Shirley

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WORKS OF
THE SISTERS BRONTE

VOLUME II

SHIRLEY

BY

CHARLOTTE BRONTE

(CUHRER BELL)

ILLUSTRATED

CHARLES C. BIGELOW & CO., Inc

>x fl''

NEW YORK

"^.'

IS". '»!:(;•

' ''Ha, "^^ ».'i

Copyright, 1809, by H\rpi:k !( Brothers.

**.% Prmted in the United States of ALaerioi

111; S'ii4 •-,-:

■( > t

-^

CONTENTS

SHAPTKR piGB

I. Levitical 1

II. The Waggons 16

III. Mr. Yokke 34

IV. Mr. Yorke {continued) 44

V. Hollow's Cottage 57

VI. CORIOLANDS 75

VII. The Curates at Tea 98

VIII. Noah aku Moses 128

IX. Briaemains 146

X. Old Maids 171

XI. Fieldhead 191

XII. Shirley and C'AROLiiXE 211

XIII. PuRTflER Communications on Business 235

XIV. Shirley seeks to be saved by Works . 264
XV. Mr. Donne's Exodus 280

XVI. Whitsuntide 296

XVII. The School-Feast 309

XVIII. Which the Genteel Reader is recom-
mended to skip, Low Persons being

here introduced 327

OEAPTEB

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.
XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.
XXXVII.

SHIRLEY

PAOS

A SuMMEB Night 340

To-MoKKOW 358

Mrs. Pbyor 373

Two Lives 393

Au Evening Out 404

The Valley of the Shadow of Death 427

The West Wind Blows 449

Old Copy-Books 458

The First Blue-Stocking .... 479

Phoebe 506

Louis Moore 530

Eushedge, a Confessional .... 540

Uncle and Niece 557

The Schoolboy and the Wood-
Nymph 576

Martin's Tactics 589

Case of Domestic Persecution. — Ee-

MABKABLE INSTANCE OF PlOUS PEB-

severance in the discharge of

Eeligious Duties 602

Wherein matters Make some Proq-

EESS, BUT not MUCH 611

Written in the Schoolroom . . . 636

The Winding-up 651

LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS

Facsimile of the Title-page of the First

Edition . ^ Page xxvii

Views of places described in the work, reproduced from photo-
graphs taken by Mr. W. R. Bland of Duffield, Derby,
in conjunction -with Mr. G. Barrow-Keene of Derby :
Bed House, Gomersal {front) {Briar-
mains) Frontispiece

Hartshead Church {Nunnely Church) To face page 4
Eed House, Gomersal {from the gar-
den) {Briarmains) " 150

Oakwell Hall, near Birstall {the

approach) (Fieldhead) " 192

Oakwell Hall, near Birstall {gen-
eral view) {Fieldhead) " 196

Interior OF Oakwell Hall (i^j'eMeae?) " 200

Oakwell Hall {interior) {Fieldhead) . " 206

Oakwell Hall {front) {Fieldhead) . " 212

Oakwell Hall (the garden) {Fieldhead) " 294

Birstall Church {Briarfield Church) . " 606

ne tower only remain! of the church described.

Facsimile of the Title-page of the First Edition

SHIRLEY.

Br

CURRER BELL,

AUTHOR OP "JANE EYRE.'

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 66, CORNHILL,

1849.

SHIRLEY

CHAPTEE I

LEVITICAL

Of late years, an abundant shower of curates has fallen
upon the north of England : they lie very thick on the hills ;
every parish has one or more of them ; they are young enough
to be very active, and ought to be doing a great deal of good.
But not of late years are we about to speak ; we are going
back to the beginning of this century : late years — present
years are dusty, sun -burnt, hot, arid; we will evade the
noon, forget it in siesta, pass the mid-day in slumber, and
dream of dawn.

If you think, from this prelude, that anything like a
romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more
mistaken. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and
reverie? Do you expect passion, and stimulus, and melo-
drama ? Calm your expectations ; reduce them to a lowly
standard. Something real, cool, and solid, Ues before you ;
something unromantic as Monday morning, when aU who
have work wake with the consciousness that they must rise
and betake themselves thereto. It is not positively affirmed
that you shall not have a taste of the exciting, perhaps
towards the middle and close of the meal, but it is resolved
that the first dish set upon the table shall be one that a
Catholic — ay, even an Anglo-Catholic — might eat on Good
Friday in Passion Week : it shall be cold lentils and vinegar

2 SHIELEY

without oil ; it shall be unleavened bread with bitter herbs,
and no roast lamb.

Of late years, I say, an abundant shower of curates has
fallen upon the north of England ; but in eighteen-hundred-
eleven-twelve that afQuent rain had not descended : curates
were scarce then : there was no Pastoral Aid — no Additional
Curates' Society to stretch a helping hand to worn-out old
rectors and incumbents, and give them the wherewithal to
pay a vigorous young colleague from Oxford or Cambridge.
The present successors of the apostles, disciples of Dr. Pusey
and tools of the Propaganda, were at that time being hatched
under cradle-blankets, or undergoing regeneration by nursery-
baptism in wash-hand-basins. You could not have guessed
by looking at any one of them that the Italian-ironed double
frills of its net-cap surrounded the brows of a pre-ordained,
specially sanctified successor of St. Paul, St. Peter, or
St. John ; nor could you have foreseen in the folds of its
long night-gown the white surplice in which it was hereafter
cruelly to exercise the souls of its parishioners, and strangely
to nonplus its old-fashioned vicar by flourishing aloft in a
pulpit the shirt-like raiment which had never before waved
higher than the reading-desk.

Yet even in those days of scarcity there were curates :
the precious plant was rare, but it might be found. A certain
favoured district in the West Eiding of Yorkshire could
boast three rods of Aaron blossoming within a circuit of
twenty miles. You shall see them, reader. Step into this
neat garden-house on the skirts of Whinbury, walk forward
into the little parlour — there they are at dinner. Allow me
to introduce them to you : — Mr. Donne, curate of Whinbury ;
Mr. Malone, curate of Briarfield; Mr. Sweeting, curate of
Nunnely. These are Mr. Donne's lodgings, being the
habitation of one John Gale, a small clothier. Mr. Donne
has kindly invited his brethren to regale with him. You and
I will join the party, see what is to be seen, and hear what is
to be heard. At pr^ent, however, they are only eating ;
and while they eat we will talk aside.

LEVITICAL 3

These gentlenjen are in the bloom of youth ; they possess
all the activity of that interesting age — an activity which
their moping old vicars would fain turn into the channel of
their pastoral duties, often expressing a wish to see it ex-
pended in a diligent superintendence of the schools, and in
frequent visits to the sick of their respective parishes. But
the youthful Levites feel this to be dull work ; they prefer
lavishing their energies on a course of proceeding, which,
though to other eyes it appear more heavy with ennui, more
cursed with monotony, than the toil of the weaver at his
loom, seems to yield them an unfailing supply of enjoyment
and occupation.

I allude to a rushing backwards and forwards, amongst
themselves, to and from their respective lodgings : not a
round — but a triangle of visits, which they keep up all the
year through, in winter, spring, summer, and autumn.
Season and weather make no difference ; with unintelligible
zeal they dare snow and hail, wind and rain, mire and dust,
to go and dine, or drink tea, or sup with each other. What
attracts them, it would be difficult to say. It is not friend-
ship; for whenever they meet they quarrel. It is not
religion ; the thing is never named amongst them : theology
they may discuss occasionally, but piety — never. It is not
the love of eating and drinking ; each might have as good a
joint and pudding, tea as potent, and toast as succulent, at
his own lodgings, as is served to him at his brother's. Mrs.
Gale, Mrs. Hogg, and Mrs. Whipp — their respective land-
ladies— affirm that ' it is just for nought else but to give folk
trouble.' By ' folk ' the good ladies of course mean them-
selves ; for indeed they are kept in a continual ' fry ' by this
system of mutual invasion.

Mr. Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner ;
Mrs. Gale waits on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen fire
is in her eye. She considers that the privilege of inviting a
friend to a meal occasionally, without additional charge (a
privilege included in the terms on which she lets her
lodgings), has been quite sufficiently exercised of late. The

4 SHIELEY

present week is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday, Mr.
Malone, the curate of Briarfield, came to breakfast and
stayed dinner ; on Tuesday, Mr. Malone and Mr. Sweeting
of Nunnely, came to tea, remained to supper, occupied the
spare bed, and favoured her with their company to breakfast on
Wednesday morning ; now, on Thursday, they are both here
at dinner, and she is almost certain they will stay all night.
' C'en est trop,' she would say, if she could speak French.

Mr. Sweeting is mincing the slice of roast-beef on his
plate, and complaining that it is very tough ; Mr. Donne
says the beer is flat. Ay ! that is the worst of it : if they
would only be civil, Mrs. Gale wouldn't mind it so much ;
if they would only seem satisfied with what they get, she
wouldn't care, but ' these young parsons is so high and so
scornful, they set everybody beneath their " fit : " they treat
her with less than civility, just because she doesn't keep a
servant, but does the work of the house herself, as her mother
did afoire her : then they are always speaking against York-
shire ways and Yorkshire folk,' and by that very token Mrs.
Gale does not believe one of them to be a real gentleman, or
come of gentle kin. ' The old parsons is worth the whole
lump of college lads ; they know what belangs to good
manners, and is kind to high aid low.'

' More bread ! ' cries Mr. Malone, in a tone which,
though prolonged, but to utter two syllables, proclaims him
at once a native of the land of shamrocks and potatoes.
Mrs. Gale hates Mr. Malone more than either of the other
two : but she fears him also, for he is a tall, strongly-built
personage, with real Irish legs and arms, and a face as
genuinely national : not the Milesian face — not Daniel
O'Connell's style, but the high-featured, North-American-
Indian sort of visage, which belongs to a certain class of the
Irish gentry, and has a petrified and proud look, better suited
to the owner of an estate of slaves, than to the landlord of a
free peasantry. Mr. Malone's father termed himself a
gentleman : he was poor and in debt, and besottedly
ajrrogant ; and his son was like him.

L'EVmCAL 5

Mrs. Gale offered the loaf.

' Cut it, woman,' said her guest ; and the ' woman ' cut
it accordingly. Had she followed her inclinations, she would
have cut the parson also ; her Yorkshire soul revolted abso-
lutely from his manner of command.

The curates had good appetites, and though the beef
was ' tough,' they ate a great deal of it. They swallowed,
too, a tolerable allowance of the ' flat beer,' while a dish of
Yorkshire pudding, and two tureens of vegetables, disappeared
like leaves before locusts. The cheese, too, received dis-
tinguished marks of their attention ; and a ' spice-cake,'
which followed by way of dessert, vanished Uke a vision,
and was no more found. Its elegy was chanted in the
kitchen by Abraham, Mrs. Gale's son and heir, a youth of
six summers ; he had reckoned upon the reversion thereof,
and when his mother brought down the empty platter, he
lifted up his voice and wept sore.

The curates, meantime, sat and sipped their wine; a
liquor of unpretending vintage, moderately enjoyed. Mr.
Malone, indeed, would much rather have had whisky ; but
Mr. Donne, being an Englishman, did not keep the beverage.
While they sipped, they argued ; not on politics, nor on
philosophy, nor on literature — these topics were now as ever
totally without interest for them — not even on theology,
practical or doctrinal ; but on minute points of ecclesiastical
discipline, frivolities which seemed empty as bubbles to all
save themselves. Mr. Malone, who contrived to secure two
glasses of wine, when his brethren contented themselves
with one, waxed by degrees hilarious after his fashion ; that
is, he grew a little insolent, said rude things in a hectoring
tone, and laughed clamorously at his own brilliancy.

Bach of his companions became in turn his butt. Malone
had a stock of jokes at their service, which he was accus-
tomed to serve out regularly on convivial occasions like the
present, seldom varying his wit ; for which, indeed, there
was no necessity, as he never appeared to consider himself
monotonous, and did not at all care what others thought.

6 SHIELEY

Mr. Donne, he favoured with hints about his extreme meagre-
ness, allusions to his turned-up nose, cutting sarcasms on a
certain threadbare chocolate surtout, which that gentleman
was accustomed to sport whenever it rained, or seemed
likely to rain, and criticisms on a choice set of cockney
phrases, and modes of pronunciation, Mr. Donne's own
property, and certainly deserving of remark for the elegance
and finish they communicated to his style.

Mr. Sweeting was bantered about his stature — he was a
little man, a mere boy in height and breadth compared with
the athletic Malone— rallied on his musical accomplish-
ments— he played the flute and sang hymns hke a seraph
(some young ladies of his parish thought), sneered at as
' the lady's pet,' teased about his mamma and sisters ; for
whom poor Mr. Sweeting had some lingering regard, and of
whom he was foolish enough now and then to speak in the
presence of the priestly Paddy, from whose anatomy the
bowels of natural affection had somehow been omitted.

The victims met these attacks each in his own way : Mr.
Donne with a stilted self-complacency, and half-sullen
phlegm, the sole props of his otherwise somewhat rickety
dignity ; Mr. Sweeting with the indifference of a light, easy
disposition, which never professed to have any dignity to
maintain.

When Malone's raillery became rather too offensive,
which it soon did, they joined in an attempt to turn the
tables on him, by asking him how many boys had shouted
' Irish Peter ! ' after him as he came along the road that day
(Malone's name was Peter — the Eev. Peter Augustus
Malone) ; requesting to be informed whether it was the
mode in Ireland for clergymen to carry loaded pistols in
their pockets, and a shillelagh in their hands, when they
made pastoral visits; inquiring the signification of such
words as vele, firrum, helium, storrum (so Mr. Malone in-
variably pronounced veil, firm, helm, storm), and employing
such other methods of retaliation as the innate refinement
of their minds suggested.

LEVITICAL 7

This, of course, would not do. Malone, being neither
good-natured nor phlegmatic, was presently in a towering
passion. He vociferated, gesticulated : Donne and Sweeting
laughed. He reviled them as Saxons and snobs at the very
top pitch of his high Celtic voice ; they taunted him with
being the native of a conquered land. He menaced rebellion
in the name of his ' counthry,' vented bitter hatred against
English rule ; they spoke of rags, beggary, and pestilence.
The little parlour was in an uproar ; you would have thought
a duel must follow such virulent abuse ; it seemed a wonder
that Mr. and Mrs. Gale did not take alarm at the noise, and
send for a constable to keep the peace. But they were
accustomed to such demonstrations; they well knew that
the cmrates never dined or took tea together without a little
exercise of the sort, and were quite easy as to consequences ;
knowing that these clerical quarrels were as harmless as
they were noisy ; that they resulted in nothing ; and that,
on whatever terms the curates might part to-night, they
would be sure to meet the best friends in the world to-morrow
morning.

As the worthy pair were sitting by their kitchen fire,
listening to the repeated and sonorous contact of Malone's
fist with the mahogany plane of the parlour-table, and to the
consequent start and jingle of decanters and glasses following
each assault, to the mocking laughter of the allied English
disputants, and the stuttering declamation of the isolated
Hibernian, — as they thus sat, a foot was heard on the outer
door-step, and the knocker quivered to a sharp appeal.

Mr. Gale went and opened.

' Whom have you up-stairs in the parlour ? ' asked a
voice ; a rather remarkable voice, nasal in tone, abrupt in
utterance.

' Oh ! Mr. Helstone, is it you, sir ? I could hardly see
you for the darkness ; it is so soon dark now. Will you
walk in, sir ? '

' I want to know first whether it is worth my while walk-
ing in. Whom have you up-stairs ? '

8 SHIRLEY

' The curates, sir ! '

•What! all of them I'

' Yes, sir.'

' Been dining here ? '

' Yes, sir.'

' That will do.'

With these words a person entered— a middle-aged
man, in black. He walked straight across the kitchen to
an inner door, opened it, inclined his head forward, and
stood listening. There was something to listen to, for the
noise above was just then louder than ever.

' Hey ! ' he ejaculated to himself ; then turning to Mr.
Gale — ' Have you often this sort of work ? '

Mr. Gale had been a churchwarden, and was indulgent
to the clergy.

' They're young, you know, sir — they're young,' said he,
deprecatingly.

' Young ! They want caning. Bad boys — bad boys ! and
if you were a Dissenter, John Gale, instead of being a good
Ghurchmaa, they'd do the like — they'd expose themselves :
but I'U '

By way of finish to this sentence, he passed through
the inner door, drew it after him, and mounted the stair.
Again he listened a few minutes when he arrived at the
upper room. Making entrance without warning, he stood
before the curates.

And they were silent ; they were transfixed ; and so was
the invader. He — a personage short of stature, but straight
of port, and bearing on broad shoulders a hawk's head, beak,
and eye, the whole surmounted by a Eehoboam, or shovel-
hat, which he did not seem to think it necessary to lift or
remove before the presence in which he then stood — he folded
his arms on his chest and surveyed his young friends— if
friends they were — much at his leisure.

' What ! ' he began, delivering his words in a voice no
longer nasal, but deep— more than deep — a voice made pur-
posely hollow and cavernous : ' What ! has the miracle of

LEVITICAL 9

Pentecost been renewed ? Have the cloven tongues come
down again ? Where are they ? The sound filled the whole
house just now. I heard the seventeen languages in full
action : Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in
Mesopotamia, and in Judaea, and Cappadocia, in Pontus, and
Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, in Egypt, and in the parts of
Libya about Gyrene, strangers of Eome, Jews and proselytes,
Cretes and Arabians ; every one of these must have had its
representative in this room two minutes since.'

' I beg your pardon, Mr. Helstone,' began Mr. Donne ;
' take a seat, pray, sir. Have a glass of wine ? '

His civiUties received no answer : the falcon in the black
coat proceeded : — ' What do I talk about the gift of tongues ?
Gift, indeed ! I mistook the chapter, and book, and testament; :
Gospel for law. Acts for Genesis, the city of Jerusalem for
the plain of Shinar. It was no gift, but the confusion of
tongues which has gabbled me deaf as a post. You, apostles ?
What ! you three ? Certainly not : three presumptuous
Babylonish masons — neither more nor less I '

' I assure you, sir, we were only having a little chat
together over a glass of wine after a friendly dinner : settling
the Dissenters ! '

' Oh I settUng the Dissenters — were you ? Was Malone
settling the Dissenters? It sounded to me much more hke
settling his co-apostles. You were quarrelling together;
making almost as much noise — you three alone — as Moses
Barraelough, the preaching tailor, and all his hearers, are
making in the Methodist chapel down yonder, where they
are in the thick of a revival. I know whose fault it is — it is
yours, Malone.'

'Mine! sir?'

' Yours, sir. Donne and Sweeting were quiet before you
came, and would be quiet if you were gone. I wish when
you crossed the Channel you had left your Irish habits
behind you. Dubhn student ways won't do here : the pro-
ceedings which might pass unnoticed in a wild bog and
mountain district in Connaught will, in a decent English

10 SHIBLEY

parish, bring disgrace on those who indulge in them, and,
what is far worse, on the sacred institution of which they are
merely the humble appendages.'

There was a certain dignity in the little elderly gentle-
man's manner of rebuking these youths ; though it was not,
perhaps, quite the dignity most appropriate to the occasion.
Mr. Helstone — standing straight as a ramrod — looking keen
as a kite, presented, despite his clerical hat, black coat, and
gaiters, more the air of a veteran officer chiding his sub-
alterns, than of a venerable priest exhorting his sons in the
faith. Gospel mildness — apostolic benignity, never seemed
to have breathed their influence over that keen brown visage;
but firmness had fixed the features, and sagacity had carved
her own lines about them.

'I met Supplehough,' he continued, 'plodding through
the mud this wet night, going to preach at Milldean opposi-
tion shop. As I told you, I heard Barraclough bellowing in
the midst of a conventicle like a possessed bull ; and I find
you, gentlemen, tarrying over your half-pint of muddy port-
wine, and scolding like angry old women. No wonder
Supplehough should have dipped sixteen adult converts in a
day — which he did a fortnight since ; no wonder Barra-
clough, scamp and hypocrite as he is, should attract all the
weaver-girls in their flowers and ribbons, to witness how
much harder are his knuckles than the wooden brim of his
tub ; as little wonder that you, when you are left to your-
selves, without your rectors — myself, and Hall, and Boultby
— to back you, should too often perform the holy service of
our church to bare walls, and read your bit of a dry discourse
to the clerk, and the organist, and the beadle. But enough
of the subject : I came to see Malone — I have an errand
unto thee, O captain ! '

'What is it?' inquired Malone, discontentedly; 'there
can be no funeral to take at this time of day.'

' Have you any arms about you ? '

' Arms, sir ? — yes, and legs : ' £^nd lie advfinced the
jnighty members,

LEVITICAL 11

' Bah ! weapons, I mean.'

' I have the pistols you gave me yourself ; I never part
with them : I lay them ready cocked on a chair by my bed-
side at night. I have my blackthorn.'

' Very good. Will you go to HoUow's-mill ? '

' What is stirring at Hollow's-mill ? '

' Nothing as yet, nor perhaps will be ; but Moore is alone
there : he has sent all the workmen he can trust to Stilbro' ;
there are only two women left about the place. It would be
a nice opportunity for any of his well-wishers to pay him a
visit, if they knew how straight the path was made before
them.'

' I am none of his well-wishers, sir : I don't care for
him.'

' Soh ! Malone, you are afraid.'

'You know me better than that. If I really thought
there was a chance of a row, I would go : but Moore is a
strange, shy man, whom I never pretend to understand;
and for the sake of his sweet company only, I would not stir
a step.'

' But there is a chance of a row ; if a positive riot does
not take place — of which, indeed, I see no signs — ^yet it is
unhkely this night will pass quite tranquilly. You know
Moore has resolved to have the new machinery, and he
expects two waggon-loads of frames and shears from Stilbro'
this evening. Scott, the overlooker, and a few picked men,
are gone to fetch them.'

'They will bring them in safely and quietly enough,
sir.'

' Moore says so, aiid affirms he wants nobody : some one,
however, he must have, if it were only to bear evidence in
case anything should happen. I call him very careless.
He sits in the counting-house with the shutters unclosed ;
he goes out here and there after dark, wanders right up the
hollow, down Meldhead-lane, among the plantations, just as
if he were the darling of the neighbourhood, or — being, as
he is, its detestation — bore a " charmed life" as they say in

12 SHIELEY

talebooks. He takes no warning from the fate of Pearson,
nor from that (A Armitage — shot, one in his own house and
the other on the moor.'

' But he should take warning, sir, and use precautions
too,' interposed Mr. Sweeting ; ' and I think he would if he
heard what I heard the other day.'

' What did you hear, Davy ? '

' You know Mike Hartley, sir?'

' The Antinomian weaver. Yes.'

' When Mike has been drinking for a few weeks together,
he generally winds up by a visit to Nunnely vicarage, to tell
Mr. Hall a piece of his mind about his sermons, to denounce
the horrible tendency of his doctrine of works, and warn him
that he and all his hearers are sitting in outer darkness."

' Well, that has nothing to do with Moore.'

' Besides being an Antinomian, he is a violent Jacobin
and Leveller, sir.'

' I know. When he is very drunk, his mind is always
running on regicide. Mike is not unacquainted with history,
and it is rich to hear him going over the list of tyrants of
whom, as he says, " the revenger of blood has obtained satis-
faction." The fellow exults strangely in murder done on
crowned heads, or on any head for political reasons. I have
already heard it hinted that he seems to have a queer
hankering siter Moore: is that what you allude to,
Sweeting ? '

' You use the proper term, sir. Mr. Hall thinks Mike
has no personal hatred of Moore; Mike says he even likes
to talk to him, and run after him, but he has a hankering
that Moore should be made an example of : he was extolling
him to Mr. Hall the other day as the mill-owner with the
most brains in Yorkshire, and for that reason he affirms
Moore should be chosen as a sacrifice, an oblatioii of a sweet
savour. Is Mike Hartley in his right mind, do you think,
sir ? ' inquired Sweeting, simply.

' Can't tell, Davy : he may be crazed or he may be only
crafty-^or, perhaps, a little of both.'

LEYITICAL 13

' He talks of seeing visions, sir.'

' Ay ! He is a very Ezekiel or Daniel for visions. He
came just when I was going to bed, last Friday night, to
describe one that bad been revealed to him in NunnelyPark
that very afternoon.'

' Tell it, sir — what was it ? '' urged Sweeting.

' Davy, thou hast an enormous organ of Wonder in thy
cranium ; Malone, you see, has none ; neither murders nor
visions interest him : see what a big vacant Saph he looks at
this moment.'

' Saph ! Who was Saph, sir ? '

' I thought you would not know : you may find it out ; it
is biblical. I know nothing more of him than his name and
race ; but from a boy upwards, I have always attached a
personaUty to Saph. Depend on it he was honest, heavy
and luckless; he met his end at Gob, by the hand of
Sibbechai,'

' But the vision, sir ? '

'Davy, thou shalt hear. Donne is biting his nails, and
Malone yawning ; so I will tell it but to thee. Mike is out
of work, like many otherp, unfortunately ; Mr. Grams, Sir
PhiUp Nunnely's steward, gave him a job about the priory:
according to his account, Mike was busy hedging rather late
in the afternoon, but before dark, when he heard what he
thought was a band at a distance, bugles, fifes, and the
sound of a trumpet ; it came from the forest, and he wondered
that there should be music there. He looked up : all amongst
the trees he saw moving objects, red, like poppies, or white,
like May-blossom ; the wood was full of them, they poured
out and filled the park. He then perceived they were
soldiers — thousands and tens of thousands ; but they made
no more noise than a swarm of midges on a summer even-
ing. They formed in order, he affirmed, and marched, regi-
ment after regiment, across the park : he followed them to
Nunnely Common ; the music still played soft and distant.
On the common he watched them go through a number of
evolutions, a man clothed in scarlet stood in the centre and

14 SHIELEY

directed them ; they extended, he declared, over fifty acres ;
they were in sight half an hour ; then they marched away
quite silently: the whole time he heard neither voice nor
tread — nothing but the faint music playing a solemn
march.'

' Where did they go, sir ? '

' Towards Briarfield. Mike followed them ; they seemed
passing Pieldhead, when a column of smoke, such as might
be vomited by a park of artillery, spread noiseless over the
fields, the road, the common, and rolled, he said, blue and
dim, to his very feet. As it cleared away he looked again
for the soldiers, but they were vanished ; he saw them no
more. Mike, like a wise Daniel as he is, not only rehearsed
the vision, but gave the interpretation thereof : it signifies, he
intimated, bloodshed and civil conflict.'

' Do you credit it, sir ? ' asked Sweeting.

' Do you, Davy ? But come, Malone, why are you not
off?

' I am rather surprised, sir, you did not stay with Moore
yourself : you like this kind of thing.'

' So I should have done, had I not unfortunately happened
to engage Boultby to sup with me on his way home from the
Bible Society meeting at Nunnely. I promised to send you
as my substitute ; for which, by-the-by, he did not thank
me : he would much rather have had me than you, Peter.
Should there be any real need of help, I shall join you : the
mill-bell will give warning. Meantime, go ; unless (turning
suddenly to Messrs. Sweeting and Donne) — unless Davy
Sweeting or Joseph Donne prefers going. What do you say,
gentlemen? The commission is an honourable one, not
without the seasoning of a little real peril ; for the country
is in a queer state, as you all know, and Moore and his mill,
and his machinery, are held in sufficient odium. There are
chivalric sentiments, there is high-beating courage under
those waistcoats of yours, I doubt not. Perhaps I am too
partial to my favourite, Peter; little David shall be the
champion, or spotless Joseph. Malone, you are but a great

LEVITICAL IS

floundering Saul after all, good only to lend your armour :
out with your fire-arms fetch your shillelagh ; it is there — in
the corner.'

With a significant grin, Malone produced his pistols,
offering one to each of his brethren. They were not readily
seized on : with graceful modesty, each gentleman retired a
step from the presented weapon.

' I never touch them : I never did touch anything of the
kind,' said Mr. Donne.

' I am almost a stranger to Mr. Moore,' murmured
Sweeting.

' If you never touched a pistol, try the feel of it now, great
satrap of Egypt. As to the little minstrel, he probably prefers
encountering the PhiUstines with no other weapon than his
flute. Get their hats, Peter ; they'll both of 'em go.'

' No, sir ; no, Mr. Helstone ; my mother wouldn't like it,'
pleaded Sweeting.

' And I make it a rule never to get mixed up in affairs of
the kind,' observed Donne.

Helstone smiled sardonically ; Malone laughed a horse-
laugh. He then replaced his arms, took his hat and cudgel,
and saying that ' he never felt more in tune for a shindy in
his hfe, and that he wished a score of greasy cloth-dressers
might beat up Moore's quarters that night,' he made his exit ;
clearing the stairs at a stride or two, and making the house
shake with the bang of the front-door behind him.

CHAPTBE II

THE WAGGONS

The evening was pitch-dark : star and moon were quenched
in grey rain-clouds — gray they would have been by day^ by
night they looked sable. Malone was not a man given to
close observation of Nature ; her changes passed, for the
most part, unnoticed by him : he could walk miles on the
most varying April day, and never see the beautiful dallying
of earth and heaven ; never mark when a sunbeam kissed
the hill-tops, making them smile clear in green light, or
when a shower wept over them, hiding their crests with the
low-hanging, dishevelled tresses of a cloud. He did not,
therefore, care to contrast the sky as it now appeared — a
muffled, streaming vault, all black, save where, towards the
east, the furnaces of Stilbro' ironworks threw a tremulous
lurid shimmer on the horizon — with the same sky on an
unclouded frosty night. He did not trouble himself to ask
where the constellations and the planets were gone, or to
regret the ' black-blue ' serenity of the air-ocean which those
white islets stud ; and which another ocean, of heavier and
denser element, now rolled below and concealed. He just
doggedly pursued his way, leaning a little forward as he walked,
and wearing his hat on the back of his head, as his Irish
manner was. ' Tramp, tramp,' he went along the causeway,
where the road boasted the privilege of such an accommo-
dation ; ' splash, splash,' through the mire-filled cart-ruts,
where the flags were exchanged for soft mud. He looked
but for certain land-marks : the spire of Briarfield church ;
further on, the lights of ' Eedhouse.' This was an inn ; and

THE WAGGONS 17

when he reached it, the glow of a fire through a half-curtained
window, a vision of glasses on a round table, and of revellers
on an oaken settle, had nearly drawn aside the curate from
his course. He thought longingly of a tumbler of whisky-
and-water : in a strange place, he would instantly have
realized the dream ; but the company assembled in that
kitchen were Mr. Helstone's own parishioners; they all
knew him. He sighed, and passed on.

The high-road was now to be quitted, as the remaining
distance to Hollow's-mill might be considerably reduced by a
short cut across fields. These fields were level and monoto-
nous ; Malone took a direct course through them, jumping
hedge and wall. He passed but one building here, and that
seemed large and hall-like, though irregular; you could see
a high gable, then a long front, then a low gable, then a thick,
lofty stack of chimneys : there were some trees behind it.
It was dark ; not a candle shone from any window ; it was
absolutely still : the rain running from the eaves, and the
rather wild, but very low whistle of the wind round the
chimneys and through the boughs, were the sole sounds in
its neighbourhood.

This building passed, the fields, hitherto flat, declined in
a rapid descent : evidently a vale lay below, through which
you could hear the water run. One light glimmered in the
depth : for that beacon Malone steered.

He came to a little white house — you could see it was
white even through this depse darkness — and knocked at the
door. A frpsh-faced servant opened it ; by the candle she
held was revealed a narrow passage, terminating in a narrow
stair. Two doors covered vyith crimson baize, a strip of
crimson carpet down the steps, contrasted with light-coloured
walls and white floor, made the little interior look clear and
fresh.

' Mr. Moore is at home, I suppose ? '

' Yes, sir, but he is not in.'

' Not in ! Where is he then ? '

18 SHIELEY

' At the mill — in the counting-house.'

Here one of the crimson doors opened.

' Are the waggons come, Sarah ? ' asked a female voice,
and a female head at the same time was apparent. It might
not be the head of a goddess — indeed a screw of curl-paper
on each side the temples quite forbade that supposition — but
neither was it the head of a Gorgon ; yet Malone seemed to
take it in the latter light. Big as he was, he shrank bashfully
back into the rain at the view thereof ; and saying, ' I'll go
to him,' hurried in seeming trepidation down a short lane,
across an obscure yard, towards a huge black mill.

The work-hours were over ; the ' hands ' were gone ; the
machinery was at rest ; the mill shut up. Malone walked
round it ; somewhere in its great sooty flank he found another
chink of light ; he knocked at another door, using for the
purpose the thick end of his shillelagh, with which he beat
a rousing tattoo. A key turned ; the door unclosed.

' Is it Joe Scott ? What news of the waggons, Joe ? '

' No — it's myself. Mr. Helstone would send me.'

' Oh ! Mr. Malone.' The voice in uttering this name had
the slightest possible cadence of disappointment. After a
moment's pause, it continued, politely, but a little formally :
— ' I beg you wiU come in, Mr. Malone. I regret extremely
Mr. Helstone should have thought it necessary to trouble you
so far ; there was no necessity : — I told him so ; — and on
such a night — but walk forwards.'

Through a dark apartment, of aspect undistinguishable,
Malone followed the speaker into a light and bright room
within : very light and bright indeed it seemed to eyes which,
for the last hour, had been striving to penetrate the double
darkness of night and fog ; but except for its excellent fire,
and for a lamp of elegant design and vivid lustre burning on
a table, it was a very plain place. The boarded floor was
carpetless ; the three or four stiff-backed green-painted
chairs seemed once to have furnished the kitchen of some
farm-house; a desk of strong, solid formation, the table
^foresaid, and som^ framed sheets on the stpne-colpure^

THE WAGGONS 19

walls, bearing plans for building, for gardening, designs of
machinery, &c., completed the furniture of the place.

Plain as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malone ; who, when
he had removed and hung up his wet surtout and hat, drew
one of the rheumatic-looking chairs to the hearth, and set
his knees almost within the bars of the red grate.

' Comfortable quarters you have here, Mr. Moore ; and all
snug to yourself.'

'Yes; but my sister would be glad to see you, if you
would prefer stepping into the house.'

' Oh, no ! the ladies are best alone. I never was a lady's
man. You don't mistake me for my friend Sweeting, do you,
Mr. Moore ? '

' Sweeting ! — which of them is that ? The gentleman in
the chocolate overcoat, or the little gentleman ? '

'The little one; — he of Nunnely; the cavalier of the
Misses Sykes, with the whole six of whom he is in love — ha,
ha!"

' Better be generally in love with all than specially with
one, I should think in that quarter.'

' But he is specially in love with one besides, for when I
and Donne urged him to make a choice amongst the fair bevy,
he named — which do you think ? '

With a queer, quiet smile, Mr. Moore replied, ' Dora, of
course, or Harriet.'

' Ha ! ha ! you've made an excellent guess ; but what
made you hit on those two ? '

' Because they are the tallest, the handsomest ; and Dora,
at least, is the stoutest ; and as your friend Mr. Sweeting is
but a little, slight figure, I concluded that, according to a
frequent rule in such cases, he preferred his contrast.'

' You are right ; Dora it is : but he has no chance, has
he, Moore ? '

' What has Mr. Sweeting, besides his curacy ? '

This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly; he
laughed for full three minutes before he answered it.

'WJiat h^iS Sweeting? Why, David has his harp, or

20 SHIBLEY

flute, which comes to the same thing. He has a sort of
pinchbeck watch ; ditto, ring ; ditto, eye-glass : that's what
he has."

' How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns
only?'

' Ha 1 ha ! Excellent ! I'll ask him that next time I see
him. I'll roast him for his presumption : but no doubt he
expects old Christopher Sykes would do something handsome.
He is rich, is he not ? They live in a large house.'

' Sykes carries on an extensive concern.'

' Therefore he must be wealthy, eh ? '

'Therefore he must have plenty to do with his wealth ;
and in these times would be about as likely to think of
Rawing, money from the business to give dowries to his
daughters as I should be to dream of pulling down the
cottage there, and constructing on its ruins a house as large
as Keldhead.'

' Do you know what I heard, Moore, the other day ? '
. ', Np : perhaps that . I was about to effect some such
change. Your Briarfield gossips are capable of saying that
or sillier things.'

' That you were going to take Fieldhead on a lease — I
thought it looked a dismal place, by-the-by, to-night, as I
passed, iti — and that it was your intention to settle a Miss
Sykes there as mistress : to be married, in short, ha ! ha !
No?w, wluch is it? Dora — I am sure : you said she was the
handsomest.'

' I wonder how often it has been settled that I was to be
married since I came to Briarfield ! They have assigned me
every marriageable single woman by turns in thedistrict. Now
it was the two Misses Wynns — first the dark, then the light
one. Now the red-haired Miss Armitage, then the mature
Ann Pearson ; at present you throw on my shoulders all the
tribe of the 'Misses Sykes. On what grounds this gossip rests,
God knows. I visit nowhere^ — I seek female society about
as assiduously as you do, Mr. Malone. If ever I go to
"Whinbury, it is only to give Sykes or Pearson a call in their

THE WAGGONS 21

counting-house; where our discussions run on other topics
than matrimony, and our thoughts are occupied with other
things than courtships, establishments, dowries : the cloth we
can't sell, the hands we can't employ, the mills we can't run,
the perverse course of events generally, which we cannot
alter, fill our hearts, I take it, pretty well at present, to the
tolerably complete exclusion of such figments as love-
making, &c.'

' I go along with you completely, Moore. If there is one
notion I hate more than another, it is that of marriage : I
mean marriage in the vulgar weak sense, as a mere matter
of sentiment ; two beggarly fools agreeing to unite their
indigence by some fantastic tie of feeling — humbug I But
an advantageous connection, such as can be formed in con-
sonance with dignity of views, and permanency of solid
interests, is not so bad — eh ? '

' No,' responded Moore, in an absent manner ; the subject
seemed to have no interest for him : he did not pursue it.
After sitting for some time gazing at the fire with a pre-
occupied air, he suddenly turned his head;

' Hark ! ' said he : ' did you hear wheels ? '

Eising, he went to the window, opened it, and listened.
He soon closed it. ' It is only the sound of the wind rising,'
he remarked, ' and the rivulet a little swollen, rushiug down
the hoUow. I expected those waggons at six ; it is near nine
now.'

' Seriously, do you suppose that the putting up of this
new machinery will bring you into danger ? ' inqtiired Malone.
' Helstone seems to think it will.'

' I only wish the machines — the frames were safe here,
and lodged within the walls of this mill. Once put up, I defy
the frame-breakers : let them only pay me a visit, and take
the consequences ; my mill is my castle.'

' One despises such low scoundrels,' observed Malone, in
a profound vein of reflection. ' I almost wish a party would
call upon you to-night ; but the road seemed extremely quiet
as I came along : I saw nothing astir."

22 SHIELEY

' You came by the Eedhouse ? '

•Yes.'

' There would be nothing on that road : it is in the direc-
tion of Stilbro' the risk lies.'

' And you think there is risk ? '

' What these fellows have done to others, they may do to
me. There is only this difference : most of the manu-
facturers seem paralyzed when they are attacked. Sykes,
for instance, when his dressing-shop was set on fire and
burned to the ground, when the cloth was torn from his
tenters and left in shreds in the field, took no steps to dis-
cover or punish the miscreants : he gave up as tamely as a
rabbit under the jaws of a ferret. Now I, if I know myself,
should stand by my trade, my miU, and my machinery.'

' Helstone says these three are your gods ; that the
" Orders in Council " are with you another name for the
seven deadly sins ; that Castlereagh is your Antichrist, and
the war-party his legions.'

' Yes ; I abhor all these things because they ruin me :
they stand in my way : I cannot get on. I cannot execute
my plans because of them : I see myself baffled at every turn
by their untoward effects.'

' But you are rich and thriving, Moore ? '

' I am very rich in cloth I cannot sell : you should step
into my warehouse yonder, and observe how it is pUed to the
roof with pieces. Eoakes and Pearson are in the same con-
dition : America used to be their market, but the " Orders in
Council " have cut that off.'

Malone did not seem prepared to carry on briskly a con-
versation of this sort ; he began to knock the heels of his
boots together, and to yawn.

' And then to think,' continued Mr. Moore, who seemed
too much taken up with the current of his own thoughts to
note the symptoms of his guest's enmoi, — ' to think that
these ridiculous gossips of Whinbury and Briarfield will
keep pestering one about being married 1 As if there was
nothing to be done in life but to " pay attention," as they

THE WAGGONS 23

say, to some young lady, and then to go to church with her,
and then to start on a bridal tour, and then to run through a
round of visits, and then, I suppose, to be " having a family."
— Oh, que le diable emporte ! ' — He broke off the aspiration
into which he was launching with a certain energy, and
added, more calmly — ' I believe women talk and think only
of these things, and they naturally fancy men's minds
similarly occupied."

' Of course — of course,' assented Malone ; ' but never
mind them.' And he whistled, looked impatiently round,
and seemed to feel a great want of something. TMs time
Moore caught, and, it appeared, comprehended his demonstra-
tions.

' Mr. Malone,' said he, ' you must require refreshment
after your wet walk : I forget hospitaUty.'

' Not at all,' rejoined Malone ; but he looked as if the
right nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore
rose and opened a cupboard.

'It is my fancy,' said he, 'to have every convenience
within myself, and not to be dependent on the feminity in
the cottage yonder for every mouthful I eat or every drop I
drink. I often spend the evening and sup here alone, and
sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes I am my own
watchman ; I require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine
night to wander for an hour or two with my musket about
the hollow. Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton-chop ? '

' Try me : I've done it hundreds of times at college.'

' There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn
them quickly; you know the secret of keeping the juices
in?'

' Never fear me — you shall see. Hand a knife and fork,
please.'

The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself
to the cookery with vigour. The manufacturer placed on
the table plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two
tumblers. He then produced a small copper kettle — still
from the same well-stored recess, his cupboard — filled it with

24 SHIELEY

water "from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire
beside the hissing griSron, got lemons, sugar, and a small
china punch-bowl ; but while he was brewing the punch, a
tap at the door called him away,

' Is it you, Sarah ? '

' Yes, sir. Will you come to Supper, please, sir ? '

' No ; I shall not be in to-night : I shall sleep in the mill.
So look the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed.' He
returned.

'You have your household in proper order,' observed
Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the
embers over which he bent, he assiduously turned the
mutton-chops. 'You are not under petticoat government,
Uke poor Sweeting ; a man — whew t — how the fat spits 1 — it
has burnt my hand — destined to be ruled by women. Now
you and I, Moore — ^there's a fine brown one for you, and full
of gravy — you and I will have no gray mares in our stables
when we marry.'

' I don't know — I never think about it : if the gray mare
is handsome and tractable, why not ? '

' The chops are done : is the punch brewed? '

' There is a glassful : taste it. When Joe Scott and his
minions return they shall have a share of this, provided they
bring home the frames intact.'

Malone waxed very exultant over the supper : he laughed
aloud at trifies ; made bad jokes and applauded them him-
self ; and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His host, on
the contrary, remained quiet as before. It is time, reader,
that you should have some idea of the appearance of this
same host : I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at
table.,

He is what you would probably call, at first view, rather
a strange-looking man ; for he is thin, dark, sallow ; very
foreign of aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his
forehead : it appears that he spends but little time at his
toilette, or he would arrange it with more taste. He seems
unconscious that his features are fine, that they have a southern

THE WAGGONS 25

symmetry, clearness, regularity in their ohiselling ; nor does
a spectator become aware of this advantage till he: has .ex-
amined him well, for an anxious countenance, and a hollow,
somewhat haggard, outhne of face disturb the idea of beauty
with one of care. His eyes are large, and grave, and gray ;
their expression is intent and meditative, rather searching
than soft, rather thoughtful than genial. When hcfparts his
lips in a smile, his physiognomy is agreeable— not that it is
frank or cheerful even then, but you feel the influence of a
certain sedate charm, suggestive, whether truly or delusively,
of a considerate, perhaps a kind nature ; of feelings that may
wear well at home ; patient, forbearing, possibly faithful
feelings. He is still young — not more than thirty; his
stature is tail, his figure slender. His manner of speaking
displeases : he has an outlandish accent, which, notwith-
standing a studied carelessness of pronunciation and diction,
grates on a British, and especially on a Yorkshire ear.

Mr. Moore, indeed, was but half a Briton, and scarcely
that. He came of a foreign ancestry by the mother's side,
and was himself bom and partly reared on a foireign soil.

A hybrid in nature, it is probable he had a hybrid's feeling
on many points — patriotism for one ; it is Ukely that he was
unapt to attach himself to parties, to sects, even to climes
and customs ; it is not impossible that he had a tendency to
isolate his individual person from any community amidst
which his lot might temporarily happen to be thrown, and
that he felt it to be his best wisdom to push the interests of
Eobert G6rard Moore, to the exclusion of philanthropic con-
sideration for general interests : with which he regarded the
said Gerard Moore as in a great measure disconnected.
Trade was Mr. Moore's hereditary calling : the G6rards of
Antwerp had been merchants for two centuries back. Once
they had been wealthy merchants ; but the uncertainties, the
involvements of business had come upon them ; disastrous
speculations had loosened by degrees the foundations of
their credit ; the house had stood on a tottering base for a
dozen years ; and at last, in the shook of the Erench.Eevolu-

26 SHIELEY

tion, it had rushed down a total ruin. In its fall was
involved the English and Yorkshire firm of Moore, closely
connected vnth the Antwerp house ; and of which one of the
partners, resident in Antwerp, Eobert Moore, had married
Hortense Gerard, with the prospect of his bride inheriting
her father Constantine Gerard's share in the business. She
inherited, as we have seen, but his share in the liabihties of
the firm ; and these Uabilities, though duly set aside by a
composition with creditors, some said her son Eobert
accepted, in his turn, as a legacy ; and that he aspired one
day to discharge them, and to rebuild the fallen house of
G6rard and Moore on a scale at least equal to its former
greatness. It was even supposed that he took by-past cir-
cumstances much to heart ; and if a childhood passed at the
side of a saturnine mother, under foreboding of coming evil,
and a manhood drenched and bhghted by the pitiless descent
of the storm, could painfully impress the mind, his probably
was impressed in no golden characters.

If, however, he had a great end of restoration in view,
it was not in his power to employ great means for its attain-
ment ; he was obliged to be content with the day of small
things. When he came to Yorkshire, he — whose ancestors
had owned warehouses in this seaport, and factories in that
inland town, had possessed their town-house and their
country-seat — saw no way open to him but to rent a cloth-
mill, in an out-of-the-way nook of an out-of-the-way district ;
to take a cottage adjoining it for his residence, and to add
to his possessions, as pasture for his horse, and space for his
cloth-tenters, a few acres of the steep rugged land that lined
the hollow through which his mill-stream brawled. All this
he held at a somewhat high rent (for these war times were
hard, and everything was dear), of the trustees of the Field-
head estate, then the property of a minor.

At the time this history commences, Eobert Moore had
hved but two years in the district ; during which period he
had at least proved himself possessed of the quahty of
activity. The dingy cottage was converted into a neat

THE WAGGONS 27

tasteful residence. Of part of the rough land he had made
garden-ground, which he cultivated with singular, even with
Flemish, exactness and care. As to the mill, which was an
old structure, and fitted up with old machinery, now become
inefficient and out of date, he had from the first evinced the
strongest contempt for all its arrangements and appoint-
ments : his aim had been to effect a radical reform, which
he had executed as fast as his very limited capital would
allow ; and the narrowness of that capital, and consequent
check on his progress, was a restraint which galled his
spirit sorely. Moore ever wanted to push on : ' Forward '
was the device stamped upon his soul ; but poverty curbed
him : sometimes (figuratively) he foamed at the mouth when
the reins were drawn very tight.

In this state of feeling, it is not to be expected that he
would deliberate much as to whether his advance was or
was not prejudicial to others. Not being a native, nor for
any length of time a resident of the neighbourhood, he
did not sufficiently care when the new inventions threw the
old work-people out of employ: he never asked himself
where those to whom he no longer paid weekly wages found
daily bread ; and in this negligence he only resembled
thousands besides, on whom the starving poor of Yorkshire
seemed to have a closer claim.

The period of which I write was an overshadowed one in
British history, and especially in the history of the northern
provinces. War was then at its height. Europe was all in-
volved therein. England, if not weary, was worn with long
resistance : yes, and half her people were weary too, and cried
out for peace on any terms. National honour was become
a mere empty name, of no value in the eyes of many, because
their sight was dim with famine ; and for a morsel of meat
they would have sold their birthright.

The ' Orders in Council,' provoked by Napoleon's Milan
and Berlin decrees, and forbidding neutral powers to trade
with Prance, had, by offending America, cut off the princi-
pal market of the Ypyksliire woollen trade, and brought it

28 SHIELEY ^

consequently to the verge of ruin. Minor foreign markets were
glutted, and would receive no more : the Brazils, Portugal^
Sicily, were all overstocked by nearly two years' consump-
tion. At this crisis, certain inventions in machinery were
introduced into the staple manufactures of the north, which,
greatly reducing the number of hands necessary to be
employed, threw thousands out of work, and left them
without legitimate means of sustaining life. A bad harvest
supervened. Distress reached its climax. Endurance,
overgoaded, stretched the hand of fraternity to sedition.
The throes of a sort of moral earthquake were felt heaving
under the hills of the northern counties. But, as is usual
in such cases, nobody took much notice. When a food-riot
broke out in a manufacturing town, when a gig-miU was
burnt to the ground,: or a manufacturer's house was attacked,
the furniture thrown into the streets, and the family forced
to flee for their hves, some local measures were or were not
taken by the local magistracy ; a ringleader was detected, or
more frequently suffered to elude detection ; newspaper
paragraphs were written on the subject, and there the thing
stopped. As to the sufferers, whose sole inheritance was
labour, and who had lost that inheritance — who could not
get work, and consequently could not get wages, and conse-
quently could not get bread — they were left to suffer on ; per-
haps inevitably left : it would not do to stop the progress of
invention, to damage science by discouraging its improvements;
the war could not be terminated, efi&cient relief could not be
raised : there was no help then ; so the unemployed underwent
their destiny — ate the bread and drank the waters of affliction.
Misery generates hate : these sufferers hated the machines
which they believed took their bread from them : they hated
the buildings which contained those machines ; they hated
the manufacturers who owned those buildings. In the
parish of Briarfield, with which we have at present to do,
Hollow's-mill was the place held most abominable ; Gdrard
Moore, in his double character of semi-foreigner and
thorough-going progressist, the man most abominated. And

THE WAGGONS 29

it perhaps rather agreed with Moore's temperament than
otherwise to be generally hated ; especially when he believed
the thing for which he was hated a right and an expedient
thing ; and it was with a sense of warlike excitement he, on
this night, sat in his counting-house waiting the arrival of
his frame-laden waggons. Malone's coming and company
were, it may be, most unwelcome to him : he would have
preferred sitting alone ; for he Uked a silent, sombre, unsafe
solitude : his watchman's musket Would have been company
enough for him ; the full-flowing beck in the den would
have delivered continuously the discourse most genial to
his ear.

With the queerest look in the world, had the manu-
facturer for some ten minutes been watching the Irish
cmrate, as the latter made free with the punch ; when
suddenly that steady gray eye changed, as if another vision
came between it and Malone. Moore raised his hand.

' Chut ! ' he said, in his Erench fashion, as Malone made
a noise with his glass. He listened a moment, then rose,
put his hat on, and went out at the counting-house door.

The night was still, dark, and stagnant ; the water yet
rushed on full and fast : its flow almost seemed ' a flood in
the utter silence. Moore's ear, however, caught another
sound — very distant, but yet dissimilar — broken and rugged :
in short, a sound of heavy wheels crunching a stony road.
He returned to the counting-house and lit a lantern, with
which he walked down the mill-yard, and proceeded to open
the gates. The big waggons were coming on ; the dray-
horses' huge hoofs were heard splashing in the mud and
water. Moore hailed them.

' Hey, Joe Scott ! Is all right ? '

Probably Joe Scott was yet at too great a distance to hear
the inquiry ; he did not answer it.

'Is all right, I say?' again asked Moore when the
elephant-like leader's nose almost touched his.

Some one jumped out from the foremost waggon into the

30 SaiRLEY

road ; a voice cried aloud, ' Ay, ay, divil, all's raight ! We've
smashed 'em.'

And there was a run. The waggons stood still: they
were now deserted.

' Joe Scott 1 ' No Joe Scott answered. ' Murgatroyd !
Pighills ! Sykes ! ' No reply. Mr. Moore lifted his lantern,
and looked into the vehicles; there was neither man nor
machinery : they were empty and abandoned.

Now Mr. Moore loved his machinery : he had risked the
last of his capital on the purchase of these frames and shears
which to-night had been expected ; speculations most impor-
tant to his interests depended on the results to be wrought
by them : where were they ?

The words ' We've smashed 'em ! ' rang in his ears. How
did the catastrophe affect him ? By the light of the lantern
he held, were his features visible, relaxing to a singular
smile : the smile the man of determined spirit wears when he
reaches a juncture in his life where this determined spirit is
to feel a demand on its strength : when the strain is to be
made, and the faculty must bear or break. Yet he remained
silent, and even motionless ; for at the instant he neither
knew what to say nor what to do. He placed the lantern on
the ground, and stood with his arms folded, gazing down and
reflecting.

An impatient trampling of one of the horses made him
presently look up ; his eye in the moment caught the gleam
of something white attached to a part of the harness.
Examined by the light of the lantern, this proved to be a
folded paper — a billet. It bore no address without ; within
was the superscription : — ' To the Divil of HoUow's-miln.'

We will not copy the rest of the orthography, which was
very peculiar, but translate it into legible English. It ran
thus : ' Your hellish machinery is shivered to smash on
Stilbro' Moor, and your men are lying bound hand and foot
in a ditch by the roadside. Take this as a warning from men
that are starving, and have starving wives and children to go
home to when they have done this deed. If you get new

THE WAGGONS 31

machines, or if you otherwiae go on as you have done, you
shall hear from us again. Beware ! '

' Hear from you again ? Yes ; I'll hear from you again,
and you shall hear from me. I'll speak to you directly : on
Stilbro' Moor you shall hear from me in a moment.'

Having led the waggons within the gates, he hastened
towards the cottage. Opening the door, he spoke a few
words quickly but quietly to two females who ran to meet
him in the passage. He calmed the seeming alarm of one
by a brief palliative account of what had taken place ; to
the other he said, ' Go into the mill, Sarah — there is the key
— and ring the mill-bell as loud as you can : afterwards you
wiU get another lantern and help me to light up the front.'

EetumLng to his horses, he unharnessed, fed, and stabled
them with equal speed and care, pausing occasionally, while
so occupied, as if to listen for the miU-bell. It clanged out
presently, with irregular but loud and alarming din : the
hurried agitated peal seemed more urgent than if the sum-
mons had been steadily given by a practised hand. On that
still night, at that unusual hour, it was heard a long way
round : the guests in the kitchen of the Eedhouse were
startled by the clangour ; and, declaring that ' there must be
summat more nor common to do at Hollow's-miln,' they
called for lanterns, and hurried to the spot in a body. And
scarcely had they thronged into the yard with their gleaming
hghts, when the tramp of horses was heard, and a little man
in a shovel hat, sitting erect on the back of a shaggy pony,
' rode Hghtly in,' followed by an aide-de-camp mounted on a
larger steed.

Mr. Moore, meantime, after stabling his dray-horses, had
saddled his hackney ; and with the aid of Sarah, the servant,
lit up his mill ; whose wide and long front now glared one
great illumination, throwing a sufficient light on the yard to
obviate all fear of confusion arising from obscurity. Already
a deep hum of voices became audible. Mr. Malone had at
length issued from the counting-house, previously taking the
precaution to dip his head and face in the stone water- jar ;

32 SHIRLEY ;

and this precaution, together with the sudden alarm, had
nearly restored to him the possession of those senses whicb
the punch had partially scattered. He stood with his hat on
the back of his head, and his shillelagh grasped in his dexter
fist, answering much at random the questions of the newly-
arrived party from the Eedhouse. Mr. Moore now appeared,
and was immediately confronted by the shovel hat and the
shaggy pony.

' Well, Moore, what is your business with us ? I thought
you would want us to-night : me and the hetman here
-(patting his pony's neck), and Tom and his charger. When
I heard your mill-bell, I could sit still no longer, so I left
Boultby to finish his supper alone : but where is the enemy ?
I do not see a mask or a smutted face present ; and there
is not a pane of glass broken in your windows. Have you
had an attack, or do you expect one ? '

' Oh, not at all ! I have neither had one nor expect one,'
answered Moore, coolly. ' I only ordered the bell to be
rung because I want two or three neighbours to stay here
in the Hollow while I and a couple or so more go over to
Stilbro' Moor.'

'To Stilbro' Moor! What to do? To meet the wag-
gons ? '

' The waggons are come home an hour ago.'

' Then all's right. What more would you have ? '

' They came home empty ; and Joe Scott and Company are
left on the moor, and so are the frames. Bead that scrawl.'

Mr. Helstone received and perused the document of
which the contents have before been given.

' Hum I They've only served you as they serve others.
But, however, the poor fellows in the ditch will be expecting
help vyith some impatience : this is a wet night for such a
berth. I and Tom will go with you; Malone may stay
behind and take care of the mill : what is the matter with
him ? His eyes seem starting out of his head.'

' He has been eating a mutton-chop.'

' Indeed I Peter Augustus, be on your guard. Eat no

THE WAGGONS 33

more mutton-chops to-night. You are left here in command
of these premises : an honourable post ! '

' Is anybody to stay with me ? '

' As many of the present assemblage as choose. My lads,
how many of you will remain here, and how many will go
a little way with me and Mr. Moore on the Stilbro'-road, to
meet some men who have been waylaid and assaulted by
frame-breakers?'

The small number of three volunteered to go ; the rest
preferred staying behind. As Mr. Moore mounted his horse,
the Eector asked him in a low voice whether he had locked
up the mutton-chops, so that Peter Augustus could not get
at them ? The manufacturer nodded an affirmative, and the
rescue-party sot out.

CHAPTEB III

MB. YOBKE

CheeefuIiNESS, it would appear, is a matter which depends
fully as much on the state of things within, as on the state
of things without and around us. I make this trite remark,
because I happen to know that Messrs. Helstone and Moore
trotted forth from the mill-yard gates, at the head of their
very small company, in the best possible spirits. When a
ray from a lantern (the three pedestrians of the party carried
each one) fell on Mr. Moore's face, you could see an unusual,
because a Uvely, spark dancing in his eyes, and a new-found
vivacity mantling on his dark physiognomy ; and when the
Eector's visage was illuminated, his hard features were
revealed all agrin and ashine with glee. Yet a drizzUng
night, a somewhat perilous expedition, you would think were
not circumstances calculated to enliven those exposed to the
wet and engaged in the adventure. If any member or
members of the crew who had been at work on Stilbro' Moor
had caught a view of this party, they would have had great
pleasure in shooting either of the leaders from behind a wall :
and the leaders knew this ; and, the fact is, being both men
of steely nerves and steady-beating hearts, were elate with
the knowledge.

I am aware, reader, and you need not remind me, that it
is a dreadful thing for a parson to be warlike : I am aware
that he should be a man of peace. I have some faint outline
of an idea of what a clergyman's mission is amongst man-
kind, and I remember distinctly whose servant he is ; whose
message he delivers, whose example he should follow ; yet.

ME. YOEKE 36

with all this, if you are a parson-hater, you need not expect
me to go along with you every step of your dismal, down-
ward-tending unchristian road ; you need not expect me to
join in your deep anathemas, at once so narrow and so sweep-
ing— in your poisonous rancour, so intense and so absurd,
against ' the cloth ; ' to hft up my eyes and hands with a
Supplehough, or to inflate my lungs with a Barraclough, in
horror and denunciation of the diabolical Eeotor of Briarfield.

He was not diabolical at all. The evil simply was — he
had missed his vocation : he should have been a soldier,
and circumstances had made him a priest. For the rest, he
was a conscientious, hard-headed, hard-handed, brave, stern,
implacable, faithful little man : a man almost without sym-
pathy, ungentle, prejudiced, and rigid : but a man true to
principle — honourable, sagacious, and sincere. It seems to
me, reader, that you cannot always cut out men to fit their
profession, and that you ought not to curse them because
that profession sometimes hangs on them ungracefully : nor
will I curse Helstone, clerical Cossack as he was. Yet he
was cursed, and by many of his own parishioners, as by
others he was adored : which is the frequent fate of men
who show partiality in friendship and bitterness in enmity ;
who are equally attached to principles and adherent to
prejudices.

Helstone and Moore, being both in excellent spirits, and
united for the present in one cause, you would expect that,
as they rode side by side, they would converse amicably.
Oh, no ! These two men, of hard bilious natures both,
rarely came into contact but they chafed each other's moods.
Their frequent bone of contention was the war. Helstone
was a high Tory (there were Tories in those days), and
Moore was a bitter Whig — a Whig, at least, as far as oppo-
sition to the war-party was concerned : that being the question
which affected his own interest ; and only on that question
did he profess any British poUtics at all. He liked to in-
furiate Helstone by declaring his belief in the invincibihty
of Bonaparte; by taunting England and Europe with the

36 SHIELBY

impotence of their efforts to withstand him ; and by coolly
advancing the opinion that it was as well to yield to him
soon as late, since he must in the end crush every antagonist,
and reign supreme.

Helstone could not bear these sentiments : it was only
on the consideration of Moore being a sort of outcast and
alien, and having but half measure of British blood to temper
the foreign gall which corroded his veins, that he brought
himself to listen to them without indulging the wish he felt
to cane the speaker. Another thing, too, somewhat allayed
his disgust ; namely, a fellow-feeling for the dogged tone
with which these opinions were asserted, and a respect for
the consistency of Moore's crabbed contumacy.

As the party turned into the Stilbro'-road, they met what
little vrind there was ; the rain dashed in their faces. Moore
had been fretting his companion previously, and now, braced
up by the raw breeze, and perhaps irritated by the sharp
drizzle, he began to goad him.

'Does your Peninsular news please you still?' he

' What do you mean ? ' was the surly demand of the
Eector.

' I mean have you still faith in that Baal of a Lord
Wellington ? '

' And what do you mean now ? '

' Do you still believe that this wooden-faced and pebble-
hearted idol of England has power to call fire down from
heaven to consume the French holocaust you want to offer
up?'

'I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte's marshals
into the sea the day it pleases him to lift his arm.'

' But, my dear sir, you can't be serious in what you say.
Bonaparte's marshals are great men, who act under the
guidance of an omnipotent master-spirit; your Wellington
is the most humdrum of common-place martinets, whose
slow mechanical movements are further cramped by an
ignorant home-government.'

ME. YOEKE 37

' Wellington is the soul of England. Wellington is the
right champion of a good cause ; the fit representative of a
powerful, a resolute, a sensible, and an honest nation.'

'Your good cause, as far as I understand it, is simply
the restoration of that filthy, feeble Ferdinand, to a throne
which he disgraced ; your fit representative of an honest
people is a dull-witted drover, acting for a duUer-witted
farmer ; and against these are arrayed victorious supremacy
and invincible genius.'

' Against legitimacy is arrayed usurpation ; againsn
modest, single-minded, righteous, and brave resistance to
encroachment, is arrayed boastful, double-tongued, selfish,
and treacherous ambition to possess. God defend the right ! '

' God often defends the powerful.'

' What ! I suppose the handful of Israelites standing
dry-shod on the Asiatic side of the Bed Sea, was more
powerful than the host of the Egyptians drawn up on the
African side? Were they more numerous? Were they
better appointed? Were they more mighty, in a word — eh?
Don't speak, or you'll tell a lie, Moore ; you know you will.
They were a poor over-wrought band of bondsmen. Tyrants
had oppressed them through four hundred years ; a feeble
mixture of women and children diluted their thin ranks ;
their masters, who roared to follow them ' through the
divided flood, were a set of pampered Ethiops, about as
strong and brutal as the lions of Libya. They were armed,
horsed, and charioted, the poor Hebrew wanderers were
afoot; few of them, it is likely, had better weapons than
their shepherds' crooks, or their masons' building-tools ;
their meek and mighty leader himself had only his rod.
But bethink you, Eobert Moore, right was with them ; the
God of battles was on their side. Crime and the lost arch-
angel generalled the ranks of Pharaoh, and which triumphed ?
We know that well : " The Lord saved Israel that day out
of the hand of the Egyptians, and Israel saw the Egyptians
dead upon the sea-shore ; " yea, " the depths covered them,
they sank to the bottom as a stone," The right hand of the

38 SHIELEY

Lord became glorious in power ; the right hand of the Lord
dashed in pieces the enemy ! '

' You are all right ; only you forget the true parallel :
France is Israel, and Napoleon is Moses. Europe, with her
old over-gorged empires and rotten dynasties, is corrupt
Egypt ; gallant France is the Twelve Tribes, and her fresh
and vigorous Usurper the Shepherd of Horeb."

' I scorn to answer you.'

Moore accordingly answered himself ; at least he sub-
joined to what he had just said an additional observation in
a lower voice.

' Oh, in Italy he was as great as any Moses ! He was
the right thing there ; fit to head and organise measures for
the regeneration of nations. It puzzles me to this day how
the conqueror of Lodi should have condescended to become
an emperor — a vulgar, a stupid humbug ; and still more
how a people, who had once called themselves republicans,
should have sunk again to the grade of mere slaves. I
despise France I If England had gone as far on the march
of civilisation as France did, she would hardly have retreated
so shamelessly.'

' You don't mean to say that besotted imperial France
is any worse than bloody republican France?' demanded
Helstone fiercely.

' I mean to say nothing : but I can think what I please,
you know, Mr. Helstone, both about France and England ;
and about revolutions, and regicides, and restorations in
general ; and about the divine right of kings, which you often
stickle for in your sermons, and the duty of non-resistance,
and the sanity of war, and '

Mr. Moore's sentence was here cut short by the rapid
rolling up of a gig, and its sudden stoppage in the middle
of the road ; both he and the Rector had been too much
occupied with their discourse to notice its approach till it
was close upon them.

' Nab, maister, did th' waggons hit home ? ' demanded a,
voice fiom the vehicle.

ME. tOBKE 39

* Can that be Joe Scott ? '

' Ay, ay ! ' returned another voice ; for the gig contained
two persons, as was seen by the glimmer of its lamp : the
men with the lanterns had now fallen into the rear, or
rather, the equestrians of the rescue-party had outridden the
pedestrians. ' Ay, Mr. Moore, it's Joe Scott. I'm bringing
him back to you in a bonny pickle. I fand him on the top
of the moor yonder, him and three others. What will you
give me for restoring him to you ? '

'Why, my thanks, I believe; for I could better have
afforded to lose a better man. That is you, I suppose, Mr.
Yorke, by your voice ? '

'Ay, lad, it's me. I was coming home from Stilbro'
market, and just as I got to the middle of the moor,
and was whipping on as swift as the wind (for these, they
say, are not safe times, thanks to a bad government I) I
heard a groan. I pulled up: some would have whipt on
faster ; but I've naught to fear, that I know of. I don't
believe there's a lad in these parts would harm me : at least
I'd give them as good as I got if they offered to do it. I
said, " Is there aught wrong anywhere ? " — " 'Deed is there,"
somebody says, speaking out of the ground, like. " What's
io do ? be sharp, and tell me," I ordered. — " Nobbut four
on us figging in a ditch," says Joe, as quiet as could be. I
tell'd 'em, more shame to 'em, and bid them get up and
move on, or I'd lend them a lick of the gig-whip ; for my
notion was, they were all fresh. — " We'd ha' done that an
hour sin' ; but we're teed wi' a bit o' band," says Joe. So in a
while I got down and loosed 'em wi' my penknife : and Scott
would ride wi' me, to tell me all how it happened ; and t'
others are coming on as fast as their feet will bring them.'

' Well, I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Yorke.'

' Are you, my lad ? you know you're not. However,
here are the rest approaching. And here, by the Lord ! is
another set with Ughts in their pitchers, like the army of
Gideon ; and as we've th' parson wi' us — good evening, Mr.
Helstone — we'se do.'

40 SHIELEY

Mr. Helstone returned the salutation of the individual in
the gig very stiffly indeed. That individual proceeded: —
' We're eleven strong men, and there's both horses and
chariots amang us. If we could only fall in wi' some of
these starved ragamuffins of frame-breakers, we could vrin
a grand victory ; we could iv'ry one be a Wellington — that
would please ye, Mr. Helstone ; and sioh paragraphs as we
could contrive for t' papers ! Briarfield suld be famous :
but we'se hev a column and a half i' th' Stilbro' Gov/rier
ower this job, as it is, I daresay : I'se expect no less.'

' And I'll promise you no less, Mr. Yorke, for I'll write
the article myself,' returned the Eector.

' To be sure ! sartainly I And mind ye recommend weel
that them 'at brake t' bits o' frames, and teed Joe Scott's
legs wi' band, suld be hung without benefit o' clergy. It's a
hanging matter, or suld be ; no doubt o' that.'

' If I judged them, I'd give them short shrift ! ' cried
Moore ; ' but I mean to let them quite alone this bout,* to
give them rope enough, certain that in the end they will
hang themselves.'

' Let them alone^ will ye, Moore ? Do you promise
that?'

' Promise ? No. All I mean to say is, I shall give my-
self no particular trouble to catch them ; but if one falls in
my way '

' You'll snap him up, of course : only you would rather
they would do something worse than merely stop a waggon
before you reckon with them. Well, we'll say no more on
the subject at present. Here we are at my door, gentlemen,
and I hope you and the men will step in : you will none of
you be the worse of a little refreshment.'

Moore and Helstone opposed this proposition as un-
necessary ; it was, however, pressed on them so courteously,
and the night, besides, was so inclement, and the gleam from
the muslin-curtained windows of the house before which
they had halted, looked so inviting, that at length they
yielded. Mr. Yorke, after having alighted from his gig

ME. yOEKE 41

which he left in charge of a man who issued from an out-
building on his arrival, led the way in.

It will have been remarked that Mr. Yorke varied a little
in his phraseology ; now he spoke broad Yorkshire, and
anon he expressed himself in very pure EngUsh. His
manner seemed Uable to equal alternations; he could be
poUte and affable, and he could be blunt and rough. His
station then you could not easily determine by his speech or
demeanour ; perhaps the appearance of his residence may
decide it.

The men he recommended to take the kitchen way,
saying that he would ' see them served wi' summat to taste
presently.' The gentlemen were ushered in at the front
entrance. They found themselves in a matted hall, lined
almost to the ceiUng with pictures ; through this they were
conducted to a large parlour, with a magnificent fire in the
grate ; the most cheerful of rooms it appeared as a whole,
and when you came to examine details, the enlivening effect
was not diminished. There was no splendour, but there was
taste everywhere, — unusual taste, — the taste, you would have
said, of a travelled man, a scholar, and a gentleman. A
series of Italian views decked the walls ; each of these was
a specimen of true art ; a connoisseur had selected them :
they were genuine and valuable. Even by candlelight, the
bright clear skies, the soft distances, with blue air quivering
between the eye and the hills, the fresh tints, and well
massed lights and shadows, charmed the view. The subjects
were all pastoral, the scenes were all sunny. There was a
guitar and some music on a sofa; there were cameos,
beautiful miniatures ; a set of Grecian-looking vases on the
mantelpiece ; there were books well arranged in two elegant
bookcases.

Mr. Yorke bade his guests be seated : he then rang for
wine; to the servant who brought it he gave hospitable
orders for the refreshment of the men in the kitchen. The
Eector remained standing ; he seemed not to Uke his
quarters ; he would not touch the wine his host offered him.

42 SHIBLEY

' E'en as you will,' remarked Mr. Yorke. ' I reckon
you're thinking of Eastern customs, Mr. Helstone, and you'll
not eat nor drink under my roof, feared we suld be forced to
be friends ; but I'm not so particular or superstitious. You
might sup the contents of that decanter, and you might give
me a bottle of the best in your own cellar, and I'd hold
myself free to oppose you at every turn stiU, — in every
vestry-meeting and justice-meeting where we encountered
one another.'

' It is just what I should expect of you, Mr. Yorke.'

' Does it agree wi' ye now, Mr. Helstone, to be riding
out after rioters, of a wet night, at your age ? '

' It always agrees with me to be doing my duty ; and in
this case my duty is a thorough pleasure. To hunt down
vermin is a noble occupation, — fit for an archbishop.'

' Kt for ye, at ony rate : but where's t' curate ? He's
happen gone to visit some poor body in a sick gird, or he's
happen hunting down vermin in another direction.'

' He is doing garrison-duty at HoUow's-milL'

' You left him a sup o' wine, I hope. Bob ' (turning to
Mr. Moore), ' to keep his courage up ? '

He did not pause for an answer, but continued, quickly
— still addressing Moore, who had thrown himself into an
old-fashioned chair by the fireside, — ' Move it, Robert ! Get
up, my lad ! That place is mine. Take the sofa, or three
other chairs, if you will, but not this ; it belangs to me, and
nob'dy else.'

' Why are you so particular to that chair, Mr. Yorke ? '
asked Moore, lazily vacating the place, in obedience to
orders.

' My father war afore me, and that's all t* answer I sail
gie thee ; and it's as good a reason as Mr. Helstone can give
for the main feck o' his notions.'

' Moore, are you ready to go ? ' inquired the Rector.

' Nay ; Robert's not ready ; or rather I'm not ready to
part wi' him : he's an ill lad, and wants correcting.'

' Why. sir ? What hfive J dwe ? '

ME. YOEKE 43

' Made thyself enemies on every hand.'

' What do I care for that ? What difference does it
make to me whether your Yorkshire louts hate me or like
me?'

' Ay, there it is. The lad is a mak' of an alien amang
us : his father would never have talked i' that way. Go
back to Antwerp, where you were born and bred, mauvaise
t6te ! ■

' Mauvaise t6te vous-m6me ; je ne faia que mon devoir :
quant k vos lourdauds de paysans, je m'en moque ! '

' En revanche, mon gar^on, nos lourdauds de paysans se
moqueront de toi ; sois en certain,' replied Yorke, speaking
with nearly as pure a French accent as G6rard Moore.

' G'est bon ! c'est bon I Et puisque cela m'est dgal, que
mes amis ne s'en inquietent pas.'

' Tes amis ! Ou sont-ils, tes amis ? '

' Je fais 6cho, oi sont-ils ? et je suis fort aise que I'^cho
seul y repond. Au diable les amis I Je me souviens encore
du moment ou mon pfere et mes oncles G6rard appellerent
autour d'eux leurs amis, et Dieu salt si les amis se sont
empresses d'accourir h leur secours! Tenez, M. Yorke, ce
mot, ami, m'irrite trop ; ne m'en parlez plus.'

' Comme tu voudras.'

And here Mr. Yorke held his peace ; and while he sits
leaning back in his three-cornered, carved oak chair, I will
snatch my opportunity to sketch the portrait of this French-
speaking Yorkshire gentleman.

CHAPTEE IV

MB. YOEKB (continued)

A YoEKSHiEE gentleman he was, par excellence, in every
point. About fifty-five years old, but looking at first sight
still older, for his hair was silver white. His forehead was
broad, not high ; his face fresh and hale ; the harshness of
the north was seen in his features, as it was heard in his
voice ; every trait was thoroughly English, not a Norman
line anywhere ; it was an inelegant, unclassic, unaristo-
cratic mould of visagel Kne people would perhaps have
called it vulgar ; sensible people would have termed it
characteristic ; sTirewd people' would have delighted in it for
the pith; sagacity, intelHgence — the rude, yet real originality
marked in every lineament, latent in every furrow. But it
was an indocile, a scornful, and a sarcastic face ; the face
of a man difl&cult to lead, and impossible to drive. His
gtature was rather tall, and he was well-made and wiry, and
had a stately integrity of port ; there was not a suspicion of
the clown about him anywhere^

I did not find it easy to sketch Mr. Yorke's person, but
it is more difficult to indicate his mind. If you expect to be
treated to a Perfection, reader, or even to a benevolent, philan-
thropic old gentleman in him, you are mistaken. He has
spoken with some sense, and with some good feeling, to Mr.
Moore ; but you are not thence to conclude that he always
spoke and thought justly and kindly.

Mr. Yorke, in the first place, was without the organ of
Veneration — a great want, and which throws a man wrong
on every point where veneration is required. Secondly, he

ME. YOEKE 46

Was without the organ of Comparison — a deficiency which
strips a man of sympathy ; and, thirdly, he had too little of
the organs of Benevolence and Ideality, which took the glory
and softness from his nature, and for him diminished those
divine quahties throughout the universe.

The want of veneration made him intolerant to those
above him : kings and nobles and priests, dynasties and
parliaments and establishments, with all their doings, most
of their enactments, their forms, their rights, their claims,
were to him an abomination — all rubbish ; he found no use
or pleasure in them, and believed it would be clear gain, and
no damage to the world, if its high places were razed, and
tjieir occupants crushed in the fall. The want of veneration,
too, made him dead at heart to the electric delight of admir-
ing what is admirable ; it dried up a thousand pure sources
of enjoyment ; it withered a thousand vivid pleasures. He
was not irreUgious, though a member of no sect ; but his
religion could not be that of one who knows how to venerate.
He believed in God and heaven ; but his God and heaven
were those of a man in whom awe, imagination, and tender-
ness lack.

The weakness of his powers of comparison made him
inconsistent; while he professed some excellent general
doctrines of mutual toleration and forbearance, he cherished
towards certain classes a bigoted antipathy : he spoke of
' parsons ' and all who belonged to parsons, of ' lords ' and
the appendages of lords, with a harshness, sometimes an
insolence, as unjust as it was insufferable. He could not
place himself in the position of those he vituperated : he
could not compare their errors with their temptations, their
defects with their disadvantages ; he could not reaUse the
effect of such and such circumstances on himself similarly
situated, and he would often express the most ferocious and
tyrannical wishes regarding those who had acted, as he
thought, ferociously and tyrannically. To judge by his
threats, he would have employed arbitrary, even cruel,
means to advance the cause of freedom and equality,

46 SHIELEY

Equality— yes, Mr. Yorke talked about equality, but at
heart he was a proud man : very friendly to his workpeople,
very good to all who were beneath him, and submitted
quietly to be beneath him, but haughty as Beelzebub to
whomsoever the world deemed (for he deemed no man)
his superior. Eevolt was in his blood : he could not bear
control ; his father, his grandfather before him, could not
bear it, and his children after him never could.

The want of general benevolence made him very impatient
of imbecility, and of all faults which grated on his strong,
shrewd natvire : it left no check to his cutting sarcasm. As
he was not merciful, he would sometimes wound and wound
again, without noticing how much he hurt, or caring how
deep he thrust.

As to the paucity of ideaUty in his mind, that can scarcely
be called a fault : a fine ear for music, a correct eye for
colour and form, left him the quality of taste ; and who
cares for imagination? Who does not think it a rather
dangerous, senseless attribute — akin to weakness — perhaps
partaking of frenzy — a disease rather than a gift of the
mind?

Probably all think it so, but those who possess — or fancy
they possess — it. To hear them speak you would believe
that their hearts would be cold if that elixir did not flow
about them ; that their eyes would be dim if that flame did
not refine their vision ; that they would be lonely if this
strange companion abandoned them. You would suppose
that it imparted some glad hope to spring, some fine charm
to summer, some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation
to vnnter, which you do not feel. An illusion, of course ;
but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give it
for gold.

As Mr. Yorke did not possess poetic imagination him-
self, he considered it a most superfluous quahty in others.
Painters and musicians he could tolerate, and even en-
courage, because he could relish the results of their art ; he
could see the charm of a fine picture and feel the pleasure of

good music ; but a quiet poet — whatever force struggled,
whatever fire glowed, in his breast — if he could not have
played the man in the counting-house, or the tradesman in
the Piece Hall, might have lived despised, and died scorned,
under the eyes of Hiram Yorke.

And as there are many Hiram Yorkes in the world, it is
Well that the true poet, quiet externally though he may be,
has often a truculent spirit under his placidity, and is full of
shrewdness in his meekness, and can measure the whole
stature of those who look down on him, and correctly ascer-
tain the weight and value of the pursuits they disdain him
for not having followed. It is happy that he can have his
o^vn bliss, his own society with his great friend and goddess,
Nature, quite independent of those who find little pleasure
in him, and in whom he finds no pleasure at all. It is just,
that while the world and circumstances often turn a dark,
cold side to him — and properly, too, because he first turns a
dark, cold, careless side to them — he should be able to main-
tain a festal brightness and cherishing glow in his bosom,
which makes all bright and genial for him ; while strangers,
perhaps, deem his existence a Polar winter never gladdened
by a sun. The true poet is not one whit to be pitied ; and
he is apt to laugh in his sleeve, when any misguided sym-
pathizer whines over his wrongs. Even when utilitarians
sit in judgment on him, and pronounce him and his art
useless, he hears the sentence with such a hard derision, such
a broad, deep, comprehensive, and merciless contempt of the
unhappy Pharisees who pronounce it, that he is rather to be
chidden than condoled with. These, however, are not Mr.
Yorke's reflections ; and it is with Mr. Yorke we have at
present to do.

I have told you some of his faults, reader ; as to his
good points, he was one of the most honourable and capable
men in Yorkshire : even those who disliked him were forced
to respect him. He was much beloved by the poor, because
he was thoroughly kind and very fatherly to them. To his
workmen he was coniiderate and cordial: when he dismissed

48 SHIELEY

them from an occupation, he would try to set them on to
something else ; or, if that was impossible, help them to
remove with their families to a district where work might
possibly be had. It must also be remarked that if, as some-
times chanced, any individual amongst his ' hands ' showed
signs of insubordination, Yorke — who, like many who abhor
being controlled, knew how to control with vigour — had the
secret of crushing rebellion in the germ, of eradicating it like
a bad weed, so that it never spread or developed within the
sphere of his authority. Such being the happy state of his
own afifairs, he felt himself at liberty to speak with the
utmost severity of those who were differently situated ; to
ascribe whatever was unpleasant in their position entirely to
their own fault, to sever himself from the masters, and
advocate freely the cause of the operatives.

Mr. Yorke's family was the first and oldest in the district ;
and he, though not the wealthiest, was one of the most
influential men. His education had been good : in his youth,
before the French Eevolution, he had travelled on the con-
tinent : he was an adept in the French and ItaUan languages.
During a two years' sojourn in Italy, he had collected many
good paintings and tasteful rarities, with which his residence
was now adorned. His manners, when he liked, were those
of a finished gentleman of the old school ; his conversation,
when he was disposed to please, was singularly interesting
and original; and if he usually expressed himself in the
Yorkshire dialect, it was because he chose to do so, preferring
his native Doric to a more refined vocabulary. ' A Yorkshire
burr,' he affirmed, ' was as much better than a cockney's lisp,
as a bull's beljow than a ration's squeak.'

