“And you will again.”
“I won’t. The business gave me far too much trouble. I like my ease.”
“Mr. Moore wishes to see me, Martin, and I wish to see him.”
“I dare say” (coolly).
“It is too bad of your mother to exclude his friends.”
“Tell her so.”
“His own relations.”
“Come and blow her up.”
“You know that would advance nothing. Well, I shall stick to my point. See him I will. If you won’t help me, I’ll manage without help.”
“Do; there is nothing like self-reliance, self-dependence.”
“I have no time to reason with you now; but I consider you provoking. Good-morning.”
Away she went, the umbrella shut, for she could not carry it against the wind.
“She is not vapid; she is not shallow,” said Martin. “I shall like to watch, and mark how she will work her way without help. If the storm were not of snow, but of fire — such as came refreshingly down on the cities of the plain — she would go through it to procure five minutes’ speech of that Moore. Now, I consider I have had a pleasant morning. The disappointments got time on; the fears and fits of anger only made that short discourse pleasanter, when it came at last. She expected to coax me at once. She’ll not manage that in one effort. She shall come again, again, and yet again. It would please me to put her in a passion — to make her cry. I want to discover how far she will go — what she will do and dare — to get her will. It seems strange and new to find one human being thinking so much about another as she thinks about Moore. But it is time to go home; my appetite tells me the hour. Won’t I walk into that goose? and we’ll try whether Matthew or I shall get the largest cut of the apple-pie to-day.”
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHEREIN MATTERS MAKE SOME PROGRESS, BUT NOT MUCH.
Martin had planned well. He had laid out a dexterously concerted scheme for his private amusement. But older and wiser schemers than he are often doomed to see their finest-spun projects swept to annihilation by the sudden broom of Fate, that fell housewife whose red arm none can control. In the present instance this broom was manufactured out of the tough fibres of Moore’s own stubborn purpose, bound tight with his will. He was now resuming his strength, and making strange head against Mrs. Horsfall. Each morning he amazed that matron with a fresh astonishment. First he discharged her from her valet duties; he would dress himself. Then he refused the coffee she brought him; he would breakfast with the family. Lastly, he forbade her his chamber. On the same day, amidst the outcries of all the women in the place, he put his head out of doors. The morning after, he followed Mr. Yorke to his counting-house, and requested an envoy to fetch a chaise from the Red House Inn. He was resolved, he said, to return home to the Hollow that very afternoon. Mr. Yorke, instead of opposing, aided and abetted him. The chaise was sent for, though Mrs. Yorke declared the step would be his death. It came. Moore, little disposed to speak, made his purse do duty for his tongue. He expressed his gratitude to the servants and to Mrs. Horsfall by the chink of his coin. The latter personage approved and understood this language perfectly; it made amends for all previous contumacy. She and her patient parted the best friends in the world.
The kitchen visited and soothed, Moore betook himself to the parlour. He had Mrs. Yorke to appease; not quite so easy a task as the pacification of her housemaids. There she sat plunged in sullen dudgeon, the gloomiest speculations on the depths of man’s ingratitude absorbing her thoughts. He drew near and bent over her; she was obliged to look up, if it were only to bid him “avaunt.” There was beauty still in his pale, wasted features; there was earnestness and a sort of sweetness — for he was smiling — in his hollow eyes.
“Good-bye!” he said, and as he spoke the smile glittered and melted. He had no iron mastery of his sensations now; a trifling emotion made itself apparent in his present weak state.
“And what are you going to leave us for?” she asked. “We will keep you, and do anything in the world for you, if you will only stay till you are stronger.”
“Good-bye!” he again said; and added, “You have been a mother to me; give your wilful son one embrace.”
Like a foreigner, as he was, he offered her first one cheek, then the other. She kissed him.
“What a trouble — what a burden I have been to you!” he muttered.
“You are the worst trouble now, headstrong youth!” was the answer. “I wonder who is to nurse you at Hollow’s Cottage? Your sister Hortense knows no more about such matters than a child.”
“Thank God! for I have had nursing enough to last me my life.”
Here the little girls came in — Jessie crying, Rose quiet but grave. Moore took them out into the hall to soothe, pet, and kiss them. He knew it was not in their mother’s nature to bear to see any living thing caressed but herself. She would have felt annoyed had he fondled a kitten in her presence.
The boys were standing about the chaise as Moore entered it; but for them he had no farewell. To Mr. Yorke he only said, “You have a good riddance of me. That was an unlucky shot for you, Yorke; it turned Briarmains into an hospital. Come and see me at the cottage soon.”
He drew up the glass; the chaise rolled away. In half an hour he alighted at his own garden wicket. Having paid the driver and dismissed the vehicle, he leaned on that wicket an instant, at once to rest and to muse.
