He produced letters and journals, and laid them before Miss Keeldar. While she perused them he took his tea quietly; but though his tongue was still, his observant faculties seemed by no means off duty. Mrs. Pryor, sitting in the background, did not come within the range of his glance, but the two younger ladies had the full benefit thereof.
Miss Keeldar, placed directly opposite, was seen without effort. She was the object his eyes, when lifted, naturally met first; and as what remained of daylight — the gilding of the west — was upon her, her shape rose in relief from the dark panelling behind. Shirley’s clear cheek was tinted yet with the colour which had risen into it a few minutes since. The dark lashes of her eyes looking down as she read, the dusk yet delicate line of her eyebrows, the almost sable gloss of her curls, made her heightened complexion look fine as the bloom of a red wild flower by contrast. There was natural grace in her attitude, and there was artistic effect in the ample and shining folds of her silk dress — an attire simply fashioned, but almost splendid from the shifting brightness of its dye, warp and woof being of tints deep and changing as the hue on a pheasant’s neck. A glancing bracelet on her arm produced the contrast of gold and ivory. There was something brilliant in the whole picture. It is to be supposed that Moore thought so, as his eye dwelt long on it, but he seldom permitted his feelings or his opinions to exhibit themselves in his face. His temperament boasted a certain amount of phlegm, and he preferred an undemonstrative, not ungentle, but serious aspect to any other.
He could not, by looking straight before him, see Caroline, as she was close at his side. It was necessary, therefore, to manœuvre a little to get her well within the range of his observation. He leaned back in his chair, and looked down on her. In Miss Helstone neither he nor any one else could discover brilliancy. Sitting in the shade, without flowers or ornaments, her attire the modest muslin dress, colourless but for its narrow stripe of pale azure, her complexion unflushed, unexcited, the very brownness of her hair and eyes invisible by this faint light, she was, compared with the heiress, as a graceful pencil sketch compared with a vivid painting. Since Robert had seen her last a great change had been wrought in her. Whether he perceived it might not be ascertained. He said nothing to that effect.
“How is Hortense?” asked Caroline softly.
“Very well; but she complains of being unemployed. She misses you.”
“Tell her that I miss her, and that I write and read a portion of French every day.”
“She will ask if you sent your love; she is always particular on that point. You know she likes attention.”
“My best love — my very best. And say to her that whenever she has time to write me a little note I shall be glad to hear from her.”
“What if I forget? I am not the surest messenger of compliments.”
“No, don’t forget, Robert. It is no compliment; it is in good earnest.”
“And must, therefore, be delivered punctually.”
“If you please.”
“Hortense will be ready to shed tears. She is tenderhearted on the subject of her pupil; yet she reproaches you sometimes for obeying your uncle’s injunctions too literally. Affection, like love, will be unjust now and then.”
And Caroline made no answer to this observation; for indeed her heart was troubled, and to her eyes she would have raised her handkerchief if she had dared. If she had dared, too, she would have declared how the very flowers in the garden of Hollow’s Cottage were dear to her; how the little parlour of that house was her earthly paradise; how she longed to return to it, as much almost as the first woman, in her exile, must have longed to revisit Eden. Not daring, however, to say these things, she held her peace; she sat quiet at Robert’s side, waiting for him to say something more. It was long since this proximity had been hers — long since his voice had addressed her; could she, with any show of probability, even of possibility, have imagined that the meeting gave him pleasure, to her it would have given deep bliss. Yet, even in doubt that it pleased, in dread that it might annoy him, she received the boon of the meeting as an imprisoned bird would the admission of sunshine to its cage. It was of no use arguing, contending against the sense of present happiness; to be near Robert was to be revived.
Miss Keeldar laid down the papers.
“And are you glad or sad for all these menacing tidings?” she inquired of her tenant.
“Not precisely either; but I certainly am instructed. I see that our only plan is to be firm. I see that efficient preparation and a resolute attitude are the best means of averting bloodshed.”
