Shirley

by Charlotte Bronte

  CHAPTER XXV.

  THE WEST WIND BLOWS.

  Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail. Night afternight the sweat of agony may burst dark on the forehead; the supplicantmay cry for mercy with that soundless voice the soul utters when itsappeal is to the Invisible. "Spare my beloved," it may implore. "Heal mylife's life. Rend not from me what long affection entwines with my wholenature. God of heaven, bend, hear, be clement!" And after this cry andstrife the sun may rise and see him worsted. That opening morn, whichused to salute him with the whisper of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks,may breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips which colour andheat have quitted, "Oh! I have had a suffering night. This morning I amworse. I have tried to rise. I cannot. Dreams I am unused to havetroubled me."

  Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a new andstrange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that theinsufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will his idolshall be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his soul to thesentence he cannot avert and scarce can bear.

  Happy Mrs. Pryor! She was still praying, unconscious that the summer sunhung above the hills, when her child softly woke in her arms. Nopiteous, unconscious moaning--sound which so wastes our strength that,even if we have sworn to be firm, a rush of unconquerable tears sweepsaway the oath--preceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy followed.The first words spoken were not those of one becoming estranged fromthis world, and already permitted to stray at times into realms foreignto the living. Caroline evidently remembered with clearness what hadhappened.

  "Mamma, I have slept _so_ well. I only dreamed and woke twice."

  Mrs. Pryor rose with a start, that her daughter might not see the joyfultears called into her eyes by that affectionate word "mamma," and thewelcome assurance that followed it.

  For many days the mother dared rejoice only with trembling. That firstrevival seemed like the flicker of a dying lamp. If the flame streamedup bright one moment, the next it sank dim in the socket. Exhaustionfollowed close on excitement.

  There was always a touching endeavour to _appear_ better, but too oftenability refused to second will; too often the attempt to bear up failed.The effort to eat, to talk, to look cheerful, was unsuccessful. Many anhour passed during which Mrs. Pryor feared that the chords of life couldnever more be strengthened, though the time of their breaking might bedeferred.

  During this space the mother and daughter seemed left almost alone inthe neighbourhood. It was the close of August; the weather wasfine--that is to say, it was very dry and very dusty, for an arid windhad been blowing from the east this month past; very cloudless, too,though a pale haze, stationary in the atmosphere, seemed to rob of alldepth of tone the blue of heaven, of all freshness the verdure of earth,and of all glow the light of day. Almost every family in Briarfield wasabsent on an excursion. Miss Keeldar and her friends were at theseaside; so were Mrs. Yorke's household. Mr. Hall and Louis Moore,between whom a spontaneous intimacy seemed to have arisen--the result,probably, of harmony of views and temperament--were gone "up north" on apedestrian excursion to the Lakes. Even Hortense, who would fain havestayed at home and aided Mrs. Pryor in nursing Caroline, had been soearnestly entreated by Miss Mann to accompany her once more to WormwoodWells, in the hope of alleviating sufferings greatly aggravated by theinsalubrious weather, that she felt obliged to comply; indeed, it wasnot in her nature to refuse a request that at once appealed to hergoodness of heart, and, by a confession of dependency, flattered her_amour propre_. As for Robert, from Birmingham he had gone on to London,where he still sojourned.

  So long as the breath of Asiatic deserts parched Caroline's lips andfevered her veins, her physical convalescence could not keep pace withher returning mental tranquillity; but there came a day when the windceased to sob at the eastern gable of the rectory, and at the orielwindow of the church. A little cloud like a man's hand arose in thewest; gusts from the same quarter drove it on and spread it wide; wetand tempest prevailed a while. When that was over the sun broke outgenially, heaven regained its azure, and earth its green; the lividcholera-tint had vanished from the face of nature; the hills rose clearround the horizon, absolved from that pale malaria-haze.

  Caroline's youth could now be of some avail to her, and so could hermother's nurture. Both, crowned by God's blessing, sent in the pure westwind blowing soft as fresh through the ever-open chamber lattice,rekindled her long-languishing energies. At last Mrs. Pryor saw that itwas permitted to hope: a genuine, material convalescence had commenced.It was not merely Caroline's smile which was brighter, or her spiritswhich were cheered, but a certain look had passed from her face andeye--a look dread and indescribable, but which will easily be recalledby those who have watched the couch of dangerous disease. Long beforethe emaciated outlines of her aspect began to fill, or its departedcolour to return, a more subtle change took place; all grew softer andwarmer. Instead of a marble mask and glassy eye, Mrs. Pryor saw laid onthe pillow a face pale and wasted enough, perhaps more haggard than theother appearance, but less awful; for it was a sick, living girl, not amere white mould or rigid piece of statuary.

