CHAPTER XXI.
MRS. PRYOR.
While Shirley was talking with Moore, Caroline rejoined Mrs. Pryorupstairs. She found that lady deeply depressed. She would not say thatMiss Keeldar's hastiness had hurt her feelings, but it was evident aninward wound galled her. To any but a congenial nature she would haveseemed insensible to the quiet, tender attentions by which Miss Helstonesought to impart solace; but Caroline knew that, unmoved or slightlymoved as she looked, she felt, valued, and was healed by them.
"I am deficient in self-confidence and decision," she said at last. "Ialways have been deficient in those qualities. Yet I think Miss Keeldarshould have known my character well enough by this time to be aware thatI always feel an even painful solicitude to do right, to act for thebest. The unusual nature of the demand on my judgment puzzled me,especially following the alarms of the night. I could not venture to actpromptly for another; but I trust no serious harm will result from mylapse of firmness."
A gentle knock was here heard at the door. It was half opened.
"Caroline, come here," said a low voice.
Miss Helstone went out. There stood Shirley in the gallery, lookingcontrite, ashamed, sorry as any repentant child.
"How is Mrs. Pryor?" she asked.
"Rather out of spirits," said Caroline.
"I have behaved very shamefully, very ungenerously, very ungratefully toher," said Shirley. "How insolent in me to turn on her thus for what,after all, was no fault--only an excess of conscientiousness on herpart. But I regret my error most sincerely. Tell her so, and ask if shewill forgive me."
Caroline discharged the errand with heartfelt pleasure. Mrs. Pryor rose,came to the door. She did not like scenes; she dreaded them as alltimid people do. She said falteringly, "Come in, my dear."
Shirley did come in with some impetuosity. She threw her arms round hergoverness, and while she kissed her heartily she said, "You know you_must_ forgive me, Mrs. Pryor. I could not get on at all if there was amisunderstanding between you and me."
"I have nothing to forgive," was the reply. "We will pass it over now,if you please. The final result of the incident is that it proves moreplainly than ever how unequal I am to certain crises."
And that was the painful feeling which _would_ remain on Mrs. Pryor'smind. No effort of Shirley's or Caroline's could efface it thence. Shecould forgive her offending pupil, not her innocent self.
Miss Keeldar, doomed to be in constant request during the morning, waspresently summoned downstairs again. The rector called first. A livelywelcome and livelier reprimand were at his service. He expected both,and, being in high spirits, took them in equally good part.
In the course of his brief visit he quite forgot to ask after his niece;the riot, the rioters, the mill, the magistrates, the heiress, absorbedall his thoughts to the exclusion of family ties. He alluded to the parthimself and curate had taken in the defence of the Hollow.
"The vials of pharisaical wrath will be emptied on our heads for ourshare in this business," he said; "but I defy every calumniator. I wasthere only to support the law, to play my part as a man and a Briton;which characters I deem quite compatible with those of the priest andLevite, in their highest sense. Your tenant Moore," he went on, "has wonmy approbation. A cooler commander I would not wish to see, nor a moredetermined. Besides, the man has shown sound judgment and goodsense--first, in being thoroughly prepared for the event which has takenplace; and subsequently, when his well-concerted plans had secured himsuccess, in knowing how to use without abusing his victory. Some of themagistrates are now well frightened, and, like all cowards, show atendency to be cruel. Moore restrains them with admirable prudence. Hehas hitherto been very unpopular in the neighbourhood; but, mark mywords, the tide of opinion will now take a turn in his favour. Peoplewill find out that they have not appreciated him, and will hasten toremedy their error; and he, when he perceives the public disposed toacknowledge his merits, will show a more gracious mien than that withwhich he has hitherto favoured us."
Mr. Helstone was about to add to this speech some half-jesting,half-serious warnings to Miss Keeldar on the subject of her rumouredpartiality for her talented tenant, when a ring at the door, announcinganother caller, checked his raillery; and as that other caller appearedin the form of a white-haired elderly gentleman, with a rather truculentcountenance and disdainful eye--in short, our old acquaintance, and therector's old enemy, Mr. Yorke--the priest and Levite seized his hat, andwith the briefest of adieus to Miss Keeldar and the sternest of nods toher guest took an abrupt leave.
