Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes

by Bronte Sisters

  “I wish it fifty times a day. As it is, I often wonder what I came into the world for. I long to have something absorbing and compulsory to fill my 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 our hearts with a single tyrant master-torture. Besides, successful labour has its recompense; a vacant, weary, lonely, hopeless life has none.”

  “But hard labour and learned professions, they say, make women masculine, coarse, unwomanly.”

  “And what does it signify whether unmarried and never-to-be-married women are unattractive and inelegant or not? Provided only they are decent, decorous, and neat, it is enough. The utmost which ought to be required of old maids, in the way of appearance, is that they should not absolutely offend men’s eyes as they pass them in the street; for the rest, 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 a Sykes; and no one else will ever marry me.”

  Here fell a long pause. Shirley broke it. Again the name by which she seemed 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 native country.”

  “Well, Lina, do you remember my one day noticing an inequality in your hair — a curl wanting on that right side — and your telling me that it was Robert’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 he steal your hair?”

  “I don’t know — yes, I do. It was my doing, not his. Everything of that sort 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 lock of black hair — a short, round curl. Hortense told me it was her brother’s, and a keepsake. He was sitting near the table. I looked at his head. He has plenty of hair; on the temples were many such round curls. 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 choice of a tress from my head. So he got one of my long locks of hair, and I got 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 heart and sets the face on fire to think of; one of those small but sharp recollections that return, lacerating your self-respect like tiny penknives, 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 despise myself. But I said I would not make you my confessor, for you cannot reciprocate foible for foible; you are not weak. How steadily you watch me now! Turn aside your clear, strong, she-eagle eye; it is an insult to fix it on me thus.”

  “What a study of character you are — weak, certainly, but not in the sense you think! — Come in!”

  This was said in answer to a tap at the door. Miss Keeldar happened to be near it at the moment, Caroline at the other end of the room. She saw a 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 were brought, she neither opened nor read it. The rector’s Fanny was presently announced, and the rector’s niece went home.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS.

  In Shirley’s nature prevailed at times an easy indolence. There were periods when she took delight in perfect vacancy of hand and eye — moments when her thoughts, her simple existence, the fact of the world being around and heaven above her, seemed to yield her such fullness of happiness that she did not need to lift a finger to increase the joy. Often, after an active morning, she would spend a sunny afternoon in lying stirless on the turf, at the foot of some tree of friendly umbrage. No society did she need but that of Caroline, and it sufficed if she were within call; no spectacle did she ask but that of the deep blue sky, and such cloudlets as sailed afar and aloft across its span; no sound but that of the bee’s hum, the leaf’s whisper. Her sole book in such hours was the dim chronicle of memory or the sibyl page of anticipation. From her young eyes fell on each volume a glorious light to read by; round her lips at moments played a smile which revealed glimpses of the tale or prophecy. It was not sad, not dark. Fate had been benign to the blissful dreamer, and promised to favour her yet again. In her past were sweet passages, in her future rosy hopes.

  Yet one day when Caroline drew near to rouse her, thinking she had lain long enough, behold, as she looked down, Shirley’s cheek was wet as if with dew; those fine eyes of hers shone humid and brimming.

  “Shirley, why do you cry?” asked Caroline, involuntarily laying stress on you.

  Miss Keeldar smiled, and turned her picturesque head towards the questioner. “Because it pleases me mightily to cry,” she said. “My heart is both sad and glad. But why, you good, patient child — why do you not bear me company? I only weep tears, delightful and soon wiped away; you might weep gall, if you choose.”

  “Why should I weep gall?”

  “Mateless, solitary bird!” was the only answer.

  “And are not you too mateless, Shirley?”

  “At heart — no.”

  “Oh! who nestles there, Shirley?”

  But Shirley only laughed gaily at this question, and alertly started up.

  “I have dreamed,” she said, “a mere day-dream — certainly bright, probably baseless!”

  Miss Helstone was by this time free enough from illusions: she took a sufficiently grave view of the future, and fancied she knew pretty well how her own destiny and that of some others were tending. Yet old associations retained their influence over her, and it was these and the power of habit which still frequently drew her of an evening to the field-style and the old thorn overlooking the Hollow.

  One night, the night after the incident of the note, she had been at her usual post, watching for her beacon — watching vainly: that evening no lamp was lit. She waited till the rising of certain constellations warned her of lateness and signed her away. In passing Fieldhead, on her return, its moonlight beauty attracted her glance, and stayed her step an instant. Tree and hall rose peaceful under the night sky and clear full orb; pearly paleness gilded the building; mellow brown gloom bosomed it round; shadows of deep green brooded above its oak-wreathed roof. The broad pavement in front shone pale also; it gleamed as if some spell had transformed the dark granite to glistering Parian. On the silvery space slept two sable shadows, thrown sharply defined from two human figures. These figures when first seen were motionless and mute; presently they moved in harmonious step, and spoke low in harmonious key. Earnest was the gaze that scrutinized them as they emerged from behind the trunk of the cedar. “Is it Mrs. Pryor and Shirley?”

