Shirley

by Charlotte Bronte

  CHAPTER XII.

  SHIRLEY AND CAROLINE.

  Shirley showed she had been sincere in saying she should be glad ofCaroline's society, by frequently seeking it; and, indeed, if she hadnot sought it, she would not have had it, for Miss Helstone was slow tomake fresh acquaintance. She was always held back by the idea thatpeople could not want her, that she could not amuse them; and abrilliant, happy, youthful creature like the heiress of Fieldhead seemedto her too completely independent of society so uninteresting as hersever to find it really welcome.

  Shirley might be brilliant, and probably happy likewise, but no one isindependent of genial society; and though in about a month she had madethe acquaintance of most of the families round, and was on quite freeand easy terms with all the Misses Sykes, and all the Misses Pearson,and the two superlative Misses Wynne of Walden Hall, yet, it appeared,she found none amongst them very genial: she fraternized with none ofthem, to use her own words. If she had had the bliss to be reallyShirley Keeldar, Esq., lord of the manor of Briarfield, there was not asingle fair one in this and the two neighbouring parishes whom sheshould have felt disposed to request to become Mrs. Keeldar, lady of themanor. This declaration she made to Mrs. Pryor, who received it veryquietly, as she did most of her pupil's off-hand speeches, responding,"My dear, do not allow that habit of alluding to yourself as a gentlemanto be confirmed. It is a strange one. Those who do not know you, hearingyou speak thus, would think you affected masculine manners."

  Shirley never laughed at her former governess; even the littleformalities and harmless peculiarities of that lady were respectable inher eyes. Had it been otherwise, she would have proved herself a weakcharacter at once; for it is only the weak who make a butt of quietworth. Therefore she took her remonstrance in silence. She stoodquietly near the window, looking at the grand cedar on her lawnwatching a bird on one of its lower boughs. Presently she began tochirrup to the bird; soon her chirrup grew clearer; ere long she waswhistling; the whistle struck into a tune, and very sweetly and deftlyit was executed.

  "My dear!" expostulated Mrs. Pryor.

  "Was I whistling?" said Shirley. "I forgot. I beg your pardon, ma'am. Ihad resolved to take care not to whistle before you."

  "But, Miss Keeldar, where did you learn to whistle? You must have gotthe habit since you came down into Yorkshire. I never knew you guilty ofit before."

  "Oh! I learned to whistle a long while ago."

  "Who taught you?"

  "No one. I took it up by listening, and I had laid it down again. Butlately, yesterday evening, as I was coming up our lane, I heard agentleman whistling that very tune in the field on the other side of thehedge, and that reminded me."

  "What gentleman was it?"

  "We have only one gentleman in this region, ma'am, and that is Mr.Moore--at least he is the only gentleman who is not gray-haired. My twovenerable favourites, Mr. Helstone and Mr. Yorke, it is true, are fineold beaus, infinitely better than any of the stupid young ones."

  Mrs. Pryor was silent.

  "You do not like Mr. Helstone, ma'am?"

  "My dear, Mr. Helstone's office secures him from criticism."

  "You generally contrive to leave the room when he is announced."

  "Do you walk out this morning, my dear?"

  "Yes, I shall go to the rectory, and seek and find Caroline Helstone,and make her take some exercise. She shall have a breezy walk overNunnely Common."

  "If you go in that direction, my dear, have the goodness to remind MissHelstone to wrap up well, as there is a fresh wind, and she appears tome to require care."

  "You shall be minutely obeyed, Mrs. Pryor. Meantime, will you notaccompany us yourself?"

  "No, my love; I should be a restraint upon you. I am stout, and cannotwalk so quickly as you would wish to do."

  Shirley easily persuaded Caroline to go with her, and when they werefairly out on the quiet road, traversing the extensive and solitarysweep of Nunnely Common, she as easily drew her into conversation. Thefirst feelings of diffidence overcome, Caroline soon felt glad to talkwith Miss Keeldar. The very first interchange of slight observationssufficed to give each an idea of what the other was. Shirley said sheliked the green sweep of the common turf, and, better still, the heathon its ridges, for the heath reminded her of moors. She had seen moorswhen she was travelling on the borders near Scotland. She rememberedparticularly a district traversed one long afternoon, on a sultry butsunless day in summer. They journeyed from noon till sunset, over whatseemed a boundless waste of deep heath, and nothing had they seen butwild sheep, nothing heard but the cries of wild birds.

  "I know how the heath would look on such a day," said Caroline;"purple-black--a deeper shade of the sky-tint, and that would be livid."

  "Yes, quite livid, with brassy edges to the clouds, and here and there awhite gleam, more ghastly than the lurid tinge, which, as you looked atit, you momentarily expected would kindle into blinding lightning."

  "Did it thunder?"