  Now, too, she was not always petitioning to drink. The words, "I am _so_thirsty," ceased to be her plaint. Sometimes, when she had swallowed amorsel, she would say it had revived her. All descriptions of food wereno longer equally distasteful; she could be induced, sometimes, toindicate a preference. With what trembling pleasure and anxious care didnot her nurse prepare what was selected! How she watched her as shepartook of it!

  Nourishment brought strength. She could sit up. Then she longed tobreathe the fresh air, to revisit her flowers, to see how the fruit hadripened. Her uncle, always liberal, had bought a garden-chair for herexpress use. He carried her down in his own arms, and placed her in ithimself, and William Farren was there to wheel her round the walks, toshow her what he had done amongst her plants, to take her directions forfurther work.

  William and she found plenty to talk about. They had a dozen topics incommon--interesting to them, unimportant to the rest of the world. Theytook a similar interest in animals, birds, insects, and plants; theyheld similar doctrines about humanity to the lower creation, and had asimilar turn for minute observation on points of natural history. Thenest and proceedings of some ground-bees, which had burrowed in the turfunder an old cherry-tree, was one subject of interest; the haunts ofcertain hedge-sparrows, and the welfare of certain pearly eggs andcallow fledglings, another.

  Had _Chambers's Journal_ existed in those days, it would certainly haveformed Miss Helstone's and Farren's favourite periodical. She would havesubscribed for it, and to him each number would duly have been lent;both would have put implicit faith and found great savour in itsmarvellous anecdotes of animal sagacity.

  This is a digression, but it suffices to explain why Caroline would haveno other hand than William's to guide her chair, and why his society andconversation sufficed to give interest to her garden-airings.

  Mrs. Pryor, walking near, wondered how her daughter could be so much atease with a "man of the people." _She_ found it impossible to speak tohim otherwise than stiffly. She felt as if a great gulf lay between hercaste and his, and that to cross it or meet him half-way would be todegrade herself. She gently asked Caroline, "Are you not afraid, mydear, to converse with that person so unreservedly? He may presume, andbecome troublesomely garrulous."

  "William presume, mamma? You don't know him. He never presumes. He isaltogether too proud and sensitive to do so. William has very finefeelings."

  And Mrs. Pryor smiled sceptically at the naive notion of thatrough-handed, rough-headed, fustian-clad clown having "fine feelings."

  Farren, for his part, showed Mrs. Pryor only a very sulky brow. He knewwhen he was misjudged, and was apt to turn unmanageable with such asfailed to give him his due.

  The evening restored Caroline entirely to her mother, and Mrs. Pryorliked the evening; for then, alone with her daughter, no human shadowcame between her and wh
at she loved. During the day she would have herstiff demeanour and cool moments, as was her wont. Between her and Mr.Helstone a very respectful but most rigidly ceremonious intercourse waskept up. Anything like familiarity would have bred contempt at once inone or both these personages; but by dint of strict civility andwell-maintained distance they got on very smoothly.

  Towards the servants Mrs. Pryor's bearing was not uncourteous, but shy,freezing, ungenial. Perhaps it was diffidence rather than pride whichmade her appear so haughty; but, as was to be expected, Fanny and Elizafailed to make the distinction, and she was unpopular with themaccordingly. She felt the effect produced; it rendered her at timesdissatisfied with herself for faults she could not help, and with allelse dejected, chill, and taciturn.

  This mood changed to Caroline's influence, and to that influence alone.The dependent fondness of her nursling, the natural affection of herchild, came over her suavely. Her frost fell away, her rigidity unbent;she grew smiling and pliant. Not that Caroline made any wordy professionof love--that would ill have suited Mrs. Pryor; she would have readtherein the proof of insincerity--but she hung on her with easydependence; she confided in her with fearless reliance. These thingscontented the mother's heart.

  She liked to hear her daughter say, "Mamma, do this;" "Please, mamma,fetch me that;" "Mamma, read to me;" "Sing a little, mamma."

  Nobody else--not one living thing--had ever so claimed her services, solooked for help at her hand. Other people were always more or lessreserved and stiff with her, as she was reserved and stiff with them;other people betrayed consciousness of and annoyance at her weak points.Caroline no more showed such wounding sagacity or reproachfulsensitiveness now than she had done when a suckling of three months old.

  Yet Caroline could find fault. Blind to the constitutional defects thatwere incurable, she had her eyes wide open to the acquired habits thatwere susceptible of remedy. On certain points she would quite artlesslylecture her parent; and that parent, instead of being hurt, felt asensation of pleasure in discovering that the girl _dared_ lecture her,that she was so much at home with her.