“Six months ago I passed out at this gate,” said he, “a proud, angry, disappointed man. I come back sadder and wiser; weakly enough, but not worried. A cold, gray, yet quiet world lies round — a world where, if I hope little, I fear nothing. All slavish terrors of embarrassment have left me. Let the worst come, I can work, as Joe Scott does, for an honourable living; in such doom I yet see some hardship but no degradation. Formerly, pecuniary ruin was equivalent in my eyes to personal dishonour. It is not so now; I know the difference. Ruin is an evil, but one for which I am prepared; the day of whose coming I know, for I have calculated. I can yet put it off six months — not an hour longer. If things by that time alter, which is not probable; if fetters, which now seem indissoluble, should be loosened from our trade (of all things the most unlikely to happen), I might conquer in this long struggle yet — I might — good God! what might I not do? But the thought is a brief madness; let me see things with sane eyes. Ruin will come, lay her axe to my fortune’s roots, and hew them down. I shall snatch a sapling, I shall cross the sea, and plant it in American woods. Louis will go with me. Will none but Louis go? I cannot tell — I have no right to ask.”
He entered the house.
It was afternoon, twilight yet out of doors — starless and moonless twilight; for though keenly freezing with a dry, black frost, heaven wore a mask of clouds congealed and fast locked. The mill-dam too was frozen. The Hollow was very still. Indoors it was already dark. Sarah had lit a good fire in the parlour; she was preparing tea in the kitchen.
“Hortense,” said Moore, as his sister bustled up to help him off with his cloak, “I am pleased to come home.”
Hortense did not feel the peculiar novelty of this expression coming from her brother, who had never before called the cottage his home, and to whom its narrow limits had always heretofore seemed rather restrictive than protective. Still, whatever contributed to his happiness pleased her, and she expressed herself to that effect.
He sat down, but soon rose again. He went to the window; he came back to the fire.
“Hortense!”
“Mon frère?”
“This little parlour looks very clean and pleasant — unusually bright, somehow.”
“It is true, brother; I have had the whole house thoroughly and scrupulously cleaned in your absence.”
“Sister, I think on this first day of your return home you ought to have a friend or so to tea, if it were only to see how fresh and spruce you have made the little place.”
“True, brother. If it were not late I might send for Miss Mann.”
> “So you might; but it really is too late to disturb that good lady, and the evening is much too cold for her to come out.”
“How thoughtful in you, dear Gérard! We must put it off till another day.”
“I want some one to-day, dear sister — some quiet guest, who would tire neither of us.”
“Miss Ainley?”
“An excellent person, they say; but she lives too far off. Tell Harry Scott to step up to the rectory with a request from you that Caroline Helstone should come and spend the evening with you.”
“Would it not be better to-morrow, dear brother?”
“I should like her to see the place as it is just now; its brilliant cleanliness and perfect neatness are so much to your credit.”
“It might benefit her in the way of example.”
“It might and must; she ought to come.”
He went into the kitchen.
“Sarah, delay tea half an hour.” He then commissioned her to dispatch Harry Scott to the rectory, giving her a twisted note hastily scribbled in pencil by himself, and addressed “Miss Helstone.”
Scarcely had Sarah time to get impatient under the fear of damage to her toast already prepared when the messenger returned, and with him the invited guest.
She entered through the kitchen, quietly tripped up Sarah’s stairs to take off her bonnet and furs, and came down as quietly, with her beautiful curls nicely smoothed, her graceful merino dress and delicate collar all trim and spotless, her gay little work-bag in her hand. She lingered to exchange a few kindly words with Sarah, and to look at the new tortoise-shell kitten basking on the kitchen hearth, and to speak to the canary-bird, which a sudden blaze from the fire had startled on its perch; and then she betook herself to the parlour.
The gentle salutation, the friendly welcome, were interchanged in such tranquil sort as befitted cousins meeting; a sense of pleasure, subtle and quiet as a perfume, diffused itself through the room; the newly-kindled lamp burnt up bright; the tray and the singing urn were brought in.
“I am pleased to come home,” repeated Mr. Moore.
They assembled round the table. Hortense chiefly talked. She congratulated Caroline on the evident improvement in her health. Her colour and her plump cheeks were returning, she remarked. It was true. There was an obvious change in Miss Helstone. All about her seemed elastic; depression, fear, forlornness, were withdrawn. No longer crushed, and saddened, and slow, and drooping, she looked like one who had tasted the cordial of heart’s ease, and been lifted on the wing of hope.
After tea Hortense went upstairs. She had not rummaged her drawers for a month past, and the impulse to perform that operation was now become resistless. During her absence the talk passed into Caroline’s hands. She took it up with ease; she fell into her best tone of conversation. A pleasing facility and elegance of language gave fresh charm to familiar topics; a new music in the always soft voice gently surprised and pleasingly captivated the listener; unwonted shades and lights of expression elevated the young countenance with character, and kindled it with animation.
“Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings,” said Moore, after earnestly gazing at her for some minutes.
“Do I?”
“I sent for you this evening that I might be cheered; but you cheer me more than I had calculated.”
“I am glad of that. And I really cheer you?”
“You look brightly, move buoyantly, speak musically.”
“It is pleasant to be here again.”
“Truly it is pleasant; I feel it so. And to see health on your cheek and hope in your eye is pleasant, Cary; but what is this hope, and what is the source of this sunshine I perceive about you?”