  "It muttered distant peals, but the storm did not break till evening,after we had reached our inn--that inn being an isolated house at thefoot of a range of mountains."

  "Did you watch the clouds come down over the mountains?"

  "I did. I stood at the window an hour watching them. The hills seemedrolled in a sullen mist, and when the rain fell in whitening sheets,suddenly they were blotted from the prospect; they were washed from theworld."

  "I have seen such storms in hilly districts in Yorkshire; and at theirriotous climax, while the sky was all cataract, the earth all flood, Ihave remembered the Deluge."

  "It is singularly reviving after such hurricanes to feel calm return,and from the opening clouds to receive a consolatory gleam, softlytestifying that the sun is not quenched."

  "Miss Keeldar, just stand still now, and look down at Nunnely dale andwood."

  They both halted on the green brow of the common. They looked down onthe deep valley robed in May raiment; on varied meads, some pearled withdaisies, and some golden with king-cups. To-day all this young verduresmiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber gleams playedover it. On Nunnwood--the sole remnant of antique British forest in aregion whose lowlands were once all silvan chase, as its highlands werebreast-deep heather--slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills weredappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silveryblues, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting intofleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye as with aremote glimpse of heaven's foundations. The air blowing on the brow wasfresh, and sweet, and bracing.

  "Our England is a bonny island," said Shirley, "and Yorkshire is one ofher bonniest nooks."

  "You are a Yorkshire girl too?"

  "I am--Yorkshire in blood and birth. Five generations of my race sleepunder the aisles of Briarfield Church. I drew my first breath in the oldblack hall behind us."

  Hereupon Caroline presented her hand, which was accordingly taken andshaken. "We are compatriots," said she.

  "Yes," agreed Shirley, with a grave nod.

  "And that," asked Miss Keeldar, pointing to the forest--"that isNunnwood?"

  "It is."

  "Were you ever there?"

  "Many a time."

  "In the heart of it?"

  "Yes."

  "What is it like?"

  "It is like an encampment of forest sons of Anak. The trees are huge andold. When you stand at their roots, the summits seem in another region.The trunks remain still and firm as pillars, while the boughs sway toevery breeze. In the deepest calm their leaves are never quite hushed,and in high wind a flood rushes, a sea thunders above you."

  "Was it not one of Robin Hood's haunts?"

  "Yes, and there are mementos of him still existing. To penetrate intoNunnwood, Miss Keeldar, is to go far back into the dim days of old. Canyou see a break in the forest, about the centre?"

  "Yes, distinctly."

  "That break is a dell--a deep, hollow cup, lined with turf as green andshort a
s the sod of this common. The very oldest of the trees, gnarledmighty oaks, crowd about the brink of this dell. In the bottom lie theruins of a nunnery."

  "We will go--you and I alone, Caroline--to that wood, early some finesummer morning, and spend a long day there. We can take pencils andsketch-books, and any interesting reading book we like; and of course weshall take something to eat. I have two little baskets, in which Mrs.Gill, my housekeeper, might pack our provisions, and we could each carryour own. It would not tire you too much to walk so far?"

  "Oh no; especially if we rested the whole day in the wood. And I knowall the pleasantest spots. I know where we could get nuts in nuttingtime; I know where wild strawberries abound; I know certain lonely,quite untrodden glades, carpeted with strange mosses, some yellow as ifgilded, some a sober gray, some gem-green. I know groups of trees thatravish the eye with their perfect, picture-like effects--rude oak,delicate birch, glossy beech, clustered in contrast; and ash treesstately as Saul, standing isolated; and superannuated wood-giants cladin bright shrouds of ivy. Miss Keeldar, I could guide you."

  "You would be dull with me alone?"

  "I should not. I think we should suit; and what third person is therewhose presence would not spoil our pleasure?"

  "Indeed, I know of none about our own ages--no lady at least; and as togentlemen----"

  "An excursion becomes quite a different thing when there are gentlemenof the party," interrupted Caroline.

  "I agree with you--quite a different thing to what we were proposing."

  "We were going simply to see the old trees, the old ruins; to pass a dayin old times, surrounded by olden silence, and above all by quietude."

  "You are right; and the presence of gentlemen dispels the last charm, Ithink. If they are of the wrong sort, like your Malones, and your youngSykes, and Wynnes, irritation takes the place of serenity. If they areof the right sort, there is still a change; I can hardly tell whatchange--one easy to feel, difficult to describe."

  "We forget Nature, _imprimis_."

  "And then Nature forgets us, covers her vast calm brow with a dim veil,conceals her face, and withdraws the peaceful joy with which, if we hadbeen content to worship her only, she would have filled our hearts."

  "What does she give us instead?"

  "More elation and more anxiety; an excitement that steals the hours awayfast, and a trouble that ruffles their course."