Mr. Yorke knew every one, and was known by every one
for miles round ; yet his intimate acquaintances were very
few. Himself thoroughly original, he had no taste for what
was ordinary : a racy, rough character, high or low, ever
found acceptance with him ; a refined, insipid personage,
however exalted in station, was his aversion. He would
spend an hour any time in talking freely with a shrewd

ME. YORKE 49

workman of his own, or with aome queer sagacious old woman
amongst his cottagers, when he would have grudged a moment
to a common-place fine gentleman, or to the most fashionable
and elegant, if frivolous, lady. His preferences on these
points he carried to an extreme, forgetting that there may
be amiable and even admirable characters amongst those who
cannot be original. Yet he made exceptions to his own rule :
there was a certain order of mind, plain, ingenuous, neglect-
ing refinement, almost devoid of intellectuality, and quite
incapable of appreciating what was intellectual in him ; but
which, at the same time, never felt disgust at his rudeness,
was not easily wounded by his sarcasm, did not closely
analyze his sa,yings, doings, or opinions ; with which he
was peculiarly at ease, and, consequently, which he peculiarly
preferred. He was lord amongst such characters. They,
while submitting implicitly to his influence, never acknow-
ledged, because they never reflected on, his superiority ; they
were quite tractable, therefore, without running the smallest
danger of being servile ; and their unthinking, easy, artless
insensibility was as acceptable, because as convenient, to Mr.
Yorke, as that of the chair he sat on, or of the floor he trod.

It will have been observed that he was not quite uncordial
with Mr. Moore ; he had two or three reasons for entertaining
a faint partiality to that gentleman. It may sound odd, but
the first of these was that Moore spoke English with a foreign,
and French with a perfectly pure accent ; and that his dark,
thin face, with its fine though rather wasted lines, had a
most anti-British and anti- Yorkshire look. These points
seem frivolous, unUkely to influence a character like Yorke's :
but, the fact is, they recalled old, perhaps pleasurable associa-
tions : they brought back his travelling, his youthful days. He
had seen, amidst Italian cities and scenes, faces like Moore's ;
he had heard, in Parisian caf6s and theatres, voices like
his ; he was young then, and when he looked at and hstened
to the alien, he seemed young again.

Secondly, he had known Moore's father, and had had
dealings with him : that was a more substantial, though by

60 SHIBLEY

no means a more agreeable tie ; for, as his firm had been
connected with Moore's in business, it had also, in some
measure, been implicated in its losses.

Thirdly, he had found Bobert himself a sharp man of busi-
ness. He saw reason to anticipate that he would in the end, by
one means or another, make money ; and he respected both
his resolution and acuteness ; perhaps, also, his hardness.
A fourth circumstance which drew them together was that
of Mr. Yorke being one of the guardians of the minor on
whose estate HoUow's-mill was situated; consequently
Moore, in the course of his alterations and improvements,
had frequent occasion to consult him.

As to the other guest now present in Mr. Yorke's parlour,
Mr. Helstone, between him and his host there existed a
double antipathy ; the antipathy of nature and that of circum-
stances. The free-thinker hated the formalist ; the lover of
liberty detested the disciplinarian : besides, it was said that
in former years they had been rival suitors of the same lady.

Mr. Yorke, as a general rule, was, when young, noted for
his preference of sprightly and dashing women : a showy
shape and air, a lively wit, a ready tongue, chiefly seemed
to attract him. He never, however, proposed to any of these
brilliant belles whose society he sought ; and all at once he
seriously fell in love with, and eagerly wooed a girl who
presented a complete contrast to those he had hitherto
noticed : a girl with the face of a Madonna ; a girl of living
marble ; stillness personified. No matter that, when he spoke
to her, she only answered him in monosyllables ; no matter that
his sighs seemed unheard, that his glances were unreturned,
that she never responded to his opinions, rarely smiled at his
jests, paid him no respect and no attention ; no matter that
she seemed the opposite of everything feminine he had ever,
in his whole life been known to admire : for him Mary Cave
was perfect, because somehow, for some reason — no doubt he
had a reason — he loved her.

Mr. Helstone, at that time curate of Briarfield, loved
Mary too ; or, at any rate, he fancied her, SeveraJ others

ME. YORKE 51

admired her, for she was beautiful as a monumental angel ;
but the clergyman was preferred for his oflBoe' sake : that
office probably investing him with some of the illusion
necessary to allure to the commission of matrimony, and
which Miss Cave did not find in any of the young wool-
staplers, her other adorers. Mr. Helstone neither had, nor
professed to have, Mr. Yorke's absorbing passion for her :
he had none of the humble reverence which seemed to subdue
most of her suitors ; he saw her more as she really was than
the rest did ; he was, consequently, more master of her and
himself. She accepted him at the first offer, and they were
married.

Nature never intended Mr. Helstone to make a very good
husband, especially to a quiet wife. He thought, so long
as a woman was silent, nothing ailed her, and she wanted
nothing. If she did not complain of soUtude, solitude,
however continued, could not be irksome to her. If she did
not talk and put herself forward, express a partiality for this,
an aversion to that, she had no partialities or aversions, and
it was useless to consult her tastes. He made no pretence
of comprehending women, or comparing them with men :
they were a different, probably a very inferior order of
existence ; a wife could not be her husband's companion,
much less his confidant, much less his stay. His wife, after
a year or two, was of no great importance to him in any
shape ; and when she one day, as he thought, suddenly —
for he had scarcely noticed her decline — but, as others
thought, gradually, took her leave of him and of life, and
there was only a still beautiful-featured mould of clay left,
cold and white, in the conjugal couch, he felt his bereave-
ment— who shall say how little ? Yet, perhaps, more than
he seemed to feel it ; for he was not a man from whom grief
easily wrung tears.

His dry-eyed and sober mourning scandalised an old
housekeeper, and likewise a female attendant, who had
waited upon Mrs. Helstone in her sickness : and who,
perhaps, had had opportunities of learning more of the

52 SHIRLEY

deceased lady's nature, of her capacity for feeling and loving,
than her husband knew : they gossiped together over the
corpse, related anecdotes, with embellishments of her Ungering
decline, and its real or supposed cause ; in short, they worked
each other up to some indignation against the austere little
man, who sat examining papers in an adjoining room, un-
conscious of what opprobrium he was the object.

Mrs. Helstone was hardly under the sod when rumours
began to be rife in the neighbourhood that she had died of a
broken heart ; these magnified quickly into reports of hard
usage, and, finally, details of harsh treatment on the part of
her husband : reports grossly untrue, but not the less eagerly
received on that account. Mr. Yorke heard them, partly
believed them. Already, of course, he had no friendly
feeUng to his successful rival ; though himself a married
man now, and united to a woman who seemed a complete
contrast to Mary Cave in all respects, he could not forget
the great disappointment of his Ufe; and when he heard
that what would have been so precious to him had been
neglected, perhaps abused by another, he conceived for that
other a rooted and bitter animosity.

Of the nature and strength of this animosity, Mr.
Helstone was but half aware : he neither knew how much
Yorke had loved Mary Cave, what he had felt on losing her,
nor was he conscious of the calumnies concerning his treat-
ment of her, familiar to every ear in the neighbourhood but
his own. He believed political and religious differences
alone separated him and Mr. Yorke ; had he known how the
case really stood, he would hardly have been induced by any
persuasion to cross his former rival's threshold.

Mr. Yorke did not resume his lecture of Robert Moore ;
the conversation ere long recommenced in a more general
form, though still in a somewhat disputative tone. The un-
quiet state of the country, the various depredations lately
committed on mill-property in the drstrict, suppUed abundant
matter for disagreement ; especially as each of the three

ME. YOEKE 53

gentlemen present differed more or less in his views on these
subjects. Mr. Helstone thought the masters aggrieved, the
workpeople unreasonable : he condemned sweepingly the
wide-spread spirit of disaffection against constituted authori-
ties, the growing indisposition to bear with patience evils
he regarded as inevitable : the cures he prescribed were
vigorous government interference, strict magisterial vigilance ;
when necessary, prompt military coercion.

Mr. Yorke wished to know whether this interference,
vigilance, and coercion would feed those who were hungry,
give work to those who wanted work, and whom no man
would hire. He scouted the idea of inevitable evils ; he said
public patience was a camel, on whose back the last atom
that could be borne had already been laid, and that resistance
was now a duty : the wide-spread spirit of disaffection against
constituted authorities he regarded as the most promising
sign of the times ; the masters, he allowed, were truly
aggrieved, but their main grievances had been heaped on
them by a ' corrupt, base, and bloody ' government (these
were Mr. Yorke's epithets). Madmen like Pitt, demons like
Castlereagh, mischievous idiots like Perceval, were the
tyrants, the curses of the country, the destroyers of her trade.
It was their infatuated perseverance in an unjustifiable, a
hopeless, a ruinous war, which had brought the nation to its
present pass. It was their monstrously oppressive taxation,
it was the infamous ' Orders in Council,' the originators of
which deserved impeachment and the scaffold, if ever public
men did — that hung a millstone about England's neck.

'But where was the use of talking?' he demanded.
'What chance was there of reason being heard in a land
that was king-ridden, priest-ridden, peer-ridden — where a
lunatic was the nominal monarch, an unprincipled debauchee
the real ruler ; where such an insult to common sense as
hereditary legislators was tolerated — where such a humbug
as a bepch of bishops — ^such an arrogant abuse as a pampered,
persecuting established Church was endured and venerated
— where a standing army was maintained, and a host of

54 SHIELEY

lazy parsons and their pauper families were kept on the fat
of the land ? '

Mr. Helstone, rising up and putting on his shovel-hat,
observed in reply, ' That in the course of his life he had met
with two or three instances where sentiments of this sort
had been very bravely maintained so long as health, strength,
and worldly prosperity had been the allies of him who pro-
fessed them ; but there came a time,' he said, ' to all men,
" when the keepers of the house should tremble ; when they
should be afraid of that which is high, and fear should be in
the way ; " and that tinie was the test of the advocate of
anarchy and rebellion, the enemy of religion and order. Ere
now,' he affirmed, ' he had been called upon to read those
prayers our Church has provided for the sick, by the miserable
dying-bed of one of her most rancorous foes ; he had seen
such a one stricken with remorse, solicitous to discover a
place for repentance, and unable to find any, though he
sought it carefully with tears. He must forewarn Mr. Yorke,
that blasphemy against God and the king was a deadly sin,
and that there was such a thing as " judgment to come." '

Mr. Yorke ' believed fully that there was such a thing as
judgment to come. If it were otherwise, it would be difficult
to imagine how all the scoundrels who seemed triumphant
in this world, who broke innocent hearts with impunity,
abused unmerited privileges, were a scandal to honourable
callings, took the bread out of the mouths of the poor, brow-
beat the humble, and truckled meanly to the rich and proud
— were to be properly paid oflf, in such coin as they had
earned. But,' he added, ' whenever he got low-spirited about
such like goings-on, and their seeming success in this mucky
lump of a planet, he just reached down t' owd book ' (pointing
to a great Bible in the bookcase), ' opened it like at a chance,
and he was sure to light of a verse blazing wi' a blue brim-
stone low that set all straight. He knew,' he said, ' where
some folk war bound for, just as weel as if an angel wi' great
white wings had come in ower t' door-stone and told him.'

' Sir,' said Mr. Helstone, collecting all his dignity, ' Sir —

ME. YORKE 55

the great knowledge of man is to know himself, and the
bourne whither his own steps tend.'

' Ay, ay ! you'll recollect, Mr. Helstone, that Ignorance
was carried away from the very gates of heaven, borne
through the air, and thrust in at a door in the side of the hill
which led down to hell.'

' Nor have I forgotten, Mr. Yorke, that Vain-Confidence,
not seeing the way before him, fell into a deep pit, which
was on purpose there made by the prince of the grounds, to
catch vain-glorious fools withal, and was dashed to pieces
with his fall.'

'Now,' interposed Mr. Moore, who had hitherto sat a
silent but amused spectator of this wordy combat, and whose
indifference to the party politics of the day, as well as to the
gossip of the neighbourhood, made him an impartial, if
apathetic, judge of the merits of such an encounter — ' you
have both sufficiently black-balled each other, and proved
how cordially you detest each other, and how wicked you
think each other. For my part, my hate is still running in
such a strong current against the fellows who have broken
my frames, that I have none to spare for my private ac-
quaintance, and still less for such a vague thing as a sect or
a government : but really, gentlemen, you both seem very
bad, by your own showing ; worse than ever I suspected you
to be. I dare not stay all night with a rebel and blasphemer,
like you, Yorke ; and I hardly dare ride home with a cruel
and tyrannical ecclesiastic, hke Mr. Helstone.'

' I am going, however, Mr. Moore,' said the Bector sternly :
' come with me or not, as you please.'

' Nay, he shall not have the choice — he shall go with
you,' responded Yorke. ' It's midnight, and past ; and I'll
have nob'dy staying up i' my house any longer. Ye mun
all go.'

He rang the bell.

'Deb,' said he to the servant who answered it, 'clear
them folk out o' t' kitchen, and lock t' doors, and be off to
bed. Here is your way, gentlemen,' he continued to his

56 SHIELEY

guests; and, lighting them through the passage, he fairly
put them out at his front-door.

They met their party hiuTying out pell-mell by the back
way ; their horses stood at the gate ; they mounted, and
rode off — Moore laughing at their abrupt dismissal, Helstone
deeply indignant thereat.

CHAPTER V
hollow's cottage

Moobe's good spirits were still with him when he rose next
morning. He and Joe Scott had both spent the night in the
miU, availing themselves of certain sleeping accommodations
producible from recesses in the front and back counting-
houses : the master, always an early riser, was up somewhat
sooner even than usual : he awoke his man by singing a
IVench song as he made his toilet.

' Ye're not custen dahm, then, maister ? ' cried Joe.

' Not a stiver, mon gar^on — which means, my lad — get
up, and we'll take a turn through the mill before the hands
come in, and I'll explain my future plans. W^'ll have the
machinery yet, Joseph ; you never heard of Bruce, perhaps ? '

' And th' arrand (spider) ? Yes, but I hev : I've read
th' history o' Scotland, and happen knaw as mich on't as ye ;
and I understand ye to mean to say ye'U persevere.'

' I do.'

' Is there mony o' your mak' i' your country? ' inquired
Joe, as he folded up his temporary bed, and put it away.

' In my country ! Which is my country ? '

' Why, France— isn't it ? '

' Not it, indeed ! The circumstance of the French having
seized Antwerp, where I was born, does not miike me a
Frenchman.'

'Holland, then?'

' I am not a Dutchman : now you are confounding
Antwerp with Amsterdam.'

' Flanders ? '

58 SHIBLEY

' I scorn the insinuation, Joe ! I, a Flamand ! Have I
a Flemish face ? — the clumsy nose standing out — the mean
forehead falling back — the pale blue eyes " k fleur de t6te " ?
Am I all body and no legs, like a Flamand ? But you don't
know what they are like — those Netherlanders. Joe, I'm an
Anversois : my mother was an Anversoise, though she came
of French lineage, which is the reason I speak French.'

' But your father war Yorkshire, which maks ye a bit
Yorkshire too ; and onybody may see ye're akin to us, ye're
so keen o' making brass, and getting forrards.'

' Joe, you're an impudent dog ; but I've always been
accustomed to a boorish sort of insolence from my youth
up : the " classe ouvri6re " — that is, the working people in
Belgium — bear themselves brutally towards their employers ;
and by brutally, Joe, I mean brutalement — which, perhaps,
when properly translated, should be roughly.'

' We alius speak our minds i' this country ; and them
young parsons and grand folk fro' London is shocked at wer
" incivility," and we like weel enough to gi'e 'em summat to
be shocked at, 'cause it's sport to us to watch 'em turn up
the whites o' their een, and spreed out their bits o' hands,
like as they're flayed wi' bogards, and then to hear 'em say,
nipping off their words short like — " Dear 1 dear 1 Whet
seveges 1 How very corse 1 " '

' You are savages, Joe ; you don't suppose you're civilized,
do you ? '

' Middling, middling, maister. I reckon 'at us manu-
facturing lads i' th' north is a deal more intelligent, and
knaws a deal more nor th' farming folk i' th' south. Trade
sharpens wer wits ; and them that's mechanics, like me, is
forced to think. Ye know, what wi' looking after machinery
and sich like, I've getten into that way that when I see an
effect, I look straight out for a cause, and I oft lig hold on't
to purpose ; and then I like reading, and I'm curious to knaw
what them that reckons to govern us aims to do for us and
wi' us : and there's many 'cuter nor me ; there's many a one
amang them greasy chaps 'at smells o' oil, and amang them

HOLLOW'S COTTAGE 59

dyers wi' blue and black skins, that has a long head, and that
can tell what a fooil of a law is, as well as ye or old Yorke,
and a deal better nor soft una like Christopher Sykes o'
Whinbury, and greet hectoring nowts like yond' Irish Peter,
Helstone's curate."

' You think yourself a clever fellow, I know, Scott.'
' Ay ! I'm fairish ; I can tell cheese fro' chalk, and I'm
varry weel aware that I've improved sich opportunities as I
have had, a deal better nor some 'at reckons to be aboon me ;
but there's thousands i' Yorkshire that's as good as me, and
a two-three that's better.'

' You're a great man — you're a sublime fellow : but
you're a prig, a conceited noodle with it all, Joe ! You need
not to think that because you've picked up a little knowledge
of practical mathematics, and because you have found some
scantling of the elements of chemistry at the bottom of a
djdng vat, that therefore you're a neglected man of science ;
and you need not to suppose that because the course of trade
does not always run smooth, and you, and such as you, are
sometimes short of work and of bread, that therefore your
class are martyrs, and that the whole form of government
under which you live is wrong. And, moreover, you need
not for a moment to insinuate that the virtues have taken
refuge in cottages and wholly abandoned slated houses. Let
me tell you, I particularly abominate that sort of trash,
because I know so well that human nature is human nature
everywhere, whether under tile or thatch, and that in every
specimen of human nature that breathes, vice and virtue are
ever found blended, in smaller or greater proportions, and
that the proportion is not determined by station. I have
seen villains who were rich, and I have seen villains who
were poor, and I have seen villains who were neither rich
nor poor, but who had realised Agar's wish, and lived in fair
and modest competency. The clock is going to strike six :
away with you, Joe, and ring the mill bell.'

It was now the middle of the month of February ; by six
o'clock, therefore, dawn was just beginning to steal on night,

60 SHIRLEY

to penetrate with a pale ray ita brown obscurity, and give a
demi-translucence to its opaque shadows. Pale enough that
ray was on this particular morning; no colour tinged the
east, no flush warmed it. To see what a heavy lid day slowly
lifted, what a wan glance she flung along the hills, you would
have thought the sun's fire quenched in last night's floods.
The breath of this morning was chiU as its aspect ; a raw
wind stirred the mass of night-cloud, and showed, as it slowly
rose — leaving a colourless, silver-gleaming ring all round the
horizon — not blue sky, but a stratum of paler vapour beyond.
It had ceased to rain, but the earth was sodden, and the pools
and rivulets were full.

The mill-windows were alight, the bell still rang loud,
and now the little children came running in, in too great a
hurry/ let us hope, to feel very much nipped by the inclement
air ; and, indeed, by contrast, perhaps the morning appeared
rather favourable to them than otherwise ; for they had often
come to their work that winter through snow-storms, through
heavy rain, through hard frost.

Mr. Moore stood at the entrance to watch them pass : he
counted them as they went by ; to those who came rather
late he said a word of reprimand, which was a little more
sharply repeated by Joe Scott when the lingerers reached the
work-rooms. Neither master nor overlooker spoke savagely ;
they were not savage men either of them, though it appeared
both were rigid, for they fined a delinquent who came con-
siderably too late : Mr. Moore made him pay his penny down
ere he entered, and informed him that the next repetition of
the fault would cost him twopence.

Eules, no doubt, are necessary in such cases, and coarse
and cruel masters will make coarse and cruel rules, which, at
the time we treat of at least, they used sometimes to enforce
tyrannically : but, though I describe imperfect characters
(every character in this book will be found to be more or less
imperfect, my pen refusing to draw anything in the model
line,) I have not undertaken to handle degraded or uttei ly
infamous Ones, Child-torturers, slave masters and drivers,

HOLLOWS COTTAGE 61

I consign to the hands of jailers ; the novelist may be excused
from sullying his page with the record of their deeds.

Instead, then, of harrowing up my reader's soul, and
delighting his organ of Wonder with effective descriptions
of stripes and scourgings, I am happy to be able to inform
him that neither Mr. Moore nor his overlooker ever struck a
child in their mill. Joe had, indeed, once very severely
flogged a son of his own for telling a lie and persisting in
it ; but, Uke his employer, he was too phlegmatic, too calm,
as well as too reasonable a man, to make corporal chastise-
ment other than the exception to hia treatment of the
young.

Mr. Moore haunted his mill, his mill-yard, his dye-house,
and his warehouse, till the sickly dawn strengthened into
day. The sun even rose, — at least a white disk, clear,
tintless, and almost chill-looking as ice, — peeped over the
dark crest of a hill, changed to silver the livid edge of the
cloud above it, and looked solemnly down the whole length
of the den, or narrow dale, to whose strait bounds we are at
present limited. It was eight o'clock ; the mill lights were
all extinguished ; the signal was given for breakfast ; the
children, released for half an hour from toil, betook them-
selves to the little tin cans which held their coffee, and to
the small baskets which contained their allowance of bread.
Let us hope they had enough to eat ; it would be a pity were
it otherwise.

And now, at last, Mr. Moore quitted the mill-yard, and
bent his steps to his dwelUng-house. It was only a short
distance from the factory, but the hedge and high bank on
each side of the lane which conducted to it seemed to give
it something of the appearance and feeling of seclusion. It
was a small white-washed place, with a green porch over the
door ; scanty brown stalks showed in the garden soil near
this porch, and likewise beneath the windows, — stalks
budless and flowerless now, but giving dim prediction of
trained and blooming creepers for summer days. A grass
plat and borders fronted the cottage ; the borders presented

62 gfllELEf

only black mould yet, except where, in sheltered nooks, the
first shoots of snowdrop or crocus peeped, green as emerald,
from the earth. The spring was late ; it had been a severe
and prolonged winter ; the last deep snow had but just dis-
appeared before yesterday's rains ; on the hills, indeed, white
remnants of it yet gleamed, flecking the hollows and crown-
ing the peaks : the lawn was not verdant, but bleached, as
was the grass on the bank, and under the hedge in the lane.
Three trees, gracefully grouped, rose beside the cottage ; they
were not lofty, but having no rivals near, they looked well
and imposing where they grew. Such was Mr. Moore's
home ; a snug nest for content and contemplation, but one
within which the wings of action and ambition could not
long lie folded.

Its air of modest comfort seemed to possess no particular
attraction for its owner; instead of entering the house at
once, he fetched a spade from a little shed, and began to
work in the garden. For about a quarter of an hour he dug
on uninterrupted : at length, however, a window opened, and
a female voice called to him :— ' Eh, bien ! Tu ne d^jeunes
pas ce matin ? '

The answer, and the rest of the conversation, was in
French ; but, as this is an English book, I shall translate it
into English.

' la breakfast ready, Hortense ? '
' Certainly ; it has been ready half-an-hour.'
' Then I am ready, too : I have a canine hunger.'
He threw down his spade and entered the house : the
narrow passage conducted him to a small parlour, where a
breakfast of coffee and bread and butter, with the somewhat
un-English accompaniment of stewed pears, was spread on
the table. Over these viands presided the lady who had
spoken from the window. I must describe her before I go
any further.

She seemed a little older than Mr. Moore, perhaps she
was thirty-five, tall, and proportionately stout ; she had very
black hair, for the present twisted up in ciirl-papers ; a high

HOLLOW'S COTTAGE 63

colour in her cheeks, a small nose, a pair of little black eyes.
The lower part of her face was large in proportion to the
upper ; her forehead was small and rather corrugated ; she had
a fretful, though not an ill-natured expression of countenance ;
there was something in her whole appearance one felt inclined
to be half provoked with, and half amused at. The strangest
point was heis dress : a stuff petticoat and a striped cotton
camisole. The petticoat was short, displaying well a pair
of feet and ankles which left much to be desired in the
article of symmetry.

You will think I have depicted a remarkable slattern,
reader ; — not at all. Hortense Moore (she was Mr. Moore's
sister) was a very orderly, economical person ; the petticoat,
camisole, and curl-papers were her morning costume, in which,
of forenoons, she had always been accustomed to ' go her
household ways ' in her own country. She did not choose
to adopt English fashions because she was obliged to live
in England ; she adhered to her old Belgian modes, quite
satisfied that there was a merit in so doing.

Mademoiselle had an excellent opinion of herself, an
opinion not wholly undeserved, for she possessed some good
and sterling qualities; but she rather over-estimated the
kind and degree of these qualities, and quite left out of the
account sundry little defects which accompanied them. You
could never have persuaded her that she was a prejudiced
and narrow-minded person, that she was too susceptible on
the subject of her own dignity and importance, and too apt
to take offence about trifles ; yet all this was true. How-
ever, where her claims to distinction were not opposed, and
where her prejudices were not offended, she could be kind
and friendly enough. To her two brothers (for there was
another Gerard Moore besides Eobert) she was very much
attached. As the sole remaining representatives of their
decayed family, the persons of both were almost sacred in her
eyes : of Louis, however, she knew less than of Eobert ; he
had been sent to England when a mere boy, and had
received his education at an English school. His education

64 SHIELEY

not being such as to adapt him for trade, perhaps, too, his
natuj'al bent not inchning him to mercantile pursuits, he
had, when the blight of hereditary prospects rendered it
necessary for him to push his own fortune, adopted the very
arduous and very modest career of a teacher ; he had been
usher in a school, and was said now to be tutor in a private
family. Hortense, when she mentioned Louis, described
him as having what she called ' desmoyens,' but as being too
backward and quiet : her praise of Eobert was in a different
strain, less qualified ; she was very proud of him ; she
regarded him as the greatest man in Europe ; all he said
and did was remarkable in her eyes, and she expected others
to behold him from the same point of view ; nothing could
be more irrational, monstrous, and infamous, than opposition
from any quarter to Eobert, unless it were opposition to
herself.

Accordingly, as soon as the said Eobert was seated at
the breakfast table, and she bad helped him to a portion of
stewed pears, and cut him a good-sized Belgian tartine, she
began to pour out a flood of amazement and horror at the
transaction of last night, the destruction of the frames.

' Quelle id6e I to destroy them. Quelle action honteuse I
On voyait bien que les ouvriers de ce pays 6taient k la fois
bdtes et m^chants. C'^tait absolument comma les domestiques
Anglais, les servantes surtout : rieti d'insupportable comma
cette Sara, par example ! '

' She looks clean and industrious,' Mr. Moore remarked.

' Looks ! I don't know how she looks ; and I do not say
that she is altogether dirty or idle : mais elle est d'une
insolence 1 She disputed with me a quarter of an hour
yesterday about the cooking of the beef ; she said I boiled it
to rags, that English people would never be able to' eat such
a dish as our bouilli, that the bouillon was no better than
greasy warm water, and as to the ohoucroute, she affirms
she cannot touch it ! That barrel we have in the cellar —
delightfully prepared by my own hands — she termed a tub
of hog- wash, which tneans food foi' pigsi' I am harassed vrith

HOLLOWS COTTAGE 65

the girl, and yet 1 cannot part with her lest I should get a
worse. You are in the same position with your worknien, — :
pauvre cher frere 1 '

'I am afraid you are not very happy in England,
Hortense.'

' It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother ; but
otherwise, there are certainly a thousand things which
make me regret our native town. All the world here
appears to me ill-bred (mal-61ev6). I find my habits con-
sidered ridiculous : if a girl out of your mill chances to come
into the kitchen and find me in my jupon and camisole
preparing dinner (for you know I cannot trust Sarah to cook
a single dish), she sneers. If I accept an invitation out to
tea, which I have done once or twice, I perceive I am put
quite into the background ; I have not that attention paid
me which decidedly is my due. Of what an excellent family
are the G^rards, as we know, and the Moores also ! They
have a right to claim a certain respect, and to feel wounded
when it is withheld from them. In Antwerp, I was always
treated with distinction ; here, one would think that when
I open my lips in company, I speak English with a ridiculous
accent, whereas I am quite assured that I pronounce it
perfectly.'

' Hortense, in Antwerp we were known rich ; in England
we were never known but poor.'

'Precisely, and thus mercenary are mankind. Again,
dear brother, last Sunday, if you recollect, was very wet ;
accordingly, I went to ohm-ch in my neat black sabots,
objects one would not indeed wear in a fashionable city ;
but which in the country I have ever been accustomed to
use for walking in dirty roads. Believe me, as I paced up
the aisle, composed and tranquil, as I am always, four ladies,
and as many gentlemen, laughed and hid their faces behind
their prayer-books.'

' Well, well ! don't put on the sabots again. I told you
before I thought they were not quite the thing for this
country.'

F

66 SHIELBY

' But, brother, they are not common sabots, such as the
peasantry wear. I tell you, they are sabots noirs, tres
propres, trfes convenables. At Mons and Leuze — cities not
very far removed from the elegant capital of Brussels — it is
very seldom that the respectable people wear anything else
for walking in winter. Let any one try to wade the mud of
the Flemish chauss^es in a pair of Paris brodequins, on m'en
dirait des nouvelles ! '

'Never mind Mons and Leuze, and the Flemish
chauss^es ; do at Borne as the Eomans do ; and as to the
camisole and jupon, I am not quite sure about them either.
I never see an English lady dressed in such garments. Ask
Caroline Helstone.'

' Caroline ! I ask Caroline ? I consult her about my
dress ? It is she who on all points should consult me ; she
is a child.'

' She is eighteen, or at the least seventeen ; old enough
to know all about gowns, petticoats, and chaussures.'

' Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat you, brother ; do not
make her of more consequence than she ought to be.
At present she is modest and unassuming : let us keep
her so.'

' With all my heart. Is she coming this morning ? '

' She will come at ten, as usual, to take her French
lesson.'

' You don't find that she sneers at you, do you ? '

' She does not, she appreciates me better than any one
else here ; but then she has more intimate opportunities of
knowing me ; she sees that I have education, intelligence,
manner, principles ; all, in short, which belongs to a person
well born and well bred.'

' Are you at all fond of her ? '

' For fond — I cannot say : I am not one who is prone to
take violent fancies, and, consequently, my friendship is the
more to be depended on. I have a regard for her as my
relative ; her position also inspires interest, and her conduct
as my pupil has hitherto been such as rather to enhance

HOLLOW'S COTTAGE 67

than diminish the attachment that springs from other
causes.'

' She behaves pretty well at lessons ? '

' To me she behaves very well ; but you are conscious,
brother, that I have a manner calculated to repel over-
familiarity, to win esteem, and to command respect. Yet,
possessed of penetration, I perceive clearly that Caroline is
not perfect ; that there is much to be desired in her.'

' Give me a last cup of coffee, and while I am drinking it
amuse me with an account of her faults.'

' Dear brother, I am happy to see you eat your breakfast
with reUsh, after the fatiguing night you have passed.
Caroline, then, is defective ; but, with my forming hand and
almost motherly care, she may improve. There is about her
an occasional something — a reserve, I think — which I do
not quite hke, because it is not sufficiently girlish and sub-
missive ; and there are glimpses of an unsettled hurry in her
nature, which put me out. Yet she is usually most tranquil,
too dejected and thoughtful indeed sometimes. In time, I
doubt not, I shall make her uniformly sedate and decorous,
without being unaccountably pensive. I ever disapprove
what is not intelligible.'

' I don't understand your account in the least ; what do
you mean by " unsettled hurries," for instance ? '

'An example will, perhaps, be the most satisfactory
explanation. I sometimes, you are aware, make her read
French poetry by way of practice in pronunciation. She
has, in the course of her lessons, gone through much cf
Corneille and Bacine, in a very steady, sober spirit, such as
I approve. Occasionally she showed, indeed, a degree of
languor in the perusal of those esteemed authors, partaking
rather of apathy than sobriety, and apathy is what I cannot
tolerate in those who have the benefit of my instructions ;
besides, one should not be apathetic in studying standard
works. The other day I put into her hands a volume of
short fugitive pieces. I sent her to the window to learn one
by heart, and when I looked up I saw her turning the leaves

,68 SHIELEY

over impatiently, and curling her lip, absolutely with scorn
as she surveyed the little poems cursorily. I chid her.
' Ma cousins,' said she, ' tout cela m'ennuie k la mort.' I
■ told her this was improper language. — ' Dieu ! ' she ex-
claimed. ' II n'y a done pas deux lignes de po6sie dans
toute la littSrature fran9aise ? ' I inquired what she meant.
She begged my pardon with proper submission. Erelong
she was still ; I saw her smiling to herself over the book ;
she began to learn assiduously. In half an hour she came
and stood before me, presented the volume, folded her hands,
as I always require her to do, and commenced the repetition
of that short thing by Ch6nier, " La Jeune Captive." If you
had heard the manner in which she went through this, and
in which she uttered a few incoherent comments when she
had done, you would have knovm what I meant by the
phrase "unsettled hurry." One would have thought Ch^nier
was more moving than all Bacine and all Comeille. You,
brother, who have so much sagacity, vfill discern that this
disproportionate preference argues an ill- regulated mind;
but she is fortunate in a preceptress. 1 vrill give her a
system, a method of thought, a set of opinions ; I vrill give
her the perfect control and guidance of her feelings.'

' Be sure you do, Hortense : here she comes. That was
her shadow passed the window, I believe.'

' Ah ! truly. She is too early-^half an hour before her
time.-— My childi what brings you here beforfe I have break-
fasted?'

This question was addressed to an individual who now
entered the room, a young girl, wrapped in a winter mantle,
the folds of which were gathered vnth some grace round an
apparently slender figure.

' I came in haste to see how you were, Hortense, and
how Robert was, too. I was sure you would be both grieved
by what happened last night. I did not hear till tiiis morn-
ing : my uncle told me at breakfast.'

' Ah ! it is unspeakable. You sympathize with us ?
Your uncle sympathizes with us ? '

HOLLOW'S COTTAGE 69

' My uncle is very angry ; but he was with Eobert, I
believe : was he not ? Did he not go with you to Stilbro'
Moor?'

' Yes : we set out in very martial style, Caroline : but
the prisoners we went to rescue met us half-way.'

' Of course, nobody was hurt ? '

' Why, no ; only Joe Scott's wrists vrere a little galled
with being pinioned too tightly behind h^s back.'

' You were not there ? You were not with the waggons
when they were attacked ? '

' No : one seldom has the fortune to be present at occur-
rences at which one would particularly wish to assist.'

' Where are you going this morning ? I saw Murgatroyd
saddling your horse in the yard.'

' To Whinbury : it is market day.'

' Mr. Yorke is going too : I met him in his gig. Come
home with him.'

'Why?'

' Two are better than one, and nobody dishkes Mr.
Yorke ; at least, poor people do not dislike him.'

' Therefore he would be a protection to me, who am
hated?'

' Who are misunderstood : ' that, probably, is the word.
Shall you be late ? — Will he be late, cousin Hortense ? '

' It is too probable : he has often much business to
transact at Whinbury, Have you brought your exercise-
book, child ? '

' Yes. What time will you return, Eobert ? '

' I generally return at seven. Do you wish me to be at
home earlier ? '

' Try rather to be back by six. It is not absolutely dark
at six now ; but by seven daylight is quite gone.'

' And what danger" is to be apprehended, Caroline, when
daylight is gone ? What peril do you conceive comes as the
companion of darkness for me ? '

' I am not sure that I can define my fears ; but we all
have a certain anxiety at present about our friends, My

70 SHIELEY

uncle calls these times dangerous : he says, too, that mill-
owners are unpopular.'

' And I one of the most unpopular ? Is not that the
fact ? You are reluctant to speak out plainly, but at heart
you think me liable to Pearson's fate, who was shot at —
not, indeed, from behind a hedge, but in his own house,
through his staircase-window, as he was going to bed."

' Anne Pearson showed me the bullet in the chamber-
door,' remarked Caroline, gravely, as she folded her mantle,
and arranged it and her muflf on a side-table. ' You know,'
she continued, ' there is a hedge all the way along the road
from here to Whinbury, and there are the Meldhead planta-
tions to pass ; but you will be back by six — or before ? '

' Certainly he will,' affirmed Hor tense. ' And now, my
child, prepare yom: lessons for repetition, while I put the
peas to soak for the pur6e at dinner.'

With this direction, she left the room.

' You suspect I have many enemies, then, Caroline,' said
Mr. Moore ; ' and, doubtless, you know me to be destitute of
friends ? '

' Not destitute, Bobert. There is your sister, your
brother Louis — whom I have never seen — there is Mr.
Yorke, and there is my uncle ; besides, of course, many
more.'

Eobert smiled. ' You would be puzzled to name your
" many more," ' said he. ' But show me your exercise-book.
What extreme pains you take with the writing ! My sister,
I suppose, exacts this care : she wants to form you in all-
things after the model of a Flemish school-girl. What life
are you destined for, Caroline ? What will you do with your
French, drawing, and other accomplishments when they are
acquired ? '

' You may well say, when they are acquired ; for, as you
are aware, till Hortense began to teach me, I knew precious
little. As to the life I am destined for, I cannot tell : I
suppose, to keep my uncle's house, till ' she hesitated.

'Till what? Till he dies?'

HOLLOW'S CO^TTAOE 71

' No. How harsh to say that ! I never think of his
dying : he is only fifty-five. But till— in short, till events
offer other occupations for me."

' A remarkably vague prospect ! Are you content with
it?'

'I used to be, formerly. Children, you know, have
little reflection, or rather their reflections run on ideal
themes. There are moments now when I am not quite
satisfied.'

'Why?'

' I am making no money — earning nothing.'

' You come to the point, Lina ; you, too, then wish to
make money ? '

' I do : I should like an occupation ; and if I were a boy,
it would not be so difficult to find one. I see such an easy,
pleasant way of learning a business, and making my way in
life.'

' Go on : let us hear what way ? '

' I could be apprenticed to your trade — the cloth-trade :
I could learn it of you, as we are distant relations. I would
do the counting-house work, keep the books, and write the
letters, while you went to market. I know you greatly
desire to be rich, in order to pay your father's debts ; per-
haps I could help you to get rich.'

' Help me ? You should think of yourself.'

' I do think of myself ; but must one for ever think only
of oneself?'

' Of whom else do I think ? Of whom else dare I think ?
The poor ought to have no large sympathies ; it is their duty
to be narrow.'

' No, Eobert '

' Yes, Caroline. Poverty is necessarily selfish, contracted,
grovelling, anxious. Now and then a poor man's heart,
when certain beams and dews visit it, may swell like the
budding vegetation in yonder garden on this spring-day, may
feel ripe to evolve in foliage — perhaps blossom ; but he must
not encourage the pleasant impulse ; he must invoke

72 SHIELBY

Prudence to check it, with that frosty breath of hers, which
is as nipping as any north wind.'

' No cottage would be happy then.'

'When I speak of poverty, I do not so much mean the
natural, habitual poverty of the working-man, as the em-
barrassed penury of the man in debt; my grub-worm is
always a straitened, struggling, card- worn tradesman.'

' Cherish hope, not anxiety. Certain ideas have become
too fixed in your mind, it may be presumptuous to say it, but
I have the impression that there is something wrong in your
notions of the best means of attaining happiness : as there is
in ' Second hesitation. '

' I am aU ear, Caroline.'

' In — (courage ! let nle speak the truth) — in your manner
— mind, I say only manner— ix) theSe Yorkshire workpeople.'

' You have often wanted to tell me that, have you not? '

' Yes ; often — very often.'

' The faults of my manner are, I think, only negative. I
am not proud ; what has a man in my position to be proud of ?
I am only taciturn, phlegmatic, and joyless.'

' As if your living cloth-dressers were all machines like
your frames and shears : in your own house you seem
different.'

' To those in my own house I am no alien, which I am to
these English clowns. I might act the benevolent with them,
but acting is not my forte. I find them irrational, perverse ;
they hinder me when I long to hurry forward. In treating
them justly, I fulfil my whole duty towards them.'

'You don't expect them to love you, of course? '

' Nor wish it.'

' Ah ! ' said the monitress, shaking her head, and heaving
a deep sigh. With this ejaculation, indicative that she
perceived a screw to be loose somewhere, but that it was out
of her reach to set it right, she bent over her grammar, and
sought the rule and exercise for the day.

' I suppose I am not an affectionate man, Caroline ; the
attachment of a very few sufl&ces me.'

HOLLOW'S COTTAGE 73

' If you please, Eobert, will you mend me a pen or two
before you go ? '

' First let me rule your book, for you always contrive to
draw the lines aslant. . . . There now. . . . And
now for the pens : you like a fine one, I think ? '

' Such as you generally make for me and Hortense ; not
your own broad points.'

' If I were of Louis's calling, I might stay at home and
dedicate this morning to 'you and your studies : whereas I
must spend it in Sykes' wool-warehouse.'

' You will be making money.'

' More Ukely losing it.'

As he finished mending the pens, a horse, saddled and
bridled, was brought up to the garden-gate.

' There, Fred is ready for me ; I must ' go. I'll take one
look to see what the spring has done in the south border, too,
first.'

He quitted the room and weilt out into the garden -ground
behind the mill. A sweet f ringfe of young verdure and opening
flowers — snowdrop, crocus, even primrose — bloomed in the
sunshine under the hot wall of the factory. Moore plucked
here and there a blossom and leaf, till he had collected a
little bouquet ; he returned to the parlour, pilfered a thread
of silk from his sister's work-basket, tied the flowers, and laid
them on Caroline's desk.

' Now, good morning.'

' Thank you, Eobert : it is pretty ; it looks, as it lies there,
like sparkles of sunshine and blue sky : good-morning.'

He went to the door — stopped — opened his Ups as if to
speak — said nothing, and moved on. He passed through the
wicket, and mounted his horse : in a second he had flung
himself from the saddle again, transferred the reins to
Murgatroyd, and re-entered the cottage.

' I forgot my gloves,' he said, appearing to take some-
thing from the side-table ; then, as an impromptu thought, he
remarked, ' You have no binding engagement at home perhaps,
Caroline ? '

74 SHIELEY

' I never have : some children's socks, which Mrs.
Bamsdeu has ordered, to knit for the Jew-basket : but they
will keep.'

' Jew-basket be sold ! Never was utensil better

named. Anything more Jewish than it — its contents, and
their prices — cannot be conceived : but I see something, a very
tiny curl, at the corners of your lip, which tells me that you
know its merits as well as I do. Forget the Jew-basket, then,
and spend the day here as a change. Your uncle won't
break his heart at your absence ? '

She smiled.

'No.'

'The old Cossack! I daresay not,' muttered Moore.
' Then stay and dine with Hortense ; she will be glad of your
company ; I shall return in good time. We will have a little
reading in the evening : the moon rises at half -past eight,
and I will walk up to the Kectory with you at nine. Do you
agree ? '

She nodded her head ; and her eyes lit up.

Moore Ungered yet two minutes : he bent over Caroline's
desk and glanced at her grammar, he fingered her pen, ho
lifted her bouquet and played with it ; his horse stamped im-
patient ; Fred Murgatroyd hemmed and coughed at the gate,
as if he wondered what in the world his master was doing.
' Good morning,' again said Moore, and finally vanished.

Hortense, coming in ten minutes after, found, to her
surprise, that Caroline had not yet commenced her exercise.

CHAPTEE VI

CORIOLANUS

Mademoiselle Mooeb had that morning a somewhat absent-
minded pupil. Caroline forgot, again and again, the explana-
tions which were given to her ; however, she still bore with
unclouded mood the chidings her inattention brought upon
her. Sitting in the sunshine, near the window, she seemed
to receive with its warmth a kind influence, which made her
both happy and good. Thus disposed, she looked her best,
and her best was a pleasing vision.

To her had not been denied the gift of beauty ; it was not
absolutely necessary to know her in order to like her ; she
was fair enough to please, even at the first view. Her shape
suited her age, it was girUsh, light, and pliant ; every curve
was neat, every limb proportionate : her face was expressive
and gentle ; her eyes were handsome, and gifted at times vyith
a winning beam that stole into the heart, with a language
that spoke softly to the affections. Her mouth was very
pretty ; she had a delicate skin, and a fine flow of brown hair,
which she knew how to arrange with taste ; curls became her
and she possessed them in picturesque profusion. Her style
of dress announced taste in the wearer ; very unobtrusive in
fashion, far from costly in material, but suitable in colour to
the fair complexion with which it contrasted, and in make to
the slight form which it draped. Her present winter garb
was of merino, the same soft shade of brown as her hair ; the
little collar round her neck lay over a pink ribbon, and was
fastened with a pink knot : she wore no other decoration.

So much for Carolina Helstone's appearance ; as to her

76 SHIELEY

character or intellect, if she had any, they must speak for
themselves in due time.

Her connections are soon explained. She was the child
of parents separated soon after her birth, in consequence of
disagreement of disposition. Her mother was the half-sister
of Mr. Moore's father ; thus — though there was no mixture
of blood — she was, in a distant sense, the cousin of Eobert,
Louis, and Hortense. ' Her father was the brother of Mr.
Helstone — a man of the character friends desire not to recall,
after death has once settled all earthly accounts. He had
rendered his wife unhappy : the reports which were known
to be true concerning him, had given an air of probability to
those which were falsely circulated respecting his better-
principled brother. Caroline had never known her mother,
as she was taken from her in infancy, and had not since
seen her ; her father died comparatively young, and her
uncle, the Rector, had for some years been her sole guardian.
He was not, as we are aware, much adapted, either by
nature or habits, to have the charge of a young girl : he had
taken little trouble about her education ; probably, he would
have taken none if she, finding herself neglected, had not
grown anxious on her own account, and asked, every now
and then, for a little attention, and for the means of acquir-
ing such amount of knowledge as could not be dispensed
with. Still, she had a depressing feeling that she was
inferior, that her attainments were fewer than, were usually
possessed by girls of her age and, station; and very glad
was she to avail herself of the kind offer made by her cousin
Hortense, soon after the arrival of the latter at Hollow's-
-mill, to teach, her French and- fine needlework. Mdlle.
-Moore, for her part, deUghtedin the task, because it gave
-her importance ; she liked to lord it a little over a docile yet
quick pupil. She "took Caroline precisely at her own
estimate, as an irregularly-taught, even ignorant girl.; and
when she found that she made rapid and eager progress, it
was to no talent, no application in the scholar, she ascribed
the improvement, but entirely to her own superior method of

COEIOLANUS 77

teaching ; when she found that Caroline, unskilled in
routine, had a knowledge of her own— desultory but varied,
the discovery caused her no surprise, for she still imagined
that from her conversation had the girl unawares gleaned
these treasures: she thought it even when forced to feel
that her pupil knew much on subjects whereof she knew
little : the idea was not logical, but Hortense ha>d perfect
faith in it.

Mademoiselle, who prided herself on possessing 'uh
esprit positif,' and on entertaining a decided preference for
dry studies, kept her young cousin to' the same as closely as
she could. She worked her unrelentingly at the grammar
of the French language, assigning her, as the most im-
proving exercise she could devise, interminable ' analysed
logiques.' These ' analyses " were by; no mean's a source
of particular pleasure to Caroline ; she thought she could
have learned French just as well without them, and grudged
excessively the time spent in pondering over ' propositions
principales et incidentes ; ' in deciding the ' incidente deter-
minative,' and the ' incidente appUcative ; ' in examining
whether the proposition was 'plfeine,' ' elliptique,' or
' iiuplicite.' Sometimes she lost herself in the maze, and
when so lost, she would, now and then (while Hortense was
rummaging her drawers up-stairs, — an unaccountable
occupation in which she spent a large portion of each day,
arranging, disarranging, re-arranging and counter-arranging)
— carry her book to Eobert in the counting-house, and get
the rough place made smooth by his aid. Jilr. Moore
possessed a clear, tranquil brain of his own ; almost as soon
as he looked at Caroline's little difficulties they seemed to
dissolve beneath his eye : in two minutes he would explain
all — in two words give the key to the puzzle. She thought
if Hortense could only teach like hiirn, how much faster she
might learn I Bepaying him by an admiring and grateful
smile, rather shed at his feet than lifted to his face, she
would leave the mill reluctantly to go back to the cottage,
and then, while she completed the exercise, or worked out

78 SHIELEY

the sum (for Mdlle. Moore taught her arithmetic, too), she
would wish nature had made her a boy instead of a girl,
that she might ask Bobert to let her be his clerk, and sit
with him in the counting-house, instead of sitting with
Hortense in the parlour.

Occasionally — but this happened very rarely — she spent
the evening at Hollow's cottage. Sometimes during these
visits, Moore was away, attending a market ; sometimes
he was gone to Mr. Yorke's ; often he was engaged with a
male visitor in another room ; but sometimes, too, he was
at home, disengaged, free to talk with Carohne. When this
was the case, the evening hours passed on wings of Ught ;
they were gone before they were counted. There was no
room in England so pleasant as that small parlour when the
three cousins occupied it. Hortense, when she was not
teaching, or scolding, or cooking, was far from ill-humoured ;
it was her custom to relax towards evening, and to be kind
to her young English kinswoman. There was a means, too,
of rendering her delightful, by inducing her to take her
guitar and sing and play; she then became quite good-
natured ; and as she played with skill, and had a well-toned
voice, it was not disagreeable to listen to her : it would have
been absolutely agreeable, except that her formal and self-
important character modulated her strains, as it impressed
her manners and moulded her countenance.

Mr. Moore, released from the business-yoke, was, if not
Uvely himself, a willing spectator of Caroline's liveliness, a
complacent listener to her talk, a ready respondent to her
questions. He was something agreeable to sit near, to
hover round, to address and look at. Sometimes he was
better than this, — almost animated, quite gentle and
friendly.

The drawback was, that by the next morning he was
sure to be frozen up again ; and however much he seemed,
in his quiet way, to enjoy these social evenings, he rarely
contrived their recurrence. This circumstance puzzled the
inexperienced head of his cousin. 'If I had a means of

COEIOLANUS 79

happiness at my command,' she thought, ' 1 would employ
that means often ; I would keep it bright with use, and not
let it lie for weeks aside, till it gets rusty.'

Yet she was careful not to put in practice her own theory.
Much as she liked an evening visit to the cottage, she never
paid one unasked. Often, indeed, when pressed by Hortense
to come, she would refuse, because Eobert did not second, or
but slightly seconded the request. This morning was the
first time he had ever, of his own unprompted will, given
her an invitation ; and then he had spoken so kindly, that
in hearing him she had received a sense of happiness
sufficient to keep her glad for the whole day.

The morning passed as usual. Mademoiselle, ever
breathlessly busy, spent it in bustling from kitchen to
parlour — now scolding Sarah, now looking over Caroline's
exercise or hearing her repetition-lesson. However fault-
lessly these tasks were achieved, Mademoiselle never com-
mended : it was a maxim with her that praise is inconsistent
with a teacher's dignity, and that blame, in more or less
unqualified measure, is indispensable to it. She thought
incessant reprimand, severe or slight, quite necessary to the
maintenance of her authority ; and if no possible error was
to be found in the lesson, it was the pupil's carriage, or air,
or dress, or mien, which required correction.

The usual affray took place about the dinner, which meal,
when Sarah at last brought it into the room, she almost flung
upon the table, with a look that expressed quite plainly — ' I
never dished such stuff i' my life afore ; it's not fit for dogs.'
Notwithstanding Sarah's scorn, it was a savoury repast
enough. The soup was a sort of pur6e of dried peas, which
Mademoiselle had prepared amidst bitter lamentations that
in this desolate country of England no haricot beans were to
be had. Then came a dish of meat— nature unknovra, but
supposed to be miscellaneous — singularly chopped up with
crumbs of bread, seasoned uniquely though not unpleasantly,
and baked in a mould ; a queer, but by no means unpala-
table dish. Greens, oddly bruised, formed the accompanying

80 SHIRLEY

vegetable ; and a pS,t6 of fruit, conserved after a receipt
devised by Madame Gerard Moore's ' grand'mfere,' and from
the taste of vf hich it appeared probable that ' m61asse ' had
been substituted for sugar, completed the dinner.

Caroline had no objection to this Belgian cookery :
indeed, she rather liked it for a change, and it was well she
did so, for had she evinced any disrelish thereof, such
manifestation would have injured her in Mademoiselle's
good graces for ever ; a positive crime might have been
more easily pardoned than a symptom of distaste for the
foreign comestibles.

Soon after dinner CaroUne coaxed her governess-cousin
up-stairs to dress: this manoeuvre required management.
To have hinted that the jupon, camisole, and curl-papers
were odious objects, or'indeed oth6r than quite meritorious
points, would have been a felony. Any premature attempt
to urge their disappearance was therefore unwise, and would
be likely to issue in the persevering wear of them during the
whole day. CaJefully avoiding rocks' and quicksands, how-
ever, the piipU, on pretence of requiring a change of scene,
contrived to get the -teacher aloft, and, once in the bed-room,
she persuaded her that it was not worth whUe returning
thither, and that she might as weU make her toilette now ;
and while Mademoiselle deUvered a solemn homily on her
own surpassing merit in disregarding all frivohties of
fashion, Caroline denuded her of the camisole, invested her
with a decent gown, arranged her coUar, hair, &c., and
made her quite presentable. But Hortense would put the
finishing touches herself; and these finishing touches con-
sisted in a thick handkerchief tied round the throat, and a
large, servant-like black apron, which spoiled everything.
On no account would Mademoiselle have appeared in her
own house without the thick handkerchief and the volu-
minous apron : the first was a positive matter of morality —
it was quite improper not to wear a fichu ; the second was
the ensign of a good housewife — she appeared to think that
by means of it she somehow efifected a large saving in her

COBIOLANUS 81

brother's income; She had, with her avrn hands, made and
presented to Caroline similar equipments; and the bnly"
serious quarrel they had ever had, and which still left a
soreness in the elder cousin's soul, had ' arisen from the
refusal of the ydunger one to acceipt of and profit by these
elegant presents.

' I wear a high dress and a collar,' said Caroline, ' and I
should feel sufibeated with' a handkerchief in addition ; and
my short aprons do quite as well as that very long one : I
would rather make no change.' ' '

Yet Hortense, by diht of perseverance, would probably
have compelled 'her' to ma;ke a change,' had not Mr. Moore
chanced to overhear a dispute on 'the siibject, and decided
that Caroline's little api'oHs'wduld'SufSce, and that, in his
opinion; ■ as she was still bilf a child, she might fbr the
present dispense with the fichu, especially as her curls were
long, and almost touched her shoulders.

There was no appeal against Eobert's opinion, therefore
his sister was compelled to yield ; but she disapproved
entirely of the piquant neatness of Caroline's costume, and
the ladylike grace of her appearance : something more solid
and homely, she would have considered ' beaiicoup plus
convenable.'

The afternoon was devoted to sewing. Mademoiselle,
like most Belgian ladies, was specially skilful with her
needle. She by no means thought it waste of time to devote
unnumbered hours to fine embroidery, sight-destroying laoe-
work, marvellous netting and knitting, and, above all, to
most elaborate stocking-mending. She would give a day to
the mending of iwo holes in a stocking any time, and think
her ' mission ' nobly fulfilled when she had aocomphshed it.
It was another of Caroline's troubles to be condemned to
learn this foreign style of darning, which was done stitch by
stitch, so as exactly to imitate the fabric of the stocking
itself ; a wearifu' process, but considered by Hortense
G6rard, and by her ancestresses before her for long genera-
tions back, as one of the first ' duties of woman.' She her-

82 SHIELEY

self had had a needle, cotton, and a fearfully torn stocking
put into her hand while she yet wore a child's coif on her
little black head : her ' hauts f aits ' in the darning line had
been exhibited to company ere she was six years old, and
when she first discovered that CaroUne was profoundly
ignorant of this most essential of attainments, she could
have wept with pity over her miserably neglected youth.

No time did she lose in seeking up a hopeless pair of hose,
of which the heels were entirely gone, and in setting the
ignorant EngUsh girl to repair the deficiency : this task had
been commenced two years ago, and Caroline had the stock-
ings in her work-bag yet. She did a few rows every day, by
way of penance for the expiation of her sins : they were a
grievous burden to her ; she would much have liked to put
them in the fire ; and once Mr. Moore, who had observed
her sitting and sighing over them, had proposed a private
incremation in the counting-house, but to this proposal
Caroline knew it would have been impolitic to accede — the
result could only be a fresh pair of hose, probably in worse
condition : she adhered, therefore, to the ills she knew.

All the afternoon the two ladies sat and sewed, till the
eyes and fingers, and even the spirits of one of them were
weary. The sky since dinner had darkened ; it had begun
to rain again, to pour fast ; secret fears began to steal on
Caroline that Eobert would be persuaded by Mr. Sykes or
Mr. Yorke to remain at Whinbury till it cleared, and of that
there appeared no present chance. Five o'clock struck, and
time stole on ; still the clouds streamed : a sighing wind
whispered in the roof-trees of the cottage ; day seemed
already closing ; the parlour-fire shed on the clear hearth a
glow ruddy as at twilight.

' It will not be fair till the moon rises,' pronounced
Mademoiselle Moore ; ' consequently, I feel assured that my
brother will not return till then : indeed, I should be sorry
if he did. We will have coffee : it would be vain to wait for
him.'

' I am tired — may I leave my WOfk now, cousin ? '

COEIOLANUS 83

' You may, since it grows too dark to see to do it well.
Fold it up ; put it carefully in your bag ; then step into the
kitchen, and desire Sarah to bring in the goftter, or tea, as
j'ou call it.'

' But it has not yet struck six : he may still come.'

'He will not, I tell you. I can calculate his movements.
I understand my brother.'

Suspense is irksome, disappointment bitter. All the
world has, some time or other, felt that. Caroline, obedient
to orders, passed into the kitchen. Sarah was making a
dress for herself at the table.

' You are to bring in coffee,' said the young lady, in a
spiritless tone ; and then she leaned her arm and head
against the kitchen mantelpiece, and hung listlessly over the
fire.

' How low you seem, miss ! But it's all because your
cousin keeps you so close to work. It's a shame ! '

' Nothing of the kind, Sarah,' -was the brief reply.

' Oh ! but I know it is. You're fit to cry just this
minute, for nothing else but because you've sat still the
whole day. It would make a kitten dull to be mewed up so.'

' Sarah, does yotir master often come home early from
market when it is wet ? '

' Never, hardly ; but just to-day, for some reason, he has
made a difference.'

' What do you mean ? '

' He is come : I am certain I saw Murgatroyd lead his
horse into the yard by the back-way, when I went to get
some water at the pump five minutes since. He was in the
counting-house with Joe Scott, I believe.'

' You are mistaken.'

'What should I be mistaken for? I know his horse
surely ? '

' But you did not see himself ? '

' I heard him speak, though. He was saying something
to Joe Scott about having settled all concerning ways and
fpeans, and that there woul4 be a new set of frames in the

84 SHIELBY

mill before another week passed ; and that this time he
would get four soldiers from StUbro' barracks to guard the
waggon.'

' Sarah, are. you making a gown? '

' Yes : is it a handsome one ? '

' Beautiful ! Get the coiEfee ready. I'll finish cutting
out that sleeve for you ; and I'll give you some trimming
for it, I have some narrow satin ribbon of a colour that
vnll ]ust match.'

' You're very kind, miss.'

' Be quick, there's a good girl ; but first put your master's
shoes on the bearth : , he wiU take his boots off when he
coines iri.' ' 1 hear him' — he is coming.'

' Miss ! you're cutting the stuff wrong.'

' So I am ; but it is only a snip : there is no harm done.'

The kitchen-door ppened ; Mir. Moore entered, very wet
and cold. Caroline haK-turned from her dressmaking occu-
pation, but renewed it for a moment, as if to gain a minute's
time for some purpose. Bent over the dress, her face was
hidden ; there was an attempt to settle her features and veil
their expression, which failed : when she at last met Mr.
Moore, her countenance beamed.

' We had ceased to expect you : they asserted you would
not come,' she said.

' But I promised to return soon : you expected me, I
supppse ? '

' No, Bobert : I dared not when it rained so fast. And
you are wet and chilled — change everything : if you took
cold, I should — we should blame ourselves in some measure.'

' I am not wet through : my riding-coat is water-proof.
Dry shoes are all I require. — There .... the fire is pleasant
after facing the cold wind and rain for a few miles.'

He stood on the kitchen-hearth ; Caroline stood beside
hina. Mr. Moore, while enjoying the genial glow, kept his
eyes directed towards the glittering brasses on the shelf
above. Chancing for an instant to look down, his glance
rested on an uplifted face, flushed, smiling, happy, shaded

COEIOLANUS 86

with silky curls, lit with fine eyes. Sarah was gone into the
parlour with the tray : a lecture from her mistress deta,ined
her there. Moore placed his hand a moment on his young
cousin's shoulder, stooped, and left a kiss on her forehead.

' Oh ! ' said she, as if the action had unsealed her lips,
' I was miserable when I thought you would not come : I
am almost too happy now 1 Are you happy, Eobert ? Do
you Uke to come home ? '

' I think I do ; to-night, at least.'

' Are you certain you are not fretting about your frames,
HJid your business, and the war ? '

' Not just now.'

' Are you positive you don't feel Hollow's cottage too
small for you, and narrow and dismal ? '

' At this moment, no.'

' Can you afiBrm that you are not bitter at heart because
rich and great people forget you ? '

' No more questions. You are mistaken if you think I
am anxious to curry favour with rich and great people. I
only want means — a position — a career.'

' Which your own talent and goodness shall win you.
You were made to be great — you sJmU be great.'

' I wonder now, if you spoke honestly out of your heart,
what receipt you would give me for acquiring this same
greatness ; but I know it— better than you know it yourself.
Would it be efficacious? would it work? Yes— poverty,
misery, bankruptcy. Ohl life is not what you think it,
Lina ! '

' But you are what I think you.'

' I am not.'

' You are better, then ? '

' Par worse.'

' No ; far bettei?. I know you are good.'

' How do you know it ? '

• You look so ; and I feel you are so.'

' Where do you feel it ? '

' In my heart.'

86 SfilBLEY

' Ah ! you judge me with your heajrt, Lina : you should
judge me with your head.'

' I do ; and then I am quite proud of you. Eobert, you
cannot tell all my thoughts about you.'

Mr. Moore's dark face mustered colour ; his lips smiled,
and yet were compressed ; his eyes laughed, and yet he
resolutely knit his brow.

' Think meanly of me, Lina,' said he. ' Men, in general,
are a sort of scum, very different to anything of which you
have an idea ; I make no pretension to be better than my
fellows.'

' If you did, I should not esteem you so much ; it is
because you are modest that I have such confidence in your
merit.'

' Are you flattering me ? ' he demanded, turning sharply
upon her, and searching her face with an eye of acute pene-
tration.

' No,' she said, softly, laughing at his sudden quickness.
She seemed to think it unnecessary to proffer any eager
disavowal of the charge.

' You don't care whether I think you flatter me or
not?'

'No.'

' You are so secure of your own intentions ? '

' I suppose so.'

' What are they, Caroline ? '

' Only to ease my mind by expressing for once part of
what I think ; and then to make you better satisfied with
yourself.'

'By assuring me that my kinswoman is my sincere
friend?"

' Just so ; I am your sincere friend, Eobert.'

'And I am — what chance and change shall make me,
Lina.'

' Not my enemy, however ? '

The answer was cut short by Sarah and her mistress
entering the kitchen together in some commotion. They

COEIOLANUS 87

had been improving the time which Mr. Moore and Miss
Helstone had spent in dialogue by a short dispute on the
subject of ' caf6 au lait,' which Sarah said was the queerest
mess she ever saw, and a waste of God's good gifts, as it was
' the nature of coffee to be boiled in water ; ' and which
Mademoiselle affirmed to be ' un breuvage royal,' a thousand
times too good for the mean person who objected to it.

The former occupants of the kitchen now withdrew into
the parlour. Before Hortense followed them thither,
Caroline had only time again to question, ' Not my enemy,
Eobert ? ' And Moore, quaker-like, had replied with another
query, ' Could I be ? ' and then, seating himself at the table,
had settled Caroline at his side.

Caroline scarcely heard Mademoiselle's explosion of
wrath when she rejoined them ; the long declamation about
the ' conduite indigne de cette mdchante creature,' sounded
in her ear as confusedly as the agitated rattling of the china.
Eobert laughed a httle at it, in very subdued sort, and then,
politely and calmly entreating his sister to be tranquil,
assured her that if it would yield her any satisfaction, she
should have her choice of an attendant amongst all the girls
in his mill ; only he feared they would scarcely suit her, as
they were most of them, he was informed, completely
ignorant of household work : and pert and self-willed as
Sarah was, she was, perhaps, no worse than the majority of
the women of her class.

Mademoiselle admitted the truth of this , conjecture :
according to her, • ces paysannes Anglaises 6taient tout in-
supportables.' What would she not give for some ' bonne
cuisinfere Anversoise,' with the high cap, short petticoat,
and decent sabots proper to her class : something better,
indeed, than an insolent coquette in a flounced gown, and
absolutely without cap ! (for Sarah, it appears, did not par-
take the opinion of St. Paul, that ' it is a shame for a woman
to go with her head uncovered ; ' but, holding rather a
contrary doctrine, resolutely refused to imprison in linen or
muslin the plentiful tresses of her yellow hair, which it was

88 SHIRLEY

her wont to fasten up smartly with a comb behind, an3 on
Sundays to weat curled in front).

' Shall I try and get you an Antwerp girl? ' asked Mr.
Moore, who — stem in public —was on the whole very kind
in private.

• ' Meroi du cadeau I ' was the answer. ' An Antwerp girl
would not stay here ten days, sneered at as she would be by
all the young coquines in your factory ; ' then softening,
' You are very good, dear brother-— excuse my petulance—-
but, truly my domestic trials are severe, yet they are pro-
bably my destiny ; for I recollect that our revered mother
experienced similar sufferings, though she had the choice of
all the best servants in Antwerp; domestics are in all countries
a spoiled and unruly set."

Mr. Moore had also certain reminiscences about the
trials of his revered mother. A good mother she had been
to him, and he honoured her memory, but he recollected
that she kept a hot kitchen of it in Antwerp, just as his
faithful sister did here in England. Thus, therefore,
he let the subject drop, and when the coffee service was
removed, proceeded to console Hortense by fetching her
music-book and guitar ; and having arranged the ribbon of
the instrument round her neck with a quiet fraternal kindness
he knew to be all-powerful in soothing her most ruffled
moods, he asked her to give him some of their mother's
favourite songs.

Nothing refines like affection. Family jarring vulgarizes
-^family union elevates. Hortense, pleased with her brother,
and grateful to him, looked, as she touched her guitar, almost
graceful, almost handsome ; her every-day fretful look was
gone for a moment, and was replaced by a ' sourire plein de
bont6.' She sang the songs he asked for, with feeling ; they
reminded her of a parent to whom she had been truly
attached; they reminded her of her young days. She
observed, too, that Caroline listened with naive interest ;
this augmented her good-humour; and the exclamation at
the close of the song, ' I wish I could sing and play like

COfilOLAHUS 89

Hortense ! ' achieved the business, and rendered her charm-
ing for the evening.

It is true, a little lecture to Caroline followed, on the
vanity of wishing and the duty of trying. ' As Eome,' it
was suggested, 'had not been built in a day, so neither had
Mademoiselle G6rard Moore's education been completed in a
week, or by merely wishing to be clever.' It was effort that
had accomphshed that great work : she was ever remarkable
for her perseverance, for her industry; her masters had
remarked that it was as delightful as' it was uncommon to
find so much talent united 'with so much solidity, and so
on.' Once on the theme of her own merits, Mademoiselle
was fluent.

Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took her

knitting, and sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a clear

fire, a softly shining lamp, gave now to the httle; parlour its

' best — its evening charm. It is probable that the three there

present felt this charm : they, all looked happy.

' What shall we do now, Caroline ? ' asked Mr. Moore,
returning to his seat bedde his' cousin.

' What shall we do, Eobert ? ' repeated she playfully.
' You decide.'
. ' Not play at chess ? '

'No.'

' Nor draughts, nor baqkgapamon? '

' No — no ; we both hate silent games that only keep one's
hands employed, don't we ?.'

' I beheve we do ; then, shall we talt scandal ? '

''About whom? Are we sufiBciently interested in any-
body to take a pleasure in pulling their character to pieces ? '

' A question that comes to the point. For my part —
unamiable as it, sounds — I must say, no.'

'And I, too. But it is strange — though we want no
third — fourth, I mean (she hastily and with contrition
glanced at Hortense),. living person among us— so selfish
we are in our happiness — though we don't want to think of
the present existing world, it would be pleasant to go back

90 SHIBLEY

to the past ; to hear people that have slept for generations
in graves that are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens
and fields, speak to us and tell us their thoughts, and impart
their ideas.'

' Who shall be the speaker ? What language shall he
utter? French?'

' Your French forefathers don't speak so sweetly, nor so
solemnly, nor so impressively as your Enghsh ancestors,
Eobert. To-night you shall be entirely English : you shall
read an English book.'

' An old EngUsh book ? '

' Yes, an old English book, one that you like ; and I will
choose a part of it that is toned quite in harmony with some-
thing in you. It shaU waken your nature, fill your mind
with music ; it shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart,
and make its strings sound. Your heart is a lyre, Eobert ;
but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep it,
and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and
touch it : you will see how he will draw the EngUsh power
and melody out of its chords.'

' I must read Shakspeare ? '

' You must have his spirit before you : you must ear his
voice Vfith your mind's ear ; you must take some of his soul
into yours.'

' With a view to making me better ; is it to operate like a
sermon ? '

' It is to stir you ; to give you new sensations. It is to
make you feel your life strongly, not only your virtues, but
your vicious, perverse points.'

' Dieu ! que dit-eUe ? ' cried Hortense, who hitherto had
been counting stitches in her knitting, and had not much
attended to what was said, but whose ear these two strong
words caught with a tweak.

' Never mind her, sister : let her talk ; now just let her
say anything she pleases to-night. She likes to come down
hard upon your brother sometimes ; it amuses me, so let her
alone.'

COEIOLANUS 91

Caroline, who, mounted on a chair, had been rummaging
the book-case, returned with a book.

'Here's Shakspeare,' she said, 'and there's Coriolanus.
Now read, and discover by the feelings the reading will give
you at once how low and how high you are.'

' Come then, sit near me, and correct when I mispro-
nounce.'

' I am to be the teacher then, and you my pupil ? '

' Ainsi soit-il ! '

' And Shakspeare is our science, since we are going to
study?'

' It appears so.'

' And you are not going to be French, and sceptical, and
sneering ? You are not going to think it a sign of wisdom to
refuse to admire ? '

' I don't know.'

' If you do, Eobert, I'll take Shakspeare away ; and I'll
shrivel up within myself, and put on my bonnet and go
home.'

' Sit down ; here I begin.'

' One minute, if you please, brother,' interrupted Made-
moiselle : ' when the gentleman of a family reads, the ladies
should alwayssew. Caroline,dear child, take your embroidery;
you may get three sprigs done to-night.'

Caroline looked dismayed. ' I can't see by lamp-light ;
my eyes are tired, and I can't do two things well at once.
If I sew, I cannot listen ; if I listen, I cannot sew.'

' Pi, done ! Quel enfantillage ! ' began Hortense. Mr.
Moore, as usual, suavely interposed.

' Permit her to neglect the embroidery for this evening.
I wish her whole attention to be fixed on my accent, and to
ensure this, she must follow the reading with her eyes ; she
must look at the book.'

He placed it between them, reposed his arm on the back
of Caroline's chair, and thus began to read.

The very first scene in ' Coriolanus ' came with smart
relish to i^s intellectual palate, apd still a,^ he reftd b^

92 SHIRLEY

warmedi He delivered the haughty speech of CaiusiMarcius
to the starving citizens with unction ; he did not say he
thought his irrational pride right, but he seemed to feel it so.
Caroline looked up at him with a singular: snliile.

' There's a Vicious point i hit already,' she said ; ' you
sympathize with that proud patrician who does not sym-
pathize with his famished feUow-men, and insults them :
there, go on.' He proceeded- The warlike portions did not
rouse him much ; he said all that was out of date, or should
be ; the spirit displayed was barbarous, yet. the encounter
single-handed between Marcius and TuUus Aufidius, he
delighted in. As he advanced, he forgot to criticise ; it was
evident he appreciated the power, the truth of each portion ;
and, stepping out of the narrow Une of private prejudices,
began to revel in the large picture of human nature, to feel
the reality stamped upon the characters who were speaking
from that page before him.

He did not read the comic scenes well, and Caroline,
taking the book out of his hand, read these parts for him.
Erom her he seemed to enjoy them, and indeed she gave
them with a spirit no one could have expected of her, with a
pithy expression with which she seemed gifted on the spot, and
for that brief moment only. It may be remarked, in passing,
that the general character of her conversation that evening,
whether serious or sprightly, grave or gay, was as of some-
thing untaught, unstudied, intuitive, fitful ; when once gone,
no more to be reproduced as it had been, than the glancing
ray of the meteor, than the tints of the dew-gem, than the
colour or form of the sun-set cloud, than the fleeting and
guttering ripple varying the flow of a rivulet.

Coriolanus in glory ; Coriolanus in disaster ; Coriolanus
banished, followed Uke giant-shades one after the other.
Before the vision of the banished man, Moore's spirit seemed
to pause. He stood on the hearth of Aufidius' s hall, facing
the image of greatness fallen, but greater than ever in that
low estate. He saw ' the grim appearance,' the dark face
' bearing command in it,' ' the noble vessel with its tackle

COEIOLANUS 93

torn.' With the revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly
sympathized ; he was not scandalized by it ; and again
Caroline whispered, ' There I see another ghmpse of brother-
hood in error.' ,

The march on Eome, the mother's supplication, the long
resistance, the final yielding of bad passions to good, which
ever must be the case in a nature worthy the epithet of noble,
the rage of Aufidius at what he considered his ally's weak-
ness, the death of Coriolanus, the final sorrow of his great
enemy ; all scenes made of condensed truth and strength, came
on in succession, and carried with them in their deep, fast
flow, the heart and mind of reader and listener.

' Now, have you felt Shakspeare ? ' asked Caroline, some
ten minutes after her cousin had closed the book.
' I think so.'

' And have you felt anything in Coriolanus like you ? '
' Perhaps I have.'

' Was he not faulty as well as great ? '
Moore nodded.

' And what was his fault ? What made him hated by the
citizens ? What caused him to be banished by his country-
men ? '

' What do you think it was ? '
' I ask again —

Whether 'twas pride.
Which out of daily fortune ever taints
The happy man ? whether detect of judgment,
To fail in the disposing of those chances
Which he was lord of ? or whether nature,
Not to be other than one thing, not moving
From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace
Even with the same austerity and garb
As he controlled the war ? '

' Well, answer yourself. Sphinx.'

' It was a spice of all : and you must not be proud to
your workpeople ; you must not neglect chances of soothing
them, and you must not be of an inflexible nature, uttering
a request as austerely as if it were a command.'

94 SHIRLEY

' That is the moral yoii tack to the play. What puts such
notions into your head ? '

' A wish for your good, a care for your safety, dear Eobert,
and a fear caused by many things which I have heard lately,
that you will come to harm.'

' Who tells you these things ? '

' I hear my uncle talk about you : he praises your hard
spirit, your determined cast of mind, your scorn of low
enemies, your resolution not " to truckle to the mob," as he
says.'

■ And would you have me truckle to them ?

' No, not for the world : I never wish you to lower your-
self ; but somehow, I cannot help thinking it unjust to include
all poor working people under the general and insulting
name of "the mob," and continually to think of them and
treat them haughtily.'

' You are a little democrat, Caroline : if your uncle knew,
what would he say ? '

' I rarely talk to my uncle, as you know, and never
about such things : he thinks everything but sewing and
cooking above women's comprehension, and out of their
line.'

' And do you fancy you comprehend the subjects on
which you advise me ? '

' As far as they concern you, I comprehend them. I know
it would be better for you to be loved by your workpeople than
to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is more likely
to win their regard than pride. If you were proud and cold
to me and Hortense, should we love you ? When you are
cold to me, as you are sometimes, can I venture to be affec
tionate in return ? '

' Now, Lina, I've had my lesson both in languages and
ethics, vrith a touch on politics ; it is your turn. Hortense
tells me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you
learned the other day, a piece by poor Andr6 Ch^nier — " La
Jeune Captive ; " do you remember it still ? '

' I think so.'

CORIOLANUS 95

' Bepeat it, then. Take your time and mind your accent ;
especially let's have no English u's.'

Caroline, beginning in a low, rather tremulous voice, but
gaining courage as she proceeded, repeated the sweet verses
of Ch6nier ; the last three stanzas she rehearsed well :

Mon beau voyage encore est si loin de sa fin t
Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemin

J'ai pass6 les premiers k peine.
Au banquet de la vie a peine commencS,
Un instant seulement mes l^vres ont press^

La coupe en mes mains encor pleine.

Je ne suis qu'au printemps — je veux voir la moisson ;
Et comme le soleil, de eaison en saison,

Je veux achever mon aim^e.
Brillante sur ma tige et I'bonneur du jardin,
Je n'ai vu luire encor que les feux du matin —

Je veux achever ma journ£e I

Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, but soon
he furtively raised them : leaning back in his chair, he could
watch Caroline without her perceiving where his gaze was
fixed. Her cheek had a colour, her eyes a light, her counten-
ance an expression, this evening, which would have made even
plain features striking ; but there was not the grievous defect
of plainness to pardon in her case. The sunshine was not
shed on rough barrenness ; it fell on soft bloom. Each linea-
ment was turned with grace ; the whole aspect was pleasing.
At the present moment —animated, interested, touched — she
might be called beautiful. Such a face was calculated to
awaken not only the calm sentiment of esteem, the distant
one of admiration ; but some feeling more tender, genial,
intimate : friendship, perhaps— affection, interest. When
she had finished, she turned to Moore and met his eye.

' Is that pretty well repeated ? ' she inquired, smiling like
any happy, docile child.

' I really don't know.'

' Why don't you know ? Have you not listened ? '

96 SHIELEY

' Yes — and looked. You are fond of poetry, Lina ? '

' When I meet with real poetry, I cannot rest till I have
learned it by heart, and so made it partly mine.'

Mr. Moore now sat silent for several minutes. It struck
nine o'clock : Sarah entered, and said that Mr. Helstone's
servant was come for Miss Caroline.

' Then the evening is gone already,' she observed ; ' and
it will be long, t suppose, before I pass, another here.'

Hortense had been for some time nodding over her
knitting ; falling into a doze now, she made no response to
the remark.

' You would have no objection to come here oftener of an
evening ? ' inquired Kobert, as he took her folded mantle from
the side-table, where it still lay, and carefully vyrapped it
round her.

' I like to come here : but I have no desire to be intrusive.
I am not hinting to be asked : you must understand that.'

' Oh ! I understand thee, child. You sometimes lecture
me for wishing to be rich, Lina ; but if I were rich, you
should live here always : at any rate, you should live with
me wherever my habitation might be.'

' That would be pleasant ; and if you were poor — ever so
poor — it would still be pleasant. Good-night, Kobert.'

' I promised to walk with you up to the Eectory.'

' I know you did ; but I thought you had forgotten, and
I hardly knew how to remind you, though I wished to do it.
But would you like to go ? It is a cold night ; and, as Fanny
is come, there is no necessity '

' Here is your muff — don't wake Hortense — come.'

The half-mile to the Eectory was soon traversed. They
parted in the garden without kiss, scarcely with a pressure
of hands : yet Eobert sent his cousin in excited and joyously
troubled. He had been singularly kind to her that day : not
in phrase, compliment, profession ; but in manner, in look,
and in soft and friendly tones.

For himself he came home gravej almost morose. As he
stood leaning on his own yard-gate, musing in the watery

COEIOLANUS 97

moonlight, all alone — the hushed, dark mill before him, the
hill-environed hollow round — he exclaimed, abruptly : ' This
won't do ! There's weakness — there's downright ruin in all
this. However,' he added, dropping his voice, ' the frenzy
is quite temporary. I know it very well : I have had it
before. It vsrill be gone to-morrow.'

CHAPTER VII

THE CUBATES AT TEA

Caboline Helbtone was just eighteen years old ; and at
eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to be commenced.
Before that time we sit listening to a tale, a marvellous
iiction ; delightful sometimes, and sad sometimes ; almost
always unreal. Before that time, our world is heroic ; its
inhabitants half-divine or semi-demon ; its scenes are dream
scenes : darker woods and stranger hills ; brighter skies,
more dangerous waters; sweeter flowers, more tempting
fruits ; wider plains, drearier deserts, sunnier fields than are
found in nature, overspread our enchanted globe. What a
moon we gaze on before that time ! How the trembling of
our hearts at her aspect bears witness to its unutterable
beauty ! As to our sun, it is a burning heaven — the world
of gods.

At that time — at eighteen, drawing near the confines of
illusive, void dreams. Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of
Eeahty rise in front. These shores are yet distant : they
look so blue, soft, gentle, we long to reach them. In sun-
shine we see a greenness beneath the azure, as of spring
meadows ; we catch glimpses of silver lines, and imagine
the roll of Uving waters. Could we but reach this land, we
think to hunger and thirst no more ; whereas many a
wilderness, and often the flood of Death, or some stream of
sorrow as cold and almost as black as Death, is to be crossed
ere true bliss can be tasted. Every joy that life gives must
be earned ere it is secured ; and how hardly earned, those

THE CUEATES AT TEA 99

only know who have wrestled for great prizes. The heart's
blood must gem with red beads the brow of the combatant,
before the wreath of victory rustles over it.

At eighteen, we are not aware of this. Hope, when she
smiles on us, and promises happiness to-morrow, is implicitly
believed ; — Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel
to our door, is at once admitted, welcomed, embraced : his
quiver is not seen ; if his arrows penetrate, their wound is
like a thriU of new life : there are no fears of poison, none
of the barb which no leech's hand can extract : that perilous
passion — an agony ever in some of its phases ; with many,
an agony throughout — is believed to be an unqualified good :
in short, at eighteen, the school of Experience is to be
entered, and her humbling, crushing, grinding, but yet
purifying and invigorating lessons are yet to be learnt.

Alas, Experience ! No other mentor has so wasted and
frozen a face as yours : none wears a robe so black, none
bears a rod so heavy, none with hand so inexorable draws
the novice so sternly to his task, and forces him with
authority so resistless to its acquirement. It is by your
instructions alone that man or woman can ever find a safe
track through life's wilds : without it, how they stumble,
how they stray ! On what forbidden grounds do they
intrude, down what dread declivities are they hurled !

Caroline, having been convoyed home by Eobert, had no
wish to pass what remained of the evening with her uncle :
the room in which he sat was very sacred ground to her ;
she seldom intruded on it, and to-night she kept aloof till
the bell rang for prayers. Part of the evening church
service was the form of worship observed in Mr. Helstone's
household : he read it in his usual nasal voice, clear, loud,
and monotonous. The rite over, his niece, according to her
wont, stepped up to him.

'Good-night, uncle.'

' Hey ! You've been gadding abroad all day — visiting,
dining out, and what not 1 '

' Only at the cottage.'

100 SHIELEY

' And have you learnt your lessons ? '

'Yes.'

* And made a shirt ? '

' Only part of one.'

' "Well, that will do : stick to the needle — learn shirt-
making and gown-making, and pie-crust-making, and you'll
be a clever woman some day. Go to bed now ; I'm busy
with a pamphlet here.'

Presently the niece was enclosed in her small bed-room ;
the door bolted, her white dressing-gown assumed, her
long hair loosened and falling thick, soft, and wavy to her
waist ; and as, resting from the task of combing it out, she
leaned her cheek on her hand and fixed her eyes on the
carpet, before her rose, and close around her drew, the
visions we see at eighteen years.