“For one thing, I am happy in mamma. I love her so much, and she loves me. Long and tenderly she nursed me. Now, when her care has made me well, I can occupy myself for and with her all the day. I say it is my turn to attend to her; and I do attend to her. I am her waiting-woman as well as her child. I like — you would laugh if you knew what pleasure I have in making dresses and sewing for her. She looks so nice now, Robert; I will not let her be old-fashioned. And then, she is charming to talk to — full of wisdom, ripe in judgment, rich in information, exhaustless in stores her observant faculties have quietly amassed. Every day that I live with her I like her better, I esteem her more highly, I love her more tenderly.”
“That for one thing, then, Cary. You talk in such a way about ‘mamma’ it is enough to make one jealous of the old lady.”
“She is not old, Robert.”
“Of the young lady, then.”
“She does not pretend to be young.”
“Well, of the matron. But you said ‘mamma’s’ affection was one thing that made you happy; now for the other thing.”
“I am glad you are better.”
“What besides?”
“I am glad we are friends.”
“You and I?”
“Yes. I once thought we never should be.”
“Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself that is not to my credit, and consequently will not please you.”
“Ah, don’t! I cannot bear to think ill of you.”
“And I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I deserve.”
“Well, but I half know your ‘thing;’ indeed, I believe I know all about it.”
“You do not.”
“I believe I do.”
“Whom does it concern besides me?”
She coloured; she hesitated; she was silent.
“Speak, Cary! Whom does it concern?”
She tried to utter a name, and could not.
“Tell me; there is none present but ourselves. Be frank.”
“But if I guess wrong?”
“I will forgive. Whisper, Cary.”
He bent his ear to her lips. Still she would not, or could not, speak clearly to the point. Seeing that Moore waited and was resolved to hear something, she at last said, “Miss Keeldar spent a day at the rectory about a week since. The evening came on very wintry, and we persuaded her to stay all night.”
“And you and she curled your hair together?”
“How do you know that?”
“And then you chattered, and she told you — — “
“It was not at curling-hair time, so you are not as wise as you think; and, besides, she didn’t tell me.”
“You slept together afterwards?”
“We occupied the same room and bed. We did not sleep much; we talked the whole night through.”
“I’ll be sworn you did! And then it all came out — tant pis. I would rather you had heard it from myself.”
“You are quite wrong. She did not tell me what you suspect — she is not the person to proclaim such things; but yet I inferred something from parts of her discourse. I gathered more from rumour, and I made out the rest by instinct.”
“But if she did not tell you that I wanted to marry her for the sake of her money, and that she refused me indignantly and scornfully (you need neither start nor blush; nor yet need you prick your trembling fingers with your needle. That is the plain truth, whether you like it or not) — if such was not the subject of her august confidences, on what point did they turn? You say you talked the whole night through; what about?”
“About things we never thoroughly discussed before, intimate friends as we have been; but you hardly expect I should tell you?”
“Yes, yes, Cary; you will tell me. You said we were friends, and friends should always confide in each other.”
“But you are sure you won’t repeat it?”
“Quite sure.”
“Not to Louis?”
“Not even to Louis. What does Louis care for young ladies’ secrets?”
“Robert, Shirley is a curious, magnanimous being.”
“I dare say. I can imagine there are both odd points and grand points about her.”
“I have found her chary in showing her feelings; but when they rush out, riv
er-like, and pass full and powerful before you — almost without leave from her — you gaze, wonder; you admire, and — I think — love her.”
“You saw this spectacle?”
“Yes; at dead of night, when all the house was silent, and starlight and the cold reflection from the snow glimmered in our chamber, then I saw Shirley’s heart.”
“Her heart’s core? Do you think she showed you that?”
“Her heart’s core.”
“And how was it?”
“Like a shrine, for it was holy; like snow, for it was pure; like flame, for it was warm; like death, for it was strong.”
“Can she love? tell me that.”
“What think you?”
“She has loved none that have loved her yet.”
“Who are those that have loved her?”
He named a list of gentlemen, closing with Sir Philip Nunnely.
“She has loved none of these.”
“Yet some of them were worthy of a woman’s affection.”
“Of some women’s, but not of Shirley’s.”
“Is she better than others of her sex?”
“She is peculiar, and more dangerous to take as a wife — rashly.”
“I can imagine that.”
“She spoke of you — — “
“Oh, she did! I thought you denied it.”
“She did not speak in the way you fancy; but I asked her, and I would make her tell me what she thought of you, or rather how she felt towards you. I wanted to know; I had long wanted to know.”
“So had I; but let us hear. She thinks meanly, she feels contemptuously, doubtless?”
“She thinks of you almost as highly as a woman can think of a man. You know she can be eloquent. I yet feel in fancy the glow of the language in which her opinion was conveyed.”
“But how does she feel?”
“Till you shocked her (she said you had shocked her, but she would not tell me how) she felt as a sister feels towards a brother of whom she is at once fond and proud.”
“I’ll shock her no more, Cary, for the shock rebounded on myself till I staggered again. But that comparison about sister and brother is all nonsense. She is too rich and proud to entertain fraternal sentiments for me.”
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 117
