“For the time. Your assistance has given me another chance.”
“Live to make the best of it. Don’t offer yourself as a target to Michael Hartley; and good-night!”
Miss Helstone was under a promise to spend the evening of the next day at Fieldhead. She kept her promise. Some gloomy hours had she spent in the interval. Most of the time had been passed shut up in her own apartment, only issuing from it, indeed, to join her uncle at meals, and anticipating inquiries from Fanny by telling her that she was busy altering a dress, and preferred sewing upstairs, to avoid interruption.
She did sew. She plied her needle continuously, ceaselessly, but her brain worked faster than her fingers. Again, and more intensely than ever, she desired a fixed occupation, no matter how onerous, how irksome. Her uncle must be once more entreated, but first she would consult Mrs. Pryor. Her head laboured to frame projects as diligently as her hands to plait and stitch the thin texture of the muslin summer dress spread on the little white couch at the foot of which she sat. Now and then, while thus doubly occupied, a tear would fill her eyes and fall on her busy hands; but this sign of emotion was rare and quickly effaced. The sharp pang passed; the dimness cleared from her vision. She would re-thread her needle, rearrange tuck and trimming, and work on.
Late in the afternoon she dressed herself. She reached Fieldhead, and appeared in the oak parlour just as tea was brought in. Shirley asked her why she came so late.
“Because I have been making my dress,” said she. “These fine sunny days began to make me ashamed of my winter merino, so I have furbished up a lighter garment.”
“In which you look as I like to see you,” said Shirley. “You are a lady-like little person, Caroline. — Is she not, Mrs. Pryor?”
Mrs. Pryor never paid compliments, and seldom indulged in remarks, favourable or otherwise, on personal appearance. On the present occasion she only swept Caroline’s curls from her cheek as she took a seat near her, caressed the oval outline, and observed, “You get somewhat thin, my love, and somewhat pale. Do you sleep well? your eyes have a languid look.” And she gazed at her anxiously.
“I sometimes dream melancholy dreams,” answered Caroline; “and if I lie awake for an hour or two in the night, I am continually thinking of the rectory as a dreary old place. You know it is very near the churchyard. The back part of the house is extremely ancient, and it is said that the out-kitchens there were once enclosed in the churchyard, and that there are graves under them. I rather long to leave the rectory.”
“My dear, you are surely not superstitious?”
“No, Mrs. Pryor; but I think I grow what is called nervous. I see things under a darker aspect than I used to do. I have fears I never used to have — not of ghosts, but of omens and disastrous events; and I have an inexpressible weight on my mind which I would give the world to shake off, and I cannot do it.”
“Strange!” cried Shirley. “I never feel so.” Mrs. Pryor said nothing.
“Fine weather, pleasant days, pleasant scenes, are powerless to give me pleasure,” continued Caroline. “Calm evenings are not calm to me. Moonlight, which I used to think mild, now only looks mournful. Is this weakness of mind, Mrs. Pryor, or what is it? I cannot help it. I often struggle against it. I reason; but reason and effort make no difference.”
“You should take more exercise,” said Mrs. Pryor.
“Exercise! I exercise sufficiently. I exercise till I am ready to drop.”
“My dear, you should go from home.”
“Mrs. Pryor, I should like to go from home, but not on any purposeless excursion or visit. I wish to be a governess, as you have been. It would oblige me greatly if you would speak to my uncle on the subject.”
“Nonsense!” broke in Shirley. “What an idea! Be a governess! Better be a slave at once. Where is the necessity of it? Why should you dream of such a painful step?”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Pryor, “you are very young to be a governess, and not sufficiently robust. The duties a governess undertakes are often severe.”
“And I believe I want severe duties to occupy me.”
“Occupy you!” cried Shirley. “When are you idle? I never saw a more industrious girl than you. You are always at work. Come,” she continued — “come and sit by my side, and take some tea to refresh you. You don’t care much for my friendship, then, that you wish to leave me?”
“Indeed I do, Shirley; and I don’t wish to leave you. I shall never find another friend so dear.”