Mr. Yorke was in no mild mood, and in no measured terms did he expresshis opinion on the transaction of the night. Moore, the magistrates, thesoldiers, the mob leaders, each and all came in for a share of hisinvectives; but he reserved his strongest epithets--and real racyYorkshire Doric adjectives they were--for the benefit of the fightingparsons, the "sanguinary, demoniac" rector and curate. According to him,the cup of ecclesiastical guilt was now full indeed.
"The church," he said, "was in a bonny pickle now. It was time it camedown when parsons took to swaggering amang soldiers, blazing away wi'bullet and gunpowder, taking the lives of far honester men thanthemselves."
"What would Moore have done if nobody had helped him?" asked Shirley.
"Drunk as he'd brewed, eaten as he'd baked."
"Which means you would have left him by himself to face that mob. Good!He has plenty of courage, but the greatest amount of gallantry that evergarrisoned one human breast could scarce avail against two hundred."
"He had the soldiers, those poor slaves who hire out their own blood andspill other folk's for money."
"You abuse soldiers almost as much as you abuse clergymen. All who wearred coats are national refuse in your eyes, and all who wear black arenational swindlers. Mr. Moore, according to you, did wrong to getmilitary aid, and he did still worse to accept of any other aid. Yourway of talking amounts to this: he should have abandoned his mill andhis life to the rage of a set of misguided madmen, and Mr. Helstone andevery other gentleman in the parish should have looked on, and seen thebuilding razed and its owner slaughtered, and never stirred a finger tosave either."
"If Moore had behaved to his men from the beginning as a master ought tobehave, they never would have entertained their present feelings towardshim."
"Easy for you to talk," exclaimed Miss Keeldar, who was beginning to waxwarm in her tenant's cause--"you, whose family have lived at Briarmainsfor six generations, to whose person the people have been accustomed forfifty years, who know all their ways, prejudices, and preferences--easy,indeed, for _you_ to act so as to avoid offending them. But Mr. Moorecame a stranger into the district; he came here poor and friendless,with nothing but his own energies to back him, nothing but his honour,his talent, and his industry to make his way for him. A monstrous crimeindeed that, under such circumstances, he could not popularize hisnaturally grave, quiet manners all at once; could not be jocular, andfree, and cordial with a strange peasantry, as you are with yourfellow-townsmen! An unpardonable transgression that when he introducedimprovements he did not go about the business in quite the most politicway, did not graduate his changes as delicately as a rich capitalistmight have done! For errors of this sort is he to be the victim of moboutrage? Is he to be denied even the privilege of defending himself? Arethose who have the hearts of men in their breasts (and Mr. Helstone, saywhat you will of him, has such a heart) to be reviled like malefactorsbecause they stand by him, because they venture to espouse the cause ofone against two hundred?"
"Come, come now, be cool," said Mr. Yorke, smiling at the earnestnesswith which Shirley multiplied her rapid questions.
"Cool! Must I listen coolly to downright nonsense--to dangerousnonsense? No. I like you very well, Mr. Yorke, as you know, but Ithoroughly dislike some of your principles. All that cant--excuse me,but I repeat the word--all that _cant_ about soldiers and parsons ismost offensive in my ears. All ridiculous, irrational crying up of oneclass, whether the same be aris
tocrat or democrat--all howling down ofanother class, whether clerical or military--all exacting injustice toindividuals, whether monarch or mendicant--is really sickening to me;all arraying of ranks against ranks, all party hatreds, all tyranniesdisguised as liberties, I reject and wash my hands of. _You_ think youare a philanthropist; _you_ think you are an advocate of liberty; but Iwill tell you this--Mr. Hall, the parson of Nunnely, is a better friendboth of man and freedom than Hiram Yorke, the reformer of Briarfield."