  "Our power of being happy lies a good deal in ourselves, I believe,"remarked Caroline sagely. "I have gone to Nunnwood with a largeparty--all the curates and some other gentry of these parts, togetherwith sundry ladies--and I found the affair insufferably tedious andabsurd; and I have gone quite alone, or accompanied but by Fanny, whosat in the woodman's hut and sewed, or talked to the goodwife, while Iroamed about and made sketches, or read; and I have enjoyed muchhappiness of a quiet kind all day long. But that was when I wasyoung--two years ago."

  "Did you ever go with your cousin, Robert Moore?"

  "Yes; once."

  "What sort of a companion is he on these occasions?"

  "A cousin, you know, is different to a stranger."

  "I am aware of that; but cousins, if they are stupid, are still moreinsupportable than strangers, because you cannot so easily keep them ata distance. But your cousin is not stupid?"

  "No; but----"

  "Well?"

  "If the company of fools irritates, as you say, the society of clevermen leaves its own peculiar pain also. Where the goodness or talent ofyour friend is beyond and above all doubt, your own worthiness to be hisassociate often becomes a matter of question."

  "Oh! there I cannot follow you. That crotchet is not one I should chooseto entertain for an instant. I consider myself not unworthy to be theassociate of the best of them--of gentlemen, I mean--though that issaying a great deal. Where they are good, they are very good, I believe.Your uncle, by-the-bye, is not a bad specimen of the elderly gentleman.I am always glad to see his brown, keen, sensible old face, either in myown house or any other. Are you fond of him? Is he kind to you? Now,speak the truth."

  "He has brought me up from childhood, I doubt not, precisely as he wouldhave brought up his own daughter, if he had had one; and that iskindness. But I am not fond of him. I would rather be out of hispresence than in it."

  "Strange, when he has the art of making himself so agreeable."

  "Yes, in company; but he is stern and silent at home. As he puts awayhis cane and shovel-hat in the rectory hall, so he locks his livelinessin his book-case and study-desk: the knitted brow and brief word for thefireside; the smile, the jest, the witty sally for society."

  "Is he tyrannical?"

  "Not in the least. He is neither tyrannical nor hypocritical. He issimply a man who is rather liberal than good-natured, rather brilliantthan genial, rather scrupulously equitable than truly just--if you canunderstand such superfine distinctions."

  "Oh yes! Good-nature implies indulgence, which he has not; geniality,warmth of heart, which he does not own; and genuine justice is theoffspring of sympathy and considerateness, of which, I can wellconceive, my bronzed old friend is quite innocent."

  "I often wonder, Shirley, whether most men resemble my uncle in theirdomestic relations; whether it is necessary to be new and unfamiliar tothem in order to seem agreeable or estimable in their eyes; and whetherit is impossible to their natures to retain a constant interest andaffection for those they see every day."

  "I don't know. I can't clear up your doubts. I ponder over similar onesmyself sometimes. But, to tell you a secret, if I were convinced thatthey are necessarily and universally different from us--fickle, soonpetrifying, unsympathizing--I would never marry. I should not like tofind out that what I loved did not love me, that it was weary of me, andthat whatever effort I might make to please would hereafter be worsethan useless, since it was inevitably in its nature to change and becomeindifferent. That discovery once made, what should I long for? To goaway, to remove from a presence where my society gave no pleasure."

  "But you could not if you were married."

  "No, I could not. There it is. I could never be my own mistress more. Aterrible thought! It suffocates me! Nothing irks me like the idea ofbeing a burden and a bore--an inevitable burden, a ceaseless bore! Now,when I feel my company superfluous, I can comfortably fold myindependence round me like a mantle, and drop my pride like a veil, andwithdraw to solitude. If married, that could not be."

  "I wonder we don't all make up our minds to remain single," saidCaroline. "We should if we listened to the wisdom of experience. Myuncle always speaks of marriage as a burden; and I believe whenever hehears of a man being married he invariably regards him as a fool, or, atany rate, as doing a foolish thing."

  "But, Caroline, men are not all like your uncle. Surely not. I hopenot."

  She paused and mused.

  "I suppose we each find an exception in the one we love, till we _are_married," suggested Caroline.

  "I suppose so. And this exception we believe to be of sterlingmaterials. We fancy it like ourselves; we imagine a sense of harmony. Wethink his voice gives the softest, truest promise of a heart that willnever harden against us; we read in his eyes that faithfulfeeling--affection. I don't think we should trust to what they callpassion at all, Caroline. I believe it is a mere fire of dry sticks,blazing up and vanishing. But we watch him, and see him kind to animals,to little children, to poor people. He is kind to us likewise, good,considerate. He does not flatter women, but he is patient with them, andhe seems to be easy in their presence, and to find their company genial.He likes them not only for vain and selfish reasons, but as _we_ likehim--because we like him. Then we observe that he is just, that healways speaks the truth, that he is conscientious. We feel joy and peacewhen he comes into a room; we feel sadness and trouble when he leavesit. We know that this man has been a kind son, that he is a kindbrother. Will any one dare to tell me that he will not be a kindhusband?"