He then inquired if she had observed some particular paragraph, to which she replied in the negative, and he rose to show it to her. He continued the conversation standing before her. From the tenor of what he said, it appeared evident that they both apprehended disturbances in the neighbourhood of Briarfield, though in what form they expected them to break out was not specified. Neither Caroline nor Mrs. Pryor asked questions. The subject did not appear to be regarded as one ripe for free discussion; therefore the lady and her tenant were suffered to keep details to themselves, unimportuned by the curiosity of their listeners.
Miss Keeldar, in speaking to Mr. Moore, took a tone at once animated and dignified, confidential and self-respecting. When, however, the candles were brought in, and the fire was stirred up, and the fullness of light thus produced rendered the expression of her countenance legible, you could see that she was all interest, life, and earnestness. There was nothing coquettish in her demeanour; whatever she felt for Moore she felt it seriously. And serious, too, were his feelings, and settled were his views, apparently, for he made no petty effort to attract, dazzle, or impress. He contrived, notwithstanding, to command a little; because the deeper voice, however mildly modulated, the somewhat harder mind, now and then, though involuntarily and unintentionally, bore down by some peremptory phrase or tone the mellow accents and susceptible, if high, nature of Shirley. Miss Keeldar looked happy in conversing with him, and her joy seemed twofold — a joy of the past and present, of memory and of hope.
What I have just said are Caroline’s ideas of the pair. She felt what has just been described. In thus feeling she tried not to suffer, but suffered sharply nevertheless. She suffered, indeed, miserably. A few minutes before her famished heart had tasted a drop and crumb of nourishment, that, if freely given, would have brought back abundance of life where life was failing; but the generous feast was snatched from her, spread before another, and she remained but a bystander at the banquet.
The clock struck nine; it was Caroline’s time for going home. She gathered up her work, put the embroidery, the scissors, the thimble into her bag. She bade Mrs. Pryor a quiet good-night, receiving from that lady a warmer pressure of the hand than usual. She stepped up to Miss Keeldar.
“Good-night, Shirley!”
Shirley started up. “What! so soon? Are you going already?”
“It is past nine.”
“I never heard the clock. You will come again to-morrow, and you will be happy to-night, will you not? Remember our plans.”
“Yes,” said Caroline; “I have not forgotten.”
Her mind misgave her that neither those plans nor any other could permanently restore her mental tranquillity. She turned to Robert, who stood close behind her. As he looked up, the light of the candles on the mantelpiece fell full on her face. All its paleness, all its change, all its forlorn meaning were clearly revealed. Robert had good eyes, and might have seen it if he would; whether he did see it, nothing indicated.
“Good-night!” she said, shaking like a leaf, offering her thin hand hastily, anxious to part from him quickly.
“You are going home?” he asked, not touching her hand.
“Yes.”
“Is Fanny come for you?”
“Yes.”
“I may as well accompany you a step of the way; not up to the rectory, though, lest my old friend Helstone should shoot me from the window.”
He laughe
d, and took his hat. Caroline spoke of unnecessary trouble; he told her to put on her bonnet and shawl. She was quickly ready, and they were soon both in the open air. Moore drew her hand under his arm, just in his old manner — that manner which she ever felt to be so kind.
“You may run on, Fanny,” he said to the housemaid; “we shall overtake you.” And when the girl had got a little in advance, he enclosed Caroline’s hand in his, and said he was glad to find she was a familiar guest at Fieldhead. He hoped her intimacy with Miss Keeldar would continue; such society would be both pleasant and improving.
Caroline replied that she liked Shirley.
“And there is no doubt the liking is mutual,” said Moore. “If she professes friendship, be certain she is sincere. She cannot feign; she scorns hypocrisy. And, Caroline, are we never to see you at Hollow’s Cottage again?”
“I suppose not, unless my uncle should change his mind.”
“Are you much alone now?”