Her thoughts were speaking with her : speaking
pleasantly, as it seemed, for she smiled as she listened. She
looked pretty, meditating thus : but a brighter thing than
she was in that apartment — the spirit of youthful Hope.
According to this flattering prophet, she was to know disap-
pointment, to feel chill no more : she had entered on the
dawn of a summer day — no false davra, but the true spring
of morning — and her sun would quickly rise. Impossible
for her now to suspect that she was the sport of delusion :
her expectations seemed warranted, the foundation on which
they rested appeared solid.

' When people love, the next step is they marry,' was
her argument. ' Now, I love Eobert, and I feel sure that
Eobert loves me : I have thought so many a time before ;
to-day I felt it. When I looked up at him' after repeating
Ch6nier's poem, his eyes (what handsome eyes he has !) sent
the truth through my' heart. Sometimes I am afraid to
speak to him, lest I should be too frank, lest I should seem
forward : for I have more than once regretted bitterly,
overflowing, superfluous words, and feared I had said more
than he expected me to say, and that he would disapprove
what he might deem my indiscretion ; now, to-night, I could

THE CUBATES AT TEA 101

have ventured to express any thought, he was so indulgent.
How kind he was, as we walked up the lane 1 He does not
flatter or say foolish things ; his love-making (friendship, I
mean : of course I don't yet account him my lover, but I
hope he will be so some day) is not Uke what we read of in
books — it is far better — original, quiet, manly, sincere. I do
like him : I would be an excellent wife to him if he did
marry me : I would tell him of his faults (for he has a few
faults), but I would study his comfort, and cherish him, and
do my best to make him happy. Now, I am sure he will
not be cold to-morrow : I feel almost certain that to-morrow
evening he will either come here, or ask me to go there.'

She recommenced combing her hair, long as a mermaid's ;
turning her head, as she arranged it, she saw her own face
and form in the glass. Such reflections are soberizing to
plain people : their own eyes are not enchanted with the
image ; they are confident then that the eyes of others can
see in it no fascination ; but the fair must naturally draw
other conclusions : the picture is charming, and must charm.
Caroline saw a shape, a head that, daguerreotyped in that
attitude and with that expression, would have been lovely :
she could not choose but derive from the spectacle confirma-
tion to her hopes : it was then in undiminished gladness she
sought her couch.

And in undiminished gladness she rose the next day : as
she entered her uncle's breakfast-room, and with soft cheer-
fulness wished him good morning, even that little man of
bronze himself thought, for an instant, his niece was growing
' a fine girl.' Generally she was quiet and timid with him :
very docile, but not communicative ; this morning, however,
she found many things to say. Slight topics alone might
be discussed between them ; for with a woman — a girl —
Mr. Helstone would touch on no other. She had taken an
early walk in the garden, and she told him what flowers
were beginning to spring there ;' she '■ inquired when the
gardener was to come and trim the borders ; she informed
him that certain starlings were beginning to build their

102 SHIELEY

nests in the church-tower (Briarfield church was close to
Briarfield rectory) ; she wondered the tolling of the bells in
the belfry did not scare them.

Mr. Helstone opined that ' they were like other fools who
had just paired ; insensible to inconvenience just for the
moment.' Caroline, made perhaps a little too courageous
by her temporary good spirits, here hazarded a remark of a
kind she had never before ventured to make on observations
dropped by her revered relative.

' Uncle,' said she, ' whenever you speak of marriage, you
speak of it scornfully : do you think people shouldn't
marry ? '

' It is decidedly the wisest plan to remain single, especially
for women.'

' Are all marriages unhappy ? '

' Millions of marriages are unhappy : if everybody con-
fessed the truth, perhaps all are more or less so.'

' You are always vexed when you are asked to come and
marry a couple — why ? '

' Because one does not like to act as accessory to the
commission of a piece of piu:e folly.'

Mr. Helstone spoke so readily, he seemed rather glad of
the opportunity to give his niece a piece of his mind on this
point. Emboldened by the impunity which had hitherto
attended her questions, she went a little further.

' But why,' said she, ' should it be pure folly ? If two
people like each other, why shouldn't they consent to live
together ? '

' They tire of each other — they tire of each other in a
month. A yokefellow is not a companion ; he or she is a
fellow-sufferer.'

It was by no means naive simplicity which inspired
Caroline's next remark : it was a sense of antipathy to such
opinions, and of displeasure at him who held them.

' One would think you had never been married, uncle :
one would think you were an old bachelor.'

' Practically, I am so.'

THE CURATES AT TEA 103

' But you have been married. Why were you so incon-
sistent as to marry ? '

' Every man is mad once or twice in his life."

' So you tired of my aunt, and my aunt of you, and you
were miserable together ? '

Mr. Helstone pushed out his cynical lip, wrinkled hia
brown forehead, and gave an inarticulate grunt.

' Did she not suit you ? Was she not good-tempered ?
Did you not get used to her ? Were you not sorry when she
died ! •

' Carpline,' said Mr. Helstone, bringing his hand slowly
down to within an inch or two of the table, and then smiting
it suddenly on the mahogany, ' understand this : it is vulgar
and puerile to confound generals with particulars : in every
case, there is the rule, and there are the exceptions. Your
questions are stupid and babyish. Bing the bell, if you have
done breakfast.'

The breakfast was taken away, and that meal over, it was
the general custom of uncle and niece to separate, and not
to meet again till dinner ; but to-day the niece, instead of
quitting the room, went to the window-seat, and sat down
there. Mr. Helstone looked round uneasily once or twice,
as if he wished her away, but she was gazing from the window,
and did not seem to mind him ; so he continued the perusal
of his morning paper^a particularly interesting one it
chanced to be, as new movements had just taken place in
the Peninsula, and certain columns of the journal were rich
in long despatches from General Lord Wellington. He little
knew, meantime, what thoughts were busy in his niece's
mind — thoughts the conversation of the past half-hour had
revived, but not generated ; tumultuous were they now, as
disturbed bees in a hive, but it was years since they had first
made their cells in her brain.

She was reviewing his character, his disposition, repeat-
ing his sentiments on marriage. Many a time had she
reviewed them before, and sounded the gulf between her own
mind and his ; and then, on the other side of the wide and

104 SHIRLEY

deep chasm, she had seen, and she now saw, another figure
standing beside her uncle's — a strange shape : dim, sinister,
scarcely earthly ; the half -remembered image of her own
father, James Helstone, Matthewson Helstone's brother.

Eumours had reached her ear of what that father's
character was ; old servants had dropped hints : she knew,
too, that he was not a good man, and that he was never
Mnd to her. She recollected — a dark recollection it was —
some weeks that she had spent with him in a great town
somewhere, when she had had no maid to dress her or take
care of her ; when she had been shut up, day and night, in a
high garret-room, without a carpet, with a bare uncurtained
bed, and scarcely any other furniture ; when he went out
early every morning, and often forgot to return and give her
her dinner during the day, and at night, when he came back,
was like a madman, furious, terrible ; or — still more painful
— like an idiot, imbecile, senseless. She knew she had
fallen ill in this place, and that one night when she was
very sick, he had come raving into the room, and said he
would kill her, for she was a burden to him ; her screams
had brought aid, and from the moment she was then rescued
from him she had never seen him, except as a dead man in
his coffin.

That was her father : also she had a mother ; though
Mr. Helstone never spoke to her of that mother ; though
she could not remember having seen her : but that she was
alive she knew. This mother was then the drunkard's wife :
what had their marriage been ? OaroUne, turning from the
lattice whence she had been watching the starlings (though
without seeing them), in a low voice, and with a sad bitter
tone, thus broke the silence of the room : — ' You term
marriage miserable, I suppose, from what you saw of my
father and mother's. If my mother suffered what I suffered
when I was with papa, she must have had a dreadful life.'

Mr. Helstone, thus addressed, wheeled about in his chair,
and looked over his spectacles at his niece : he was taken aback.

Her father and mother 1 What had put it into her head

THE CUEATES AT TEA 105

to mention her father and mother, of whom he had never,
during the twelve years she had Uved with him, spoken to her ?
That the thoughts were self -matured ; that she had any recol-
lections or speculations about her parents, he could not fancy.

' Your father and mother ? Who has been talking to you
about them ? '

' Nobody ; but I remember something of what papa was,
and I pity mamma. Where is she ? '

This ' Where is she ? ' had been on CaroUne's lips
hundreds of times before ; but till now she had never
uttered it.

' I hardly know,' returned Mr. Helstone ; ' I was little
acquainted with her. I have not heard from her for years :
but wherever she is, she thinks nothing of you ; she never
inquires about you ; I have reason to believe she does not
wish to see you. Oome, it is schooltime : you go to your
cousin at ten, don't you ? The clock has struck.'

Perhaps Caroline would have said more ; but Fanny
coming in, informed her master that the churchwardens
wanted to speak to him in the vestry. He hastened to join
them, and his niece presently set out for the cottage.

The road from the Eectory to HoUow's-mill inchned
downwards ; she ran, therefore, almost all the way. Exercise,
the fresh air, the thought of seeing Eobert, at least of being on
his premises, in his vicinage, revived her somewhat depressed
spirits quickly. Arriving in sight of the white house, and
within hearing of the thundering mill and its rushing water-
course, the first thing she saw was Moore at his garden-gate.
There he stood ; in his belted Holland blouse, a light cap
covering his head, which undress costume suited him : he
was looking down the lane, not in the direction of his cousin's
approach. She stopped, withdrawing a little behind a vnllow,
and studied his appearance.

' He has not his peer,' she thought ; ' he is as handsome
as he is inteUigent. What a keen eye he has ! What clearly
cut, spirited features — thin and serious, but graceful ! I do like
his face — I do like his aspect^I do like him so much 1 Better

106 SHIELET

than any of those shuffling curates, for instance — better than
anybody : bonnie Robert ! '

She sought ' bonnie Eobert's ' presence speedily. For
his part, when she challenged his sight, I believe he would
have passed from before her eyes like a phantom, if he could ;
but being a tall fact, and no fiction, he was obliged to stand
the greeting. He made it brief : it was cousin-like, brother-
like, friend-like, anything but lover-like. The nameless
charm of last night had left his manner : he was no longer
the same man ; or, at any rate, the same heart did not beat
in his breast. Bude disappointment ! sharp cross ! At first
the eager girl would not believe in the change, though she
saw and felt it. It was difficult to withdraw her hand from
his, till he had bestowed at least something like a kind
pressure ; it was difficult to turn her eyes from his eyes, till
his looks had expressed something more and fonder than
that cool welcome.

A lover masculine so disappointed can speak and urge
explanation ; a lover feminine can say nothing ; if she did,
the result would be shame and anguish, inward remorse for
self-treachery. Nature would brand such demonstration as
a rebellion against her instincts, and would vindictively
repay it afterwards by the thunderbolt of self-contempt
smiting suddenly in secret. Take the matter as you find it :
ask no questions ; utter no remonstrances : it is your best
wisdom. You expected bread, and you have got a stone;
break your teeth on it, and don't shriek because the nerves
are martyrised : do not doubt that your mental stomach — if
you have such a thing — is strong as an ostrich's — the stone
will digest. You held out your hand for an egg, and fate
put into it a scorpion. Show no consternation : close your
fingers firmly upon the gift ; let it sting through your palm.
Never mind : in time, after your hand and arm have swelled
and quivered long with torture, the squeezed scorpion wiU
die, and you will have learned the great lesson how to
endure without a sob. For the whole remnant of your life,
}f you survive the t^st — some, i^ is said, die uftder it — \o\\

THE CUEATES AT TEA 107

will be stronger, wiser, less sensitive. This you are not aware
of, perhaps, at the time, and so cannot borrow courage of
that hope. Nature, however, as has been intimated, is an
excellent friend in such cases ; sealing the lips, interdicting
utterance, commanding a placid dissimulation : a dissimu-
lation often wearing an easy and gay mien at first, settling
down to sorrow and paleness in time, then passing away,
and leaving a convenient stoicism, not the less fortifying
because it is half-bitter.

Half -bitter 1 Is that wrong ? No — it should be bitter :
bitterness is strength — it is a tonic. Sweet mild force
following acute suffering, you find nowhere : to talk of it is
delusion. There may be apathetic exhaustion after the rack ;
if energy remains, it will be rather a dangerous energy —
deadly when confronted with injustice.

Who has read the ballad of ' Puir Mary Lee ' ? — that old
Scotch ballad, written I know not in what generation nor
by what hand. Mary had been ill used — probably in being
made to believe that truth which was falsehood : she is not
complaining, but she is sitting alone in the snow-storm, and
you hear her thoughts. They are not the thoughts of a
model heroine under her circumstances, but they are those
of a deeply-feeling, strongly-resentful peasant-girl. Anguish
has driven her from the ingle-nook of home, to the white-
shrouded and icy hills : crouched under the ' cauld drift,' she
recalls every image of horror, — 'the yellow-wymed ask,'
' the hairy adder,' ' the auld moon-bowing tyke,' ' the ghaist
at e'en,' ' the sour buUister,' ' the milk on the taed's back : '
she hates these, but ' waur she hates Eobin-a-Eee ! '

Oh 1 anoe I lived happily by yon bonny burn —

The warld was in love wi' me ;
But now I maun sit 'neath the cauld drift and mourn.

And curse black Bobin-a-Bee !

Then whudder awa' thou bitter biting blast,

And sough through the sorunty tree,
And smoor me up in the snaw fu' fast,

And ne'er let the sun me see t

108 SHIELEY

oh, never melt awa' thou wreath o' anaw,

That's sae kind in graving me ;
But hide me frae the scorn and gu&aw

0' villains like Bobin-a-Bee 1

But what has been said in the last page or two is not
germane to Caroline Helstone's feelings, or to the state of
things between her and Eobert Moore. Eobert had done
her no wrong : he had told her no Ue ; it was she that was
to blame, if any one was : what bitterness her mind distilled
should and would be poured on her own head. She had
loved without being asked to love, — a natural, sometimes an
inevitable chance, but big with misery.

Eobert, indeed, had sometimes seemed to be fond of her
— but why? Because she had made herself so pleasing to
him, he could not, in spite of aU his efforts, help testifying a
state of feeling his judgment did not approve, nor his will
sanction. He was about to withdraw decidedly from
intimate communication with her, because he did not choose
to have his affections inextricably entangled, nor to be
drawn, despite his reason, into a marriage he believed
imprudent. Now, what was she to do ? — to give way to her
feelings, or to vanquish them ? To pursue him, or to turn
upon herself? If she is weak, she will try the first ex-
pedient,— will lose his esteem and win his aversion : if she
has sense, she will be her own governor, and resolve to
subdue and bring under guidance the disturbed realm of her
emotions. She vfill determine to look on life steadUy, as it
is ; to begin to learn its severe truths seriously, and to study
its knotty problems closely, conscientiously.

It appeared she had a little sense, for she quitted Eobert
quietly, without complaint or question — without the alteration
of a muscle or the shedding of a tear — betook herself to her
studies under Hortense as usual, and at dinner-time went
home without lingering.

When she had dined, and found herself in the Eectory
drawing-room alone, having left her uncle over his tem-
perate glass of port Wine, the difficulty that occurred to

THE CUEATES AT TEA 109

and embarrassed her, was — 'How am I to get through
this day ? '

Last night she had hoped it would be spent as yesterday
was, — that the evening would be again passed with Happiness
and Eobert : she had learned her mistake this morning, and
yet she could not settle down, convinced that no chance
would occur to recall her to Hollow's cottage, or to bring
Moore again into her society.

He had walked up after tea, more than once, to pass an
hour with her uncle : the door-bell had rung, his voice had
been heard in the passage just at twilight, when she little
expected such a pleasure ; and this had happened twice after
he had treated her with peculiar reserve ; and, though he
rarely talked to her in her uncle's presence, he had looked
at her relentingly, as he sat opposite her work-table during
his stay : the few words he had spoken to her were com-
forting ; his manner oh bidding her good-night was genial.
Now, he might come this evening, said False Hope : she
almost knew it was False Hope which breathed the whisper,
and yet she listened.

She tried to read — her thoughts wandered ; she tried to
sew — every stitch she put in was an ennui, the occupation
was insufferably tedious ; she opened her desk, and attempted
to write a French composition — she wrote nothing but
mistakes.

Suddenly the door-bell sharply rang — her heart leaped —
she sprang to the drawing-room door, opened it softly,
peeped through the aperture : Fanny was admitting a visitor
— a gentleman — a tall man — just the height of Eobert — for
one second she thought it was Eobert — for one second she
exulted ; but the voice asking for Mr. Helstone undeceived
her : that voice was an Irish voice, consequently not Moore's
but the curate's — Malone's. He was ushered into the
dining-room, where, doubtless, he speedily helped his Eector
to empty the decanters.

It was a fact to be noted, that at whatever house in
Priarfield, Whinbury, or Nunnely, one curate dropped in to

110 SHIELEY

a meal — dinner or tea, as the case might be — another
presently followed ; often two more. Not that they gave
each other the rendezvous, but they were usually all on the
run at the same time ; and when Donne, for instance, sought
Malone at his lodgings and found him not, he inquired
whither he had posted, and having learned of the landlady
his destination, hastened with all speed after him ; the same
causes operated in' the same way with Sweeting. Thus it
chanced on that afternoon that Caroline's ears were three
times tortured with the ringing of the bell, and the advent
of undesired guests : for Donne followed Malone, and
Sweeting followed Donne ; and more wine was ordered up
from the cellar into the dining-room (for though old Helstone
chid the inferior priesthood when he found them ' carousing,'
as he called it, in their own tents, yet at his hierarchical table
he ever liked to treat them to a glass of his best), and through
the closed doors Caroline heard their boyish laughter, and
the vacant cackle of their voices. Her fear was lest they
should stay to tea ; for she had no pleasure in making tea
for that particular trio. What distinctions people draw I
These three were men — young men — educated men, like
Moore : yet, for her, how great the difference ! Their society
was a bore — his a delight.

Not only was she destined to be favoured vdth their
clerical company, but Fortune was at this moment bringing
her four other guests — lady-guests, all packed in a pony-
phaeton now rolling somewhat heavily along the road from
Whinbury : an elderly lady, and three of her buxom
daughters, were coming to see her ' in a friendly way,' as
the custom of that neighbourhood was. Yes, a fourth time
the bell clanged : Fanny brought the present announcement
to the drawing-room — ' Mrs. Sykes and the three Misses
Sykes.'

When Caroline was going to receive company, her habit
was to wring her hands very nervously, to flush a Uttle, and
come forward hurriedly yet hesitatingly, wishing herself
meantime at Jericho. She was, at such crises, sadly

THE CtltlATES AH fEA Hi

deficient in finished manner, though she had once been at
school a year. Accordingly, on this occasion, her small
white hands sadly maltreated each other, while she stood up,
waiting the entrance of Mrs. Sykes.

In stalked that lady, a tall bilious gentlewoman, who
made an ample and not altogether insincere profession of
piety, and was greatly given to hospitahty towards the
clergy ; in sailed her three daughters, a showy trio, being all
three well grown, and more or less handsome.

In English country ladies there is this point to be
remarked. Whether young or old, pretty or plain, dull or
sprightly, they all (or almost all) have a certain expression
stamped on their features, which seems to say, ' I know — I
do not boast of it — but I know that I am the standard of
what is proper ; let every one therefore whom I approach,
or who approaches me, keep a sharp look-out, for wherein
they differ from me— be the same in dress, manner, opinion,
principle, or practice — therein they are wrong.'

Mrs. and Misses Sykes, far from being exceptions to this
observation, were pointed illustrations of its truth. Miss
Mary— a well-looked, well-meant, and, on the whole, well-
dispositioned girl — wore her complacency vnth some state,
though without harshness ; Miss Harriet — a beauty — carried
it more overbearingly : she looked high and cold ; Miss
Hannah, who was conceited, dashing, pushing, flourished
hers consciously and openly ; the mother evinced it with the
gravity proper to her age and religious fame.

The reception was got through somehow. Caroline ' was
glad to see them' (an unmitigated fib), hoped they were
well, hoped Mrs. Sykes's cough was better (Mrs. Sykes had
had a cough for the last twenty years), hoped the Misses
Sykes had left their sisters at home well ; to which inquiry,
the Misses Sykes, sitting on three chairs opposite the music-
stool, whereon Caroline had undesignedly come to anchor,
after wavering for some seconds between it and a large arm-
chair, into which she at length recollected she ought to
induct Mrs. Sykes : and indeed that lady saved her the

11^ SSlBLIit

trouble by depositing herself therein ; — the Misses Sykes
replied to CaroUne by one simultaneous bow, very majestic
and mighty awful. A pause followed : this bow was of a
character to ensure silence for the next five minutes, and it
did. Mrs. Sykes then inquired after Mr. Helstone, and
whether he had had any return of rheumatism, and whether
preaching twice on a Sunday fatigued him, and if he was
capable of taking a full service now ; and on being assured
he was, she and all her daughters, combining in chorus,
expressed their opinion that he was ' a wonderful man of his
years.'

Pause second.

Miss Mary, getting up the steam in her turn, asked
whether CaroUne had attended the Bible Society meeting
which had been held at Nunnely last Thursday night : the
negative answer which truth compelled CaroUne to utter —
for last Thursday evening she had been sitting at home,
reading a novel which Eobert had lent her — elicited a
simultaneous expression of surprise from the Ups of the four
ladies.

'We were all there,' said Miss Mary; 'mamma and aU
of us ; we even persuaded papa to go : Hannah would insist
upon it ; but he fell asleep while Mr. LangweiUg, the German
Moravian minister, was speaking : I felt quite ashamed, he
nodded so.'

' And there was Dr. Broadbent,' cried Hannah, ' such a
beautiful speaker ! You couldn't expect it of him, for he is
almost a vulgar-looking man.'

' But such a dear man,' interrupted Mary.

' And such a good man, such a useful man,' added her
mother.

' Only like a butcher in appearance,' interposed the fair
proud Harriet. ' I couldn't bear to look at him : I Ustened
with my eyes shut.'

Miss Helstone felt her ignorance and incompetency ; not
having seen Dr. Broadbent, she could not give her opinion.
Pause third came on. During its continuance, CaroUne was

THE CUEATES AT TEA 113

feeling at her heart's core what a dreaming fool she was ;
what an unpractical life she led ; how httle fitness there was
in her for ordinary intercourse with the ordinary world.
She was feeling how exclusively she had attached herself to
the white cottage in the Hollow ; how in the existence of one
inmate of that cottage she had pent all her universe : she
was sensible that this would not do, and that some day she
would be forced to make an alteration : it could not be said
that she exactly wished to resemble the ladies before her,
but she wished to become superior to her present self, so as
to feel less scared by their dignity.

The sole means she found of reviving the flagging dis-
course was by asking them if they would all stay to tea ;
and a cruel struggle it cost her to perform this piece of
civility. Mrs. Sykes had begun — ' We are much obliged to
you, but ' when in came Fanny once more.

' The gentlemen will stay the evening, ma'am,' was the
message she brought from Mr. Helstone.

' What gentlemen have you ? ' now inquired Mrs. Sykes.
Their names were specified; she and her daughters inter-
changed glances : the curates were not to them what they
were to Caroline. Mr. Sweeting was quite a favourite with
them ; even Mr. Malone rather so, because he was a clergy-
man. ' Eeally, since you have company already, I think we
will stay,' remarked Mrs. Sykes. 'We shall be quite a
pleasant Uttle party : I always like to meet the clergy.'

And now Caroline had to usher them upstairs, to help
them to unshawl, smooth their hair, and make themselves
smart ; to re-conduct them to the drawing-room, to distri-
bute amongst them books of engravings, or odd things
purchased from the Jew-basket : she was obliged to be a
purchaser, though she was but a slack contributor : and if
she had possessed plenty of money, she would rather, when
it was brought to the Eectory — an awful incubus ! — have
purchased the whole stock, than contributed a single pin-
cushion.

It ought perhaps to be explained in passing, for the

114 SHIELEY

benefit of those who are not ' au fait ' to the mysteries of the
' Jew-basket ' and ' Missionary-basket,' that these ' meubles '
are willow-repositories, of the capacity of a good-sized family
clothes-basket, dedicated to the purpose of conveying from
house to house a monster collection of pincushions, needle-
books, card-racks, work-bags, articles of infant wear, &c. &c.
&c., made by the willing or reluctant hands of the Christian
ladies of a parish, and sold perforce to the heathenish
gentlemen thereof, at prices unblushingly exorbitant. The
proceeds of such compulsory sales are applied to the conver-
sion of the Jews, the seeking out of the ten missing tribes,
or to the regeneration of the interesting coloured population
of the globe. Each lady-contributor takes it in her turn to
keep the basket a month, to sew for it, and to foist off its
contents on a shrinking male public. An exciting time it is
when that turn comes round : some active-minded women
with a good trading spirit like it, and enjoy exceedingly the
fun of making hard-handed worsted-spinners cash up, to the
tune of four or five hundred per cent, above cost price, for
articles quite useless to them ; other — feebler souls object to
it, and would rather see the Prince of Darkness himself at
their door any morning than that phantom-basket, brought
with ' Mrs. House's compliments, and please, ma'am, she
says it's your tvirn now.'

Miss Helstone's duties of hostess performed, more
anxiously than cheerily, she betook herself to the kitchen,
to hold a brief privy -council with Fanny and Eliza about
the tea.

' What a lot on 'em ! ' cried EUza, who was cook. ' And
I put off the baking to-day because I thought there would
be bread plenty to fit while morning ; we shall never have
enow.'

' Are there any tea-cakes ? ' asked the young mistress.

' Only three and a loaf. I wish these fine folk would
stay at home till they're asked : and I want to finish trim-
ming my hat ' (bonnet she meant).

' Then,' suggested Caroline, to whprp the importance of

THE CUEATES AT TEA 115

the emergency gave a certain energy, ' Fanny must run
down to Briarfield and buy some muffins and crumpets, and
some biscuits : and don't be cross, Eliza, we can't help it
now.'

' And which tea-things are we to have ? '

' Oh, the best, I suppose : I'll get out the silver service,
and she ran upstairs to the plate-closet, and presently brought
down teapot, cream-ewer, and sugar-basin.

' And mun we have th' urn ? '

' Yes ; and now get it ready as quickly as you can, for
the sooner we have tea over, the sooner they will go — at
least, I hope so. Heigho ! I wish they were gone,' she
sighed as she returned to the drawing-room. ' Still,' she
thought, as she paused at the door ere opening it, ' if Eobert
would but come even now how bright all would be ! How
comparatively easy the task of amusing these people, if he
were present ! There would be an interest in hearing him
talk (though he never says much in company) and in talking
in his presence : there can be no interest in hearing any of
them, or in speaking to them. How they will gabble when
the curates come in, and how weary I shall grow with listen-
ing to them ! But I suppose I am a selfish fool : these are
very respectable gentlefolks ; I ought no doubt to be proud
of their countenance : I don't say they are not as good as I
am — far from it — but they are different from me.'

She went in.

Yorkshire people, in those days, took their tea round the
table ; sitting well into it, with their knees duly introduced
under the mahogany. It was essential to have a multitude
of plates of bread and butter, varied in sorts and plentiful in
quantity : it was thought proper, too, that on the centre-plate
should stand a glass dish of marmalade ; among the viands
was expected to be found a small assortment of cheesecakes
and tarts : if there was also a plate of thin slices of pink ham
garnished with green parsley, so much the better.

Eliza, the Sector's cook, fortunately knew her business as
provider : slie he^d been put out pf humpur a little E^t fivst,

116 SHIELEY

when the invaders came so unexpectedly in such strength ;
but it appeared that she regained her cheerfulness with action,
for in due time the tea was spread forth in handsome style ;
and neither ham, tarts, nor marmalade were wanting among
its accompaniments.

The curates, summoned to this bounteous repast, entered
joyous ; but at once, on seeing the ladies, of whose presence
they had not been forewarned, they came to a stand in the door-
way. Malon 6 headed the party; he stopped short and fell
back, almost capsizing Donne, who was behind him. Donne,
staggering three paces in retreat, sent little Sweeting into the
arms of old Helstone, who brought up the rear. There was
some expostulation, some tittering : Malone was desired to
mind what he was about, and urged to push forward ; which
at last he did, though colouring to the top of his peaked fore-
head a bluish purple. Helstone, advancing, set the shy
curates aside, welcomed aU his fair guests, shook hands and
passed a jest with each, and seated himself snugly between
the lovely Harriet and the dashing Hannah ; Miss Mary he
requested to move to the seat opposite to him, that he might
see her, if he couldn't be near her. Perfectly easy and gallant,
in his way, were his manners always to young ladies ; and
most popular was he amongst them : yet, at heart, he neither
respected nor Uked the sex, and such of them as circumstances
had brought into intimate relation with him had ever feared
rather than loved him.

The curates were left to shift for themselves. Sweeting,
who was the least embarrassed of the three, took refuge be-
side Mrs. Sykes, who, he knew, was almost as fond of him
as if he had been her son. Donne, after making his general
bow with a grace all his own, and saying in a high pragma-
tical voice, " How d'ye do. Miss Helstone?" dropped into a
seat at CaroUne's elbow : to her unmitigated annoyance, for
she had a peeuhar antipathy to Donne, on account of his
stultified and unmovable self-conceit, and his incurable
narrowness of mind. Malone, grinning most unmeaningly,
inducted himself into the corresponding seat on the other

THE CURATES AT TEA 117

side : she was thus blessed in a pair of supporters ; neither
of whom, she knew, would be of any mortal use, whether for
keeping up the conversation, handing cups, circulating the
muffins, or even lifting the plate from the slop-basin. Little
Sweeting, small and boyish as he was, would have been worth
twenty of them.

Malone, though a ceaseless talker when there were only
men present, was usually tongue-tied in the presence of
ladies : three phrases, however, he had ready cut and dried,
which he never failed to produce : —

Istly. — ' Have you had a walk to-day. Miss Helstone ? '
2ndly. — ' Have you seen your cousin, Moore, lately ? '
3rdly. — ' Does your class at the Sunday-school keep up
its number ? '

These three questions being put and responded to, between
Caroline and Malone reigned silence.

With Donne it was otherwise : he was troublesome, exas-
perating. He had a stock of small-talk on hand, at once the
most trite and perverse that can well be imagined : abuse of
the people of Briarfield ; of the natives of Yorkshire generally ;
complaints of the want of high society ; of the backward
state of civihzation in these districts ; murmurings against
the disrespectful conduct of the lower orders in the north
toward their betters ; silly ridicule of the manner of living in
these parts, — the want of style, the absence of elegance, as if
he, Donne, had been accustomed to very great doings indeed :
an insinuation which his somewhat underbred manner and
aspect failed to bear out. These strictures he seemed to think
must raise him in the estimation of Miss Helstone, or of any
other lady who heard him ; whereas with her, at least, they
brought him to a level below contempt : though sometimes,
indeed, they incensed her ; for a Yorkshire girl herself, she
hated to hear Yorkshire abused by such a pitiful prater ; and
when brought up to a certain pitch, she would turn and say
soniething of which neither the matter nor the manner recom-
mended her to Mr. Donne's good will. She would tell him
it was no proof of refinement to be ever scolding others for

118 SfllRLEY

vulgarity : and no sign of a good pastor to be eternally cen-
svuring his flock. She would ask him what he had entered
the church for, since he complained there were only
cottages to visit, and poor people to preach to? — whether he
had been ordained to the ministry merely to wear soft cloth-
ing and sit in kings' houses ? These questions were con-
sidered by all the curates as, to the last degree, audacious and
impious.

Tea was a long time in progress : all the guests gabbled,
as their hostess had expected they would. Mr. Helstone,
being in excellent spirits, — when, indeed, was he ever other-
wise in society, attractive female society? — ^it being only
with the one lady of his own family that he maintained a
grim taciturnity, — kept up a brilliant flow of easy prattle with
his right-hand and left-hand neighbours, and even with his
vis-d-vis, Miss Mary : though as Mary was the most sen-
sible, the least coquettish of the three, to her the elderly
widower was the least attentive. At heart, he could not abide
sense in women : he liked to see them as silly, as light-headed,
as vain, as open to ridicule as possible ; because they were
then in reality what he held them to be, and wished them to
be, — inferior : toys to play with, to amuse a vacant hour and
to be thrown away.

Hannah was his favourite. Harriet, though beautiful,
egotistical, and self-satisfied, was not quite weak enough for
him ; she had some genuine self-respect amidst much false
pride, and if she did not talk like an oracle, neither would
she babble like one crazy : she would not permit herself to be
treated quite as a doll, a child, a plaything : she expected to
be bent to like a queen.

Hannah, on the contrary, demanded no respect ; only
flattery : if her admirers only told her that she was an angel,
she would let them treat her like an idiot. So very credulous
and frivolous was she : so very silly did she become when be-
sieged with attention, flattered and admired to the proper de-
gree, that there were moments when Helstone actually felt
tempted to commit matrimony a second time, and to try the

THE CUEATES AT TEA 119

experiment of taking her for his second helpmeet : but, for-
tunately, the salutary recollection of the ennuis of his first
marriage, the impression still left on him of the weight of the
millstone he had once worn round his neck, the fixity of his
feelings respecting the insufferable evils of conjugal existence,
operated as a check to his tenderness, suppressed the sigh
heaving his old iron lungs, and restrained him from whisper-
ing to Hannah proposals it would have been high fun and
great satisfaction to her to hear.

It is probable she would have married him if he had asked
her : her parents would have quite approved the match : to
them his fifty-five years, his bend-leather heart, could have
presented no obstacles ; and, as he was a rector, held an ex-
cellent living, occupied a good house, and was supposed even
to have private property (though in that the world was
mistaken : every penny of the 5,000Z. inherited by him from
his father had been devoted to the building and endowing of
a new church at his native village in Lancashire — for
he could show a lordly munificence when he pleased, and if
the end was to his liking, never hesitated about making a
grand sacrifice to attain it), — her parents, I say, would have
delivered Hannah over to his loving kindness and his tender
mercies without one scruple; and the second Mrs. Hel-
stone, inversing the natural order of insect existence, would
have fluttered through the honeymoon a bright, admired
butterfly, and crawled the rest of her days a sordid, trampled
worm.

Little Mr. Sweeting, seated between Mrs. Sykes and Miss
Mary, both of whom were very kind to him, and having a dish
of tarts before him, and marmalade and crumpet upon his plate,
looked and felt more content than any monarch. He was
fond of all the Misses Sykes : they were all fond of him : he
thought them magnificent girls, quite proper to mate with
one of his inches. If he had a cause of regret at this blissful
moment, it was that Miss Dora happened to be absent ; Dora
being the one whom he secretly hoped one day to call Mrs.
David Sweeting, with whom he dreamt of taking stately

120 SHIELEY

walks, leading her like an empress through the village of
Nunnely : and an empress she would have been, if size
could make an empress. She was vast, ponderous: seen
from behind, she had the air of a very stout lady of forty ;
but withal she possessed a good face, and no unkindly
character.

The meal at last drew to a close : it would have been
over long ago, if Mr. Donne had not persisted in sitting with
his cup half fuU of cold tea before him, long after the rest
had finished and after he himself had discussed such allow-
ance of viands as he felt competent to swallow — long, indeed,
after signs of impatience had been manifested all round the
board : till chairs were pushed back ; till the talk flagged ;
till silence fell. Vainly did Carohne inquire repeatedly if
he would have another cup ; if he would take a little hot tea,
as that must be cold, &c. : he would neither drink it nor leave
it. He seemed to think that this isolated position of his
gave him somehow a certain importance : that it was digni-
fied and stately to be the last : that it was grand to keep all
the others waiting. So long did he linger, that the very urn
died ; it ceased to hiss. At length, however, the old Bector
himself, who had hitherto been too pleasantly engaged with
Hannah to care for the delay, got impatient.

' For whom are we waiting ? ' he asked.

' For me, I beUeve,' returned Donne, complacently ;
appearing to think it much to his credit that a party should
thus be kept dependent on his movements.

' Tut 1 ' cried Helstone : then standing up, ' Let us return
thanks,' said he : which he did forthwith, and all quitted the
table. Donne, nothing abashed, still sat ten minutes quite
alone, whereupon Mr. Helstone rang the bell for the things
to be removed ; the curate at length saw himself forced to
empty his cup, and to relinquish the rdle which, he thought,
had given him such a felicitous distinction, drawn upon him
such flattering general notice.

And now, in the natural course of events (CaroUne,
knowing how it would be, had opened the piano, and pro-

THE CtJBATES AT TEA 121

duced music-books in readiness), music was asked for. This
was Mr. Sweeting's chance for showing off : he was eager to
commence ; he undertook, therefore, the arduous task of
persuading the young ladies to favour the company with an
air — a song. Con amore, he went through the whole busi-
ness of begging, praying, resisting excuses, explaining away
di£5oulties, and at last succeeded in persuacling Miss Harriet
to allow herself to be led to the instrument. Then out came
the pieces of his flute (he always carried them in his pocket,
as unfailingly as he carried his handkerchief). They were
screwed and arranged; Malone and Donne meantime
herding together, and sneering at him, which the little man,
glancing over his shoulder, saw, but did not heed at all : he
was persuaded their sarcasm all arose from envy : they could
not accompany the ladies as he could ; he was about to enjoy
a triumph over them.

The triumph began. Malone, much chagrined at hearing
him pipe up in most superior style, determined to earn dis-
tinction, too, if possible, and all at once assuming the
character of a swain (which character he had endeavoured to
enact once or twice before, but in which he had not hitherto
met with the success he doubtless opined his merits deserved),
approached a sofa on which Miss Helstone was seated, and
depositing his great Irish frame near her, tried his hand (or
rather tongue) at a fine speech or two, accompanied by grins
the most extraordinary and incomprehensible. In the
course of his efforts to render himself agreeable, he contrived
to possess himself of the two long sofa cushions and a
square one ; with which, after rolling them about for some
time with strange gestures, he managed to erect a sort of
barrier between himself and the object of his attentions.
Caroline, quite willing that they should be sundered, soon
devised an excuse for stepping over to the opposite side of
the room, and taking up a position beside Mrs. Sykes ; of
which good lady she entreated some instruction in a new
stitch in ornamental knitting, a favour readily granted ; and
thus Peter Augustus was thrown out.

122 SHIELEY

Very sullenly did his countenance lower when he saw
himself abandoned, — left entirely to his own resources, on a
large sofa, with the charge of three small cushions on his
hands. The fact was, he felt disposed seriously to cultivate
acquaintance with Miss Helstone; because he thought, in
common with others, that her uncle possessed money, and
concluded, that since he had no children, he would probably
leave it to his niece. Gerard Moore was better instructed on
this point : he had seen the neat church that owed its origin
to the Bector's zeal and cash, and more than once, in his
inmost soul, had cursed an expensive caprice which crossed
his wishes.

The evening seemed long to one person in that room.
Caroline at intervals dropped her knitting on her lap, and
gave herself up to a sort of brain-lethargy — closing her eyes
and depressing her head — caused by what seemed to her the
unmeaning hum around her : the inharmonious, tasteless
rattle of the piano keys, the squeaking and gasping notes of
the flute, the laughter and mirth of her uncle, and Hannah,
and Mary, she could not tell whence originating, for she heard
nothing comic or gleeful in their discourse ; and more than
all by the interminable gossip of Mrs. Sykes murmured
close at her ear ; gossip which rang the changes on four sub-
jects : her own health and that of the various members of her
family ; the Missionary and Jew-baskets and their contents ;
the late meeting at Nunnely, and one which was expected to
come off next week at Whinbury.

Tired at length to exhaustion, she embraced the oppor-
tunity of Mr. Sweeting coming up to speak to Mrs. Sykes, to
slip quietly out of the apartment, and seek a moment's respite
in solitude. She repaired to the dining-room, where the
clear but now low remnant of a fire still burnt in the grate.
The place was empty and quiet, glasses and decanters were
cleared from the table, the chairs were put back in their
places, all was orderly. Caroline sank into her uncle's
large easy chair, half shut her eyes, and rested herself —
rested at least her limbs, her senses, her hearing, her vision

THE CURATES AT TEA 123

— weary with listening to nothing, and gazing on vacancy.
As to her mind, that flew directly to the Hollow : it stood on
the threshold of the parlour there, then it passed to the
counting-house, and wondered which spot was blessed by the
presence of Robert. It so happened that neither locality had
that honour ; for Robert was half a mile away from both,
and much nearer to Caroline than her deadened spirit sus-
pected : he was at this moment crossing the churchyard,
approaching the Rectory garden-gate : not, however, coming
to see his cousin, but intent solely on communicating a brief
piece of intelligence to the Rector.

Yes, Caroline ; you hear the wire of the bell vibrate : it
rings again for the fifth time this afternoon : you start,
and you are certain now that this must be him of whom you
dream. Why you are so certain you cannot explain to your-
self, but you know it. You lean forward, listening eagerly
as Fanny opens the door : right ! that is the voice — low — with
the slight foreign accent, but so sweet, as you fancy : you
half rise : ' Fanny will tell him Mr. Helstone is with company,
and then he will go away.' Oh ! she cannot let him go : in
spite of herself — in spite of her reason she walks half across
the room ; she stands ready to dart out in case the step
should retreat : but he enters the passage. ' Since your
master is engaged,' he says, ' just show me into the dining-
room ; bring me pen and ink : I will write a short note and
leave it for him.'

Now, having caught these words, and hearing him advance,
Caroline, if there was a door within the dining-room, would
glide through it and disappear. She feels caught, hemmed
in; she dreads her unexpected presence may annoy him.
A second since, she would have flown to him ; that second
past, she would flee from him. She cannot ; there is no way
of escape ; the dining-room has but one door, through which
now enters her cousin. The look of troubled surprise
she expected to see in his face has appeared there, has
shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered a sort Qf
apology : —

124 SHIELEY

'I only left the drawing-room a minute for a little
quiet.'

There was something so diffident and downcast in the
air and tone with which she said this, any one might per-
ceive that some saddening change had lately passed over
her prospects, and that the faculty of cheerful self-possession
had left her. Mr. Moore, probably, remembered how she
had formerly been accustomed to meet him with gentle
ardour and hopeful confidence ; he must have seen how the
check of this morning had operated : here was an oppor-
tunity for carrying out his new system with effect, if he chose
to improve it. Perhaps he found it easier to practise that
system in broad daylight, in his mill-yard, amidst busy
occupations, than in a quiet parlour, disengaged, at the hour
of eventide. Fanny lit the candles, which before had stood
unlit on the table, brought writing-materials, and left the
room : Caroline was about to foUow her. Moore, to act
consistently, should have let her go ; whereas he stood in
the doorway, and, holding out hia hand, gently kept her
back ; he did not ask her to stay, but he would not let
her go.

' Shall I tell my uncle you are here ? ' asked she, still in
the same subdued voice.

' No : I can say to you all I had to say to him. You will
be my messenger.'

' Yes, Eobert.'

' Then you may just inform him that I have got a clue
to the identity of one, at least, of the men who broke my
frames ; that he belongs to the same gang who attacked
Sykes and Pearson's dressing-shop ; and that I hope to have
him in custody to-morrow. You can remember that ? '

' Oh ! yes.' These two monosyllables were uttered in a
sadder tone than ever ; and, as she said them, she shook
her head slightly, and sighed. ' Will you prosecute him ? '

• Doubtless.'

' No, Eobert.'

' And why no, Caroline ? '

THE CUEATES AT TEA 125

' Because it will set all the neighbourhood against you
more than ever.'

' That is no reason why I should not do my duty, and
defend my property. This fellow is a great scoundrel, and
ought to be inoapaeitated from perpetrating further mis-
chief.'

' But his accomplices will take revenge on you. You do
not know how the people of this country bear malice : it is
the boast of some of them that they can keep a stone in
their pocket seven years, turn it at the end of that time,
keep it seven years longer, and hurl it and hit their mark " at
last.'"

Moore laughed.

' A most pithy vaunt,' said he ; ' one that redounds
vastly to the credit of your dear Yorksiiire friends. But
don't fear for me, Lina : I am on my guard against these
lamb-Uke compatriots of yours : don't make yourself uneasy
about me.'

' How can I help it ? You are my cousin. If anything
happened 'she stopped.

'Nothing wiU happen, Lina. To speak in your own
language, there is a Providence above all — is there not ? '

'Yes, dear Eobert. May He guard you !.'

' And if prayers have ef&cacy, yours will benefit me: you
pray for me sometimes ? '

' Not sometimes, Eobert : you, and Louis, and Hortense
are always remembered.'

' So I have often imagined : it has occurred to me, when,
weary and vexed, I have myself gone to bed like a heathen,
that another had asked forgiveness for my day and safety
for my night. I don't suppose such vicarial piety will avail
much ; but the petitions come out of a sincere breast, from
innocent lips : they should be acceptable as Abel's offering ;
and doubtless would be, if the object deserved them.'

' Annihilate that doubt : it is groundless.'

' When a man has been brought up only to make money,
and lives to make it, and for nothing else, and scarcely

126 SHIRLEY

breathes any other air than that of mills and markets, it
seems odd to utter his name in a prayer, or to mix his idea
with anything divine ; and very strange it seems, that a
good, pure heart should take him in and harbour him, as if
he had any claim to that sort of nest. If I could guide that
benignant heart, I believe I should counsel it to exclude
one who does not profess to have any higher aim in life
than that of patching up his broken fortune, and wiping
clean from his bourgeois scutcheon the foul stain of bank-
ruptcy.'

The hint, though conveyed thus tenderly and modestly
(as Caroline thought), was felt keenly and comprehended
clearly.

' Indeed, I only think — or I will only think— of you as
my cousin,' was the quick answer. ' I am beginning to
understand things better than I did, Bobert, when you first
came to England : better than I did, a week — a day ago. I
know it is your duty to try to get on, and that it won't
do for you to be romantic; but in future you must not
misunderstand me, if I seem friendly. You misunderstood
me this morning, did you not? '

' What made you think so ? '

' Your look — your manner.'

' But look at me now '

' Oh ! you are different now : at present, I dare speak to
you.'

' Yet I am the same, except that I have left the trades-
man behind me in the Hollow : your kinsman alone stands
before you.'

' My cousin Robert ; not Mr. Moore.'

' Not a bit of Mr. Moore. Caroline '

Here the company was heard rising in the other room ;
the door was opened ; the pony-carriage was ordered ;
shawls and bonnets were demanded ; Mr. Helstone called
for his niece.

' I must go, Robert.'

' Yes, you must go, or they will come in, and find us

THE CUEATES AT TEA 127

here ; and I, rather than meet all that host in the passage,
will take my departure through the window : luckily, it
opens like a door. One minute only— put down the candle
an instant — good night I I kiss you because we are cousins ;
and, being cousins — one — two — three kisses are allowable.
Caroline, good-night t '

CHAPTER VIII

NOAH AND MOBEB

The next day, Moore had risen before the sun, and had
taken a ride to Whinbury and back ere his sister had made
the caf6 au lait, or out the tartines for his breakfast. What
business he transacted there, he kept to himself. Hortense
asked no questions : it was not her wont to comment on his
movements, nor his to render an account of them. The
secrets of business — complicated and often dismal mysteries
— were buried in his breast, and never came out of their
sepulchre, save now and then to scare Joe Scott, or give a
start to some foreign correspondent : indeed, a general habit
of reserve on whatever was important seemed bred in his
mercantile blood.

Breakfast over, he went to his counting-house. Henry,
Joe Scott's boy, brought in the letters and the daily papers ;
Moore seated himself at his desk, broke the seals of the
documents, and glanced them over. They were all short,
but not — it seemed — sweet ; probably rather sour on the
contrary, for as Moore laid down the last, his nostrils
emitted a derisive and defiant snuff; and, though he burst
into no soliloquy, there was a glance in his eye which seemed
to invoke the devil, and lay charges on him to sweep the
whole concern to Gehenna. However, having chosen a pen
and stripped away the feathered top in a brief spasm of
finger-fury — only finger-fury, his face was placid — he dashed
off a batch of answers, sealed them, and then went out and
walked through the mill : on coming back, he sat down to
read his newspaper.

NOAH AND MOSES 129

The contents seemed not absorbingly interesting ; He
more than once laid it across his knee, folded his arms, and
gazed into the fire ; he occasionally turned his head towards
the window; he looked at intervals at his watch: in short,
his mind appeared pre-occupied. Perhaps he was thinking
of the beauty of the weather — for it was a fine and mild
morning for the season — and wishing to be out in the fields
enjoying it. The door of his counting-house stood wide
open, the breeze and sunshine entered freely ; but the first
visitant brought no spring perfume on its wingSj only an
occasional sulphur-puff from the soot-thick column of smoke
rushing sable from the gaunt mill-chimney.

A dark-blue apparition (that of Joe Scott, fresh from a
dyeing vat) appeared momentarily at the open door, uttered
the words, 'He's comed, sir,' and vaiiished.

Mr. Moore raised not his eyes from the paper. A large
man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian
garments and grey- worsted stockings,' entered, who was
received with a nod, and desired to take a seat ; which he
did, making the remark— as he removed his hat (a very' bad
one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead
with a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hat-
crovsTi — that it was 'raight dahn warm for Febewerry/
Mr. Moore assented : at least he uttered some slight sound,
which, though inarticulate, might pass for an assent. The
visitor now carefuUy deposited in the comer beside him an
official-looking staff which he bore in his hand ; this done,
he whistled, probably by way of appearing at his ease.

' You have what is necessary, I suppose ? ' said Mr.
Moore.

'Ay I ayl all's right.'

He renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading : the
paper apparently had become more interesting. Presently,
however, he turned to his cupboard, which was within reach
of his long arm, opened it without rising, took out a black
bottle— the same he had produced for Malone's benefit- a
tumbler, and a jug, placed them on the table, and said to

130 SHIELEY

his guest, ' Help yourself ; there's water m that jar in the
corner.'

' I dunnut knaw that there's mich need, for all a body is
dry ' (thirsty) ' in a morning,' said the fustian gentleman,
rising and doing as requested.

' Will you tak' naught yourseln, Mr. Moore ? ' he inquired,
as with skilled hand he mixed a portion, and, having tested
it by a deep draught, sank back satisfied and bland in his
seat. Moore — chary of words — replied by a negative move-
ment and murmur.

' Yah'd as good,' continued his visitor ; ' it 'uld set ye up,
wald a sup o' this stuff. Uncommon good Hollands ! ye
get it fro' furrin parts, I'se think ? '

•Ay!'

' Tak' my advice, and try a glass on't ; them lads 'at 's
coming '11 keep ye talking, nob'dy knows how long : ye'll
need propping.'

' Have you seen Mr. Sykes this morning ? ' inquired
Moore.

' I seed him a hauf an hour — nay — happen a quarter of
an hour sin', just afore I set ofif : he said he aimed to come
here, and I sudn't wonder but ye'll have old Helstone too ;
I see'd 'em saddling his little nag as I passed at back o' t'
Eectory.'

The speaker was a true prophet, for the trot of a little
nag's hoofs were, five minutes after, heard in the yard ; it
stopped, and a well-known nasal voice cried aloud — ' Boy '
(probably addressing Harry Scott, who usually hung about
the premises from nine a.m. to five p.m.), ' take my horse and
lead him into the stable.'

Helstone came in marching nimbly and erect, looking
browner, keener, and livelier than usual.

' Beautiful morning, Moore : how do, my boy ? Ha !
Whom have we here ? ' (turning to the personage with the
staff). ' Sugden ! What ! you're going to work directly ?
On my word, you lose no time : but I come to ask explana-
tions : your message was delivered to me ; are you sure

NOAH AND MOSES 131

you are on the right scent ? How do you mean to set about
the business ? Have you got a warrant ? '

' Sugden has.'

' Then you are going to seek him now ! I'll accompany
you.'

'You will be spared that trouble, sjr; he is coming
to seek me. I'm just now sitting in state, waiting his
arrival.'

' And who is it ? One of my parishioners ? '

Joe Scptt had entered unobserved; he now stood, a
most sinister phantom, half his person being dyed of the
deepest tint of indigo, leaning on the desk. His master's
answer to the Eector's question was a smile ; Joe took the
word ; putting on a quiet but pawky look, he said, ' It's
a friend of yours, Mr. Helstone ; a gentleman you often
speak of.'

' Indeed ! His name, Joe ? — You look well this morn-
ing.'

' Only the Eev. Moses Barraclough : t' tub orator you
call him sometimes, I think.'

' Ah ! ' said the Eector, taking out his snuff-box, and ad-
ministering to himself a very long pinch — ' Ah ! couldn't have
supposed it. Why, the pious man never was a workman of
yours, Moore ? He's a tailor by trade.'

'And so much the worse grudge I owe him for inter-
fering, and setting my discarded men against me.'

' And Moses was actually present at the battle of Stilbro'
Moor ? He went there — wooden leg and all ? '

' Ay, sir,' said Joe ; ' he went there on horseback, that
his leg mightn't be noticed : he was the captain and wore a
mask ; the rest only had their faces blacked.'

' And how was he found out ? '

' I'll tell- you, sir,' said Joe : t'maister's not so fond of
talking ; I've no objections. He courted Sarah, Mr. Moore's
sarvant lass, and so it seems she would have nothing to say
to him ; she either didn't like his wooden leg, or she'd some
notion about his being a hypocrite. Happen (for women is

132 SHIELEY

queer hands^— we may say that amang werseln when there's
none of 'em nigh) she'd have encouraged him, in spite of his
leg and his deceit — just to pass time like ; I've known some
on 'em do as mich, and some o' t' bonniest and mimmest-
looking, too — ay ! I've seen clean, trim young things, that
looked as denty and pure as daisies, and wi' time a body fun'
'em out to be nowt but stinging, venomed nettles.'

' Joe's a sensible fellow,' interjected Helstone.

' Howsiver, Sarah had another string to her bow : Fred
Murgatroyd, one of our lads, is for her, and as women judge
men by their faces — and Fred has a middling face, while
Moses is none so handsome, as we all knaw — the lass took
on wi' Fred. A two-three months sin', Murgatroyd and
Moses chanced to meet one Sunday night ; they'd both come
lurking about these premises wi' the notion of counselling
Sarah to tak' a bit of a walk wi' them ; they fell out, had a
tussle, and Fred was worsted : for he's young and small, and
Barraclough, for all he has only one leg, is almost as strong
as Sugden there ; indeed, anybody that hears him roaring at
a revival or a love-feast may be sure he's no weakling.'

' Joe, you're insupportable,' here broke in Mr. Moore.
' You spin out your explanation as Moses spins out his ser-
mons. The long and short of it is, Murgatroyd was jealous
of Barraclough; and last night,' as he and a friend took
shelter in a barn from a shower, they heard and saw Moses
conferring with some associates within. From their discourse,
it was plain he had been the leader, not only at Stilbro' Moor,
but in the attack on Sykes's property : moreover, they planned
a deputation to wait on me this morning, which the tailor is
to head, and which, in the most religious and peaceful spirit,
is to entreat me to put the accursed thing out of my tent. I
rode over to "Whinbury this morning, got a constable and a
warrant, and I am now waiting to give my friend the re-
ception he deserves ; here, meantime, comes Sykes : Mr. Hel-
stone, you must spirit him up ; he feels timid at the thoughts
of prosecuting.'

A gig was heard to roll into the yard : Mr. Sykea entered ;

NOAH AND MOSES 133

a tall, stout man of about fifty, comely of feature, but feeble
of physiognomy : he Ipoked anxious.

' Have they been ? Are they gone ? Have you got him ?
Is it over ? ' he asked.

' Not yet,' returned Moore with phlegm. ' We are waiting
for them.'

' They'll not come ; it's near noon : better give it up ; it
will excite bad feeling — make a stir — cause perhaps fatal
consequences.'

' You need not appear,' said Moore. ' I shall meet them
in the yard when they come ; you can stay here.'

' But my name must be seen in the law proceedings : a wife
and family, Mr. Moore— a wife and family make a man
cautious.'

Moore looked disgusted. ' Give way, if you please,' said
he ; ' leave me to myself ; I have no objection to act alone :
only be assured you will not find safety in submission ; your
partner, Pearson, gave way, and conceded, and forbore—
well, that did not prevent them from attempting to shoot
him in his own house.'

' My dear sir, take a httle wine and water,' recommended
Mr. Helstone. The wine and water was Hollands and water,
as Mr. Sykes discovered when he had compounded and
swallowed a brimming tumbler thereof : dt transfigured him
in two minutes, brought the colour back to his face, and made
him at least worJ-valiant, He now announced that he hoped
he was above being trampled on by the common people ; he
was determined to endure the insolence of the working-
classes no longer ; he had considered of it and made up his
mind to go all lengths ; if money and spirit could put down
these rioters, they should be put down ; Mr. Moore might
do as he liked, but he — Christie Sykes — would spend his last
penny in law before he would be beaten : he'd settle them, or
he'd see.

' Take another glass,' urged Moore.

Mr. Sykes didn't mind if he did ; this was a cold morning
(Sugden had found it a warm one) ; it was necessary to be

134 SHIELEY

careful at this season of the year — it was proper to take
something to keep the damp out ; he had a little cough already
(here he coughed in attestation of the fact) ; something of
this sort (lifting the black bottle) was excellent, taken medi-
cinally (he poured the physic into his tumbler) ; he didn't
make a practice of drinking spirits in a morning, but occa-
sionally it really was prudent to take precautions.

' Quite prudent, and take them by all means,' urged the
host.

Mr. Sykes now addressed Mr. Helstone, who stood on the
hearth, his shovel-hat on his head, watching him significantly
with his little keen eyes.

' You, sir, as a clergyman,' said he, ' may feel it disagree-
able to be present amidst scenes of hurry and flurry, and, I
may say, peril : I daresay your nerves won't stand it ; you're
a man of peace, sir, but we manufacturers, living in the world,
and always in turmoil, get quite belligerent. Beally, there's
an ardour excited by the thoughts of danger that makes my
heart pant. When Mrs. Sykes is afraid of the house being
attacked and broke open — as she is every night — I get quite
excited. I couldn't describe to you, sir, my feelings : really,
if anybody was to come — thieves or anything — I believe I
should enjoy it, such is my spirit.'

The hardest of laughs, though brief and low, and by no
means insulting, was the response of the Eector. Moore
would have pressed Upon the heroic mill-owner a third tum-
bler, but the clergyman, who never transgressed, nor would
suffer others in his presence to transgress the bounds of
decorum, checked him.

' Enough is as good as a feast, is it not, Mr. Sykes ? ' he
said, and Mr. Sykes assented ; and then sat and watched Joe
Scott remove the bottle at a sign from Helstone, with
a self-satisfied simper on his lips and a regretful glisten in
his eye. Moore looked as if he should have liked to fool him
to the top of his bent. What would a certain young kins-
woman of his have said could she have seen her dear, good,
great Eobert — her Coriolanus — just now ? Would she have

HOAS ANf) MOSES 1^6

acknowledged in that mischievous, sardonic visage the same
face to which she had looked up with such love, which had
bent over her with such gentleness last night ? Was that
the man who had spent so quiet an evening with his sister
and his cousin — so suave to one, so tender to the other —
reading Shakspeare and listening to Ch^nier ?

Yes, it was the same man, only seen on a different side ;
a side Caroline had not yet fairly beheld, though perhaps she
had enough sagacity faintly to suspect its existence. Well,
Caroline had, doubtless, her defective side too : she was
human, she must, then, have been very imperfect, and had she
seen Moore on his very worst side, she would probably have
said this to herself and excused him. Love can excuse any-
thing except Meanness ; but Meanness kills Love, cripples
even Natural Affection : vdthout Esteem, True Love cannot
exist. Moore with all his faults might be esteemed ; for he
had no moral scrofula in his mind, no hopeless polluting taint,
such, for instance, as that of falsehood ; neither was he the
slave of his appetites ; the active life to which he had been
bom and bred had given him something else to do than to
join the futile chase of the pleasure-hunter : he was a man
undegraded, the disciple of Eeason, not the votary of Sense.
The same might be said of old Helstone : neither of these two
would look, think, or speak a lie ; for neither of them had the
wretclied black bottle, which had just been put away, any
charms ; both might boast a valid claim to the proud title of
' lord of the creation,' for no animal vice was lord of them :
they looked and were superior beings to poor Sykes.

A sort of gathering and trampling sound was heard in the
yard, and then a pause. Moore walked to the window,
Helstone followed ; both stood on one side, the tall junior
behind the under-sized senior, looking forth carefully, so
that they might not be visible from without ; their sole com-
ment on what they saw was a cynical smile flashed into each
other's stern eyes.

A flourishing oratorical cough was now heard, followed by
the interjection, ' Whisht ! ' designed, as it seemed, to still the

136 SHIRLEY

lium of several voices. Moore opened his casement an inch
or two to admit sound more freely.

' Joseph Scott,' began a snuffling voice — Scott was standing
sentinel at the counting-house door — 'might we inquire if
your master be within, and is to be spoken to ? '

' He's within, ay ! ' said Joe, nonchalantly.

' Would you, then, if you please ' (emphasis on ' you '),
' have the goodness to tell him that twelve gentlemen wants
to see him.'

' He'd happen to ax what for,' suggested Joe. ' I mught
as weel tell him that at t'same time.'

' For a purpose,' was the answer. Joe entered.

' Please, sir, there's twelve gentlemen wants to see ye,
" for a purpose." '

' Good, Joe ; I'm their man, Sugden, come when I
whistle.'

Moore went out, chuckling dryly. He advanced into the
yard, one hand in his pocket, the other in his waistcoat, his
cap brim over his eyes, shading in some measure their deep
dancing ray of scorn. Twelve men waited in the yard, some
in their shirt-sleeves, some in blue aprons : two figured
conspicuously in the van of the party. One, a little dapper
strutting man, with a turned-up nose ; the other, a broad-
shouldered feUow, distinguished no less by his demure face
and cat-like, trustless eyes than by a wooden leg and stout
crutch : there was a kind of leer about his lips, he seemed
laughing in his sleeve at some person or thing, his whole air
was anything but that of a true man.

' Good morning, Mr. Barraclough,' said Moore debonairly,
for him.

' Peace be unto you ! ' was the answer : Mr. Barraclough
entirely closing his naturally half-shut eyes as he delivered
it.

' I'm obliged to you : peace is an excellent thing ; there's
nothing I more wish for myself ; but that is not all you
have to say to me, I suppose ? I imagine peace is not your
purpose ? '

NOAH AND MOSES 137

'As to our purpose,' began Barraolough, ' it's one that
may sound strange, and perhaps fooUsh to ears like yours,
for the childer of this world is wiser in their generation than
the childer of light.'

' To the point, if you please, and let me hear what it is.'

' Ye'se hear, sir ; if I cannot get it off, there's eleven
behint can help me. It is a grand purpose, and ' (changing
his voice from a half-sneer to a whine) ' it's the Looard's
own purpose, and that's better.'

' Do you want a subscription to a new ranter's chapel,
Mr. Barraclough ? Unless your errand be something of that
sort, I cannot see what you have to do with it.'

' I hadn't that duty on my mind, sir ; but as Providence
has led ye to mention the subject, I'll make it i' my way to
tak' ony trifle ye may have to spare ; the smallest contribu-
tion will be acceptable.'

With that he doffed his hat, and held it out as a begging-
box ; a brazen grin at the same time crossing his counte-
nance.

' If I gave you sixpence, you would drink it.'

Barraclough uplifted the palms of his hands and the
whites of his eyes, evincing in the gesture a mere burlesque
of hypocrisy.

'You seem a fine fellow,' said Moore, quite coolly and
dryly ; ' you don't care for showing me that you are a
double-dyed hypocrite, that your trade is fraud : you expect,
indeed, to make me laugh at the cleverness with which you
play your coarsely farcical part, while at the same time you
think you are deceiving the men behind you.'

Moses' countenance lowered; he saw he had gone too
far: he was going to answer, when the second leader,
impatient of being hitherto kept in the background, stepped
forward. This man did not look like a traitor, though he
had an exceedingly self-confident and conceited air.

' Mr. Moore,' commenced he, speaking also in his throat
and nose, and enunciating each word very slowly, as if wi'th
a view to giving his audience time to appreciate fully the

138 SHIELEY

uncommon elegance of the phraseology ; ' it might, perhaps,
justly be said that reason rather than peace is our purpose.
We come, in the first place, to request you to hear reason,
and should you refuse, it is my duty to warn you, in very
decided terms, that measures will be had resort to' (he
meant recourse) 'which wiU probably terminate in — in
bringing you to a sense of the unwisdom, of the— the
foolishness, which seems to guide and guard your perceedings
as a tradesman in this manufacturing part of the country.
Hem ! . . . . sir, I would beg to allude that as a furriner,
coming from a distant coast, another quarter and hemi-
sphere of this globe, thrown, as I may say, a perfect outcast
on these shores — the cliffs of Albion — you have not that
understanding of huz and wer ways which might conduce
to the benefit of the working-classes. If, to come at once to
partic'lars, you'd consider to give up this here miln, and go
without further protractions straight home to where you
belong, it 'ud happen be as well. I can see naught ageean
such a plan. What hev ye to say tuU 't, lads ? ' turning
round to the other members of the deputation, who responded
imanimously, ' Hear, hear ! '

' Brayvo, Noah o' Tim's ! ' murmured Joe Scott, who
stood behind Mr. Moore. ' Moses 11 niver beat that — Cliffs
o' Albion, and t' other hemisphere ! my certy ! Did ye
come fro' th' Antarctic Zone, maister ? Moses is dished.'

Moses, however, refused to be dished ; he thought he
would try again. Casting a somewhat ireful glance at
' Noah o' Tim's,' he launched out in his turn : and now he
spoke in a serious tone, relinquishing the sarcasm which he
found had not answered.

' Or iver you set up the pole o' your tent amang us, Mr.
Moore, we lived i' peace and quietness ; yea, I may say, in
all loving-kindness. I am not myself an aged person as yet,
but I can remember as far back as maybe some twenty year,
when hand-labour were encouraged and respected, and no
mischief-maker had ventured to introduae these here
machinesi which is so pemicioiis. I^ow, I'm not a clpth-

NOAfl AND MOSES 139

iresser myself, but by trade a tailor ; howsiver, my heart is
of a softish natur' : I'm a very feeling man, and when I see
my brethren oppressed, like my great namesake of old, I
stand up for 'em ; for which intent, I this day speak with
you face to face, and advises you to part wi' your infernal
machinery, and tak' on more hands.'

' What if I don't follow your advice, Mr. Barraclough ? '
' The Looard pardon you ! The Looard soften your
heart, sir I '

' Are you in comiection with the Wesleyans now, Mr.
Barraclough ? '

' Praise God ! Bless His Name ! I'm a joined
Methody ! '

' Which in no respect prevents you from being at the
same time a drunkard and a swindler. I saw you one night
a week ago laid dead-drunk by the roadside, as I returned
from Stilbro' market ; and while you preach peace, you
make it the business of your life to stir up dissension. You
no more sympathise with the poor who are in distress than
you sympathise with me : you incite them to outrage for
bad purposes of your own; so does the individual called
Noah o' Tim's. You two are restless, meddling, impudent
scoundrels, whose chief motive-principle is a selfish ambition,
as dangerous as it is puerile. The persons behind you are
some of them honest though misguided men ; but you two
I count altogether bad.'

Barraclough was going to speak.

' Silence I You have had your say, and now I will have
mine. As to being dictated to by you, or any Jack Jem, or
Jonathan on earth, I shall not suffer it for a moment. You
desire me to quit the country : you request me to part with
my machinery ; in case I refuse, you threaten me. I do
refuse — point-blank! Here I stay; and by this mill I
stand; and into it will I convey the best machinery inventors
can furnish. What will you do ? The utmost you can do —
and this you will never dare to do— is to burn down my mill,
destroy its contents, and shoot me. What then ? Suppose

140 SHIELEY

that building was a ruin and I was a corpse, what then ? —
you lads behind these two scamps, would that stop invention
or exhaust science ? — Not for the fraction of a second ef
time ! Another and better gig-mill would rise on the ruins
of this, and perhaps a more enterprising owner come in. my
place. Hear me ! — I'll make my cloth as I please, and
according to the best lights I have. In its manufacture
I will employ what means I choose. Whoever, after
hearing this, shall dare to interfere with me, may just
take the consequences. An example shall prove I'm in
earnest.'

He whistled shrill 'and loud- Sugden, his staff and
warrant, came on to the scene.

Moore turned sharply to Barraclough: 'You were at
Stilbro',' said he ; 'I have proof of that. You were on
the moor, — you wore a mask, — yoU knocked down one of
my men with your own hand, — you ! a preacher of the
Gospel ! Sugden, arrest him ! '

Moses was captured. There was a cry and a rush to
rescue, but the, right hand whiqh all this while had lain
hidden in Moore's breast, re-appearing, held out a pistol.

' Both barrels, are loaded,' said he. ' I'm quite deter-
mined I — ^keep off ! '

Stepping backwards, facing the foe as he went, he
guarded his prey to the counting-house. He ordered Joe
Scott to pass in with Sugden and the prisoner, and to bolt
the door inside. For himself, he walked backwards and
forwards along the front of the mill, looking meditatively on
the ground, his hand hanging carelessly by his side, but
still holding the pistol. The eleven remaining deputies
watched him some time, talking under their breath to each
other : at length one of them approached. This man looked
very different from either of the two who had previously
spoken : he was hard-favoured, but modest, and manly
looking.

' I've not much faith i' Moses Barraclough,' said he, ' and
I would speak a word to you mySeln, Mr. Moore. It's out o'

NOAH AND MOSES 141

no ill-will that I am here, for my part ; it's just to mak' a effort
to get things straightened, for they're sorely a crooked. Ye
see we're ill off — varry ill off : war families is poor and pined.
We're thrown out o' work wi' these frames: we can get
naught to do : we can earn nought. What is to be done ?
Mun we say, wisht ! and lig us down and dee ? Nay : I've
no grand words at my tongue's end, Mr. Moore) but I feel that
it would be a low principle for a reasonable man to starve to
death like a dumb creatur' — I will n't do't. I'm not for
shedding blood : I'd neither kill a man nor hurt a man ; and
I'm not for pulling down mills and breaking machines : for,
as ye say, that way o' going on '11 niver stop invention ; but
I'll talk — I'll mak' as big a din as ever I can. Invention may
be all right, but I know it isn't right for poor folks to starve.
Them that governs mim find a way to help us : they mun
mak' fresh orderations. Ye'llsay that's hard to do — so
mich louder mun we shout out then, for so much slacker will
t' Parliament-men be to set on to a tough job.'

' Worry the ParUament-men as much as you please,' said
Moore ; ' but to worry the mill-owners ia absurd ; and I, for
one, won't stand it.'

' Ye 're a raight hard 'un ! ' returned the workman. ' Will
n't ye gie us a bit o' time ? — Will n't ye consent to mak' your
changes rather more slowly ? '

' Am I the whole body of clothiers in Yorkshire ? Answer
me that I ' .

' Ye're yourseln.'

' And only myself : and if I stopped by the way an instant,
while others are rushing on, I should be trodden down. If
I did as you wish me to do, I should be bankrupt in a month,
and would my bankruptcy put bread into your hungry chil-
dren's mouths ? William Farren, neither to your dictation,
nor to that of any other, will I submit. Talk to me no more
about machinery ; I will have my own way. I shall get new
frames in to-morrow. — If you broke these, I would still get
more. I'll never give in.'

Here the miU-bell rang twelve o'clock : it was the dinner-

142 SHIELEY

hour. Moore abruptly turned from the deputation and re-
entered his counting-house.

His last words had left a bad, harsh impression : he, at
least, had ' failed in the disposing of a chance he was lord of.'
By speaking kindly to William Parren — who was a very
honest man, without envy or hatred of those more happily
circumstanced than himself ; thinking it no hardship and no
injustice to be forced to live by labour; disposed to be
honourably content if he could but get work to do — Moore
might have made a friend. It seemed wonderful how he
could turn from such a man without a conciliatory or a sym-
pathising expression. The poor fellow's face looked haggard
with want : he had the aspect of a man who had not known
what it was to live in comfort and plenty for weeks, perhaps
months past ; and yet there was no ferocity, no malignity in
his countenance : it was worn, dejected, austere, but still
patient. How could Moore leave Idm thus, with the words
' I'll never give in,' and not a whisper of good-will, or hope, or
aid?

Farren, as he went home to his cottage — once, in better
times, a decent, clean, pleasant place, but now, though still
clean, very dreary, because so poor — asked himself this
question. He concluded that the foreign mill-owner was a
selfish, an unfeeling, and, he thought, too, a foolish man. It
appeared to him that emigration, had he only the means to
emigrate, would be preferable to service under such a master.
He felt much cast down — almost hopeless.

On his entrance, his wife served out, in orderly sort, such
dinner as she had to give him and the bairns ; it was only
porridge, and too little of that. Some of the younger children
asked for more when they had done their portion— an appli-
cation which disturbed William much : while his wife quieted
them as well as she could, he left his seat and went to the
door. He whistled a cheery stave, which did not, however,
prevent a broad drop or two (much more like the ' first of a
thunder- shower ' than those which oozed from the wound of
the gladiator) from gathering on the lids of his grey eyes, and

NOAH ANr> MOSES U3

plashing thence to the threshold. He cleared his vision with
his sleeve, and the melting mood over, a very stern one
followed.

He still stood brooding in silence, when a gentleman in
black came up — a clergyman, it might be seen at once ; but
neither Helstone, nor Malone, nor Donne, nor Sweeting. He
might be forty years old ; he was plain-looking, dark-
complexioned, and already rather grey -haired. He stooped
a little in walking. His countenance, as he came on, wore
an abstracted and somewhat doleful air ; but, in approaching
Farren, he looked up, and then a hearty expression illuminated
the pre-occupied, serious face.

' Is it you, William ? How are you ? ' he asked.

' Middling, Mr. Hall : how are ye ? Will ye step in and
rest ye ? *

Mr. Hall, whose name the reader has seen mentioned
before (and who, indeed, was vicar of Nunnely, of which
parish Farren was a native, and from whence he had removed
but three years ago to reside in Briarfield, for the convenience
of being near Hollow's-mill, where he had obtained work),
entered the cottage, and, having greeted the good wife and
the children, sat down. He proceeded to talk very cheerfully
about the length of time that had elapsed since the family
quitted his parish, the changes which had occurred since ; he
answered questions touching his sister Margaret, who was
inquired after with much interest ; he asked questions in his
turn, and at last, glancing hastily and anxiously round
through his spectacles (he wore spectacles, for he was short-
sighted) at the bai^e room, and at the meagre and wan faces
of the circle about him — for the children had come round
liis knee, and the father and mother stood before hira —
he said, abruptly, — 'And how are you all? How do you
get on ? '

Mr. Hall, be it remarked, though an accomplished scholar,
not only spoke with a strong northern accent, but, on occa-
sion, used freely north-country expressions.

' We get on poorly,' said William : ' we're all out of work.

144 SHIELEY

I've selled most o' t' household stuff, as ye may see ; and
what we're to do next, God knows.'

' Has Mr. Moore turned you off? '

' He has turned us off ; and I've sich an opinion of him
now, that I think, if he'd tak' me on again to-morrow, I
wouldn't work for him.'

'It is not like you to say so, William.'

' I know it isn't ; but I'm getting different to mysel' : I
feel I am changing. I wadn't heed, if t' bairns and t' wife
had enough to live on ; but they're pinched — they're
pined '

' Well, my lad, and so are you> I see you are. These are
grievous times ; I see suffering wherever I turn. William,
sit down ; Grace, sit down ; let us talk it over.'

And in order the better to talk it over, Mr. Hall
lifted the least of the children on to his knee, and placed his
hand on the head of the iiext least; but when the small
things began to chatter to him, he bid them ' Whist ! ' and,
fixing his eyes on the grate, he regarded the handful of embers
which biirnt there very gravely.

' Sad times ! ' he said, ' and they last long. It is the wil
of God : His will be done ! but He tries us to the utmost.'

Again he reflected.

'You've no money, William, and you've nothing you could
sell to raise a small sum ? '

' No : I've selled t' chest o' drawers, and t' clock, and t'
bit of a mahogany stand, and t' wife's bonny tea-tray and set
o' oheeney 'at she brought for a portion when we were wed.'

' And if somebody lent you a pound or two, could you
make any good use of it ? Could you get into a new way of
doing something ? '

Farren did not answer ; but his wife said quickly, ' Ay,
I'm sure he could, sir ; he's a very contriving chap, is our
William. If he'd two or three pounds, he could begin selling
stuff.'

'Could you, William?'

'Please God,' returned William, deliberately, 'I could

NOAH AND MOSES 145

buy groceries, and bits o' tapes, and thread, and what I
thought would sell, and I could begin hawking at first.'

' And you know, sir,' interposed Grace, ' you're sure
Williana would neither drink, nor idle, nor waste in any way.
He's my husband, and I shouldn't praise him ; but I will
say, there's not a soberer, honester man i' England nor he is.'

' "Well, I'll speak to one or two friends, and I think I can
promise to let him have 51. in a day or two : as a loan, ye
mind, not a gift : he must pay it back.'

'I understand, sir; I'm quite agreeable to that.'

' Meantime, there's a few shillings for you, Grace, just to
keep the pot boiling till custom comes. Now, bairns, stand
up in a row and say your catechism, while your mother goes
and biiys some dinner : for you've not had much to-day, I'll
be bound. You begin, Ben. What is your name ? '

Mr. Hall stayed till Grace canie 'back ; then he hastily
took his leave, shaking haiids with both Farren and his wife :
just at the door, he said to them a few brief but very
earnest words of religious consolation and exhortation : with
a mutual ' God bless you, sir ! ' ' God bless you, my friends ! '
they separated.

CHAPTER IX

BBIABMAINS

Messbs. HkIiStone and Stees began to be extremely jocose
and congratulatory with Mr. Moore when he returned to
them after dismissing the deputation; he was so quiet,
however, under their compliments upon his firmness, &c.,
and wore a countenance so like a still dark day, equally
beamless and breezeless, that the Sector, after glancing
shrewdly into his eyes, buttoned up his felicitations with his
coat, and said to Sykes, whose senses were not acute
enough to enable him to discover unassisted where his
presence and conversation were a nuisance : — ' Come, sir :
your road and mine lie partly together : had we not better
bear each other company ? We'll bid Moore good-morning,
and leave him to the happy fancies he seems disposed to
indulge.'

' And where is Sugden ? ' demanded Moore, looking up.

' Ah, ha ! ' cried Helstone. ' I've not been quite idle
while you were busy. I've been helping you a little : I
flatter myself, not injudiciously. I thought it better not to
lose time ; so, while you were parleying with that down-
looking gentleman — Farren I think his name is, — I opened
this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was in the
stable, to bring Mr. Sykes's gig round; then I smuggled
Sugden and brother Moses — -wooden leg and all — through
the aperture, and saw them mount the gig (always vyith ovp:

BEIARMAINS 147

good friend Sykes's permission, of course). Sugden took the
reins — he drives like Jehu, and in another quarter of an
hour, Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro' jail.'

' Very good : thank you,' said Moore, ' and good-moming,
gentlemen,' he added, and so politely conducted them to the
door and saw them clear of his premises.

He was a taciturn, serious man the rest of the day : he
did not even bandy a repartee with Joe Scott ; who, for his
part, said to his master only just what was absolutely
necessary to the progress of business, but looked at him a
good deal out of the corners of his eyes, frequently came to
poke the counting-house fire for him, and once, as he was
locking up for the day (the mill was then working short
time, owing to the slackness of trade), observed that it was
a grand evening, and he ' could wish Mr. Moore to take a
bit of a walk up th' Hollow ; it would do him good.'

At this recommendation, Mr. Moore burst into a short
laugh, and after demanding of Joe what all this solicitude
meant, and whether he took him for a woman or a child,
seized the keys from his hand, and shoved him by .the
shoulders out of his presence. He called him back, however,
ere he reached the yard-gate.

' Joe, do you know those Farrens ? They are not well
off, 1 suppose ? '

' They cannot be well off, sir, when they've not had work
as a three month. Ye'd see yoursel' 'at William's sorely
changed, — ^fair pared : they've selled most o' t' stuff out o'
th' house.'

' He was not a bad workman ? '

' Ye never had a better, sir, sin' ye began trade.'

' And decent people — the whole family ? '

'Niver dacenter : th' wife's a raight cant body, and as

clean ! ye mught eat your porridge off th' house floor :

they're sorely comed down. I wish WiUiam could get a job
as gardener or summat i' that way; he understands garden-
ing weel. He once lived wi' a Scotchman that tached hioi
the mysteries o' that craft, as they say.'

148 SHIELEY

' Now, then, you can go, Joe ; you need not stand there
staring at me.'

' Ye've no orders to give, sir ? '

' None, but for you to take yourself off.'

Which Joe did accordingly.

Spring evenings are often cold and raw, and though this
had been a fine day, warm even in the morning and meridian
sunshine, the air chilled at sunset, the ground crisped, and
ere dusk a hoar frost was insidiously stealing over growing
grass and unfolding bud. It whitened the pavement in front
of Briarmains (Mr. Yorke'^ residence), and made silent
havoc among the tender plants in his garden, and on the
mossy level of his lavra. As to that great tree, strongT
trunked and broad-armed, which guarded the gable nearest
the road, it seemed to defy a spring-night frost to harm its
still bare boughs ; and so did the leafless grove of walnut-
trees rising tall behind the hoUse.

In the dusk of the moonless if starry night, lights from
windows shone vividly : this was no dark or lonely scene,
nor even a silent one. Briarmains stood near the highway ;
it was rather an old place, and had been built ere that high-
way was cut, and when a lane winding up through fields
was the only path conducting to it. Briarfield lay scarce a
mile off; its, bum was heard, its glare distinctly seen,
Briar-chapel, a large, new, raw, Wesleyan place of worship,
rose but a hundred yards .distant ; and, as there was even
now a prayer-meeting being held within its walls, the
illumination of its wipdows ,cast a bright reflection on the
road, while a hymn of a most extraordinary description,
such as a very Quaker might feel himself moved by th^
spirit to dance to, roused cheerily aU. the echoes of the
vicinage. The words were distinqtly audible by snatches :
here is a quotation or two from different strains ; for the
singers passed jauntily from hymn to hymn, and from tune
to tune, with an ease and buoyaney all their own : —

BEIAEMAINS UQ

Oh 1 who can explain

This struggle for life,
This travail and pain,

This trembling and strife 7
Plague, earthquake, and famine,

And tumult and war,
The wonderful coming

Of Jesus declare I

For every fight

Is dreadful and loud, —
The warrior's delight

Is slaughter and blood ;
His foes overturning.

Till all shall expire, —
And this is with burning.

And fuel, and fire I

Here followed an interval of clamorous prayer, accom-
panied by fearful groans. A Bhout of ' I've found liberty ! '
' Doad o' Bill's has fun' liberty ! ' rang from the chapel, and
out all the assembly broke again : —

What a mercy is this I

What a heaven of bliss 1
How unspeakably happy am 1 1

Gather'd into the fold.

With thy people enroU'd,
With thy people to live and to die !