  "My uncle would affirm it unhesitatingly. 'He will be sick o
f you in amonth,' he would say."

  "Mrs. Pryor would seriously intimate the same."

  "Mrs. Yorke and Miss Mann would darkly suggest ditto."

  "If they are true oracles, it is good never to fall in love."

  "Very good, if you can avoid it."

  "I choose to doubt their truth."

  "I am afraid that proves you are already caught."

  "Not I. But if I were, do you know what soothsayers I would consult?"

  "Let me hear."

  "Neither man nor woman, elderly nor young: the little Irish beggar thatcomes barefoot to my door; the mouse that steals out of the cranny inthe wainscot; the bird that in frost and snow pecks at my window for acrumb; the dog that licks my hand and sits beside my knee."

  "Did you ever see any one who was kind to such things?"

  "Did you ever see any one whom such things seemed instinctively tofollow, like, rely on?"

  "We have a black cat and an old dog at the rectory. I know somebody towhose knee that black cat loves to climb, against whose shoulder andcheek it likes to purr. The old dog always comes out of his kennel andwags his tail, and whines affectionately when somebody passes."

  "And what does that somebody do?"

  "He quietly strokes the cat, and lets her sit while he conveniently can;and when he must disturb her by rising, he puts her softly down, andnever flings her from him roughly. He always whistles to the dog andgives him a caress."

  "Does he? It is not Robert?"

  "But it is Robert."

  "Handsome fellow!" said Shirley, with enthusiasm. Her eyes sparkled.

  "Is he not handsome? Has he not fine eyes and well-cut features, and aclear, princely forehead?"

  "He has all that, Caroline. Bless him! he is both graceful and good."

  "I was sure you would see that he was. When I first looked at your faceI knew you would."

  "I was well inclined to him before I saw him. I liked him when I did seehim. I admire him now. There is charm in beauty for itself, Caroline;when it is blent with goodness, there is a powerful charm."

  "When mind is added, Shirley?"

  "Who can resist it?"

  "Remember my uncle, Mesdames Pryor, Yorke, and Mann."

  "Remember the croaking of the frogs of Egypt. He is a noble being. Itell you when they _are_ good they are the lords of the creation--theyare the sons of God. Moulded in their Maker's image, the minutest sparkof His spirit lifts them almost above mortality. Indisputably, a great,good, handsome man is the first of created things."

  "Above us?"

  "I would scorn to contend for empire with him--I would scorn it. Shallmy left hand dispute for precedence with my right? Shall my heartquarrel with my pulse? Shall my veins be jealous of the blood whichfills them?"

  "Men and women, husbands and wives, quarrel horribly, Shirley."

  "Poor things! Poor, fallen, degenerate things! God made them for anotherlot, for other feelings."

  "But are we men's equals, or are we not?"

  "Nothing ever charms me more than when I meet my superior--one who makesme sincerely feel that he is my superior."

  "Did you ever meet him?"

  "I should be glad to see him any day. The higher above me, so much thebetter. It degrades to stoop; it is glorious to look up. What frets meis, that when I try to esteem, I am baffled; when religiously inclined,there are but false gods to adore. I disdain to be a pagan."

  "Miss Keeldar, will you come in? We are here at the rectory gates."

  "Not to-day, but to-morrow I shall fetch you to spend the evening withme. Caroline Helstone, if you really are what at present to me you seem,you and I will suit. I have never in my whole life been able to talk toa young lady as I have talked to you this morning. Kiss me--andgood-bye."

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Pryor seemed as well disposed to cultivate Caroline's acquaintanceas Shirley. She, who went nowhere else, called on an early day at therectory. She came in the afternoon, when the rector happened to be out.It was rather a close day; the heat of the weather had flushed her, andshe seemed fluttered too by the circumstance of entering a strangehouse, for it appeared her habits were most retiring and secluded. WhenMiss Helstone went to her in the dining-room she found her seated on thesofa, trembling, fanning herself with her handkerchief, and seeming tocontend with a nervous discomposure that threatened to becomehysterical.