From a man Mr. Yorke would not have borne this language very patiently,nor would he have endured it from some women; but he accounted Shirleyboth honest and pretty, and her plain-spoken ire amused him. Besides, hetook a secret pleasure in hearing her defend her tenant, for we havealready intimated he had Robert Moore's interest very much at heart.Moreover, if he wished to avenge himself for her severity, he knew themeans lay in his power: a word, he believed, would suffice to tame andsilence her, to cover her frank forehead with the rosy shadow of shame,and veil the glow of her eye under down-drooped lid and lash.
"What more hast thou to say?" he inquired, as she paused, rather, itappeared, to take breath than because her subject or her zeal wasexhausted.
"Say, Mr. Yorke!" was the answer, the speaker meantime walking fast fromwall to wall of the oak parlour--"say? I have a great deal to say, if Icould get it out in lucid order, which I never _can_ do. I have to saythat your views, and those of most extreme politicians, are such as nonebut men in an irresponsible position _can_ advocate; that they arepurely opposition views, meant only to be talked about, and neverintended to be acted on. Make you Prime Minister of England to-morrow,and you would have to abandon them. You abuse Moore for defending hismill. Had you been in Moore's place you could not with honour or sensehave acted otherwise than he acted. You abuse Mr. Helstone foreverything he does. Mr. Helstone has his faults; he sometimes doeswrong, but oftener right. Were you ordained vicar of Briarfield, youwould find it no easy task to sustain all the active schemes for thebenefit of the parish planned and persevered in by your predecessor. Iwonder people cannot judge more fairly of each other and themselves.When I hear Messrs. Malone and Donne chatter about the authority of thechurch, the dignity and claims of the priesthood, the deference due tothem as clergymen; when I hear the outbreaks of their small spiteagainst Dissenters; when I witness their silly, narrow jealousies andassumptions; when their palaver about forms, and traditions, andsuperstitions is sounding in my ear; when I behold their insolentcarriage to the poor, their often base servility to the rich--I thinkthe Establishment is indeed in a poor way, and both she and her sonsappear in the utmost need of reformation. Turning away distressed fromminster tower and village spire--ay, as distressed as a churchwarden whofeels the exigence of white-wash and has not wherewithal to purchaselime--I recall your senseless sarcasms on the 'fat bishops,' the'pampered parsons,' 'old mother church,' etc. I remember your strictureson all who differ from you, your sweeping condemnation of classes andindividuals, without the slightest allowance made for circumstances ortemptations; and then, Mr. Yorke, doubt clutches my inmost heart as towhether men exist clement, reasonable, and just enough to be entrustedwith the task of reform. I don't believe _you_ are of the number."
"You have an ill opinion of me, Miss Shirley. You never told me so muchof your mind before."
"I never had an opening. But I have sat on Jessy's stool by your chairin the back-parlour at Briarmains, for evenings together, listeningexcitedly to your talk, half admiring what you said, and half rebellingagainst it. I think you a fine old Yorkshireman, sir. I am proud to havebeen born in the same county and parish as yourself. Truthful, upright,independent you are, as a rock based below seas; but also you are harsh,rude, narrow, and merciless."
"Not to the poor, lass, nor to the meek of the earth; only to the proudand high-minded."
"And what right have you, sir, to make such distinctions? A prouder, ahigher-minded man than yourself does not exist. You find it easy tospeak comfortably to your inferiors; you are too haughty, too ambitious,too jealous to be civil to those above you. But you are all alike.Helstone also is proud and prejudiced. Moore, though juster and moreconsiderate than either you or the rector, is still haughty, stern, and,in a public sense, selfish. It is well there are such men as Mr. Hall tobe found occasionally--men of large and kind hearts, who can love theirwhole race, who can forgive others for being richer, more prosperous, ormore powerful than they are. Such men may have less originality, lessforce of character than you, but they are better friends to mankind."
"And when is it to be?" said Mr. Yorke, now rising.
"When is what to be?"
"The wedding."
"Whose wedding?"
"Only that of Robert Gerard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Cottage, with MissKeeldar, daughter and heiress of the late Charles Cave Keeldar ofFieldhead Hall."
Shirley gazed at the questioner with rising colour. But the light in hereye was not faltering; it shone steadily--yes, it burned deeply.