At which words Miss Keeldar put her hand into Caroline’s with an impulsively affectionate movement, which was well seconded by the expression of her face.
“If you think so, you had better make much of me,” she said, “and not run away from me. I hate to part with those to whom I am become attached. Mrs. Pryor there sometimes talks of leaving me, and says I might make a more advantageous connection than herself. I should as soon think of exchanging an old-fashioned mother for something modish and stylish. As for you — why, I began to flatter myself we were thoroughly friends; that you liked Shirley almost as well as Shirley likes you, and she does not stint her regard.”
“I do like Shirley. I like her more and more every day. But that does not make me strong or happy.”
“And would it make you strong or happy to go and live as a dependent amongst utter strangers? It would not. And the experiment must not be tried; I tell you it would fail. It is not in your nature to bear the desolate life governesses generally lead; you would fall ill. I won’t hear of it.”
And Miss Keeldar paused, having uttered this prohibition very decidedly. Soon she recommenced, still looking somewhat courroucée, “Why, it is my daily pleasure now to look out for the little cottage bonnet and the silk scarf glancing through the trees in the lane, and to know that my quiet, shrewd, thoughtful companion and monitress is coming back to me; that I shall have her sitting in the room to look at, to talk to or to let alone, as she and I please. This may be a selfish sort of language — I know it is — but it is the language which naturally rises to my lips, therefore I utter it.”
“I would write to you, Shirley.”
“And what are letters? Only a sort of pis aller. Drink some tea, Caroline. Eat something — you eat nothing. Laugh and be cheerful, and stay at home.”
Miss Helstone shook her head and sighed. She felt what difficulty she would have to persuade any one to assist or sanction her in making that change in her life which she believed desirable. Might she only follow her own judgment, she thought she should be able to find perhaps a harsh but an effectual cure for her sufferings. But this judgment, founded on circumstances she could fully explain to none, least of all to Shirley, seemed, in all eyes but her own, incomprehensible and fantastic, and was opposed accordingly.
There really was no present pecuniary need for her to leave a comfortable home and “take a situation;” and there was every probability that her uncle might, in some way, permanently provide for her. So her friends thought, and, as far as their lights enabled them to see, they reasoned correctly; but of Caroline’s strange sufferings, which she desired so eagerly to overcome or escape, they had no idea, of her racked nights and dismal days no suspicion. It was at once impossible and hopeless to explain; to wait and endure was her only plan. Many that want food and clothing have cheerier lives and brighter prospects than she had; many, harassed by poverty, are in a strait less afflictive.
“Now, is your mind quieted?” inquired Shirley. “Will you consent to stay at home?”
“I shall not leave it against the approbation of my friends,” was the reply; “but I think in time they will be obliged to think as I do.”
During this conversation Mrs. Pryor looked far from easy. Her extreme habitual reserve would rarely permit her to talk freely or to interrogate others closely. She could think a multitude of questions she never ventured to put, give advice in her mind which her tongue never delivered. Had she been alone with Caroline, she might possibly have said something to the point: Miss Keeldar’s pr
esence, accustomed as she was to it, sealed her lips. Now, as on a thousand other occasions, inexplicable nervous scruples kept her back from interfering. She merely showed her concern for Miss Helstone in an indirect way, by asking her if the fire made her too warm, placing a screen between her chair and the hearth, closing a window whence she imagined a draught proceeded, and often and restlessly glancing at her. Shirley resumed: “Having destroyed your plan,” she said, “which I hope I have done, I shall construct a new one of my own. Every summer I make an excursion. This season I propose spending two months either at the Scotch lochs or the English lakes — that is, I shall go there provided you consent to accompany me. If you refuse, I shall not stir a foot.”
“You are very good, Shirley.”
“I would be very good if you would let me. I have every disposition to be good. It is my misfortune and habit, I know, to think of myself paramount to anybody else; but who is not like me in that respect? However, when Captain Keeldar is made comfortable, accommodated with all he wants, including a sensible, genial comrade, it gives him a thorough pleasure to devote his spare efforts to making that comrade happy. And should we not be happy, Caroline, in the Highlands? We will go to the Highlands. We will, if you can bear a sea-voyage, go to the Isles — the Hebrides, the Shetland, the Orkney Islands. Would you not like that? I see you would. — Mrs. Pryor, I call you to witness. Her face is all sunshine at the bare mention of it.”