  "Mamma, I am determined you shall not wear that old gown any more. Itsfashion is not becoming; it is too strait in the skirt. You shall put onyour black silk every afternoon. In that you look nice; it suits you.And you shall have a black satin dress for Sundays--a real satin, not asatinet or any of the shams. And, mamma, when you get the new one, mindyou must wear it."

  "My dear, I thought of the black silk serving me as a best dress formany years yet, and I wished to buy you several things."

  "Nonsense, mamma. My uncle gives me cash to get what I want. You know heis generous enough; and I have set my heart on seeing you in a blacksatin. Get it soon, and let it be made by a dressmaker of myrecommending. Let me choose the pattern. You always want to disguiseyourself like a grandmother. You would persuade one that you are old andugly. Not at all! On the contrary, when well dressed and cheerful youare very comely indeed; your smile is so pleasant, your teeth are sowhite, your hair is still such a pretty light colour. And then you speaklike a young lady, with such a clear, fine tone, and you sing betterthan any young lady I ever heard. Why do you wear such dresses andbonnets, mamma, such as nobody else ever wears?"

  "Does it annoy you, Caroline?"

  "Very much; it vexes me even. People say you are miserly; and yet youare not, for you give liberally to the poor and to religioussocieties--though your gifts are conveyed so secretly and quietly thatthey are known to few except the receivers. But I will be yourlady's-maid myself. When I get a little stronger I will set to work, andyou must be good, mamma, and do as I bid you."

  And Caroline, sitting near her mother, rearranged her muslinhandkerchief and resmoothed her hair.

  "My own mamma," then she went on, as if pleasing herself with thethought of their relationship, "who belongs to me, and to whom I belong!I am a rich girl now. I have something I can love well, and not beafraid of loving. Mamma, who gave you this little brooch? Let me unpinit and look at it."

  Mrs. Pryor, who usually shrank from meddling fingers and near approach,allowed the license complacently.

  "Did papa give you this, mamma?"

  "My sister gave it me--my only sister, Cary. Would that your AuntCaroline had lived to see her niece!"

  "Have you nothing of papa's--no trinket, no gift of his?"

  "I have one thing."

  "That you prize?"

  "That I prize."

  "Valuable and pretty?"

  "Invaluable and sweet to me."

  "Show it, mamma. Is it here or at Fieldhead?"

  "It is talking to me now, leaning on me. Its arms are round me."

  "Ah, mamma, you mean your teasing daughter, who will never let youalone; who, when you go into your room, cannot help running to seek foryou; who follows you upstairs and down, like a dog."

  "Whose features still give me such a strange thrill sometimes. I halffear your fair looks yet, child."

  "You don't; you can't. Mamma, I am sorry papa was not good. I do so wishhe had been. Wickedness spoils and poisons all pleasant things. It killslove. If you and I thought each other wicked, we could not love eachother, could we?"

  "And if we could not trust each other, Cary?"

  "How miserable we should be! Mother, before I knew you I had anapprehension that you were not good--that I could not esteem you. Thatdread damped my wish to see you. And now my heart is elate because Ifind you perfect--almost; kind, clever, nice. Your sole fault is thatyou are old-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you. Mamma, put yourwork down; read to me. I like your southern accent; it is so pure, sosoft. It has no rugged burr, no nasal twang, such as almost every one'svoice here in the north has. My uncle and Mr. Hall say that you are afine reader, mamma. Mr. Hall said he never heard any lady read with suchpropriety of expression or purity of accent."

  "I wish I could reciprocate the compliment, Cary; but, really, the firsttime I heard your truly excellent friend read and preach I could notunderstand his broad northern tongue."

  "Could you understand me, mamma? Did I seem to speak roughly?"

  "No. I almost wished you had, as I wished you had looked unpolished.Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke well, quite otherwise than yourworthy uncle--correctly, gently, smoothly. You inherit the gift."

  "Poor papa! When he was so agreeable, why was he not good?"

  "Why he was _as_ he was--and happily of that you, child, can form noconception--I cannot tell. It is a deep mystery. The key is in the handsof his Maker. There I leave it."

  "Mamma, you will keep stitching, stitching away. Put down the sewing; Iam an enemy to it. It cumbers your lap, and I want it for my head; itengages your eyes, and I want them for a book. Here is yourfavourite--Cowper."

  These importunities were the mother's pleasure. If ever she delayedcompliance, it was only to hear them repeated, and to enjoy her child'ssoft, half-playful, half-petulant urgency. And then, when she yielded,Caroline would say archly, "You will spoil me, mamma. I always thought Ishould like to be spoiled, and I find it very sweet." So did Mrs.Pryor.