"That is your revenge," she said slowly; then added, "Would it be a badmatch, unworthy of the late Charles Cave Keeldar's representative?"
"My lass, Moore is a gentleman; his blood is pure and ancient as mine orthine."
"And we two set store by ancient blood? We have family pride, though oneof us at least is a republican?"
Yorke bowed as he stood before her. His lips were mute, but his eyeconfessed the impeachment. Yes, he had family pride; you saw it in hiswhole bearing.
"Moore _is_ a gentleman," echoed Shirley, lifting her head with gladgrace. She checked herself. Words seemed crowding to her tongue. Shewould not give them utterance; but her look spoke much at the moment.What, Yorke tried to read, but could not. The language was there,visible, but untranslatable--a poem, a fervid lyric, in an unknowntongue. It was not a plain story, however, no simple gush of feeling, noordinary love-confession--that was obvious. It was something other,deeper, more intricate than he guessed at. He felt his revenge had notstruck home. He felt that Shirley triumphed. She held him at fault,baffled, puzzled. _She_ enjoyed the moment, not _he_.
"And if Moore _is_ a gentleman, you _can_ be only a lady; therefore----"
"Therefore there would be no inequality in our union."
"None."
"Thank you for your approbation. Will you give me away when I relinquishthe name of Keeldar for that of Moore?"
Mr. Yorke, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled. He could notdivine what her look signified--whether she spoke in earnest or in jest.There were purpose and feeling, banter and scoff, playing, mingled, onher mobile lineaments.
"I don't understand thee," he said, turning away.
She laughed. "Take courage, sir; you are not singular in your ignorance.But I suppose if Moore understands me that will do, will it not?"
"Moore may settle his own matters henceforward for me; I'll neithermeddle nor make with them further."
A new thought crossed her. Her countenance changed magically. With asudden darkening of the eye and austere fixing of the features shedemanded, "Have you been asked to interfere? Are you questioning me asanother's proxy?"
"The Lord save us! Whoever weds thee must look about him! Keep all yourquestions for Robert; I'll answer no more on 'em. Good-day, lassie!"
* * * * *
The day being fine, or at least fair--for soft clouds curtained the sun,and a dim but not chill or waterish haze slept blue on thehills--Caroline, while Shirley was engaged with her callers, hadpersuaded Mrs. Pryor to assume her bonnet and summer shawl, and to takea walk with her up towards the narrow end of the Hollow.
Here the opposing sides of the glen, approaching each other and becomingclothed with brushwood and stunted oaks, formed a wooded ravine, at thebottom of which ran the mill-stream, in broken, unquiet course,struggling with many stones, chafing against rugged banks, fretting withgnarled tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went. Here, whenyou had wandered half a mile from the mill, you found a sense of
deepsolitude--found it in the shade of unmolested trees, received it in thesinging of many birds, for which that shade made a home. This was notrodden way. The freshness of the wood flowers attested that foot of manseldom pressed them; the abounding wild roses looked as if they budded,bloomed, and faded under the watch of solitude, as if in a sultan'sharem. Here you saw the sweet azure of blue-bells, and recognized inpearl-white blossoms, spangling the grass, a humble type of some starlitspot in space.
Mrs. Pryor liked a quiet walk. She ever shunned high-roads, and soughtbyways and lonely lanes. One companion she preferred to total solitude,for in solitude she was nervous; a vague fear of annoying encountersbroke the enjoyment of quite lonely rambles. But she feared nothing withCaroline. When once she got away from human habitations, and enteredthe still demesne of nature accompanied by this one youthful friend, apropitious change seemed to steal over her mind and beam in hercountenance. When with Caroline--and Caroline only--her heart, you wouldhave said, shook off a burden, her brow put aside a veil, her spiritstoo escaped from a restraint. With her she was cheerful; with her, attimes, she was tender; to her she would impart her knowledge, revealglimpses of her experience, give her opportunities for guessing whatlife she had lived, what cultivation her mind had received, of whatcalibre was her intelligence, how and where her feelings werevulnerable.