“I should like it much,” returned Caroline, to whom, indeed, the notion of such a tour was not only pleasant, but gloriously reviving. Shirley rubbed her hands.
“Come; I can bestow a benefit,” she exclaimed. “I can do a good deed with my cash. My thousand a year is not merely a matter of dirty bank-notes and jaundiced guineas (let me speak respectfully of both, though, for I adore them), but, it may be, health to the drooping, strength to the weak, consolation to the sad. I was determined to make something of it better than a fine old house to live in, than satin gowns to wear, better than deference from acquaintance and homage from the poor. Here is to begin. This summer, Caroline, Mrs. Pryor and I go out into the North Atlantic, beyond the Shetland, perhaps to the Faroe Isles. We will see seals in Suderoe, and, doubtless, mermaids in Stromoe. — Caroline is laughing, Mrs. Pryor. I made her laugh; I have done her good.”
“I shall like to go, Shirley,” again said Miss Helstone. “I long to hear the sound of waves — ocean-waves — and to see them as I have imagined them in dreams, like tossing banks of green light, strewed with vanishing and reappearing wreaths of foam, whiter than lilies. I shall delight to pass the shores of those lone rock-islets where the sea-birds live and breed unmolested. We shall be on the track of the old Scandinavians — of the Norsemen. We shall almost see the shores of Norway. This is a very vague delight that I feel, communicated by your proposal, but it is a delight.”
“Will you think of Fitful Head now when you lie awake at night, of gulls shrieking round it, and waves tumbling in upon it, rather than of the graves under the rectory back-kitchen?”
“I will try; and instead of musing about remnants of shrouds, and fragments of coffins, and human bones and mould, I will fancy seals lying in the sunshine on solitary shores, where neither fisherman nor hunter ever come; of rock crevices full of pearly eggs bedded in seaweed; of unscared birds covering white sands in happy flocks.”
“And what will become of that inexpressible weight you said you had on your mind?”
“I will try to forget it in speculation on the sway of the whole great deep above a herd of whales rushing through the livid and liquid thunder down from the frozen zone — a hundred of them, perhaps, wallowing, flashing, rolling in the wake of a patriarch bull, huge enough to have been spawned before the Flood, such a creature as poor Smart had in his mind when he said, —
‘Strong against tides, the enormous whale
Emerges as he goes.’”
“I hope our bark will meet with no such shoal, or herd as you term it, Caroline. (I suppose you fancy the sea-mammoths pasturing about the bases of the ‘everlasting hills,’ devouring strange provender in the vast valleys through and above which sea-billows roll.) I should not like to be capsized by the patriarch bull.”
“I suppose you expect to see mermaids, Shirley?”
“One of them, at any rate — I do not bargain for less — and she is to appear in some such fashion as this. I am to be walking by myself on deck, rather late of an August evening, watching and being watched by a full harvest moon. Something is to rise white on the surface of the sea, over which that moon mounts silent and hangs glorious. The object glitters and sinks. It rises again. I think I hear it cry with an articulate voice; I call you up from the cabin; I show you an image, fair as alabaster, emerging from the dim wave. We both see the long hair, the lifted and foam-white arm, the oval mirror brilliant as a star. It glides nearer; a human face is plainly visible — a face in the style of yours — whose straight, pure (excuse the word, it is appropriate) — whose straight, pure lineaments paleness does not disfigure. It looks at us, but not with your eyes. I see a preternatural lure in its wily glance. It beckons. Were we men, we should spring at the sign — the cold billow would be dared for the sake of the colder enchantress; being women, we stand safe, though not dreadless. She comprehends our unmoved gaze; she feels herself powerless; anger crosses her front; she cannot charm, but she will appal us; she rises high, and glides all revealed on the dark wave-ridge. Temptress-terror! monstrous likeness of ourselves! Are you not glad, Caroline, when at last, and with a wild shriek, she dives?”
