to stay!"
"You remember what he did to Fanny's--" began Carolin
e, and stoppedabruptly short. "Sweetheart" was the word that ought to have followed,but she could not utter it. It seemed calculated to suggest ideas shehad no intention to suggest--ideas delusive and disturbing. Moore wasless scrupulous. "Fanny's sweetheart?" he said at once. "He gave him ashower-bath under the pump, did he not? He'd do as much for me, I daresay, with pleasure. I should like to provoke the old Turk--not, however,against you. But he would make a distinction between a cousin and alover, would he not?"
"Oh, he would not think of you in that way, of course not; his quarrelwith you is entirely political. Yet I should not like the breach to bewidened, and he is so testy. Here he is at the garden gate. For your ownsake and mine, Robert, go!"
The beseeching words were aided by a beseeching gesture and a morebeseeching look. Moore covered her clasped hands an instant with his,answered her upward by a downward gaze, said "Good-night!" and went.
Caroline was in a moment at the kitchen door behind Fanny. The shadow ofthe shovel-hat at that very instant fell on a moonlit tomb. The rectoremerged, erect as a cane, from his garden, and proceeded in slow march,his hands behind him, down the cemetery. Moore was almost caught. He hadto "dodge" after all, to coast round the church, and finally to bend histall form behind the Wynnes' ambitious monument. There he was forced tohide full ten minutes, kneeling with one knee on the turf, his hat off,his curls bare to the dew, his dark eye shining, and his lips partedwith inward laughter at his position; for the rector meantime stoodcoolly star-gazing, and taking snuff within three feet of him.
It happened, however, that Mr. Helstone had no suspicion whatever on hismind; for being usually but vaguely informed of his niece's movements,not thinking it worth while to follow them closely, he was not awarethat she had been out at all that day, and imagined her then occupiedwith book or work in her chamber--where, indeed, she was by this time,though not absorbed in the tranquil employment he ascribed to her, butstanding at her window with fast-throbbing heart, peeping anxiously frombehind the blind, watching for her uncle to re-enter and her cousin toescape. And at last she was gratified. She heard Mr. Helstone come in;she saw Robert stride the tombs and vault the wall; she then went downto prayers. When she returned to her chamber, it was to meet the memoryof Robert. Slumber's visitation was long averted. Long she sat at herlattice, long gazed down on the old garden and older church, on thetombs laid out all gray and calm, and clear in moonlight. She followedthe steps of the night, on its pathway of stars, far into the "wee sma'hours ayont the twal'." She was with Moore, in spirit, the whole time;she was at his side; she heard his voice; she gave her hand into hishand; it rested warm in his fingers. When the church clock struck, whenany other sound stirred, when a little mouse familiar to her chamber--anintruder for which she would never permit Fanny to lay a trap--camerattling amongst the links of her locket-chain, her one ring, andanother trinket or two on the toilet-table, to nibble a bit of biscuitlaid ready for it, she looked up, recalled momentarily to the real. Thenshe said half aloud, as if deprecating the accusation of some unseen andunheard monitor, "I am not cherishing love dreams; I am only thinkingbecause I cannot sleep. Of course, I know he will marry Shirley."
With returning silence, with the lull of the chime, and the retreat ofher small untamed and unknown _protege_, she still resumed the dream,nestling to the vision's side--listening to, conversing with it. Itpaled at last. As dawn approached, the setting stars and breaking daydimmed the creation of fancy; the wakened song of birds hushed herwhispers. The tale full of fire, quick with interest, borne away by themorning wind, became a vague murmur. The shape that, seen in a moonbeam,lived, had a pulse, had movement, wore health's glow and youth'sfreshness, turned cold and ghostly gray, confronted with the red ofsunrise. It wasted. She was left solitary at last. She crept to hercouch, chill and dejected.
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