To-day, for instance, as they walked along, Mrs. Pryor talked to hercompanion about the various birds singing in the trees, discriminatedtheir species, and said something about their habits and peculiarities.English natural history seemed familiar to her. All the wild flowersround their path were recognized by her; tiny plants springing nearstones and peeping out of chinks in old walls--plants such as Carolinehad scarcely noticed before--received a name and an intimation of theirproperties. It appeared that she had minutely studied the botany ofEnglish fields and woods. Having reached the head of the ravine, theysat down together on a ledge of gray and mossy rock jutting from thebase of a steep green hill which towered above them. She looked roundher, and spoke of the neighbourhood as she had once before seen it longago. She alluded to its changes, and compared its aspect with that ofother parts of England, revealing in quiet, unconscious touches ofdescription a sense of the picturesque, an appreciation of the beautifulor commonplace, a power of comparing the wild with the cultured, thegrand with the tame, that gave to her discourse a graphic charm aspleasant as it was unpretending.
The sort of reverent pleasure with which Caroline listened--so sincere,so quiet, yet so evident--stirred the elder lady's faculties to gentleanimation. Rarely, probably, had she, with her chill, repellent outside,her diffident mien, and incommunicative habits, known what it was toexcite in one whom she herself could love feelings of earnest affectionand admiring esteem. Delightful, doubtless, was the consciousness that ayoung girl towards whom it seemed, judging by the moved expression ofher eyes and features, her heart turned with almost a fond impulse,looked up to her as an instructor, and clung to her as a friend. With asomewhat more marked accent of interest than she often permitted herselfto use, she said, as she bent towards her youthful companion, and putaside from her forehead a pale brown curl which had strayed from theconfining comb, "I do hope this sweet air blowing from the hill will doyou good, my dear Caroline. I wish I could see something more of colourin these cheeks; but perhaps you were never florid?"
"I had red cheeks once," returned Miss Helstone, smiling. "I remember ayear--two years ago--when I used to look in the glass, I saw a differentface there to what I see now--rounder and rosier. But when we areyoung," added the girl of eighteen, "our minds are careless and ourlives easy."
"Do you," continued Mrs. Pryor, mastering by an effort that tyranttimidity which made it difficult for her, even under presentcircumstances, to attempt the scrutiny of another's heart--"do you, atyour age, fret yourself with cares for the future? Believe me, you hadbetter not. Let the morrow take thought for the things of itself."
"True, dear madam. It is not over the future I pine. The evil of the dayis sometimes oppressive--too oppressive--and I long to escape it."
"That is--the evil of the day--that is--your uncle perhaps is not--youfind it difficult to understand--he does not appreciate----"
Mrs. Pryor could not complete her broken sentences; she could not manageto put the question whether Mr. Helstone was too harsh with his niece.But Caroline comprehended.
"Oh, that is nothing," she replied. "My uncle and I get on very well. Wenever quarrel--I don't call him harsh--he never scolds me. Sometimes Iwish somebody in the world loved me, but I cannot say that Iparticularly wish him to have more affection for me than he has. As achild, I should perhaps have felt the want of attention, only theservants were very kind to me; but when people are long indifferent tous, we grow indifferent to their indifference. It is my uncle's way notto care for women and girls, unless they be ladies that he meets incompany. He could not alter, and I have no wish that he should alter, asfar as I am concerned. I believe it would merely annoy and frighten mewere he to be affectionate towards me now. But you know, Mrs. Pryor, itis scarcely _living_ to measure time as I do at the rectory. The hourspass, and I get them over somehow, but I do not _live_. I endureexistence, but I rarely enjoy it. Since Miss Keeldar and you came I havebeen--I was going to say happier, but that would be untrue." She paused.
"How untrue? You are fond of Miss Keeldar, are you not, my dear?"
"Very fond of Shirley. I both like and admire her. But I am painfullycircumstanced. For a reason I cannot explain I want to go away from thisplace, and to forget it."