“But, Shirley, she is not like us. We are neither temptresses, nor terrors, nor monsters.”
“Some of our kind, it is said, are all three. There are men who ascribe to ‘woman,’ in general, such attributes.”
“My dears,” here interrupted Mrs. Pryor, “does it not strike you that your conversation for the last ten minutes has been rather fanciful?”
“But there is no harm in our fancies; is there, ma’am?”
“We are aware that mermaids do not exist; why speak of them as if they did? How can you find interest in speaking of a nonentity?”
“I don’t know,” said Shirley.
“My dear, I think there is an arrival. I heard a step in the lane while you were talking; and is not that the garden-gate which creaks?”
Shirley stepped to the window.
“Yes, there is some one,” said she, turning quietly away; and as she resumed her seat a sensitive flush animated her face, while a trembling ray at once kindled and softened her eye. She raised her hand to her chin, cast her gaze down, and seemed to think as she waited.
The servant announced Mr. Moore, and Shirley turned round when Mr. Moore appeared at the door. His figure seemed very tall as he entered, and stood in contrast with the three ladies, none of whom could boast a stature much beyond the average. He was looking well, better than he had been known to look for the past twelve months. A sort of renewed youth glowed in his eye and colour, and an invigorated hope and settled purpose sustained his bearing. Firmness his countenance still indicated, but not austerity. It looked as cheerful as it was earnest.
“I am just returned from Stilbro’,” he said to Miss Keeldar, as he greeted her; “and I thought I would call to impart to you the result of my mission.”
“You did right not to keep me in suspense,” she said, “and your visit is well timed. Sit down. We have not finished tea. Are you English enough to relish tea, or do you faithfully adhere to coffee?”
Moore accepted tea.
“I am learning to be a naturalized Englishman,” said he; “my foreign habits are leaving me one by one.”
And now he paid his respects to Mrs. Pryor, and paid them well, with a grave modesty that became his age compared with hers. Then he looked at Caroline — not, however, for the first time: his glance had fallen upon her before. He bent towards her as she sat, gave her his hand, and asked her how she was. The light from the window did not fall upon Miss Helst
one; her back was turned towards it. A quiet though rather low reply, a still demeanour, and the friendly protection of early twilight kept out of view each traitorous symptom. None could affirm that she had trembled or blushed, that her heart had quaked or her nerves thrilled; none could prove emotion; a greeting showing less effusion was never interchanged. Moore took the empty chair near her, opposite Miss Keeldar. He had placed himself well. His neighbour, screened by the very closeness of his vicinage from his scrutiny, and sheltered further by the dusk which deepened each moment, soon regained not merely seeming but real mastery of the feelings which had started into insurrection at the first announcement of his name.
He addressed his conversation to Miss Keeldar.
“I went to the barracks,” he said, “and had an interview with Colonel Ryde. He approved my plans, and promised the aid I wanted. Indeed, he offered a more numerous force than I require — half a dozen will suffice. I don’t intend to be swamped by redcoats. They are needed for appearance rather than anything else. My main reliance is on my own civilians.”
“And on their captain,” interposed Shirley.
“What, Captain Keeldar?” inquired Moore, slightly smiling, and not lifting his eyes. The tone of raillery in which he said this was very respectful and suppressed.
“No,” returned Shirley, answering the smile; “Captain Gérard Moore, who trusts much to the prowess of his own right arm, I believe.”
“Furnished with his counting-house ruler,” added Moore. Resuming his usual gravity, he went on: “I received by this evening’s post a note from the Home Secretary in answer to mine. It appears they are uneasy at the state of matters here in the north; they especially condemn the supineness and pusillanimity of the mill-owners. They say, as I have always said, that inaction, under present circumstances, is criminal, and that cowardice is cruelty, since both can only encourage disorder, and lead finally to sanguinary outbreaks. There is the note — I brought it for your perusal; and there is a batch of newspapers, containing further accounts of proceedings in Nottingham, Manchester, and elsewhere.”
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 81