  Caroline marvelled somewhat at this unusual want of self-command in alady of her years, and also at the lack of real strength in one whoappeared almost robust--for Mrs. Pryor hastened to allege the fatigue ofher walk, the heat of the sun, etc., as reasons for her temporaryindisposition; and still as, with more hurry than coherence, she againand again enumerated these causes of exhaustion, Caroline gently soughtto relieve her by opening her shawl and removing her bonnet. Attentionsof this sort Mrs. Pryor would not have accepted from every one. Ingeneral she recoiled from touch or close approach with a mixture ofembarrassment and coldness far from flattering to those who offered heraid. To Miss Helstone's little light hand, however, she yieldedtractably, and seemed soothed by its contact. In a few minutes sheceased to tremble, and grew quiet and tranquil.

  Her usual manner being resumed, she proceeded to talk of ordinarytopics. In a miscellaneous company Mrs. Pryor rarely opened her lips,or, if obliged to speak, she spoke under restraint, and consequently notwell; in dialogue she was a good converser. Her language, always alittle formal, was well chosen; her sentiments were just; herinformation was varied and correct. Caroline felt it pleasant to listento her, more pleasant than she could have anticipated.

  On the wall opposite the sofa where they sat hung three pictures--thecentre one, above the mantelpiece, that of a lady; the two others, maleportraits.

  "That is a beautiful face," said Mrs. Pryor, interrupting a brief pausewhich had followed half an hour's animated conversation. "The featuresmay be termed perfect; no statuary's chisel could improve them. It is aportrait from the life, I presume?"

  "It is a portrait of Mrs. Helstone."

  "Of Mrs. Matthewson Helstone? Of your uncle's wife?"

  "It is, and is said to be a good likeness. Before her marriage she wasaccounted the beauty of the district."

  "I should say she merited the distinction. What accuracy in all thelineaments! It is, however, a passive face. The original could not havebeen what is generally termed 'a woman of spirit.'"

  "I believe she was a remarkably still, silent person."

  "One would scarcely have expected, my dear, that your uncle's choiceshould have fallen on a partner of that description. Is he not fond ofbeing amused by lively chat?"

  "In company he is. But he always says he could never do with a talkingwife. He must have quiet at home. You go out to gossip, he affirms; youcome home to read and reflect."

  "Mrs. Matthewson lived but a few years after her marriage, I think Ihave heard?"

  "About five years."

  "Well, my dear," pursued Mrs. Pryor, rising to go, "I trust it isunderstood that you will frequently come to Fieldhead. I hope you will.You must feel lonely here, having no female relative in the house; youmust necessarily pass much of your time in solitude."

  "I am inured to it. I have grown up by myself. May I arrange your shawlfor you?"

  Mrs. Pryor submitted to be assisted.

  "Should you chance to require help in your studies," she said, "you maycommand me."

  Caroline expressed her sense of such kindness.

  "I hope to have frequent conversations with you. I should wish to be ofuse to you."

  Again Miss Helstone returned thanks. She thought what a kind heart washidden under her visitor's seeming chilliness. Observing that Mrs. Pryoragain glanced with an air of interest towards the portraits, as shewalked down the room, Caroline casually explained: "The likeness thathangs near the window, you will see, is my uncle, taken twenty yearsago; the other, to the left of the mantelpiece, is his brother James, myfather."

  "They resemble each other in s
ome measure," said Mrs. Pryor; "yet adifference of character may be traced in the different mould of the browand mouth."

  "What difference?" inquired Caroline, accompanying her to the door."James Helstone--that is, my father--is generally considered thebest-looking of the two. Strangers, I remark, always exclaim, 'What ahandsome man!' Do you think his picture handsome, Mrs. Pryor?"

  "It is much softer or finer featured than that of your uncle."

  "But where or what is the difference of character to which you alluded?Tell me. I wish to see if you guess right."

  "My dear, your uncle is a man of principle. His forehead and his lipsare firm, and his eye is steady."

  "Well, and the other? Do not be afraid of offending me. I always likethe truth."

  "Do you like the truth? It is well for you. Adhere to thatpreference--never swerve thence. The other, my dear, if he had beenliving now, would probably have furnished little support to hisdaughter. It is, however, a graceful head--taken in youth, I shouldthink. My dear" (turning abruptly), "you acknowledge an inestimablevalue in principle?"

  "I am sure no character can have true worth without it."

  "You feel what you say? You have considered the subject?"

  "Often. Circumstances early forced it upon my attention."

  "The lesson was not lost, then, though it came so prematurely. I supposethe soil is not light nor stony, otherwise seed falling in that seasonnever would have borne fruit. My dear, do not stand in the air of thedoor; you will take cold. Good-afternoon."

  Miss Helstone's new acquaintance soon became of value to her: theirsociety was acknowledged a privilege. She found she would have been inerror indeed to have let slip this chance of relief, to have neglectedto avail herself of this happy change. A turn was thereby given to herthoughts; a new channel was opened for them, which, diverting a few ofthem at least from the one direction in which all had hitherto tended,abated the impetuosity of their rush, and lessened the force of theirpressure on one worn-down point.