Oh, the goodness of God

In employing a clod
His tribute of glory to raise ;

His standard to bear,

And with triumph declare
His unspeakable riches of grace 1

Oh, the fathomless love,

That has deign'd to approve
And prosper the work of my hands ;

With my pastoral crook,

I went over the brook,
And behold I am spread into bands 1

150 SHiELfit

Who, 1 ask in amaze,

Hath begotten me these ?
And inquire from what quarter they came ;

My full heart it replies,

They are bom from the skies,
And gives glory to God and the Lamb I

The stanza which followed this, after another and longer
interregnum of shouts, yells, ejaculations, frantic cries,
agonized groans, seemed to cap the climax of noise and

zeal : —

Sleeping on the brink of sin,
Tophet gaped to take us in ;
Mercy to our rescue flew, —
Broke the snare, and brought us through.

Here, as in a lion's den,
Undevour'd we still remain ;
Pass secure the watery flood,
Hanging on the arm of God.

Here

(Terrible, most distracting to the ear was the strained
shout in which the last stanza was given.)

Here we raise our voices higher,
Shout in the refiner's fire ;
Clap our hands amidst the flame,
Glory give to Jesus' name I

The roof of the chapel did not fly off; which speaks
volumes in praise of its solid slating.

But if Briar-chapel seemed aUve, so also did Briarmains :
- though certainly the mansion appeared to enjoy a quieter
phase of existence than the temple ; some of its windows
too were aglow: the lower casements opened upon the
lawn, curtains concealed the interior, and partly obscured
the ray of the candles which Ut it, but they did not entirely
mufifle the sound of voice and laughter. We are privileged
to enter that front-door, and to penetrate to the domestic
sanctum.

a

BEIAEMAINS 151

It is not the presence of company which makes Mr.
Yorke's habitation Uvely, for there is none within it save his
own family, and they are assembled in that farthest room to
the right, the back parlour.

This is the usual sitting-room of an evening. Those
windows would be seen by daylight to be of brilliantly-
stained glass — purple and amber the predominant hues,
glittering round a gravely-tinted medallion in the centre of
each, representing the suave head of William Shakspeare,
and the serene one of John Milton. Some Canadian views
hang on the walls — green forest and blue water scenery —
and in the midst of them blazes a night-eruption of
Vesuvius ; very ardently it glows, contrasted with the cool
foam and azure of cataracts, and the dusky depths of woods.

The fire illuminating this room, reader, is such as, if you
be a southern, you do not often see burning on the hearth of
& private apartment ; it is a clear, hot, coal fire, heaped
high in the ample chimney. Mr. Yorke will have such fires
even in warm summer weather : he sits beside it with a
book in his hand, a little round stand at his elbow support-
ing a candle — but he is not reading, he is watching his
children. Opposite to him sits his lady — a personage whom
I might describe minutely, but I feel no vocation to the task.
I see her, though, very plainly before me : a large woman
of the gravest aspect, care on her front and on her shoulders
— but not overwhelming, inevitable care — rather the sort of
voluntary, exemplary cloud and burden people ever carry
who deem it their duty to be gloomy. Ah, well-a-day ! Mrs.
Yorke had that notion, and grave as Saturn she was,
morning, noon, and night ; and hard things she thought of
any unhappy wight — especially of the female sex — who
dared in her presence to show the light of a gay heart on a
sunny countenance. In her estimation, to be mirthful was
to be profane ; to be cheerful was to be frivolous : she drew
no distinctions. Yet she was a very good wife, a very
careful mother, looked after her children unceasingly, was
sincerely attached to her husband ; only, the worst of it was,

152 SHIELEY

if she could have had her will, she would not have permitted
him to have any friend in the world beside herself: all his
relations were insupportable to her, and she kept them at
arm's length.

Mr. Yorke and she agreed perfectly well ; yet he was
naturally a social, hospitable man — an advocate for family
unity — ^and in his youth, as has been said, he liked none but
lively, cheerful women. Why he chose her — ^how they
contrived to suit each other, is a problem puzzling enough,
but which might soon be solved if one had time to go into
the analysis of the case. Suffice it here to say, that Yorke
had a shadowy as well as a sunny side to his character, and
that his shadowy side found sympathy and affinity in the
whole of his wife's uniformly overcast nature. For the rest,
she was a strong-minded woman ; never said a weak or
a trite thing ; took stern, democratic views of society, and
rather cynical ones of human nature ; considered heraeU
perfect and safe, and the rest of the world all vnrong. Her
main fault was a brooding, eternal, immitigable suspicion of
all men, things, creeds, and parties : this suspicion was a
mist before her eyes, a false guide in her path, wherever sbel
looked, wherever she turned.

It may be supposed that the children of such a pair were
not likely to turn out quite ordinary, common-plaoe beings ;
and they were not. You see six of them, reader : the
youngest is a baby on the mother's knee ; it is all her own
yet — and that one she has not yet begun to doubt, suspect,
condemn ; it derives its sustenance from her, it hangs on
her, it clings to her, it loves her above everything else in the
world : she is sure of that, because, as it lives by her, it
cannot be othervrise, therefore she loves it.

The next two are girls, Bose and Jessie : they are both
now at their father's knee ; they seldom go near their
mother, except when obliged to do so. Bose, the elder, is
twelve years old ; she is like her father— the most like him
of the whole group — but it is a granite head copied in ivory ;
all is softened in colour and line. Yorke himself has a

BBlAHMAlN-S 153

harsh face ; his daughter's is not harsh, neither is it quite
pretty ; it is simple — childlike in feature ; the round cheeks
bloom ; as to the gray eyes, they are otherwise than child-
like— a serious soul lights them — a young soul yet, but it
will mature, if the body lives; and neither father nor
mother have a spirit to compare with it. Partaking of the
essence of each, it will one day be better than either —
stronger, much purer, more aspiring. Bose is a still, and
sometimes a stubborn girl now : her inother wants to make
of her such a woman as she is herself — a woman of dark
and dreary duties — and Eose has a mind full-set, thick-
sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew. It
is agony to her often to have these ideas trampled on and
repressed. She has never rebelled, yet ; but if hard driven,
she will rebel one day, and then it will be once for all.
Eose loves her father : her father does not rule her with a
rod of iron ; he is good to her. He sometimes fears she will
not live, so bright are the sparks of intelligence which, at
moments, flash from her glance, and gleam in her language.
This idea makes him often sadly tender to her.

He has no idea that little Jessie will die young, she is so
gay and chattering, arch — original even now : passionate
when provoked, but most afTectionate if caressed ; by turns
gentle and rattling ; exacting yet generous ; fearless — of her
mother, for instance, whose irrationally hard and strict rule
she has often defied — yet reliant on any who will help her.
Jessie, with her little piquant face, engaging prattle, and
winning ways, is made to be a pet ; and her father's pet she
accordingly is. It is odd that the doll should resemble her
mother feature by feature, as Eose resembles her father,
and yet the physiognomy — how different !

Mr. Yorke, if a magic mirror were now held before you,
and if therein were shown you your two daughters as they
will be twenty years from this night, what would you
think ? The magic, mirror is here : you shall learn their
destinies — and first that of your little life, Jessie.

Do you know this place?- No, you never saw it; but

you recognise the nature of these trees, this foliage— the
cypress, the willow, the yew. Stone crosses like these are
not unfamiliar to you, nor are these dim garlands of ever-
lasting flowers. Here is the place ; green sod and a gray
marble headstone— Jessie sleeps below. She lived through
an April day ; much loved was she, much loving. She
often, in her brief life, shed tears, she had frequent sorrows ;
she smiled between, gladdening whatever saw her. Her
death was tranquil and happy in Eose's guardian arms, for
Eose had been her stay and defence through many trials :
the dying and the watching English girls were at that hour
alone in a foreign country, and the soil of that country gave
Jessie a grave.

Now, behold Eose, two years later. The crosses and
garlands looked strange, but the hiUs and woods of this
landscape look still stranger. This, indeed, is far from
England ; remote must be the shores which wear that wild,
luxm-iant aspect. This is some virgin solitude : unknown
birds flutter round the skirts of that forest ; no European
river this, on whose banks Eose sits thinking. The little
quiet Yorkshire girl is a lonely emigrant in some region of
the southern hemisphere. Will she ever come back ?

The three eldest of the family are all boys : Matthew,
Mark, and Martin. They are seated together in that corner,
engaged in some game. Observe their three heads : much
alike at a first glance ; at a second, different ; at a third,
contrasted. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked, are the
whole trio ; small English features thej'' all possess ; all own
a blended resemblance to sire and mother, and yet a distinc-
tive physiognomy, mark of a separate character, belongs to
each.

I shall not say much about Matthew, the first-born of
the house ; though it is impossible to avoid gazing at him
long, and conjecturing what qualities that visage hides or
indicates. He is no plain-looking boy : that jet-black hair,
white brow, high-coloured cheek, those quick, dark eyes, are
good points in their way. How is it that, look as long as

BEIAEMAINS 155

you will, there is but one object in the room, and that the.
most sinister, to which Matthew's face seems to bear an
affinity, and of which, ever and anon, it reminds you
strangely — the eruption of Vesuvius. Flame and shadow
seem the component parts of that lad's soul : no dayUght in
it, and no sunshine, and no pure, cool moonbeam ever shone
there. He has an English frame, but, apparently, not an
English mind : you would say, an Italian stiletto in a
sheath of British workmanship. He is crossed in the game
— look at his scowl. Mr. Yorke sees it, and what does he
say ? In a low voice, he pleads : ' Mark and Martin, don't
anger yom* brother.' And this is ever the tone adopted by
both parents. Theoretically, they decry partiality ; no
rights of primogeniture are to be allowed in that house ; but
Matthew is never to be vexed, never to be opposed : they
avert provocation from him as assiduously as they would
avert fire from a barrel of gunpowder. ' Concede, con-
ciliate,' is their motto wherever he is concerned. The
republicans are fast making a tyrant of their own flesh and
blood. This the younger scions know and feel, and at heart
they all rebel against the injustice : they cannot read their
parents' motives ; they only see the difference of treatment.
The dragon's teeth are already sown amongst Mr. Yorke' s
young olive branches : discord will one day be the harvest.
Mark is a bonnie -looking boy, the most regular-featured
of the family ; he is exceedingly calm ; his smile is
shrewd ; he can say the driest, most cutting things in the
quietest of tones. Despite his tranquillity, a somewhat
heavy brow speaks temper, and reminds you that the
smoothest waters are not always the safest. Besides, he is
too still, unmoved, phlegmatic, to be happy. Life will never
have much joy in it for Mark : by the time he is five-and-
twenty, he will wonder why people ever laugh, and think all
fools who seem merry. Poetry will not exist for Mark,
either in literature or in life ; its best effusions will sound to
him mere rant and jargon : enthu&iasm will be his aversion
^nd Qontempt. Mark will have no youth : while he looks

166 SHIELEY

juvenile and blooming, he -will be already middle-aged in
mind. His body is now fourteen years of age, but his soul
is already thirty.

Martin, the youngest of the three, owns another nature.
Life may, or may not, be brief for him : but it will certainly
be brilliant : he will pass through all its illusions, half
believe in them, wholly enjoy them, then outlive them.
That boy is not handsome' — not so handsome as either of
his brothers : he is plain ; there is a husk upon him, a dry
shell, and he will wear it till he is near twenty ; then he
•will put it off: about that period, he will make himself
handsome. He wiU wear uncouth manners till that age,
perhaps homely garments ; but the chrysalis will retain the
power of transfiguring itself into the butterfly, and such
transfiguration will, in due season, take place. For a space
he will be vain, probably a downright puppy, eager for
pleasure and desirous of admiration ; athirst, too, for know-
ledge. He will want all that the world can give him, both
of enjoyment and lore ; he will, perhaps, take deep draughts
at each fount. That thirst satisfied — what next ? I know
not. Martin might be a remarkable man : whether he will
or not, the seer is powerless to predict : on that subject,
there has been no open vision.

Take Mr. Yorke's family in the aggregate, there is as
much mental power in those six young heads, as much
originality, as much activity and vigour of brain, as — divided
amongst half a dozen common-place broods — would give to
each rather more than an average amount of sense and
capacity. Mr. Yorke knows this, and is proud of his race.
Yorkshire has such families here and there amongst her hills
and wolds — peculiar, racy, vigorous; of good blood and
strong brain; turbulent somewhat in the pride of their
strength, and intractable in the force of their native powers;
wanting polish, wanting consideration, wanting dociUty,
but sound, spirited, and true-bred as the eagle on the clifif or
the steed in the steppe.

A low tap is heard at the parlouj* door ; the boys have

BEIAEMAINS 157

been making such a noise over their game, and little Jessie,
besides, has been singing so sweet a Scotch song to her
father — who delights in Scotch and Italian songs, and has
taught his musical little daughter some of the best — that the
ring at the outer door was not observed.

' Come in ! ' says Mrs. Yorke, in that conscientiously con-
strained and solenmized voice of hers, which ever modulates
itself to a funereal dreariness of tone, though the subject it
is exercised upon be but to give orders for the making of a
pudding in the kitchen, to bid the boys hang up their caps
in the hall, or to call the girls to their sewing : ' Come in ! '
And in came Eobert Moore.

Moore's habitual gravity, as well as his abstemiousness
(for the case of spirit-decanters is never ordered up when he
pays an evening visit), has so far recommended him to Mrs.
Yorke, that she has not yet made him the subject of private
animadversions with her husband : she has not yet found
out that he is hampered by a secret intrigue which prevents
him from marrying, or that he is a wolf in sheep's clothing ;
discoveries which she made at an early daite after marriage
eonceming most of her husband's bachelor friends, and
excluded them from her board accordingly ; which part of
her conduct, indeed, might be said to have its just and
sensible, as well as its harsh side.

' Well, is it you ? ' she says to Mr. Moore, as he comes
up to her and gives his hand. ' What are you roving about
at this time of night for ? You should be at home.'

' Can a single man be said to have a home, madam ? ' he

' Pooh ! ' says Mrs. Yorke, who despises conventional
smoothness quite as much as her husband does, and practises
it as little, and whose plain speaking, on all occasions, is
carried to a point calculated, sometimes, to awaken admira-
tion, but oftener alarm — ' Pooh 1 you need not talk nonsense
to me ; a single man can have a home if he likes. Pray,
does not your sister make a home for you ? '

' Not she,' joined in Mr. Yorke. ' Hortense is an honest

158 SHlELfiY

lass ; but when I was Eobert's age, I had five or six sisters,
all as decent and proper as she is ; but you see, Hesther, for
all that, it did not hinder me from looking out for a wife.'

' And sorely he has repented marrying me,' added Mrs.
Yorke, who liked occasionally to crack a dry jest against
matrimony, even though it should be at her own expense.
' He has repented it in sackcloth and ashes, Eobert Moore,
as you may well believe when you see his punishment,
(here she pointed to her children). 'Who would burden
themselves with such a set of great, rough lads, as those, if
they could help it ? It is not only bringing them into the
world, though that is bad enough, but they are all to feed,
to clothe, to rear, to settle in life. Young sir, when you feel
tempted to marry, think of our four sons and two daughters,
and look twice before you leap.'

' I am not tempted now, at any rate : I think these are
not times for marrying or giving in marriage.'

A lugubrious sentiment of this sort was sure to obtain
Mrs. Yorke's approbation : she nodded and groaned
acquiescence ; but in a minute she said : — ' I make little
account of the wisdon of a Solomon of your age ; it will be
upset by the first fancy that crosses you. Meantime, sit
down, sir : you can talk, I suppose, as well sitting as
standing ? '

This was her way of inviting her guest to take a chair :
he had no sooner obeyed her, than little Jessie jumped from
her father's knee, and ran into Mr. Moore's arms, which
were very promptly held out to receive her.

' You talk of marrying him,' said she to her mother, quite
indignantly, as she was lifted lightly to his knee, ' and he is
married now, or as good : he promised that I should be his
wife last summer, the first time he saw me in my new white
frock and blue sash. Didn't he, father ? ' (These children
were not accustomed to say papa and mamma ; their mother
would allow no such ' namby-pamby.')

' Ay, my little lassie, he promised ; I'll bear witness.

BEIAEMAINS 159

But make him say it over again now, Jessie : such as he are
only false loons."

' He is not false : he is too bonnie to be false,' said
Jessie, looking up to her tall sweetheart with the fullest con-
fidence in his faith.

' Bonnie I ' cried Mr. Yorke ; ' that's the reason that he
should be, and proof that he is — a scoundrel.'

' But he looks too sorrowful to be false,' here interposed a
quiet voice from behind the father's chair. 'If he were
always laughing, I should think he forgot promises soon,
but Mr. Moore never laughs.'

• Your sentimental buck is the greatest cheat of all, Eose,'
remarked Mr. Yorke.

' He's not sentimental,' said Eose.

Mr. Moore turned to her with a little surprise, smiling,
at the same time.

' How do you know I am not sentimental, Eose ? '

' Because I heard a lady say you were not.'

' Voili, qui devient int^ressant ! ' exclaimed Mr. Yorke,
hitching his chair nearer the fire. ' A lady ! That has quite
a romantic twang : we must guess who it is. Eosy, whisper
the name low to your father : don't let hi7n hear.'

' Eose, don't be too forward to talk,' here interrupted Mrs.
Yorke, in her usual kill-joy fashion ; ' nor Jessie either : it
becomes all children, especially girls, to be silent in the
presence of their elders.'

' Why have we tongues, then ? ' asked Jessie, pertly ;
while Eose only looked at her mother with an expression
that seemed to say, she should take that maxim in, and
think it over at her leisure. After two minutes' grave
deliberation, she asked, — ' And why especially girls, mother ? '

' Firstly, because I say so : and, secondly, because discre-
tion and reserve is a girl's best wisdom.'

' My dear madam,' observed Moore, ' what you say
is excellent : it reminds me, indeed, of my dear sister's
observations ; but really it is not appUcable to these little

160 SHIELEY

ones. Let Eose and Jessie talk to me freely, or my chief
pleasure in coming here is gone. I like their prattle : it
does me good.'

' Does it not ? ' asked Jessie. ' More good than if the
rough lads came round you : you call them rough, mother,
yourself.'

' Yes, mignonne, a thousand times more good : I have
rough lads enough about me all day long, poulet.'

' There are plenty of people,' continued she, ' who take
notice of the boys : all my uncles and aunts seem to think
their nephews better than their nieces ; and when gentlemen
come here to dine, it is always Matthew, and Mark, and
Martin, that are talked to, and never Eose and me. Mr.
Moore is our friend, and we'll keep him : but mind, Eose,
he's not so much your' friend as he is mine : he is my
particular acquaintance ; remember that ! ' And she held
up her small hand with an admonitory gesture.

Eose was quite accustomed to be admonished by that
small hand ; her will daily bent itself to that of the impe-
tuous little Jessie : she was guided — overruled by Jessie in a
thousand things. On all occasions of show and pleasure,
Jessie took the lead, and Eose fell quietly into the back-
ground ; whereas, when the disagreeables of life — its work
and privations were in question, Eose instinctively took upon
her, in addition to her own share, what she could of her
sister's. Jessie had already settled it in her mind that she,
when she was old enough, was to be married ; Eose, she
decided, must be an old maid, to live with her, look after
her children, keep her house. This state of things is not
uncommon between two sisters, where one is plain and the
other pretty ; but in this case, if there was a difference in
external appearance, Eose had the advantage : her face was
more regular-featured than that of the piquant little Jessie.
Jessie, however, was destined to possess, along with sprightly
intelligence and vivacious feeling, the gift of fascination, the
power to charm when, where, and whom she would. Eose
was to have a fine, generous soul, a noble intellect profoundly

BEIAEMAINS 161

cultivated, a heart as true as steel, but the manner to attract
was not to be hers.

' Now, Eose, tell me the name of this lady who denied
that I was sentimental,' urged Mr. Moore.

Eose had no idea of tantalization, or she would have
held him a while in doubt ; she answered, briefly : — ' I can't :
I don't know her name.'

' Describe her to me : what was she like ? Where did
you see her ? '

' When Jessie and I went to spend the day at Whinbnry
with Kate and Susan Pearson, who were just come home
from school, there was a party at Mrs; Pearson's, and some
grown-up ladies were sitting in a corner of the drawing-room
talking about you.'

' Did you know none of them ? ' •

' Hannah, and Harriet, and Dora, and Mary Sykes.'

' Good. Were they abusing me, Eosy ? '

' Some of them were : they called you a misanthrope : I
remember the word— I looked for it in the dictionary when
I came home : it means a man-hater.'

' What besides ? '

' Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy.'

' Better ! ' cried Mr. Yorke, laughing. ' Oh ! excellent !
Hannah — that's the one with the red hair : a fine girl, but
half-witted.'

' She has wit enough for me, it appears,' said Moore. ' A
solemn puppy, indeed ! Well, Eose, go on.'

' Miss Pearson said she believed there was a good deal of
affectation about you, and that with your dark hair and pale
face, you looked to her like some sort of a sentimental
noodle.'

Again Mr. Yorke laughed : Mrs. Yorke even joined in
this time. ' You see in what esteem you are held behind
your back,' said she ; ' yet I believe that Miss Pearson would
like to catch you : she set her cap at you when you first
came into the country, old as she is.'

' And who contradicted her, Eosy ? ' inquired Moore.

163 SHlRLEt

' A lady whom I don't know, because she never visits
here, though I see her every Sunday at church ; she sits in
the pew near the pulpit. I generally look at her, instead of
looking at my prayer-book ; for she is like a picture in our
dining-room, that woman with the dove in her hand: at
least she has eyes like it, and a nose too, a straight nose,
that makes all her face look, somehow, what I call clear.'

' And you don't know her ! ' exclaimed Jessie, in a tone
of exceeding surprise. ' That's so like Eose. Mr. Moore, I
often wonder in what sort of a world my sister lives ; I am
sure she does not live all her time in this : one is continually
finding out that she is quite ignorant of some little matter
which everybody else knows. To think of her going
solemnly to church every Sunday, and looking all service-
time at one particular person, and never so much as asking
that person's name ! She means Caroline Helstone, the
Eector's niece : I remember all about it. Miss Helstone
was quite angry with Anne Pearson : she said, " Bobert
Moore is neither affected nor sentimental ; you mistake his
character utterly, or rather not one of you here knows any-
thing about it." Now, shall I tell you what she is like ? I
can tell what people are like, and how they are dressed,
better than Eose can.'

' Let us hear.'

' She is nice ; she is fair ; she has a pretty white slender
throat ; she has long curls, not stifif ones, they hang loose
and soft, their colour is brown but not dark ; she speaks
quietly, with a clear tone ; she never makes a bustle in
moving ; she often wears a gray silk dress ; she is neat all
over : her gowns, and her shoes, and her gloves always fit
her. She is what I call a lady, and when I am as tall as
she is, I mean to be like her. Shall I suit you if I am ?
Will you really marry me ? '

Moore stroked Jessie's hair : for a minute he seemed as
if he would draw her nearer to him, but instead he put her
a little farther off.

• Oh ! you won't have me ? You push me away.'

BBIAEMAINS 163

' Why, Jessie, you care nothing about me : you never
come to see me now at the Hollow.'

' Because you don't ask me.'

Hereupon, Mr. Moore gave both the little girls an invita-
tion to pay him a visit next day, promising that, as he was
going to Stilbro' in the morning, he would buy them each a
present, of what nature he would not then declare, but they
must come and see. Jessie was about to reply, when one of
the boys unexpectedly broke in : —

' I know that Miss Helstone you have all been palavering
about : she's an ugly girl. I hate her ! I hate all women-
ites. I wonder what they were made for.'

' Martin ! ' said his father — for Martin it was — the lad
only answered by turning his cynical young face, half-arch,
half-truculent, towards the paternal chair. ' Martin, my
lad, thou'rt a swaggering whelp, now ; thou wilt some day
be an outrageous puppy : but stick to those sentiments of
thine. See, I'll write down the words now i' my pocket-
book.' (The senior took out a morocco-covered book, and
deliberately wrote therein.) ' Ten years hence, Martin, if
thou and I be both alive at that day, I'll remind thee of that
speech.'

' I'll say the same then : I mean always to hate women :
they're such dolls : they do nothing but dress themselves
finely, and go swimming about to be admired. I'll never
marry : I'll be a bachelor.'

' Stick to it ! stick to it ! Hesther ' (addressing his wife),
' I was like him when I was his age, a regular misogamist ;
and, behold! by the time I was three-and-twenty — being
then a tourist in Erance and Italy, and the Lord knows
where 1 — I curled my hair every night before I went to bed,
and wore a ring i' my ear, and would have worn one i' my
nose if it had been the fashion— and all that I might make
mysel' pleasing and charming to the ladies. Martin will do
the like.'

' Will I ? Never I I've more sense. What a Guy you
were, father ! As to dressing, I make this vow : I'll never

164 SHIELEY

dress more finely than as you see me at present. Mr.
Moore, I'm clad in blue cloth from top to toe, and they
laugh at me, and call me a sailor at the grammar-school. I
laugh louder at them, and say they are all magpies and
parrots, with their coats one colour, and their waistcoats
another, and their trousers a third. I'll always wear blue
cloth, and nothing but blue cloth : it is beneath a human
being's dignity to dress himself in particoloured garments.'

' Ten years hence, Martin, no tailor's shop will have
choice of colours varied enough for thy exacting taste ; no
perfumer's stores essences exquisite enough for thy fastidious
senses.'

Martin looked disdain, but vouchsafed no further reply.
Meantime Mark, who for some minutes had been nimmaging
amongst a pile of books on a side-table, took the word. He
spoke in a peculiarly slow, quiet voice, and with an expres-
sion of still irony in his face not easy to describe.

' Mr. Moore,' said he, ' you think perhaps it was a com-
pliment on Miss Caroline Helstone's part to say you were
not sentimental. ' I thought you appeared • confused when
my sisters told' you the words, as if you felt flattered : you
turned red, just like a certain vain little lad at our school,
who always thinks proper to blush when he gets a rise in
the class. For your benefit, Mr. Moore, I've been looking
up the wferd " sentimental " in the dictionary, and I find it
to mean, "tinctured with sentiment." On examining
further, " sentiment " is explained to be, thought, idea,
notion. A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts,
ideas, notions ; an unsentimental man is one destitute of
thought, idea, or notion.'

And Mark stopped : he did not smile, he did not look
round for admiration : he had said his say, and was silent.

' Ma foi I mon ami,' observed Mr. Moore to Yotke ; ' ce
sont vraiment des enfants terribles, que les v6tres ! '

Eose, who had been listening attentively to Mark's
speech, replied to him : — ' There are different kinds of
thoughts, ideas, and notions,' said she, 'good and bad:

BEIARMAINS 165

sentimental must refer to the bad, or Miss Helstone must
have taken it in that sense, for she was not blaming Mr.
Moore ; she was defending him.'

' That's my kind little advocate,' said Moore, taking
Eose's hand.

' She was defending him,' repeated Eose, ' as I should
have done had I been in her place, for the other ladies seemed
to speak spitefully.'

' Ladies always do speak spitefully,' observed Martin ;
' it is the nature of womenites to be spiteful.'

Matthew now, for the first time, opened his lips : — ' What
a fool Martin is, to be always gabbling about what he does
not understand.'

' It is my privilege, as a freeman, to gabble on whatever
subject I like,' responded Martin.

'You use it, or rather abuse it, to such an extent,'
rejoined the elder brother, ' that you prove you ought to have
been a slave.'

' A slave ! a slave ! That to a Yorke, and from a Yorke I
This fellow,' he added, standing up at the table, and pointing
across it to Matthew — ' this fellow forgets, what every
cottier in Briarfield knows, that all born of our house have
that arched instep under which water can flow — proof that
there has not been a slave of the blood for three hundred
years.'

' Mountebank ! ' said Matthew.

' Lads, be silent ! ' exclaimed Mr. Yorke. ' Martin, you
are a mischief-maker : there would have been no disturbance
but for you.'

' Indeed ! Is that correct ? Did I begin, or did Matthew ?
Had I spoken to him when he accused me of gabbling like a
fool?'

' A presumptuous fool ! ' repeated Matthew.

Here Mrs. Yorke commenced rocking herself — rather a
portentous movement with her, as it was occasionally
followed, especially when Matthew was worsted in a conflict,
by a fit of hysterics.

166 SHIELEY

' I don't see why I should bear insolence from Matthew
Yorke, or what right he has to use bad language to me,'
observed Martin.

' He has no right, my lad ; but forgive your brother until
seventy and seven times,' said Mr. Yorke soothingly.

' Always alike, and theory and practice always adverse 1 '
murmured Martin as he turned to leave the room.

' Where art thou going, my son ? ' asked the father.

' Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult : if in this
house I can find any such place.'

Matthew laughed very insolently : Martin threw a strange
look at him, and trembled through all his slight lad's frame,
but he restrained himself.

' I suppose there is no objection to my withdrawing?' he
inquired.

' No ; go, my lad : but remember not to bear malice.'

Martin went, and Matthew sent another insolent laugh
after him. Eose, lifting her fair head from Moore's shoulder,
against which, for a moment, it had been resting, said, as she
directed a steady gaze to Matthew — ' Martin is grieved, and
you are glad ; but I would rather be Martin than you : I
dislike your nature.'

Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting, or at least escaping
a scene — which a sob from Mrs. Yorke warned him was
likely to come on— rose, and putting Jessie off his knee, he
kissed her and Eose ; reminding them, at the same time, to
be sure and come to the Hollow in good time lo-morrow
afternoon : then, having taken leave of his hostess, he said to
Mr. Yorke — 'May I speak a word with you?' and was
followed by him from the room. Their brief conference took
place in the hall.

' Have you employment for a good workman ? ' asked
Moore.

' A nonsense question in these times, when you know that
every master has many good workmen to whom he cannot
give full employment.'

' You must oblige me by taking on this man, if possible,'

BfilAMAlNS 16?

' My lad, I can take on no more hands to oblige all Eng-
land.'

' It does not signify ; I must find him a place somewhere.'

'Who is he?'

' William Farren."

' I know William ; a right-down honest man is William.'

' He has been out of work three months ; he has a large
family : we are sure they cannot live without wages : he was
one of a deputation of cloth-dressers who came to me this
morningto complain and threaten. William did not threaten:
he only asked me to give them rather more time — to make
my changes more slowly. You know I cannot do that ;
straitened on all sides as I am, I have nothing for it but
to push on. I thought it would be idle to palaver long with
them. I sent them away, after arresting a rascal amongst
them, whom I hope to transport — a fellow who preaches at
the chapel yonder sometimes.'

' Not Moses Barraclough ? '

' Yes.'

•Ahl you've arrested him? Good! Then out of a
scoundrel you're going to make a martyr : you've done a wise
thing.'

' I've done a right thing. Well, the short and the long of
it is, I'm determined to get Farren a place, and I reckon on
you to give him one.'

' This is cool, however ! ' exclaimed Mr. Yorke. ' What
right have you to reckon on me to provide for your dismissed
workmen ? What do I know about your Farrens and your
Williams ? I've heard he's an honest man ; but am I to
support all the honest men in Yorkshire ? You may say that
would be no great charge to undertake ; but great or little,
I'll none of it.'

' Come, Mr. Yorke, what can you find for him to do ? '

' I find ! You'll make me use language I'm not accus-
tomed to use. I wish you would go home— here is the door
—set off.'

Moore sat down on one of the hall chairs.

168 SHIRLEY

' You can't give him work in your mill— good — but you
have land: find him some occupation on your land', Mr.
Yorke.'

' Bob, I thought you cared nothing about our " lourdauds
de paysans " ? I don't understand this change.'

'I do : the fellovsr spoke to me nothing but truth and
sense. I answered him just as roughly as I did the rest, who
jabbered mere gibberish. I couldn't make distinctions there
and then : his appearance told what he had gone through
lately, clearer than his words : but where is the use of ex-
plaining ? Let him have work.'

' Let him have it yourself. If you are so very much in
earnest, strain a point.'

' If there was a point left in my affairs to strain, I would
strain it till it cracked again ; but I received letters this
morning which show me pretty nearly where I stand, and it
is not far off the end of the plank. My foreign market, at
any rate, is gorged. If there is no change— if there dawns
no prospect of peace — if the Orders in Council are not, at least,
suspended, so as to open our way in the West — I do not know
where I am to turn, t see no more light than if I were sealed
in a rock ; so that for me to pretend to offer a man a livelihood
would be to do a dishonest thing.'

' Gome, let us take a turn on the front : it is a starlight
night,' said Mr. Yorke.

They passed out, closing the front-door after them,
and, side by side, paced the frost-white pavement to and

fro.

' Settle about Parren at once,' urged Mr. Moore. ' You
have large fruit-gardens at Yorke Mills : he is a good
gardener : give him work there.'

' Well, so be it. I'll send for him to-morrow, and we'll
see. And now, my lad, you're concerned about the condition
of your affairs ? '

' Yes : a second failure— which I may delay, but which,
at this moment, I see no way finally to avert — would blight
the name of Moore completely ; and you are aware I had fine

BEIABMAINS 169

intentions of paying off every debt, and re-establishing the
old firm on its former basis.'

' You want capital— that's all you want.'

' Yes ; but you might as well say that breath is all a dead
man wants to live."

' I know — -I know Capital is not to be had for the asking ;
and if you were a married man, and had a family, like me, I
should think your case pretty nigh desperate ; but the young
and unencumbered have chances peculiar to themselves. I
hear gossip now and then about your being on the eve of
marriage with this miss and that ; but I suppose it is none
of it true ? '

'You may well suppose that : I think I am not in a position
to be dreaming of marriage. Marriage 1 I cannot bear the
word : it sounds so silly and utopian. I have settled it
decidedly that marriage and love are superfluities, intended
only for the rich, who live at ease, and have no need to take
thought for the morrow ; or desperatioiis, the. last and reck-
less joy of the deeply wretched, who never hope to rise out of
the slough of their utter poverty.'

' I should not think so if I were circumstanced as you are :
I should think I could very likely get a wife with a few thou-
sands, who would suit both me and my affairs.'

' I wonder where ? '

' Would you try, if you had a chance ? '

' I don't know : it depends on^ — in short it depends on many
things.'

' Would you take an old woman ? '

' I'd rather break stones on the road.'

' So would I. Would you take an ugly one ? '

' Bah I I hate ugliness and delight in beauty : my eyes
and heart, Yorke, take pleasure in a sweet, young, fair face,
as they are repelled by a grim, rugged, meagre one : soft
delicate lines and hues please — harsh ones prejudice me. I
won't have an ugly wife.'

' Not if she were rich ? '

' Not if she were dressed in gems. I could not love — I

170 SHIELEY

could not fancy — I could not endure her. My taste must
have satisfaction, or disgust would break out in despotism —
or worse — freeze to utter iciness.'

' What, Bob, if you married an honest, good-natured, and
wealthy lass, though a little hard-favoured, couldn't you put
up with the high cheek-bones, the rather wide mouth, and
reddish hair ? '

' I'll never try, I tell you. Grace at least I will have, and
youth and symmetry — yes, and what I call beauty.'

' And poverty, and a nursery full of bairns you can neither
clothe nor feed, and very soon an anxious faded mother —
and then bankruptcy, discredit — a life-long struggle.'

' Let me alone, Yorke.'

' If you are romantic, Eobert, and especially if you are
already in love, it is of no use talking.'

' I am not romantic. I am stript of romance as bare as
the white tenters in that field are of cloth.'

• Always use such figures of speech, lad ; I can under-
stand them : and there is no love-affair to disturb your
judgment ? '

' I thought I had said enough on that subject before.
Love for me? Stuff!'

' Well, then ; if you are sound both in heart and head,
there is no reason why you should not profit by a good
chance if it offers : therefore, wait and see.'

' You are quite oracular, Yorke.'

' I think I am a bit i' that line. I promise ye naught
and I advise ye naught ; but I bid ye keep your heart up,
and be guided by circumstances.'

' My namesake the physician's almanack could not speak
more guardedly.'

'In the meantime, I care naught about ye, Eobert
Moore : ye are nothing akin to me or mine, and whether ye
lose or find a fortune it mak's no difference to me. Go
home, now : it has stricken ten. Miss Hortense will be
wondering where ye are,'

CHAPTEE X

OLD MAIDS

Time wore on, and spring matured. The surface of England
began to look pleasant : her fields grew green, her hills
fresh, her gardens blooming ; but at heart she was no
better : still her poor were wretched, still their employers
were harassed : commerce, in some of its branches, seemed
threatened with paralysis, for the war continued ; England's
blood was shed and her wealth lavished : all, it seemed, to
attain most inadequate ends. Some tidings there were
indeed occasionally of successes in the Peninsula, but these
came in slowly ; long intervals occurred between, in which
no note was heard but the insolent self-felicitations of
Bonaparte on his continued triumphs. Those who suffered
from the results of the war felt this tedious, and — as they
thought — hopeless, struggle against what their fears or their
interests taught them to regard as an invincible power, most
insufferable : they demanded peace on any terms : men like
Yorke and Moore — and there were thousands whom the war
placed where it placed them, shuddering on the verge of
bankruptcy — insisted on peace with the energy of despera-
tion.

They held meetings ; they made speeches ; they got up
petitions to extort this boon : on what terms it was made
they cared not.

All men, taken singly, are more or less selfish ; and
taken in bodies they are intensely so. The British merchant
is no exception to this rule : the mercantile classes illustrate

m SHIRLEY

it strikingly. These classes certainly think too exclusively
of making money : they are too oblivious of every national
consideration but that of extending England's (i.e. their
own) commerce. Chivalrous feeling, disinterestedness, pride
in honour, is too dead in their hearts. A land ruled by
them alone would too often make ignominious submission —
not at all from the motives Christ teaches, but rather from
those Mammon instils. During the iate war, the tradesmen
of England would have endured buffets from the French on
the right cheek and on the left ; their cloak they would
have given to Napoleon, and then have politely offered him
their coat also, nor would they have withheld their waist-
coat if urged : they would have prayed permission only to
retain their one other garment, for the sake of the purse in
its pocket. Not one Spark of spilrit, not one symptom of
resistance would they have shown till the hand of the
Corsican bandit had grasped that beloved purse ; then,
perhaps, transfigured at once into British bull-dogs, they
would have sprung at the robber's throat, and there they
would have fastened, and there hung; — inveterate, insatiable,
till the treasure had been restored. Tradesmen, when they
speak against war, always profess to hate it because it is a
bloody and barbarous proceeding : you would think, to hear
them talk, that they are peculiarly civilised — especially
gentle and kindly of disposition to their fellow-men. This
is not the case. Many of them are extretnely narrow and
cold-hearted, have no good feeling for any class but their
own, are distant — even hostile to all others ; call them
■useless ; seem to question their right to exist ; seem to
grudge them the very air they breathe, and to think the
circumstance of their eating, drinking, and living in decent
houses quite unjustifiable. They do not know what others
do in the way of helping, pleasing, or teaching their race ;
they will not trouble themselves to inquire ; whoever is not
in trade, is accused of eating the bread of idleness, of passing
a useless existence. Long may it be ere England really
becomes a nation of shopkeepers !

OLD MAIDS 173

We have already said that Moore was no self-saorifioing •
patriot, and we have also explained what circumstances
rendered him specially prone to confine his attention and
efforts to the fm-therance of his individual interest ; accord-
ingly, when he felt himself urged a second time to the brink
of ruin, none struggled harder than he against the influences
which would have thrust him over. What he could do
towards stirring agitation in the north against the war, he
did, and he instigated others whose money and connections
gave them more power than he possessed. Sometimes, by
flashes, he felt there was little reason in the demands his
party made on Government : when he heard of all Europe
threatened by Bonaparte, and of all Europe arming to resist
him; when he saw Eussia menaced, and beheld Eiissia
rising, incensed and stern, to defend her frozen soil, her
wild provinces pf serfs, her dark native despotism, from the
tread, the yoke, the tyranny of a foreign victor, he knew that
England, a free realm, could not then depute her sons to
make concessions and propose terms to the unjust, grasping
IVenoh leader. When news came from time to time of the
movements of that man then representing England in the
Peninsula ; of his advance from success to success — that
advance so deliberate but so unswerving, so circumspect but
so certain, so ' unhasting ' but so ' unresting ; ' when he
read Lord Wellington's own despatches in the columns of
the newspapers, documents written by Modesty to the
dictation of Truth — Moore confessed at heart that a power
was with the troops of Britain, of that vigilant, enduring,
genuine, unostentatious sort, which must win victory to the
side it led, in the end. In the end I but that end, he
thought, was yet far off ; and meantime he, Moore, as an
individual, would be crushed, his hopes ground to dust : it
was himself he had to care for, his hopes he had to pursue,
and he would fulfil his destiny.

He fulfilled it so vigorously, that ere long he came to a
decisive rupture with his old Tory friend the Eector. They
quarrelled at a public meeting, and afterwards exchanged

174 SHIELEY

some pungent letters in the newspapers. Mr. Helstone
denounced Moore as a Jacobin, ceased to see him, would
not even speak to him when they met : he intimated also to
his niece, very distinctly, that her communications with
Hollow's cottage must for the present cease : she must give
up taking French lessons. The language, he observed, was
a bad and frivolous one at the best, and most of the works it
boasted were bad and frivolous, highly injurious in their
tendency to weak female minds. He wondered (he remarked
parenthetically) what noodle first itiade it the fashion to
teach women French : nothing was more improper for
them ; it was like feeding a rickety child on chalk and
water-gruel ; Caroline must give it up, and give up her
cousins too : they were dangerous people.

Mr. Helstone quite expected opposition to this order :
he expected tears. Seldom did he trouble himself about
CaroUne's movements, but a vague idea possessed him that
she was fond of going to Hollow's cottage: also he
suspected that she liked Eobert Moore's occasional presence
at the Eectory. The Cossack had perceived that whereas
if Malone stepped in of an evening to make himself sociable
and charming, by pinching the ears of an aged black cat,
which usually shared with Miss Helstone's feet the ac-
commodation of her foot-stool, or by borrowing a fowling-
piece, and banging away at a tool-shed door in the garden
while enough of daylight remained to show that conspicuous
mark — keeping the passage and sitting-room doors mean-
time uncomfortably open, for the convenience of running in
and out to announce his failures and successes with noisy
brusquerie — he had observed that under such entertaining
circumstances, Caroline had a trick of disappearing, tripping
noiselessly up-stairs, and remaining invisible till called
down to supper. On the other hand, when Eobert Moore
was the guest, though he elicited no vivacities from the cat,
did nothing to it, indeed, beyond occasionally coaxing it
from the stool to his knee, and there letting it purr, climb to
his shoulder and rub i-s head against his cheek ; though there

OLD MAIDS 175

Was no ear-splitting cracking off of firearms, no diffusion of
sulphurous gunpowder perfume, no noise, no boasting, during
his stay, still Caroline sat in the room, and seemed to find
wondrous content in the stitching of Jew-basket pin-
cushions, and the knitting of Missionary-basket socks.

She was very quiet, and Eobert paid her little attention,
scarcely ever addressing his discourse to her ; but Mr.
Helstone, not being one of those elderly gentlemen who are
easily blinded ; on the contrary, finding himself on all occa-
sions extremely wide-awake, had watched them when they
bade each other good-night : he had just seen their eyes
meet once — only once. Some natures would have taken
pleasure in the glance then surprised, because there was no
harm and some delight in it. It was by no means a glance
of mutual intelligence, for mutual love-secrets existed not
between them : there was nothing then of craft and conceal-
ment to offend ; only Mr. Moore's eyes, looking into
Caroline's, felt they were clear and gentle, and Caroline's
eyes encountering Mr. Moore's confessed they were manly
and searching : each acknowledged the charm in his or her
own way. Moore smiled slightly, and Caroline coloured as
slightly. Mr. Helstone could, on the spot, have rated them
both : they annoyed him : why ? impossible to say. If you
had asked him what Moore merited at that moment, he
would have said ' a horsewhip ; ' if you had inquired into
Caroline's deserts, he would have adjudged her a box on the
ear; if you had further demanded the reason of such
chastisements, he would have stormed against flirtation and
love-making, and vowed he would have no such folly going
on under his roof.

These private considerations, combined with political
reasons, fixed his resolution of separating the cousins. He
announced his will to Caroline one evening, as she was
sitting at work near the drawing-room window : her face
was turned towards him, and the light fell full upon it. It
had struck him a few minutes before that she was looking
paler and quieter than she used to look ; it had not escaped

176 SHIRLEY

him either that Robert Moore's name had never, for some
three weeks past, dropped from her lips ; nor during the
same space of time had that personage made his appearance
at the Rectory. Some suspicion of clandestine meetings
haunted his mind; having but an indifferent opinion of
women, he always suspected them : he thought they
needed constant watching. It was in a tone dryly significant
he desired her to cease her daily visits to the Hollow ; he
expected a start, a look of deprecation : the start he saw, but
it was a very slight one ; no look whatever was directed to
him.

' Do you hear me ? ' he asked.

' Yes, uncle.'

' Of course, you mean to attend to what I sayl'

' Yes, certainly.'

' And there must be no letter-scribbUng to your cousin
Hortense : no intercourse whatever. I do not approve of
the principles of the family ; they are Jacobinical.'

' Very well,' said Caroline quietly. She acquiesced then :
there was no vexed flushing of the face, no gathering tears :
the shadowy thoughtfulness which had covered her featmres
ere Mr. Helstone spoke remained undisturbed : she was
obedient.

Yes, perfectly ; because the mandate coincided v^dth her
own previous judgment ; because it was now become pain
to her to go to Hollow's cottage ; nothing met her there but
disappointment : hope and love had quitted that little tene-
ment, for Robert seemed to have deserted its precincts.
Whenever she asked after him — which she very seldom did,
since the mere utterance of his name made her face grow
hot — the answer was, he was from home, or he was quite
taken up with business : Hortense feared he was killing
himself by application : he scarcely ever took a meal in the
house ; he lived in the counting-house.

At church only Caroline had the chance of seeing him,
and there she rarely looked at him : it was both too much
pain and too much pleasure to look : it excited too much

OLD MAIDS 177

emotion ; and that it was all wasted emotion, she had learned
well to comprehend.

Once, on a dark, wet Sunday, when there were few people
at church, and when especially certain ladies were absent,
of whose observant faculties and tomahawk tongues Caroline
stood in awe, she had allowed her eye to seek Eobert's pew,
and to rest a while on its occupant. He was there alone :
Hortense had been kept at home by prudent considerations
relative to the rain and a new spring ' chapeau.' Dm-ing
the sermon, he sat with folded arms and eyes oast down,
looking very sad and abstracted. When depressed, the very
hue of his face seemed more dusk than when he smiled, and
to-day cheek and forehead wore their most tintless and sober
olive. By instinct Caroline knew, as she examined that
clouded countenance, that his thoughts were running in no
famiUar or kindly channel ; that they were far away, not
merely from her, but from all which she could comprehend,
or in which she could sympathise. Nothing that they had
ever talked of together was now in his mind : he was rapt
from her by interests and responsibilities in which it was
deemed such as she could have no part.

Caroline meditated in her own way on the subject ;
speculated on his feelings, on his life, on his fears, on his
fate ; mused over the mystery of ' business,' tried to com-
prehend more about it than had ever been told her— to
understand its perplexities, liabilities, duties, exactions ;
endeavoured to reaUse the state of mind of a ' man of business,'
to enter into it, feel what he would feel, aspire to what he
would aspire to. Her earnest wish was to see things as
they were, and not to be romantic. By dint of effort she
contrived to get a glimpse of the light of truth here and
there, and hoped that scant ray might suffice to guide her.

'Different, indeed,' she concluded, 'is Eobert's mental
condition to mine : I think only of him ; he has no room, no
leisure to think of me. The feeling called love is and has
been for two years the predominant emotion of my heart ;
always there, always awake, always astir : quite other feel-

178 SHIELEY

ings absorb his reflections, and govern his faculties. He' is
rising now, going to leave the church, for service is over.
Will he turn his head towards this pew ? — no — not once —
he has not one look for me : that is hard : a kind glance
would have made me happy till to-morrow ; I have not got
it ; he would not give it ; he is gone. Strange that grief
should now almost choke me, because another human being's
eye has failed to greet mine.'

That Sunday evening, Mr. Malone coming, as usual, to
pass it with his Rector, Caroline withdrew after tea to her
chamber. Fanny, knowing her habits, had lit her a cheerful
little fire, as the weather was so gusty and chill. Closeted
there, silent and solitary, what could she do but think ? She
noiselessly paced to and fro the carpeted floor; her head
drooped, her hands folded : it was irksome to sit : the current
of reflection ran rapidly through her mind : to-night she
was mutely excited.

Mute was the room, — mute the house. The double-door
of the study muffled the voices of the gentlemen: the
servants were quiet in the kitchen, engaged with books their
young mistress had lent them ; books which she had told them
were ' fit for Sunday reading.' And she herself had another
of the same sort open on the table, but she could not read it :
its theology was incomprehensible to her, and her own mind
was too busy, teeming, wandering, to listen to the language
of another mind.

Then, too, her imagination was full of pictures : images
of Moore ; scenes where he and she had been together ;
winter fireside sketches, a glowing landscape of a hot
summer afternoon passed with him in the bosom of Nunnely
wood : divine vignettes of mild spring or mellow autumn
moments, when she had sat at his side in Hollow's copse,
listening to the call of the May cuckoo, or sharing the
September treasure of nuts and ripe blackberries— a wild
dessert which it was her morning's pleasure to collect in
a little basket, and cover with green leaves and fresh blos-
soms, and her afternoon's delight to administer to Moore,

OLD MAIDS 179

berry by berry, and nut by nut, like a bird feeding its
fledgling.

Robert's features and form were with her ; the sound of
his voice was quite distinct in her ear ; his few caresses
seemed renewed. But these joys being hollow, were,
erelong, crushed in : the pictures faded, the voice failed, the
visionary clasp melted chill from her hand, and where the
warm seal of lips had made impress on her forehead, it felt
now as if a sleety rain-drop had fallen. She returned from
an enchanted region to the real world : for Nunnely wood
in June, she saw her narrow chamber; for the songs of
birds in alleys, she heard the rain on her casement ; for the
sigh of the south wind, came the sob of the mournful east ;
and for Moore's manly companionship, she had the thin
illusion of her own dim shadow on the wall. Turning from
the pale phantom which reflected herself in its outline, and
her reverie in the drooped attitude of its dim head and
colourless tresses, she sat down — inaction would suit the
frame of mind into which she was now declining— she said
to herself : — ' I have to live, perhaps, till seventy years. As
far as I know, I have good health : half a century of
existence may lie before me. How am I to occupy it ?
What am I to do to fill the interval of time which spreads
between me and the grave ? '

She reflected.

' I shall not be married, it appears,' she continued. ' I
suppose, as Eobert does not care for me, I shall never have
a husband to love, nor Kttle children to take care of. Till
lately I had reckoned securely on the duties and affections
of wife and mother to occupy my existence. I considered,
somehow, as a matter of coiorse, that I was growing up to
the ordinary destiny, and never troubled myself to seek any
other ; but now, I perceive plainly, I may have been mis-
taken. Probably I shall be an old maid. I shall live to see
Eobert married to some one else, some rich lady : I shall
never marry. What was I created for, I wonder ? Where
is my place in the world ? '

180 SHIELEI

She mused again.

' Ah I I see,' she pursued presently ; ' that is the question
which most old maids are puzzled to solve : other people
solve it for them by saying, ' Your place is to do good to
others, to be helpful whenever help is wanted.' That is right
in some measure, and a very convenient doctrine for the
people who hold it ; but I perceive that certain sets of
human beings are very apt to maintain that other sets
should give up their lives to them and their service, and then
they requite them by praise : they call them devoted and
virtuous. Is this enough ? Is it to live ? Is there not a
terrible hoUowness, mockery, want, craving, in that existence
which is given away to others, for want of something of
your own to bestow it on ? I suspect there is. Does virtue
lie in abnegation of self? I do not believe it. Undue
humility makes tyranny ; weak concession creates selfish-
ness. The Eomish religion especially teaches renimciation
of seU, submission to others, and nowhere are found so
many grasping tyrants as in the ranks of the Bomish priest-
hood. Each human being has his share of rights. I suspect
it would conduce to the happiness and welfare of all, if each
knew his allotment, and held to it as tenaciously as the
martyr to his creed. Queer thoughts these, that surge in my
mind : are they right thoughts ? I am not certain.

' Well, life is short at the best : seventy years, they say,
pass like a vapour, like a dream when one awaketh ; and
every path trod by human feet terminates in one bourne —
the grave : the little chink in the surface of this great globe —
the furrow where the mighty husbandman with the scythe
deposits the seed he has shaken from the ripe stem ; and
there it falls, decays, and thence it springs again, when the
world has rolled round a few times more. So much for the
body ; the soul meantime wings its long flight upward, folds
its wings on the brink of the sea of fire, and glass, and
gazing down through the burning clearness, finds there
mirrored the vision of the Christian's triple Godhead : the
Sovereign Father ; the Mediating Son ; the Creator Spirit,

OLD MAIDS 181

Such words, at least, have been chosen to express what is
inexpressible : to describe what bafiSes description. The
soul's real hereafter, who shall guess ? '

Her fire was decayed to its last cinder; Malone had
departed ; and now the study bell rang for prayers.

The next day Caroline had to spend altogether alone, her
uncle being gone to dine with his friend Dr: Boultby, vicar
of Whinbury. The whole time she was talking inwardly in
the same strain : looking forwards, asking what she was to
do with life. Fanny, as she passed in and out of the room
occasionally, intent on housemaid errands, perceived that
her young mistress sat very stiU. She was always in the
same place, always bent industriously over a piece of work :
she did not Uft her head to speak to Fanny, as her custom
was ; and when the latter remarked that the day was
fine, and she ought to take a walk, she only said — ' It is
cold.'

' You are very diligent at that sewing. Miss Caroline,'
continued this girl, approaching her little table.

' I am tired of it, Fanny.'

' Then why do you go on with it ? Put it down : read, or
do something to amuse you.'

' It is solitary in this house, Fanny : don't you think so ? '

' I don't find it so, miss. Me and Eliza are company for
one another; but you are quite too still — you should visit
more. Now, be persuaded; go. up- stairs and dress yourself
smart, and go and take tea, in a friendly way, with Miss
Mann or Miss Ainley ; I am certain either of those ladies
would be delighted to see you.'

' But their houses are dismal : they are both old maids.
I am certain old maids are a very unhappy race.'

' Not they, miss : they can't be unhappy ; they take such
care of themselves. They are all selfish.'

' Miss Ainley is not selfish, Fanny : she is always doing
good. How devotedly kind she was to her stepmother, as
long as the old lady lived ; and now when she is quite alone
in the world, without brother or sister, or any one to care

182 SSmLEY

for her, how charitable she is to the poor, as far as her means
permit ! Still, nobody thinks much of her, or has pleasure
in going to see her : and how gentlemen always sneer at
her! '

' They shouldn't, miss ; I believe she is a good woman :
but gentlemen think only of ladies' looks.'

' I'll go and see her,' exclaimed Caroline, starting up :
' and if she asks me to stay to tea, I'll stay. How wrong it
is to neglect people because they are not pretty, and young,
and merry ! And I will certainly call to see Miss Mann,
too : she may not be amiable ; but what has made her
unamiable ? What has Ufe been to her ? '

Fanny helped Miss Helstone to put away her work, and
afterwards assisted her to dress.

' You'll not be an old maid. Miss Caroline,' she said, as she
tied the sash of her brown-silk frock, having previously
smoothed her soft, full, and shining curls ; ' there are no
signs of an old maid about you.'

Caroline looked at the little mirror before her, and she
thought there were some signs. She could see that she was
altered within the last month ; that the hues of her com-
plexion were paler, her eyes changed — a wan shade seemed
to circle them, her countenance was dejected : she was not,
in short, so pretty or so fresh as she used to be. She dis-
tantly hinted this to Fanny, from whom she got no direct
answer, only a remark that people did vary in their looks ;
but that at her age a little falling away signified nothing, —
she would soon come round again, and be plumper and rosier
than ever. Having given this assurance, Fanny showed
singular zeal in wrapping her up in warm shawls and hand-
kerchiefs, till CaroUne, nearly smothered with the weight,
was fain to resist further additions.

She paid her visits : first to Miss Mann, for this was the
most diflBcult point : Miss Mann was certainly not quite a
lovable person. Till now, Caroline had always unhesitat-
ingly declared she disliked her, and more than once she had
joined her cousin Eobert in laughing at some of her pecu-

OLD MAIDS 183

liarities. Moore was not habitually given to sarcasm,
especially on anything humbler or weaker than himself ; but
he had once or twice happened to be in the room when Miss
Mann had made a call on his sister, and after listening to
her conversation and viewing her features for a time, he had
gone out into the garden where his little cousin was tending
some of his favourite flowers, and while standing near and
watching her, he had amused himself with comparing fair
youth — delicate and attractive — with shrivelled eld, livid and
loveless, and in jestingly repeating to a smiling girl the
vinegar discourse of a cankered old maid. Once on such
an occasion, Caroline had said to him, looking up from the
luxuriant creeper she was binding to its frame, — ' Ah !
Robert, you do not like old maids. I, too, should come
under the lash of your sarcasm, if I were an old maid.'

' You an old maid ! ' he had replied. ' A piquant notion
suggested by lips of that tint and form. I can fancy you,
though, at forty, quietly dressed, pale and sunk, but still with
that straight nose, white forehead, and those soft eyes. I
suppose, too, you will keep your voice, which has another
"timbre" than that hard, deep organ of Miss Mann's.
Courage, Cary !— even at fifty you will not be repulsive.'

' Miss Mann did not make herself, or tune her voice,
Eobert.'

' Nature made her in the mood in which she makes her
briars and thorns : whereas for the creation of some women,
she reserves the May morning hours, when with light and
dew she wooes the primrose from the turf, and the lily from
the wood-moss.'

Ushered into Miss Mann's little parlour, Caroline found
her, as she always found her, surrounded by perfect neat-
ness, cleanliness, and comfort (after all, is it not a virtue
in old maids that solitude rarely makes them negligent or
disorderly ?) ; no dust on her polished furniture, none on her
carpet, fresh flowers in the vase on her table, a bright fire
in the grate. She herself sat primly and somewhat grimly-

184 SHIRLEY

tidy iu a cushioned rocking-chair, her hands busied with
some knitting : this was her favourite work, as it required
the least exertion. She scarcely rose as Caroline entered ;
to avoid excitement was one of Miss Mann's aims in life :
she had been composing herself ever since she came down
in the morning, and had just attained a certain lethargic
state of tranquillity when the visitor's knock at the door
startled her, and undid her day's work. She was scarcely
pleased, therefore, to see Miss Helstone : she received her
with reserve, bade her be seated with austerity, and when
she got her placed opposite, she fixed her with her eye.

This was no ordinary doom— to be fixed with Miss
Mann's eye. Eobert Moore had undergone it once, and had
never forgotten the circumstance.

He considered it quite equal to anything Medusa could
do ; he professed to doubt whether, since that infliction, his
flesh had been quite what it was before — whether there was
not something stony in its texture. The gaze had had
such an effect on him as to drive him promptly from the
apartment and house ; it had even sent him straightway up
to the Eeotory, where he had appeared in CaroUne's
presence with a very queer face, and amazed her by
demanding a cousinly salute on the spot, to rectify a damage
that had been done him.

Certainly Miss Mann had a formidable eye for one of the
softer sex : it was prominent, and showed a great deal of
the white, and looked as steadily, as unwinkingly, at you as
if it were a steel ball soldered in her head ; and when, while
looking, she began to talk in an indescribably dry monotonous
tone — a tone without vibration or inflection — -you felt as if a
graven image of some bad spirit were addressing you. But
it was all a figment of fancy, a matter of surface. Miss
Mann's gobUn-gi-imness scarcely went deeper than the
angel-sweetness of hundreds of beauties. She was a
perfectly honest, conscientious woman, who had performed
duties in her day from whose severe anguish many a human
Peri, gazeUe-ey6d, silken-tressed, and silver-tongued, would

OLD MAIDS 186

have shrunk appalled : she had passed alone , through
protracted scenes of suffering, exercised rigid self-denial,
made large sacrifices of time, money, health, for those who
had repaid her only by ingratitude, and how her mala —
almost her sole — fault was, that she was censorious.

Censorious she cprtainly was. Caroline had not sat five
minutes ere her hostess, still keeping her under the spell of
that dread and Gorgon gaze, began flaying alive certain of
the families in .the neighbourhood. She went to work at
this business in a singularly cool, deUberate manner, Uke
some surgeon practising with his scalpel on a lifeless subject :
she made few distinctions ; ,she allowed scarcely any one
to be good; she disseicted iinpartially almost all her
acquaintance. If her auditress ventured now and then to
put in a palliative word, sh^' set it aside with a certain
disdain. Still, though, thus pitiless in moral anatomy, she
was no scandal-monger : she never disseminated really
malignant or dangerous reports : it was not her heart so
much as her temper that waS wrong.

Caroline made this discovei'y for the first time to-day ;
and, moved thereby to regtet' divers unjust judgments she
had more than once passed on the crabbed old maid, she
began to talk to her softly, not in sympathizing words, but
with a sympathizing voice. The lonehness of her condition
struck her visitor in a new light; as^ did also the character
of her ugHness — ^^a bloodless pallor of complexion, and
deeply worn lines of feature. The girl pitied the solitary
and afflicted woman ; her looks told what she felt : a sweet
countenance is never so sweet as when the moved heart
animates it with compassionate tenderness. Miss Mann,
seeing such a countenance raised to her, was touched in her
turn : she acknowledged her sense of the interest thus
unexpectedly shown in her, who usually met with only
coldness and ridicule, by replying to her candidly. Com-
municative on her own affairs she usually was not, because
no one cared to listen to her ; but to-day she became so,
aaid her confidant shed tears as she heard her speak : for

186 SHIKLEY

she told of cruel, slow-wasting, obstinate sufferings. Well
might she be corpse-like : well might she look grim, and
never smile ; well might she wish to avoid excitement, to
gain and retain composure ! Caroline, when she knew all,
acknowledged that Miss Mann was rather to be admired for
fortitude than blamed for moroseness. Eeader I when you
behold an aspect for whose constant gloom and frown you
cannot account, whose unvarying cloud exasperates you by
its apparent causelessness, be sure that there is a canker
somewhere, and a canker not the less deeply corroding
because concealed.

Miss Mann felt that she was understood partly, and
wished to be understood further ; for, however old, plain,
humble, desolate, afflicted we may be, so long as our hearts
preserve the feeblest spark of life, they preserve also, shiver-
ing near that pale ember, a starved, ghostly longing for
appreciation and affection. To this extenuated spectre,
perhaps, a crumb is not thrown once a year; but when
ahungered and athirst to famine — when all humanity has
forgotten the dying tenant of a decaying house — Divine
Mercy remembers the mourner, and a shower of manna
falls for lips that earthly nutriment is to pass no more.
Biblical promises, heard first in health, but then unheeded,
come whispering to the couch of sickness : it is felt that a
pitying God watches what all mankind have forsaken ; the
tender compassion of Jesus is recalled and relied on : the
faded eye, gazing beyond Time, sees a Home, a Friend, a
Eefuge in Eternity.

Miss Mann, drawn on by the still attention of her
listener, proceeded to allude to circumstances in her past
life. She spoke like one who tells the truth — simply, and
with a certain reserve ; she did not boast, nor did she
exaggerate. Caroline found that the old maid had been a
most devoted daughter and sister, an unwearied watcher by
lingering deathbeds ; that to prolonged and unrelaxing
attendance on the sick, the malady that now poisoned her
own life owed its origin ; that to one vfietched relative she

OLD MAIDS 187

had been a support and succour in the depths of self-earned
degradation, and that it was still her hand which kept him
from utter destitution. Miss Helstone stayed the whole
evening, omitting to paly her other intended visit ; and when
she left Miss Mann, it was with the determination to try in
future to excuse her faults, never again to make light of her
peculiarities or to laugh at her plainness ; and, above all
things, not to neglect her, but to come once a week, and to
offer her, from one human heart at least, the homage of
affection and respect : she felt she could now sincerely give
her a small tribute of each feeUng.

Caroline, on her return, told Fanny she was very glad
she had gone out, as she felt much better for the visit. The
next day she failed not to seek Miss Ainley. This lady
was in narrower circumstances than Miss Mann, and her
dwelling was more humble : it was, however, if possible, yet
more exquisitely clean ; though the decayed gentlewoman
could not afford to keep a servant, but waited on herself, and
had only the occasional assistance of a little girl who lived
in a cottage near.

Not only was Miss Ainley poorer, but she was even
plainer than the other old maid. In her first youth she
must have been ugly ; now, at the age of fifty, she was very
ugly. At first , sight, all but peculiarly weU-disciplined
minds 1 were apt to turn from her with annoyance : to
conceive against her a prejudice, simply on the ground of
her unattractive look. Then she was prim in dress and
manner : she looked, spoke, and moved the complete old
maid.

Her welcome to Caroline was formal, even in its kind-
ness— for it was kind; but Miss Helstone excused this.
She knew something of the benevolence of the heart which
beat under that starched kerchief ; all the neighbourhood — -
at least all the female neighbourhood — knew something of
it : no one spoke against Miss Ainley except lively young
gentlemen, and inconsiderate old ones, who declared her
hideous.

188 SHIELEY

Caroline was soon at home in that tiny parlour ; a kind
hand took from her her shawl and bonnet, and installed her
in the most comfortable seat near the fire. The yoimg and
the antiquated woman were presently deep in kindly con-
versation, and soon Caroline became aware of the power a
most serene, unselfish, and benignant mind could exercise
over those to whom it was developed. She talked never of
herself — always of others. Their faults she passed over;
her theme was their wants, which she sought to supply ;
their sufferings, which she longed to alleviate. She was
religious — a professor of religion — what some would call a
' saint,' and she referred to religion often in sanctioned
phrase — in phrase which those who possess a perception
of the ridiculous, without owning the power of exactly
testing and truly judging character, would certainly have
esteemed a proper subject for satire — a matter for mimicry
and laughter. They would have been hugely mistaken for
their pains. Sincerity is never ludicrous ; it is always
respectable. Whether truth — ^be it religious or moral truth
— speak eloquently and in well-chosen language or not, its
voice should be heard with reverence. Let those who
cannot nicely, and with certainty, discern the difference
between the tones of hypocrisy and those of sincerity, never
presume to laugh at aU, lest they should have the miserable
misfortune to laugh in' the wrong place, and commit impiety
when they think they are achieving wit.

Not from Miss Ainley's own lips did Caroline hear of her
good works ; but she knew much of them nevertheless ; her
beneficence was the familiar topic of the poor in Briarfield.
They were not works of almsgiving : the old maid was too
poor to give much, though she straitened herself to privation
that she might contribute her mite when needful : they were
the works of a Sister of Charity, far more difficult to perform
than those of a Lady Bountiful. She would watch by any
sick-bed : she seemed to fear no disease ; she would nurse
the poorest whom none else would nurse : she was serene,
humble, kind, and equable through everything.

OLD MAIDS 189

For this goodness she got but little reWard in this life.
Many of the poor' became so accustomed to her services that
they hardly thanked her for them : the rich heard them
mentioned with wonder, but were silent, from a sense of
shame at the difference between her sacrifices and their own.
Many ladies, however, respected her deeply ; they could' not
help it ; one gentleman — one only — gave her his friendship
and perfect confidence : this was Mt. Hall, the vicar of
Nunnely. He said, and said truly, that her life came nearer
the life of Christ, than that of any other human being he had
ever met with. You must not think, reader, that in sketching
Miss Ainley's character, I depict a figment of imagination —
no — we seek the originals of such portraits in real life only.
Miss Helstone studied well the mind and heart now
revealed to her. She found no high intellect to admire : the
old maid was merely sensible ; but she discovered so much
goodness, so much usefulness, so much mildness, patience,
truth, that she bent her own mind before Miss Ainley's in
reverence. What was her love of nature, what was her sense
of beauty, what were her more Taried and fervent emotions,
what was her deeper power of thought, what her wider
capacity to comprehend, compared to the practical excellence
of this good woman ? Momently, they seemed only beautiful
forms of selfish delight ; ineiltally, she trod them under foot.

It is true, she still felt with pain that the life which made
Miss Ainley happy could not make her happy : pure and active
as it waSj in her heart she deemed it deeply dreary because
it was so loveless — to her ideas, so forlorn. Yet, doubtless,
she reflected, it needed only habit to make it practicable and
agreeable to any one : it was despicable, she felt, to pine
sentimentally, to cherish secret griefs, vain memories ; to be
inert, to waste youth in aching languor, to grow old doing
nothing.

' I will bestir myself,' was her resolution, ' and try to be
wise if I cannot be good.'

She proceeded to make inquiry of Miss Ainley, if she could
help her in anything. Miss Ainley, glad of an assistant, told

m SHIRLEY

her that she could, and indicated some poor families In
Briarfield that it was desirable she should visit ; giving her
likewise, at her further request, some work to do for certain
poor women who had many children, and who were unskilled
in using the needle for themselves.

Caroline went home, laid her plans, and took a resolve not
to swerve from them. She allotted a certain portion of her
time for her various studies, and a certain portion for doing
anything Miss Ainley might direct her to do ; the remainder
was to be spent in exercise ; not a moment was to be left for
the indulgence of such fevered thoughts as had poisoned last
Sunday evening.

To do her justice, she executed her plans conscientiously,
perseveringly. It was very hard work at first — it was even
hard work to the end, but it helped her to stem and keep
down anguish : it forced her to be employed ; it forebade her
to brood : and gleams of satisfaction chequered her gray life
here and there when she found she had done good, imparted
pleasure, or allayed suffering.

Yet I must speak truth; these efforts brought her
neither health of body nor continued peace of mind : with
them all, she wasted, grew more joyless and more wan ; with
them all, her memory kept harping on the name of Eobert
Moore : an elegy over the past still rung constantly in her
ear ; a funereal inward cry haunted and harassed her : the
heaviness of a broken spirit, and of pining and palsying
faculties, settled slow on her buoyant youth. Winter seemed
conquering her spring : the mind's soil and its treasures were
freezing gradually to barren stagnation.

CHAPTEE XI

FIELDHEAD

Yet Caroline refused tamely to succumb : she had native
strength in her girl's heart, and she used it. Men and women
never struggle so hard as when they struggle alone, without
witness, counsellor, or confidant ; unencouraged, unadvised,
and unpitied.

Miss Helstone was in this position. Her sufferings were
her only spur ; and being very real and sharp, they roused
her spirit keenly. Bent on victory over a mortal pain, she
did her best to quell it. Never had she been seen so busy,
so studious, and, above all, so active. She took walks in all
weathers — long walks in solitary directions. Day by day she
came back in the evening, pale and wearied-looking, yet
seemingly not fatigued ; for still, as soon as she had thrown
off her bonnet and shawl, she would, instead of resting, begin
to pace her apartment : sometimes she would not sit down till
she was literally faint. She said she did this to tire herself
well, that she might sleep soundly at night. But if that was
her aim it was unattained, for at night, when others slum-
bered, she was tossing on her pillow, or sitting at the foot of
her couch in the darkness, forgetful, apparently, of the
necessity of seeking repose. Often, unhappy girl ! she was
crying — crying in a sort of intolerable despair, which, when
it rushed over her, smote down her strength, and reduced her
to childlike helplessness.

When thus prostrate, temptations besieged her : weak
suggestions whispered in her weary heart to write to Eobert,
and say that she was unhappy because she was forbidden to
see him and Hortense, and that she feared he would with-

192 SHIELEY

draw his friendship (not love) from her, and forget her en-
tirely, and begging him to remember her, and sometimes to
write to her. One or two such letters she actually indited,
but she never sent them : shame and good sense forbade.

At last the life she led reached the point when it seemed
she could bear it no longer ; that she must seek and find a
change somehow, or her heart and head would fail under the
pressure which strained them. She longed to leave Briarfield,
to go to some very distant place. She longed for something
else: the deep, secret, anxious yearning to discover and
know her mother strengthened daily ; but with the desire
was coupled a dbubt, a dread — if she knew her, could she
love her ? There was cause for hesitation, for apprehension
on this point : never in her life had she heard that mother
praised : whoever mentioned her, mentioned her coolly. Her
uncle seemed to regard his sister-in-law with a sort of tacit
antipathy : an old servant, who had lived with Mrs. James
Helstone for a short time after her marriage, whenever she
referred to, her former mistress, spoke with chilling reserve :
sometimes she called her ' queer,' sometimes she said shedid
not understand her. These expressions were ice to the
daughter's heart ; they suggested the conclusion that it was
perhaps better never to know her parent, than to know her
and not like her.

But one project could she frame whose execution seemed
likely to bring her a hope of relief ; it was to take a situation,
to be a governess — she could do nothing else. A little inci-
dent brought her to the point, -when she found courage to
break her design to her uncle.

Her long and late walks lay always, as has been said, on
lonely roads ; but in whatever direction she had rambled,
whether along the drear skirts of Stilbro' Moor, or over the
sunny stretch of Nunnely Common, her homeward path was
still so contrived as to lead her near the Hollow. She rarely
descended the den, but she visited its brink at twilight almost
as regularly as the stars rose over the hill-crests. Her rest-
ing-place was at a certain stile under a certain old thorn ;

OAEWELL HALL, NEAR BIESTALL (THE APPROACH) (fIELDHEAD).

PIELDHEAD 193

thence she could look down on the cottage, the mill-, the dewy
garden-grouhd, the still, deep dam ; thence was visible the
well-known counting-house window, from whose panes at a
fixed hour shot, suddenly bright, the ray of the well-known
lamp. Her errand was to watch for this ray : her reward to
catch it, sometimes sparkling bright in clear air, sometimes
shimmering dim through mist, and anon flashing broken
between slant lines of rain — for she came in all weathers.

There were nights when it failed to appear : she knew
then that Eobert was from home, and went away doubly
sad ; whereas its kindling rendered her elate, as though she
saw in it the promise of some indefinite hope. If, while she
gazed, a shadow bent between the light and lattice, her
heart leaped — that eclipse was Eobert : she had seen him.
She would return home comforted, carrying in her mind a
clearer vision of his aspect, a distincter recollection of his
voice, his smile, his bearing ; and, blent with these impres-
sions, was often a sweet persuasion 'that, if she could get
near him, his heart might welcome her presence yet : that
at this moment he might be willing to extend his hand and
draw her to him, and shelter her at his side as he used
to do. That night, though she might weep as usual, she
would fancy her tears less scalding ; the pillow they watered
seemed a little softer ; the temples pressed to that pillow
ached less.

The shortest path from the Hollow to the Eectory wound
near a certain mansion, the same under whose lone walls
Malone passed on that night-journey mentioned in an early
chapter of this work — the old and tenantless dwelling yclept
Pieldhead. Tenantless by the proprietor it had been for ten
years, but it was no niin : Mr. Yorke had seen it kept in
good repair, and an old gardener and his wife had lived in it,
cultivated the grounds, and maintained the house in habit-
able condition.

If Pieldhead had few other merits as a building, it might
at least be termed picturesque : its irregular architecture,
and the gray and mossy colouring communicated by time,

lU SHIELEY

gave it a just claim to this epithet. The old latticed
windows, the stone porch, the walls, the roof, the chimney-
stacks, were rich in crayon touches and sepia lights and
shades. The trees behind were fine, bold, and spreading ;
the cedar on the lawn in front was grand, and the granite
urns on the garden wall, the fretted arch of the gateway,
were, for an artist, as the very desire of the eye.

One mild May evening, Caroline passing near about
moonrise, and feeling, though weary, unwilling yet to go
home, where there was only the bed of thorns and the night
of grief to anticipate, sat down on the mossy ground near
the gate, and gazed through towards cedar and mansion. It
was a still night — calm, dewy, cloudless : the gables, turned
to the west, reflected the clear amber of the horizon they
faced ; the oaks behind were black ; the cedar was blacker ;
under its dense, raven boughs a ghmpse of sky opened
gravely blue : it was full of the moon, which looked
solemnly and mildly down on Caroline from beneath that
sombre canopy.

She felt this night and prospect mournfully lovely. She
wished she could be happy: she wished she could know
inward peace : she wondered Providence had no pity on her,
and would not help or console her. EecoUections of happy
trysts of lovers, commemorated in old baUads, returned on
her mind : she thought such tryst in such scene would be
blissful. Where now was Eobert ? she asked : not at the
Hollow : she had watched for his lamp long, and had not
seen it. She questioned within herself whether she and
Moore were ever destined to meet and speak again.
Suddenly the door within the stone porch of the Hall
opened, and two men came out : one elderly and white-
headed, the other young, dark-haired, and tall. They
passed across the lawn, out through a portal in the garden
wall: Caroline saw them cross the road, pass the stile,
descend the fields ; she saw them disappear. Eobert Moore
had passed before her with his friend Mr. Yorke : neither
had seen her.

FIELDHEAD 195

The apparition had been transient — scarce seen ere gone ;
but its electric passage left her veins kindled, her soul
insurgent. It found her despairing : it left her desperate —
two different states.

' Oh 1 had he but been alone ! Had he but seen me 1 '
was her cry, ' he would have said something ; he would
have given me his hand. He does, he must love me a little :
he would hav6 shown some token of affection : in his eye,
on his lips, I should have read comfort : but the chance is
lost. The wind — the cloud's shadow does not pass more
silently, more emptily than he. I have been mocked, and
Heaven is cruel ! '

Thus, in the utter sickness of longing and disappoint-
ment, she went home.

The next morning at breakfast, where she appeared
white-cheeked and miserable-looking as one who had seen
a ghost, she inquired of Mr. Helstone — 'Have you any
objection, uncle, to my inquiring for a situation in a
family ? '

Her uncle, ignorant as the table supporting his coffee-cup
of all his niece had undergone and was undergoing, scarcely
believed his ears.

' What whim now ? ' he asked. ' Are you bewitched ?
What can you mean ? '

' I am not well, and need a change,' she said.

He examined her. He discovered she had experienced
a change, at any rate. Without his being aware of it, the
rose had dwindled and faded to a mere snow-drop : bloom
had vanished, flesh wasted ; she sat before him drooping,
colourless, and thin. But for the soft expression of her
brown eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flow-
ing abundance of her hair, she would no longer have
possessed a claim to the epithet— pretty.

' What on earth is the matter with you ? ' he asked.
' What is wrong ? How are you ailing ? '

No answer, only the brown eyes filled, the faintly-tinted
lips trembled.

196 SHIBLEY

' Look out for a situation, indeed 1 For what situation
are you fit? What have you been doing with I yourself ?
You are not well.'

' I should be well if I went from home.'

' These women are incomprehensible. They have the
strangest knack of startling you with unpled,sant surprises.
To-day you see them bouncing, buxom, red as cherries, and
round as apples ; to-morrow they exhibit themselves efifete
as dead weeds, blanched and broken down. And the reason
of it all ? That's the puzzle. She has her meals, her liberty,
a good house to live in, and good clothes to wear, as usual :
a while since that sufi&ced to keep her handsome and cheery,
and there she sits now a poor, little, pale, puling chit enough.
Provoking 1 Then comes the question, what is to be done ?
I suppose I must send for advice. Will you have a doctor,
child?'

' No, uncle ; I don't want one : a doctor could do me no
good. I merely want change of air and scene.'

' Well, if that be the caprice, it shall be gratified. You
shall go to a watering-place. I don't mind the expense :
Fanny shall accompany you.'

' But, uncle, some day I must do something for myself ;
I have no fortune. I had better begin now.'

' While I live, you shall not turn, out as a governess,
Caroline. I will not have it said that my niece is a
governess.'

' But the later in life one makes a change of that sort,
uncle, the more difficult and painful it is. I should wish to
get accustomed to the yoke before any habits of ease and
independence are formed.'

' I beg you will not harass me, Caroline. I mean to pro-
vide for you. I have always meant to provide for you : I will
purchase an annuity. Bless me ; I am but fifty-five ; my
health and constitution are excellent : there is plenty of
time to save and' take measures. Don't make yourself
anxious re^jpecting the future : is that what frets you?'

' No, imcle ; but I long for a change.'

FIELDHEAD 197

He laughed. ' There speaks the woman !■ ' cried he, ' the
very woman 1 A. change ! a change I Always fantastical
and whimsical ! Well, it's in her sex.'

' But it is not fantasy and whim, uncle.'

'What is it then?'

'Necessity, I think. I feel weaker than formerly; I
believe I should have more to do.'

'Admirable! She feels weak, and therefore she should
be set to hard labour — "clair comme le jour" — as Moore
—confound Moore ! You shall go to Cliff-bridge ; and
there are two guineas to buy a new frock. Come, Cary,
never fear : we'll find balm in Gilead.'

' Uncle, I wish you were less generous, and more '

' More what ? '

Sympathizing was the word on Caroline's lips, but it was
not uttered : she checked herself in time: her uncle would
indeed have laughed if that namby-pamby word had escaped
her. Mnding her silent, he said, — ' The fact is, you don't
know precisely what you want.'

' Onlj to be a governess.'

' Pooh ! mere nonsense ! I'll not hear of governessing.
Don't mention it again. It is rather too feminine a fancy.
I have finished breakfast, ring the bell : put all crotchets
out of your head, and run away and amuse yourself.'

' What with ? My doll ? ' asked Carohne to herself as
she quitted the room.

A week or two passed ; her bodily and mental health
neither grew worse nor better. She was now precisely in
that state when, if her constitution had contained the seeds
of consumption, decline, or slow fever, those diseases would
have been rapidly developed, and would soon have carried
her quietly from the world. People never die of love or
grief alone ; though some die of inherent maladies, which the
tortures of those passions prematurely force into destructive
action. The sound by nature undergo these tortures, and
are racked, shaken, shattered : their beauty and bloom
perish, but hfe remains untouched. They are brought to a

198 SHIBLEY

certain point of dilapidation ; they are reduced to pallor,
debility, and emaciation. People think, as they see them
gliding languidly about, that they will soon withdraw to
sick-beds, perish there, and cease from among the healthy
and happy. This does not happen: they live on; and
though they cannot regain youth and gaiety, they may
regain strength and serenity. The blossom which the March
wind nips, but fails to sweep away, may survive to hang a
withered apple on the tree late into autumn : having braved
the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the first of
winter.

Every one noticed the change in Miss Helstone's appear-
rance, and most people said she was going to die. She never
thought so herself : she felt in no dying case ; she had neither
pain nor sickness. Her appetite was diminished ; she knew
the reason : it was because she wept so much at night. Her
strength was lessened ; she could account for it ; sleep was
coy and hard to be won ; dreams were distressing and bale-
ful. In the far future she still seemed to anticipate a time
when this passage of misery should be got over, and when
she should once more be calm, though perhaps never again
happy.

Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit ; to comply with
the frequent invitations of their acquaintance : this she
evaded doing ; she could not be cheerful in company ; she felt
she was observed there with more curiosity than sympathy.
Old ladies were always offering her their advice, recommend-
ing this or that nostrum ; young ladies looked at her in a way
she understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said
they knew she had been ' disappointed,' as custom phrases it :
by whom, they were not certain.

Commonplace young ladies can be quite as hard as
commonplace young gentlemen — quite as worldly and selfish.
Those who suffer should always avoid them ; grief and
calamity they despise : they seem to regard them as the
judgments of God on the lowly. With them, to ' love ' is
merely to contrive a scheme for achieving a good match : to

MELDHEAD 199

be ' disappointed ' is to have their scheme seen through and
frustrated. They think the feelings and projects of others on
the subject of love similar to their own, and judge them
accordingly.