"You told me before you wished to be a governess; but, my dear, if youremember, I did not encourage the idea. I have been a governess myselfgreat part of my life. In Miss Keeldar's acquaintance I esteem myselfmost fortunate. Her talents and her really sweet disposition haverendered my office easy to me; but when I was young, before I married,my trials were severe, poignant. I should not like a---- I should notlike you to endure similar ones. It was my lot to enter a family ofconsiderable pretensions to good birth and mental superiority, and themembers of which also believed that 'on them was perceptible' an unusualendowment of the 'Christian graces;' that all their hearts wereregenerate, and their spirits in a peculiar state of discipline. I wasearly given to understand that 'as I was not their equal,' so I couldnot expect 'to have their sympathy.' It was in no sort concealed from methat I was held a 'burden and a restraint in society.' The gentlemen, Ifound, regarded me as a 'tabooed woman,' to whom 'they were interdictedfrom granting the usual privileges of the sex,' and yet 'who annoyedthem by frequently crossing their path.' The ladies too made it plainthat they thought me 'a bore.' The servants, it was signified, 'detestedme;' _why_, I could never clearly comprehend. My pupils, I was told,'however much they might love me, and how deep soever the interest Imight take in them, could not be my friends.' It was intimated that Imust 'live alone, and never transgress the invisible but rigid linewhich established the difference between me and my employers.' My lifein this house was sedentary, solitary, constrained, joyless, toilsome.The dreadful crushing of the animal spirits, the ever-prevailing senseof friendlessness and homelessness consequent on this state of thingsbegan ere long to produce mortal effects on my constitution. I sickened.The lady of the house told me coolly I was the victim of 'woundedvanity.' She hinted that if I did not make an effort to quell my'ungodly discontent,' to cease 'murmuring against God's appointment,'and to cultivate the profound humility befitting my station, my mindwould very likely 'go to pieces' on the rock that wrecked most of mysisterhood--morbid self-esteem--and that I should die an inmate of alunatic asylum.
"I said nothing to Mrs. Hardman--it would have been useless; but to hereldest daughter I one day dropped a few observations, which wereanswered thus. There were hardships, she allowed, in the position of agoverness. 'Doubtless they had their trials; but,' she averred, with amanner it makes me smile now to recall--'but it must be so. _She_' (MissH.) 'had neither view, hope, nor _wish_ to see these things remedied;for in
the inherent constitution of English habits, feelings, andprejudices there was no possibility that they should be. Governesses,'she observed, 'must ever be kept in a sort of isolation. It is the onlymeans of maintaining that distance which the reserve of English mannersand the decorum of English families exact.'
"I remember I sighed as Miss Hardman quitted my bedside. She caught thesound, and turning, said severely, 'I fear, Miss Grey, you haveinherited in fullest measure the worst sin of our fallen nature--the sinof pride. You are proud, and therefore you are ungrateful too. Mammapays you a handsome salary, and if you had average sense you wouldthankfully put up with much that is fatiguing to do and irksome to bear,since it is so well made worth your while.'
"Miss Hardman, my love, was a very strong-minded young lady, of mostdistinguished talents. The aristocracy are decidedly a very superiorclass, you know, both physically, and morally, and mentally; as a highTory I acknowledge that. I could not describe the dignity of her voiceand mien as she addressed me thus; still, I fear she was selfish, mydear. I would never wish to speak ill of my superiors in rank, but Ithink she was a little selfish."
"I remember," continued Mrs. Pryor, after a pause, "another of Miss H.'sobservations, which she would utter with quite a grand air. 'WE,' shewould say--'WE need the imprudences, extravagances, mistakes, and crimesof a certain number of fathers to sow the seed from which WE reap theharvest of governesses. The daughters of trades-people, however welleducated, must necessarily be underbred, and as such unfit to beinmates of OUR dwellings, or guardians of OUR children's minds andpersons. WE shall ever prefer to place those about OUR offspring whohave been born and bred with somewhat of the same refinement asOURSELVES.'"
"Miss Hardman must have thought herself something better than herfellow-creatures, ma'am, since she held that their calamities, and evencrimes, were necessary to minister to her convenience. You say she wasreligious. Her religion must have been that of the Pharisee who thankedGod that he was not as other men are, nor even as that publican."