  Soon she was content to spend whole days at Fieldhead, doing by turnswhatever Shirley or Mrs. Pryor wished her to do; and now one would claimher, now the other. Nothing could be less demonstrative than thefriendship of the elder lady, but also nothing could be more vigilant,assiduous, untiring. I have intimated that she was a peculiar personage,and in nothing was her peculiarity more shown than in the nature of theinterest she evinced for Caroline. She watched all her movements; sheseemed as if she would have guarded all her steps. It gave her pleasureto be applied to by Miss Helstone for advice and assistance. She yieldedher aid, when asked, with such quiet yet obvious enjoyment that Carolineere long took delight in depending on her.

  Shirley Keeldar's complete docility with Mrs. Pryor had at firstsurprised Miss Helstone, and not less the fact of the reservedex-governess being so much at home and at ease in the residence of heryoung pupil, where she filled with such quiet independency a verydependent post; but she soon found that it needed but to know bothladies to comprehend fully the enigma. Every one, it seemed to her, mustlike, must love, must prize Mrs. Pryor when they knew her. No matterthat she perseveringly wore old-fashioned gowns; that her speech wasformal and her manner cool; that she had twenty little ways such asnobody else had: she was still such a stay, such a counsellor, sotruthful, so kind in her way, that, in Caroline's idea, none onceaccustomed to her presence could easily afford to dispense with it.

  As to dependency or humiliation, Caroline did not feel it in herintercourse with Shirley, and why should Mrs. Pryor? The heiress wasrich--very rich--compared with her new friend: one possessed a clearthousand a year, the other not a penny; and yet there was a safe senseof equality experienced in her society, never known in that of theordinary Briarfield and Whinbury gentry.

  The reason was, Shirley's head ran on other things than money andposition. She was glad to be independent as to property; by fits she waseven elated at the notion of being lady of the manor, and having tenantsand an estate. She was especially tickled with an agreeable complacencywhen reminded of "all that property" down in the Hollow, "comprising anexcellent cloth-mill, dyehouse, warehouse, together with the messuage,gardens, and outbuildings, termed Hollow's Cottage;" but her exultationbeing quite undisguised was singularly inoffensive; and, for her seriousthoughts, they tended elsewhere. To admire the great, reverence thegood, and be joyous with the genial, was very much the bent of Shirley'ssoul: she mused, therefore, on the means of following this bent faroftener than she pondered on her social superiority.

  In Caroline Miss Keeldar had first taken an interest because she wasquiet, retiring, looked delicate, and seemed as if she needed some oneto take care of her. Her predilection increased greatly when shediscovered that her own way of thinking and talking was understood andresponded to by this new acquaintance. She had hardly expected it. MissHelstone, she fancied, had too pretty a face, manners and voice toosoft, to be anything out of the common way in mind and attainments; andshe very much wondered to see the gentle features light up archly to thereveille of a dry sally or two risked by herself; and more did shewonder to discover the self-won knowledge treasured, and the untaughtspeculations working in that girlish, curl-veiled head. Caroline'sinstinct of taste, too, was like her own. Such books as Miss Keeldar hadread with the most pleasure were Miss Helstone's delight also. They heldmany aversions too in common, and could have the comfort of laughingtogether over works of false sentimentality and pompous pretension.

  Few, Shirley conceived, men or women have the right taste in poetry, theright sense for discriminating between what is real and what is false.She had again and again heard very clever people pronounce this or thatpassage, in this or that versifier, altogether admirable, which, whenshe read, her soul refused to acknowledge as anything but cant,flourish, and tinsel, or at the best elaborate wordiness, curious,clever, learned, perhaps, haply even tinged with the fascinating hues offancy, but, God knows, as different from real poetry as the gorgeous andmassy vase of mosaic is from the little cup of pure metal; or, to givethe reader a choice of similes, as the milliner's artificial wreath isfrom the fresh-gathered lily of the field.

  Caroline, she found, felt the value of the true ore, and knew thedeception of the flashy dross. The minds of the two girls being toned inharmony often chimed very sweetly together.

  One evening they chanced to be alone in the oak-parlour. They had passeda long wet day together without _ennui_. It was now on the edge of dark;candles were not yet brought in; both, as twilight deepened, grewmeditative and silent. A western wind roared high round the hall,driving wild clouds and stormy rain up from the far-remote ocean; allwas tempest outside the antique lattices, all deep peace within. Shirleysat at the window, watching the rack in heaven, the mist on earth,listening to certain notes of the gale that plained like restlessspirits--notes which, had she not been so young, gay, and healthy, wouldhave swept her trembling nerves like some omen, some anticipatory dirge.In this her prime of existence and bloom of beauty they but subduedvivacity to pensiveness. Snatches of sweet ballads haunted her ear; nowand then she sang a stanza. Her accents obeyed the fitful impulse of thewind; they swelled as its gusts rushed on, and died as they wanderedaway. Caroline, withdrawn to the farthest and darkest end of the room,her figure just discernible by the ruby shine of the flameless fire,was pacing to and fro, muttering to herself fragments of well-rememberedpoetry. She spoke very low, but Shirley heard her; and while singingsoftly, she listened. This was the strain:--

  "Obscurest night involved the sky, The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I, Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home for ever left."