All this Caroline knew, partly by instinct, partly by
observation : she regulated her conduct by her knowledge,
keeping her pale face and wasted figure as much out of sight
as she could. Living thus in complete seclusion, she ceased
to receive intelligence of the little transactions of the neigh-
bourhood.

One morning her uncle came into the parlour, where she
sat endeavouring to find some pleasure in painting a little
group of wild flowers, gathered under a hedge at the top of
the Hollow fields, and said to her in his abrupt manner : —
' Come, child, you are always stooping over palette, or book,
or sampler : leave that tinting work. By-the-by, do you put
your pencil to you lips when you paint ? '

' Sometimes, uncle, when I forget.'

' Then it is that which is poisoning you. The paints are
deleterious, child : there is white lead, and red lead, and
verdigris, and gamboge, and twenty other poisons in those
colour cakes. Lock them up ! lock them up ! Get your
bonnet on : I want you to make a call with me.'

' With you, uncle ? '

This question was asked iA a tone of surprise. She was
not accustomed to make calls with her uncle : she never rode
or walked out with him on any occasion.

' Quick ! quick ! I am always busy, you know : I have no
time to lose.'

She hurriedly gathered up her materials, asking, mean-
time, where they were going.

' To Fieldhead.'

' Fieldhead ! What, to see old James Booth, the gar-
dener ? Is he ill ? '

' We are going to see Miss Shirley Keeldar.'

' Miss Keeldar 1 Is she come to Yorkshire ? Is she at
Fieldhead?"

200 SHIELEY

' She is. She has heen there a week. I met her at a
party last night — that party to which you would not go. I
was pleased with her : I choose that you shall make her
acquaintance : it will do you good.'

' She is now come of age, I suppose ? '

' She is come of age, and will reside for a time on her
property. I lectured her on the subject : I showed her her
duty : she is not intractable ; she. is rather a fine girl ; she
will teach you what it is to have a sprightly spirit : nothing
lackadaisical about her.'

' I don't think she will want "to see me, or to have me
introduced to her. What good can I do her ? How can I
amuse her ? '

' Pshaw ! Put your bonnet on.'

' Is she proud, uncle ? '

' Don't know. You hardly imagine she would show her
pride to me, I suppose? A chit like that would scarcely
presume to give herself airs with the Eector of her parish,
however rich she might be.'

' No — but how did she behave to other people ? '

' Didn't observe. She holds her head high, and probably
can be saucy enough where she dare— she wouldn't be
a woman otherwise. There, — away now for your bonnet at
once ! '

Not naturally very confident, a failure of physical
strength and a depression of spirits had not tended to
increase Caroline's presence of mind and ease of manner, or
to give her additional courage to face strangers, and she
quailed, in spite of self-remonstrance, as she and her uncle
walked up the broad, paved approach leading from the gate-
way of Fieldhead to its porch. She followed Mr. Helstone
reluctantly through that porch into the sombre old vestibule
beyond.

Very sombre it was ; long, vast, and dark : one latticed
window lit it but dimly ; the wide old chimney contained now
no fire, for the present warm weather heecled it not ; it was
filled instead with willow-boughs. The gallery on high.

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FIELDHEAD 201

opposite the entrance, was seen but in outline, so shadowy
became this hall towards its ceiling ; carved stags' heads,
with real antlers, looked down grotesquely from the walls.
This was neither a grand nor a comfortable house : within
as without it was antique, rambling, and incommodious. A
property of a thousand a year belonged to it; which
property had descended, for lack of male heirs, on a female.
There were mercantile famiUes in the district boasting twice
the income, but the Keeldars, by virtue of their antiquity,
and their distinction of lords of the manor, took the
precedence of all.

Mr. and Miss Helstone were ushered into a parlour : of
course, as was to be expected in such a gothic old barrack,
this parlour was lined with oak : fine dark, glossy panels
compassed the walls gloomily and grandly. Very hand-
some, reader, these shining; brown panels are : very mellow in
colouring and tasteful in effect, but — if you know what a
' Spring clean ' is — very execrable and inhuman. Whoever,
having the bowels of humanity, has seen servants scrubbing
at these polished wooden walls with bees-waxed cloths on a
warm May day, must allow that they are ' tolerable and not
to be endured ; ' and I cannot but secretly applaud the
benevolent barbarian who had painted another and larger
apartment of Keldhead — the drawing-room to wit, formerly
also an oak-room — of a delicate pinky white ; thereby earn-
ing for himself the character of a Hun, but mightily enhanc-
ing the cheerfulness of that portion of his abode, and sa/ving
future housemaids a world of toil.

The brown-panelled parlour was furnished all in old
style, and with real old furniture. On each side of the high
mantelpiece stood two antique chairs of oak, soUd as sylvan
thrones, and in one of these sat a lady. But if this were
Miss Keeldar, she must have come of age at least some twenty
years ago : she was of matronly form, and though she wore
no cap, and possessed hair of quite an undimmed auburn,
shading small and naturally young-looking features, she had
no youthful aspect, nor apparently the wish to assume it.

202 SHIRLEY

You could have wished her attire of a newer fashion : in a
well-cut, well-made gown, hers would have been no un-
comely presence. It puzzled you to guess why a garment
of handsome materials should be arranged in such scanty
folds, and devised after such an obsolete mode : you felt
disposed to set down the wearer as somewhat eccentric at
once.

This lady received the visitors with a mixture of
ceremony and diffidence quite English : no middle-aged
matron who was not an Englishwoman could evince
precisely the same manner; a manner so uncertain of her-
self, of her own merits, of her power to please ; and yet so
anxious to be proper, and if possible, rather agreeable than
otherwise. In the present instance, however, more em-
barrassment was Shown than is usual even with diffident
Englishwomen : Miss Helstone felt this, sympathized
with the stranger, and, knowing by experience what was
good for the timid, took a seat quietly near her, and began
to talk to her with a gentle ease, communicated for the
moment by the presence of one less self-possessed than
herself.

She and this lady would, if alone, have at once got on
extremely well together. The lady had the clearest voice
imaginable: infinitely softer and more tuneful than could
have been reasonably expected from forty years, and a form
decidedly inclined to embonpoint. This voice Caroline
liked ; it atoned for the formal, if correct, accent and
language : the lady would soon have discovered she liked it
and her, and in ten minutes they would have been friends.
But Mr. Helstone stood on the rug looking at them both ;
looking especially at the strange lady with his sarcastic,
keen eye, that clearly expressed impatience of her chilly
ceremony, and annoyance at her want of aplomb. His hard
gaze and rasping voice discomfited the lady more and more ;
she tried, however, to get up little speeches about the
weather, the aspect of the country, &c., but the impracti-
cable Mr. Helstone presently found biipself somewhat d^af ;

FIELDHEAD 203

whatever she said, he affected not to hear distinctly, and she
was obliged to go over each elaborately constructed nothing
twice. The effort soon became too much for her ; she was
just rising in a perplexed flutter, nervously murmuring that
she knew not what detained Miss Keeldar — that she would go
and look for her, when Miss Keeldar saved her the trouble
by appearing : it was to be presumed at least that she who
now came in through a glass-door from the garden owned
that name.

There is real grace in ease of manner, and so old Helstone
felt when an erect, slight girl walked up to him, retaining
with her left hand her little silk apron full of flowers, and,
giving him her right hand, said pleasantly : — ' I knew you
would come to see me, though you do think Mr. Yorke has
made me a Jacobin. Good morning.'

' But we'U not have you a Jacobin,' returned he. ' No,
Miss Shirley, they shall not steal the flower of my parish
from me : now that you are amongst us, you shall be my
pupil in politics and religion : I'll teach you sound doctrine
on both points.'

' Mrs. Pryor has anticipated you,' she replied, turning to
the elder lady. Mrs. Pryor, you know, was my governess,
and is still my friend ; and of all the high and rigid Tories,
she is queen ; of all the stanch churchwomen, she is chief.
I have been well drilled both in theology and history, I
assure you, Mr. Helstone.'

The Sector immediately bowed very low to Mrs. Pryor,
and expressed himself obliged to her.

The ex-governess disclaimed skill either in political or
religious controversy, explained that she thought such
matters little adapted for female minds, but avowed herself
in general terms the advocate of order and loyalty, and, of
course, truly attached to the Establishment. She added,
she was ever averse to change under any circumstances ; and
something scarcely audible about the extreme danger of
being too ready to take up new ideas, closed her sentence.

' Miss Keeldar thinks as you think, I hope, madam ? '

204 SHIBLEY

' Difference of age and difference of temperament occasion
difference of sentiment,' was the reply. ' It can scarcely be
expected that the eager and young should hold the opinions
of the cool and middle-aged,.'

' Oh ! oh I we are independent : we think for ourselves ! '
cried Mr. Helstone. ' We are a little Jacobin, for anything
I know : a little freethinker, in good earnest. Let us have
a confession of faith on the spot.'

And he took the heiress's two hands — causing her to let
fall her whole cargo pf flowers — and seated her by him on
the sofa.

' Say your creed,' he ordered.

'The Apostles' Creed?'

' Yes.'

She said it like a child.

' Now for St. Athanasius's : that's the test ! '

' Let me gather up my flowers : here is Tartar coming, he
will tread upon them.'

Tartar was a rather large, strong, and fiercei-looking dog,
very ugly, being of a breed between mastiff and buU-dog,
who at this moment entered through the glass-door, and
posting directly to the rug, snuffed the fresh flowers
scattered there. He seerned to scorn them as food ; but
probably thinking their velvety petals might be convenient
as litter, he was turning round preparatory to depositing his
tawny bulk upon them, when Miss Helstone and Miss
Keeldar simultaneously stooped to the rescue.

' Thank you,' said the heiress, as she again held out her
little apron for Caroline to heap the blossoms into it. ' Is
this your daughter, Mr. Helstone ? ' she asked.

' My niece, Caroline.'

Miss Keeldar shook hands with her, and then looked at
her. Caroline also looked at her hostess.

Shirley Keeldar (she had no Christian name but Shirley :
her parents, who had wished to have a son, finding that,
arfter eight years of marriage. Providence had granted them
only a daughter, bestowed on her the same masculine

PIELDHEAD 205

family cognomen they would, have bestowed on a boy, if with
a boy they had been blessed)— Shirley Keeldar was no ugly
heiress : she was, agreeable to the eye. Her height and
shape were not unlike Miss Helstone's ; perhaps in stature
she might have the. advantage by an inch or two ; she was
gracefully made, and her face, too, possessed a charm as
well described by the word grace as any other. It was pale
naturally, but intelligent,, and of varied expression. She
was not a blonde, like Caroline : clear and dark were the
characteristics of her a^pejat as to colour : her face and brow
were clear, her eyes of the darkest gray : no green lights' in
them,^transparent£ pure, neutral gray : and her hair of
the darkest brown. Her features were distinguished ; by
which I do not mean that they were high, bony, and Eoman,
being indeed rather small and slightly marked than other-
wise ; but only that they were, to use a few French words,
' fins, graoieux, spirituels : ' mobile they were and speaking ;
but their changes were not to be understood, nor their
language interpreted all at once. She examined Caroline
seriously, inclining her head a little to one side, with a
thoughtful air.

'You see she is only a feeble chick,' observed Mr.
Helstone.

' She looks young— younger than I. How old are you ? '
she inquired in a manner that would have been patronising
if it had not been extremely solemn and simple.

' Eighteen years and six months.'

' And I am twenty-one.'

She said no more ; she had now placed her flowers on
the table, and was busied in arranging them.

' And St. Athanasius's Creed ? ' urged the Eector ; ' you
believe it all — don't you ? '

' I can't remember it quite all. I will give you a nose-
gay, Mr. Helstone, when I have given your niece one.'

She had selected a little bouquet of one brilUant and two
or three delicate flowers, relieved by a spray of dark ver-
dure : she tied it with silk from her work-box, and placed

206 SHIELEY

it on Caroline's lap ; and then she put her hands behind her,
and stood bending slightly towards her guest, still regarding
her, in the attitude and with something of the aspect of a
grave but gallant little cavalier. This temporary expression
of face was aided by the style in which she wore her hair,
parted on one temple, and brushed in a glossy sweep above
the forehead, whence it fell in curls that looked natural, so
free were their wavy undulations.

' Are you tired with your walk ? ' she inquired.

' No — not in the least ; it is but a short distance — but a
mile.'

' You look pale. Is she always so pale ? ' she asked,
turning to the Sector.

' She used to be as rosy as the reddest of your flowers.'

' Why is she altered ? What has made her pale ? Has
she been ill ? '

' She tells me she wants a change.'

' She ought to have one : you ought to give her one : you
should send her to the seacoast.'

' I will, ere summer is over. Meantime, I intend her to
make acquaintance With you, if you have no objection.'

' I am sure Miss Keeldar will have no objection,' here
observed Mrs. Pryor. ' I think I may take it upon me to
say that Miss Helstone's frequent presence at Keldhead will
be esteemed a favour.'

'You speak my sentiments precisely, ma'am,' said
Shirley, ' and I thank you for anticipating me. Let me tell
you,' she continued, turning again to Caroline, ' that you also
ought to thank my governess ; it is not every one she would
welcome as she has welcomed you : you are distinguished
more than you think. Tliis morning, as soon as you are
gone, I shall ask Mrs. Pryor's opinion of you. I am apt to
rely on her judgment of character, for hitherto I have found
it wondrous accurate. Already I foresee a favourable
answer to my inquiries do I not guess rightly, Mrs.
Pryor?'

' My dear — you said but now you would ask my opinion

OAKWELL HAIL (INTERIOR) (fIELDHEAd).

PIELDHEAD 207

when Miss Helstone was gone ; I am scarcely likely to give
it in her presence.'

' No — and perhaps it will be long enough before I obtain
it. I am sometimes sadly tantalised, Mr. Helstone, by Mrs.
Pryor's extreme caution : her judgments ought to be correct
when they come, for they are often as tardy of deUvery as a
lord chancellor's : on some people's characters I cannot get
her to pronounce sentence, entreat as I may.'

Mrs. Pryor here smiled.

' Yes,' said her pupil, ' I know what that smile means :
yon are thinking of my gentleman-tenant. Do you know Mr.
Moore of the Hollow ? ' she asked Mr. Helstone.

■ Ay t ay ! your tenant — so he is : you have seen a good
deal of him, no doubt, since you came ? '

' I have been obliged to see him : there was business to
transact. Business ! Eeally the word makes me conscious
I am indeed no longer a girl, but quite a woman and some-
thing more. I am an esquire : Shirley Keeldar, Esquire,
ought to be my style and title. They gave me a man's name ;
I hold a man's position : it is enough to inspire me with a touch
of manhood ; and when I see such people as that stately
Anglo-Belgian — that Gerard Moore before me, gravely talking
to me of business, really I feel quite gentlemanlike. You
must choose me for your churchwarden, Mr. Helstone, the
next time you elect new ones : they ought to make me a
magistrate and a captain of yeomanry : Tony Lumpkin's
mother was a colonel, and his aunt a justice of the peace —
why shouldn't I be ? '

' With all my heart. If you choose to get up a requisi-
tion on the subject, I promise to head the list of signatures
with my name. But you were speaking of Moore ? '

' Ah ! yes. I find it a little diificult to understand Mr.
Moore— to know what to think of him : whether to like him
or not. He seems a tenant of whom any proprietor might
be proud — and proud of him, I am, in that sense — but as a
neighboiu', what is he ? Again and again I have entreated
Mrs. Pryor to say what she thinks of him, but she still

208 SHIRLEY

evades returning a direct aiiSwer. I hope you will be
less oracular, Mr. Helstone, and pronounce at once : do you
like him?' ; '

' Not at all, just now : his name is entirely blotted from
my good books.'

' "What is the matter ? What has he done ? '

' My uncle and he disagree on politics,' interposed the
low voice of Caroline. She had better not have' spoken just
then : having scarcely joined in the conversation before, it
was not apropos to do it now : she felt this, vnth nervous
acuteness as soon as she had spoken, and coloured to the
eyes.

' What are Moore's politics ? ' inquired Shirley.

' Those of a tradesman,' returned the Eector ; ' narrow,
selfish, and unpatriotic. The man is etetnaUy vrritlng and
speaking against the continuance of the war : I have no
patience with him.'

' The war hurts his trade. I remember hd remarked that
only yesterday. But what other objection have you to him?'

' That is enough.'

'He looks the gentleman, in my sense of the term,'
pursued Shirley, 'and it pleases me to think he is such.'

Caroline rent the Tyrian petals of the one brilliant flower
in her bouquet, and answered in distinct tones — ' Decidedly
he is.' Shirley hearing this courageous' affirmation, flashed
an arch, searching glance at the speaker from her deep,
expressive eyes.

' You are his friend, at any rate,' she said ; ' you defend
him in his absence/ '

'I am both his friend and his relative,' was the prompt
reply. ' Eobert Moore is my cousin.'

' Oh, then, you can tell me all about him. Just give me
a sketch of his character.'

Insuperable embarrassment seized Caroline when this
demand was made : she could not, and did not attempt to
comply with it. Her silence was iinmediately covered by
Mrs. Pryor, who proceeded to address sundry questions to

FIELDHEAD 209

Mr. Helstone regarding a family or two in the neighbour-
hood, wilih whose connections in the south she said she was
acquainted. Shirley ; soon withdrew her gaze from Miss
Helstone's face. She did not renew her interrogations, but
returning to her flo;wers, proceeded to choose a nosegay for
the Bector. She presented it to him as he took leave,
and received the homage of a salute on the hand in return.

' Be sure you wear it for my sake,' said she.

' Next my heart, of course,' responded Helstone. ' Mrs.
Pryor, take care of this future magistrate, this churchwarden
in perspective, this captain of yeomanry, this young squire
of Briarfield, in a word : don't let him exert himself too
much : don't let him break his neck in hunting : especially,
let him mind how he rides down that dangerous hill near the
Hollow.'

' I like a descent,' said Shirley — ' I hke to clear it rapidly ;
and especially I hke that romantic Hollow, with all my
heart.'

' Bomantic — with a mill in it ? '

' Bomantic with a mill in it. The old mill and the white
cottage are each admirable in its way.'

' And the counting-house, Mr. Keeldar ? '

• The counting-house is better than my bloom-coloured
drawing-room : I adore the counting-house.

' And the trade ? The cloth — the greasy wool — the
polluting dyeing- vats ? '

' The trade is to be thoroughly respected.'

' And the tradesman is a hero ? Good ! '

' I am glad to hear you say so : I thought the tradesman
looked heroic.

Mischief, spirit, and glee sparkled all over her face as she
thus bandied words with the old Cossack, who almost equally
enjoyed the tilt.

' Captain Keeldar, you have no mercantile blood in your
veins : why are you so fond of trade ? '

' Because I am a mill-owner, of course. Half my income
comes from the works in that Hollow.'

210 SHIELEY

' Don't enter into partnership, that's all.'

• You've put it into my head ! you've put it into my
head ! ' she exclaimed, with a joyous laugh. ' It will never
get out : thank you.' And waving her hand, white as a lily
and fine as a fairy's, she vanished within the porch, while
the Bector and his niece passed out through the arched
gateway.

CHAPTEE XII

SHIBLEY AND CABOLINB

dHiBLEY showed she had been sincere in saying she should
be glad of Caroline's society, by frequently seeking it : and,
indeed, if she had not sought it, she would not have had it ;
for Miss Helstoue was slow to make fresh acquaintance.
She was always held back by the idea that people could not
want her, — that she could not amuse them ; and a brilliant,
happy, youthful creature, like the heiress of Fieldhead,
seemed to her too completely independent of society so
uninteresting as hers, ever to find it reaUy welcome.

Shirley might be brilliant, and probably happy likewise,
but no one is independent of genial society : and though in
about a month she had made the acquaintance of most of
the families round, and was on quite free and easy terms
with all the Misses Sykes, and all the Misses Pearson, and
the two superlative Misses Wynne of Walden Hall ; yet, it
appeared, she found none amongst them very genial : she
fraternized with none of them, to use her own words. If she
had had the bliss to be really Shirley Keeldar, Esq., Lord of
the Manor of Briarfield, there was not a single fair one in
this and the two neighboTiring parishes, whom she would
have felt disposed to request to become Mrs. Keeldar, lady of
the manor. This declaration she made to Mrs. Pryor, who
received it very quietly, as she did most of her pupil's off-
hand speeches, responding, — ' My dear, do not allow that
habit of alluding to yourself as a gentleman to be con-
firmed : it is a strange one. Those who do not know you,
hearing you speak thus, would think you affected mascuUne
manners.'

212 SHIBLEY

Shirley never laughed at her former governess : even the
little formalities and harmless peculiarities of that lady were
respectable in her eyes : had it been otherwise, she would
have proved herself a weak character at once : for it is only
the weak who make a butt of quiet worth; therefore she
took her remonstrance in silence. She stood quietly near
the window, looking at the grand cedar on her lawn, watch-
ing a bird on one of its lower boughs. Presently she began
to chirrup to the bird : soon her chirrup grew clearer ; ere-
long she was whistling; the whistle struck into a tune, and
very sweetly and deftly it was executed.

' My dear ! ', expostulated Mrs. Pryor.

'Was I whistling?' said .Shirley ;' I forgot. > I beg your
pardon, ma'am. I had resolved to take care not to whistle
before you.'

'But, Miss Keeldar, where did you learn to whistle?
You must have got the habit since you came down into
Yorkshire. I never knew you guilty of it before.'

' ph ! I learned to whistle a long while ago.'

' Who taught you ? '

,'No one: I took it up by listening, and I had laid it
dovTO again ; bu,t lately,, yesterday evening, as I was coming
up our lane, I heard a gentleman whistling that very, tune
in the field on the other side of. the hedge, and that reminded
me.'

' What gentleman was it? ' .

' We have only one gentleman in this region, ma'ams and
that is Mr. Moore; at least he is the Only gentleman who is
not grey-h3.ired : my two venerable favourites, Mr. Helstone .
and Mr. Yorke, it is true, are fine old beaux ; infinitely better
than any of the stupid young ones.'

Mrs. Pryor was silent. ■ ,

' You do not Uke Mr. Helstone, ma'am ? '

' My : dear, Mr. Helstone's office seem-es him from
critioism.'

,' You gejnerally contrive to leave the room when he is
announced.'

OAKWELL HAIL (fBONT) (piELDHEAD).

SHIELEY AND GAEOLINB ^13

' Do you walk out this morning, my dear ? '

' Yes, I shall go to the Eectory, and seek and find
Caroline Helstone, and make her take some exercise :• she
shall have a breezy walk over Nunnely Common.'

' If you go in that direction, my dear, have the goodness
to remind Miss Helstone to wrap up well, as there is a fresh
wind, and she appears to me to require care.'

' You shall be minutely obeyed, Mrs. Pryor : meantime,
will you not accompany us yourself ? '

'No, my love; I should be a restraint upon you: I
am stout, and cannot walk so quickly as you would wish
to do.' /

Shirley easily persuaded Caroline to go with her : and
when they were fairly out on the quiet road, traversing tbe
extensive and solitary sweep of Nunnely Common, she
as easily drew her into conversation. The first feelings of
diffidence overcome, Caroline soon felt glad to talk with
Miss Keeldar. The very first interchange of slight observa-
tions sufficed to give each an idea of what the other was.
Shirley said she liked the green sweep of the common turf,
and, better still, the heath on its ridges, for the heath
reminded her of moors : she had seen moors when, slie
was travelling on the borders near Scotland. She remembered
particularly a district traversed one long afternoon, on a
sultry but sunless day in summer: they journeyed from
noon till sunset, over what seemed a boundless waste of deep
heath, and nothing had they seen but wild sheep ; nothing
heard but the cries of wild birds.

' I know how the heath would look on such a day,' said
Caroline ; ' purple black : a deeper shade of the sky-tint, and
that would be livid.'

' Yes — quite livid, with brassy edges to the clouds, and
here and there a white gleam, more ghastly than the lurid
tinge, which, as you looked at it, you momentarily expected
would kindle into blinding lightning.'

' Did it thunder ? '

' It muttered distant peals, but the storm did not break

214 SHIELEY

till evening, after we had reached our inn : that inn being an
isolated house at the foot of a range of mountains.'

'Did you watch the clouds come down over the
mountains ? '

' I did : I stood at the window an hour watching them.
The hills seemed rolled in a sullen mist, and when the rain
fell in whitening sheets, suddenly they were blotted from
the prospect : they were washed from the world.'

' I have seen such storms in hilly districts in York-
shire ; and at their riotous climax, while the sky was
all cataract, the earth all flood, I have remembered the
Deluge.'

' It is singularly reviving after such hurricanes to feel
calm return, and from the opening clouds to receive a
consolatory gleam, softly testifying that the sun is not
quenched.'

' Miss Keeldar, just stand stiU now, and look down at
Nunnely dale and wood.'

They both halted on the green brow of the Common :
they looked down on the deep valley robed in May raiment ;
on varied meads, some pearled with daisies, and some
golden with king-cups: to-day all this young verdmre
smiled clear in sunlight ; transparent emerald and amber
gleams played over it. On Nunnwood — the sole remnant of
antique British forest in a region whose lowlands were once
all sylvan chase, as its highlands were breast-deep heather —
slept the shadow of a cloud ; the distant hills were dappled,
the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl;
silvery blues, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-
shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury
snow, allured the eye as with a remote glimpse of heaven's
foundations. The air blowing on the brow was fresh, and
sweet, and bracing.

' Our England is a bonnie island,' said Shirley, ' and
Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks.'

' You are a Yorkshire girl too ? '
I am — Yorkshire in blood and birth. Five generations

SHIELEY AND CAEOLINE 215

of my race sleep under the aisles of Briarfield Church: I
drew my first breath in the old black hall behind us.'

Hereupon Carohne presented her hand, which was
accordingly taken and shaken.

' We are compatriots,' said she.

'Yes,' agreed Shirley, with a grave nod. 'And that,'
asked Miss Keeldar, pointing to the forest — ' that is Nunn-
wood?'

' It is.'
Were you ever there ?'

' Many a time.'

'In the heart of it?'

' Yes.'

' What is it like ? '

' It is like an encampment of forest sons of Anak. The
trees are huge and old. When you stand at their roots, the
summits seem in another region : the trunks remain still
and firm as pillars, while the boughs sway to every breeze.
In the deepest calm their leaves are never quite hushed, and
in high wind a flood rushes — a sea thunders above you.'

' Was it not one of Bobin Hood's haunts ? '

' Yes, and there are mementos of him still existing. To
penetrate into Nunnwood, Miss Keeldar, is to go far back
into the dim days of eld. Can you see a break in the forest,
about the centre ? '

' Yes, distinctly.'

' That break is a dell ; a deep, hollow cup, lined with
turf as green and short as the sod of this Common: the
very oldest of the trees, gnarled mighty oaks, crowd
about the brink of this dell : in the bottom lie the ruins of a
nunnery.'

' We will go — you and I alone, Caroline — to that wood,
early some fine summer morning, and spend a long day
there. We can take pencils and sketch-books, and any
interesting reading-book we like; and of course we shall
take something to eat. I have two little baskets, in which
Mrs. Gill, my housekeeper, might pack our provisions, and

216 SHIELEY

we could each carry our own. It would not tire you too
much to walk so far ? '

'Oh, no; especially if we rested the whole day in the
wood, and I know all the pleasantest spots : I know where
we could get nuts in nutting time ; I know where wild
strawberries abound ; I know certain lonely, quite untrodden
glades, carpeted with strange mosses, some yellow as if
gilded, some a sober grey, some gem-green. I know groups
of trees that ravish the eye with their perfect, picture-like
effects: rude oak, delicate birch, glsssy beech, clustered in
contrast; and ash trees stately as Saul, standing isolated,
and superannuated wood-giants clad in. bright shrouds of ivy.
Miss Keeldar, I could guide you.'

' You would be dull with me alone ? '

' I should not. I think we should suit : and what third
person is there whose presence would not spoil our
pleasure ? '

' Indeed, I know of none about our own ages — no lady
at least, and as to gentlemen '

' An excursion becomes quite a different thing when
there are gentlemen of the party, '> interrupted Caroline.

'I agree with you— quite a different thing to what we
were proposing.'

' We were going simply to see the old trees, the old ruins;
to pass a day in old times, surrounded by olden silence, and
above all by quietude.'

' You are right ; and the presence of gentlemen dispels
the last oharm, I think. If they are of the wrong sort,
like your Malones, and your young Sykes, and Wynnes,
irritation takes the place of serenity^ If they are of the
right sort, there is still a change — I can hardly tell what
change, one easy to fed, dif&cult to describe.'

' We forget Nature, imprimis.'

' And then Nature forgets us ; covers her vast calm brow
with a dim veil, conceals her face, and withdraws the
peaceful joy with which, if we had been content to worship
her only, she would have filled our hearts.'

SHiELEt AND CAROLINE 217

' What does she give us instead ? '

' More elation and more anxiety : an excitement that steals
the hours away fast, and a trouble that ruffles their course.'

' Our power of being happy hes a good deal in ourselves,
I believe,' remarked Caroline sagely. ' I have gone to
Nunnwood with a large party, all the curates and some
other gentry of these parts, together with sundry ladies ;
and I found the affair insufferably tedious and absurd : and
I have gone quite alone, or accompanied but by Fanny, who
sat in the woodman's hut and sewed, or talked to the
goodwife, while I roamed about and made sketches, or read ;
and I have enjoyed much happiness of a quiet kind all day
long. But that was when I was young — two years ago.'

' Did you ever go with your cousin, Eobert Moore ? '

' Yes ; once.'

' What sort of a companion is he on these occasions ? '

' A cousin, you know, is different to a stranger.'

' I am aware of that ; but cousins, if they are stupid, are
still more insupportable than strangers, because you cannot
so easily keep them at a distance. But your cousin ia not
stupid ? '

'No; but '

'WeU?'

' If the company of fools irritates, as you say, the society
of clever men leaves its own peculiar pain also. Where the
goodness or talent of your friend is beyond and above all
doubt, your own worthiness to be his associate often becomes
a matter of question.'

' Oh ! there I cannot foUow you : that crotchet is not one
I should choose to entertain for an instant. I consider
myself riot unworthy to be the associate of the best of them
— of gentlemen, I mean : though that is saying a great deal.
Where they are good, they are very good, I believe. Your
uncle, by-the-by, is not a bad specimen of the elderly
gentleman : I am always glad to see his brown, keen,
sensible old face, either in my own house or any other. Are
you fond of him ? Is he kind to yott ? Now speak the truth.'

218 SHIELEY

' He has brought me up from childhood, I doubt not,
precisely as he would have brought up his own daughter, if
he had had one ; and that is kindness ; but I am not fond of
him : I would rather be out of his presence than in it.'

' Strange 1 when he has the art of making himself so
agreeable.'

' Yes, in company ; but he is stem and silent at home.
As he puts away his cane and shovel-hat in the Eectory hall,
so he locks his Uveliness in his book-case and study-desk :
the knitted brow and brief word for the fire-side ; the smile,
the jest, the witty sally, for society.'

' Is he tyrannical ? '

' Not in the least : he is neither tyrannical nor hypo-
critical : he is simply a man who is rather liberal than good-
natured, rather brilliant than genial, rather scrupulously
equitable than truly just, — if you can understand such
superfine distinctions ? '

' Oh ! yes : good-nature implies indulgence, which he
has not; geniality, warmth of heart, which he does not
own ; and genuine justice is the offspring of sympathy and
considerateness, of which, I can well conceive, my bronzed
old friend is quite innocent.'

'I often wonder, Shirley, whether most men resemble
my uncle in their domestic relations ; whether it is necessary
to be new and unfamiliar to them, in order to seem agree-
able or estimable in their eyes ; and whether it is impossible
to their natures to retain a constant interest and affection
for those they see every day.'

' I don't know : I can't clear up your doubts. I ponder
over similar ones myself sometimes. But, to teU you a
secret, if I were convinced that they are necessarily and
universally different from us — fickle, soon petrifying, un-
sympathizing — I would never marry. I should not like to
find out that what I loved did not love me, that it was weary
of me, and that whatever effort I might make to please would
hereafter be worse than useless, since it was inevitably in
its nature to change and become indifferent. That discovery

SHIELEY AND CAEOLINB 219

once made, -what should I long for? To go away — to
remove from a presence where my society gave no
pleasure.'

' But you could not, if you were married.'

' No, I could not — there it is. I could never be my own
mistress more. A terrible thought ! — it suffocates me !
Nothing irks me like the idea of being a burden and a bore,
— an inevitable burden, — a ceaseless bore ! Now, when I
feel my company superfluous I can comfortably fold my
independence round me like a mantle, and drop my pride
like a veil, and withdraw to solitude. If married, that could
not be.'

' I wonder we don't aU make up our minds to remain
single,' said Caroline : ' we should if we listened to the
wisdom of experience. My uncle always speaks of marriage
as a burden; and I believe whenever he hears of a man
being married, he invariably regards him as a fool, or, at any
rate, as doing a foolish thing.'

' But, Caroline, men are not all like your uncle : surely
not — I hope not.'

She paused and mused.

' I suppose we each find an exception ia the one we love,
till we are married,' suggested Caroline.

' I suppose so : and this exception we believe to be of
sterling materials ; we fancy it like ourselves ; we imagine a
sense of harmony. We think his voice gives the softest,
truest promise of a heart that vrill never harden against us :
we read in his eyes that faithful feeling — affection. I don't
think we should trust to what they call passion at all,
Caroline. I believe it is a mere fire of dry sticks, blazing
up and vanishing : but we watch him, and see him kind to
animals, to little children, to poor people. He is kind to us
likewise — good — considerate : he does not flatter women, but
he is patient with them, and he seems to be easy in their
presence, and to find their company genial. He likes them
not only for vain and selfish reasons, but as we like him —
Ijecause vre Ijke hjin Then we obserye th^t he is just — that

220 SHIELEY

ha always speaks the truth — that he is conscientious. We
feel joy and peace when he comes into a room ; we feel sad-
ness and trouble when he leaves it. We know that this
man has been a kind son, that he is a kind brother : will
any one dare to tell me that he will not be a kind
husband ? '

' My uncle would affirm it unhesitatingly. " He will be
sick of you in a month," he would say.'

' Mrs. Pryor would seriously intimate the same.'

'Mrs. Yorke and Miss Mann would darkly suggest
ditto.'

'If they are true oracles, it is good never to fall in
love.'

' Very good, if you can avoid it.'

' I choose to doubt their truth.'

' I am afraid that proves you are abeady caught.'

' Not 1 1 but if I were, do you know what soothsayers I
would consult ? '

' Let me hear.'

' Neither man nor woman, elderly nor young : the little
Irish beggar that comes barefoot to my door ; the mouse that
steals out of the cranny in the wainscot ; the bird that in
frost and snow pecks at my window for a crumb ; the dog
that licks my hand and sits beside my knee.'

' Did you ever see any" one who was kind to such
things ? '

'Did you ever see any one whom such things seemed
instinctively to follow, like, rely on ? '

' We have a black cat and an old dog at the Eectory. I
know somebody to whose knee that black cat loves to cUmb ;
against whose shoulder and cheek it likes to purr. The old
dog always comes out of his kennel and wags his tail, and
whines affectionately wheil somebody passes.'

' And what does that somebody do ? '

'He quietly strokes the cat, and lets her sit while he
conveniently can, and when he must disturb her by rising,
he puts her softly down, and never flings her from him

SHIELEY AND CAEOLINE 221

roughly; he always whistles to the dog aqd gives him a
caress.'

' Does he ? It is not Eobert ? '

' But it is Eobert.'

' Handsome fellow 1 ' said Shirley, with enthusiasm : her
eyes sparkled.

' Is he not handsome ? Has he not fine eyes and well-cut
features, and a clear, princely forehead ? '

' He has all that, Caroline. Bless him ! He is both
graceful and good.'

' I was sure you would see that he was : when I first
looked at your face I knew you Would.'

' I was well inclined to him before I saw him. I Uked
him when I did see him : I admire him now. There, is
charm in beauty for itself, Caroline ; when it is blcnt with
goodness, there is a powerful charm.'

' When mind is added, Shirley ? '

' Who can resist it ? '

' Remember my uncle, Mesdames Pryor, Yorke, and
Mann.'

' Eemember the croaking of the frogs of Egypt ! He is
a noble being. I tell you when they are, good, they are the
lords of the creation, — they are the sons of God. Moulded
in their Maker's image, the minutest spark of His spirit lifts
them almost above mortality. Indisputably, a great, good,
handsome man is the first of created things.'

' Above us ? '

' I would scorn to contend for empire with him, — I would
scorn it. Shall my left hand dispute for precedence with
my right? — shall my heart quarrel with my pulse?— shall
my veins be jealous of the blood which fills them ? '

' Men and women, husbands and wives quarrel horribly,
Shirley.'

' Poor things ! — poor, fallen, degenerate things 1 God
made them for another lot— for other feelings.'

' But are we men's equals, or are we not ? '

' Nothing ever charms me more than when I meet my

222 SSIRLEY

superior — one who makes me sincerely feel that he is my
superior.'

' Did you ever meet him ? '

' I should be glad to see him any day : the higher above
me, so much the better : it degrades to stoop — it is glorious
to look up. What frets me is, that when I try to esteem, I
am baffled : when religiously inclined, there are but false gods
to adore. I disdain to be a Pagan.'

' Miss Keeldar, will you come in ? We are here at the
Eectory gates.'

' Not to-day; but to-morrow I shall fetch you to spend
the evening with me. Caroline Helstone — ^if you reaUy are
what at present to me you seem — you and I vnll suit. I
have never in my whole life been able to talk to a young
lady as I have talked to you this morning. Kiss me — and
good-by.'

Mrs. Pryor seemed as well disposed to cultivate Caroline's
acquaintance as Shirley. She, who went nowhere else,
called on an early day at the Bectory. She came in the
afternoon, when the Eeotor happened to be out. It was
rather a close day ; the heat of the weather had flushed her,
and she seemed fluttered, too, by the circumstance of
entering a strange house ; for it appeared her habits were
most retiring and secluded. When Miss Helstone went to
her in the dining-room, she found her seated on the sofa,
trembling, fanning herself with her handkerchief , and seem-
ing to contend with a nervous discomposure that threatened
to become hysterical.

CaroUne marvelled somewhat at this unusual want of
self-command in a lady of her years, and also at the lack of
real strength in one who appeared almost robust : for Mrs.
Pryor hastened to allege the fatigue of her walk, the heat of
the sun, &c., as reasons for her temporary indisposition ; and
still as, with more hurry than coherence, she again and
again enumerated these causes of exhaustion, Caroline gently
sought to relieve her by opening her shawl and removing her

SHIELEY AND CAEOLINE 223

bonnet. Attentions of this sort, Mrs. Pryor would not have
accepted from every one : in general, she recoiled from
touch or close approach, with a mixture of embarrassment
and coldness far from flattering to those who offered her aid :
to Miss Helstone's little light hand, however, she yielded
tractably, and seemed soothed by its contact. In a few
minutes she ceased to tremble, and grew quiet and tranquil.

Her usual manner being resumed, she proceeded to talk
of ordinary topics. In a miscellaneous company, Mrs.
Pryor rarely opened her lips ; or, if obliged to speak, she
spoke under restraint, and consequently not well ; in
dialogue, she was a good converser : her language, always a
little formal, was well chosen; her sentiments were just;
her information was varied and correct. Caroline felt it
pleasant to listen to her : more pleasant than she could have
anticipated.

On the wall opposite the sofa where they sat, hung three
pictures : the centre one, above the mantelpiece, that of a
lady ; the two others, male portraits.

' That is a beautiful face,' said Mrs. Pryor, interrupting a
brief pause which had followed half an hour's animated
conversation : the features may be termed perfect ; no
statuary's chisel could improve them : it is a portrait from
the life, I presume ? '

' It is a portrait of Mrs. Helstone.'

' Of Mrs. Matthewson Helstone ? Of your uncle's wife ? '

' It is, and is said to be a good likeness : before her
marriage, she was accounted the beauty of the district.' ■

' I should say she merited the distinction : what accuracy
in all the lineaments ! It is, however, a passive face : the
I original could not have been, what is generally termed, " a
woman of spirit." '

' I believe she was a remarkably still, silent person.'

' One would scarcely have expected, my dear, that your
uncle's choice would have fallen on a partner of that
description. Is he not fond of being amused by lively
chat ? '

224 SHIRLEY

' In company he is ; but he always says he coald never
do with a talking wife : he must have quiet at home. You
go out to gossip, he affirms ; you come home to read and
reflect.'

'Mrs. Matthewson lived but a few years after her
marriage, I think I have heard ? '

' About five years.'

'Well, my dear,' pursued Mrs. Pryor, rising to go, 'I
trust it is understood that you will frequently come to
Pieldhead : I hope you will. You must feel lonely here,
having no female relative in the house : you must necessarily
pass much of your time in solitude.'

' I am inured to it : I have grown up by myself. May I
arrange your shawl for you? '

Mrs. Pryor submitted to be assisted.

' Should you chance to require help in your studies/ she
said, ' you may command me.'

Caroline expressed her sense of such kindness.

'I hope to have frequent conversations with you. I
should wish to be of use to you.'

Again Miss Helstone returned thanks. She thought
what a kind heart was hidden under her visitor's seeming
chilliness. Observing that Mrs. Pryor again glanced with an
air of interest towards the portraits as she walked down the
room, Caroline casually explained : — ' The likeness that
hangs near the window, you will see, is my uncle, taken
twenty years ago ; the other, to the left of the mantelpiece,
is his brother James, my father.'

' They resemble each other in some measure,' said Mrs.
Pryor ; ' yet a difference of character may be traced in the
different mould of the brow and mouth.'

' What difference ? ' inquired Caroline, accompanying her
to the door. ' James Helstone— that is, my father — is gen-
erally considered the best-looking of the two: strangers, I
remark, always exclaim, " What a handsome man I " Do you
think his picture handsome, Mrs. Pryor ? '

' It is much softer or finer featured than that of your uncle,'

SHIRLEY AND CAROLINE 225

'But where or what is the difference of character to
which you illuded ? Tell me : I wish to see if you guess
right.'

' My dear, your uncle is a man erf principle : his forehead
and his lips are firm, and his eye is steady.'

' Well, and the other ? Do not be afraid of offending me :
I always like the truth.'

' Do you like the truth ? It is well for you : adhere to
that preference— never swerve thence. The other, my dear.
if he had been living now, would probably have furnished
little support to his daughter. It is, however, a graceful
head — taken in youth, I should think. My dear ' (turning
abruptly), 'you acknowledge an inestimable value in
principle ? '

' I am sure no character can have true worth without it,'
'You feel what you say? You have considered the
subject ? '

' Often. Circumstances early forced it upon my
attention.'

' The lesson was not lost, then, though it came so pre-
maturely. I suppose the soil is not Ught nor stony, otherwise
seed falling in that season never would have borne fruit-
My dear, do not stand in the air of the door, you vnll take
cold : good afternoon.'

Miss Helstone's new acquaintance soon became of value
to her : their society was acknowledged a privilege. She
found she would have been in error indeed to have let slip
this chance of relief— to have neglected to avail herself of
this happy change : a turn was thereby given to her thoughts •,
a new channel was opened for them, which, diverting a few
of them at least from the one direction in which all had
hitherto tended, abated the impetuosity of their rush, and
lessened the force of their pressure on one worn-down
point.

Soon she was content to spend whole days at Fieldhead,
doing by turns whatever Shirley or Mrs. Pryor wished her
to do : and now one would ■ claim her, now the other

226 SHIELBY

Nothing could be less demonstrative than the friendship of
the elder lady; but also nothing could be more vigilant,
assiduous, untiring. I have intimated that she was a
peculiar personage ; and in nothing was her peculiarity
more shown than in the nature of the interest she evinced
for Caroline. She watched all her movements : she seemed
as if she would have guarded all her steps : it gave her
pleasure to be applied to by Miss Helstone for advice and
assistance ; she yielded her aid, when asked, with such
quiet yet obvious enjoyment, that Caroline erelong took
delight in depending on her.

Shirley Keeldar's complete docility vdth Mrs. Pryor had
at first surprised Miss Helstone, and not less the fact of the
reserved ex-governess being so much at home and at ease in
the residence of her young pupil, where she filled with such
quiet independency a very dependent post ; but she soon
found that it needed but to know both ladies to comprehend
fully the enigma. Every one, it seemed to her, must like,
must love, must prize Mrs. Pryor when they knew her. No
matter that she perseveringly wore old-fashioned gowns ;
that her speech was formal, and her manner cool ; that she
had twenty little ways such as nobody else had — she was
still such a stay, such a counsellor, so truthful, so kind in her
way, that, in Caroline's idea, none once accustomed to her
presence could easily afford to dispense with it.

As to dependency or humiliation, Caroline did not feel it
in her intercourse with Shirley, and why should Mrs.
Pryor? The heiress was rich — very rich— compared with
her new friend: one possessed a clear thousand a year —
the other not a penny ; and yet there was a safe sense of
equality experienced in her society, never known in that of
the ordinary Briarfield and Whinbury gentry.

The reason was, Shirley's head ran on other things than
money and position. She was glad to be independent as
to property : by fits she was even elated at the notion of
being lady of the manor, and having tenants and an estate :
she was especially tickled witn an agreeable complacency

SHIELEY AND CAKOLINE 227

when reminded of ' all that property ' down in the Hollow,
' comprising an excellent cloth-mill, dyehouse, warehouse,
together with the messuage, gardens and outbuildings, termed
Hollow's cottage ; ' but her exultation being quite undis-
guised was singularly inoffensive ; and for her serious
thoughts, they tended elsewhere. To admire the great,
reverence the good, and be joyous with the genial, was
very much the bent of Shirley's soul ; she mused therefore
on the means of following this bent far oftener than she
pondered on her social superiority.

In Caroline, Miss Keeldar had first taken an interest
because she was quiet, retiring, looked delicate, and seemed
as if she needed some one to take care of her. Her
predilection increased greatly when she discovered that her
own way of thinking and talking was understood and
responded to by this new acquaintance. She had hardly
expected it. Miss Helstone, she fancied, had too pretty a
face, manners and voice too soft, to be anything out of the
common way in mind and attainments ; and she very much
wondered to see the gentle features light up archly to the
reveill6e of a dry sally or two risked by herself ; and more
did she wonder to discover the self -won knowledge treasured,
and the untaught speculations working in that girlish, curl-
veiled head. CaroUne's instinct of taste, too, was Uke her
own : such books as Miss Keeldar had read with the mosb
pleasure, were Miss Helstone's delight also. They held
many aversions too in common, and could have the comfort
of laughing together over works of false sentimentality and
pompous pretension.

Few, Shirley conceived, men or women have the right
taste in poetry : the right sense for discriminating between
what is real and what is false. She had again and again heard
very clever people pronounce this or that passage, in this or
that versifier, altogether admirable, which, when she read, her
soul refused to acknowledge as anything but cant, flourish,
and tinsel, or at the best, elaborate wordiness; curious,
clever, learned perhaps ; haply even tinged with the

228 SHIRLEY

fascinating hues of fancy, but, God knows, as different from
real poetry as the gorgeous and massy vase of mosaic is
from the little cup of pure metal ; or, to give the reader a
choice of similes, as the milliner's artificial wreath is from
the fresh-gathered lily of the field.

Caroline, she found, felt the value of the true ore, and knew
the deception of the flashy dross. The minds of the two
girls being toned in harmony, often chimed very sweetly
together.

One evening they chanced to be alone in the oak-parlour.
They had passed a long wet day together without ennui ; it
was now on the edge of dark ; candles were not yet brought
in ; both, as twilight deepened, grew meditative and silent.
A western wind roared high round the hall, driving wild
clouds and stormy rain up from the far-remote ocean : all
was tempest outside the antique lattices, all deep peace
within. Shirley sat at the window, watching the rack in
heaven, the mist on earth, listening to certain notes of the
gale that plained like restless spirits — notes which, had she
not been so young, gay, and healthy, would have swept her
trembling nerves like some omen, some anticipatory dirge :
in this her prime of existence and bloom of beauty, they but
subdued vivaCity to pensiveness. Snatches of sweet ballads
haunted her ear ; now and then she sang a stanza : her
accents obeyed the fitful impulse of the wind ; they swelled
as its gusts rushed on, and died as they wandered away.
Caroline, withdrawn to the farthest and darkest end of the
room, her figure just discernible by the ruby shine of the
flameless fire, was pacing to and fro, murmuring to herself
fragments of well-remembered poetry. She spoke very low,
but Shirley heard her ; and while singing softly, she listened.
This was the strain : —

Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows Toar'd,

When such a destined wretch, as I,
Washed headlong from on board,

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft.

His floating home for ever left.

SHIELEY AND CAEOLINE 229

Here the fragment stopped ; because Shirley's song, ere-
while somewhat full and thrilling, had become delicately faint.

' Go on,' said she.

'Then you go on, too. I was only repeating "The
Castaway." '

' I know : if you can remember it all, say it all.'

And as it was nearly dark, and, after all, Miss Keeldar
was no formidable auditor, Carohne went through it. She
■went through it as she should have gone through it. The
wild sea, the drowning mariner, the reluctant ship swept on
in the storm, you heard were realized by her; and more
vividly was realized the heart of the poet, who did not weep
for ' The Castaway,' but who, in an hour of tearless anguish,
traced a semblance to his own God-abandoned misery in the
fate of that man-forsaken sailor, and cried from the depths
where he struggled :—

No voice divine the storm allayed.

No light propitious shone,
. When, snatch'd from all effectual aid.

We perish'd — each alone !
But I — beneath a rougher sea.
And wbelm'd in deeper gulfs than be.

' I hope William Cowper is safe and calm in heaven now,'
said Caroline.

' Do you pity what he suffered on earth ? ' asked Miss
Keeldar.

'Pity him, Shirley? What can I do else? He was
nearly broken-hearted when he wrote that poem, and it
almost breaks one's heart to read it. But he found relief in
writing it — I know he did ; and that gift of poetry— the
most divine bestowed on man — was, I believe, granted
to allay emotions when their strength threatens harm. It
seems to me, Shirley, that nobody should write poetry to
exhibit intellect or attainment. Who cares for that sort of
poetry ? Who cares for learning — who cares for fine words
in poetry ? And who does not care for feeling — real feeling
— however simply, even rudely expressed ? '

230 SHIELEY

' It seems you care for it, at all events : and certainly, in
hearing that poem, one discovers that Covrper was under an
impulse strong as that of the wind which drove the ship — an
impulse which, while it would not suffer him to stop to add
ornament to a single stanza, filled him with force to achieve
the whole with consummate perfection. You managed to recite
it with a steady voice, Caroline : I wonder thereat.'

' Cowper's hand did not tremble in writing the lines : why
should my voice falter in repeating them ? Depend on it,
Shirley, no tear blistered the manuscript of " The Castaway,"
I hear in it no sob of sorrow, only the cry of despair ; but,
that cry uttered, I believe the deadly spasm passed from his
heart ; that he wept abundantly, and was comforted.'

Shirley resumed her ballad minstrelsy. Stopping short,
she remarked erelong : — ' One could have loved Cowper if it
were only for the sake of having the privilege of comforting
him.'

' You never would have loved Covyper,' rejoined Caroline,
promptly : ' he was not made to be loved by woman.'

' What do you mean ? '

' What I say. I know there is a kind of natures in the
world — and very noble, elevated natures, too — whom love
never comes near. You might have sought Cowper with the
intention of loving him ; and you would have looked at him,
-pitied him, and Ifeft him : forced away by a sense of the
impossible, the incongruous, as the crew were borne from
their drowning comrade by " the furious blast." '

' You may be right. Who told you this ? '

' And what I say of Cowper, I should say of Eousseau.
Was Eousseau ever loved? He loved passionately ; but was
his passion ever returned? I am certain, never. And if
there were any femak Cowpers and Eousseaus, I should
assert the same of them.'

' Who told you this, I ask ? Did Moore ? '

' Why should anybody have told me ? Have I not an
instinct? Can I not divine by analogy? Moore never
talked to me either about Cowper or Eousseau, or love,

SHIRLEY AND CAROLINE 231

The voice we hear in solitude told me all I know on these
subjects.'

'Do you Uke characters of the Rousseau order, Caro-
line ? •

' Not at all, as a whole. I sympathise intensely with
certain qualities they possess : certain divine sparks in their
nature dazzle my eyesj and make my soul glow. Then,
again, I scorn them. They are made of clay and gold.
The refuse and the ore make a mass of weakness : taken
altogether, I feel them unnatural, unhealthy, repulsive.'

' I dare say I should be more tolerant of a Rousseau than
you would, Gary: submissive and contemplative yourself,
you Uke the stern and the practical. By-the-way, you must
miss that Cousin Robert of yours very much, now that you
and he never meet.'

'I do.'

' And he must miss you ? '

'That he does not.'

'1 cannot imagine,' pursued Shirley, who had lately got
a habit of introducing Moore's name into the conversation,
even when it seemed to have no business there, — ' I cannot
imagine but that he was fond of you, since he took so much
notice of you, talked to you, and taught you so much.'

' He never was fond of me : he never professed to be
fond of me. He took pains to prove that he only just
tolerated me.'

Caroline, determined not to err on the flattering side in
estimating her cousin's regard for her, always now habitually
thought of it and mentioned it in the most scanty measure.
She had her own reasons for being less sanguine than ever
in hopeful views of the future : less indulgent to pleasurable
retrospections of the past.

' Of course, then,' observed Miss Keeldar, ' you only just
tolerated him, in return ? '

' Shirley, men and women are so different : they are in
such a different position. Women have so few things to
think about — men so many : you may have a friendship for

232 SHIBLEY

a man, while he is almost indifferent to you. Much of what
cheers your life may be dependent on him, while not a
feeling or interest of moment in his eyes may have reference
to you. Robert used to be in the habit of going to London,
sometimes for a week or a fortnight together ; well, while he
was away, I found his absence a void : there was something
wanting ; Briarfield was duller. Of course, I had my usual
occupations ; still I missed him. As I sat by myself in the
evenings, I used to feel a strange certainty of conviction I
cannot describe : that if a magician or a genius had, at that
moment, offered me Prince AU's tube (you remember it in
the Arabian Nights ?), and if, with its aid, I had been enabled
to take a view of Eobert — to see where he was, how occupied
— I should have learned, in a startling manner, the width of
the chasm which gaped between such as he and such as I.
I knew that, however my thoughts might adhere to him, his
were effectually sundered from me.'

' Caroline,' demanded Miss Keeldar, abruptly, ' don't you
wish you had a profession — a trade ? '

'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 ua
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
wcHnen 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

SHIELEY AND CAEOLINE 283

much scorn, to be as absorbed, grave, plain4ooking, ancl
plain-dressed as they please.'

' You might be an old maid yourself, Caroline, you speak
BO earnestly."

' I shaU 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 hps.

' 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
inequaUty in your hair: — a curl wanting on that right side —
and your telling me that it was Bobert's fault, as he had
once cut therefrom a long lock ? '

' Yes.'

' If he is, and always was, asindifferentto 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.'

234 SHIELEY

' 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 yoa watch me now 1 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 Bector's Fanny was presently announced, and the
Sector's niece went home.

CHAPTER XIII

FDKTHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS

ixi 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 fulness 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. Pate had been
benign to the blissful dreamer, and promised to favour her
yet again. In the 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.

236 SHIELEY

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-stile 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 Keldhead, 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

FUETHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 237

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, Eobert Moore.

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 bold my hand ; be does iipt tpuch

238 SHIELEY

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.
Bobert 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 Eobert 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 Eobert up, and I 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 Eobert knows of Shirley, the more his soul will cleave
to her. They will both be happy, and I do not grudge them
their bUss ; 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. Caro-
line would not stay to listen : she passed away noiselessly
and the moonlight kissed tha wall which her shadow had

FCKTHEE COMMUNlCAl'IONS ON BUSINESS 239

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 wiU plot ven-
geance : 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 reUsh 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

240 SHIELEY

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 rusted 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 Eector ; but I will make the effort.'

' Effort 1 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 Eieldhead, 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 moonhght 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 enchant-
ment.'

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

PUBTHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 241

' 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 hked it.'

' Idked 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 reUgion. 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 fore-ordained 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 he affirmed that 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

242 SHIELEY

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-bouse 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 ful-
filment 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 lane 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 vfish it.'

' I do wish it. May I ask whether you consider life
valueless ? ' ' ).

'By no means : on the contrary, of late I regard mylife
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 ? '

' 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 ! '

FUETHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 243

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 up-stairs, to
avoid interruption.

She did sew : she plied her needle continuously, cease-
lessly ; 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, re-arrange 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 gar-
ment."

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 thip, my

244 SHIELEY

love, and somewhat pale. Do you sleep well ? Your eyea
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 church-
yard, and that there are graves under them. I rather long to
leave the Eectory,'

' 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.

' Pine weather, pleasant days, pleasant scenes are power-
less to give me pleasure,' cpiitinued Caroline. ' Calm even-
ings 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 1 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 obhge me greatly if you would
speak, to my uncle on the subject.'

' Nonsense ! ' broke in Shirley. ' What an idea I Be a
governess! Better be a slave at once. "Where is the
necessity of it ? Why should you dream of such a painful
step?"

PUETHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 245

' 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 some-
times 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 gover- j0'
nesses 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 some-
what ' courroucde ' : — ' 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

246 SHIBLEY

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 judg-
ment, 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.'

FUETHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 247

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
deUvered. Had she been alone with Caroline, she might
possibly have said something to the point : Miss Keeldar'a
presence, 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,

248 SHIELEY

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. ' 1 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 some-
thing 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 re-appear-
ing 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 Bectory 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 comes : of
rock-crevices full of pearly eggs, bedded in sea- weed; of
unscared birds covering white sands in happy flocks.'

PUETHEB COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 249

' 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 Mood : 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 provinder 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 appro-
priate), 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,

250 SHIELEY

we stand safe, though not dreadless. She comprehends our
unmoved gaze ; shef eels 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 1 monstrous likeness of ourselves 1 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 temp-
tresses, 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 trembUng 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.

FUETHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 251

' I am just returned from Stilbro',' he said to Misa
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 naturalised 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, com-
pared 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
Helstone, her back was turned towards it : a quiet though
rather low reply, a stUl demeanour, and the friendly protec-
tion of early twilight, kept out of view each traitorous
symptom. None could afifirm 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 feeUngs 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 Eyde : 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 red-coats ; they are needed for appearance
rather than anything else : my main reliance is pn my owq
civilians,'

252 SHIELEY

' 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
Gerard Moore, who trusts much to the prowess of his own
right arm, I believe.'

' Furnished with his counting-house ruler,' added Moore.
Eesuming 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 miU-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.'

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 vrithin the range of his
glance, but the two younger ladies had the full benefit thereof,

Miss Keeldar, placed directly opposite, was seen vTithout
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 heighteujed complexion look fine as
the bloom of a red wild-flower, by contrast. There was
natural grace in her attitude, and there was artistip effect in
the ample and shining folds of her silk dress — an attire

lUETHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 253

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 briUiant 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 feeUngs or his opinions to
exhibit themselves in his face : his temperament boasted a
certain amount of phlegm, and he, preferred an undemon-
strative, not ungentle, but serious aspect, to any other.

He could not, by looking straight beforehim, see Caroline,
as she was close at his side ; it was necessary, therefore, to
manoeuvre a Uttle 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 brilUancy. 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 hfer
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 Eobert 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 Ukes 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.'

25i SHlKLEf

' No, don't forget, Eobert : 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 tender-
hearted 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 Eobert's side, waiting for him to say some-
thing 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 po^ibility, 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 sun-
shine to its cage : it was of no use arguing — contending
against the sense of present happiness : to be near Eobert
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

PUETHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 255

to show it to her : he continued the conversation standing
before her. Prom 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 sufiered 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 fulness of light thus produced
rendered the expression of her countenance legible, you
could see that she was aU 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 involun-
tarily 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 feeUng, 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.

256 SHIELEY

The clock struck nine : it was Caroline's time for going
home: she gathered up her work, put the embroidery, the
scissors, the thimblfe ifito 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 Eeeldar.

' Good-night, Shirley 1 '

Shirley started up. ' What I — 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?_
Eemember our plans.'

' Yes,' said Caroline ; ' I have not forgotten.'

Her mind misgave her tha,t neither those plans nor any
other could permanently restore her mental tranquillity.
She turned to Bobert, 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 for-
lorn meaning were clearly revealed. Eobert had good eyes,
and might have seen it, if he would : whether he did see it,
nothing indicated.

' Good-night I ' 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 Bectory, though, lest my old friend, Helstone,
should shoot me from the window.'

He laughed and took his hat. Caroline spoke of
unnecessary trouble : he told her to put on Tier 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 ;'

PUETHEE COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 257

' 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, Eobert : ' 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 ? " '

' Eobert, 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

268 SHIELEY

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 HoUow'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 no one 'but Joe
Scott, or my own shadow by moonlight.'

' No ; neither Joe Scott nor your shadow, Eobert. The
first time you were with Mr. Yorke ; and the second time
what you call your shadow was a shape with a white fore-
head 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 watch-
man'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.'

FUETHEK COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 259

' 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
worlving 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, Eobert, 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 blush 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.'

260 SHIELEY

' 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.
Gerard Moore is a hard dog, brought up to mill and market :
the person you call your cousin Eobert is sometimes a dreamer,
who lives elsewhere than in Oloth-haU 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, Eobert : you
will weather the storm.'

' My kinswoman always thinks the best of me, but I wiU
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
po 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^

FUETHER COMMUNICATIONS ON BUSINESS 261

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
jeturn yet to the HoUow.'

' But we cannot sit in the porch now, Eobert.'

Caroline said this because Moore was turning her round
towards it.

' Perhaps not, but tell Fanny to go in ; say we are coming :
a few minutes will make no difiference.'

The charch-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 1 '

' Go, Robert, he is coming ; I hear him cough.'

' Diable I It is strange — ^^what a pertinacious wish I
feel to stay 1 '

'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 daresay, 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 ?

262 SHIELEY

' Oh I 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,
Eobert, go ! '

The beseeching words were aided \fy a beseeching
gesture and a more beseeching look. Moore covered her
clasped hands an instant with his, answered her upward by
a downward gaze, said ' Good-night ! ' and went.

Caroline was in a moment at the kitchen-door behind
Fanny; the shadow of the shovel-hat at that very instant
fell on a moonlit tomb ; the Eector emerged, erect as a cane,
from his garden, and proceeded in slow march, his hands
behind him, down the cemetery. Moore was almost caught :
he had to ' dodge ' after all, to coast round the church, and
finally to bend his tall form behind the Wynnes' ambitious
monument. There he was forced to hide full ten minutes,
kneeling with one knee on the turf, his hat off, his curls bare
to the dew, his dark eye shining, and his lips parted with
inward laughter at his position : for the Eector meantime
stood coolly star-gazing, and taking snuff within three feet
of him.

It happened, however, that Mr. Helstone had no suspicion
whatever on his mind ; for being usually but vaguely
informed of his niece's movements, not thinking it worth
while to follow them closely, he was not aware that she had
been out at all that day, and imagined her then occupied
with book or work in her chamber : where, indeed, she was
by this time ; though not absorbed in the tranquil employ-
ment he ascribed to her, but standing at her window with
fast-throbbing heart, peeping anxiously from behind the
blind, watching for her uncle to re-enter and her cousin to
escape ; and at last she was gratified ; she heard Mr. Hel-
stone come in ; she saw Eobert stride the tombs and vault
the wall ; she then went down to prayers. When she
returned to her chamber, it was to meet the memory of
Eobert, Slumber's visitation was long averted: long she

ttlEfHEE 60MMtJNlCAK0NS ON BtJSlKESS 263

sat at her lattice, long gazed down on the old garden and
older church, on the tombs laid out all gray and calm, and
clear in moonlight. She followed the steps of the night, on
its pathway of stars, far into the ' wee sma' hours ayont the
twal : ' she was with Moore, in spirit, the whole time : she
was at his side : she heard his voice : she gave her hand into
his hand ; it rested warm in his fingers. When the church-
clock struck, when any other sound stirred, when a little
mouse familiar to her chamber, an intruder for which she
would never permit Fanny to lay a trap, came rattling
amongst the hnks of her locket chain, her one ring, and
another trinket or two, on the toilette-table, to nibble a bit
of biscuit laid ready for it, she looked up, recalled momen-
tarily to the real. Then she said half aloud, as if deprecating
the accusation of some unseen and unheard monitor, — ' I am
not cherishing love-dreams : I am only thinking because I
cannot sleep ; of course, I know he will marry Shirley.'

With returning silence, with the lull of the chime, and
the retreat of her small untamed and unknown prot6g6, she
stiU resumed the dream, nestling to the vision's side, —
listening to, conversing with it. It paled at last : as dawn
approached, the setting stars and breaking day dimmed the
creation of Fancy : the wakened song of birds hushed her
whispers. The tale full of fire, quick with interest, borne
away by the morning wind, became a vague murmur. The
shape that, seen in a moonbeam, lived, had a pulse, had
movement, wore health's glow and youth's freshness, turned
cold and ghostly gray, confronted with the red of sunrise.
It wasted. She was left solitary at last : she crept to her
couch, chill and dejected.

CHAPTEE XIV

SHIBIiET SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WOBKS

' Of course, I know he will marry Shirley,' were her first
words when she rose in the morning. 'And he ought to
marry her : she can help him,' she added firmly. ' But I
shall be forgotten when they are married,' was the cruel
succeeding thought. ' Oh ! I shall be wholly forgotten !
And what — what shall I do when Eobert is taken quite from
me ? Where shall I turn ? My Eobert ! I wish I could
justly call him mine: but' I am poverty and incapacity;
Shirley is wealth and power : and she is beauty too, and
love— I cannot deny it. This is no sordid suit : she loves
him — ^not with inferior feelings : she loves, or will love, as
he must feel proud to be loved. Not a vaUd objection can
be made. Let them be married then : but afterwards I shall
be nothing to him. As for being his sister, and all that stuff,
I despise it. I will either be all or nothing to a man like
Eobert : no feeble shu£9ing, or false cant, is endurable.
Once let that pair be united, and I will certainly leave them.
As for lingering aibout, playing the hypocrite, and pretending
to calm sentiments of friendship, when my soul will be
wrung with other feelings, I shall not descend to such
degradation. As httle could I fill the place of theii: mutual
friend as that of their deadly foe : as little could I stand
between them as trample over them. Eobert is a first-rate
man — in my eyes : I have loved, do love, and must love him.
I would be his wife, if I could ; as I cannot, I must go where
I shall never see him. There is but one alternative — to
cleave to him as if I were a part of him, or to be sundered

SHIRLEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WORKS 265

from him wide as the two poles of a sphere. Sunder me
then, Providence. Part us speedily.'

Some such aspirations as these were again working in
her mind late in the afternoon, when the apparition of one
of the personages haunting her thoughts passed the parlour
window. Miss Keeldar sauntered slowly by : her gait, her
countenance wearing that mixture of wistfulness and care-
lessness which, when quiescent, was the wonted cast of her
look, and character of her bearing. When animated, the
carelessness quite vanished, the wistfulness became blent
with a genial gaiety, seasoning the laugh, the smile, the
glance, with a unique flavour of sentiment, so that mirth
from her never resembled ' the crackhng of thorns under
a pot.'

' What do you mean by not coming to see me this after-
noon, as you promised ? ' was her address to Carohne as she
entered the room.

' I was not in the humour,' replied Miss Helstone, very
truly.

Shirley had already fixed on her a penetrating eye.
'No,' she said: 'I see you are not in the humour for
loving me : you are in one of your sunless, inclement moods,
when one feels a feUow-creature's presence is not welcome
to you. You have such moods : are you aware of it ? '
' Do you mean to stay long, Shirley ? '
' Yes : I am come to have my tea, and must have it before
I go. I shall take the liberty then of removing my bonnet
without being asked.'

And this she did, and then stood on the rug with her
hands behind her.

' A pretty expression you have in your countenance,' she
went on, still gazing keenly, though not inimicaUy, rather
indeed pityingly at Caroline. ' Wonderfully self-supported
you look, you solitude-seeking, wounded deer. Are you
afraid Shirley will worry you, if she discovers that you are
hurt, and that you bleed ? '
' I never do fear Shirley.'

266 SHIELEY

•But sometimes you dislike her: often you avoid her.
Shirley can feel when she is slighted and shunned. If you
had not walked home in the company you did last night, you
would have been a different girl to-day. What time did you
reach the Eectory ? '

' By ten.'

' Humph ! You took three-quarters of an hour to walk a
mile. Was it you, or Moore, who lingered so ? '

' Shirley, you talk nonsense.'

' He talked nonsense — that I doubt not ; or he looked it,
which is a thousand times worse : I see the reflection of his
eyes on your forehead at this moment. I feel disposed to call
him out, if I could only get a trustworthy second: I feel
desperately irritated : I felt so last night, and have felt it all
day.'

' You don't ask me why,' she proceeded, after a pause,
' you little, silent, over-modest thing ; and you don't deserve
that I should pour out my secrets into your lap without an
invitation. Upon my word, I could have found it in my
heart to have dogged Moore yesterday evening with dire
intent : I have pistols, and can use them.'

' Stuff, Shirley ? Which would you have shot — me or
Eobert ? '

' Neither, perhaps — perhaps myself — more likely a bat
or a tree-bough. He is a puppy- — your cousin : a quiet,
serious, sensible, judicious, ambitious puppy. I see him
standing before me, talking his half-stern, half-gentle talk,
bearing me down (as I am very conscious he does) with his

fixity of purpose, &c. ; and then 1 have no patience with

him ! '

Miss Keeldar started off on a rapid walk through the
room, repeating energetically that she had no patience with
men in general, and with her tenant in particular.

' You are mistaken,' urged Caroline, in some anxiety :
' Eobert is no puppy or male flirt ; I can vouch for that.'

' You vouch for it ! Do you think I'll take your word on
the subject ? There is no one's testimony I would pot credit

SHIELEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WOEKS 267

sooner than yours. To advance Moore's fortune, you would
cut off your right hand.'

' But not tell lies ; and if I speak the truth, I must assure
you that he was just civil to me last night — that was all.'

' I never asked what he was — I can guess : I saw him
from the window take your hand in his long fingers, just as
he went out at my gate.'

' That is nothinf . I am not a stranger, you know : I am
an old acquaintance, and his cousin.'

' I feel indignant ; and that is the long and short of the
matter,* responded Miss Keeldar. ' All my comfort,' she
added presently, ' is broken up by his manoeuvres. He
keeps intruding between you and me : without him we
should be good friends ; but that six feet of puppyhood
makes a perpetually recurring eclipse of our friendship.
Again and again he crosses and obscures the disk I want
always to see clear : ever and anon he renders me to you a
mere bore and nuisance.'

' No, Shirley ; no.'

' He does. You did not want my society this afternoon,
and I feel it hard ; you are naturally somewhat reserved,
but I am a social personage, who cannot live alone. If we
were but left unmolested, I have that regard for you that I
could bear you in my presence for ever, and not for the
fraction of a second do I ever wish to be rid of you. You
cannot say as much respecting me.'

' Shirley, I can say anything you wish : Shirley, I like

you.'

' You will wish me at Jericho to-morrow, Lina.'
' I shall not. I am every day growing more accustomed
to — fonder of you. You know I am too English to get up a
vehement friendship all at once ; but you are so much
better than common — you are so different to everyday young
ladies — I esteem you — I value you : you are never a burden
to me — never. Do you believe what I say 7 '

'Partly,' replied Miss Keeldar, smiling rather incredu-
lously ; ' but you are a peculiar personage : quiet as you

268 SHIELEY

look, there is both a force and a depth somewhere within,
not easily reached or appreciated: then you certainly are
not happy.'

' And unhappy people are rarely good — ^is that what you
mean ? '

' Not at all : I mean rather that unhappy people are
often preoccupied, and not in the mood for discoursing with
companions of my nature. Moreover, there is a sort of
unhappiness which not only depresses, but corrodes — and
that, I fear, is your portion. Will pity do you any good,
Lina ? If it will, take some from Shirley : she ofCisrs largely,
and warrants the article genuine.'

' Shirley, I never had a sister ^-you never had a sister ;
but it flashes on me at this moment how sisters feel towards
each other. Affection twined iwith their Uf e, which no shocks
of feeling can uproot, which little quarrels only trample an
instant that it may. spring more freshly when the pressure
is removed ; affection that no passion can ultimately outrival,
with which even love itself cannot do' more than compete
in force and truth. Love hurts, us so, Shirley: it is so
tormenting, so racking, and ife bums away our strength with
its flame ; in affection is no pain and no fire, only susten-
ance and balm. I am supported and soothed when you —
that is, you only^ — are near, Shirley. Do you believe me
now?'

' I am always easy of belief when the creed pleases me.
We really are friends thep, Lina, in spite of the black
eclipse ? '

' We really are,' returned the other, drawing Shirley
towards her, and making her sit down, 'chance What
may:'

'Come, then, We will talk of something else than the
Troubler.' . But at this moment the Eector came in, and the
■ something else ' of which Miss Keeldar was about to talk
was not again alluded to tiU the moment of her departure ;
she then delayed a few minutes in the passage to say,
' Caroline, I wish to tell you that I have a great weight on

SHIELEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WOEKS 269

my mind : my conscience is quite uneasy, as if I had
committed, or was going to commit, a crime. It is not my
private conscience, you must understand, but my landed-
proprietor and lord-of-the-manor conscience. I have got
into the clutch of an eagle with iron talons. I have fallen
under a stern influence, which I scarcely approve, but can-
not resist. Something will be done erelong, I fear, which it
by no means pleases me to think of. To ease my mind, and
to prevent harm as far as I can, I mean to enter on a series
of good works. Don't be surprised, therefore, if you see me
all at once turn outrageously charitable. I have no idea
how to begin, but you must give me some advice : we will
talk more on the subject to-morrow ; and just ask that
excellent person, Miss Ainley, to step up to Fieldhead : I
have some notion of putting myself under her tuition — won't
she have a precious pupil ? Drop a hint to her, Lina, that;
though a well-meaning, I am rather a neglected character,
and then she will feel less scandalized at my ignorance
about clothing societies, and such things.'

On the morrow, Caroline found Shirley sitting gravely
at her desk, with an account-book^ a bundle of bank-notes,
and a well-filled purse before her. She was looking mighty
serious, but a little puzzled. She said she had been ' casting
an eye ' over the weekly expenditure in housekeeping at the
Hall, trying to find but where she could retrench ; that she
had also just given audience to Mrs. Gill, the cook, and had
sent that person away with a notion that her (Shirley's)
brain was certainly crazed. ' I have lectured her on the duty
of being careful,' said she, ' in a way quite new to her. So
eloquent was I on the text of economy, that I surprised
myself; for, you see, it is altogether a fresh idea: I never
thought, much less spoke, on the subject till lately. But it
is all theory ; for when I came to the practical part I could
retrench nothing. I had not firmness to take off a single
pound of butter, or to prosecute to any clear result an inquest
into the destiny of either dripping, lard, bread, cold meat, or
other kitchen perquisite whatever. I know we never get up

270 SHIELEY

illuminations at Fieldhead, but I could not ask the meaning
of sundry quite unaccountable pounds of candles : we do
not wash for the parish, yet I viewed in silence items of
soap and bleaching -powder calculated to satisfy the
solicitude of the most anxious inquirer after our position in
reference to those articles : carnivorous I am not, nor is
Mrs. Pryor, nor is Mrs. Gill herself, yet I only hemmed and
opened my eyes a little wide when I saw butchers' bills
whose figures seemed to prove that fact — falsehood, I mean.
Caroline, you may laugh at me, but you can't change me.
I am a poltroon on certain points — I feel it. There is a
base alloy of moral cowardice in my composition. I blushed
and hung my head before Mrs. Gill, when she ought to
have been faltering confessions to me. I found it impossible
to get up the spirit even to hint, much less to prove to her
that she was a cheat. I have no calm dignity — no true
courage about me.'

'Shirley, what fit of self -injustice is this? My uncle,
who is not given to speak well of women, says there are not
ten thousand men in England as genuinely fearless as you.'

'I am fearless, physically: I am never nervous about
danger. I was not startled from self-possession when Mr.
Wynne's great red bull rose with a bellow before my face as
I was crossing the cowslip-lea alone, stooped his begrimed,
sullen head, and made a run at me ; but I was afraid of
seeing Mrs. Gill brought to shame and confusion of face.
You have twice— ten times my strength of mind on certain
subjects, Caroline : you, whom no persuasions can induce to
pass a bull, however quiet he looks, would have firmly
shown my housekeeper she had done wrong ; then you
would have gently and wisely admonished her ; and at last,
I daresay, provided she had seemed penitent, you would
have very sweetly forgiven her. Of this conduct I am
incapable. However, in spite of exaggerated imposition, I
still find we live within our means : I have money in hand,
and I really must do some good with it. The Briarfield
poor are badly off : they must be helped. What ought I to

SHIRLEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WOBKS m

do, think you, Lina ? Had I not better distribute the cash
at once ? '

' No, indeed, Shirley : you will not manage properly. I
have often noticed that your only notion of charity is to give
shillings and half-crowns in a careless, free-handed sort of
way, which is liable to continual abuse. You must have a
prime minister, or you will get yourself into a series of
scrapes. You suggested Miss Ainley yourself : to Miss
Ainley I will apply ; and, meantime, promise to keep quiet,
and not begin throwing away your money. What a great
deal you have, Shirley 1 — you must feel very rich with all
that.'

' Yes ; I feel of consequence. It is not an immense sum,
but I feel responsible for its disposal ; and really this
responsibility weighs on my mind more heavily than I
could have expected. They say that there are some families
almost starving to death in Briarfield : some of my own
cottagers are in wretched circumstances : I must and will
help them.'

' Some people say we shouldn't give alms to the poor,
Shirley.'

' They are great fools for their pains. For those who are
not hungry, it is easy to palaver about the degradation of
charity, and so on ; but they forget the brevity of life, as
well as its bitterness. We have none of us long to live : let
us help each other through seasons of want and woe, as well
as we can, without heeding in the least the scruples of vain
philosophy.'

' But you do help others, Shirley : you give a great deal
as it is.'

' Not enough : I must give more, or, I tell you, my
brother's blood will some day be crying to Heaven against
me. For, after all, if political incendiaries come here to
kindle conflagration in the neighbourhood, and my property
is attacked, I shall defend it like a tigress — I know I shall.
Let me listen to Mercy as long as she is near me : her voice
once drowned by the shout of ruf&an defiance, and I shall be

272 SHIBLEY

full of impulses to resist and quell. If onoe the poor gather
and rise in the form of the mob, I shall turn against them
as an aristocrat: if they bully me, I must defy; if they
attack, I must resist, — and I will.'

' You talk like Eobert.'

' I feel like Eobert, only more fierily. Let them meddle
with Eobert, or Eobert's mill, or Eobert's interests, and I
shall hate them. At present I am no patrician, nor do I
regard the poor around me as plebeians ; but if once they
violently wrong me or mine, and then presume to dictate to
us, I shall quite forget pity for their wretchedness and
respect for their poverty^ in scorn of their ignorance and
wrath at their insolence.'

' Shirley — how your eyes flash ! '

' Because my soul burns. Would you, any more than
me, let Eobert be borne down by numbers ? '

' If I had your power to aid Eobert, I would use it as you
mean to use it. If I could be such a friend to him as you
can be, I would stand by him as you mean to stand by him
till death.'

' And now, Lina, though your eyes don't flash, they glow.
You drop your lids ; but I saw a kindled spark. However,
it is not yet come to fighting. What I want to do is to
prevent mischief. I cannot forget, either day or night, that
these embittered feelings of the poor against the rich have
been generated in suffering: they would neither hate nor
envy us if they did not deem us so much happier than them-
selves. To allay this suffering, and thereby lessen this hate,
let me, out of my abundance, give abundantly; and that
the donation rnay go farther, let it be made wisely. To that
intent, we must introduce some clear, calm, practical sense
into our councils : so go, and fetch Miss Ainley.'

Without another word Caroline put on her bonnet and
departed. It may, perhaps, appear strange that neither she
nor Shirley thought of consulting Mrs. Pryor on their
scheme ; but they were wise in abstaining. To have consulted
her — and this they knew by instinct — would only have been

SHIELEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WOEKS 273

to involve her in painful embarrassment. She was far better
informed, better read, a deeper thinker than Miss Ainley, but
of administrative energy, of executive activity, she had none.
She vyould subscribe her own modesli mite to a charitable
object wiUingly, — secret almsgiving suited her ; but in public
plans, on a large scale, she could take no part : as to origin-
ating them, that was out of the question. This Shirley
knew, and therefore she did not trouble Mrs. Pryor by
unavailing conferences, which could only remind her of her
own deficiencies, and do no good.

It was a bright day for Miss Ainley, when she was
summoned to Pieldhead to deliberate on projects so con-
genial to her; when she was seated with all honour and
deference at a table with paper, pen, ink, and — what was
best of aU — cash before her, and requested to draw up a
regular plan for administering relief to the destitute poor of
Briarfield. She, who knew thern all, had studied their
wants, had again and again felt in what way they might
best be succoured, could the means of succour only be found,
was fuUy competent to the undertaking, and a meek exultation
gladdened her kind heart as she felt herself able to answer
clearly and promptly the eager questions put by the two
young girls ; as she: showed them in her answers how much
and what serviceable knpwledge she had acquired of the
condition of her fellow-creatures round her.

Shirley placed at her disposal 300Z., and at the sight of
the money Miss Ainley's eyes filled with joyful tears ; for
she already saw the hungry fed, the naked clothed, the
sick comforted thereby. She quickly drew up a simple,
sensible plan for its expenditure ; and she assured them
brighter times would now come round, for she doubted not
the lady of Eieldhead's example would be followed by others ;
she should try to get additional subscriptions, and to form a
fund ; but first she must consult the clergy : yes, on that
point, she was peremptory : Mr. Helstone, Dr. Boultby, Mr.
HaU, must be consulted — (for not only must Briarfield be
relieved, but Whinbury and Nunnely) — it would, she averred,

274 SHIELEY

be presumption in her to take a single step unauthorized by
them.

The clergy were sacred beings in Miss Ainley's eyes ; no
matter what might be the insignificance of the individual,
his station made him holy. The very curates — who, in their
trivial arrogance, were hardly worthy to tie her patten-
strings, or carry her cotton umbrella or check woollen shawl
— she, in her pure, sincere enthusiasm, looked upon as
sucking saints. No matter how clearly their Uttle vices and
enormous absurdities were pointed out to her, she could not
see them : she was blind to ecclesiastical defects : the white
surplice covered a multitude of sins.

Shirley, knowing this harmless infatuation on the part of
her recently chosen prime minister, stipulated expressly that
the curates were to have no voice in the disposal of the money ;
that their meddling fingers were not to be inserted into the
pie. The rectors, of course, must be paramount, and they
might be trusted : they had some experience, some sagacity,
and Mr. Hall, at least, had sympathy and loving-kindness
for his fellow-men ; but as for the youth under them, they
must be set aside, kept down, and taught that subordination
and silence best became their years and capacity.