  Certainly it is Shirley. Who else has a shape so lithe, and proud, and graceful? And her face, too, is visible — her countenance careless and pensive, and musing and mirthful, and mocking and tender. Not fearing the dew, she has not covered her head; her curls are free — they veil her neck and caress her shoulder with their tendril rings. An ornament of gold gleams through the half-closed folds of the scarf she has wrapped across her bust, and a large bright gem glitters on the white hand which confines it. Yes, that is Shirley.

  Her companion then is, of course, Mrs. Pryor?

  Yes, if Mrs. Pryor owns six feet of stature, and if she has changed her decent widow’s weeds for masculine disguise. The figure walking at Miss Keeldar’s side is a man — a tall, young, stately man; it is her tenant, Robert Moore.

&n
bsp; The pair speak softly; their words are not distinguishable. To remain a moment to gaze is not to be an eavesdropper; and as the moon shines so clearly and their countenances are so distinctly apparent, who can resist the attraction of such interest? Caroline, it seems, cannot, for she lingers.

  There was a time when, on summer nights, Moore had been wont to walk with his cousin, as he was now walking with the heiress. Often had she gone up the Hollow with him after sunset, to scent the freshness of the earth, where a growth of fragrant herbage carpeted a certain narrow terrace, edging a deep ravine, from whose rifted gloom was heard a sound like the spirit of the lonely watercourse, moaning amongst its wet stones, and between its weedy banks, and under its dark bower of alders.

  “But I used to be closer to him,” thought Caroline. “He felt no obligation to treat me with homage; I needed only kindness. He used to hold my hand; he does not touch hers. And yet Shirley is not proud where she loves. There is no haughtiness in her aspect now, only a little in her port — what is natural to and inseparable from her, what she retains in her most careless as in her most guarded moments. Robert must think, as I think, that he is at this instant looking down on a fine face; and he must think it with a man’s brain, not with mine. She has such generous yet soft fire in her eyes. She smiles — what makes her smile so sweet? I saw that Robert felt its beauty, and he must have felt it with his man’s heart, not with my dim woman’s perceptions. They look to me like two great happy spirits. Yonder silvered pavement reminds me of that white shore we believe to be beyond the death-flood. They have reached it; they walk there united. And what am I, standing here in shadow, shrinking into concealment, my mind darker than my hiding-place? I am one of this world, no spirit — a poor doomed mortal, who asks, in ignorance and hopelessness, wherefore she was born, to what end she lives; whose mind for ever runs on the question, how she shall at last encounter, and by whom be sustained through death.

  “This is the worst passage I have come to yet; still I was quite prepared for it. I gave Robert up, and gave him up to Shirley, the first day I heard she was come, the first moment I saw her — rich, youthful, and lovely. She has him now. He is her lover. She is his darling. She will be far more his darling yet when they are married. The more Robert knows of Shirley the more his soul will cleave to her. They will both be happy, and I do not grudge them their bliss; but I groan under my own misery. Some of my suffering is very acute. Truly I ought not to have been born; they should have smothered me at the first cry.”

  Here, Shirley stepping aside to gather a dewy flower, she and her companion turned into a path that lay nearer the gate. Some of their conversation became audible. Caroline would not stay to listen. She passed away noiselessly, and the moonlight kissed the wall which her shadow had dimmed. The reader is privileged to remain, and try what he can make of the discourse.

  “I cannot conceive why nature did not give you a bulldog’s head, for you have all a bulldog’s tenacity,” said Shirley.

  “Not a flattering idea. Am I so ignoble?”

  “And something also you have of the same animal’s silent ways of going about its work. You give no warning; you come noiselessly behind, seize fast, and hold on.”

  “This is guess-work. You have witnessed no such feat on my part. In your presence I have been no bulldog.”

  “Your very silence indicates your race. How little you talk in general, yet how deeply you scheme! You are far-seeing; you are calculating.”

  “I know the ways of these people. I have gathered information of their intentions. My note last night informed you that Barraclough’s trial had ended in his conviction and sentence to transportation. His associates will plot vengeance. I shall lay my plans so as to counteract or at least be prepared for theirs — that is all. Having now given you as clear an explanation as I can, am I to understand that for what I propose doing I have your approbation?”

  “I shall stand by you so long as you remain on the defensive. Yes.”

  “Good! Without any aid — even opposed or disapproved by you — I believe I should have acted precisely as I now intend to act, but in another spirit. I now feel satisfied. On the whole, I relish the position.”

  “I dare say you do. That is evident. You relish the work which lies before you still better than you would relish the execution of a government order for army-cloth.”