“Yes, a good deal. I have little pleasure in any society but Miss Keeldar’s.”
“Have you been quite well lately?”
“Quite.”
“You must take care of yourself. Be sure not to neglect exercise. Do you know I fancied you somewhat altered — a little fallen away, and pale. Is your uncle kind to you?”
“Yes; he is just as he always is.”
“Not too tender, that is to say — not too protective and attentive. And what ails you, then? Tell me, Lina.”
“Nothing, Robert.” But her voice faltered.
“That is to say, nothing that you will tell me. I am not to be taken into confidence. Separation is then quite to estrange us, is it?”
“I do not know. Sometimes I almost fear it is.”
“But it ought not to have that effect. ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o’ lang syne?’”
“Robert, I don’t forget.”
“It is two months, I should think, Caroline, since you were at the cottage.”
“Since I was within it — yes.”
“Have you ever passed that way in your walk?”
“I have come to the top of the fields sometimes of an evening and looked down. Once I saw Hortense in the garden watering her flowers, and I know at what time you light your lamp in the counting-house. I have waited for it to shine out now and then, and I have seen you bend between it and the window. I knew it was you; I could almost trace the outline of your form.”
“I wonder I never encountered you. I occasionally walk to the top of the Hollow’s fields after sunset.”
“I know you do. I had almost spoken to you one night, you passed so near me.”
“Did I? I passed near you, and did not see you! Was I alone?”
“I saw you twice, and neither time were you alone.”
“Who was my companion? Probably nothing but Joe Scott, or my own shadow by moonlight.”
“No; neither Joe Scott nor your shadow, Robert. The first time you were with Mr. Yorke; and the second time what you call your shadow was a shape with a white forehead and dark curls, and a sparkling necklace round its neck. But I only just got a glimpse of you and that fairy shadow; I did not wait to hear you converse.”
“It appears you walk invisible. I noticed a ring on your hand this evening; can it be the ring of Gyges? Henceforth, when sitting in the counting-house by myself, perhaps at dead of night, I shall permit myself to imagine that Caroline may be leaning over my shoulder reading with me from the same book, or sitting at my side engaged in her own particular task, and now and then raising her unseen eyes to my face to read there my thoughts.”
“You need fear no such infliction. I do not come near you; I only stand afar off, watching what may become of you.”
“When I walk out along the hedgerows in the evening after the mill is shut, or at night when I take the watchman’s place, I shall fancy the flutter of every little bird over its nest, the rustle of every leaf, a movement made by you; tree-shadows will take your shape; in the white sprays of hawthorn I shall imagine glimpses of you. Lina, you will haunt me.”
“I will never be where you would not wish me to be, nor see nor hear what you would wish unseen and unheard.”
“I shall see you in my very mill in broad daylight. Indeed, I have seen you there once. But a week ago I was standing at the top of one of my long rooms; girls were working at the other end, and amongst half a dozen of them, moving to and fro, I seemed to see a figure resembling yours. It was some effect of doubtful light or shade, or of dazzling sunbeam. I walked up to this group. What I sought had glided away; I found myself between two buxom lasses in pinafores.”
“I shall not follow you into your mill, Robert, unless you call me there.”
“Nor is that the only occasion on which imagination has played me a trick. One night, when I came home late from market, I walked into the cottage parlour thinking to find Hortense; but instead of her I thought I found you. There was no candle in the room; my sister had taken the light upstairs with her. The window-blind was not drawn, and broad moonbeams poured through the panes. There you were, Lina, at the casement, shrinking a little to one side in an attitude not unusual with you. You were dressed in white, as I have seen you dressed at an evening party. For half a second your fresh, living face seemed turned towards me, looking at me; for half a second my idea was to go and take your hand, to chide you for your long absence, and welcome your present visit. Two steps forward broke the spell. The drapery of the dress changed outline; the tints of the complexion dissolved, and were formless. Positively, as I reached the spot, there was nothing left but the sweep of a white muslin curtain, and a balsam plant in a flower-pot, covered with a flush of bloom. ‘Sic transit,’ et cetera.”