It was with some horror Miss Ainley heard this language :
Caroline, however, interposing with a mild word or two in
praise oi Mr. Sweeting, calmed her again. Sweeting was,
indeed, her own favourite : she endeavoured to respect Messrs.
Malone and Donne; but the slices of sponge-cake, and
glasses of cowslip or primrose wine, she had at different
times administered to Sweeting, when he came to see her in
her little cottage, were ever offered with sentiments of truly
motherly regard. The same innocuous collation she had
once presented to Malone ; but that personage evinced such
open scorn of the offering, she had never ventured to renew
it. To Donne she always served the treat, and was happy
to see his approbation of it proved beyond a doubt, by the
fact of his usually eating two pieces of cake and putting a
third in his pocket,

SHIRLEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WOEKS 275

Indefatigable in her exertions where good was to be done,
Miss Ainley would immediately have set out on a walk
of ten miles round to the three rectors in order to show her
plan, and humbly solicit their approval : but Miss Keeldar
interdicted this, and proposed as an amendment, to collect
the clergy in a small select reunion that evening at Field-
head. Miss Ainley was to meet them, and the plan was to
be discussed in full privy council.

Shirley managed to get the senior priesthood together
accordingly ; and before the old maid's arrival she had,
further, talked all the gentlemen into the most charming
mood imaginable. She herself had taken in hand Dr.
Boultby and Mr. Helstone. The first was a stubborn old
Welshman, hot, opinionated, and obstinate, but withal a man
who did a great deal of good, though not without making
some noise about it : the latter, we know. She had rather
a friendly feeling for both ; especially for old Helstone ; and
it cost her no trouble to be quite delightful to them. She
took them round the garden ; she gathered them flowers ; she
was like a kind daughter to them. Mr. Hall she left to
Caroline — or rather, it was to Caroline's care Mr. Hall
consigned himself.

He generally sought Caroline in every party where she
and he happened to be. He was not in general a lady's man,
though all ladies liked him : something of a book- worm he
was, near-sighted, spectacled, now and then abstracted. To
old ladies he was kind as a son. To men of every occupation
and grade he was acceptable : the truth, simplicity, frankness
of his manners, the nobleness of his integrity, the reality and
elevation of his piety, won him friends in every grade : his
poor clerk and sexton delighted in him ; the noble patron of
his living esteemed him highly. It was only with young,
handsome, fashionable, and stylish ladies he felt a little shy :
being himself a plain man — plain in aspect, plain in manners,
plain in speech — he seemed to fear their dash, elegance, and
airs. But Miss Helstone had neither dash nor airs, and her
native elegance was pf a very quiet order — quiet as tji^

276 SHIELEY

beauty of a ground-loving hedge-flower. He was a fluent,
cheerful, agreeable talker. Caroline could talk, too, in a
tSte-d-tete : she liked Mr. Hall to come and take the seat
next her in a party, and thus secure her from Peter
Augustus Malone, Joseph Donne, or John Sykes ; and Mr.
Hall never failed to avail himself of this privilege when he
possibly could. Such preference shown by a single gentle-
man to a single lady would certainly, in ordinary cases, have
set in motion 'the tongues of the gossips; but Cyril HaU
was forty -five years old, slightly bald, ' and shghtly gray,
and nobody ever said or thought he was likely to be married
to Miss Helstone. ' Nor did he think so himself : he was
wedded ah:eady to bis books and his parish : his kind sister
Margaret, speetaicled and: learned like himself, made him
happy in his single state ; he considered it too late to change.
Besidesj he had known Caroline as a pretty little girl : she
had sat on his knee many a times ; he had bought her toys
and. given her books ; he felt that her friendship for him was
mixed with a sort of filial respect ; he could not have
brought hiniself to attempt to give another colour to her
sentiments, and his serene mind could glass a fair image
vyithout feeUng its depths troubled by the reflection.

' Wben Miss Ainley arrived, she was made kindly welcome
by every one : Mrs. Pryor and Margaret Hall made room
for her on the sofa between them ; and when the three were
seated^ they fdrmed' a trio which the gay and thoughtless
would have scorned, indeed, as quite vyorthless and un-
attractive— a middle-aged widow and two plain spectacled
old maids — yet which had its own quiet value, as many a
suffering and friendless human being knew.

Shirley opened the business and showed the plan.
' I know the hand which drew up that,' said Mr. Hall,
glancing at Miss Aihley, aiid smiling benignantly : his
approbation was won at once. Boultby heard and de-
liberated vsdth bent brow and protruded under, lip : his
consent he considered too weighty to be given in a hurry.
Helstone glanced sharply round with an alert, suspicious

SHIELEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WOEKS 377

expression, as if he apprehended that female craft was ati
work, and that something in petticoats was somehow trying
underhand to acquire too much influence, and make itself of
too much importance. Shirley caught and comprehended the
expression :— ' This scheme is nothing,' said she, carelessly ;
' it is only an outUne — a mere suggestion ; you, gentlemen,
are requested to draw up rules of your own.'

And she directly fetched her writing-case, smiling queeriy
to herself as she bent over the table where it stood: she
produced a sheet of paper, a new pen, drew an arm-chair to
the table, and presenting her hand to old Helstone, begged
permission to instal him in it. Eor a minute he was a little
stiff, and stood wrinkling his copper-coloured forehead
strangely. At last he muttered : — ' Well — you are neither
my wife nor my daughter, so I'll be led fdr once ; but mind —
I know I a/m led : your little female manoeuvres don't blind
me.'

' Oh ! ' said Shirley, dipping the pen in the ink, and
putting it into his hand, ' you must regard me as Captain
Keeldar to-day. This is quite a gentleman's affair — yours
and mine entirely, Doctor ' (so she had dubbed the Eector).
' The ladies there are only to be our aides-de-camp, and at
their peril they speak, till we have settled the whole
business.'

He smiled a little grimly, and began to write. He soon
interrupted himself to ask questions, and consult his
brethren, disdainfully lifting his glance over the curly heads
of the two girls, and the demure caps of the elder ladies to
meet the winking glasses and gray pates of the priests.' In
the discussion which ensued, all three gentlenien, to their
infinite credit, showed a thorough acquaintance with the
poor of their parishes, — an even minute knowledge of their
separate wants. Each rector knew where clothing was
needed, where food would be most acceptable, where money
could be bestowed with a probability of it being judiciously
laid out. Wherever their memories fell short. Miss; Ainley
or Miss Hall, if applied to, could help them out ; but both

278 SHIELEY

ladies took care not to speak unless spoken to. Neither
of them wanted to be foremost, but each sincerely desired to
be useful, and useful the clergy consented to make them : with
which boon they were content.

Shirley stood behind the rectors, leaning over their
shoulders now and then to glance at the rules drawn up, and
the list of cases making out, listening to all they said, and
still at intervals smiling her queer smile — a smile not ill-
natured, but significant : too significant to be generally thought
amiable. Men rarely like such of their fellows as read their
inward nature too clearly and truly. It is good for women,
especially, to be endowed with a soft blindness : to have mild,
dim eyes, that never penetrate below the surface of things —
that take all for what it seems : thousands, knowing this,
keep their eyelids drooped, on system ; but the most down-
cast glance has its loophole, through which it can, on
occasion, take its sentinel-survey of life. I remember once
seeing a pair of blue eyes, that were usually thought sleepy,
secretly on the alert, and I knew by their expression — an
expression which ohiUed my blood, it was in that quarter so
wondrously unexpected — that for years they had been
accustomed to silent soul-reading. The world called the
owner of these blue eyes ' bonne petite femme ' (she was
not an Englishwoman) : I learned her nature afterwards — ■
got it off by heart — studied it in its farthest, most hidden
recesses — she was the finest, deepest, subtlest schemer in
Europe.

When all was at length settled to Miss Eeeldar's mind,
and the clergy had entered so fully into the spirit of her
plans as to head the subscription-list with their signatures
for 50Z. each, she ordered supper to be served ; having
previously directed Mrs. Gill to exercise her utmost skill in the
preparation of this repast. Mr. Hall was no bon-vivant : he
was naturally an abstemious man, indifferent to luxury ; but
Boultby and Helstone both liked good cookery ; the recherchi
supper consequently put them into excellent humour : they
did justice to it, though in a gentlemanly way — not in the

SHIELEY SEEKS TO BE SAVED BY WOEKS 279

mode Mr. Donne would have done, had he been present. A
glass of fine wine was likewise tasted, with discerning though
most decorous relish. Captain Keeldar was complimented
on his taste ; the compliment charmed him : it had been his
aim to gratify and satisfy his priestly guests : he had suc-
ceeded, and was radiant with glee.

CHAPTEE XV

MB. DONNE'S exodus

The next day Shirley expressed to Caroline how delighted
she felt that the little party had gone off so well.

' I rather like to entertain a circle of gentlemen,' said
she : ' it is amusing to observe how they enjoy a judiciously
concocted repast ; for ourselves, you see, these choice wines
and these scientific dishes are of no importance to us ; but
gentlemen seem to retain something of the ndiveti of children
about food, and one Ukes to please them : that is, when they
show the becoming, decent self-government of our admirable
rectors. I watch Moore sometimes, to try and discover
how he can be pleased ; but he has not that child's simplicity
about him. Did you ever find out his accessible point,
Caroline ? You have seen more of him than I,'

' It is not, at any rate, that of my uncle and Dr. Boultby,'
returned Caroline, smiling. She always felt a sort of shy
pleasure in following Miss Keeldar's lead respecting the
discussion of her cousin's character: left to herself, she
would never have touched on the subject ; but when invited,
the temptation of talking about him of whom she was ever
thinking was irresistible. ' But,' she added, ' I really don't
know what it is ; for I never watched Eobert in my life
but my scrutiny was presently baffled by finding he was
watching me.'

' There it is 1' exclaimed Shirley : .' you can't fix your
eyes on him but his presently flash on you. He is never
off his guard : he won't give you an advantage : even when
he does not look at you, his thoughts seem to be busy

ME. DONNE'S EXODUS 281

amongst your own thoughts, tracing your words and actions
to their source, contemplating your motives at his ease.
Oh ! I know that sort of character, or something in the
same style : it is one that piques me singularly — how does
it affect you ? ' ■ .

This question was a specimen of one of Shirley's sharp,
sudden turns : Caroline used to be fluttered by them at .first,
but she had now got into the way of parrying these home-
thrusts like a little quakeress.

' Pique you ? In what way does it pique you ? ' she
said.

' Here he comes ! ' suddenly exclaimed Shirley, breaking
off, starting up and running to the window. ' Here comes
a diversion. I never told you of a superb conquest I have
made lately — made at those parties to, which I can never
persuade you to accompany me; and the thing i has been
done without effort or intention on my part : that :I aver.
There is the bell — and, by all that's delicious! there are
two of them. Do they never hunt, then, except in couples ?
You may have one, Lina, and you may take your 6hoice :
I hope I am generous enough. Listen to Tartar ! '

The black-muzzled, tawny dog, a glimpse of which was
seen in the chapter which first introduced its mistress to the
reader, here gave tongue in the hall, amidst whose hollow
space the deep bark resounded formidably.! A growl, more
terrible than the bark^menacing as muttered thuiider —
succeeded.

' Listen ! ' again cried Shirley, laughing. ' You would
think that the prelude to a bloody onslaught : they will be
frightened : they don't know old Tartar as I do : they are
not aware his uproars are all sound and fury, signifying
nothing.

Some bustle was heard

' Down, sir ! — down 1 ' exclaimed a high-toned, imperious
voice, and then came a crack of a cane or whip. Im-
mediately there was a yell — a scutter — a run — a positive
tumult.

282 SHIELEY

' Oh ! Malone ! Malone ! '

' Down I down ! down ! ' cried the high voice.

' He really is worrying them ! ' exclaimed Shirley. ' They
have struck him : a blow is what he is not used to, and will
not take.'

Out she ran, a gentleman was fleeing up the oak stair-
case, making for refuge in the gallery or chambers in hot
haste ; another was backing fast to the stair-foot, wildly
flourishing a knotty stick, at the same time reiterating,
' Down ! down ! down ! ' while the tawny dog bayed,
bellowed, howled at him, and a group of servants came
bundling from the kitchen. The dog made a spring: the
second gentleman turned tail and rushed after his comrade :
the first was already safe in a bed-room : he held the door
against his fellow ; — nothing so merciless as terror ; — but
the other fugitive struggled hard : the door was about to yield
to his strength.

' Grentlemen,' was uttered in Miss Keeldar's silvery but
vibrating tones, ' spare my locks, if you please. Calm your-
selves I — come down 1 Look at Tartar, — ^he wont harm a
cat.'

She was caressing the said Tartar : he lay crouched
at her feet, his fore-paws stretched out, his tail still in
threatening agitation, his nostrils snorting, his bulldog eyes
conscious of a dull fire. He was an honest, phlegmatic,
stupid, but stubborn canine character : he loved his mistress,
and John — the man who fed him, — but was mostly in-
different to the rest of the world: quiet enough he was,
unless struck or threatened with a stick, and that put a
demon into him at once.

' Mr. Malone, how do you do ? ' continued Shirley, lifting
up her mirth-lit face to the gallery. ' That is not the way
to the oak-parlour : that is Mrs. Pryor's apartment. Bequest
your friend Mr. Donne to evacuate : I shall have the greatest
pleasure in receiving him in a lower room.

' Ha I ha I ' cried Malone, in hollow laughter, quitting
the door, and leaning over the massive balustrade. ' Beally

MK. DONNE'S EXODUS 283

that animal alarmed Donne. He is a little timid,' he
proceeded, stiffening himself, and walking trimly to the
stairhead. ' I thought it better to follow, in order to reassure
him.'

' It appears you did : well, come down, if you please.
John ' (turning to her man-servant), ' go up-stairs and
liberate Mr. Donne. Take care, Mr. Malone, the stairs are
slippery.'

In truth they were ; being of polished oak. The caution
came a little late for Malone : he had slipped already in his
stately descent, and was only saved from falling by a clutch
at the banisters, which made the whole structure creak
again.

Tartar seemed to think the visitor's descent effected with
unwarranted ^clat, and accordingly he growled once more.
Malone, however, was no coward : the spring of the dog
had taken him by surprise ; but he passed him now in
suppressed fury rather than fear : if a look could have
strangled Tartar, he would have breathed no more. For-
getting politeness in his sullen rage, Malone pushed into
the parlour before Miss Keeldar. He glanced at Miss
Helstone ; he coald scarcely bring himself to bend to her.
He glared on both the ladies : he looked as if, had either of
them been his wife, he would have made a glorious husband
at the moment : in each hand he seemed as if he would
have liked to clutch one and gripe her to death.

However, Shirley took pity : she ceased to laugh ; and
Caroline was too true a lady to smile even at any one under
mortification. Tartar was dismissed; Peter Augustus was
soothed : for Shirley had looks and tones that might
soothe a very bull : he had sense to feel that, since he could
not challenge the owner of the dog, he had better be civil :
and civil he tried to be ; and his attempts being well received,
hs grew presently very civil and quite himself again. He
had come, indeed, for the express purpose of making himself
charming and fascinating : rough portents had met him on
his first admission to Eieldbead ; hut that passage got over,

284 SHIRLEY.

charming and fascinating he resolved to be. Like March',
having come in like a lion, he purposed to go out like a
lamb.

For the sake of air, as it appeared, or perhaps for that of
ready exit in case of some new emergency arising, he took
his seat — not on the sofa, where Miss Keeldar offered him
enthronization, nor yet near the fireside, to which Caroline,
by a friendly sign, gently invited him, — but on a chair close
to the door. Being no longer sullen or furious, he grew,
after his fashion, constrained and embarrassed. He talked
to the ladies by fits and starts, choosing ' for topics whatever
was most intensely commonplace : he sighed deeply,
significantly, at the close of every sentence; he sighed in
each pause; he sighed ere he opened his mouth. At last,
finding it desirable to add ease to his other charms, he drew
forth to aid him an ample silk pocket-handkerchief. This
was to be the graceful toy vyith which his unoccupied
hands were to trifle. He went to work vrith a certain
energy : he folded the red and yellow square comerwise ; he
whipped it open with a waft : again he folded it in narrower
compass : he made of it a handsome band. To what purpose
would he proceed to apply the ligature ? Would he wrap
it about his throat — his head ? Should it be a comforter or
a turban ? Neither. Peter Augustus had an inventive — an
original genius : he was about to show the ladies graces of
action possessing at least the charm of novelty. He sat on
the chair with his athletic Irish legs crossed, and these legs,
in that attitude, he circled with the bandana and bound
firmly together. It was evident he felt this device to be
worth an encore : he repeated it more than once. The
second performance sent Shirley to the window to laugh her
silent but irrepressible laugh unseen : it turned Caroline's
head aside, that her long curls might screen the smile
mantling on her features. Miss Helstone, indeed, was
amused by more than one point in Peter's demeanour : she
was edified at the complete though abrupt diversion of his
homage from herself to the heiress : the 5,000^ he supposed

MR. DONNE'S EXODUS 285

her likely one day to inherit, were not to be weighed in the
balance against Miss Keeldar's estate and hall. He took no
pains to conceal his calculations and tactics : he pretended
to no gradual change of views : he wheeled about at once :
the pursuit of the lesser fortune was openly relinquished for
that of the greater. On what grounds he expected to
succeed in his chase, himself best knew : certainly not by
skilful management.

Erom the length of time that elapsed, it appeared that
John had some difficulty in persuading Mr. Donne to
descend. At length, however, that gentleman appeared : nor,
as he presented himself at the oak-parlour door, did he
seem in the slightest degree ashamed or confused — not a
whit. Donne, indeed, was of that coldly phlegmatic,
immovably complacent, densely self-satisfied nature which
is insensible to shame. He had never blushed in his life :
no humiliation could abash him : his nerves were not
capable of sensation enough to stir his Ufe, and make colour
mount to his cheek : he had no fire in his blood, and no modesty
in his soul : he was a frontless, arrogant, decorous slip of the
commonplace ; conceited, inane, insipid : and this gentleman
had a notion of wooing Miss Keeldar ! He knew no more,
however, how to set about the business than if he had been
an image carved in wood : he had no idea of a taste to be
pleased, a heart to be reached in courtship : his notion was,
when he should have formally visited her a few times, to
write a letter proposing marriage : then he calculated she
would accept him for love of his office, then they would be
married, then he should be master of Pieldhead, and he should
live very comfortably, have servants at his command, eat
and drink of the best, and be a great man. You would not
have suspected his intentions when he addressed his
intended bride in an impertinent, injured tone : — ' A very
dangerous dog that, Miss Keeldar. I wonder you should
keep such an animal.'

' Do you, Mr. Donne ? Perhaps you will wonder more
when I tell you I am very fond of him.'

S86 SHlELiJ-^

'I should say you are not serious in the assertion.
Can't fancy a lady fond of that brute — 'tis so ugly — a mere
carter's dog — pray hang him.'

' Hang what I am fond of ? '

' And purchase in his stead some sweetly pooty pug or
poodle : something appropriate to the fair sex : ladies
generally like lap-dogs.'

'Perhaps I am an exception.

' Oh ! you can't be, you know. All ladies are alike in
those matters : that is universally allowed.'

' Tartar frightened you terribly, Mr. Donne. I hope you
won't take any harm.'

'That I shall, no doubt. He gave me a turn I shall
not soon forget. When I sor him ' (such was Mr. Donne's
pronunciation) 'about to spring, I thought I should have
fainted.'

' Perhaps you did faint in the bed-room — you were a long
time there ? '

' No ; I bore up that I might hold the door fast : I was
determined not to let any one enter : I thought I would keep
a barrier between me and the enemy.'

' But what if your friend Mr. Malone had been
worried ? '

' Malone must take care of himself. Your man persuaded
me to come out at last by saying the dog was chained up in
his kennel : if I had not been assured of this, I would have
remained all day in the chamber. But what is that? I
declare the man has told a falsehood ! The dog is there I '

And indeed Tartar walked past the glass-door opening to
the garden, stifif, tawny, and black-muzzled as ever. He
still seemed in bad humour; he was growling again, and
whistling a half- strangled whistle, being an inheritance from
the bulldog side of his ancestry.

' There are other visitors coming,' observed Shirley, with
that provoking coolness which the owners of formidable-
looking dogs are apt to show while their animals are all bristle
and bay. Tartar sprang down the pavement towards the

ME. DONNE'S EXODUS 287

gate, bellowing 'avec explosion.' His mistress quietly
opened the glass-door, and stepped out chirruping to him.
His bellow was already silenced, and he was lifting up his
huge, blunt, stupid head to the new callers to be patted.

' What — Tartar, Tartar ! ' said a cheery, rather boyish
voice : ' don't you know us ? Good-morning, old boy ! '

And Uttle Mr. Sweeting, whose conscious good-nature
made him comparatively fearless of man, woman, child, or
brute, came through the gate, caressing the guardian. His
vicar, Mr. Hall, followed : he had no fear of Tartar either,
and Tartar had no ill-will to him : he snuffed both the
gentlemen round, and then, as if concluding that they were
harmless, and might be allowed to pass, he withdrew to the
sunny front of the hall, leaving the archway free. Mr.
Sweeting followed, and would have played with him, but
Tartar took no notice of his caresses : it was only his
mistress's hand whose touch gave him pleasure ; to all
others he showed himself obstinately insensible.

Shirley advanced to meet Messrs. Hall and Sweeting,
shaking hands with them cordially : they were come to tell
her of certain successes they had achieved that morning in
application for subscriptions to the fund. Mr. Hall's eyes
beamed benignantly through his spectacles : his plain face
looked positively handsome with goodness, and when
CaroUne, seeing who was come, ran out to meet him, and
put both her hands into his, he gazed down on her with a
gentle, serene, affectionate expression, that gave him the
aspect of a smiling Melanchthon.

Instead of re-entering the house, they strayed through
the garden, the ladies walking one on each side of Mr. Hall.
It was a breezy sunny day ; the air freshened the girls' cheeks,
and gracefully dishevelled their ringlets : both of them
looked pretty, — one, gay: Mr. Hall spoke oftenest to his
brilliant companion, looked most frequently at the quiet one.
Miss Keeldar gathered handfuls of the profusely blooming
flowers, whose perfume filled the enclosure ; she gave some
to Caroline, telling her to choose a nosegay for Mr. Hall ; and

288 SHIELEY

with her lap filled with delicate and splendid blossoms,
Caroline sat down on the steps of a summer-house : the
Vicar stood near her, leaning on his cane.

Shirley, who could not be inhospitable, now called out
the neglected pair in the oak parlour : she convoyed Donne
past his dread enemy Tartar, who, with his nose on his fore-
paws, lay snoring under the meridian sun. Donne was not
grateful : he never was grateful for kindness and attention ;
but he was glad of the safeguard. Miss Keeldar, desirous
of being impartial, offered the curates flowers : they accepted
them with native awkwardness. Malone seemed specially
at a loss, when a bouquet fiUed one hand, while his shillelagh
occupied the other. Donne's ' Thank you ! ' was rich to
hear : it was the most fatuous and arrogant of sounds
implying that he considered this offering an homage to his
merits, and an attempt on the part of the heiress to ingratiate
herself into his priceless affections. Sweeting alone received
the posy hke a smart, sensible, little man, as he was ; putting
it gallantly and nattily into his buttonhole.

As a reward for his good manners, Miss Keeldar, beckon-
ing him apart, gave him some commission, which made his
eyes sparkle with glee. Away he flew, round by the court-
yard to the kitchen : no need to give him directions ; he was
always at home everywhere. Erelong he reappeared, carry-
ing a round table, which he placed under the cedar ; then
he collected six garden-chairs from various nooks and
bowers in the grounds, and placed them in a circle. The
parlour-maid — Miss Keeldar kept no footman — came out,
bearing a napkin-covered tray. Sweeting's nimble fingers
aided in disposing glasses, plates, knives and forks:, he
assisted her too in setting forth a neat luncheon, consisting
of cold chicken, ham, and tarts.

This sort of impromptu regale, it was Shirley's delight to
offer any chance guests ; and nothing pleased her better
than to have an alert, obliging little friend, like Sweeting,
to run about her hand, cheerily receive and briskly execute
her hospitable hints. David and she were on the best terms

ME. DONNE'S EXODtfS 289

in the world ; and his devotion to the heiress was quite
disinterested, since it prejudiced in nothing his faithful
allegiance to the magnificent Dora Sykes.

The repast turned out a very merry one. Donne and
Malone, indeed, contributed but little to its vivacity, the oliief
part they played in it being what concerned the knife, fork, and
wine-glass ; but where four such natures as Mr. Hall, David
Sweeting, Shirley, and Carohne, were assembled in health
and amity, on a green lawn, under a sunny sky, amidst a
vnlderness of flowers, there could not be ungenial dulness.

In the course of conversation, Mr. Hall reminded the
ladies that Whitsuntide was approaching, when the grand
United Sunday-School tea-drinking and procession of the
three parishes of Briarfield, Whinbury, and Nunnely were
to take place. Caroline he knew would be at her post as
teacher, he said, and he hoped Miss Keeldar would
■not be wanting ; he hoped she would make her first public
appearance amongst them at that time. Shirley was not
the person to miss an occasion of this sort: she liked
festive excitement, a gathering of happiness, a concentration
and combination of pleasant details, a throng of glad faces,
a muster of elated hearts : she told Mr. Hall they might
count on her with security : she did not know what she would
have to do, but they might dispose of her as they pleased.

' And,' said Caroline, ' you will promise to come to my
table, and to sit near me, Mr. Hall ? '

' I shall not fail, Deo volente,' said he. ' I have occupied
the place on her right hand at these monster tea-drinkings
for the last six years,' he proceeded, turning to Miss Keeldar.
' They made her a Sunday- School teacher when she was a
little girl of twelve : she is not particularly self-confident by
nature, as you may have observed ; and the first time she
had to " take a tray," as the phrase is, and make tea in public,
there was some piteous trembling and flushing. I observed
the speechless panic, the cups shaking in the little hand,
and the overflowing tea-pot filled too full from the urn. I
came to her aid, took a seat near her, managed the urn and

290 SHIELEY

the slop-basin, and in fact made the tea for her like any old
woman.'

' I was very grateful to you,' interposed Caroline.

' You were : you told me so with an earnest sincerity
that repaid me well ; inasmuch as it was not like the
majority of little ladies of twelve, whom you may help and
caress for ever without their evincing any quicker sense of
the kindness done and meant than if they were made of wax
and wood, instead of flesh and nerves. She kept close to
me. Miss Keeldar, the rest of the evening, walking with me
over the grounds where the children were playing; she
followed me into the vestry when all were summoned into
church : she would, I believe, have mounted with me to the
pulpit, had I not taken the previous precaution of conducting
her to the Eectory-pew.'

' And he has been my friend ever since,' said Caroline.

' And always sat at her table, near her tray, and handed
the cups, — that is the extent of my services. The next
thing I do for her will be to marry her some day to some
curate or mill-owner : but mind, Caroline, I shall inquire
about the bridegroom's character, and if he is not a gentle-
man likely to render happy the little girl who walked with
me hand in hand over Nunnely Common, I will not officiate :
so take care.'

' The caution is useless : I am not going to be married.
I shall live single like your sister Margaret, Mr. Hall.'

'Very well — you might do worse — Margaret is not
unhappy : she has her books for a pleasure, and her brother
for a care, and is content. If ever you want a home ; if the
day should come when Briarfield Eectory is yours no
longer, come to Nunnely Vicarage. Should the old maid
and bachelor be still living, they will make you tenderly
welcome.'

' There are your flowers. Now,' said Caroline, who had
kept the nosegay she had selected for him till this moment,
'you don't care for a bouquet, but you must give it to
Margaret: only — to be sentimental for once — keep that

ME. DONNE'S EXODUS 291

little forget-me-not, which is a wild-flower I gathered from
the grass ; and — to be still more sentimental — let me take
two or three of the blue blossoms and put them in my
souvenir."

And she took out a small book with enamelled cover and
silver clasp, wherein, having opened it, she inserted the
flowers, writing round them in pencil — ' To be kept for the
sake of the Eev. Cyril Hall, my friend. May — , 18 — .'

The Eev. Cyril Hall, on his part also, placed a sprig in
safety between the leaves of a pocket Testament : he only
wrote on the margin — ' Caroline.'

' Now,' said he smiling, ' I trust we are romantic enough.
Miss Keeldar,' he continued (the curates, by-the-by, during
this conversation, were too much occupied with their 6wn
jokes to notice what passed at the other end of the table),
' I hope you are laughing at this trait of " exaltation " in the
old gray-headed Vicar ; but the fact is, I am so used to
comply with the requests of this young friend of yours, I
don't know how to refuse her when she tells me to do any-
thing. You would say it is not much in my way to traffic
with flowers and forget-me-nots : but, you see, when re-
quested to be sentimental, I am obedient.'

' He is naturally rather sentimental,' remarked Caroline ;
' Margaret told me so, and I know what pleases him.'

' That you should be good and happy ? Yes ; that is one
of my greatest pleasures. May God long preserve to you
the blessings of peace and innocence ! By which phrase, I
mean comparative innocence; for in His sight, I am well
aware, none are pure. What, to our human perceptions,
looks spotless as we fancy angels, is to Him but frailty, need-
ing the blood of His Son to cleanse, and the strength of His
Spirit to sustain. Let us each and all cherish humility— I,
as you, my young friends ; and we may well do it when we
look into our own hearts, and see there temptations,
inconsistencies, propensities, even we blush to recognise.
And it is not youth, nor good looks, nor grace, nor any
gentle outside charm which makes either beauty or goodness

292 SHIRLEY

in God's eyes. Young ladies, When your mirroi* or men's
tongues flatter you, remember that, in the sight of her Maker,
Mary Ann Ainley— a woman whom neither glass nor lips
have ever panegyrized — is fairer and better than either of
you. She is, indeed,' he added, after a pause — 'she is,
indeed. You young things — wrapt up in yourselves and in
earthly hopes — scarcely live as Christ lived: perhaps you
cannot do it yet, while existence is so sweet and earth so
smiling to you : it would be too much to expect : she, with
meek heart and due reverence, treads close in her Bedeemer's
steps.'

Here the harsh voice of Donne broke in on the mild
tones of Mr. Hall : ' Ahem ! ' he began, clearing his throat
evidently for a speech of some importance. ' Ahem ! Miss
Keeldar, your attention an instant, if you please.'

'Well,' said Shirley, nonchalafiitly. 'What is it? I
listen : all of me is ear that is not eye.'

' I hope part of you is hand also,' returned Donne, in his
vulgarly presumptuous and familiar style, 'and part purse r
it is to the hand and purse I propose to appeal.-^ I came
here this morning with a view to beg of you^ — ■-'

'You should have gone to Mrs. Gill: she is my
almoner.'

' To beg of you a subscription to a school. I and
Dr. Boultby intend to erect one in the hamlet of Eoclefigg,
which is under our vicarage of Whinbury. The Baptists
have got possession of it : they have a chapel there, and we
want to dispute the ground.' '

' But I have nothing to do with Bcclefigg ; I possess na
property there.' -

.'What does that signify? You're a Churchwomi^,
ain't you?'

' Admirable creature ! ' muttered Shirley, \ under her
breath : ' exquisite address : fine style ! What raptures he
excites in me I ' then aloud, ' I am a Oburchwoman,' cer-
tainly.'

• Then you can't refuse to contribute in this case. The

ME. DONNE'S EXODUS 293

population of Eeelefigg are a parcel of brutes — we want to
eivilise them/

' Who is to be the missionary ? '

' Myself, probably.' ■

' You tyon't fail through lack of sympathy with your flock.'

' I hope not — I expect success ; but yfB snust have money.
There is the paper — pray give a handsome sum.'

When asked for money, Shirley rarely held back. She
put down her name for -5Z. : after the 300Z. she had lately
^ven, and the many smaller sums she was giving constantly,
it was as much as she could at present afford. Donne looked
at it, declared the subscription ' shabby,"' and clamorously
demanded more. Miss Keeldar flushed up with some
indignation and more 'astonishment.

' At present, I shall give no more,' said she.

' Not give more ! Why, I expected you to head the list
with a cool hundred. With your property, you should
never put down a signature for less.^

She was silent.

' In the south,' went on Donne, ' a lady with a thousand
a year would be ashamed to give five pounds for a public
object.'

Shirley, so rarely haughty, looked so now. Her slight
frame became nerved; her distinguished face quickened
with scorn.

' Strange remarks I ' said she : ' most inconsiderate I
Beproach in return for bounty is misplaced.'

' Bounty I Do you call five pounds bounty ? '

'I do: and bounty which, had I not given it to Dr.
Boultby's intended school, of the erection of which I
approve, and in no sort to his curate, who seems ill-advised
in his manner of applying for — or rather extorting subscrip-
tions,— bounty, I repeat, which, but for this consideration, I
Should instantly reclaim.'

Donne was thick-skinned : he did not feel all or half that
the true, fair glance of the speaker expressed ; he knew not
on what ground he stood.

294 SHIELEY

' Wretched place — this Yorkshire,' he went on. ' I could
never have formed an idear of the country had I not seen
it ; and the people — rich and poor — what a set ! How corse
and uncultivated ! They would be scouted in the south.'

Shirley leaned forwards on the table, her nostrils dilating
a little, her taper fingers interlaced and compressing each
other hard. ,

'The rich,' pursued the infatuated and unconscious
Donne, ' are a parcel of misers — never Uving as persons with
their incomes ought to live : you scarsley ' — (you must
excuse Mr. Donne's pronunciation, reader; it was very
choice ; he considered it genteel, and prided himself on his
southern accent ; northern ears received with singular sensa-
tions his utterance of certain words) ; ' you scarsley ever
see a fam'ly where a propa carriage or a reg'la butla is kep ;
and as to the poor — just look at them when they come
crowding about the church-doors on the occasion of a
marriage or a funeral, clattering in clogs ; the men in their
shirt-sleeves and wool-combers' aprons, the women in mob-
caps and bed-gowns. They postively deserve that one
should turn a mad cow in amongst them to rout their rabble-
ranks — he ! he ! "What fun it would be ! '

'There, — you have reached the climax,' said Shirley,
quietly. 'You have reached the climax,' she repeated,
turning her glowing glance towards him. ' You cannot go
beyond it, and,' she added with emphasis, ' you shall not, in
my house.'

Up she rose : nobody could control her now, for she
was exasperated; straight she walked to her garden-gates,
wide she flung them open.

' Walk through,' she said austerely, ' and pretty quickly,
and set foot on this pavement no more.'

Donne was astounded. He had thought all the time he
was showing himself off to high advantage, as a lofty-souled
person of the first ' ton,' he imagined he was producing a
crushing impression. Had he not expressed disdain of
everything in Yorkshirp ? What more conclusive proof

mm

" .V. ^^v ^ . '_.

>

gJWgip

OAKWBLL HALL (THB GAKBEN) (fIELDHEAd).

MR. DONllfi'S EXOt)US S&5

could be given that he was better than anything there ? And
yet here was he about to be turned like a dog out of a
Yorkshire garden ! Where, under such circumstances, was
the ' concatenation accordingly ? '

' Bid me of you instantly — instantly ! ' reiterated Shirley
as he lingered.

' Madam — a clergyman I Turn out a clergyman ? '

' Off ! Were you an archbishop : you have proved
yourself no gentleman, and must go. Quick ! '

She was quite resolved : there was no trifling with her :
besides, Tartar was again rising ; he perceived symptoms of
a commotion : he manifested a disposition to join in ; there
was evidently nothing for it but to go, and Donne made his
exodus ; the heiress sweeping him a deep curtsey as she
closed the gates on him.

' How dare the pompous priest abuse his flock ? How
dare the lisping cockney revile Yorkshire?' was her sole
observation on the circumstance, as she returned to the
table.

Erelong the little party broke up : Miss Keeldar's rufiBed
and darkened brow, curled lip, and incensed eye, gave no
invitation to further social enjoyment.

CHAPTER XVI

WHITSUNTIDE

The fund prospered. By dint of Miss Keeldar's example,
the three rectors' vigorous exertions, and the efficient though
quiet aid of their spinster and spectacled lieutenants, Mary
Ann Ainley and Margaret Hall, a handsome sum was raised :
and this being judiciously managed, served for the present
greatly to alleviate the distress of the unemployed poor. The
neighbourhood seemed to grow calmer : for a fortnight past
no cloth had been destroyed ; no outrage on mill or mansion
had been committed in the three parishes. Shirley was
sanguine that the evil she wished to avert was almost
escaped ; that the threatened storm was passing over : with
the approach of summer she '.felt certain that trade would
improve — it always did; and then this weary war could
not last for ever ; peace must return one day : with peace
what an impulse would be given to commerce !

Such was the usual tenor of her observations to her
tenant, Gerard Moore, whenever she met him where they
could converse, and Moore would listen very quietly — too
quietly to satisfy her. She would then by her impatient
glance demand something more from him — some explana-
tion, or at least some additional remark. Smiling in his way,
with that expression which gave a remarkable cast of sweet-
ness to his mouth, while his brow remained grave, he would
answer to the effect, that himself, too, trusted in the finite
nature of the war ; that it was indeed on that ground the
anchor of his hopes was fixed : thereon his speculations
depended. ' For you are aware,' he would continue, ' that

WHITSUNTIDE 297

I now work Hollow's mill entirely on speculation : I sell
nothing ; there is no market for my goods. I manufacture
for a future day : I ciake myself ready to take advantage of
the first opening that shall occur. Three months ago this
was impossible to me ; I had exhauste4 both credit and
capital : you well know who came to my rescue ; from what
hand I received the loan which saved me. It is on the
strength of that loan I am enabled to continue the bold
game which, a while since^ I feared I should never play
more. Total ruin I know will follow loss, arid I am aware
that gain is doubtful ; but I am quite cheerful ; so long as I
can be active, so long as I can strive, so long,, in shott, as
my hands are not tied, it is impossible for me to be depressed.
One year, nay, but six months. Of the reign of the olive, and
I am safe ; for, as you say, pea6e vnll give an impulse to
commerce. In this you are right ; but as to the restored
tranquillity of the neighbourhood — as to the permanent good
effect of your chai;itable fund^I doubt. Eleemosynary
relief never yet tranquillized the working-classes — it never
made them grateful ; it is not in^human nature that it should.
I suppose, were all things ordered aright, they ought not to
be in a position to need that humiliating relief ; and this
they feel : we should feel it were we so placed. Besides, to
whom should they be grateful ? To you — to the clergy
perhaps, but not to us mill-owners. They hate us worse
than ever. Then, the disaffected here are in correspondence
with the disaffected elsewhere ; Nottingham is one of their
head-quarters, Manchester another, Birmingham a third.
The subalterns receive orders from their chiefs ; they are
in a good state of discipline : no blow is struck without
mature deliberation. In sultry weather, you have seen the
sky threaten thunder day by day, and yet night after night
the clouds have cleared, and the sun has set quietly ; but
the danger was not gone, it was only delayed : the long-
threatening storm is sure to break at last. There is analogy
between the moral and physical atmosphere.'

' Well, Mr. Moore ' (so these conferences always ended),

298 SHIELEY

' take care of yourself. If you think that I have ever done
you any good, reward me by promising to take care of
yourself.'

' I do : I will take close and watchful care. I wish to
live, not to die : the future opens like Eden before me ; and
still, when I look deep into the shades of my paradise, I see
a vision, that I like better than seraph or cherub, glide across
remote vistas.'

' Do you ? Pray, what vision ? '

' I see '

The maid came bustling in vrith the tea-things.

The early part of that May, as we have seen, was fine,
the middle was wet; but in the last week, at change of
moon, it cleared again. A fresh wind swept off the silver-
white, deep-piled rain-clouds, bearing them, mass on mass,
to the eastern horizon ; on whose verge they dwindled, and
behind whose rim they disappeared, leaving the vault behind
all pure blue space, ready for the reign of the summer sun.
That sun rose broad on Whitsuntide : the gathering of the
schools was signalized by splendid weather.

Whit-Tuesday was the great day, in preparation for
which the two large schoolrooms of Briarfield, built by the
present rector, chiefly at his own expense, were cleaned out,
white -washed, repainted, and decorated with flowers and
evergreens — some from this Eectory-garden, two cart-loads
from Fieldhead, and a wheelbarrowful from the more stingy
domain of De Warden, the residence of Mr. Wynne. In
these schoolrooms twenty tables, each calculated to accommo-
date twenty guests, were laid out, surrounded with benches,
and covered with white cloths : above them were suspended
at least some twenty cages, containing as many canaries,
according to a fancy of the district, specially cherished by
Mr. Helstone's clerk, who delighted in the piercing song of
these birds, and knew that amidst confusion of tongues they
always carolled loudest. These tables, be it understood,
were not spread for the twelve hundred scholars to be
assembled from the three parishes, but only for the patrons

WHITSUNTIDE 299

and teachers of the schools : the children's feast was to be
spread in the open air. At one o'clock the troops were to
come in ; at two they were to be marshalled : till four they
were to parade the parish ; then came the feast, and after-
wards the meeting, with music and speechifying in the
church.

Why Briarfield was chosen for the point of rendezvous —
the scene of the f6te — should be explained. It was not
because it was the largest or most populous parish — Whin-
bury far outdid it in that respect ; nor because it was the
oldest — antique as were the hoary Church and Eectory,
Nunnely's low-roofed Temple and mossy Parsonage, buried
both in coeval oaks, outstanding sentinels of Nunnwood,
were older still : it was simply because Mr. Helstone willed
it so, and Mr. Helstone's will was stronger than that of
Boultby or Hall ; the former could not, the latter would not,
dispute a point of precedence with their resolute and imperious
brother ; they let him lead and rule.

This notable anniversary had always hitherto been a
trying day to Caroline Helstone, because it dragged her
perforce into public, compelling her to face all that was
wealthy, respectable, influential in the neighbourhood ; in
whose presence, but for the kind countenance of Mr. Hall,
she would have appeared unsupported. Obliged to be
conspicuous ; obliged to walk at the head of her regiment,
as the Hector's niece, and first teacher of the first class ;
obliged to make tea at the first table for a mixed multitude
of ladies and gentlemen ; and to do all this without the
countenance of mother, aunt, or other chaperon — she, mean-
time, being a nervous person, who mortally feared pubhcity —
it will be comprehended that, under these circumstances,
she trembled at the approach of Whitsuntide.

But this year Shirley was to be with her, and that
changed the aspect of the trial singularly — it changed it
utterly : it was a trial no longer— it was almost an enjoy-
ment. Miss Keeldar was better in her single self than a
host of ordinary friends. Quite self-possessed, and always

300 SHItlLEY

spirited and easy ; conscious of her social importance, yet
never presuming upon it, it would be enough to give one
courage only to look at her. The only fear was, lest the
heiress should not be punctual to tryst : she often had a
careless way of lingering behind time, and Caroline. knew
her uncle would not wait a second for any one : at the
moment of the church-clock tolling two, the beUs would
clash out and the march begin. She must look after
Shirley, then, in this matter, or her expected companion
would fail her.

Whit-Tuesday saw her rise almost with the sun. She,
Fanny, and Eliza were busy the whole , moipiing arranging
the Beotory-parlours in first-rate company order, and setting
out a collation of cooling refreshments — wine, fruit, cakesr^
on the dining-room side-board. Then she, had to dress in
her freshest and fairest attire of white muslin .; the perfect
fineness of the day and the solemnity of the occasion
warranted, and even exacted, such costume. 5er new sash — a
birthday-present from Margaret Hall, which she had reason
to believe Cyril himself had bought, and in return for which
she had indeed given him a set of cambric-bands in a
handsome case — was tied by the dexterous fingers of Fanny,
who took no little pleasure in arraying her fair young mistress
for the occasion; her simple bonnet had, been trimmed to
correspond with her sash ; her pretty but inexpensive scarf of
white crape suited her dress. When ready, she formed, a
picture, not bright enough to dazzle, but. fair enough to
interest; not brilliantly striking, but very delicately pleasing;
a picture in which sweetness of tint, purity of air, and grace
of mien, atoned for the absence of rich colouring and mag-
nificent contour. What her brovm eye and clear forehead
showed of her mind, was in keieping with her dress and face
— modest, gentle, and, though pensive, harmonious. It
appeared that neither Iamb nor dove need fear her, but
would welcome rather, in her look of simplicity and scittness,
a sympathy with their own natures, or with the natures we
ascribe to them.

WHITSUNTIDE 301

After all, she was an imperfect, faulty human being : fair
enough of form, hue, and array; but, as Cyril Hall said,
neither so good nor so great as the withered Miss Ainley>
now putting on her best black gown and Quaker-drab shawl
and bonnet in her own narrow cottage -chamber.

Away Caroline went, across some very sequestered fields
and through some quite hidden lanes, to Keldhead. She
glided quickly under the green hedges and across the
greener leas. There was no dust — no moisture — to soil the
hem of her stainless garment, or to damp her slender
sandal : after the late rains all was clean, and under the
present glowing sun all was dry : she walked fearlessly
then, on daisy and turf, and through thick plantations ; she
reached Fieldhead and penetrated to Miss Keeldar's dressing-
room.

It was well she had come, or Shirley would have been
too late. Instead of making ready with all speed, she lay
stretched on a couch, absorbed in reading : Mrs. Pryor stood
near, vainly urging her to rise and dress. Caroline wasted
DO words : she immediately took the book from her, and,
with her own hands, commenced the business of disrobing
and rerobing her. Shirley, indolent with the heat, and gay
with her, youth and pleasurable natxire, wanted to talk,
laugh, and, linger ; but Caroline, intent on being in time,
persevered in dressing her as fast as fingers could fasten
strings or insert pins. At length, as she united a final row of
hooks and eyes, she found leisure to chide her, saying, she
was very naughty to be so unpunctual ; that she looked even
now the picture of incorrigible carelessness : and so Shirley
did — but a very lovely picture of that tiresome quality.

She presented quite a contrast to Caroline : there was
style in every fold of her dress and every line of her figure :
the rich silk suited her better than a simpler costume ; the
deep-embroidered scarf became her : she wore it negligently,
but gracefully ; the wreath on her bonnet crowned her well :
the attention to fashioQ, the tasteful appliance of ornament
in each gortiou of her dress,, were quite in plap^ with hey ;

302 SHIELEY

all thia suited her, like the frank light in her eyes, the
rallying smile about her lips, like her shaft-straight carriage
and lightsome step. Caroline took her hand when she was
dressed, hurried her down-stairs, out of doors, and thus they
sped through the fields, laughing as they went, and looking
very much like a snow-white dove and gem-tinted bird-of-
paradise joined in social flight.

Thanks to Miss Helstone's promptitude, they arrived in
good time. While yet trees hid the church, they heard the
bell tolling a measured but urgent summons for all to
assemble; the trooping in of numbers, the trampling of
many steps, and murmuring of many voices were likewise
audible. From a rising-ground they presently saw, on
the Whinbury-road, the Whinbury-school approaching: it
numbered five hundred souls. The Eector and Curate,
Boultby and Donne, headed it : the former, looming large in
full canonicals, walking as became a beneficed priest, under
the canopy of a shovel-hat, with the dignity of an ample cor-
poration, the embellishment of the squarest and vastest of black
coats, and the support of the stoutest of gold-headed canes.
As the Doctor walked, he now and then slightly flourished
his cane, and inclined his shovel-hat with a dogmatical wag
towards his aide-de-camp. That aide-de-camp — Donne, to wit
— narrow as the line of his shape was compared to the broad
bulk of his principal, contrived, notwithstanding, to look
every inch a curate : all about him was pragmatical and self-
complacent, from his turned-up nose and elevated chin to his
clerical black gaiters, his somewhat short, strapless trousers,
and his square-toed shoes.

Walk on, Mr. Donne ! You have undergone scrutiny.
You think you look well — whether the white and purple
figures watching you from yonder hill think so, is another
question.

These figures come running down when the regiment has
marched by : the churchyard is full of children and teachers,
all in their very best holiday attire : and — distressed as is
the district, bad as are the times — it is wonderful to see how

WHITStlNTlDB 303

respectably — how handsomely even — they have contrived
to clothe themselves. That British love of decency will
work miracles : the poverty which reduces an Irish girl to
rags is impotent to rob the English girl of the neat wardrobe
she knows necessary to her self-respect. Besides, the lady
of the manor — that Shirley, now gazing with pleasure on
this well-dressed and happy -looking crowd — has really done
them good : her seasonable bounty consoled many a poor
family against the coming holiday, and supplied many a
child with a new frock or bonnet for the occasion ; she
knows it, and is elate with the consciousness : glad that her
money, example, and influence have really^ — substantially —
benefited those around her. She cannot be charitable like
Miss Ainley — it is not in her nature : it relieves her to feel
that there is another way of being charitable, practicable for
other characters, and under other circumstances.

Caroline, too, is pleased ; for she also has done good in her
small way ; robbed herself of more than one dress, ribbon,
or collar she could ill spare, to aid in fitting out the scholars
of her class ; and as she could not give money, she has
followed Miss Ainley's example, in giving her time and her
industry to sew for the children.

Not only is the churchyard full, but the Eectory-garden
is also thronged : pairs and parties of ladies and gentlemen
are seen walking amongst the waving lilacs and laburnums.
The house also is occupied : at the wide-open parlour-
vrindows gay groups are standing. These are the patrons and
teachers, who are to swell the procession. In the parson's
croft, behind the Eectory, are the musicians of the three parish
bands, with their instruments. Fanny and Eliza, in the
smartest of caps and gowns, and the whitest of aprons, move
amongst them, serving out quarts of ale ; whereof a stock
was brewed very sound and strong some weeks since, by the
Eector's orders, and under his special superintendence.
"Whatever he had a hand in, must be managed handsomely :
' shabby doings,' of any description, were not endured under
his sanction : from the erection of a public building, a church,

364 SHmLEY

school, or court-house, to the cooking of a dinner, he still
advocated the lordly, liberal, and effective. Miss Keeldt^
was like him in this respect, and they mutually approved
each other's arrangements.

Caroline and Shirley were soon in the midst of the
company ; the former met them very easily for her : instead
of sitting down in a retired comer, or stealing away to her
own room tiU the procession should be marshalled, according
to her wont, she moved through the three parlours, con-
versed and smiled, absolutely spoke once or twice ere she
was spoken to, and, in short, seemed a new creature. It was
Shirley's presence which thus transformed her : the view of
Miss Keeldar's air and manner did her a world of good-
Shirley had no fear of her kind ; no tendency to shrink from,
to avoid it. All human beings, men, women, or children,
whom low breeding or coarse presumption did not render
positively offensive, were welcome enough to her: some
much more so than others, of course ; but, generally speak-
ing, till a man had indisputably proved himself bad and a
nuisance, Shirley was willing to think him good and an
acquisition, and to treat him accordingly. This disposition
made her a general favourite, for it robbed her very raillery
of its sting, and gave hdr serious or smiling conversation a
happy charm : nor did it diminish the value of her intimate
friendship, which was a distinct thing from this social
benevolence, depending, indeed, on quite a different part of
her character. Miss Helstone was the choice of her affec-
tion and intellect ; the Misses Pearson, Sykes, Wjmne, &c.
&c., only the profiters by her good-nature and vivacity.

Donne happened to come into the drawing-room while
Shirley, sitting on the sofa, formed the centre of a tolerably
wide circle. She had already forgotten her exasperation
against him, and she bowed and smiled good-humouredly.
Ttie disposition of the man was then seen. He knew neither
how to decline the advance with dignity, as one whose just
pride has been wounded, nor how to meet it with frankness^
as one who is glad to forget and forgive ; his punishment

WHITSUNTIDE 305

had impressed him with no sense of shame, and he did not
experience that feeling on encpuntering his ohastiser : he
was not vigorous enough in evil to be actively malignant —
he merely passed by sheepishly with a rated, scowling
look. Nothing could ever again reconcile him to his enemy ;
while no passion of resentment, for even sharper and
more ignominious inflictions, could his lymphatic nature
know.

' He was not worth a scene I ' said Shirley to CaroUne.
' What a fool I was ! To revenge on poor Donne his silly
spite at Yorkshire, is something like crushing a gnat for
attacking the hide of a rhinoceros. Had I been a gentleman,
I believe I should have helped him off the premises by dint
of physical force : I am glad now I only employed the moral
weapon. But he must come near me no more : I don't like
him : he irritates me : there is not even amusement to be had
out of him : Malone is better sport.'

It seemed as if Malone wished to justify the preference ;
for the words were scarcely out of the speaker's mouth, when
Peter Augustus came up, all in ' grande tenue,' gloved and
scented, vdth his hair oiled and brushed to perfection, and
bearing in one hand a huge bunch of cabbage-roses, five or
six in fuU blow : these he presented to the heiress with a
grace to which the most cunning pencil could do but defec-
tive justice. And who, after this, could dare to say that
Peter was not a lady's man ? he had gathered and he had
given flowers : he had offered a sentimental — a poetic tribute
at the shrine of Love or Mammon. Hercules holding the
distaff was but a faint type of Peter bearing the roses. He
must have thought this himself, for he seemed amazed at
what he had done : he backed without a word ; he was going
away with a husky chuckle of self -felicitation ; then he be-
thought himself to stop and turn, to ascertain by ocular
testimony that he really had presented a bouquet : yes —
there were the six red cabbages on the purple satin lap, a
very white hand, with some gold rings on the fingers,
slightly holding them together, and streaming ringlets, half

306 SHIELEY

hiding a laughing face, drooped over them : only ^Z/-hiding :
Peter saw the laugh — it was unmistakable — he was made a
joke of— his gallantry, his chivalry were the subject of a jeat
for a petticoat — for two petticoats — Miss Helstone too was
smiling. Moreover, he felt he was seen through, and Peter
grew black as a thunder-cloud. When Shirley looked up, a
fell eye was fastened on her : Malone, at least, had energy
enough in hate : she saw it in his glance.

' Peter is worth a scene, and shall have it, if he likes, one
day,' she whispered to her friend.

And now — solemn and sombre as to their colour, though
bland enough as to their faces — appeared at the dining-room
door the three rectors : they bad hitherto been busy in the
church, and were now coming to take some little refreshment
for the body, ere the march commenced. The large
morocco-covered easy-chair had been left vacant for Dr.
Boultby ; he was put into it, and Caroline, obeying the in-
stigations of Shirley, who told her now was the time to play
the hostess, hastened to hand to her uncle's vast, revered,
and, on the whole, worthy friend, a glass of wine and a plate
of macaroons. Boultby's churchwardens, patrons of the
Sunday-school both, as he insisted on their being, were
already beside him ; Mrs. Sykes and the other ladies of his
congregation were on his right hand and on his left, express-
ing their hopes that he was not fatigued, their fears that the
day would be too warm for him. Mrs. Boultby, who held
an opinion that when her lord dropped to sleep after a good
dinner his face became as the face of an angel, was bending
over him, tenderly wiping some perspiration, real or
imaginary, from his brow : Boultby, in short, was in his
glory, and in a round sound ' voix de poitrine,' he rumbled
out thanks for attentions, and assurances of his tolerable
health. Of Caroline he took no manner of notice as she
came near, save to accept what she offered : he did not see
her, he never did see her : he hardly knew that such a person
existed. He saw the macaroons, however, and being fond
of sweets, possessed himself of a small handful thereof,

WHITSUNTIDE 307

The wine, Mrs. Boultby insisted on mingling with hot water,
and qualifying with sugar and nutmeg.

Mr. Hall stood near an open window, breathing the
fresh air and scent of flowers, and talking like a brother to
Miss Ainley. To him Caroline turned her attention with
pleasure. ' What should she bring him ? He must not
help himself — he must be served by her ; ' and she provided
herself with a little salver, that she might offer him variety.
Margaret Hall joined them ; so did Miss Keeldar : the four
ladies stood round their favourite pastor : they also had an
idea that they looked on the face of an earthly angel : Cyril
Hall was their pope, infallible to them as Dr. Thomas
Boultby to his admirers. A throng, too, enclosed the
Eector of Briarfield : twenty or more pressed round him ;
and no parson was ever more potent in a circle than old
Helstone. The curates herding together after their manner,
made a constellation of three lesser planets : divers young
ladies watched them afar off, but ventured not nigh.

Mr. Helstone produced his watch. ' Ten minutes to two,'
he announced aloud. ' Time for all to fall into line. Come.'
He seized his shovel-hat and marched away ; all rose and
followed en masse.

The twelve hundred children were drawn up in three
bodies of four hundred souls each : in the rear of each regi-
ment was stationed a band ; between every twenty there
was an interval, wherein Helstone posted the teachers in
pairs : to the van of the armies he summoned : — ' Grace
Boultby and Mary Sykes lead out Whinbury.'

' Margaret Hall and Mary Ann Ainley conduct Nunnely.'

' Caroline Helstone and Shirley Keeldar head Briarfield.'

Then again he gave command : — ' Mr. Donne to Whin-
bury; Mr. Sweeting to Nunnely; Mr. Malone to Briar-
field.'

And these gentlemen stepped up before the lady-generals.

The rectors passed to the full front — the parish clerks
fell to the extreme rear ; Helstone lifted his shovel-hat ; in
an instant out clashed the eight bells in the tower, loud

308 SHIRLEY

swelled the sounding bands, flute spoke and clarion answered,
deep rolled the drums, and away they marched.

The broad white road unrolled before the long procession,
the sun and sky surveyed it cloudless, the wind tossed the
tree-boughs above it, and the twelve hundred children, and
one hundred and forty adults, of which it was composed,
trod on in time and tune, with gay faces and glad hearts.
It was a joyous scene, and a scene to do good : it was a day
of happiness for rich and poor : the work, first of God, and
then of the clergy. Let England's priests have their due :
they are a faulty set in some respects, being only of common
flesh and blood, like us all ; but the land would be badly off
without them : Britain would miss her church, if that church
fell. God save it ! God also reform it 1

CHAPTER XVII

THE SCHOOL-FEAST

Not on combat bent, nor of foemen in search, was this
priest-led and woman-o£Scered company : yet their music
played martial tunes, and — to judge by the eyes and carriage
of some, Miss Keeldar, for instance — these sounds awoke, if
not a martial, yet a longing spirit. Old Helstone, turning by
chance, looked into her face, and he laughed, and she laughed
at him.

' There is no battle in prospect,' he said ; ' our country
does not want us to fight for it : no foe or tyrant is
questioning or threatening our Uberty : there is nothing to
be done : we are only taking a walk. Keep your hand on
the reins, captain, and slack the fire of that spirit : it is not
wanted ; the more's the pity.'

' Take your own advice, Doctor,' was Shirley's response.
To Caroline, she murmured, 'I'll borrow of imagination
what reality will not give me. We are not soldiers — blood-
shed is not my desire ; or if we are, we are soldiers of the
Cross. Time has rolled back some hundreds of years, and
we are bound on a pilgrimage to Palestine. But no, — that
is too visionary. I need a sterner dream : we are Lowlanders
of Scotland, following a covenanting captain up into the
hills to hold a meeting out of the reach of persecuting
troopers. We know that battle may follow prayer ; and, as
we believe that in the worst issue of battle, heaven must be
our reward, we are ready and willing to redden the peat-moss
with our blood. That music stirs my soul ; it wakens all
my life ; it makes my heart beat : not with its temperate

3lO SHIELEY

daily pulse, but with a new, thrilling vigour. I almost long
for danger; for a faith — a land — or, at least, a lover to
defend.'

' Look Shirley ! ' interrupted Caroline. ' What is that
red speck above Stilbro' Brow ? You have keener sight than
I ; just turn your eagle eye to it.'

Miss Keeldar looked.

' I see,' she said : then added, presently, ' There is a line
of red. They are soldiers — cavalry soldiers,' she subjoined
quickly : ' they ride fast : there are six of them : they will
pass us : no — they have turned off to the right : they saw
our procession, and avoid it by making a circuit. Where
are they going ? '

' Perhaps they are only exercising their horses.'

' Perhaps so. We see them no more now.'

Mr. Helstone here spoke.

'We shall pass through Eoyd-lane, to reach Nunnely
Common by a short cut,' said he.

And into the straits of Eoyd-lane they accordingly defiled.
It was very narrow, — so narrow that only two could walk
abreast without falling into the ditch which ran along each
side. They had gained the middle of it, when excitement
became obvious in the clerical commanders : Boultby's spec-
tacles and Helstone's Eehoboam were agitated : the curates
nudged each other: Mr. Hall turned to the ladies and
smiled.

' What is the matter ? ' was the demand.

He pointed with his staff to the end of the lane before
them. Lo and behold ! another, — an opposition procession
was there entering, headed also by men in black, and
followed also, as they could now hear, by music.

' Is it our double ? ' asked Shirley : ' our manifold wraith ?
Here is a card turned up.'

' If you wanted a battle, you are likely to get one, — at
least of looks,' whispered Caroline, laughing.

' They shall not pass us ! ' cried the curates, unanimously :
' we'll not give way ! '

THE SCHOOL-FEAST 311

' Give way ! ' retorted Helstone, sternly, turning round ;
' who talks of giving way ? You, boys, mind what you are
about : the ladies, I know, will be firm ; I can trust them.
There is not a churchwoman here but will stand her ground
against these folks, for the honour of the Establishment.
What does Miss Keeldar say ? '
' She asks what is it ? '

'The Dissenting and Methodist schools, the Baptists,
Independents, and Wesleyans, joined in unholy alliance,
and turning purposely into this lane with the intention of
obstructing our march and driving us back.'

' Bad manners ! ' said Shirley ; ' and I hate bad manners.
Of course, they must have a lesson.'

' A lesson in politeness,' suggested Mr. Hall, who was
ever for peace : ' not an example of rudeness.'

Old Helstone moved on. Quickening his step, he marched
some yards in advance of his company. He had nearly
reached the other sable leaders, when he who appeared to
act as the hostile commander-in-chief — a large, greasy man,
with black hair combed flat on his forehead — called a halt.
The procession paused ; he drew forth a hymn-book, gave
out a verse, set a tune, and they all struck up the most
dolorous of canticles.

Helstone signed to his bands : they clashed out with
all the power of brass. He desired them to play ' Eule,
Britannia,' and ordered the children to join in vocally, which
they did with enthusiastic spirit. The enemy was sung and
stormed down ; his psalm quelled : as far as noise went,
he was conquered.

' Now, follow me ! ' exclaimed Helstone ; ' not at a run,
but at a firm, smart pace. Be steady, every child and
woman of you : — keep together : — hold on by each other's
skirts, if necessary.'

And he strode on with such a determined and deliberate
gait, and was, besides, so well seconded by his scholars and
teachers— who did exactly as he told them, neither running
nor faltering, but marching with cool, solid impetus; the

812 SHIELEY

curates, too, being compelled to do the same, as they were
between two fires, — Helstone and Miss Keeldar, both of
whom watched any deviation with lynx-eyed vigilance, and
were ready, the one with his cane,' the other with her
parasol, to relauke the, slightest breach oi orders, the least
independent or irregular de'monstra,tion,^— that the body of
Dissenters were first amazed, then alarmed, then borne
down and pressed back, and at last forced to turn tail and
leave the outlet from Eoyd-lane free. Boultby suffered in
the onslaught, but Helstone and Malone, between them,
held him up, and brought him through the business, whole
in limb, though sorely tried in wind.

The fat Dissenter who had given out the hymn was left
sitting in the ditch. He was a spirit-merchant by trade,
a leader of the Nonconformists, and, it was said, drank
more water in that one afternoon than he had swallowed
for a twelvemonth before. Mr. Hall had taken care of
Caroline, and Caroline of him : he and Miss Ainley made
their own quiet comments to each other afterwards on the
incident. Miss Keeldar and Mr.. Helstone shook hands
heartily when they had fairly got the whole party through
the lane. The curates began to exult, but Mr. Helstone
presently put the curb on their innocent spirits : he remarked
that they never had sense to know what to say, and had
better hold their tongues : and he reminded them that the
business was none of their managing.

About half-past three the procession turned back, and
at four once more regained the starting-place. Long lines
of benches were arranged in the close-shorn fields round
the school : there the children were seated, and huge baskets,
covered up with white cloths, and great smoking tin vessels,
were brought out. Ere the distribution of good things
commenced, a brief grace was pronounced, by Mr. Hall, and
sung by the children : tb6ir young voices sounded melodious,
even touching, in the open air. Large currant buns, and
hot, well-sweetened tea, were then administered in the
proper spirit of liberality : no stinting was permitted oa thia

THE SCHOOL-PEAST 313

day, at least ; the rule for each child's allowance being that
it was to have about twice as much as it could possibly eat,
thus leaving a reserve to be carried home for such as age,
sickness, or other impediment, prevented from coming to
the feast. Buns and beer circulated, meantime, amongst
the musicians and church-singers : afterwards the beUches
were removed, and they were left to unbend their spirits in
licensed play.

A bell summoned the teachers, patrons, and patronesses
to the schoolroom ; Miss Keeldar, Miss Helstone, and many
other ladies were already there, glancing over the arrange-
ment of their separate trays and tables. Most of the female
servants of the neighbourhood, together with the clerks', the
singers', and the musicians' wives, had been pressed into the
service of the day as waiters : each vied with the other in
smartness and daintiness of dress, and many handsome
forms were seen amongst the younger ones. About half
a score were cutting bread-and-butter; another half-score
supplying hot water, brought from the coppers of the Eector's
kitchen. The profusion of flowers and evergreens decorating
the white walls, the show of silver teapots and bright
porcelain on the tables, the active figures, blithe faces, gay
dresses, flitting about everywhere, formed altogether a
refreshing and Uvely spectacle. Everybody talked, not very
loudly, but merrily, and the canary birds sang shrill in
their high-hung cages.

Caroline, as the Eector's niece, took her place at one of
the first three tables; Mrs. Boultby and Margaret Hall
officiated at the others. At these tables the 61ite of the com-
pany were to be entertained ; strict rules of equality not being
more in fashion at Briarfield than elsewhere. Miss Hel-
stone removed her bonnet and scarf, that she might be
less oppressed with the heat ; her long curls, falling on her
neck, served a,lmost in place of a veil, and for the rest, her
muslin dress was fashioned modestly as a nun's robe
enabling her thus to dispense with the encumbrance of a
shawl.

314 SHIELEY

The room was filling : Mr. Hall had taken his post beside
Caroline, who now, as she re-arranged the cups and spoons
before her, whispered to him in a low voice remarks on the
events of the day. He looked a little grave about what had
taken place in Koyd-lane, and she tried to smile him out of
his seriqusness. Miss Keeldar sat near; for a wonder,
neither laughing nor talking ; on the contrary, very still, and
gazing round her vigilantly : she seemed afraid lest some
intruder should take a seat she apparently wished to
reserve next her own : ever and anon she spread her satin
dress over an undue portion of the bench, or laid her gloves
or her embroidered handkerchief upon it. Caroline noticed
this manege at last, and asked her what friend she expected.
Shirley bent towards her, almost touched her ear with her
rosy lips, and whispered with a musical softness that often
characterized her tones when what she said tended even
remotely to stir some sweet secret source of feeling in her
heart : — ' I expect Mr. Moore : I saw him last night, and I
made him promise to come with his sister, and to sit at our
table : he won't fail me, I feel certain, but I apprehend his
coming too late, and being separated from us. Here is a
fresh batch arriving ; every place will be taken : provoking ! '

In fact Mr. Wynne the magistrate, his wife, his son, and
his two daughters, now entered in high state. They were
Briarfield gentry: of course their place was at the first
table, and being conducted hither, they filled up the whole
remaining space. For Miss Keeldar's comfort, Mr. Sam
Wynne inducted himself into the very vacancy she had
kept for Moore, planting himself solidly on her gown, her
gloves, and her handkerchief. Mr. Sam was one of the
objects of her aversion : and the more so because he showed
serious symptoms of an aim at her hand. The old gentle-
man, too, had publicly declared that the Fieldhead estate
and the De Walden estate were delightfully contagious — a
malapropism which rumour had not failed to repeat to
Shirley.

Caroline's ears yet rung with that thrilling whisper, ' I

THE SCHOOL-FEAST 315

expect Mr. Moore,' her heart yet beat and her cheek yet
glowed with it, when a note from the organ pealed above
the confused hum of the place. Dr. Boultby, Mr. Helstone,
and Mr. Hall rose, so did all present, and grace was sung
to the accompaniment of the music : and then tea began.
She was kept too busy with her office for a while to have
leisure for looking round, but the last cup being filled, she threw
a restless glance over the room. There were some ladies
and several gentlemen standing about yet unaccommodated
with seats ; amidst a group she recognised her spinster friend,
Miss Mann, whom the fine weather had tempted, or some
urgent friend had persuaded, to leave her drear solitude for
one hour of social enjoyment. Miss Mann looked tired of
standing : a lady in a yellow bonnet brought her a chair.
Carohne knew well that ' chapeau en satin jaune; ' she
knew the black hair, and the kindly, though rather
opinionated and froward-looking face under it ; she knew
that ' robe de sole noire ; ' she knew even that ' schal gris de
lin ; ' she knew, in short, Hortense Moore, and she wanted to
jump up and run to her and kiss her — to give her one
embrace for her own sake, and two for her brother's. She
half rose, indeed, with a smothered exclamation, and perhaps —
for the impulse was very strong — she would have run across
the room, and actually saluted her, but a hand replaced
her in her seat, and a voice behind her whispered : — ' Wait
till after tea, Lina, and then I'll bring her to you.'

And when she could look up she did, and there was
Eobert himself close behind, smilingather eagerness, looking
better than she had ever seen him look — looking, indeed, to
her partial eyes, so very handsome, that she dared not trust
herself to hazard a second glance ; for his image struck on
her vision with painful brightness, and pictured itself on her
memory as vividly as if there daguerreotyped by a pencil of
keen lightning.

He moved on, and spoke to Miss Keeldar. Shirley,
irritated by some unwelcome attentions from Sam "Wynne,
find by the fact of that gentleman being still seated on her

310 , SHIRLEY

gloves and: handkerchief *-7and probably, also, by Moore's
want of punctuality! — was by no pieans in good humour. She
fiist shrugged her shoulders at him, and then she said a bitter
word or two about his ' insupportable tardiness.' Moore
neither apologized nor retorted; he stood near her quietly,
as if waiting to see whether she would recover her temper ;
which she did in little more than three minutes, indicating
the change by offering him her hand. Moore took it with a
smile, half-corrective, half-grateful : the slightest possible
shake of the head, delicately marked the former quaUty; it
is probable a gentle pressure indicated the latter.

' You may sit where you can, now, Mr. Moore,' said
Shirley, also smiUng : ' you see there is not an inch of room
for you here ; but I discern plenty of space at Mrs. Boultby's
table, between Miss Armitage and Miss Birtwhistle ; go : John
Sykes will be your vis-i-vis, and you will sit with your back
towards us.'

Moore, however, preferred lingering about where he was :
he now and then took a turn down the long room, pausing
in his walk to interchange greetings with other gentlemen
in his own placeless predicament ; but still he came back to
the magnet, Shirley, bringing with him, each time he re-
turned, observations it was necessary to whisper in her ear.

Meantime, poor Sam Wynne looked far from comfortable :
his fair neighbour, judging from her movements, appeared
in a mood the most unquiet and unaccommodating : she would
not sit still two seconds : she was hot ; she fanned herself ;
complained of want of air and space. She remarked that,
in her opinion, when people had finished their tea they ought
to leave the tables, and announced distinctly that she
expected to faint if the present state of things continued.
Mr. Sam offered to accompany her into the open air ; just
the way to give her her death of cold, she alleged : in short,
his post became untenable ; and having swallowed his
quantum of tea, he judged it expedient to evacuate.

Moore should have been at hand, whereas he was quite
at the other extremity of the room, deep in conference with

THE SCHOOL-FEAST 317

Christopher Sykes. A large corn-factor, Tunothy EEumsden,
Esq., happened to be nearer, and feeling himself tired of
standing, he advanced to fill the vacant seat. Shirley's
expedients did not fail her : a sweep of her scarf upset her'
teacup, its contents were shared between the bench and her
own satin dress. Of course, it became necessary to call a
waiter to remedy the mischief : Mr. Bamsden, a stout, puffy
gentleman, as large in person as he was in property, held
aloof from the consequent commotion. Shirley, usually
almost culpably indifferent to slight accidents affecting dress,
&c., now made a commotion that might have become the
most delicate and nervous of her sex ; Mr. Eamsden opened
his mouth, withdrew slowly, and, as Miss Keeldar again
intimated her intention to ' give way ' and swocJn on the spot,
he turned on his heel, and beat a heavy retreat.

Moore at last returned : calmly suveying the bustle, and
somewhat quizzically scanning Shirley's enigmatical-looking
countenance, he remarked, that in truth this was the hottest
end of the room ; that he found a climate there calculated
to agree with none but cool temperaments like hi& own ;
and, putting the waiters, the napkins, the satin robe, the
whole turmoil, in short, ' to one side, he installed himself
where destiny evidently decreed he should sit. Shirley
subsided; her features altered their lines: the raised knit
brow and inexplicable curve of the mouth became straight
again : wilfulness and roguery gave place to other ex-
pressions ; and all the angulat movements with which she
had vexed the soul of Sam Wynne were conjured to rest as
by a charm. Still, no gracious glance was cast on Moore :
on the contrary, he was accused of giving her a world of
trouble, and roundly- charged with being the cause of de-
priving her of the esteem of Mr. Eamsden, and the invaluable-
friendship of Mr. Samuel Wynne.

'Wouldn't have offended either gentleman for the
world,' she averred : ' I have always been accustomed to
treat both with the most respectful consideration, and there,
ovfing to you, how they have been used ! I shall not be

318 SHIELEY

happy till I have made it up : I never am happy till I ara
friends with my neighbours ; so to-morrow I must make a
pilgrimage to Eoyd corn-mill, soothe the miller, and praise
the grain ; and next day I must call at De Walden — where
I hate to go — and carry in my reticule half an oat-cake to
give to Mr. Sam's favourite pointers.'

' You know the surest path to the heart of each swain, I
doubt not,' said Moore quietly. He looked very content to
have at last secured his present place ; but he made no fine
speech expressive of gratification, and offered no apology for
the trouble he had given. His phlegm became him wonder-
fully : it made him look handsomer, he was so composed :
it made his vicinage pleasant, it was so peace-restoring.
You would not have thought, to look at him, that he was a
poor, struggling man seated beside a rich woman; the
calm of equality stilled his aspect : perhaps that calm, too,
reigned in his soul. Now and then, from the way in which
he looked down on Miss Keeldar as he addressed her, you
would have fancied his station towered above hers as miich
as his stature did. Almost stern lights sometimes crossed
his brow and gleamed in his eyes : their conversation had
become animated, though it was confined to a low key : she
was urging him with questions — evidently, he refused to her
curiosity all the gratification it demanded. She sought his
eye once with hers : you read, in its soft yet eager ex-
pression, that it solicited clearer replies. Moore smiled
pleasantly, but his lips continued sealed. Then she was
piqued and turned away, but he recalled her attention in two
minutes : he seemed making promises, which he soothed her
into accepting, in lieu of information.

It appeared that the heat of the room did not suit Miss
Helstone : she grew paler and paler as the process of tea-
making was protracted. The moment thanks were returned,
she quitted the table, and hastened to follow her cousin
Hortense, who, with Miss Mann, had already sought the
open air. Eobert Moore had risen when she did — perhaps
he meant to speak to her ; but there was yet a parting word

THE SCHOOL-FEAST 319

to exchange with Miss Keeldar, and while it was being
uttered, Caroline had vanished

Hortense received her former pupil with a demeanour of
more dignity than warmth : she had been seriously offended
by Mr. Helstone's proceedings, and had all along considered
Caroline to blame, in obeying her uncle too literally.

' You are a very great stranger,' she said, austerely, as
her pupil held and pressed her hand. The pupil knew her
too well to remonstrate or complain of coldness ; she let
the punctiUous whim pass, sure that her natural honti (I
use this French word, because it expresses just what I
mean ; neither goodness nor good nature, but something
between the two) would presently get the upper-hand. It
did : Hortense had no sooner examined her face well, and
observed the change its somewhat wasted features betrayed,
than her mien softened. Kissing her on both cheeks, she
asked anxiously after her health : Caroline answered gaily.
It would, however, have been her lot to undergo a long cross-
examination, followed by an endless lecture on this head,
had not Miss Mann called off the attention of the questioner,
by requesting to be conducted home. The poor invalid was
already fatigued : her weariness made her cross — too cross
almost to speak to Caroline : and besides, that young
person's white dress and lively look were displeasing in the
eyes of Miss Mann : the everyday garb of brown stuff or
gray gingham, and the everyday air of melancholy, suited
the solitary spinster better : she would hardly know her
young friend to-night and quitted her with a cool nod.
Hortense having promised to accompany her home, they
departed together.

Caroline now looked round for Shirley. She saw the
rainbow scarf and purple dress in the centre of a throng of
ladies, all well known to herself, but all of the order whom
she systematically avoided whenever avoidance was possible.
Shyer at some moments than at others, she felt just now no
courage at all to join this company : she could not, however,
stand alone where all others went in pairs or parties, so

320 SHIELEY

she approached a group of 'her own scholars, great girls, or
rather young women, who were standing watching some
hundreds of the' younger children paying at blind-man's-
buff. -■■!• ..-• ■ ':■'■■ ; ^• .-_

Miss Helstone Imew these girls liked her, yet she was shy
even with' them out of school :■ they were not more in awe
of her than she of them : she drew near them now, rather to
find protection in their company than topatronize them with
her presence. By some instinct they knew her weakness,
and with natural politeness they respected it. Her know-
ledge commanded their esteem when she taught them ; her
gentleness attracted their regard ; and because she was
what they considered wise' and good 'when on duty they
kindly overlooked her evident timidity when off: they did
not take advantage of it. . Feasant girls as they were, they
had too much of her own English sensibility: to be guilty of
the coarse error :' they stood round Her still, civil, friendly,
receiving her sUght smiles, and rather hurried efforts to
converse, with good' feeling and good'brbeding: the last
qualitybeingtheresult'of the first, which soon set her at her
ease. . •■! ■■•' '■■■'" " ■ ;■■■' - ■ ■

Mr. Sam Wynne coming up with' great haste to insist on
the elder girls joining in the game as well' as the younger
ones, Caroline was again left alon^. She was meditating a
quiet retreat to the house, when Shirley/perceiving from afar
her isolation, hastened to her side.

'Let us go to the top of the fieldsj* she said: 'I know
you don't like crowds, Caroline.'

' But it will be depriving ybu of a pleasure, Shirley, to
take you from all these fine people, who court your society
so assiduously, and to whom you can, without art or effort,
make yourself so pleasant.' * .

'Not quite without effort: I am already tired of the
exertion : it is but insipid barren work, talking and laughing
with the good gentlefolks of Briarfield. I have been looking
out for your white dress for the last ten minutes : I like to
watch those I love in a crowd, and to compare them with

THE SCaoOL-FEAST 321

others : I have thus compared you. You resemble none of
the rest, Lma : there are some prettier faces than yours
here; you are not a model-beauty like Harriet Sykes, for
instance ; beside her, your person appears almost insignifi-
cant ; but you look agreeable — you look reflective — you look
whai I call interesting.'

' Hush, Shirley ! You flatter me.'
' I don't wonder that your scholars like you,'-
' Nonsense, Shirley : talk of something else.'
' We will talk of Moore, then, and we will watch him : I
see him even now.'

' Where ? ' And as CaroUne asked the question, ' she
looked not over the fields, but into, Miss Eeeldar's eyes, as
was her wont whenever Shirley mentioned any object she
descried afar. Her friend had quicker vision than herself ;
and Caroline seemed to think that the secret of her eagle
acuteness might be read in her dark gray irids : or rather,
perhaps, she only sought guidance by the direction of those
discriminating and brilUant spheres. . .

' There is Moore,' said Shirley, pointing right across the
wide field where a thousand children were playing, and now
nearly a thousand adult spectators walking.abont. ' There —
can you miss the tall stature and straight port ? He looks
amidst the set that surround him like Eliab amongst
humbler shepherds — like Saul in a war-council : and a war-
council it is, if I am not -mistaken.'

' Why so, Shirley ? ' asked Caroline, whose- eye had at last
caught the object -it sought. '<Eobert is just now speaking
to my uncle, and they are shaking hands; they are theH
reconciled.'

' Eeconeiled not -without good reason, depend on it :
making common cause against some common foe. And
why, think you, are Messrs. Wynne and Sykes, and
Armitage 'and Eamsden, gathered in 'such a close circle
round them? And why is Malone beckoned to join them?
Where he is summoned,- be sure a strong arm is needed.'
Shirley, as she watched, grew restless : her eyes flashed. /

322 SHIELEY

' They won't trast me,' she said : ' that is always the
way when it comes to the point.'

' What about ? '

' Cannot you feel ? There is some mystery afloat : some
event is expected; some preparation is to be made, I am
certain : I saw it all in Mr. Moore's manner this evening :
he was excited, yet hard.'

' Hard to you, Shirley ! '

'Yes, to me. He often is hard to me. We seldom
converse t6te-i-t6te, but I am made to feel that the basis of
his character is not of eider-down.'

' Yet he seemed to talk to you softly.'

' Did he not ? Very gentle tones and quiet manner ;
yet the man is peremptory and secret : his secrecy vexes
me.'

' Yes — Robert is secret.'

' Which he has scarcely a right to be with me ; especially
as he commenced by giving me his confidence. Having
done nothing to forfeit that confidence, it ought not to be
withdravm : but I suppose I am not considered iron-souled
enough to be trusted in a crisis.'

' He fears, probably, to occasion you uneasiness.'

' An unnecessary precaution : I am of elastic materials,
not soon crushed ; he ought to know that : but the man is
proud : he has his faults, say what you will, Lina. Observe
how engaged that group appear : they do not know we are
watching them.'

' If we keep on the alert, Shirley, we shall perhaps find
the clue to their secret.

'There will be some unusual movements erelong —
perhaps to-morrow — possibly to-night. But my eyes and
ears are wide open : Mr. Moore, you shall be under surveil-
lance. Be you vigilant also, Lina.'

' I will : Eobert is going, I saw him turn — I believe he
noticed us — they are shaking hands.'

' Shaking hands, with emphasis,' added Shirley ; ' as if
they were ratifying some solemn league and covenant.'

THE SCHOOL-FEAST 323

They saw Bobert quit the group, pass through a gate,
and disappear.

' And he has not bid us good-by,' murmured Caroline.

Scarcely had the words escaped her lips, when she tried
by a smile to deny the confession of disappointment they
seemed to imply. An unbidden suffusion for one moment
both softened and brightened her eyes.

' Oh, that is soon remedied ! ' exclaimed Shirley. ' We'll
make him bid us good-by.'

' Make him ! That is not the same thing,' was the
answer.

' It sJiall be the same thing.'

' But he is gone : you can't overtake him.'

' I know a shorter way than that he has taken : we will
intercept him.'

' But, Shirley, I would rather not go.'