  “I certainly feel it congenial.”

  “So would old Helstone. It is true there is a shade of difference in your motives — many shades, perhaps. Shall I speak to Mr. Helstone? I will, if you like.”

  “Act as you please. Your judgment, Miss Keeldar, will guide you accurately. I could rely on it myself in a more difficult crisis. But I should inform you Mr. Helstone is somewhat prejudiced against me at present.”

  “I am aware — I have heard all about your differences. Depend upon it, they will melt away. He cannot resist the temptation of an alliance under present circumstances.”

  “I should be glad to have him; he is of true metal.”

  “I think so also.”

  “An old blade, and rusty somewhat, but the edge and temper still excellent.”

  “Well, you shall have him, Mr. Moore — that is, if I can win him.”

  “Whom can you not win?”

  “Perhaps not the rector; but I will make the effort.”

  “Effort! He will yield for a word — a smile.”

  “By no means. It will cost me several cups of tea, some toast and cake, and an ample measure of remonstrances, expostulations, and persuasions. It grows rather chill.”

  “I perceive you shiver. Am I acting wrongly to detain you here? Yet it is so calm — I even feel it warm — and society such as yours is a pleasure to me so rare. If you were wrapped in a thicker shawl — — “

  “I might stay longer, and forget how late it is, which would chagrin Mrs. Pryor. We keep early and regular hours at Fieldhead, Mr. Moore; and so, I am sure, does your sister at the cottage.”

  “Yes; but Hortense and I have an understanding the most convenient in the world, that we shall each do as we please.”

  “How do you please to do?”

  “Three nights in the week I sleep in the mill — but I require little rest — and when it is moonlight and mild I often haunt the Hollow till daybreak.”

  “When I was a very little girl, Mr. Moore, my nurse used to tell me tales of fairies being seen in that Hollow. That was before my father built the mill, when it was a perfectly solitary ravine. You will be falling under enchantment.”

  “I fear it is done,” said Moore, in a low voice.

  “But there are worse things than fairies to be guarded against,” pursued Miss Keeldar.

  “Things more perilous,” he subjoined.

  “Far more so. For instance, how would you like to meet Michael Hartley, that mad Calvinist and Jacobin weaver? They say he is addicted to poaching, and often goes abroad at night with his gun.”

  “I have already had the luck to meet him. We held a long argument together one night. A strange little incident it was; I liked it.”

  “Liked it? I admire your taste! Michael is not sane. Where did you meet him?”

  “In the deepest, shadiest spot in the glen, where the water runs low, under brushwood. We sat down near that plank bridge. It was moonlight, but clouded, and very windy. We had a talk.”

  “On politics?”

  “And religion. I think the moon was at the full, and Michael was as near crazed as possible. He uttered strange blasphemy in his Antinomian fashion.”

  “Excuse me, but I think you must have been nearly as mad as he, to sit listening to him.”

  “There is a wild interest in his ravings. The man would be half a poet, if he were not wholly a maniac; and perhaps a prophet, if he were not a profligate. He solemnly informed me that hell was foreordained my inevitable portion; that he read the mark of the beast on my brow; that I had been an outcast from the beginning. God’s vengeance, he said, was preparing for me, and affirmed t
hat in a vision of the night he had beheld the manner and the instrument of my doom. I wanted to know further, but he left me with these words, ‘The end is not yet.’”

  “Have you ever seen him since?”

  “About a month afterwards, in returning from market, I encountered him and Moses Barraclough, both in an advanced stage of inebriation. They were praying in frantic sort at the roadside. They accosted me as Satan, bid me avaunt, and clamoured to be delivered from temptation. Again, but a few days ago, Michael took the trouble of appearing at the counting-house door, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves — his coat and castor having been detained at the public-house in pledge. He delivered himself of the comfortable message that he could wish Mr. Moore to set his house in order, as his soul was likely shortly to be required of him.”

  “Do you make light of these things?”

  “The poor man had been drinking for weeks, and was in a state bordering on delirium tremens.”

  “What then? He is the more likely to attempt the fulfilment of his own prophecies.”

  “It would not do to permit incidents of this sort to affect one’s nerves.”

  “Mr. Moore, go home!”

  “So soon?”

  “Pass straight down the fields, not round by the lade and plantations.”

  “It is early yet.”

  “It is late. For my part, I am going in. Will you promise me not to wander in the Hollow to-night?”

  “If you wish it.”

  “I do wish it. May I ask whether you consider life valueless?”

  “By no means. On the contrary, of late I regard my life as invaluable.”

  “Of late?”

  “Existence is neither aimless nor hopeless to me now, and it was both three months ago. I was then drowning, and rather wished the operation over. All at once a hand was stretched to me — such a delicate hand I scarcely dared trust it; its strength, however, has rescued me from ruin.”

  “Are you really rescued?”