"My dear, we will not discuss the point. I should be the last person towish to instil into your mind any feeling of dissatisfaction with yourlot in life, or any sentiment of envy or insubordination towards yoursuperiors. Implicit submission to authorities, scrupulous deference toour betters (under which term I, of course, include the higher classesof society), are, in my opinion, indispensable to the well-being ofevery community. All I mean to say, my dear, is that you had better notattempt to be a governess, as the duties of the position would be toosevere for your constitution. Not one word of disrespect would I breathetowards either Mrs. or Miss Hardman; only, recalling my own experience,I cannot but feel that, were you to fall under auspices such as theirs,you would contend a while courageously with your doom, then you wouldpine and grow too weak for your work; you would come home--if you stillhad a home--broken down. Those languishing years would follow of whichnone but the invalid and her immediate friends feel the heart-sicknessand know the burden. Consumption or decline would close the chapter.Such is the history of many a life. I would not have it yours. My dear,we will now walk about a little, if you please."
They both rose, and slowly paced a green natural terrace bordering thechasm.
"My dear," ere long again began Mrs. Pryor, a sort of timid, embarrassedabruptness marking her manner as she spoke, "the young, especially thoseto whom nature has been favourable, often--frequently--anticipate--lookforward to--to marriage as the end, the goal of their hopes."
And she stopped. Caroline came to her relief with promptitude, showing agreat deal more self-possession and courage than herself on theformidable topic now broached.
"They do, and naturally," she replied, with a calm emphasis thatstartled Mrs. Pryor. "They look forward to marriage with some one theylove as the brightest, the only bright destiny that can await them. Arethey wrong?"
"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, clasping her hands; and again shepaused. Caroline turned a searching, an eager eye on the face of herfriend: that face was much agitated. "My dear," she murmured, "life isan illusion."
"But not love! Love is real--the most real, the most lasting, thesweetest and yet the bitterest thing we know."
"My dear, it is very bitter. It is said to be strong--strong as death!Most of the cheats of existence are strong. As to their sweetness,nothing is so transitory; its date is a moment, the twinkling of an eye.The sting remains for ever. It may perish with the dawn of eternity, butit tortures through time into its deepest night."
"Yes, it tortures through time," agreed Caroline, "except when it ismutual love."
"Mutual love! My dear, romances are pernicious. You do not read them, Ihope?"
"Sometimes--whenever I can get them, indeed. But romance-writers mightknow nothing of love, judging by the way in which they treat of it."
"Nothing whatever, my dear," assented Mrs. Pryor eagerly, "nor ofmarriage; and the false pictures they give of those subjects cannot betoo strongly condemned. They are not like reality. They show you onlythe green, tempting surface of the marsh, and give not one faithful ortruthful hint of the slough underneath."
"But it is not always slough," objected Caroline. "There are happymarriages. Where affection is reciprocal and sincere, and minds areharmonious, marriage _must_ be happy."
"It is never wholly happy. Two people can never literally be as one.There is, perhaps, a possibility of content under peculiarcircumstances, such as are seldom combined; but it is as well not to runthe risk--you may make fatal mistakes. Be satisfied, my dear. Let allthe single be satisfied with their freedom."
"You echo my uncle's words!" exclaimed Caroline, in a tone of dismay."You speak like Mrs. Yorke in her most gloomy moments, like Miss Mannwhen she is most sourly and hypochondriacally disposed. This isterrible!"
"No, it is only true. O child, you have only lived the pleasant morningtime of life; the hot, weary noon, the sad evening, the sunless night,are yet to come for you. Mr. Helstone, you say, talks as I talk; and Iwonder how Mrs. Matthewson Helstone would have talked had she beenliving. She died! she died!"
"And, alas! my own mother and father----" exclaimed Caroline, struck bya sombre recollection.
"What of them?"
"Did I never tell you that they were separated?"
"I have heard it."
"They must, then, have been very miserable."
"You see all _facts_ go to prove what I say."
"In this case there ought to be no such thing as marriage."