Caroline said this as Miss Keeldar seized her arm, and
hurried her down the fields. It was vain to contend :
nothing was so wilful as Shirley, when she took a whim into
her head : Caroline found herself out of sight of the crowd
almost before she was aware, and ushered into a narrow
shady spot, embowered above with hawthorns, and enamelled
under foot with daisies. She took no notice of the evening
sun chequering the turf, nor was she sensible of the pure
incense exhaling at this hour from tree and plant ; she only
heard the wicket opening at one end, and knew Eobert was
approaching. The long sprays of the hawthorns, shooting
out before them, served as a screen ; they saw him before
he observed them. At a glance Caroline perceived that his
social hilarity was gone : he had left it behind him in the
joy-echoing fields round the school ; what remained now
was his dark, quiet, business countenance. As Shirley had
said, a certain hardness characterised his air, while his eye
was excited, but austere. So much the worse-timed was
the present freak of Shirley's : if he had looked disposed
for holiday mirth, it would not have mattered much, but
now

324 SHIBLEY

'I told you not to come,' said Caroline, somewliat
bitterly, to her friend. She seemed truly perturbed : to be
intruded on Eobert thus, against her will and his expecta-
tion, and when he evidently would rather not be delayed,
keenly annoyed her. It did not annoy Miss Keeldar in the
least : she stepped forward and faced her tenant, barring
his way : — ' You omitted to bid us good-by,' she said.

'Omitted to bid you good-by! Where did you come
from ? Are you fairies ? I left two Uke you, one in purple
and one in white, standing at the top of a bank, four fields
off, but a minute ago.'

'You left us there and find us here. We have been
watching you; and shall watch you still: you must be
questioned one day, but not now : at present, all you have
to do is to say good-night, and then pass.'

Moore glanced from one to the other, without unbending
his aspect. ' Days of ffite have their privileges, and so have
days of hazard,' observed he, gravely.

' Come — don't moralize : say good-night, and pass,' urged
Shirley.

' Must I say good-night to you. Miss Keeldar ?

'Yes, and to Caroline likewise. It is nothing new, I
hope : you have bid us both good-night before.'

He took her hand, held it in one of his, and covered it
with the other : , he looked down at her gravely, kindly, yet
commandingly. The heiress could not make this man her
subject: in his gaze on her bright face there was no
servility, hardly homage ; but there was interest and affec-
tion, heightened by another feeling : something in his tone
when he spoke, as well as in his words, marked that last
sentiment to be gratitude.

' Your debtor bids you good-night ! — May you rest
safely and serenely till morning.'

'And you, Mr. Moore, — what are you going to do?
What have you been saying to Mr. Helstone, with whom I
saw you shake hands ? Why did all those gentlemen gather
round you? Put away reserve for once : be frank with me.'

THE SCHOOL-FEAST ' 325

'Who can resist you? I will be frank: to-morrow, if
there js anything to relate,, you shall hear it.'

' Just now," pleaded Shirley : ' don't procrastinate.'

' But I could only tell half a tale ; and my time is
limited, — I have not a moment to ^are; hereafter I will
make amends for delay by candour.'

' But are you going home ? '

' Yes."

' Not to leave it any more to-night ? '

' Certainly not. At present, farewell to both of you ! '

He would have taken Caroline's hand and joined it in
the same clasp in which he held Shirley's, but somehow it
was not ready for him ; she had withdrawn a few steps
apart : her answer to Moore's adieu was only a slight bend
of the head, and a gentle, serious smile. He sought no more
cordial token : again he said 'Farewell!' and quitted them
both. . Li .'

'There! — it is over 1 ' said Shirley, when he was gone.
' We have made him bid us good-night, and yet not lost
ground in his esteem, I think, Cary.'

' I hope not,' was the brief reply.

'I consider you very timid and undemonstrative,' re-
marked Miss Keeldar. ' Why did you not give Moore your
hand when he offered you his ? He is your cousin : you like
him. Are you ashamed to let him perceive your affection ? '

' He perceives all of it that interests him : no need to
make a display of feeUng.'

' You are laconic : you would be stoical if you could. Is
love, in your eyes, a crime, Caroline ? '

' Love, a crime ! ' No, Shirley — love is a divine virtue ;
but why drag that word into the conversation? It is
singularly irrelevant ! '

' Good ! ' pronounced Shirley.

The two girls paced the green lane in silence. Caroline
first resumed.

' Obtrusiveness is a .crime ; forwardness is a crime ; and
both disgust : but love 1 — no purest angel need blush to love '

326 SHIELEY

And when I see or hear either man or woman couple shame
with love, I know their minds are coarse, their associations
debased. Many who think themselves refined ladies and
gentlemen, and on whose lips the word "-vulgarity " is for
ever hovering, cannot mention " love " without betraying
their own innate and imbecile degradation : it is a low feel-
ing in their estimation, connected only with low ideas for
them.'

' You describe three-fourths of the world, Caroline.'
' They are cold — they are cowardly — they are stupid on
the subject, Shirley! They never loved — they never were
loved ! •

' Thou art right, Lina ! And in their dense ignorance
they blaspheme living fire, seraph-brought from a divine
altar.'

' They confound it with sparks mounting from Tophet ! '
The sudden and joyous clash of bells here stopped the
dialogue by summoning all to the church.

CHAPTEE XVIII

WHICH THE GENTEEL HEADER IS RECOMMENDED TO SKIP,
LOW PERSONS BEING HERE INTRODUCED

The evening was still and warm ; close and sultry it even
promised to become. Bound the descending sun the clouds
glowed purple : summer tints, rather Indian than English,
suffused the horizon, and east rosy reflections on hill-side,
house-front, tree-bole; on winding road, and undulating
pasture-ground. The two girls came down from the fields
slowly : by the time they reached the churchyard the bells
were hushed ; the multitudes were gathered into the church :
the whole scene was solitary.

' How pleasant and calm it is ! ' said Caroline.

' And how hot it will be in the church 1 ' responded
Shirley ; ' and what a dreary long speech Dr. Boultby will
make ! and how the curates will hammer over their prepared
orations ! For my part, I would rather not enter.'

' But my uncle will be angry, if he observes our
absence.'

' I will bear the brunt of his wrath : he will not devour
me. I shall be sorry to miss his pungent speech. I know
it will be all sense for the Church, and all causticity for
Schism : he'll not forget the battle of Eoyd-lane. I shall be
sorry also to deprive you of Mr. Hall's sincere friendly
homily, with all its racy Yorkshireisms ; but here I must
stay. The gray church and grayer tombs look divine with
this crimson gleam on them. Nature is now at her evening
prayers : she is kneeling before those red hills. I see her
prostrate on the great steps of her altar, praying for a fair

328 SHIRLEY

night for mariners at sea, for travellers in deserts, for lambs
on moors, and unfledged birds in woods. Caroline, I see
her ! and I will tell you what she is like : she is like what
Eve was when she and Adam stood alone on earth.'

' And that is not Milton's Eve, Shirley.'

' Milton's Eve ! Milton's Eve 1 I repeat. No, by the
pure Mother of God, she is not ! Gary, we are alone : we
may speak what we think. Milton was great ; but was he
good? His brain was right; how was his heart?-,. He saw
heaven : he looked down on hell. He saw Satan, and Sin
his daughter, and Death their horrible offspring. Angels
serried before him their battalions : the long lines of
adamantine shields flashed back on his blind eyeballs the
unutterable splendour of heaven. Devils gathered their
legions in his sight : their dim, discrowned, and tarnished
armies passed rank and file before him. Milton tried to see-
the first woman ; but, Gary, he saw her not.'

' You are bold to say so, Shirley.'

' Not more bold than faithful. It was his cook that he
saw ; or it was Mrs. Gill, as I have seen her, making custards,
in the heat of summer, in i the cool dairy, with rose-trees and
nasturtiums about the latticed window, preparing a cold
collation for the rectors, — preserves, and " dulcet creams " —
puzzled

What ohoioe to cboose for delicacy best ;
What order so contrived as not to mix
Tastes, not well-joined, inelegant ; but bring
Taste after taste, upheld with kindliest change.'

' All very well too, Shirley.'

' I would beg to remind him that the first men of the
earth were Titans, and that Eve was their mother: from
her sprang Saturn, Hyperion, Oceanus; she bore Prome-
theus '

' Pagan that you are ! what does that signify ? '

' I say, there were giants on the earth in those days :
giants that strove to sCale heaven. The first woman '^ breast
that heaved with life on this world yielded the daring which

LOW PBESONS INTRODUCED 329

could contend with Omnipotence : the strength which could
bear a thousand years of bondage, — the vitality which could
■feed that vulture death through uncounted ages, — the un-
exhausted life and uncorrupted excellence, sisters to im-
mortality, which, after millenniums of crimes, struggles,
and woes, could conceive and bring forth a Messiah. The
first woman was heaven-born : vast was the heart whence
gushed the well-spring of the blood of nations ; and grand
the undegenerate head where rested the consort-crown of
creation.'

' She coveted an apple, and was cheated by a snake : but
you have got such a hash of Scripture and mythology into
your head that there is no making any sense of you. You
have not yet told me what you saw kneeling on those hills.'
. ' I saw — I now see— a woman-Titan : her robe of blue
air spreads to the outskirts of the heath, where yonder flock
is grazing ; a veil white as an avalanche sweeps from her
head to her feet, and arabesques of lightning flame on its
borders. Under her breast I see her zone, purple like that
horizon : through its blush shines the star of evening. Her
steady eyes I cannot picture ; they are clear — they are deep
as lakes — they are lifted and fuU of worship — they tremble
vrith the softness of love and the lustre of prayer. Her
forehead has the expanse of a cloud, and is paler than the
early moon, risen long before dark gathers : she reclines her
bosom on the ridge of Stilbro' Moor ; her mighty hands are
joined beneath it. So kneeling, face to face she speaks with
God. That Eve is Jehovah's daughter, as Adam was his son.'
' She is very vague and visionary ! Come, Shirley, we
ought to go into church.'

' Caroline, I will not : I will stay out here with my
mother Eve, in these days called Nature. I love her —
undying, mighty being ! Heaven may have faded from her
brow when she fell in paradise ; but all that is glorious on
earth shines there still. She is taking me to her bosom, and
showing me her heart. Hush, Caroline! you will see her
and feel as I do, if we are both silent.'

330 SHIELEY

' I will humour your whim ; but you will begin talking
again, ere ten minutes are over.'

Miss Keeldar, on whom the soft excitement of the warm
summer evening seemed working with unwonted power,
leaned against an upright headstone : she fixed her eyes on
the deep-burning west, and sank into a pleasurable trance.
Caroline, going a little apart, paced to and fro beneath the
Eectory garden-wall, dreaming, too, in her way. Shirley
had mentioned the word ' mother : ' that word suggested to
Caroline's imagination not the mighty and mystical parent
of Shirley's visions, but a gentle human form — the form she
ascribed to her own mother; unknown, unloved, but not
unlonged for.

' Oh, that the day would come when she would remem-
ber her child ! Oh, that I might know her, and knowing,
love her ! '

Such was her aspiration.

The longing of her childhood filled her soul again. The
desire which many a night had kept her awake in her crib,
and which fear of its fallacy had of late years almost
extinguished, reUt suddenly, and glowed warm in her heart :
that her mother might come some happy day, and send for
her to her presence — look upon her fondly with loving eyes,
and say to her tenderly in a sweet voice : — ' CaroUne, my
child, I have a home for you : you shall live with me. All
the love you have needed, and not tasted, from infancy,
I have saved for you carefully. Come ! it shall cherish you
now.'

A noise on the road roused Caroline from her filial
hopes, and Shirley from her Titan visions. They listened,
and heard the tramp of horses : they looked, and saw a
glitter through the trees : they caught through the foliage
glimpses of martial scarlet ; helm shone, plume waved. Silent
and orderly, six soldiers rode softly by.

' The same we saw this afternoon,' whispered Shirley :
' they have been halting somewhere till now. They wish
to be as little noticed as possible, and are seeking their

LOW PBKSONS INTEODUCED 331

rendezvous at this quiet hour, while the people are at
church. Did I not say we should see unusual things ere
long ? ■

Scarcely were sight and sound of the soldiers lost, when
another and somewhat different disturbance broke the night-
hush — a child's impatient scream. They looked : a man
issued from the church, carrying in his arms an infant —
a robust, ruddy little boy, of some two years old — roaring
with all the power of his lungs : he had probably just
awaked from a church-sleep : two little girls, of nine and ten,
followed. The influence of the fresh air, and the attraction
of some flowers gathered from a grave, soon quieted the
child ; the man sat down with him, dandling him on his knee
as tenderly as any woman ; the two girls took their places
one on each side.

' Good-evening, William,' said Shirley, after due scrutiny
of the man. He had seen her before, and apparently was
waiting to be recognised ; he now took off his hat, and
grinned a smile of pleasure. He was a rough-headed, hard-
featured personage, not old, but very weather-beaten ; his
attire was decent and clean, that of his children singularly
neat ; it was our old friend Farren. The young ladies
approached him.

' You are not going into the church ? ' he inquired, gazing
at them complacently, yet with a mixture of bashfulness in
his look : a sentiment not by any means the result of awe
of their station, but only of appreciation of their elegance
and youth. Before gentlemen— such as Moore or Helstone,
for instance — William was often a little dogged ; with
proud or insolent ladies, too, he was quite unmanageable,
sometimes very resentful ; but he was most sensible of, most
tractable to, good-humour and civility. His nature — a
stubborn one — was repelled by inflexibility in other natures ;
for which reason, he had never been able to like his former
master, Moore ; and, unconscious of that gentleman's good
opinion of himself, and of the service he had secretly
rendered him in recommending him as gardener to Mr.

332 SHIBLEY

Yorke, and by this means to other families in the neighbour-
hbod, he continued to harbour, a grudge againistihis austerity.
Latterly, he had often worked at Fieldhead ; Miss Keeldar's
frank, hospitable manners were perfectly charming to him.
Caroline he had known from her childhood : unconsciously,
she was his ideal of a lady. Her gentle mien, step, gestures,
her grace of person and attire, moved some artist fibres
about his peasant-heart: he had a pleSisure in looking at
her, as he had in examiflihg rare flowers, or in seeing
pleasant landscapes. Both the ladies liked William : it was
their delight to lend him books, to give him plants ; and they
preferred his conversation far before that of malny coarse,
hard, pretentious people, immeasurably higher in station.

' Who was speaking, William, when you came out ? '
asked Shirley.

' A gentleman ye set a deal of store on, Miss Shirley — Mr.
Donne.'

' You look knowing, William. How did you find out my
regard for Mr. Donne ? '

' Ay, Miss Shirley, there's a gleg light i' your een some-
times which betrays you. You look raight down scornful
sometimes, when Mr. Donne is by.'

' Do you like him yourself, William ? '

' Me ? I'm stalled o''t' curates, and so is t' wife : they've
no manners ; they talk to poor folk fair as if they thought
they were beneath them. They're alius magnifying their
of&ce : it is a pity but their office could magnify thein ; but
it does nought o' t' soart. I fair hate pride.' ^

' But you are proud in your own way yourself j' interposed
Caroline : ' you are what you call house-proud ; you like to
have everything handsome about you : sometimes you look
as if you were almost too proud to take your wages. When
you were out of work, you were too proud to get anything on
credit ; but for your children, I believe you would, rather
have starved than gone to the shops without money ; and
when I wanted to give you something, what a difficulty I
had in making you take it ! '

LOW PEESONS INTEODUCED 333

' It is partly true, Miss Caroline : ony day I'd rather give
than take, especially from sich as ye. Look at t' difference
between us : ye're a little; young, slender lass, and I'm a
great strong man : I'm rather more nor twice your age. It
is not my part then, I think, to tak' fro' ye — to be under
obligations (as they say) to y6 ; and that day ye came to our
house, and called me to t' door, and offered me five shillings,
which I doubt ye Could ill spare, — for ye've no fortin', I
knoWj^that day I war fair a rebel — a radical — an insurrec-
tionist ; and ye made me so. I thought it shameful that,
willing and able as I was to work, I suld be i' such a condi-
tion that a young cratur about the age o' my own eldest lass
suld think it needful to come and offer me her bit o' brass.'

' I suppose you were angry with me, William ? '

' I almost was, in a way ; but I forgave ye varry soon :
ye meant well. Ay, I am proud, and so are ye ; but your
pride and mine is t' raight mak' — what we call i' Yorkshire,
clean pride — such as Mr. Malone and Mr. Donne knows
nought about : theirs is mucky pride. Now, I shall teach my
lasses to be as proud as Miss Shirley there, and my lads to
be as proud as mysel'n ; but I dare ony o' 'em to be like t'
curates : I'd lick little Michael, if I seed him show any signs
o' that feeling.'

' What, is the difference, William ? '

' Ye know t' difference weel enow, but ye want me to get
agate o' talking. Mr. Malone and Mr. Donne is almost too
proud to do aught for theirsel'n ; we are almost too proud to
let ianybody do aught for us. T' curates can hardly bide to
speak a civil word to them they think beneath them ; we can
hardly bide to tak' an uncivil word fro' them that thinks
themsel'n aboon us.'

' Now, WiUiam, be humble enough to tell me truly how
you are getting on in the world ? Are you well off ? '

'Miss Shirley— I am varry well off. Since I got into t'
gardening line, wi' Mr. Yorke's help, and since Mr. Hall
(another o' t' raight sort) helped my wife to set up a bit of a
shop, I've nought to complain of, My family has plenty to

334 BHIELEY

eat and plenty to wear : my pride makes me find means to
save an odd pound now and then against rainy days ; for I
think I'd die afore I'd come to t' parish : and me and mine is
content ; but th' neighbours is poor yet : I see a great deal
of distress.'

■ And, consequently, there is still discontent, I suppose ? '
inquired Miss Keeldar.

' Consequently — ye say right— consequently. In course,
starving folk cannot be satisfied or settled folk. Th@
country's not in a safe condition ; I'll say so mich ! '

'But what can be done? What more can I do, for
instance ? '

' Do ? — ye can do naught mich, poor young lass ! Ye've
gi'en your brass : ye've done well. If ye could transport
your tenant, Mr. Moore, to Botany Bay, ye'd happen do
better. Polks hate him.'

' William, for shame ! ' exclaimed Caroline, warmly. ' If
folks do hate him, it is to their disgrace, not his. Mr. Moore
himself hates nobody ; he only wants to do his duty, and
maintain his rights : you are wrong to talk so ! '

' I talk as I think. He has a cold, unfeeling heart, yond'
Moore.'

' But,' interposed Shirley, ' supposing Moore was driven
from the country, and his mill razed to the ground, would
people have more work ? '

' They'd have less. I know that, and they know that ;
and there is many an honest lad driven desperate by the
certainty that whichever way he turns, he cannot better
himself, and there is dishonest men plenty to guide them to
thedevil : scoundrels that reckons to be the " people's friends,"
and that knows naught about the people, and is as insincere)
as Lucifer. I've lived aboon forty year in the world, and I
believe that " the people " will never have any true friends
but theirsel'n, and them two or three good folk i' different
stations, that is friends to all the world. Human natur',
taking it i' th' lump, is naught but selfishness. It is but
excessive few ; it is but just an exception here and there, now

LOW PEESONS INTEODXJCED 33S

and then, sich as ye two young uns and me, that being in a
different sphere, can understand t' one t' other, and be
friends wi'out slavishness o' one hand, or pride o' t' other.
Them that reckons to be friends to a lower class than their
own fro' political motives is never to be trusted : they always
try to make their inferiors tools. For my own part, I will
neither be patronized nor misled for no man's pleasure.
I've had overtures made to me lately that I saw were
treacherous, and I flung 'em back i' the faces o' them that
offered 'em.'

' You won't tell us what overtures ? '

' I will not : it would do no good ; it would mak' no
difference : them they concerned can look after theirsel'n.'

' Ayj we'se look after wersel'n,' said another voice. Joe
Scott had sauntered forth from the church to get a breath of
fresh air, and there he stood.

' I'll warrant ye, Joe,' observed William, smiling.

' And I'll warrant my maister,' was the answer. ' Young
ladies,' continued Joe, assuming a lordly air, • ye'd better go
into th' house.'

'I wonder what for?' inquired Shirley, to whom the
overlooker's somewhat pragmatical manners were familiar,
and who was often at war with him ; for Joe, holding super-
ciHous theories about women in general, resented greatly, in
his secret soul, the fact of his master and his master's mill
being, in a manner, under petticoat government, and had
felt as wormwood and gall, certain business-visits of the
heiress to the Hollow's counting-house.

' Because there is naught agate that fits women to be
consarned in.'

' Indeed ! There is prayer and preaching agate in that
church ; are we not concerned in that ? '

' Ye have been present neither at the prayer nor preaching,
ma'am, if I have observed aright. What I alluded to was
politics : William Farren, here, was touching on that subject,
if I'm not mista'en.'

' Well, what then ? Politics are our habitual study, Joe.

336 SHIRLEY

Do you know I see a newspaper every day, and two of a
Sunday ? '

' I should think you'll read the marriages, probably. Miss,
and the murders, and the accidents, and sich like ?.'

' I read the leading articles, Joe, and the foreign intelli-
gence, and I look over the market prices : in short, I read
just what gentlemen read.'

Joe looked as if he thought this talk was like the chatter-
ing of a pie. He replied to it bya disdainful silence.

' Joe,' continued Miss Keeldar, ' I never yet could ascer-
tain properly, whether you are a Whig or a Tory : pray
which party has the honour of your alliance ? '

' It is rayther difficult to explain where you are sure not
to be understood,' was Joe's haughty response; 'but, as to
being a Tory, I'd as soon be an old woman, or a young one,
which is a more flimsier article still. It is the Tories that
carries on the war and ruins trade; and, if I be of any
party — though political parties is' all nonsense — I'm of that
which is most favourable to peace, and, by consequence, to
the mercantile interests of this here land.'

' So am I, Joe,' replied Shirley, who had rather a pleasure
in teasing the overlooker, by persisting in talking on subjects
with which he opined she^ — as a woman^ — had no right to
meddle : ' partly, at least. I have rather a leaning to the
agricultural interest, too ; as good reason is, seeing that I
don't desire England to be under the feet of Prance, and
that if a share of my income comes from Hollow's mill, a
larger share comes from the landed estate 'around it. It
would not do to take any measures injurious to the farmers,
Joe, I think ? '

' The dews at this houf is unwholesome for females,'
observed Joe.

' If you make that remark out of interest in me, I
have merely to assure you that I am impervious to cold.
I should not mind taking my turn to watch the mill
one of these summer nights, armed with your musket,
Joe.'

LOW PEESONS INTEODUCED 337

Joe Scott'^ chin was always rather prominent : he poked
it out, at this speech, some inches farther than usual.

' But — to go back to my sheep,' she proceeded — ' clothier
and mill-owner as I am, besides farmer, I cannot get out of
my head a certain idea that We manufacturers and persons
of business are sometimes a Uttle — a very little selfish and
shortsighted in our views, and rather too regardless of human
suffering, rather heartless in our pursuit of gain : don't you
agree with me, Joe ? '

' I cannot argue, where I cannot be comprehended,' was
again the answer.

' Man of mystery ! Your , master will argue with me
sometimes, Joe . he is not so stiff, as you are.'

' Maybe not : we've all our own ways.'

' Joe, do you seriously thinkjall the wisdom in the world
is lodged in male skulls ? '

' I think that women are a .kittle and a fro ward genera-
tion; and I've a great respect for the doctrines delivered in
the second chapter of St. Paul's first Epistle to Timothy.'

' What doctrines, Joe ? '

' " Let the woman learn in silence, with all subjection.
I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over
the man ; but to be in silence. . :For Adam was first formed,
then Eve." ' ,

' What has that to do with the business ? ' interjected
Shirley : 'that smacks of rights of primogeniture. I'll bring
it up to Mr. Yorke the first time;he inveighs aga,inst those
rights.*

' And,' continued Joe Seotty ' Adam was not deceived ;
but the woman, being deceiyed, was in the transgression.'

' More shame to Adam to sin with his eyes open ! ' cried
Miss Keeldar. ' To confess the honest truth, Joe, I never
was easy in my mind concerning that chapter : it puzzles me.'

' It is very plain. Miss : he that runs may read.'

' He may read it in his own fashion,' remarked Caroline,
now joining in the dialogue for the first time. ' You allow
the right of private judgment, I suppose, Joe? '

338 SHIELEY

' My oerty, that I do I I allow and claim it for every
line of the holy Book.'

' Women may exercise it as well as men ? '

' Nay : women is to take their husbands' opinion, both in
politics and religion : it's wholesomest for them.'

' Oh ! oh ! ' exclaimed both Shirley and Caroline.

' To be sm-e ; no doubt on't,' persisted the stubborn over-
looker.

' Consider yourself groaned down, and cried shame over,
for such a stupid observation,' said Miss Keeldar. ' You
might as well say, men are to take the opinions of their
priests without examination. Of what value would a
religion so adopted be ? It would be mere blind, besotted
superstition.'

'And what is your reading, Miss Helstone, o' these
words o' St. Paul's ? '

' Hem ! I — I account for them in this way : he wrote
that chapter for a particular congregation of Christians,
under peculiar circumstances ; and besides, I dare say, if I
could read the original Greek, I should find that many of
the words have been wrongly translated, perhaps misappre-
hended altogether. It would be possible, I doubt not, with
a little ingenuity, to give the passage quite a contrary turn :
to make it say, " Let the woman speak out whenever she
sees fit to make an objection ; " — " it is permitted to a woman
to teach and to exercise authority as much as may be. Man,
meantime, cannot do better than hold his peace," and
so on.'

' That willn't wash. Miss.'

' I dare say it will. My notions are dyed in faster colours
than yours, Joe. Mr. Scott, you are a thoroughly dogmatical
person, and always were : I like William better than you.'

' Joe is well enough in his own house,' said Shirley : ' I
have seen him as quiet as a lamb at home. There is not a
better nor a kinder husband in Briarfield. He does not
dogmatize to his wife.'

' My wife ig a hard-working, plain woman : time and

LOW PBESONS INTEODUCED 339

trouble has ta'en all the conceit out of her ; but that is not
the case with you, young misses. And then you reckon to
have so much knowledge ; and i' my thoughts it's only
superficial sort o' vanities you're acquainted with. I can
tell — happen a year sin'— one day Miss Caroline coming
into our counting-house when I war packing up summut
behind t' great desk, and she didn't see me, and she brought
a slate wi' a sum on it to t' maister : it were only a bit of a
sum in practice, that our Harry would have settled i' two
minutes. She couldn't do it ; Mr. Moore had to show her
how ; and when he did show her, she couldn't understand
him.'

' Nonsense, Joe ! '

' Nay, it's no nonsense : and Miss Shirley, there, reckons
to hearken to t' maister when he's talking ower trade, so
attentive Uke, as if she followed him word for word, and all
war as clear as a lady's looking-glass to her een ; and all t'
while she's peeping and peeping out o' t' window to see if
t' mare stands quiet ; and then looking at a bit of a splash
on her riding-skirt ; and then glancing glegly round at wer
counting-house cobwebs and dust, and thinking what mucky
folk we are, and what a grand ride she'll have just i' now
ower Nunnely-eommon. She hears no more o' Mr. Moore's
talk nor if he spake Hebrew.'

' Joe, you are a real slanderer. I would give you your
answer, only the people are coming out of church : we must
leave you. Man of prejudice, good-by : William, good-by.
Children, come up to Pieldhead to-morrow, and you shall
choose what you like best out of Mrs. Gill's store-room.'

CHAPTEE XIX

A SUMMEB NIQHT

The hour waa now that of dusk. A clear air favoured the
kindling of the stars.

' There will be just light enough to show me the way
home,' said Miss Keeldar, as she prepared to take leave of
Caroline at the Eectory gardeh-door.

'You must not go alone, Shirley. Fanny shall accom-
pany you.' '

^ That she shall not. Of what need I be afraid in my
own parish? I would walk from Eieldhead to the church
any fine midsummer night, three hours later than this, for
the mere pleasure of seeing the stars, and the chance of
meeting a fairy.'

' But just wait till; the crowd is cleared away.'

' Agreed. There. are the five Misses Armitage streaming
by. Here comes Mrs. Sykes's phaeton, Mr. Wynne's close
carriage, Mrs. Birtwhisitle's car : I don't wish to go through
the ceremony of bidding them all good-by, so we will step
into the garden and take shelter amongst the laburnums for
an instant.'

The rectors, their curates and their churchwardens, now
issued from the church-porch. There was a great confabu-
lation, shaking of hands, congratulation on speeches, recom-
mendation to be careful of the night air, &c. By degrees
the throng dispersed ; the carriages drove off. Miss Keeldar
was just emerging from her flowery refuge, when Mr.
Helstone entered the garden and met her.

' Oh ! I want you ! ' he said : ' I was afraid you were
already gone. Caroline, come here ! '

A SUMMER NIGHT 341

Caroline came, expecting, as Shirley, did, a lecture on
not having been visible at church. Other subjects, how-
ever, occupied the Eector's mind.

' I shall not sleep at home to-night,' he continiied. ' I
have just met with an old friend, and promised to accom-
pany him. I shall return probably about noon to-morrow.;
Thomas, the clerk, is engaged, and I cannot get him to
sleep in the house, as I usually do when I am absent for a
night; now '

' Now,' interrupted Shirley, ' you want me as a gentle-
man— the first gentleman in Briarfield, in short, to supply
your place, be master of the Eectory, and guardian of your
niece and maids while you are away ? '

' Exactly, captain : I thought the post would suit you.
Will you favour CaroUne so far as to be her guest for one
night ? Will you stay here instead of going back to Field-
head?'

' And what will Mrs. Pryor do ? She expects me home.'

' I will send her word. Come, make up your mind to
stay. It grows late ; the dew falls heavily : you and Caroline
will enjoy each other's society, I doubt not.'

' I promise you then to stay with Caroline,' replied
Shirley. ' As you say, we shall enjoy each other's society :
we will not be separated to-night. Now, rejoin your old
friend, and fear nothing for us.'

'If there should chance to be any disturbance in the
night, captain— if you should hear the picking of a lock, the
cutting out of a pane of glass, a stealthy' tread of steps
about the house (and I need not fear to tell you, who bear a
well-tempered, mettlesome heart under your girl's ribbon-
sash, that such little incidents are very possible in the
present time), what would you do ? '

' Don't know — faint, perhaps — fall down, and have to be
picked up again. But, Doctor, if you assign me the post of
honour, you must give me arms. What weapons are there
your stronghold ? '

' You could not wield a sword ? '

342 SHIELEY

' No ; I oould"manage the carving-knife better.*

' You will find a good one in the dining-room sideboard :
a lady's knife, light to handle, and as sharp-pointed as a
poniard.'

' It will suit Caroline ; but you must give me a brace of
pistols ; I know you have pistols.'

' I have two pairs ; one pair I can place at your disposal.
You will find them suspended over the mantelpiece of my
study in cloth cases.'

' Loaded ?

' Yes, but not on the cock. Cock them before you go to
bed. It is paying you a great compliment, captain, to lend
you these : were you one of the awkward squad you should
not have them.'

' I will take care. You need delay no longer, Mr.
Helstone : you may go now. — He is gracious to me to lend
me his pistols,' she remarked, as the Eector passed out at
the garden-gate. ' But come, Lina,' she continued ; ' let us
go in and have some supper : I was too much vexed at tea
with the vicinage of Mr. Sam Wynne to be able to eat, and
now I am really hungry.'

Entering the house, they repaired to the darkened dining-
room, through the open windows of which apartment stole
the evening air, bearing the perfume of flowers from the
garden, the very distant sound of far-retreating steps from
the road, and a soft vague murmur, whose origin Caroline
explained by the remark, uttered as she stood listening at
the casement : ' Shirley, I hear the beck in the Hollow.'

Then she rang the bell, asked for a candle and some
bread and milk — Miss Keeldar's usual supper and her own.
Fanny, when she brought in the tray, would have closed
the windows and the shutters, but was requested to desist
for the present : the twilight was too calm, its breath too
balmy to be yet excluded. They took their meal in silence :
Caroline rose once, to remove to the mndow-sill a glass of
flowers which stood on the sideboard ; the exhalation from
the blossoms being somewhat too powerful for the sultry

A SUMMEE NIGHT 343

room ; in returning, she half opened a drawer, and took from
it something that glittered clear and keen in her hand.

' You assigned this to me, then, Shirley — did you ? It is
bright, keen-edged, finely-tapered : it is dangerous -looking,
I never yet felt the impulse which could move me to direct
this against a fellow-creature. It is difficult to fancy what
circumstances could nerve my arm to strike home with this
long knife.'

' I should hate to do it,' replied Shirley ; ' but I think I
could do it, if goaded by certain exigencies which I can
imagine.' And Miss Keeldar quietly sipped her glass of new
milk, looking somewhat thoughtful, and a little pale : though,
indeed, when did she not look pale ? She was never florid.

The milk sipped and the bread eaten, Fanny was again
summoned : she and Eliza were recommended to go to bed,
which they were quite willing to do, being weary of the
day's exertions, of much cutting of currant-buns, and filling
of urns and teapots, and running backwards and forwards
with trays. Ere long the maids' chamber-door was heard to
close ; Caroline took a candle, and went quietly all over the
house, seeing that every vrindow was fast, and every door
barred. She did not even evade the haunted back-kitchen,
nor the vault-like cellars. These visited, she returned.

' There is neither spirit nor flesh in the house at present, '
she said, which should not be there. It is now near eleven
o'clock, fully bed-time, yet I would rather sit up a httle
longer, if you do not object, Shirley. Here,' she continued,
' I have brought the brace of pistols from my uncle's study :
you may examine them at your leisure.'

She placed them on the table before her friend.

' Why would you rather sit up longer ? ' asked Miss
Eeeldar, taking up the firearms, examining them, and again
laying them down.

' Because I have a strange, excited feeling in my heart.'

' So have I.'

' Is this state of sleeplessness and restlessness caused by
something electrical in the air, I wonder ? '

344 ' SSIELEY

' No : the sky is clear, the stars numberless : it is a fine
night.'

' But very still. I hear the water fret over its stony bed
in Hollow's Copse as distinctly as if it ran below the church-
yard wall.'

' I am glad it is so still a night : a moaning wind or
rushing rain would vex me to fever just now,'

'Why, Shirley?'

' Beceluse it would baffle my efforts to listen.'

' Do you listen towards the Hollow ? '

' Yes ; it is the only quarter whence we can hear a sound
just now.'

' The only one, Shirley.'

They both sat near the window, and both leaned their
arms on the sill, and both inclined their heads towards the
open lattice. They saw each other's young faces by the
starlight, and thkt dim June twilight which does not wholly
fade from 'the west till dawn begins to break in the east.

' Mr. Helstone thinks we have no idea which way he is
gone,' murmured Miss Keeldar, 'nor on what errand, nor
with what expectations, nor how prepared ; but I guess much
— do not you ? '

' I guess something.'

'AH those gentlemen — your cousin Moore included—
think that you and I are now asleep in our beds, uncon<
soious.'

' Caring nothing about them — hoping and fearing nothing
for them,' added Caroline.

Both kept silence for full half an hour. The night was
silent, too; only the church-clock measured its course by
quarters. Some words were interchanged about the chill
of the air ; they wrapped their scarves closer round them,
resumed their bonnets which they had removed, and again
watched.

Towards midnight the teasing monotonous bark of the
house-dog disturbed the quietude of their vigil. Caroline
rose, and made her way noiselessly through the dark pas-

A SUMMEE NIGHT 345

sages to the kitchen, intending to appease him with a piece
of bread ; she succeeded. On returning to the dining-room,
she found it all dark, Miss Keeldar having extinguished the
candle : the outUne of her shape was visible near the Still
open window, leaning out. Miss Helstone asked no -qties-
tions : she stole to her side. The dog recommenced barking
furiously ; suddenly he stopped, and seemed to Ustenj The
occupants of the dining-room listened to6, and not merely
now to the flow of the mill-stream : there was a nearer,
though a muffled sound on the road below the churchyard ;
a measured, beating, approaching sound ; a dull tramp of
marching feet.

It drew near. Those who listened, by degrees compre-
hended its extent. It was not the tread of two, nor of a
dozen, nor of a score of men : it was the tread of hundreds.
They could see nothing : the high shi'ubs of the gai'den
formed a leafy screen between them and the road. To hear,
however, was not enough ; and this they felt as the troop
trod forwards, and seemed actually passing the Eeotory.
They felt it more when a human voice — ^though that voice
spoke but one word — broke the hush of the night.

'Haiti'

A halt followed : the march was arrested. Then' came
a low conference, of which no word was distinguishable from
the dining-room.

' We must hear this,' said Shirley.

She turned, took her pistols from the table, silently passed
out through the middle window of the dining-room, which
was, in fact, a glass-door, stole down the walk to the garden-
wall, and stood Ustening under the lilacs. Caroline would
not have quitted the house had she been alone, but where
Shirley went she would go. She glanced at the weapon on
the sideboard, but left it behind her, and presently stood at
her friend's side. They dared not look over the wall, for
fear of being seen : they were obliged to crouch behind it :
they heard these words :^— ' It looks a rambling old building.
Who lives in it besides the damned parson ? '

3i6 SHIELEY

' Only three women : his niece and two servants.'

' Do you know where they sleep ? '

' The lasses behind : the niece in a front room.'

' And Helstone ? '

' Yonder is his chamber. He uses burning a light ; but
I see none now.'

' Where would you get in ? '

' If I were ordered to do his job — and he desarves it — I'd
try yond' long window : it opens to the dining-room : I
could grope my way up-stairs, and I know his chamber.'

' How would you manage about the women folk ? '

' Let 'em alone, except they shrieked, and then I'd soon
quieten 'em. I could wish to find the old chap asleep : if he
waked, he'd be dangerous.'

' Has he arms ? '

' Fire-arms, alius, — and alius loadened.'

' Then you're a fool to stop us here ; a shot would give
the alarm : Moore would be on us before we could turn
round. We should miss our main object.'

'You might go on, I tell you. I'd engage Helstone
alone.'

A pause. One of the party dropped some weapon which
rang on the stone causeway : at this sound the Eectory dog
barked again furiously — fiercely.

' That spoils all ! ' said the voice ; ' he'll awake : a noise
like that might rouse the dead. You did not say that there
was a dog. Damn you ! Forward ! '

Forward they went, — tramp, tramp, — with mustering,
manifold, slow-filing tread. They were gone.

Shirley stood erect ; looked over the wall, along the
road.

' Not a soul remains,' she said.

She stood and mused. ' Thank God ! ' was the next
observation.

CaroUne repeated the ejaculation, not in so steady a tone :
she was trembling much ; her heart was beating fast and
thick : her face was cold ; her forehead damp.

A SUMMEE NIGHT 347

' Thank God for us ! ' she reiterated ; ' but what will
happen elsewhere ? They have passed us by that they may
make sure of others.'

' They have done well,' returned Shirley with composure :
' the others will defend themselves, — they can do it, — they
are prepared for them ; with us it is otherwise. My finger
was on the trigger of this pistol. I was quite ready to give
that man, if he had entered, such a greeting as he little
calculated on ; but behind him followed three hundred : I
had neither three hundred hands nor three hundred weapons.
I could not have effectually protected either you, myself, or
the two poor women asleep under that roof; therefore I
again earnestly thank God for insult and peril escaped.'

After a second pause, she continued : ' What is it my
duty and wisdom to do next ? Not to stay here inactive, I
am glad to say, but of course to walk over to the Hollow.'

• To the Hollow, Shirley ? '

' To the Hollow. Will you go with me ? '

' Where those men are gone ? '

' They have taken the highway : we should not encounter
them ; the road over the fields is as safe, silent, and solitary
as a path through the air would be. Will you go ? '

' Yes,' was the answer, given mechanically, not because
the speaker wished, or was prepared to go ; or, indeed, was
otherwise than scared at the prospect of going, but because
she felt she could not abandon Shirley.

' Then we must fasten up these windows, and leave all
as secure as we can behind us. Do you know what we are
going for, Gary ? '

' Yes — no — because you wish it.'

' Is that all ? And are you so obedient to a mere caprice
of mine ? What a docile wife you would make to a stern
husband ? The moon's face is not whiter than yours at this
moment ; and the aspen at the gate does not tremble more
than your busy fingers ; and so tractable and terror-struck,
and dismayed and devoted, you would follow me into the
thick of real danger ! Gary, let me give your fidelity a

348 SHIELEY

motive : we are going for Moore's sake ; to see if we can be
of use to him : to make an e£fort to warn him of what is
coming.'

' To be sure ! I am a blind, weak fool, and you are acute
and sensible, Shirley 1 I will go with you ! I will gladly go
with you ! '

' I do not doubt it. You would die blindly and meekly
for me, but you would intelligently and gladly die for Moore :
but in truth there is no question of death to-nighty^we run
no risk at all.'

Caroline rapidly closed shutter and lattice. ' Do not fear
that I shall not have breath to run as fast as you can pos-
sibly run, Shirley. Take my hand : let us go straight across
the fields.'

' But you cannot climb walls ? '

' Tp-night I can.'

' You are afraid of hedges, and the beck which we shall
be forced to cross ? '

' I can cross it.'

They started : they ran. Many a wall checked but did
not baffle them. Shirley was surefooted and agile: she
could spring like a deer when she chose. Caroline, more
timid, and less dexterous, fell once or twice, and bruised
herself; but she rose again directly, saying she was not
hurt. A quickset hedge bounded the last field : they lost
time in seeking a gap in it : the aperture, when found, was
narrow, but they worked their way through : the long hair,
the tender skin, the silks and the muslins suffered ; but what
was chiefly regretted was the impediment this difficulty had
caused to speed. On the other side they met the beck, flow-
ing deep in a rough bed : at this point a narrow plank formed
the only bridge across it. Shirley had trodden the plank
successfully and fearlessly many a time before : Caroline
had never yet dared to risk the transit.

' I vyill carry you across,' said Miss Keeldar : ' you are
light, and I am not weak : let me try.'

' If I fall in, you may fish me out,' was the answer, as a

A SUMMER NIGHT 349

grateful squeeze compressed her hand. Caroline, without
pausing, trod forward on the trembling plank as if it were
a continuation of the firm turf : Shirley, who followed, did
not cross it more resolutely or safely. In their present
humour, on their present errand, a strong and foaming
channel would have been a barrier to neither. At the
moment they were above the control either of fire or water :
all Stilbro' Moor, ahght and aglow with bonfires, would not
have stopped them, nor would Galder or Aire thundering in
flood. Yet one sound made them pause. Scarce had they
set foot on the solid: opposite bank, when a shot split the air
from the north. One second elapsed. Further off, burst a
like note in the south. Within the space of three minutes,
similar signals boomed in the east and west.

' I thought we were destd at the first explosion,' observed
Shirley, drawing a long breath. ' I felt myself hit in the
temples, and I concluded your heart was pierced ; but the
reiterated voice was an explanation : those are signals — it is
their way — the attack must be near. We should have had
wings : our feet have not borne us swiftly enough.'

A portion of the copse was now to clear : when they
emerged from it, the mill lay just below them : they could
look down upon the buildings, the yard ; they could see the
road beyond. And the first glance in that direction told
Shirley she was right in her conjecture : they were already
too late to give warning : it had taken more time than they
calculated on to overcome the various obstacles which
embarrassed the short cut across the fields.

The road, which should have been white, was dark with
a moving mass : the rioters were assembled in front of the
closed yard gates, and a single figure stood within, appa-
rently addressing them : the mill itself was perfectly black
and still ; there was neither life, light, nor motion around it.

' Surely he is prepared : surely that is not Moore meeting
them alone ? ' whispered Shirley.

' It is — we must go to him ! I will go to him.'

' That you will not.'

350 SHIRLEY

' Why did I come, then ? I came only for him. I shall
join him.'

' Fortunately, it is out of your power : there is no entrance
to the yard.'

' There is a small entrance at the back, besides the gates
in front : it opens by a secret method which I know — I will
try it.'

' Not with my leave.'

Miss Keeldar clasped her round the waist with both arms
and held her back.

' Not one step shall you stir,' she went on authoritatively.
' At this moment, Moore would be both shocked and embar-
rassed, if he saw either you or me. Men never want women
near them in time of real danger.'

' I would not trouble — I would help him,' was the reply.

' How ? By inspiring him with heroism ? Pooh ! These
are not the days of chivaby : it is not a tilt at a tournament
we are going to behold, but a struggle about money, and
food, and life.'

' It is natural that I should be at his side.'

' As queen of his heart ? His mill is his lady-love, Gary !
Backed by his factory and his frames, he has all the
encouragement he wants or can know. It is not for love or
beauty, but for ledger and broadcloth, he is going to break a
spear. Don't be sentimental ; Robert is not so.'

' I could help him — I will seek him.'

' Off then — I let you go — seek Moore : you'll not find
him.'

She loosened her hold. Caroline sped like levelled shaft
from bent bow ; after her rang a jesting, gibing laugh.

' Look well there is no mistake ! ' was the warning
given.

But there was a mistake. Miss Helstone paused, hesi-
tated, gazed. The figure had suddenly retreated from the
gate, and was running back hastily to the miU.

' Make haste, Lina 1 ' cried Shirley : ' meet him before he
enters.'

A SUMMEE NIGHT 351

Caroline slowly returned.

' It is not Eobert,' she said : ' it has neither his height,
form, nor bearing.'

' I saw it was not Eobert when I let you go. How could
you imagine it ? It is a shabby little figure of a private
soldier : they had posted him as sentinel. He is safe in the
mill now : I saw the door open and admit him. My mind
grows easier : Eobert is prepared ; our warning would have
been superfluous, and now I am thankful we came too late
to give it : it has saved us the trouble of a scene. How fine
to have entered the counting-house " toute 6perdue," and to
have found oneself in presence of Messrs. Armitage and
Eamsden smoking, Malone swaggering, your uncle sneering,
Mr. Sykes sipping a cordial, and Moore himself in his cold
man-of-business vein : I am glad we missed it all.'

' I wonder if there are many in the mill, Shirley ! '

' Plenty to defend it. The soldiers we have twice seen
to-day were going there, no doubt, and the group we noticed
surrounding your cousin in the fields will be with him.'

' What are they doing now, Shirley ? What is that
noise ? '

' Hatchets and crow-bars against the yard-gates : they
are forcing them. Are you afraid ? '

' No ; but my heart throbs fast ; I have a difficulty in
standing : I will sit down. Do you feel unmoved ? '

' Hardly that — but I am glad I came : we shall see what
transpires with our own eyes : we are here on the spot, and
none know it. Instead of amazing the curate, the clothier,
and the corndealer with a romantic rush on the stage, we
stand alone with the friendly night, its mute stars, and these
whispering trees, whose report our friends will not come to
gather.'

' Shirley — Shirley, the gates are down I That crash was
like the felling of great trees. Now they are pouring
through. They will break down the mill-doors as they have
broken the gate : what can Eobert do against so many ?
Would to God I were a little nearer him — could hear him

352 SHIELBY

speak — could speak to him 1 With my will — my longing to
serve him — I could not be a useless burden in his way : I
could be turned to some account.'

' They come on ! ' cried Shirley. ' How steadily they
march jn ! There is discipline in their ranks — I will not say
there is courage : hundreds against tens are no proof of that
quality ; but ' (she dropped her voice) ' there is suffering and
desperation enough amongst them— these goads will urge
them forwards.'

' Forwards against Eobert — and they hate him. -Shirley,
is there much danger they will win the day ? '

' We shall see. Moore and Helstone are of " earth's first
blood " — no bunglers — no cravens '

A crash-r-smash — shiver — stopped their whispers. A
simultaneously-hurled volley of stones had saluted the broad
front of the mill, with all its windows ; and now every pane
of every lattice lay in shattered and pounded fragments. A
yell followed this demonstration — a rioters' yell — a North-
of-England— a Yorkshire — a West Eiding — a West-Eiding-
clothing-district-of- Yorkshire rioters' yell. You never heard
that sound, perhaps, reader ? So much the better for your
ears — perhaps for your heart ; since, if it rends the air in
hate to yourself, or to the men or principles you approve,
the interests to which you wish well, Wrath wakens to the
cry of Hate : the Lion shakes his mane, -and rises to the
howl of the Hyena.: Caste stands up, ireful, against Caste ;
and the indignant, wronged spirit of the Middle Eank bears
down in zeal and scorn on the famished and furious mass of
the Operative Class. It is difficult to be tolerant — difficult
to be just — in such moments.

Caroline rose ; Shirley put her arm roimd her : they
stood together as still as the straight stems of two trees.
That yell was a long one, and when it ceased, the night was
yet full of the swaying and murmuring of a crowd.

' What next ? ' was the question of the hsteners. Nothing
came yet. The mill remained mute as a mausoleum.

• He canVfOt be alone ! ' whispered Caroline.

A SUMMEB NIGHT 353

' I would stake all I have, that he is as little alone as he
is alarmed,' responded Shirley.

Shots were discharged by the rioters. Had the defenders
waited for this signal ? It seemed so. The hitherto inert
and passive mill woke : fire flashed from its empty window-
frames ; a volley of musketry pealed Sharp through the
Hollow.

' Moore speaks at last ! ' said Shirley, ' and he seems to
have the gift of tongues ; that was not a single voide.'

' He has been forbearing ; no one can accuse him of rash-
ness,' alleged Caroline : ' their discharge preceded his ; they
broke his gates and his windows ; they fired at his garrison
before he repelled them.'

What was going on now ? It seemed difiScult, in the
darkness, to distinguish, but something terrible, a still-renew-
ing tumult, was obvious ; fierce aittaoks, desperate repulses ;
the mill-yard, the mill itself, was full of battle-movement:
there was scarcely any cessation now of the discharge of
firearms ; and there was struggUng, rushing, trampling, and
shouting between. The aim of the assailants seemed to be
to enter the mill, that of the defendants to beat them off.
They heard the rebel leader cry, ' To the back, lads ! ' They
heard a voice retort, ' Come round, we will meet you ! '

' To the counting-house ! ' was the order again.

'Welcome! — We shall have you there ! ' was the
response. And accordingly, the fiercest blaze that had yet
glowed, the loudest rattle that had yet been heard, burst
from the counting-house front, when the mass of rioters
rushed up to it.

The voice that had spoken was Moore's own voice. They
could tell by its tones that his soul was now warm with the
conflict : they could guess that the fighting animal was
roused in every one of those men there struggling together,
and was for the time quite paramount above the rational
human being.

Both the girls felt their faces glow and their pulses throb :
both knew they would do no good by rushing- down into the

354 SHIBLEY

miUe : they desired neither to deal nor to receive blows ; but
they could not have run away — Caroline no more than
Shirley ; they could not have fainted ; they could not have
taken their eyes from the dim, terrible scene — from the mass
of cloud, of smoke — the musket-lightning — for the world.

' How and when would it end ? ' was the demand throb-
bing in their throbbing pulses. ' Would a juncture arise in
which they could be useful ? ' was what they waited to see ;
for, though Shirley put off their too-late arrival with a jest,
and was ever ready to satirize her own or any other person's
enthusiasm, she would have given a farm of her best land
for a chance of rendering good service.

The chance was not vouchsafed her ; the looked-for
juncture never came : it was not likely. Moore had expected
this attack for days, perhaps weeks : he was prepared for it
at every point. He had fortified and garrisoned his mill,
which in itself was a strong building : he was a cool, brave
man : he stood to the defence with unflinching firmness ;
those who were with him caught his spirit, and copied his
demeanour. The rioters had never been so met before. At
other mills they had attacked, they had found no resistance ;
an organised, resolute defence was what they never dreamed
of encountering. When their leaders saw the steady fire
kept up from the mill, witnessed the composure and deter-
mination of its owner, heard themselves coolly defied and"
invited on to death, and beheld their men falling wounded
round them, they felt that nothing was to be done here. In
haste, they mustered their forces, drew them away from the
building : a roll was called over, in which the men answered
to figures instead of names : they dispersed wide over the
fields, leaving silence and ruin behind them. The attack,
from its commencement to its termination, had not occupied
an hour.

Day was by this time approaching : the west was dim,
the east beginning to gleam. It would have seemed that the
girls who had watched this conflict would now wish to hasten
to the victors, on whose side all their interest had been

A SUMMEfi NIGHT 355

enlisted ; but they only very cautiously approached the now
battered mill, and, when suddenly a number of soldiers and
gentlemen appeared at the great door opening into the yard,
they quickly stepped aside into a shed, the deposit of old
iron and timber, whence they could see without being seen.

It was no cheering spectacle : these premises were now
a mere blot of desolation on the fresh front of the summer -
dawn. All the copse up the Hollow was shady and dewy
the hill at its head was green ; but just here in the centre of
the sweet glen. Discord, broken loose in the night from
control, had beaten the ground with his stamping hoofs, and
left it waste and pulverised. The mill yawned all ruinous
with unglazed frames ; the yard was thickly bestrewn with
stones and brickbats, and, close under the mill, with the
glittering fragments of the shattered windows ; muskets and
other weapons lay here and there ; more than one deep
crimson stain was visible on the gravel ; a human body lay
quiet on its face near the gates ; and five or six wounded
men writhed and moaned in the bloody dust.

Miss Keeldar's countenance changed at this view : it was
the aftertaste of the battle, death and pain replacing excite-
ment and exertion : it was the blackness the bright fire
leaves when its blaze is sunk, its warmth failed, and its
glow faded.

' This is what I wished to prevent,' she said, in a voice
whose cadence betrayed the altered impulse of her heart.

' But you could not prevent it ; you did your best ; it was
in vain,' said Caroline, comfortingly. ' Don't grieve, Shirley.'

' I am sorry for those poor fellows,' was the answer,
while the spark in her glance dissolved to dew. ' Are any
within the mill hurt, I wonder ? Is that your uncle ? '

' It is, and there is Mr. Malone, and oh, Shirley I there
is Eobert ! '

' Well ' (resuming her former tone), ' don't squeeze your
fingers quite into my hand : I see, there is nothing wonderful
in that. We knew he, at least, was here, whoever might be
absent.'

356 SHIELEY

' He is coming here towards us, Shirley ! '

' Towards the pump, that is to say, for the purpose of
washing his hands and his forehead, which has got a scratch,
I perceive.'

' He bleeds, Shirley : don't hold me ; I must go.'

' Not a step.'

' He is hurt, Shirley ! '

' Kddlestick ! '

' But I must go to him : I wish to go so much : I cannot
bear to be restrained.'

' What for ? '

' To speak to him, to ask how he is, ahd what I can do
for him ? '

' To tease and annoy him ; to make a spectacle of your-
self and him before those soldiers, Mr. Malone, your uncle,
at cetera. Would he like it, think you ? Would you like
to remember it a week hence ? '

• Am I always to be curbed and kept down ? ' demanded
Caroline, a httle passionately.

' For his sake, yes. And still more for your own. I tell
you, if you showed yourself now, you would repent it an
hour hence, and so would Eobert.'

' You think he would not like it, Shirley? '

' Far less than he would like our stopping him to say
good-night, which you were so sore about.'

' But that was all play ; there was no danger.'

' And this is serious work : he mUst be unmolested.'

' I only wish to go to him because he is my cousin — you
understand ? '

' I quite understand. But now, watch him. He has
bathed his forehead, and the blood has ceased trickling : his
hurt is really a mere graze : I can see it from hence : he is
going to look after the wounded men.'

Accordingly Mr. Moore and Mr. Helstone wenta:ound the
yard, examining each prostrate form. They then gave
directions to have the wounded taken up and carried into
the mill. This duty being performed, Joe Scott was ordered

A SUMMBE NIGHT 357

to saddle his master's horse, and Mr. Helstone's pony, and
the two gentlemen rode away full gallop, to seek surgical
aid in different directions.

Caroline was not yet pacified.

' Shirley, Shirley, I should have liked to speak one word
to him before he went,' she murmured, while the tears
gathered glittering in her eyes.

'Why do you cry, Lina ? ' askted Miss Keeldar a little
sternly. ' You ought to be glad instead of sorry. Eobert
has escaped any serious harm ; he is victorious ; he has been
cool and brave in combat ; he is now considerate in triumph :
is this a time— are these causes for weeping ? '

' You do not know what I have in my heart,' pleaded the
other : ' what pain, what distraction ; nor whence it arises.
1 can understand that you should exult in Eobert's greatness
and goodness ; so do I, in one sense, but, in another, I feel
so miserable. I am too far removed from him : I used to be
nearer. Let me alone, Shirley : do let me cry a few minutes ;
it relieves me.'

Miss Keeldar, feeling her tremble in every limb, ceased
to expostulate with- her : she went out of the shed, and left
her to weep in peace. It was the best plan: in a few
minutes Caroline rejoined her, much calmer : she said with
her natural, docile, gentle manner — ' Come, Shirley, we will
go home now. I promise not to try to see Eobert again till
he asks for me. I never will try to push myself on him. I
thank you for restraining me just now.'

'Ididit vrith a good intention,' returned Miss Keeldar,
' Now, dear Lina,* she continued ; ' let us turn our faces to
the cool morning breeze, and walk very quietly back to the
Eectory. We will steal in as we stole out : none shall know
where we have been, or what we have seen to^nighti : neither
taunt nor, misconstruction can consequently molest us. To-
morrow we will see Eobert, and be of good cheer ; but I will
say no tnore, lest I should begin to cry too. I seem hard
towards you, but I am not so.'

CHAPTEE XX

TO-MOEKOW

The two girls met no living soul on their way back to the
Eectory ; they let themselves in noiselessly ; they stole up-
stairs unheard : the breaking morning gave them what light
they needed. Shirley sought her couch immediately ; and,
though the room was strange— for she had never slept at the
Eectory before — and though the recent scene was one un-
paralleled for excitement and terror by any it had hitherto
been her lot to witness, yet, scarce was her head laid on the
pillow, ere a deep, refreshing sleep closed her eyes, and
calmed her senses.

Perfect health was Shirley's enviable portion; though
warm-hearted and sympathetic, she was not nervous ; power-
ful emotions could rouse and sway, without exhausting, her
spirit : the tempest troubled and shook her while it lasted ;
but it left her elasticity unbent, and her freshness quite
unblighted. As every day brought her stimulating emotion,
so every night yielded her recreating rest. Caroline now
watched her sleeping, and read the serenity of her mind in
the beauty of her happy countenance.

For herself, being of a different temperament, she could
not sleep. The common-place excitement of the tea-drinking
and school-gathering, would alone have sufi&ced to make her
restless all night : the effect of the terrible drama which had
ust been enacted before her eyes was not likely to quit her
for days. It was vain even to try to retain a recumbent
posture : she sat up by Shirley's side, counting the slow
minutes, and watching the June sun mount the heavens.

TO-MOUEOW S59

Life wastes fast in such vigils as Caroline had of late but
too often kept ; vigils during which the mind — having no
pleasant food to nourish it — no manna of hope — no hived-
honey of joyous memories — tries to live on the meagre diet
of wishes, and failing to derive thence either delight or sup-
port, and feeling itself ready to perish with craving want,
turns to philosophy, to resolution, to resignation ; calls on
all these gods for aid, calls vainly — is unheard, unhelped,
and languishes.

CaroUne was a Christian ; therefore in trouble she framed
many a prayer after the Christian creed ; preferred it with
deep earnestness ; begged for patience, strength, relief. This
world, however, we all know, is the scene of trial and pro-
bation ; and, for any favourable result her petitions had yet
VTTOught, it seemed to her that they were unheard and
unaccepted. She believed, sometimes, that God had turned
His face from her. At moments she was a Calvinist, and,
sinking into the gulf of religious despair, she saw darkening
over her the doom of reprobation.

Most people have had a period or periods in their lives
when they have felt thus forsaken ; when, having long hoped
against hope, and still seen the day of fruition deferred, their
hearts have truly sickened within them. This is a terriljle
hour, but it is often that darkest point which precedes the
rise of day; that turn of "the year when the icy January
wind carries over the waste at once the dirge of departing
vnnter, and the prophecy of coming spring. The perishing
birds, however, cannot thus understand the blast before
which they shiver ; and as little can the suffering soul
recognise, in the climax of its affliction, the dawn of its
deliverance. Yet let whoever grieves still cling fast to love
and faith in God : God will never deceive, never finally
desert him. ' Whom He loveth, He chasteneth.' These
words are true, and should not be forgotten.

The household was astir at last : the servants were up ;
the shutters were opened below. Carohne, as she quitted
the couch, which had been but a thorny one to her, felt that

360 SHIELEY

revival of spirits which the return of day, of action, gives to
all but the wholly despairing or actually dying : she dressed
herself, as usual, carefully, trying so to arrange her hair and
attire that nothing of the forlornness she felt at heart should
be visible externally : she looked as fresh as Shirley when
both were dressed, only that Miss Keeldar's eyes were lively,
and Miss Helstone's languid.

'To-day, I shall have much to say to Moore,' were
Shirley's first words : and you could see in her face that life
was full of interest, expectation, and occupation for her.
' He will have to undergo cross-examination,' she added : ' I
daresay he thinks he has outwitted me cleverly. And this is
the way men deal with women : still concealing danger from
them : thinking, I suppose, to spare them pain. They
imagined we little knew where they were to-night ; we know
they little conjectured where we were. Men, I believe, fancy
women's minds something like those of children. Now, that
is a mistake.'

This was said as she stood at the glass, training her
naturally waved hair into curls, by twining it round her
fingers. She took up the theme again five minutes after, as
Caroline fastened her dress and clasped her girdle.

' If men could see us as we really are, they would be a
little amazed ; but the cleverest, the acutest men are often
under an illusion about women : they do not read them in a
true light : they misapprehend them, both for good and evil :
their good woman is a queer thing, half doll, half angel ; their
bad woman almost always a fiend. Then to hear them fall
into ecstasies with each other's creations, worshipping the
heroine of such a poem — novel — drama, thinking it fine —
divine I Fine and divine it may be, but often quite artificial
• — false as the rose in my best bonnet there. If I spoke
all I think on this point ; if I gave my real opinion of some
first-rate female characters in first-rate works, where should
I be? Dead under a cairn of avenging stones in half-an-
hour.'

' Shirley, you chatter so, I can't fasten you : be still.

TO-MOREOW 361

And after all, author's heroines are almost as good as
authoress's heroes.'

* $^ofr at all : women read men more truly than men read
women. I'll prove that in a magazine paper some day when
I've time ; only it will never be inserted : it will be " de-
clined with thanks," and left for me at the publisher's.'

' To be sure : you could not write cleverly enough ; you
don't know enough ; you are not learned, Shirley.'

' God knows, I can't contradict you, Gary : I'm as
ignorant as a stone. There's one comfort, however, you are
not much better.'

They descended to breakfast.

' I wonder how Mrs. Pryor and Hortense Moore have
passed the night,' said Caroline, as she made the coffee.
' Selfish being that I am I I never thought of either of them
till just now : they will have heard all the tumult, Pieldhead
and the cottage are so near ; and Hortense is timid in such
matters : so no doubt is Mrs. Pryor.'

' Take my word for it, Lina, Moore will have contrived to
get his sister out of the way: she went home with Miss
Mann ; he vdll have quartered her there for the night. As
to Mrs. Pryor, I own I am uneasy about her ; but in another
half-hour we will be with her.'

By this time the news of what had happened at the
Hollow was spread all over the neighbourhood. Fanny,
who had been to Meldhead to fetch the milk, returned in
panting haste, with tidings that there had been a battle in
the night at Mr. Moore's' mill, and that some said twenty
men were killed. Eliza, during Faniiy's absence, had been
apprised by the butcher's boy that the Mill was burnt to the
ground.' Both women rushed into the parlour to announce
these terrible facts to the ladies, terminating their clear and
accurate narrative by the assertion that ' they were sure
master must have been in it all : he and Thomas, the clerk,
they were confident, must have gone last night to join Mr
Moore and the soldiers : Mr. Malone, too, had not been
beard of at bis lodgings since yesterday afternoon ; and Joe

362 SHIELEY

Scott's wife and family were in the greatest distress,
wondering what had become of their head.

Scarcely was this information imparted when a knock at
the kitchen-door announced the Pieldhead errand-boy,
arrived in hot haste, bearing a billet from Mrs. Pryor. It
v.'as hurriedly written, and urged Miss Keeldar to return
directly, as the neighbourhood and the house seemed likely
to be all in confusion, and orders would have to be given
which the mistress of the haU alone could regulate. In a
postscript it was entreated that Miss Helstone might not be
left alone at the Eectory : she had better, it was suggested,
accompany Miss Keeldar.

' There are not two opinions on that head,' said Shirley,
as she tied on her own bonnet, and then ran to fetch
Caroline's.

' But what will Fanny and Eliza do ? And if my uncle
returns ? '

' Your uncle will not return yet ; he has other fish to fry ;
he will be galloping backwards and forwards from Briar-
field to Stilbro' all day, rousing the magistrates in the court-
house, and the ofiBcers at the barracks ; and Fanny and
EUza can have in Joe Scott's and the clerk's wives to bear
them company. Besides, of course, there is no real danger
to be apprehended now : weeks will elapse before the rioters
can again rally, or plan any other attempt ; and I am much
mistaken if Moore and Mr. Helstone will not take advantage
of last night's outbreak to quell them altogether : they will
frighten the authorities of Stilbro' into energetic measures.
I only hope they will not be too severe — not pursue the
discomfited too relentlessly.'

' Eobert will not be cruel ; we saw that last night,' said
Caroline.

' But he will be hard,' retorted Shirley ; ' and so will your
uncle.'

As they hurried along the meadow and plantation-path
to Fieldhead, they saw the distant highway already alive
with an unwonted flovy of equestrians and pedestrians,

TO-MOEEOW 363

tending in the direction of the usually solitary Hollow. On
reaching the hall, they found the backyard gates open, and
the court and kitchen seemed crowded with excited milk-
fetchers — men, women, and children, whom Mrs. Gill, the
housekeeper, appeared vainly persuading to take their milk-
cans and depart. (It is, or was, by-the-by, the custom in the
north of England for the cottagers on a country squire's
estate to receive their supplies of milk and butter from the
dairy of the Manor-House, on whose pastures a herd of
milch-kine was usually fed for the convenience of the neigh-
bourhood. Miss Keeldar owned such a herd — all deep-
dewlapped, Craven cows, reared on the sweet herbage and
clear waters of bonnie Airedale ; and very proud she was of
their sleek aspect and high condition.) Seeing now the ststte
of matters, and that it was desirable to effect a clearance oi
the premises, Shirley stepped in amongst the' gossiping
groups. She bade them good-morning with a certain frank,
tranquil ease — the natural characteristic of her manner when
she addressed numbers ; especially if those numbers belonged
to the working-class : she was cooler amongst her equals,
and rather proud to those above her. She then asked them
if they had all got their milk measured out, and understand-
ing that they had, she further observed that she ' wondered
what they were waiting for, then.'

' We're just talking a bit over this battle there has been
at your mill. Mistress,' replied a man.

' Talking a bit ! Just like you ! ' said Shirley. ' It is a
queer thing all the world is so fond of talking over events :
you talk if anybody dies suddenly ; you talk if a fire breaks
out ; you talk if a mill-owner fails ; you talk if he's
murdered. What good does your talking do ? '

There is nothing the lower orders like better than a little
downright good-humoured rating. Flattery they scorn very
much : honest abuse they enjoy. They call it speaking
plainly, and take a sincere delight in being the objects thereof.
The homely harshness of Miss Keeldar's salutation won her
the ear of the whole throng in a second.

m SHIELEY

'We're no war nor some 'at is aboon us ; are we ? ' asked
a man, smiling.

' Nor a whit better : you that should be models of industry
are just as gossip-loving as the idle. Fine, rich people that
have nothing to do, may be partly excused for trifling their
time away : you who have to earn your bread with the
sweat of your brow are quite inexcusable.'

' That's queer, Mistress : suld we never have a holiday
because we work hard ? '

'Never,' was the prompt answer; 'unless,' added the
' mistress ' with a smile that half-belied the severity of her
speech — ' unless you knew how to make a better use of it
than to get together over rum and tea, if you are women — or
over beer and pipes, if you are men, and talk scandal at your
neighbour's expense. Come, friends,' she added, changing
at once from bluntness to courtesy, ' oblige me by taking
your cans and going home. I expect several persons to call
to-day, and it will be inconvenient to have the avenues to
the house crowded.'

Yorkshire people are as yielding to persuasion as they
are stubborn against compulsion : the yard was clear in five
minutes.

' Thank you, and good-by to you, friends,' said Shirley,
as she closed the gates on a quiet court.

Now, let me hear the most refined of Cockneys presume
to find fault with Yorkshire manners ! Taken as they ought
to be, the majority of the lads and lasses of the West-Eiding
are gentlemen and ladies, every inch of them : it is only
against the weak affectation and futile pomposity of a would-
be aristocrat they turn mutinous.

Entering by the back-way, the young ladies passed
through the kitchen (or house, as the inner kitchen is called)
to the hall. Mrs. Pi-yor came running down the oak stair-
case to meet them. She was all unnerved : her naturally
sanguine complexion was pale ; her usually placid, though
timid, blue eye was wandering, unsettled, alarmed. She did
not, however, break out into any exclamations, or hurried

TO-MOEROW 365

narrative of what had happened. Her predominant feeling
had been in the course of the night, and was now this
morning, a sense of dissatisfaction with herself that she
could not feel firmer, cooler, more equal to the demands of
the occasion.

' You are aware,' she began with a trembling voice, and
yet the most conscientious anxiety to avoid exaggeration in
what she was about to say, — 'that a body of rioters has
attacked Mr. Moore's mill to-night : we heard the firing and
confusion very plainly here ; we none of us slept : it was a
sad night : the house has been in great bustle all the morning
with people coming and going : the servants have applied to
me for orders and directions, which I really did not feel
warranted in giving. Mr. Moore has, I believe, sent up for
refreshments for the soldiers and others engaged in the
defence ; for some conveniences also for the wounded. I
could not undertake the responsibility of giving orders or
taking measures. I fear delay may have been injurious in
some instances ; but this is not my house : you were absent,
my dear Miss Keeldar — what could I do ? '

' Were no refreshments sent ? ' asked Shirley, while her
countenance, hitherto so clear, propitious, and quiet, even
while she was rating the milk-fetchers, suddenly turned dark
and warm.

' I think not, my dear.'

' And nothing for the wounded ? — no linen — ^no wine — no
bedding ? '

' I think not. I cannot tell what Mrs. Gill did : but it
seemed impossible to me, at the moment, to venture to
dispose of your property by sending supplies to soldiers — •
provisions for a company of soldiers sounds formidable : how
many there are I did not ask; but I could not think of
allowing them to pillage the house as it were. I intended to
do what was righf ; yet I did not see the case quite clearly,
I own.'

'It lies in a nutshell, notwithstanding. These soldiers
have risked their lives in defence of my property — I suppose

366 SHIELEY

they have a right to my gratitude : the wounded are our
fellow-creatures — I suppose we should aid them. Mrs.
Gill ! '

She turned, and called in a voice more clear than soft.
It rang through the thick oak of the hall and kitchen doors
more effectually than a bell's summons. Mrs. Gill, who was
deep in bread-making, came with hands and apron in
culinary case, not having dared to stop to rub the dough
from the one, or to shake the flour from the other. Her
mistress had never called a servant in that voice, save once
before, and that was when she had seen from the window
Tartar in full tug with two carriers' dogs, each of them a
match for him in size, if not in courage, and their masters
standing by, encouraging their animals, while hers was
unbefriended : then, indeed, she had summoned John as if
the Day of Judgment were at hand : nor had she waited for
the said John's coming, but had walked out into the lane
bonnetless ; and after informing the carriers that she held
them far less of men than the three brutes whirling and
worrying in the dust before them, had put her hands round
the thick neck of the largest of the curs and given her whole
strength to the essay of choking it from Tartar's torn and
bleeding eye, just above and below which organ the vengeful
fangs were inserted. Five or six men were presently on the
spot to help her, but she never thanked one of them : ' They
might have come before, if their will had been good,' she
said. She had not a word for anybody during the rest of
the day ; but sat near the hall fire till evening, watching and
tending Tartar, who lay all gory, stiff, and swelled, on a mat
at her feet. She wept furtively over him sometimes, and
murmured the softest words of pity and endearment, in tones
whose music the old, scarred, canine warrior acknowledged
by licking her hand or her sandal alternately with his own
red wounds. As to John, his lady turned a cold shoulder
on him for a week afterwards.

Mrs. Gill, remembering this little episode, came • all of a
tremble,' as she said herself. In a firm, brief voice. Miss

TO-MOBEOW 367

Keeldar proceeded to put questions and give orders. That
at such a time Fieldhead should have evinced the inhospitality
of a miser's hovel, stung her haughty spirit to the quick ;
and the revolt of its pride was seen in the heaving of her
heart ; stirred stormily under the lace and silk which
veiled it.

' How long is it since that message came from the
mill ? '

' Not an hour yet, ma'am,' answered the housekeeper,
soothingly.

' Not an hour ! You might almost as well have said not
a day. They will have applied elsewhere by this time. Send
a man instantly down to tell them that everything this house
contains is at Mr. Moore's, Mr. Helstone's, and the soldiers'
service. Do that first ! '

"While the order was being executed, Shirley moved away
from her friends,, and stood at the hall- window, silent, un-
approachable. When Mrs. Gill came back, she turned : the
purple flush which painful excitement kindles on a pale
cheek, glowed on hers : the spark which displeasure lights
in a dark eye fired her glance.

'Let the contents of the larder and the wine-cellar be
brought up, put into the hay-carts, and driven down to the
Hollow. If there does not happen to be much bread or
much meat in the house, go to the butcher and baker, and
desire them to send what they have : but I will see for
myself.'

She moved off.

' All will be right soon : she will get over it in an hour,'
whispered Caroline to Mrs. Pryor. ' Go up-stairs, dear
madam,' she added, affectionately, ' and try to be as calm
and easy as you can. The truth is, Shirley will blame her-
self more than you before the day is over.'

By dint of a few more gentle assurances and persuasions.
Miss Helstone contrived to soothe the agitated lady. Having
accompanied her to her apartment, and promised to rejoin
her there when things were settled, Caroline left her to see,

368 SHIBLEY

as she said, ' if she could be useful.' She presently found
that she could be very useful ; for the retinue of servants at
Fieldhead was by no means numerous, and just now their
mistress found plenty of occupation for all the hands at her
command, and for her own also. The delicate good-nature
and dexterous activity which Caroline brought to the aid of
the housekeeper and maids, — all somewhat scared by their
lady's unwonted mood — did a world of good at once : it
helped the assistants and appeased the directress. A chance
glance and smile from Caroline moved Shirley to an answer-
ing smile directly. The former was carrying a heavy basket
up the cellar-stairs.

• This is a shame ! ' cried Shirley, running to her. ' It
will strain your arm.'

She took it from her, and herself bore it out into the
yard. The cloud of temper was dispelled when she came
back ; the flash in her eye was melted ; the shade on her
forehead vanished : she resumed her usual cheerful and
cordial manner to those about her, tempering her revived
spirits with a little of the softness of shame at her previous
unjust anger.

She was still superintending the lading of the cart when
a gentleman entered the yard and approached her ere she
was aware of his presence.

' I hope I see Miss Keeldar well this morning ? ' he said,
examining with rather a significant scrutiny her still flushed
face.

She gave him a look, and then again bent to her employ-
ment, without reply. A pleasant enough smile played on her
lips, but she hid it. The gentleman repeated his salutation,
stooping, that it might reach her ear with more facility.

' Well enough, if she be good enough,' was the answer ;
■ and so is Mr. Moore, too, I daresay. To speak truth, I am
not anxious about him ; some slight mischance would be
only his just due : his conduct has been — we will say strange,
just now, till we have time to characterise it by a more
exact epithet. Meantime, may I ask what brings him here ? '

TO-MOEEOW 369

' Mr. Helstone and I have just received your message
that everything at Meldhead was at our service. We judged,
by the unlimited wording of the gracious intimation, that
you would be giving yourself too much trouble : I perceive,
our conjecture was correct. We are not a regiment, remem-
ber : only about half-a-dozen soldiers, and as many civilians.
Allow me to retrench something from these too abundant
supphes.'

Miss Keeldar blushed, while she laughed at her own over-
eager generosity, and most disproportionate calculations.
Moore laughed too — very quietly, though; and as quietly,
he ordered basket after basket to be taken from the cart,
and remanded vessel after vessel to the cellar.

'The Eector must hear of this,' he said : ' he will make a
good story of it. What an excellent army contractor Miss
Eeeldar would have been ! ' again he laughed, adding — ' It
is precisely as I conjectured.'

' You ought to be thankful,' said Shirley, ' and not mock
me. What could I do ? How could I gauge your appetites,
or number your band ? For aught I knew, there might have
been fifty of you at least to victual. You told me nothing ;
and then, an application to provision soldiers naturally
suggests large ideas.'

' It appears so,' remarked Moore, levelling another of his
keen, quiet glances at the discomfited Shirley. ' Now,' he
continued, addressing the carter, 'I think you may take
what remains to the Hollow. Your load will be somewhat
lighter than the one Miss Keeldar destined you to carry.'

As the vehicle rumbled out of the yard, Shirley, rallying
her spirits, demanded what had become of the wounded.

'There was not a single man hurt on our side,' was the
answer.

' You were hurt yourself, on the temples,' interposed a
quick, low voice — that of Caroline, who, having withdrawn
within the shade of the door, and behind the large person of
Mrs. Gill, had till now escaped Moore's notice : when she
spoke, his eye searched the obscurity of her retreat.

370 SHIELEY

' Are you much hurt ? ' she inquired.

•As you might scratch your finger with a needle in
sewing.'

' Lift your hair, and let us see.'

He took his hat off, and did as he was bid, disclosing
only a narrow slip of court-plaster. Caroline indicated, by
a slight movement of the head, that she was satisfied, and
disappeared within the clear obscure of the interior.

' How did she know I was hurt ? ' asked Moore.

'By rumour, no doubt. But it is too good in her to
trouble herself about you. For my part, it was of your
victims I was thinking when I inquired after the wounded :
what damage have your opponents sustained ? '

' One of the rioters, or victims, as you call them, was
killed, and six were hurt.'

' What have you done with them ? '

' What you will perfectly approve. Medical aid was pro-
cured immediately ; and as soon as we can get a couple of
covered waggons, and some clean straw, they will be removed
to Stilbro'.'

' Straw ! you must have beds and bedding. I will send
my waggon directly, properly furnished ; and Mr. Yorke, I
am sure, will send his.'

' You guess correctly : he has volunteered already ; and
Mrs. Yorke — who, like you, seems disposed to regard the
rioters as martyrs, and me, and especially Mr. Helstone, as
murderers — is at this moment, I believe, most assiduously
engaged in fitting it up with feather-beds, pillows, bolsters,
blankets, &c. The victims lack no attentions — I promise
you. Mr. Hall — your favourite parson — has been with
them ever since six o'clock, exhorting them, prajang with
them, and even waiting on them like any nurse ; and
Caroline's good friend. Miss Ainley, that very plain old
maid, sent in a stock of lint and linen, something in
the proportion of another lady's allowance of beef and
wine.'

' That will do. Where is your sister ? '

TO-MOEEOW 371

' Well cared for. I had her securely domiciled with Miss
Mann. This very morning, the two set out for Wormwood
Wells (a noted watering-place), and will stay there some
weeks.'

' So Mr. Helstone domiciled me at the Eectory ! Mighty
clever you gentlemen think you are ! I make you heartily
welcome to the idea, and hope its savour, as you chew the
cud of reflection upon it, gives you pleasure. Acute and
astute, why are you not also omniscient ? How is it that
events transpire, under your very noses, of which you have
no suspicion? It should be so, otherwise the exquisite
gratification of out-manoeuvring you would be unknown.
Ah ! friend, you may search my countenance, but you cannot
read it.'

Moore, indeed, looked as if he could not.

' You think me a dangerous specimen of my sex. Don't
you, now?'

' A peculiar one, at least.'

' But Caroline — is she peculiar ? '

' In her way — yes.'

' Her way ! What is her way 1 '

' You know her as well as I do.'

' And knowing her I assert that she is neither eccentric
nor difficult of control : is she ? '

' That depends '

' However, there is nothing masculine about her ? '

' Why lay such emphasis on her ? Do you consider her
a contrast, in that respect, to yourself ? '

' You do, no doubt : but that does not signify. Caroline
is neither masculine, nor of what they call the spirited order
of women.'

' I have seen her flash out.'

' So have I — but not with manly fire : it was a short,
vivid, trembling glow, that shot up, shone, vanished '

' And left her scared at her own daring. You describe
others besides Caroline.'

' The point I vyi^h \o establish is, that Miss HelgtQpe,

372 SHIBLEY

though gentle, tractable, and candid enough, is still perfectly
capable of defying even Mr. Moore's penetration.'

' What have you and she been doing ? ' asked Moore,
suddenly.

' Have you had any breakfast ? '

' What is your mutual mystery ? '

' If you are hungry, Mrs. Gill will give you something to
eat here. Step into the oak-parlour, and ring the bell — you
will be served as if at an inn ; or, if you like better, go back
to the Hollow.'

' The alternative is not open, to me : I miist go back.
Good morning : the first leisure I have, I will see you
again.'

CHAPTEE XXI

MES. PKYOE

While Shirley was talking with Moore, Caroline rejoined
Mrs. Pryor upstairs. She found that lady deeply depressed.
She would not say that Miss Keeldar's hastiness had hurt
her feelings ; but it was evident an inward wound galled her.
To any but a congenial nature, she would have seemed
insensible to the quiet, tender : attentions by which Miss
Helstone sought to impart solace ; but Caroline knew that,
unmoved or slightly moved as she looked, she felt, valued,
and was healed by them.

' I am deficient in self-confidence and decision,' she said
at last. ' I always have been deficient in those qualities :
yet I think Miss Keeldar should have known my character
well enough by this time, to be aware that I always feel an
even painful solicitude to do right, to act for the best. The
unusual nature of the demand on my judgment puzzled me,
especially following the alarms of the night. I could not
venture to act promptly for another : but I trust no serious
harm will result from my lapse of firmness.'

A gentle knock was here heard at the door: it was half-
opened.

' Caroline, come here,' said a low voice.

Miss Helstone went out : there stood Shirley in the
gallery, looking contrite, ashamed, sorry as any repentant
child.

' How is Mrs. Pryor ? ' she asked.

' Rather out of spirits,' said Caroline.

'I have behaved very shamefully, very ungenerously,

very ungratefully to her,' said Shirley. ' How insolent in
me to turn on her thus, for what after all was no fault, only
an excess of conscientiousness on her part. But I regret
my error most sincerely : tell her so, and ask if she will
forgive me.'

Caroline discharged the errand with heartfelt pleasure.
Mrs. Pryor rose, came to the door : she did not like scenes ;
she dreaded them as all timid people do : she said falteringly
— ' Come in, my dear.'

Shirley did come in with some impetuosity : she threw
her arms round her governess, and while she kissed her
heartily, she said — ' You know you must forgive me, Mrs.
Pryor. I could not get on at all if there was a misunder-
standing between you and me.'

' I have nothing to forgive,' was the reply. ' We will
pass it over now, if you please. The final result of the
incident is, that it proves more plainly than ever how
unequal I am to certain crises.'

And that was the painful feeling which would remain on
Mrs. Pryor's mind : no effort of Shirley's or Cai-oUne's
could efface it thence : she could forgive her offending pupil,
not her innocent self.

Miss Eeeldar, doomed to be in constant request during
the morning, was presently summoned down-stairs again.
The Eector called first : a lively welcome and liveUer
reprimand were at his service ; he expected both, and, being
in high spirits, took them in equally good part.

In the course of his brief visit, he quite forgot to ask
after his niece : the riot, the rioters, the mill, the magistrates,
the heiress, absorbed all his thoughts to the exclusion of
family ties. He alluded to the part himself and curate had
taken in the defence of the Hollow.