  Here the fragment stopped, because Shirley's song, erewhile somewhatfull and thrilling, had become delicately faint.

  "Go on," said she.

  "Then you go on too. I was only repeating 'The Castaway.'"

  "I know. If you can remember it all, say it all."

  And as it was nearly dark, an
d, after all, Miss Keeldar was noformidable auditor, Caroline went through it. She went through it as sheshould have gone through it. The wild sea, the drowning mariner, thereluctant ship swept on in the storm, you heard were realized by her;and more vividly was realized the heart of the poet, who did not weepfor "The Castaway," but who, in an hour of tearless anguish, traced asemblance to his own God-abandoned misery in the fate of thatman-forsaken sailor, and cried from the depths where he struggled,--

  "No voice divine the storm allayed, No light propitious shone, When, snatched from all effectual aid, We perished--each alone! But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he."

  "I hope William Cowper is safe and calm in heaven now," said Caroline.

  "Do you pity what he suffered on earth?" asked Miss Keeldar.

  "Pity him, Shirley? What can I do else? He was nearly broken-heartedwhen he wrote that poem, and it almost breaks one's heart to read it.But he found relief in writing it--I know he did; and that gift ofpoetry--the most divine bestowed on man--was, I believe, granted toallay emotions when their strength threatens harm. It seems to me,Shirley, that nobody should write poetry to exhibit intellect orattainment. Who cares for that sort of poetry? Who cares forlearning--who cares for fine words in poetry? And who does not care forfeeling--real feeling--however simply, even rudely expressed?"

  "It seems you care for it, at all events; and certainly, in hearing thatpoem, one discovers that Cowper was under an impulse strong as that ofthe wind which drove the ship--an impulse which, while it would notsuffer him to stop to add ornament to a single stanza, filled him withforce to achieve the whole with consummate perfection. You managed torecite it with a steady voice, Caroline. I wonder thereat."

  "Cowper's hand did not tremble in writing the lines. Why should my voicefalter in repeating them? Depend on it, Shirley, no tear blistered themanuscript of 'The Castaway.' I hear in it no sob of sorrow, only thecry of despair; but, that cry uttered, I believe the deadly spasm passedfrom his heart, that he wept abundantly, and was comforted."

  Shirley resumed her ballad minstrelsy. Stopping short, she remarked erelong, "One could have loved Cowper, if it were only for the sake ofhaving the privilege of comforting him."

  "You never would have loved Cowper," rejoined Caroline promptly. "He wasnot made to be loved by woman."

  "What do you mean?"

  "What I say. I know there is a kind of natures in the world--and verynoble, elevated natures too--whom love never comes near. You might havesought Cowper with the intention of loving him, and you would havelooked at him, pitied him, and left him, forced away by a sense of theimpossible, the incongruous, as the crew were borne from their drowningcomrade by 'the furious blast.'"

  "You may be right. Who told you this?"

  "And what I say of Cowper, I should say of Rousseau. Was Rousseau everloved? He loved passionately; but was his passion ever returned? I amcertain, never. And if there were any female Cowpers and Rousseaus, Ishould assert the same of them."

  "Who told you this, I ask? Did Moore?"

  "Why should anybody have told me? Have I not an instinct? Can I notdivine by analogy? Moore never talked to me either about Cowper, orRousseau, or love. The voice we hear in solitude told me all I know onthese subjects."

  "Do you like characters of the Rousseau order, Caroline?"

  "Not at all, as a whole. I sympathize intensely with certain qualitiesthey possess. Certain divine sparks in their nature dazzle my eyes, andmake my soul glow. Then, again, I scorn them. They are made of clay andgold. The refuse and the ore make a mass of weakness: taken altogether,I feel them unnatural, unhealthy, repulsive."

  "I dare say I should be more tolerant of a Rousseau than you would,Cary. Submissive and contemplative yourself, you like the stern and thepractical. By the way, you must miss that Cousin Robert of yours verymuch, now that you and he never meet."

  "I do."

  "And he must miss you?"

  "That he does not."

  "I cannot imagine," pursued Shirley, who had lately got a habit ofintroducing Moore's name into the conversation, even when it seemed tohave no business there--"I cannot imagine but that he was fond of you,since he took so much notice of you, talked to you, and taught you somuch."