"There ought, my dear, were it only to prove that this life is a merestate of probation, wherein neither rest nor recompense is to bevouchsafed."
"But your own marriage, Mrs. Pryor?"
Mrs. Pryor shrank and shuddered as if a rude finger had pressed a nakednerve. Caroline felt she had touched what would not bear the slightestcontact.
"My marriage was unhappy," said the lady, summoning courage at last;"but yet----" She hesitated.
"But yet," suggested Caroline, "not immitigably wretched?"
"Not in its results, at least. No," she added, in a softer tone; "Godmingles something of the balm of mercy even in vials of the mostcorrosive woe. He can so turn events that from the very same blind, rashact whence sprang the curse of half our life may flow the blessing ofthe remainder. Then I am of a peculiar disposition--I own that--far fromfacile, without address, in some points eccentric. I ought never to havemarried. Mine is not the nature easily to find a duplicate or likely toassimilate with a contrast. I was quite aware of my own ineligibility;and if I had not been so miserable as a governess, I never should havemarried; and then----"
Caroline's eyes asked her to proceed. They entreated her to break thethick cloud of despair which her previous words had seemed to spreadover life.
"And then, my dear, Mr.--that is, the gentleman I married--was, perhaps,rather an exceptional than an average character. I hope, at least, theexperience of few has been such as mine was, or that few have felt theirsufferings as I felt mine. They nearly shook my mind; relief was
sohopeless, redress so unattainable. But, my dear, I do not wish todishearten; I only wish to warn you, and to prove that the single shouldnot be too anxious to change their state, as they may change for theworse."
"Thank you, my dear madam. I quite understand your kind intentions, butthere is no fear of my falling into the error to which you allude. I, atleast, have no thoughts of marriage, and for that reason I want to makemyself a position by some other means."
"My dear, listen to me. On what I am going to say I have carefullydeliberated, having, indeed, revolved the subject in my thoughts eversince you first mentioned your wish to obtain a situation. You know I atpresent reside with Miss Keeldar in the capacity of companion. Shouldshe marry (and that she _will_ marry ere long many circumstances induceme to conclude), I shall cease to be necessary to her in that capacity.I must tell you that I possess a small independency, arising partly frommy own savings, and partly from a legacy left me some years since.Whenever I leave Fieldhead I shall take a house of my own. I could notendure to live in solitude. I have no relations whom I care to invite toclose intimacy; for, as you must have observed, and as I have alreadyavowed, my habits and tastes have their peculiarities. To you, my dear,I need not say I am attached; with you I am happier than I have everbeen with any living thing" (this was said with marked emphasis). "Yoursociety I should esteem a very dear privilege--an inestimable privilege,a comfort, a blessing. You shall come to me, then. Caroline, do yourefuse me? I hope you can love me?"
And with these two abrupt questions she stopped.
"Indeed, I _do_ love you," was the reply. "I should like to live withyou. But you are too kind."
"All I have," went on Mrs. Pryor, "I would leave to you. You should beprovided for. But never again say I am _too kind_. You pierce my heart,child!"
"But, my dear madam--this generosity--I have no claim----"
"Hush! you must not talk about it. There are some things we cannot bearto hear. Oh! it is late to begin, but I may yet live a few years. I cannever wipe out the past, but perhaps a brief space in the future mayyet be mine."
Mrs. Pryor seemed deeply agitated. Large tears trembled in her eyes androlled down her cheeks. Caroline kissed her, in her gentle, caressingway, saying softly, "I love you dearly. Don't cry."
But the lady's whole frame seemed shaken. She sat down, bent her head toher knee, and wept aloud. Nothing could console her till the inwardstorm had had its way. At last the agony subsided of itself.
"Poor thing!" she murmured, returning Caroline's kiss, "poor lonelylamb! But come," she added abruptly--"come; we must go home."
For a short distance Mrs. Pryor walked very fast. By degrees, however,she calmed down to her wonted manner, fell into her usual characteristicpace--a peculiar one, like all her movements--and by the time theyreached Fieldhead she had re-entered into herself. The outside was, asusual, still and shy.
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