“It was not my wraith, then? I almost thought it was.”
“No; only gauze, crockery, and pink blossom — a sample of earthly illusions.”
“I wonder you have time for such illusions, occupied as your mind must be.”
“So do I. But I find in myself, Lina, two natures — one for the world and business, and one for home and leisure. Gérard Moore is a hard dog, brought up to mill and market; the person you call your cousin Robert is sometimes a dreamer, who lives elsewhere than in Cloth-hall and counting-house.”
“Your two natures agree with you. I think you are looking in good spirits and health. You have quite lost that harassed air which it often pained one to see in your face a few months ago.”
“Do you observe that? Certainly I am disentangled of some difficulties. I have got clear of some shoals, and have more sea-room.”
“And, with a fair wind, you may now hope to make a prosperous voyage?”
“I may hope it — yes — but hope is deceptive. There is no controlling wind or wave. Gusts and swells perpetually trouble the mariner’s course; he dare not dismiss from his mind the expectation of tempest.”
“But you are ready for a breeze; you are a good seaman, an able commander. You are a skilful pilot, Robert; you will weather the storm.”
“My kinswoman always thinks the best of me, but I will take her words for a propitious omen. I will consider that in meeting her to-night I have met with one of those birds whose appearance is to the sailor the harbinger of good luck.”
“A poor harbinger of good luck is she who can do nothing, who has no power. I feel my incapacity. It is of no use saying I have the will to serve you when I cannot prove it. Yet I have that will. I wish you success. I wish you high fortune and true happiness.”
“When did you ever wish me anything else? What is Fanny waiting for? I told her to walk on. Oh! we have reached the churchyard. Then we are to part here, I suppose. We might have sat a few minutes in the church porch, if the girl had not been with us. It is so fine a night, so summer-mild and still, I have no particular wish to return yet to the Hollow.”
“But we cannot sit in the porch now, Robert.”
Caroline said this because Moore was turning her round towards it.
“Pe
rhaps not. But tell Fanny to go in. Say we are coming. A few minutes will make no difference.”
The church clock struck ten.
“My uncle will be coming out to take his usual sentinel round, and he always surveys the church and churchyard.”
“And if he does? If it were not for Fanny, who knows we are here, I should find pleasure in dodging and eluding him. We could be under the east window when he is at the porch; as he came round to the north side we could wheel off to the south; we might at a pinch hide behind some of the monuments. That tall erection of the Wynnes would screen us completely.”
“Robert, what good spirits you have! Go! go!” added Caroline hastily. “I hear the front door — — “
“I don’t want to go; on the contrary, I want to stay.”
“You know my uncle will be terribly angry. He forbade me to see you because you are a Jacobin.”
“A queer Jacobin!”
“Go, Robert, he is coming; I hear him cough.”
“Diable! It is strange — what a pertinacious wish I feel to stay!”
“You remember what he did to Fanny’s — “ began Caroline, and stopped abruptly short. “Sweetheart” was the word that ought to have followed, but she could not utter it. It seemed calculated to suggest ideas she had no intention to suggest — ideas delusive and disturbing. Moore was less scrupulous. “Fanny’s sweetheart?” he said at once. “He gave him a shower-bath under the pump, did he not? He’d do as much for me, I dare say, with pleasure. I should like to provoke the old Turk — not, however, against you. But he would make a distinction between a cousin and a lover, would he not?”
“Oh, he would not think of you in that way, of course not; his quarrel with you is entirely political. Yet I should not like the breach to be widened, and he is so testy. Here he is at the garden gate. For your own sake and mine, Robert, go!”
The beseeching words were aided by a beseeching gesture and a more beseeching look. Moore covered her clasped hands an instant with his, answered her upward by a downward gave, gaze said “Good-night!” and went.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 82