  "He never was fond of me; he never professed to be fond of me. He tookpains to prove that he only just tolerated me."

  Caroline, determined not to err on the flattering side in estimating hercousin's regard for her, always now habitually thought of it andmentioned it in the most scanty measure. She had her own reasons forbeing less sanguine than ever in hopeful views of the future, lessindulgent to pleasurable retrospections of the past.

  "Of course, then," observed Miss Keeldar, "you only just tolerated himin return?"

  "Shirley, men and women are so different; they are in such a differentposition. Women have so few things to think about, men so many. You mayhave a friendship for a man, while he is almost indifferent to you. Muchof what cheers your life may be dependent on him, while not a feeling orinterest of moment in his eyes may have reference to you. Robert used tobe in the habit of going to London, sometimes for a week or a fortnighttogether. Well, while he was away, I found his absence a void. Therewas something wanting; Briarfield was duller. Of course, I had my usualoccupations; still I missed him. As I sat by myself in the evenings, Iused to feel a strange certainty of conviction I cannot describe, thatif a magician or a genius had, at that moment, offered me Prince Ali'stube (you remember it in the 'Arabian Nights'?), and if, with its aid, Ihad been enabled to take a view of Robert--to see where he was, howoccupied--I should have learned, in a startling manner, the width of thechasm which gaped between such as he and such as I. I knew that, howevermy thoughts might adhere to him, his were effectually sundered from me."

  "Caroline," demanded Miss Keeldar abruptly, "don't you wish you had aprofession--a trade?"

  "I wish it fifty times a day. As it is, I often wonder what I came intothe world for. I long to have something absorbing and compulsory to fillmy head and hands and to occupy my thoughts."

  "Can labour alone make a human being happy?"

  "No; but it can give varieties of pain, and prevent us from breaking ourhearts with a single tyrant master-torture. Besides, successful labourhas its recompense; a vacant, weary, lonely, hopeless life has none."

  "But hard labour and learned professions, they say, make womenmasculine, coarse, unwomanly."

  "And what does it signify whether unmarried and never-to-be-marriedwomen are unattractive and inelegant or not? Provided only they aredecent, decorous, and neat, it is enough. The utmost which ought to berequired of old maids, in the way of appearance, is that they should notabsolutely offend men's eyes as they pass them in the street; for therest, they should be allowed, without too much scorn, to be as absorbed,grave, plain-looking, and plain-dressed as they please."

  "You might be an old maid yourself, Caroline, you speak so earnestly."

  "I shall be one. It is my destiny. I will never marry a Malone or aSykes; and no one else will ever marry me."

  Here fell a long pause. Shirley broke it. Again the name by which sheseemed bewitched was almost the first on her lips.

  "Lina--did not Moore call you Lina sometimes?"

  "Yes. It is sometimes used as the abbreviation of Caroline in his nativecountry."

  "Well, Lina, do you remember my one day noticing an inequality in yourhair--a curl wanting on that right side--and your telling me that it wasRobert's fault, as he had once cut therefrom a long lock?"

  "Yes."

  "If he is, and always was, as indifferent to you as you say, why did hesteal your hair?"

  "I don't know--yes, I do. It was my doing, not his. Everything of thatsort always was my doing. He was going from home--to London, as usual;and the night before he went, I had found in his sister's workbox a lockof black hair--a short, round curl. Hortense told me it was herbrother's, and a keepsake. He was sitting near the table. I looked athis head
. He has plenty of hair; on the temples were many such roundcurls. I thought he could spare me one. I knew I should like to have it,and I asked for it. He said, on condition that he might have his choiceof a tress from my head. So he got one of my long locks of hair, and Igot one of his short ones. I keep his, but I dare say he has lost mine.It was my doing, and one of those silly deeds it distresses the heartand sets the face on fire to think of; one of those small but sharprecollections that return, lacerating your self-respect like tinypenknives, and forcing from your lips, as you sit alone, sudden,insane-sounding interjections."

  "Caroline!"

  "I _do_ think myself a fool, Shirley, in some respects; I _do_ despisemyself. But I said I would not make you my confessor, for you cannotreciprocate foible for foible; you are not weak. How steadily you watchme now! Turn aside your clear, strong, she-eagle eye; it is an insult tofix it on me thus."

  "What a study of character you are--weak, certainly, but not in thesense you think!--Come in!"

  This was said in answer to a tap at the door. Miss Keeldar happened tobe near it at the moment, Caroline at the other end of the room. She sawa note put into Shirley's hands, and heard the words, "From Mr. Moore,ma'am."

  "Bring candles," said Miss Keeldar.

  Caroline sat expectant.

  "A communication on business," said the heiress; but when candles werebrought, she neither opened nor read it. The rector's Fanny waspresently announced, and the rector's niece went home.