' The vials of pharisaical wrath will be emptied on our
heads, for our share in this business,' he said ; ' but I defy
every calumniator. I was there only to support the law, to
play my part as a man and a Briton ; which characters I
deem quite compatible with those of the priest and Levite,

MES. PEYOE 375

in their highest sense. Your tenant, Moore,' he went on,
' has won my approbation. A cooler commander I would
not wish to see, nor a more determined. Besides, the man
has shown sound judgment and good sense ; first, in being
thoroughly prepared for the event which has taken place,
and subsequently, when his well-concerted plans had secured
him success, in knowing how to use without abusing his
victory. Some of the magistrates are now well frightened,
and, like all cowards, show a tendency to be cruel ; Moore
restrains them with admirable prudence. He has hitherto
been very unpopular in the neighbourhood ; but, mark my
words, the tide of opinion will now take a turn in his favour :
people will find out that they have not appreciated him,
and will hasten to remedy their error; and he, when he
perceives the public disposed to acknowledge his merits, will
show a more gracious mien than that with which he has
hitherto favoured us.'

Mr. Helstone was about to add to this speech some
half-jesting, half-serious warnings to Miss Keeldar, on the
subject of her rumoured partiality for her talented tenant,
when a ring at the door, announcing another caller, checked
his raillery ; and as that other caller appeared in the form
of a white-haired, elderly gentleman, with a rather truculent
countenance and disdainful eye — in short, our old acquaint-
ance, and the Eector's old enemy, Mr. Yorke — the priest
and Levite seized his hat, and with the briefest of adieux to
Miss Keeldar, and the sternest of nods to her guest, took an
abrupt leave.

Mr. Yorke was in no mild mood, and in no measured
terms did he express his opinion on the transaction of the
night : Moore, the magistrates, the soldiers, the mob-leaders,
each and all came in for a share of his invectives ; but he
reserved his strongest epithets — and real racy Yorkshire
Doric adjectives they were — for the benefit of the fighting
parsons, the ' sanguinary, demoniac ' rector and curate.
According to him, the cup of ecclesiastical guilt was now
full indeed.

376 SHIELEY

' The Church,' he said, ' was in a bonnie pickle now : it
was time it came down when parsons took to swaggering
amang soldiers, blazing away wi' bullet and gunpowder,
taking the lives of far honester men than themselves.'

' What would Moore have done, if nobody had helped
him ? ' asked Shirley.

' Drunk as he'd brewed — eaten as he'd baked.'

' Which means, you would have left him by himself to
face that mob. Good. He has plenty of courage ; but the
greatest amount of gallantry that ever garrisoned one human
breast could scarce avail against two hundred.'

'He had the soldiers; those poor slaves who hire out
their ovm blood and spill other folks' for money.'

' You abuse soldiers almost as much as you abuse clergy-
men. All who wear red coats are national refuse in your
eyes, and all who wear black are national swindlers. Mr.
Moore, according to you, did wrong to get military aid, and
he did still worse to accept of any other aid. Your way of
talking amounts to this : — he should have abandoned his
mill and his life to the rage of a set of misguided madmen,
and Mr. Helstone and every other gentleman in the parish
should have looked on, and seen the building razed and its
owner slaughtered, and never stirred a finger to save either.'

' If Moore had behaved to his men from the beginning
as a master ought to behave, they never would have enter-
tained their present feelings towards him.'

' Easy for you to talk,' exclaimed Miss Keeldar, who was
beginning to wax warm in her tenant's cause : ' you, whose
family have lived at Briarmains for six generations, to whose
person the people have been accustomed for fifty years, who
know all their ways, prejudices, and preferences. Easy,
indeed, for you to act so as to avoid offending' them ; but
Mr. Moore came a stranger into' the district : he came here
poor and friendless, with nothing but his own energies to
back him; nothing but his honour, his talent, and his
industry to make his way for him; A monstrous crime
indeed that, under such circumstances, he could not

MRS. PEYOB 377

popularise his naturally grave, quiet manners, all at once :
could not be jocular, and free, and cordial with a strange
peasantry, as you are with your fellow-townsmen ! An
unpardonable transgression, that when he introduced im-
provements he did not go about the business in quite the
most poUtic way ; did not graduate his changes as delicately
as a rich capitalist might have done ! For errors of this sort
is he to be the victim of mob-outrage ? Is he to be denied
even the privilege of defending himself? Are those who
have the hearts of men in their breasts (and Mr. Helstone —
say what you will of him — has such a heart) to be reviled
like malefactors because they stand by him — because they
venture to espouse the cause of one against two hundred ? '

' Come— come now — be cool,' said Mr. Yorke, smiling at
the earnestness with which Shirley multiplied her rapid
questions.

' Cool ! Must I listen coolly to downright nonsense — to
dangerous nonsense ? No. I like you very well, Mr. Yorke,
as you know ; but I thoroughly dislike some of your
principles. All that cant^excuse me, but I repeat the
word — all that cant about soldiers and parsons is most
offensive in my ears. All ridiculous, irrational crying up of
one class, whether the same be aristocrat or democrat — all
howling down of another class, whether clerical or military —
all exacting injustice to individuals, whether monarch or
mendicant— is really sickening to me : all arraying of ranks
against ranks, all party hatreds, all tyrannies disguised as
liherties, I reject and wash my hands of. You think you
are a philanthropist ; you think you are an advocate of
liberty; but I will tell you this — Mr. Hall, the parson of
Nunnely, is a better friend both of man and freedom, than
Hiram Yorke, the Eeformer of Briarfield.'

From a man, Mr. Yorke would not have borne this
language very patiently, nor would he have endured it from
some women ; but he accounted Shirley both honest and
pretty, and her plain-spoken ire amused him : besides he
took a secret pleasure in hearing her defend her tenant, for

378 SHIELEY

we have already intimated he had Eobert Moore's interest
very much at heart : moreover, if he wished to avenge him-
self for her severity, he knew the means lay in his power :
a word, he believed, would suffice to tame and silence her,
to cover her frank forehead with the rosy shadow of shame,
and veU the glow of her eye under down-drooped lid and
lash.

' What more hast thou to say ? ' he inquired, as she
paused, rather it appeared to take breath, than because her
subject or her zeal was exhausted.

' Say, Mr. Yorke I ' was the answer, the speaker mean-
time walking fast from wall to wall of the oak-parlour. ' Say ?
I have a great deal to say, if I could get it out in lucid order
which I never can do. I have to say that yotir views, and
those of most extreme politicians, are such as none but men
in an irresponsible position can advocate; that they are
purely opposition views, meant only to be talked about, and
never intended to be acted on. Make you prime minister of
England to-morrow, and you would have to abandom them.
You abuse Moore for defending his mill : had you been in
Moore's place you could not with honour or sense have
acted otherwise than he acted. You abuse Mr. Helstone
for everything he does : Mr. Helstone has his faults : he
sometimes does wrong, but oftener right. Were you ordained
vicar of Briarfield, you would find it no easy task to sustain
all the active schemes for the benefit of the parish planned
and persevered in by your predecessor. I wonder people can-
not judge more fairly of each other and themselves. When I
hear Messrs. Malone and Donne chatter about the authority
of the Church, the dignity and claims of the priesthood, the
deference due to them as clergymen ; when I hear the out-
breaks of their small spite against Dissenters ; when I
witness their silly narrow jealousies and assumptions ; when
their palaver about forms, and traditions, and superstitions,
is sounding in my ear ; when I behold their insolent
carriage to the poor, their often base servility to the rich, I
think the Establishment is indeed in a poor way, and both

MES. PEYOE 379

she and her sona appear in the utmost need of reformation.
Turning away distressed from minster-tower and village-
spire — ay, as distressed as a churchwarden who feels the
exigence of whitewash, and has not wherewithal to purchase
lime — I recall your senseless sarcasms on the " fat bishops,"
the " pampered parsons," •' old mother church," &o. I
remember your strictures on all who differ from you, your
sweeping condemnation of classes and individuals, without
the slightest allowance made for circumstances or tempta-
tions ; and then, Mr. Yorke, doubt clutches my inmost heart
as to whether men exist clement, reasonable, and just enough
to be intrusted with the task of reform. I don't beUeve you
are of the number.'

' You have an ill opinion of me. Miss Shirley : you never
told me so much of your mind before.'

' I never had an opening : but I have sat on Jessie's stool
by your chair in the back-parlour at Briarmains, for evenings
together, listening excitedly to your talk, half-admiring what
you said, and half-rebelling against it. I think you a fine
old Yorkshireman, sir : I am proud to have been born in the
same county and parish as yourself — truthful, upright, inde-
pendent you are, as a rock based below seas ; but also you
are harsh, rude, narrow, and merciless.'

' Not to the poor, lass — nor to the meek of the earth —
only to the proud and high-minded.'

' And what right have you, sir, to make such distinctions ?
A prouder — a higher-minded man than yourself does not
exist. You find it easy to speak comfortably to your
inferiors — you are too haughty, too ambitious, too jealous to
be civil to those above you. But you are all alike. Helstone
also is proud and prejudiced. Moore, though juster and
more considerate than either you or the Eector, is still
haughty, stem, and, in a public sense, selfish. It is well
there are such men as Mr. Hall to be found occasionally :
men of large and kind hearts, who can love their whole race,
who can forgive others for being richer, more prosperous, or
piore powerful than they are, Suqh men may have lesg

380 SHIBLEY

originality,, less force of character than you^ but they are
better frikrds to xaankind;L',

' And when is it to be ? ' Said Mr. Yorkfe, tow rising.

' When is what to be ? ' '

' The wedding.'

' Whose wedding ? ' '

'Only that of Eobert Gerard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's
Cottage, with Miss Keeldar, daughter and heiress of the late
Charles Gave Keeldar, of Fieldhead Hall.'

Shirley gazed at the questioner with rising colour ; but
the light in her eyS' was not faltering : it shone steadily — yes
— it burned deeply. . '

' That is your revenge,' she said, slowly : then added :
'Would it be; a bad match, unwortby of the late Charles
Cave Keeldar's representative ? '

'My lass, MoQre is a gentleman: his blood is pure and
ancient as mine or thine.'

'And we too set store by ancient blood? We have
fainily pride, though one of us at least is a BepUblicah 1 '

Yorke bowed as he stood before her. His lips were mute,
but his eye confessed the impeachmeht. Yes — he had family
pride — you saw it in his whole bearing.

' Moore is a gentleman,' echoed Shirley, lifting her head
with glad grace. She checked herself ^ — words seemed crowd-,
ing to her tongue, she would not give them utterance ; but
her look spoke much at the moment : what— ^ — Yorke tried

to read, but could not — the language was there visible,

but .untranslatable— a poem— a fervid lyric in an unknown
tongue. It was not a plain storj , however — no simple gush
of feeling — no ordinary loVe-confession — that was obvious ;
it was something other, deeper, more intricate than he
guessed at : he felt his revenge had not struck home ; he felt
that Shirley triumphed — she held him at fault, bafiSed,
puzzled ; she enjoyed the moment — not he.

'And if Moore is a gentleman, you can be only a lady,

therefore '

' Therefore there would be no inequality in our union ? '

MES. PEYOB S81

' None.'

'Thank you for your approbation. Will you give me
away when I relinquish the name of Keeldar for that of
Moore ? '

Mr. Yorke, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled.
He could not divine what her look signified ; whether she
spoke in earnest or in jest : there was purpose and feeling,
banter and scoff playing, mingled, on her mobile lineaments.

' I don't understand thee,' he said, turning away.

She laughed : ' Take courage, sir : you are not singular
in your ignorance : but I suppose if Moore understands me
that vrill do — will it not ? '

' Moore may settle his own matters henceforward for me ;
I'll neither meddle nor make with them further.'

A new thought crossed her : her countenance changed
magically : with a sudden darkening of the eye, and austere
fixing of the features, she demanded, — ' Have you been asked
to intferfere ? Are you questioning me as another's proxy ? '

' The Lord save us 1 Whoever weds thee must look
about him ! Keep all your questions for Eobert ; I'll answer
no more on 'em. Good-day, lassie! ' ■

The day being fine, or at least fair — for soft clouds
curtained the sun, and a dim but not chill or waterish haze
slept blue on the hills — Caroline, while Shirley was engaged
with her callers, had persuaded Mrs. Pryor to assume her
bonnet and summer shawl, and to take a walk with her up
towards the narrow end of the Hollow.

Here, the opposing sides of the glen approaching each
other, and becoming clothed with brushwood and stunted
oaks, formed a wooded ravine ; at the bottom of which ran
the mill-stream, in broken unquiet course, struggling with
many stones, chafing against rugged banks, fretting vnth
gnarled tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went.
Here, when you had wandered half a mile from the mill,
you found a sense of deep solitude : found it in the
shade of unmolested trees; reqeived it in the- singing of

many birds, for which that shade made a home. This was
no trodden way : the freshness of the woodflowers attested
that foot of man seldom pressed them : the abounding wild-
roses looked as if they budded, bloomed, and faded under
the watch of solitude, as in a sultan's harem. Here you saw
the sweet azure of blue-bells, and recognised in pearl-white
blossoms, spanghng the grass, an humble tj^e of some star-
lit spot in space.

Mrs. Pryor liked a quiet walk : she ever shunned high-
roads, and sought byways and lonely lanes : one companion
she preferred to total solitude, for in solitude she was nervous ;
a vague fear of annoying encounters broke the enjoyment of
quite lonely rambles ; but she feared nothing with Caroline :
when once she got away from human habitations, and entered
the still demesne of Nature, accompanied by this one youth-
ful friend, a propitious change seemed to steal over her
mind and beam in her countenance. When with Caroline
■ — and Caroline only — her heart, you would have said, shook
off a burden, her brow put aside a veil, her spirits too escaped
from a restraint : with her she was cheerful ; with her, at
times, she was tender : to her she would impart her know-
ledge, reveal glimpses of her experience, give her oppor-
tunities for guessing what life she had lived, what cultivation
her mind had received, of what calibre was her intelligence,
how and where her feelings were vulnerable.

To-day, for instance, as they walked along, Mrs. Pryor
talked to her companion about the various birds singing in
the trees, discriminated their species, and said something
about their habits and peculiarities. English natural history
seemed familiar to her. All the vnld flowers round their
path were recognised by her : tiny plants springing near
stones and peeping out of chinks in old walls — plants such
as Caroline had scarcely noticed before— received a name
and an intimation of their properties : it appeared that she
had minutely studied the botany of English fields and woods.
Having reached the head of the ravine, they sat down together
on a ledge of gray and mossy rook jutting from the base of a

MES. PEYOE 383

steep green hill, which towered above them : Mrs. Pryor
looked round her, and spoke of the neighbourhood as she
had once before seen it long ago. She alluded to its changes,
and compared its aspect with that of other parts of England ;
revealing in quiet, unconscious touches of description, a
sense of the picturesque, an appreciation of the beautiful or
common-place, a power of comparing the wild with the
cultured, the grand with the tame, that gave to her discourse
a graphic charm as pleasant as it was unpretending.

The sort of reverent pleasure with which Caroline listened
— so sincere, so quiet, yet so evident, stirred the elder lady's
faculties to gentle animation. Earely, probably, had she,
with her chill, repellent outside — her diffident mien and
incommunicative habits, known what it was to excite in one
whom she herself could love, feelings of earnest affection
and admiring esteem. Delightful, doubtless, was the con-
sciousness that a young girl towards whom it seemed —
judging by the moved expression of her eyes and features —
her heart turned with almost a fond impulse, looked up to
her as an instructor, and clung to her as a friend. With a
somewhat more marked accent of interest than she often
permitted herself to use, she said, as she bent towards her
youthful companion, and put aside from her forehead a pale
brown curl which had strayed from the confining comb —
' I do hope this sweet air blowing from the hill will do you
good, my dear Caroline : I wish I could see something more
of colour in these cheeks — but perhaps you were never
florid?'

' I had red cheeks once,' returned Miss Helstone, smiling.
' I remember a year — two years ago, when I used to look in
the glass, I saw a different face there to what I see now —
rounder and rosier. But when we are young,' added the
girl of eighteen, ' our minds are careless and our lives easy.'

' Do you ' — continued Mrs. Pryor, mastering by an effort
that tyrant timidity which made it difficult for her, even
tinder present circumstances, to attempt the scrutiny of
another's heart — ' Do you, at your age, fret yourself with

384 SHIELEY

eares for the future? Believe me, you had better not: let
the morrow take thought for the things of itself.'

' True, dear madam : it is not over the future I pine.
The evil of the day is sometimes oppressive — too oppressive,
and I long to escape it.'

' That is — the evil of the day — ^thjtt is — your nnole perhaps
is not — you find it diflSoult to understand — he does not
appreciate — '

Mrs. Pryor could not complete her broken sentences :
she could not manage to put the question whether Mr.
Helstone was too harsh with his niece, but Caroline com-
prehended.

' Oh, that is nothing,' she replied ; ' my uncle and I get
on very well : we never quarrel— I don't call him harsh — he
never scolds me. Sometimes I wish somebody in the world
loved me ; but I cannot say that I particularly wish him to
have more affection for me than he has. As a child, I should
perhaps have felt the want of attention, only the servants
were very kind to me ; but when people are long indifferent
to us, we grow indifferent to their indifference. It is my
uncle's way not to care tat women and girls — unless they be
ladies that he meets in company : he could not alter, and I
have no wish that he should alter, as far as I am concerned.
I believe it would merely annoy and ^ghten me were he to
be affectionate towards me now. But you know, Mrs. Pryor,
it is scarcely Uving to measure time as I do at the Eectory.
The hours pass, and I get them over somehow, but I do not
live. I endure existence, but I rarely enjoy it. Since Miss
Keeldar and you came, I have been— I was going to say —
happier, but that would bp untrue.' She paused.

' How untrue ? You are fond of Miss Keeldar, are you
not,. my dear?' ,

' Very fond of Shirley : I both like and admire her : but
I am painfully circumstanced : for a reason I cannot explain,
I want to go away from this place, and to forget it.'

' You told me before you wished to be a governess : but,
my dear, if you remember, I did not encourage the idea^

MRS. JPRYOR 385

I have been a governess myself great part of my life. In
Miss Keeldar's acquaintance, I esteem myself most fortunate :
her talents and her really sweet disposition have rendered
my oflSce easy to me ; but when I was young, before I
married, my trials were severe, poignant. I should not like

a . I should not like you to endure similar ones. It

was my lot to enter a family of considerable pretensions to
good birth and mental superiority, and the members of
which also believed that "^on them was perceptible " an
unusual endowment of the " Christian graces : " that all their
hearts were regenerate, and their spirits in a peculiar state
of discipline. I was early given to understand, that " as I
was not their equal," so I could not expect " to have their
sympathy." It was in no sort concealed frorh me that I was
held a " burden and a restraint in society." The gentlemen,
I found, regarded me as a " tabooed woman," to whom " they
were interdicted from granting' the usual privileges of the
sex," and yet who " annoyed them by frequently crossing
their path." The ladies too made it plain that they thought
me " a bore." The servants, it was signified, " detested me : "
why, I could never clearly eortiprehend. My pupils, I was
told, " however much . they might love me, and how deep
soever the interest I might take in them, could not be my
friends." It was intimsCted, that I must " live alone, and
never transgress the invisible but rigid line which established
the difference between me and my employers." My life in
this house was sedentary, solitary, constrained, joyless, toil-
some. The dreadful crushing of the animal spirits, the ever
prevailing sense of friendlessnessand homelessness consequent
on this state of things, began ere long to produce mortal
effects on my constitution — I sickened. The lady of the
house told me coolly I was the victim of " wounded vanity."
She hinted, that if I did not make an effort to quell my
" ungodly discontent," to cease " murmuring against God's
appointment," and to cultivate the profound humility befit-
ting my station, my mind would very likely " go to pieces "
on the rock that, wrecked most of my sisterhood— rmorbid

386 SHIELEY

self-esteem ; and that I should die an inmate of a lunatic
asylum.

' I said nothing to Mrs. Hardman ; it would have been
useless : but to her eldest daughter I one day dropped a few
observations, which were answered thus : —

' There were hardships, she allowed, in the position of a
governess : " doubtless they had their trials : but,'' she
averred, with a manner it makes me smile now to recall —
" but it must be so. She (Miss H.) had neither view, hope,
nor wish to see these things remedied ; for, in the inherent
constitution of English habits, feelings and prejudices, there
was no possibility that they should be. Governesses," she
observed, " must ever be kept in a sort of isolation : it is the
only means of maintaining that distance which the reserve
of English manners and the decorum of English families
exact."

' I remember I sighed as Miss Hardman quitted my
bedside : she caught the sound, and turning, said severely, —
" I fear. Miss Grey, you have inherited in fullest measure
the worst sin of our fallen nature — the sin of pride. You
are proud, and therefore you are ungrateful too. Mamma
pays you a handsome salary ; and, if you had average sense,
you would thankfully put up with much that is fatiguing to
do and irksome to bear, since it is so well made worth your
while."

'Miss Hardman, my love, was a very strong-minded
young lady, of most distinguished talents : the aristocracy
are decidedly a very superior class, you know — both phy-
sically, and morally, and mentally — as a high Tory I
acknowledge that— I could not describe the dignity of her
voice and mien as she addressed me thus : still, I fear, she
was selfish, my dear. I would never vnsh to speak ill of
my superiors in rank ; but I think she was a little selfish.

' I remember,' continued Mrs. Pryor, after a pause,
' another of Miss H.'s observations, which she would utter
with quite a grand air. " We," she would say, — " We need
the imprudences, extravagances, mistakes, and crimes of a

MES. PEYOE 387

certain number of fathers to sow the seed from which we
reap the harvest of governesses. The daughters of trades-
people, however well educated, must necessarily be under-
bred, and as such unfit to be inmates of cub dwellings, or
guardians of ouk children's minds and persons. We shall
ever prefer to place those about our offspring, who have
been born and bred with somewhat of the same refinement

as OUBSELVES." '

'Miss Hardman must have thought herself something
better than her fellow-creatures, ma'am, since she held
that their calamities, and even crimes, were necessary to
minister to her convenience. You say sjie was religious :
her reUgion must have been that of the Pharisee, who
thanked God that he was not as other men are, nor even
as that publican.'

' My dear, we will not discuss the point : I should be
the last person to wish to instil into your mind any feeling
of dissatisfaction with your lot in life, or any sentiment of
envy or insubordination towards your superiors. Implicit
submission to authorities, scrupulous deference to our
betters (under which term I, of course, include the higher
classes of society) are, in my opinion, indispensable to the
wellbeing of every community. All I mean to say, my dear,
is, that you had better not attempt to be a governess, as
the duties of the position would be too severe for your
constitution. Not one word of disrespect would I breathe
towards either Mrs. or Miss Hardman ; only, recalling
my own experience, I cannot but feel that, were you to fall
under auspices such as theirs, you would contend a while
courageously with your doom : then you would pine and
grow too weak for your work : you would come home — if you
still had a home — broken down. Those languishing years
would follow, of which none but the invalid and her imme-
diate friends feel the heart-sickness and know the burden :
consumption or decline would close the chapter. Such is
the history of many a Ufe : I would not have it yours. My
dear, we will now walk about a little, if you please.'

388 SHIBLEI

They both rose and slowly paced a green natural
■terrace bordering the chasm.

'My dear,' erelong again began Mrs. Pryor, a sort of
timid, embarrassed abruptness marking her manner as she
spoke, ' the young, especially those to whom nature has been
favourable — often^frequently— anticipate — look forward to
— to marriage as the end, the goal of their hopes.'

And she stopped. Caroline came to her relief with
promptitude, showing a gresbt deal more self-possession
and courage than herself on the formidable topic now
broached.

'They do; and naturally,' she replied, with a calm em-
phasis that startled Mrs. Pryor. 'They look forward to
jnarriage with some one they love as the brightest, — the
only bright destiny that can await them. Are they wrong ? '

"' Oh, my dear ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Pryor, clasping her
hands : and again she paused. Caroline turned a searching,-
an eager eye on the face of her friend : that face was much
agitated. ' My dear,' she murmured, ' life is an illusion.'

'But not love! Love is real: the most real, the most
lasting, — the sweetest and yet the bitterest thing we know.'

' My dear— it is very bitter. It is said to be strong —
strong as death. Most of the cheats of existence are strong.
As to its sweetness — nothing is so transitory : its date is a
moment, — the twinkling of an eye : the sting remains for
ever : it may perish with the dawn of eternity, but it tortures
through time into its deepest night.'

' Yes, it tortures through time,' agreed Caroline, ' except
when it is mutual love.'

' Mutual love ! My dear, romances are pernicious. You
do not read them, I hope ? '

'Sometimes — whenever I can get them, indeed; but
romance-writers might know nothing of love, judging by
the way in which they treat of it.'

'Nothing whatever, my dear!' assented Mrs. Pryor,
eagerly ; ' nor of marriage ; and the false pictures they give
of those subjects cannot be too strongly condemned. They

MES. PEYOE 389

are not like reality : they show you only the green tempting,
surface of the marsh, and give hot one faithful or truthful
hint of the slough underneath.'

' But it is not always slough,' objected Caroline : ' there
are happy marriages. ' Where affection is reciprocal and
sincere, and minds are harmonious, marriage must be
happy.'

'It is never I wholly happy. Two people can never
literally be as one : there is, perhaps, a possibility of con-
tent under peculiar circumstances, such as' are seldom com-
bined ; but it is as well not to run the risk : you may make
fatal mistakes. Be satisfied, my dear : let all the single be
satisfied with their freedom.'

' You echo my uncle's words ! ' exclaimed Caroline, in a
tone of dismay: ' you speak like Mrs. Yorke, in her most
gloomy moment's — like Miss Mann, ivhen she is most
sourly and hypochondriacally disposed. This is terrible ! '

' No, it is only true. Oh, child ! ' you have only lived the
pleasant morning time of life: the hot, weary noon, the sad
evening, the sunless night, are yet to come for you ! Mr.
Helstone, you say, talks as 1 talk ; and I wonder how Mrs.
Matthewson Helstone would have talked had she been
living. She died ! she died ! '

' And, alas ! my own mother and father. ..." exclaimed
Caroline, struck by a sombre recollection.

' What of them ? '

' Did I never tell you that they were separated ? '

'I have heard it.'

' They must then have been very rniserable.

' You see all facts go to prove what I say.'

'In this case there ought to be no such thing as
marriage.'

' There ought, my dear, were it only to ' prove that this
life is a mere state of probation, wherein neither rest nor
recompence is to be vouchsafed.'

' But your own marriage, Mrs; Pryor ? '

Mrs. Pryor shrunk andshuddered as if a rude finger had

390 SHIRLEY

pressed a naked nerve : Caroline felt she had touched what
would not bear the slightest contact.

' My marriage was unhappy,' said the lady, summoning
courage at last ; ' but yet ' she hesitated.

' But yet,' suggested Caroline, ' not immitigably wretched ? '

' Not in its results, at least. No, she added, in a softer
tone, ' God mingles something of the balm of mercy even in
vials of the most corrosive woe. He can so turn events,
that from the very same blind, rash act whence sprang the
curse of half our life, may flow the blessing of the remainder.
Then, I am of a peculiar disposition, I own that : far from
facile, without address, in some points eccentric. I ought
never to have married : mine is not the nature easily to find
a duplicate, or likely to assimilate with a contrast. I was
quite aware of my own ineligibility : and if I had not been
so miserable as a governess, I never should have manied ;
and then '

Caroline's eyes asked her to proceed : they entreated her
to break the thick cloud of despair, which her previous words
had seemed to spread over life.

' And then, my dear, Mr. , that is, the gentleman I

married, was, perhaps, rather an exceptional than an average
character. I hope, at least, the experience of few has been
such as mine was, or that few have felt their sufferings as I
felt mine. They nearly shook my mind : relief was so hope-
less, redress so unattainable : but, my dear, I do not wish to
dishearten, I only wish to warn you, and to prove that the
single should not be too anxious to change their state, as
they may change for the worse.'

' Thank you, my dear madam, I quite understand your
kind intentions ; but there is no fear of my falling into the
error to which you allude. I, at least, have no thoughts of
marriage, and, for that reason, I want to make myself a
position by some other means.'

' My dear, listen to me. On what I am going to say, I
have carefully deliberated; having, indeed, revolved the
subject in my thoughts ever since you first mentioned your

MBS. I-MOB ^9i

wish to obtain a situation. You know I at present reside
with Miss Keeldar in the capacity of companion : should she
marry (and that she will marry erelong, many circumstances
induce me to conclude), I shall cease to be necessary to her
in that capacity. I must tell you that I possess a small
independency, arising partly from my own savings, and
partly from a legacy left me some years since ; whenever I
leave Pieldhead, I shall take a house of my own : I could
not endure to live in sohtude : I have no relations whom I
care to invite to close intimacy ; for, as you must have
observed, and as I have already avowed, my habits and
tastes have their peculiarities : to you, my dear, I need not
say I am attached ; with you I am happier than I have ever
been with any living tWng ' (this was said with marked
emphasis). 'Your society I should esteem a very dear
privilege — an inestimable privilege, a comfort, a blessing.
You shaU come to me then. Caroline, do you refuse me ?
1 hope you can love me 7 '

And with these two abrupt questions she stopped.

' Indeed, I do love you,' was the reply. ' I should like to
live with you : but you are too kind.'

' All I have,' went on Mrs. Pryor, ' I would leave to you :
you should be provided for, but never again say I am too
kind. You pierce my heart, child ! '

' But, my dear madam — this generosity — I have no
claim '

' Hush ! you must not talk about it : there are some
things we cannot bear to hear. Oh I it is late to begin,
but I may yet live a few years : I can never wipe out the
past, but perhaps a brief space in the future may yet be
mine 1 '

Mrs. Pryor seemed deeply agitated : large tears trembled
in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Caroline kissed her,
in her gentle caressing way, saying softly — 'I love you
dearly. Don't cry.'

But the lady's whole frame seemed shaken ; she sat down,
bent her head to her knee, and wept aloud. Nothing could

392 SHIRLEY

console her till the inward storm had had its way. At last
the agony subsided of itself.

' Poor thing ! ' she murmured, returning Caroline's kiss :
' poor lonely lamb 1 But come,' she added abruptly ; ' come,
we must go home.'

For a short distance Mrs. Pryor walked very fast : by
degrees, however, she calmed down to her wonted manner,
fell into her usual characteristic pace— a pecuUar one, Uke
all her movements— and by the time they reached Fieldhead,
she had re-entered into herself : the outside was, as usual,
still and shy.

CHAPTER XXII

TWO LIVES

Only half of Moore's activity and resolution had been seen
in his defence of the mill: he showed the other half (and a
terrible half it was) in the indefatigable, the relentless
assiduity with which he pursued the leaders of the riot. The
mob, the mere followers, he let alone : perhaps an innate
sense of justice told him that' men misled by false counsel,
goaded by privations, are not , fit objects of vengeance, and
that he who would visit an even violent act on the bent head
of suffering, is a tyrant, not a judge. At all events, though
he knew many of the number, having recognised them during
the latter part of the attack when day begau to dawn, he let
them daily pass him on street and road without notice or
threat. '

The leaders he did not know. They were strangers :
emissaries from the large towns. Most of them were not
members of the operative class : they wrere chiefly ' down-
draughts,' bankrupts, men always in debt and often in drink
— men who had nothing to losfe, and mUch — in the way of
character, cash, and cleanliness — to gain. These persons
Moore hunted like any sleuth-hound ; and well he liked the
occupation : its excitement was of a kind pleasant to his
nature : he liked it better than making cloth.

His horse must have hated these times, for it was ridden
both hard and often : he almost hved on the road, and the
fresh air was as welcome to his luligs as the policeman's
quest to his mood : he preferred it to the steam of dye-
houses. The magistrates of the district must have dreaded
him : they were slow, timid men ; he liked both to frighten

394 SHIELEY

and to rouse them. He liked to force them to betray ei
certain fear, which made them alike falter in resolve and
recoil in action — the fear, simply, of assassination. This,
indeed, was the dread which had hitherto hampered every
manufacturer and almost every public man in the district.
Helstone alone had ever repelled it. The old Cossack knew
well he might be shot : he knew there was risk ; but such a
death had for his nerves no terrors : it would have been his
chosen — might he have had a choice.

Moore Ukewise knew his danger : the result was an un-
quenchable scorn of the quarter whence such danger was to
be apprehended. The consciousness that he hunted assassins
was the spur in his high-mettled temper's flank. As for fear,
he was too proud — too hard-natured — (if you will) — too
phlegmatic a man to fear. Many a time he rode belated
over moors, moonlit or moonless as the case might be, with
feelings far more elate, faculties far better refreshed, than
when safety and stagnation environed him in the counting-
house. Pour was the number of the leaders to be accounted
for : two, in the course of a fortnight, were brought to bay
near Stilbro' ; the remaining two it was necessary to seek
further ofif : their haunts were supposed to lie near Birming-
ham.

Meantime, the clothier did not neglect his battered mill :
its reparation was esteemed a light task ; carpenters' and
glaziers' work alone being needed. The rioters not having
succeeded in effecting an entrance, his grim, metal darlings
— the machines — had escaped damage.

Whether, during this busy life — whether, while stem
justice and exacting business claimed his energies and
harassed his thoughts — he now and then gave one moment,
dedicated one effort, to keep alive gentler fires than those
which smoulder in the fane of Nemesis, it was not easy to
discover. He seldom went near Pieldhead ; if he did, his
visits were brief : if he called at the Eectory, it was only to
hold conferences with the Eector in his study. He main-
tained his rigid course very steadily. Meantiflie, th§ historjr

TWO LIVES 395

of the year continued troubled : there was no lull in the
tempest of war ; her long hurricane still swept the Continent.
There was not the faintest sign of serene weather : no opening
amid ' the clouds of battle-dust and smoke ; ' no fall of pure
dews genial to the olive ; no cessation of the red rain which
nourishes the baleful and glorious laurel. Meantime, Euin
had her sappers and miners at work under Moore's feet,
and whether he rode or walked — whether he only crossed
his counting-house hearth, or galloped over sullen Eushedge
— he was aware of a hollow echo, and felt the ground shake
to his tread.

While the summer thus passed with Moore, how did it
lapse with Shirley and Caroline ? Let us first visit the
heiress. How does she look? Like a love-lorn maiden,
pale and pining for a neglectful swain ? Does she sit the
day long bent over some sedentary task ? Has she for ever
a book in her hand, or sewing on her knee, and eyes only for
that, and words for nothing, and thoughts unspoken ?

By no means. Shirley is all right. If her wistful cast
of physiognomy is not gone, no more is her careless smile.
She keeps her dark old manor-house light and bright with
her cheery presence : the gallery, and the low-ceiled
chambers that open into it, have learned lively echoes from
her voice : the dim entrance-hall, with its one window, has
grown pleasantly accustomed to the frequent rustle of a silk
dress, as its wearer sweeps across from room to room, now
carrying flowers to the barbarous peach-bloom salon, now
entering the dining-room to open its casements and let in the
scent of mignonette and sweetbrier, anon bringing plants
from the staircase-window to place in the sun at the open
porch-door.

She takes her sewing occasionally : but, by some fatality,
she is doomed never to sit steadily at it for above five minutes
at a time : her thimble is scarcely fitted on, her needle scarce
threaded, when a sudden thought calls her up-stairs : perhaps
she goes to seek some just-then-remembered old ivory-backed
needle-book, or older china-topped workbox, quite vmneeded,

396 SHIELEY

but which seems at the moment indispensable ; perhaps to
arrange her hair, or a drawer which she recollects to have
seen that morning in a state of curious confusion ; perhaps
only to take a peep from a particular window at a particular
view, whence Briarfield Church and Eectory are visible,
pleasantly bowered in trees. She has scarcely returned,
and again taken up the slip of cambric, or square of half-
wrought canvas, when Tartar's bold scrape and strangled
whistle are heard at the porch-door, and she must run to
open it for him ; it is a hot day ; he comes in panting ; she
must convoy him to the kitchen, and see with her own eyes
that his water-bowl is' replenished. Through the open
kitchen-door, the court is visible, all sunny and gay, and
peopled with turkeys, and their poults, peahens and their
chicks, pearl-flecked guinea-fowls, and a bright variety of
pure white, and purple-necked, and blue and cinnamon-
plumed pigeons. Irresistible spectacle to Shirley ! She
runs to the pantry for a roll, and she stands on the doorstep
scattering crumbs : around her throng her eager, plump,
happy, feathered vassals. John is about the stables, and
John must be talked to, and her mare looked at. She is
still petting and patting it, when the cows came in to be
milked : this is iniportaht ; Shirley must stay and take a
review of them all. There are perhaps some little calves,
some little new-yeaned lambs — it may be twins, whose
motl;iers have rejected, them : Miss Keeldar must be intro-
duced to them by John— must permit herself the treat of
feeding them with her own hand, under the direction of her
careful foreman. Meantime, John moots doubtful questions
about the farming of certain ' crofts,' and ' ings,' and ' holms,'
and his mistress is necessitated to fetch her garden-hat — a
gipsy-straw— and accompany him, over stile and along
hedge-row, to hear the conclusion of the whole agricultural
matter on the spot, and with the said ' crofts,' ' ings,' and
' holms ' under her eye. Bright afternoon thus wears into
soft evening, and she comes home to a late tea, and after
tea' she never sews.

TWO LIVES 397

After tea Shirley rea4s, and she is just about as tenacious
of her book as she is lax of her needle. Her study is the
rug, her seat a footstool, or perhaps only the carpet at Mrs.
Pryor's feet — there she always learned her lessons wheii a
child, and old habits have a strong power over her. The
tawny and hon-like bulk of Tartar is ever stretched beside
her ; his negro muzzle laid on his fore paws, straight, strong,
and shapely as the limbs of an Alpine wolf. One hand of
the mistress generally reposes on the loving serf's rude
head, because if she takes it away he groans and is dis-
contented. Shirley's mind is given to her book ; she lifts
not her eyes; she neither stirs nor speaJis; unless, indeed,,
it be to return a brief respectful answer to Mrs.Pryor, who
addresses deprecatory phrases to her now and then.

' My dear, you had better not have that great dog so near
you : he is crushing the border of your dress.'

' Oh, it is only muslin : I can put a clean one on to-
morrow.'

' My dear, I wish you could acquire the habit of sitting
to a table when you read.'

'I will try, ma'am, some time ; but it is so comfortable
to do as one has always been accustomed to do.'

' My dear, let me beg of you to put that book down : you
are trying your eyes by the doubtful firelight.'

' No, ma'am, not at all : my eyes are never tired.'

At last, however, a pale light falls on the page from the
window: she looks, the moon is up; she closes the volume,
rises, and walks through the room. Her book has perhaps
been a good one; it lias refreshed, refilled, re warmed her
heart ; it has set her brain astir, furnished her mind with
pictures. The still parlour, the clean hearth, the window
opening on the twilight sky, and showing its ' sweet regent,'
new throned and glorious, suffice to make earth an Eden,
life a poem, for Shirley. A still, deep, inborn delight glows in
her young veins ; uhmingled — untroubled ; not to be reached
or ravished by human agency, because by no human agency
bestowed : the pure gift of God to His creature, the free

898 SHIELEY

dower of Nature to her child. This joy gives her experience
of a genii-life. Buoyant, by green steps, by glad hills, all
verdure and light, she reaches a station scarcely lower than
that whence angels looked down on the dreamer of Beth -el,
and her eye seeks, and her soul possesses, the vision of Ufe
as she wishes it. No — not as she vrishes it ; she has not
time to wish : the swift glory spreads out, sweeping and
kindling, and multiplies its splendours faster than Thought
can effect his combinations, faster than Aspiration can utter
her longings. Shirley says nothing while the trance is upon
her — she is quite mute ; but if Mrs. Pryor speaks to her now,
she goes out quietly, and continues her walk up-stairs in the
dim gallery.

If Shirley were not an indolent, a reckless, an ignorant
being, she would take a pen at such moments ; or at least
while the recollection of such moments was yet fresh on her
spirit : she would seize, she would fix the apparition, tell the
vision revealed. Had she a little more of the organ of
acquisitiveness in her head — a little more of the love of
property in her nature, she would take a good-sized sheet
of paper and write plainly out, in her own queer but clear
and legible hand, the story that has been narrated, the song
that has been sung to her, and thus possess what she was
enabled to create. But indolent she is, reckless she is, and
most ignorant, for she does not know her dreams are rare —
her feelings peculiar : she does not know, has never known,
and will die without knowing, the full value of that spring
whose bright fresh bubbUng in her heart keeps it green.

Shirley takes life easily : is not that fact written in her
eye ? In her good-tempered moments, is it not as full of
lazy softness as in her brief fits of anger it is fulgent with
quick-flashing fire ? Her nature is in her eye : so long as
she is calm, indolence, indulgence, humour, and tenderness
possess that large gray sphere : incense her, — a red ray
pierces the dew, — it quickens instantly to flame.

Ere the month of July was passed. Miss Keeldar would
probably have started with Carohne on that northern tour

they had planned ; but just at that epoch an invasion befell
Pieldhead : a genteel foraging party besieged Shirley in her
castle, and compelled her to surrender at discretion. An
uncle, an aunt, and two cousins from the south, a Mr., Mrs.,

and two Misses Sympson, of Sympson Grove, shire,

came down upon her in state. The laws of hospitality
obliged her to give in, which she did with a faciUty which
somewhat surprised Caroline, who knew her to be prompt
in action and fertile in expedient, where a victory was to be
gained for her will. Miss Helstone even asked her how it
was she submitted so readily ? — she answered, old feelings
had their power : she had passed two years of her early
youth at Sympson Grove.

' How did she like her relatives ? '

She had nothing in common with them, she replied :
little Harry Sympson, indeed, the sole son of the family,
was very unlike his sisters, and of him she had formerly
been fond ; but he was not coming to Yorkshire : at least,
not yet.

The next Sunday the Fieldhead pew in Briarfield church
appeared peopled with a prim, trim, fidgety, elderly gentle-
man, who shifted his spectacles and changed his position
every three minutes ; a patient, placid-looking elderly lady,
in brown satin, and two pattern young ladies, in pattern
attire, vnth pattern deportment. Shirley had the air of a
black swan, or a white crow, in the midst of this party ; and
very forlorn was her aspect. Having brought her into
respectable society, we will leave her there awhile, and look
after Miss Helstone.

Separated from Miss Keeldar for the present, as she
could not seek her in the midst of her fine relatives ; scared]
away from Pieldhead by the visiting commotion which the
new arrivals occasioned in the neighbourhood, Caroline was
limited once more to the gray Eectory ; the solitary morning
walk in remote bypaths, the long, lonely afternoon sitting in
a quiet parlour which the sun forsook at noon, or in the
garden alcove where it shone bright, yet sad, on the ripening

400 SHIELBY .

ted currants trainefl over the trellis, and on the fair monthly
roses entwined between, and through them fell chequered on
Caroline sitting in her white summer dress, still as a garden
statue. There she read old books, taken from her uncle's
library : the Greek and Latin were of no use to her ; and its
collection of light literature was chiefly contained on a shelf
which had belonged to her aunt Mairy: some venerable
Lady's Magazines, that had once performed a sea-voyage
.with their owner, and undergone a storm, and whose pages
were stained with salt water ; some mad' Methodist Maga-
zines, full pf miracles and ap'paadtion^,. of preternatural
Warnings, ominous dreains, andi frbnzied fanaticism ; the
equally mad letters of Mrs. Elizabeth. Eowe from the Dead
to the Living ; a few' 6ld English- Classics :— -from these
faded flowers Caroline' had in her childhood extracted the
honey, — they were tasteless to her how. Byway of change,
and also of doing giobd, she would sew : make garments for
the poor, according te good Miss Ainley's direction. Some-
times as she felt and saw her tears fall slowly on her work,
she would wonder how the excellent woman who had cut it
out and arranged it for her, managed to be so equably serene
in her solitude. ^ i

' I never find Miss Ainley oppressed with despondency,
or lost in grief,' she thought ; ' yet her cottage is a still, dim
little place, and she is Without a bright hope or near friend
in the world. I remember, though, she told me once, she
had tutored her thoughts to tend upwards to Heaven. She
allowed there Was, and ever /had been, little- enjoyment in
this world for her, and she looks, I suppose, to the bliss of
the world to come. So do nuns— with their close cell, their
iron lamp, their robe , 'straight as a shroud, their bed
narrow as a coffin. She says, often, she has no fear of death
— no dread of the grave.: no more, doubtless, had St. Simeon
Stylites, lifted up iierrible on his wild column in the wilder-
ness : no more has the Hindoo votary stretched on his
couch of iron spikes. Both these having violated nature,
theii: natural likings and antipathies are reversed: they

TWO LIVES 401

grow altogether morbid. I do fear death as yet, hilt I
believe it is because I am young : poor Miss Ainley would
cling closer to life, if life had more charms for her. God
surely did not create us, and cause us to Jive, with the sole
end of wishing always to die. I believe in my heart we
were intended to prize life and enjoy it, so long as we retain
it. Existence never was originally meant to be that useless,
blaiik, pale, slow-trailing thing it often becomes to many,
and is becoihing to me among the rest.

' Nobody,' she went on — ' nobody in particular is to
blame, that I can see, for the state in which things are :
and I cannot tell, however much I puzzle over it, how they
are to be altered for the better ; but I feel'there is something
wrong somewhere. I believe , single women should have
more to do — better chances Of interesting and profitable
occupation than they^ possess now. And when I speak thus,
I have no impression that I displease God by my words :
that I am either impious or impatient, irreligious or sacri-
legious. My consolation is, indeed, that God hears many a
groan, and compassionates much grief which man stops his
ears against, or frowns on with impotent contempt. I say
impotent, for I observe that to such grievances as society
cannot readily cure, it usually forbids utterance, on pain of
its scorn : this scorn being only a sort of tinselled cloak to
its deformed weakness. . People hate to be reminded of ills
they are unable or unwilling to remedy : such reminder, in
forcing on them a sense of their own incapacity, or a more
painful sense of an obligation to make some unpleasant
effort, troubles their ease and shakes their self-complacency.
Old maids, like the houseless and unemployed poor, should
not ask for a place and an occupation in the world : the
demand disturbs the happy and rich-: it disturbs parents.
Look at the numerous families of girls in this neighbour-
hood : the Armitages, the Birtwhistles, the Sykeses. The
brothers of these girls are every one in business or in pro-
fessions ; they have something to do : their sisters have
no earthly employment, but household work and sewing;

402 SHIELEY

no earthly pleasure, but an unprofitable visiting ; and no
hope, in all their life to come, of anything better. This
stagnant state of things makes them decline in health : they
are never well ; and their minds and views shrink to wondrous
narrovraess. The great wish — the sole aim of every one of
them is to be married, but the majority will never marry :
they vrill die as they now live. They scheme, they plot,
they dress to ensnare husbands. The gentlemen turn them
into ridicule : they don't want them ; they hold them very
cheap : they say — I have heard them say it with sneering
laughs many a time — the matrimonial market is overstocked.
Fathers say so likewise, and are angry with their daughters
when they observe their manoeuvres : they order them to
stay at home. What do they expect them to do at home ?
If you ask, they would answer, sew and cook. They expect
them to do this, and this only, contentedly, regularly,
uncomplainingly all their lives long, as if they had no germs
of faculties for anything else : a doctrine as reasonable to
hold, as it would be that the fathers have no faculties but
for eating what their daughters cook, or for wearing what
they sew. Could men live so themselves ? Would they not
be very weary ? And, when there came no relief to their
weariness, but only reproaches at its slightest manifesta-
tion, would not their weariness ferment in time to frenzy.
Lucretia, spinning at midnight in the midst of her maidens,
and Solomon's virtuous woman, are often quoted as patterns
of what " the sex " (as they say) ought to be. I don't know :
Lucretia, I daresay, was a most worthy sort of person, much
like my cousin Hortense Moore ; but she kept her servants
up very late. I should not have liked to be amongst the
number of the maidens. Hortense would just work me and
Sarah in that fashion, if she could, and neither of us would
bear it. The " virtuous woman," again, had her household
up in the very middle of the night; she "got breakfast
over " (as Mrs. Sykes says) before one o'clock a.m. ; but she
had something more to do than spin and give out portions :
she w?^s a rnanufaetufer— she made fine Un^n and S9ld it ;

TWO LIVES 403

she was an agriculturist— she bought estates and planted
vineyards. That woman was a manager : she was what the
matrons hereabouts call " a clever woman." On the whole,
I like her a good deal better than Lucretia ; but I don't
believe either Mr. Armitage or Mr. Sykes could have got
the advantage of her in a bargain : yet I like her. " Strength
and honour were her clothing : the heart of her husband
safely trusted in her. She opened her mouth with wisdom ;
in her tongue was the law of kindness : her children rose up
and called her blessed; her husband also praised her.''
King of Israel ! your model of a woman is a worthy model !
But are we, in these days, brought up to be hke her ? Men
of Yorkshire ! do your daughters reach this royal standard ?
Can they reach it ? Can you help them to reach it ? Can
you give them a field in which their faculties may be
exercised and grow ? Men of England ! look at your poor
girls, many of them fading around you, dropping off in con-
sumption or decline ; or, what is worse, degenerating to
sour old maids, — envious, backbiting, wretched, because hfe
is a desert to them; or, what is worst of all, reduced to
strive, by scarce modest coquetry and debasing artifice, to
gain that position and consideration by marriage, which to
celibacy is denied. Fathers ! cannot you alter these things ?
Perhaps not aU at once ; but consider the matter well when
it is brought before you, receive it as a theme worthy of
thought : do not dismiss it with an idle jest or an unmanly
insult. You would wish to be proud of your daughters and
not to blush for them — then seek for them an interest and
an occupation which shall raise them above the flirt, the
mancEuvrer, the mischief-making tale-bearer. Keep your
girls' minds narrow and fettered— they will still be a plague
and a care, sometimes a disgrace to you : cultivate them —
give them scope and work — they will be your gayest com-
panions in health ; your tenderest nurses in sickness ; your
most faithful props in age.'

CHAPTEE XXIII

AN EVENING OUT

One fine summer day. that Caroline had spent entirely alone
(her uncle being at Whinbury), and whose, long, bright,
noiseless, breezejess,, cloudless hours (how many, they
seemed since siinris^ !) had been to her as desolate as if
they had gone over her h^a4 ip the shadowless and trackless
wastes of Zahara, instead of .in the blooming garden of an
English home, sh'e was sitting in the alcove,^her task of
Work on her knee, her fingers assiduously plying the needle,
her eyes following and regulating their movements, her
brain working restlessly,— when Eanny came to, the door,
looked round over the lawn and borders, and not seeing her
whom she sought, called out,^' Miss Caroline ! '

A low voice answered — ' Panny ! ' It issued from the
alcove, and thither Eanny hastened — a note in. her hand,
which she delivered to fingers that hardly seemed to have
nerve to hold it. Miss Helstone did not ask whence it came,
and she did not look at it : .she let it drop amongst the folds
of her work.

' Joe Soott'g spn, Harry, brought it,' said Fanny.

The girl was no enchantress, and knew no magic-spell,
yet what she said took almost, magical effect on her yotmg
mistress : she lifted her head with the quick motion of revived
sensation ;"she sliot — not a languid,but a life-like, question-^,
ing glance at Fanny.

' Harry Scott I Who sent him ? '

' He came from the Hollow.'

AN EVENING OUT 406

The dropped note was snatched up eagerly — the seal
was broken : it was read in two seconds. An affectionate
billet from Hortense, informing her young cousin that she
was returned from Wormwood Wells ; that she was alone
to-day, as Eobert was gone to Whinbury market; that
nothing would give her greater pleasure than to have
CaroKne's company to tea ; and— the good lady added — she
was sure such a change would be most acceptable and
beneficial to Caroline, who must be sadly at a loss both for
safe guidance and improving society since the misunder-
standing between Eobert and Mr. Helstone had occasioned
a separation from her 'meilleure amie, Hortense G6rard
Moore.' In a postscript, she was urged to put on her bonnet
and run down directly.

Caroline did not need the injunction : glad was she to
lay by the child's brown hoUand slip she was trimming with
braid for the Jews' basket, to hasten up-stairs; cover her
curls with her straw bonnet, and throw round her shoulders
the black silk scarf, whose simple drapery- suited as well her
shape as its dark hue set off the purity of her. dress and the
fairness of her face ; glad was she to escape for a few hours
the soUtude, the sadness, the nightmare of her life ; glad to
run down the green lane sloping to the Hollow, to scent the
fragrance of hedge-flowers sweeter than the perfume of moss-
rose or lily. True, she knew Eobert was not at the cottage ;
but it was delight to go where he had lately been : so long,
so totally separated from him, merely to. see his home, to
enter the room where he had that morning sat, felt like a
reunion. As such it revived her; and then Illusion was
again following her in Perimask : the soft agitation of wings
caressed her cheek, and the air, breathing from the blue
summer sky, bore a voice which whispered—' Eobert may
come home while you are in his house ; and then, at least,
you may look in his face — at least, you may give him your
hand ; perhaps, for a minute, you may sit beside him.'

' Silence ! ' was her austere response : but she loved the
comforter and the consolation.

m SHlULfit

Miss Moore probably caught from the -window the gleam
and flutter of Caroline's white attire through the branchy
garden-shrubs, for she advanced from the cottage-porch to
meet her. Straight, unbending, phlegmatic as usual, she
came on : no haste or ecstacy was ever permitted to disorder
the dignity of her movements ; but she smiled, well pleased
to mark the delight of her pupil, to feel her kiss, and the
gentle, genial strain of her embrace. She led her tenderly
in — half deceived and whoUy flattered. Half deceived ! had
it not been so, she would in aU probabihty have put her to
the wicket, and shut her out. Had she known clearly to
whose account the chief share of this child-like joy was to be
placed, Hortense woidd most likely have felt both shocked
and incensed. Sisters do not like young ladies to fall in
love with their brothers : it seems, if not presumptuous,
silly, weak, a delusion, an absurd mistake. They do not
love these gentlemen — whatever sisterly affection they may
cherish towards them — and that others should, repels them
with a sense of crude romance. The first movement, in
short, excited by such discovery (as with many parents on
finding their children to be in love), is one of mixed
impatience and contempt. Eeason— if they be rational
people — corrects the false feeUng in time ; but if they be
irrational, it is never corrected, and the daughter or sister-
in-law is disUked to the end.

' You would expect to find me alone, from what I said in
my note,' observed Miss Moore, as she conducted Caroline
towards the parlour ; but it was vwitten this morning : since
dinner, company has come in.'

And, opening the door, she made visible an ample spread
of crimson skirts overflowing the elbow-chair at the fireside,
and above them, presiding with dignity, a cap more awful
than a crown. That cap had never come to the cottage
under a bonnet : no, it had been brought, in a vast bag,
or rather a middle-sized balloon of black silk, held wide
with whalebone. The screed, or frill of the cap, stood a
quarter of a yard broad round the face of the wearer : the

AN EVENING OUT 407

ribbon, flourishing in puffs and bows about the head, was of
the sort called love-ribbon : there was a good deal of it, — I
may say, a very great deal. Mrs. Yorke wore the cap — it
became her : she wore the gown also — it suited her no less.

That great lady was come in a friendly way to take tea
with Miss Moore. It was almost as great and as rare a
favour as if the Queen were to go uninvited to share pot-luck
vrith one of her subjects : a higher mark of distinction she
could not show, — she who, in general, scorned visiting and
tea-drinking, and held cheap, and stigmatised as ' gossips,'
every maid and matron of the vicinage.

There was no mistake, however; Miss Moore was a
favourite with her : she had evinced the fact more than
once ; evinced it by stopping to speak to her in the church-
yard on Sundays ; by inviting her, almost hospitably, to
come to Briarmains ; evinced it to-day by the grand conde-
scension of a personal visit. Her reasons for the preference,
as assigned by herself, were, that Miss Moore was a
woman of steady deportment, without the least levity of
conversation or carriage ; also, that, being a foreigner, she
must feel the want of a friend to countenance her. She
might have added, that her plain aspect, homely precise
dress, and phlegmatic unattractive manner were, to her,
so many additional recommendations. It is certain, at
least, that ladies remarkable for the opposite quahties of
beauty, lively bearing, and elegant taste in attire, were not
often favoured with her approbation. Whatever gentlemen
are apt to admire in women, Mrs. Yorke condemned ; and
what they overlook or despise, she patronised.

Carohne advanced to the mighty matron with some
sense of diffidence : she knew little of Mrs. Yorke ; and, as
a parson's niece, was doubtful what sort of a reception she
might get. She got a very cool one, and was glad to hide
her discomfiture by turning away to take off her bonnet.
Nor, upon sitting dovra, was she displeased to be im-
mediately accosted by a little personage in a blue frock and
sash, who started up like some fairy from the side of the

408 SHIELEY

great dame's chair, where she had been sitting on a foot-
stool, screened from view by the folds of the wide red gown,
and running to Miss Helstone, unceremoniously threw her
arms round her neck and demanded a kiss.

' My mother is not civil to you,' said the petitioner, as
she received and repaid a smiling salute ; ' and Eose, there,
takes no notice of you : it is their way. If, instead of you,
a white angel, vnih a crown of stars, had come into the
room, mother would nod stiffly, and Eose never lift her
head at all ; but I will be your friend : I have always liked
you ! '

'Jessie, curb that tongue of yours, and repress your
forwardness ! ' said Mrs. Yorke.

' But, mother, you are so frozen ! ' expostulated Jessie.
' Miss Helstone has never done you any harm : why can't
you be kind to her ? You sit so stifif, and look so cold, and'
speak so dry — what for ? That's just the fashion in which
you treat Miss Shirley Keeldar, and every other young lady
who comes to our house. And Eose, there, is such an aut—

aut I have forgotten the word, but it means a machine

in the shape of a human being. However, between you, you
will drive every soul away from Briarmains — Martin ofteii
says so ! '

' I am an automaton ? Good ! Let me alone then,' said
Eose, speaking from a corner where she was sitting on the
carpet at the foot of a bookcase, with a volume spread open
on her knee. ' Miss Helstone — how do you do ? ' she added,
directing a brief glance to the person addressed, and then
again casting down her gray, remarkable eyes on the book,
and returning to the study of its pages.

Caroline stole a quiet gaze towards her, dwelling on her
young, absorbed countenance;- and observing a certain
unconscious movement of the mouth as she read — a move-
ment full of character. Caroline had tact; and she had fine
instinct : she felt that Eose Yorke was a peculiar child— one
of the unique; she knew how to treat her. Approaching
quietly, she knelt on the carpet at her side, and looked over

AN EVENING OUT 409

her little shoulder at her book. It was a romance of Mrs.
Badcliffe's — The Italian.

CaroUne read on with her, making no remark : presently
Eose showed her the attention of asking, ere she turned a
leaf — ' Are you ready ? '

Caroline only nodded.

' Do you like it ? ' inquired Eose,, etelong.

' Long since, when I read it as a child, I was wonderfully
taken with it.'

'Why?'

' It seemed to open with such promise — such foreboding
of a most strangle tale to be unfolded,.'

' And in reading it, you feel as if you were far away from
England — really in Italy — under another sort of sky — that
blue sky of the south which travellers describe.'

' You are sensible of that, Eose ? ! ' ,

' It makes me long to travel, Miss Helstone.'

' When you are a woman, perhaps, you may be able to
gratify your wish.'

' I mean to rnake a way to do so, if one is not made for
me. I cannot live always in Briarfield. The whole world
is not very large compared with creation : I must see the
outside of our own round planet at least.'

' How much of its outside ? ' '

' First this hemisphere where we live ; then the other.
I am resolved that my life shall be a life : not a black trance
like the toad's, buried in marble ; nor a long, slow death like
yours in Briarfield Eectory.'

' Like mine ! What can you mean, child ? '

' Might you not as well be tediously dying, as for ever
shut up in that glebe-house — a place that, when I pass it,
always reminds me of a windowed grave ? I never see any
movement about the door : I never hear a sound from the
wall : I believe smoke never issues from the chimneys.
What do you do there ? '

' I sew, I read, I learn lessons.'

■ Are you happy ? '

410 SHlRLEt

' Should I be happier wandering alone in strange countries
as you wish to do ? '

'Much happier, even if you did nothing but wander.
Eemember, however, that I shall have an object in view :
but if you only went on and on, like some enchanted lady in
a fairy tale, you might be happier than noT?. In a day's
wandering, you would pass many a hill, wood, and water-
course, each perpetually altering in aspect as the sun shone
out or was overcast ; as the weather was wet or fair, dark
or bright. Nothing changes in Briarfield Eectory : the
plaster of the parlour-ceihngs, the paper on the walls, the
curtains, carpets, chairs, are still the same.'

' Is change necessary to happiness ? '

' Yes.'

' Is it synonymous with it ? '

' I don't know ; but I feel monotony and death to be
almost the same.'

Here Jessie spoke.

' Isn't she mad ? ' she asked.

' But, Eose,' pursued Caroline, ' I fear a wanderer's life,
for me at least, would end like that tale you are reading — in
disappointment, vanity, and vexation of spirit.'

' Does The Italian so end ? '

' I thought so when I read it.'

' Better to try all things and find all empty, than to try
nothing and leave your life a blank. To do this is to
commit the sin of him who buried his talent in a napkin —
despicable sluggard I '

' Eose,' observed Mrs. Yorke, " soUd satisfaction is only to
be realized by doing one's duty.'

' Eight, mother ! And if my Master has given me ten
talents, my duty is to trade with them, and make them ten
talents more. Not in the dust of household drawers shall
the coin be interred. I will not deposit it in a broken-spouted
teapot, and shut it up in a china-closet among tea-things.
I will not commit it to your work-table to be smothered in
piles of woollen hose. I will not prison it in the linen-press

AN EVENING OUT 411

to find shrouds among the sheets : and least of all, mother '
— (she got up from the floor) — ' least of all will I hide it in a
tureen of cold potatoes, to be ranged with bread, butter,
pastry, and ham on the shelves of the larder.'

She stopped — then went on : — ' Mother, the Lord who
gave each of us our talents will come home some day, and
will demand from all an account. The teapot, the old
stocking-foot, the linen rag, the willow-pattern tureen, will
yield up their barren deposit in many a house : suffer your
daughters, at least, to put their money to the exchangers, that
they may be enabled at the Master's coming to pay him his
own with usury.'

' Eose, did you bring your sampler with you, as I told
you?'

' Yes, mother.'

' Sit down, and do a line of marking.*

Eose sat down promptly, and wrought according to orders.
After a busy pause of ten minutes, her mother asked — ' Do
you think yourself oppressed now ? A victim ? '

' No, mother.'

' Yet, as far as I understand your tirade, it was a protest
against all womanly and domestic employment.'

' You misunderstood it, mother. I should be sorry not
to learn to sew : you do right to teach me, and to make me
work.'

' Even to the mending of your brother's stockings and the
making of sheets.'

' Yes.'

' Where is the use of ranting and spouting about it
then?'

' Am I to do nothing but that ? I vrill do that, and then I
will do more. Now, mother, I have said my say. I am
twelve' years old at present, and not till I am sixteen will I
speak again about talents : for four years, I bind myself an
industrious apprentice to all you can teach me.'

' You see what my daughters are. Miss Helstone,' observed
Mrs- Yoj-ke : ' bow precociously wise in their owp coppeits !

412 SHIELEY

" I would rather this — I prefer that ; " such is Jessie's cuckoo
song : while Rose utters the bolder cry, " I will, and I will
not I'"

' I render a reason, mother : besides, if my cry is bold, it
is only heard once in a twelvemonth. About each birthday,
the spirit moves me to dehver one oracle respecting my own
instruction and management : I utter it and leave it ; it is
for you, mother, to listen or not.'

' I would advise all young ladies,' pursued Mrs. Yorke, ' to
study the characters of such children as they chance to meet
with, before they marry, and have any of their own ; to
consider well how they would like the responsibility of guid-
ing the careleps, the labour of persuading the stubborn, the
constant burden and task of training the best.'

' But with love it need not be so very difficult,' inter-
posed Caroline. ' Motheirs love their children most dearly —
almost better than they love themselves.'

' Eine talk ! Very sentimental ! There is the rough,
practical part of life yet to come for you, young Miss ! '

' But, Mrs. Yorke, if I take a little baby into my arms —
anypoor woman's infant for instance, — ^I feel that I love that
helpless thing quite peculiarly, though I am not its mother.
I could do almost anything for it vyiUingly, if it were de-
livered over entirely to my care — ^if it were quite dependent
on me.'

'YovLfeetl Yes! yes! I daresay, now: you are led a
great deal by your feelings, and you think yourself a very
sensitive, refined personage, no doubt. Are you aware that,
vrith all these romantic ideas,. you have managed to train
your features into an habitually lackadaisical expression,
better suited to a novel-heroine than to a woman who is to
make her way in the real world, by dint of common sense ? '

' No ; I am not at all aware of that, Mrs. Yorke.' "

' Look in the glass just behind you. Compare the face
you see there with that of any early-rising, hard-working
milkmaid.'

' My face is a pale one, but it is not sentimental, and most

AN. EVENING OUT 413

milkmaids, however red and robust they may be, are
more stupid and less practically fitted to make their way in
the world than I am. I think more and more correctly
than milkmaids in general do ; consequently, where they
would often, for want of reflection, act weakly, I, by dint of
reflection, should act judiciously.'

' Oh, no I you would be influenced by your feelings. You
would be guided by impulse.'

' Of course, I should often be influenced by my feelings :
they were given me to that end. Whom my feelings teach
me to love, I must and shall love ; and I hope, if ever I have
a husband and children, my feelings wiU induce me to love
them. I hope, in that case, all my impulses will be strong
in compelling me to love.'

CaroUne had a pleasure in saying this with emphasis :
she had a pleasure in daring to say it in Mrs. Yorke's presence.
She did not care what unjust sarcasm might be hurled at her
in reply : she flushed, not with anger, but excitement, when
the ungenial matron answered, cooUy, — ' Don't waste youi*
dramatic efiects. That was well said, — it was quite fine ; but
it is lost on two women — an old wife and an old maid : there
should have been a disengaged gentleman present. Is Mr.
Eobert nowhere hid behind the curtains, do you think Miss
• Moore? '

Hortense, who during the chief part of the conversa-
tion had been in the kitchen superintending the preparations
for tea, did not yet quite comprehend the drift of the dis-
course. She answered, with a puzzled air, that Eobert was
at Whinbury. Mrs. Yorke laughed her own peculiar short
laugh.

'Straightforward Miss Moore I' said she patronizingly.
' It is like you to understand my question so literally, and
answer it so simply. Ycywr mind comprehends nothing of
intrigue. Strange things might go on around you without
your being the wiser : you are not of the class the world calls
sharp-witted.'

These equivocal compliments did not seem to please

iu mmhM

Hortense. She drew herself up, puckered her black eyebrows,
but still looked puzzled.

' I have ever been noted for sagacity and discernment from
childhood,' she returned : for, indeed, on the possession of
these qualities, she peculiarly piqued herself.

' You never plotted to win a husband, I'll be bound,'
pursued Mrs. Yorke ; and you have not the benefit of pre-
vious experience to aid you in discovering when others plot.'

Caroline felt this kind language where the benevolent
speaker intended she should feel it — in her very heart. She
could not even parry the shafts : she was defenceless for the
present : to answer wordd have been to avow that the cap
fittied. Mrs. Yorke, looking at her as she sat with troubled
downcast eyes, and cheek burning painfully, and figure
expressing in its bent attitude and unconscious tremor all the
humiliation and chagrin she experienced, felt the sufferer
was fair game. The strange woman had a natural antipathy
to a shrinking, sensitive character — a nervous temperament :
nor was a pretty, delicate, and youthful face a passport to her
affections. It was seldom she met with all these obnoxious
qualities combined in one individual : still more seldom she
found that individual at her mercy, under circumstances in
which she could crush her well. She happened, this after-
noon, to be specially bilious and morose : as much disposed '
to gore as any vicious " mother of the herd : " lowering her
large head, she made a new charge.

' Your cousin Hortense is an excellent sister, Miss Hel-
stone : such ladies as come to try their Ufe's luck here, at
Hollow's cottage, may, by a very little clever female artifice,
cajole the mistress of the house, and have the game all in
their own hands. You are fond of your cousin's society, I
dare say, Miss ? '

' Of which cousin's ? '

' Oh, of the lady's, of course.'

' Hortense is, and always has been, most kind to me.'

' Every sister, with an eligible single brother, is considered
most kind by her spinster friends.'

AN EVENING OUT 415

' Mrs. Yorke,' said Caroline, lifting her eyes slowly, their
blue orbs at the same time clearing from trouble, and shining
steady and full, while the glow of shame left her cheek, and
its hue turned pale and settled : Mrs. Yorke, may I ask what
you mean ? '

' To give you a lesson on the cultivation of rectitude : to
disgust you with craft and false sentiment.'

' Do I need this lesson ? '

' Most young ladies of the present day need it. You are
quite a modern young lady — morbid, delicate, professing to
like retirement ; which implies, I suppose, that you find little
worthy of your sympathies in the ordinary world. The
ordinary world — every-day, honest folks — are better than you
think them : much better than any bookish, romancing chit
of a girl can be, who hardly ever puts her nose over her uncle,
the parson's, garden-wall.'

'Consequently, of whom you know nothing. Excuse
me, — indeed, it does not matter whether you excuse me or
not — you have attacked me without provocation : I shall
defend myself without apology. Of my relations with my
two cousins, you are ignorant: in a fit of ill-humour you
have attempted to poison them by gratuitous insinuations,
which are far more crafty and false than anything with
which you can justly charge me. That I happen to be pale,
and sometimes to look diffident, is no business of yours.
That I am fond of books, and indisposed for common gossip,
is still less your business. That I am a " romancing chit of
a girl," is a mere conjecture on your part : I never romanced
to you, nor to anybody you know. That I am the parson's
niece is not a crime, though you may be narrow-minded
enough to think it so. You dislike me : you have no just
reason for disliking me; therefore keep the expression of
your aversion to yourself. If at any time, in future, you
evince it annoyingly, I shall answer even less scrupulously
than I have done now.'

She ceased, and sat in white and still excitement. She
had spoken in the clearest of tones, neither fast nor loud ;

416 SHIELEY

but her silver accents thrilled the ear. The speed of the
current in her veins was just then as swift as it was
viewless.

Mrs. Yorke was not irritated at the reproof, worded with
a severity so simple, dictated by a pride so quiet. Turning
coolly to Miss Moore, she said, nodding her cap approvingly
— ' She has spirit in her, after all. Always speak as
honestly as you have done just now,' she continued, ' and
you'll do.'

' I repel a recommendation so offensive,' was the answer,
delivered in the same pure key, with the same clear look,
' I reject counsel poisoned by insinuation. It is my right to
speak as I think proper : nothing binds me to converse as
you dictate. So far from always speaking as I have done
just now, I shall never address any one in a tone so stern,
or in language so harsh, unless in answer to unprovoked
insult.'

' Mother, you have found your match,' pronounced little
Jessie, whom the scene appeared greatly to edify.

Eose had heard the whole with an unmoved face. She
now said, — ' No : Miss Helstone is not my mother's match
— for she allows herself to be vexed : my mother would
wear her out in a few weeks. Shirley Keeldar manages
better. Mother, you have never hurt Miss Keeldar's
feelings yet. She wears armour under her silk dress that
you cannot penetrate.'

Mrs. Yorke often complained that her children were
mutinous. It was strange, that with all her strictness, with
all her ' strong-mindedness,' she could gain no command
over them : a look from their father had more influence with
them than a lecture from her.

Miss Moore — to whom the position of witness to an
altercation in which she took no part was highly displeas;
ing, as being an unimportant secondary post — now, rallying
her dignity, prepared to utter a discourse which was to
prove both parties in the wrong, and to make it clear to
each disputant that she had reason to be ashamed of herself.

AN EVENING OUT 417

and ought to submit humbly to the superior sense of the
individual then addressing her. Fortunately for her
audience, she had not harangued above ten rriinutes, when
Sarah's entrance with the tea-tray (jailed her attention, first,
to the fact of that damsel having, a gilt comb in her hair,
and a red necklace round her throat, and secondly, and
subsequently to a pointed remonstrance, to the duty of
making tea. After the meal, Eose restored her to good
humour by bringing her guitar and asking for a song, and
afterwards engaging her in an intelUgent and sharp cross-
examination about guitar-playing and music in general.

Jessie, meantime, directed her assiduities to Caroline.
Sitting on a stool at her feet, she talked to her, first
about teligion, and then about politics. Jessie was accus-
tomed at home to drink in a great deal of what her father
said on these subjects, and aftetw'ards in company to retail,
with more wit and fluency than consistency or discretion,
his opinions, antipathies, and preferences. She rated
Caroline soundly for being a member of the Established
Church, and for having an uncle a clergyman. She informed
her that she lived on the country, and ought to work for her
living honestly, instead of passing a useless life, and eating
the bread of idleness in the shape of tithes. Thence Jessie
passed to a review of the Ministry at that time in office, and a
consideration of its deserts. She made familiar mention of
the names of Lord Castlereagh and Mr. Perceval. Each of
these personages she adorned with a character that might
have separately suited Moloch and Belial. She denounced
the war as wholesale murder, and Lord Wellington as a
' hired butcher.'

Her auditress listened with exceeding edification. Jessie
had something of the genius of humour in her nature : it
was inexpressibly comic to hear her repeating her sire's
denunciations in her nervous northern Doric ; as hearty a
little Jacobin as ever pent a free mutinous spirit in a muslin
frock and sash. Not malignant by nature, her language
was not so bitter as it was racy, and the expressive little

418 SHIELEY

face gave a piquancy to every phrase which held a beholder's
interest captive.

Caroline chid her when she abused Lord WelUngton ;
but she listened delighted to a subsequent tirade against the
Prince Eegent. Jessie quickly read in the sparkle of her
hearer's eye, and the laughter hovering round her lips, that
at last she had hit on a topic that pleased. Many a time
had she heard the fat ' Adonis of fifty ' discussed at her
father's breakfast-table, and she now gave Mr. Yorke's
comments on the theme — genuine as uttered by his York-
shire lips.

But, Jessie, I will write about you no more. This is an
autumn evening, wet and wild. There is only one cloud in
the sky; but it curtains it from pole to pole. The wind
cannot rest : it hurries sobbing over hills of sullen outline,
colourless with twilight and mist. Bain has beat all day on
that church tower : it rises dark from the stony enclosure of
its graveyard : the nettles, the long grass, and the tombs aU
drip with wet. This evening reminds me too forcibly of
another evening some years ago : a howling, rainy autumn
evening too — when certain who had that day performed a
pilgrimage to a grave new-made in a heretic cemetery, sat
near a wood-fire on the hearth of a foreign dwelling. They
were merry and social, but they each knew that a gap, never
to be filled, had been made in their circle. They knew they
had lost something whose absence could never be quite
atoned for so long as they lived : and they knew that heavy
falling rain was soaking into the wet earth which covered
their lost darling ; and that the sad, sighing gale was
mourning above her buried head. The fire warmed them ;
Life and Friendship yet blessed them ; but Jessie lay cold,
coffined, solitary — only the sod screening her from the
storm.

Mrs. Yorke folded up her knitting, cut short the music-
lesson and the lecture on politics, and concluded her visit to

AN EVENING OUT 419

the cottage, at an hour early enough to ensure her return to
Briarmains before the blush of sunset should quite have
faded in heaven, or the path up the fields have become
thoroughly moist with evening dew.

The lady and her daughters being gone, Caroline felt
that she also ought to resume her scarf, kiss her cousin's
cheek, and trip away homeward. If she lingered much
later, dusk would draw on, and Fanny would be put to the
trouble of coming to fetch her : it was both baking and
ironing-day at the Rectory, she remembered — Fanny would
be busy. Still, she could not quit her seat at the little parlour-
window. From no point of view could the West look so
lovely as from that lattice with the garland of jessamine
round it, whose white stars and green leaves seemed now
but gray pencil outlines — graceful in form, but colourless in
tint — against the gold incarnadined of a summer evening —
against the fire-tinged blue of an August sky, at eight
o'clock P.M.

Caroline looked at the wicket-gate, beside which holly-
hocks spired up tall ; she looked at the close hedge of privet
and laurel fencing in the garden ; her eyes longed to see
something more than the shrubs, before they turned from
that limited prospect : they longed to see a human figure,
of a certain mould and height, pass the hedge and enter the
gate. A human figure she at last saw— nay, two : Frederick
Murgatroyd went by, carrying a pail of water ; Joe Scott
followed, dangling on his forefinger the keys of the mill.
They were going to lock up mill and stables for the night,
and then betake themselves home.

' So must I,' thought Caroline, as she half rose and
sighed.

' This is all folly — heart-breaking folly,' she added. ' In
the first place, though I should stay till dark, there will be
no arrival ; because I feel in my heart. Fate has written it
down in to-day's page of her eternal book, that I am not to
have the pleasure I long for. In the second place, if he
stepped in this moment, my presence here would be a

IS

420 SHIELBY

chagrin to him, and the consciousness that it must be bo
would turn half my blood to ice. His hand would, perhaps,
be loose and chill, if I put mine into it : his eye Would be
clouded if I sought its beam. I should look up for that
kindling something I have seen in past days, when my face,
or my language, or my disposition- had at some happy
moment pleased him — I should discover only darkness. I
had better go homev'

She took her bonnet from the table where it laj^i and
was just fastening the ribbon, when Hortense^ directing her
attention to a splendid bouquet of flowers in a glass on the
same table, mentioned that Miss Keeldar had sent them
that morning from Fieldhead; • and went on to comment on
the guests that lady was at present entertaining, on the
bustling life she had lately been leading ; adding divers
conjectures that she did not very well like it, and much
wonderment that a person who was so fond of her own way
as the heiress, did not find some means of sooner getting rid
of this cortege of relatives.

'But they say she actually will noi let Mr. Sympson
and his family go,' she added : ' they wanted much to
return to the south last week, to be ready for the recepfion
of the only son, who is expected home from a tour. She
insists that her cousin Henry shall come and join his friends
herein Yoirkshire. I daresay she partly does it to oblige
Robert and myself.'

' How to oblige Robert and you ? ' inquired Caroline.

' Why, my child, you are dull. !Don't you know— you
must often have heard '

'Please, ma'am,' said Sarah, opening the doof, 'the
preserves that you told me to boil in treacle — the congfiters,
as you call them^is all burnt to the pan.'

' Les confitures ! Elles sont br6l6es ? Ah, quelle
n6gligence coupable ! Coquine de cuisinifere — fille insup-
portable.'

And Mademoiselle, hastily taking from a drawer a large
linen apron, and tying it over her black apron, rushed

AN EVENING OUT 421

' ^perdue ' into the kitchen, whence— to speak truth —
exhaled an odour of calcined sweets rather strong than
savoury.

The mistress and maid had been in full feud the whole
day, on the subject of preserving certain black cherries,
hard as marbles, sour as sloes. Sarah held that sugar was
the only orthodox condiment to be used in that process ;
Mademoiselle maintained— and proved it by the practice
and experience of her mother, grandmother, and great-
grandmother — that treacle, ' m^lasse,' was infinitely prefer-
able. She had committed an imprudence in leaving Sarah
in charge of the preserving-pan, for her want of sympathy
in the nature of its contents had induced a degree of care-
lessness in watching their confection, whereof the result
was^dark and cindery ruin. Hubbub followed : high
upbraiding, and sobs rather loud than deep or real.

Caroline, once more turning to the little mirror, was
shading her ringlets from her cheek to smooth them under
her cottage bonnet, certain that it would not only be iiseless
but unpleasant to stay longer ; when, on the sudden open-
ing of the back-door, there fell an abrupt calm in the
kitchen : the tongues were checked, pulled up as with bit
and bridle. ' Was it — was it — Eobert ? ' He often — almost
always — entered by the kitchen-way on his return from
market. No : it was only Joe Scott, who, having hemmed
significantly thrice^-evefy hem being meaht as a lofty
rebuke' to the squabbling womankind— said, ' Now, I thowt
I heerd a crack?"

None answered.

' And," he continued, pragmatically, ' as t' maister's
comed, and as he'll enter through this hoyle, I considered it
desirable to step in and let ye know. A iousfehold o'
women is nivver fit to be comed on wi'out warning. Here
he is : walk forrard, sir. They war playing up queerly, but
I think I've quieted 'em.'

Another person — it was now audible— entered, Joe
Scott proceeded with his rebukes.

422 SHIELEY

'What d'ye mean by being all i' darkness? Sarah,
thou quean, canst t' not light a candle? It war sundown
an hour syne. He'll brak' his shins agean some o' yer
pots, and tables, and stuff. Tak' tent o' this baking-bowl,
sir ; they've set it i' yer way, fair as if they did it i'
malice.'

To Joe's observations succeeded a confused sort of
pause, which Caroline, though she was listening with both
her ears, could not understand. It was very brief : a cry
broke it — a sound of surprise,, folio wed by the sound of a
kiss : ejaculations, but half articulate, succeeded.

' Mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! Est-ce que je m'y attendais ? '
were the words chiefly to be distinguished.

' Et tu te portes toujours bien, bonne soeur ? ' inquired
another voice — Eobert's, certainly.

Caroline was puzzled. Ob^ing an impulse, the wisdom
of which she had not time to question, she escaped from the
little parlour, by way of leaving the coast clear, and running
upstairs took up a position at the head of the banisters,
whence she could make further observations ere presenting
herself. It was considerably past sunset now : dusk filled
the passage, yet not such deep dusk but that she could
presently see Eobert and Hortense traverse it.

' Caroline ! Caroline ! ' called Hortense, a moment after-
wards, ' venez voir mon frfere ! '

' Strange 1 ' commented Miss Helstone, ' passing
strange ! What does this unwonted excitement about such
an everyday occurrence as a return from market portend ?
She has not lost her senses, has she ? Surely the burnt
treacle has not crazed her ? '

She descended in a subdued flutter : yet more was she
fluttered when Hortense seized her hand at the parlour-
door, and leading her to Eobert, who stood in bodily
presence, tall and dark against the one window, presented
her with a mixture of agitation and formality, as though they
had been utter strangers, and this was their first mutual
introduction.

AN EVENING OUT 453

Increasing puzzle ! He bowed rather awkwardly, and
turning from her with a stranger's embarrassment, he met
the doubtful light from a window : it fell on his face, and
the enigma of the dream (a dream it seemed) was at its
height : she saw a visage Uke and unlike — Eobert, and no
Eobert.

' What is the matter ? ' said Caroline. ' Is my sight
wrong ? Is it my cousin ? '

' Certainly, it is your cousin,' asserted Hortense.

Then who was this now coming through the passage, — now
entering the room ? CaroUne, looking round, met a new
Eobert, — the real Eobert, as she felt at once.

' Well,' said he, smiling at her questioning, astonished
face, which is which ? '

' Ah ! this is you ! ' was the answer.

He laughed. ' I believe it is Twe ; and do you know who
he is? You never saw him before ; but you have heard of
him.'

She had gathered her senses now.

' It can be only one person : your brother, since it is so
like you : my other cousin, Louis.'

• Clever little CBdipus I — you would have baflBed the
Sphinx ! — but now, see us together. Change places.
Change again, to confuse her, Louis. — Which is the old love
now, Lina ? '

' As if it were possible to make a mistake when you
speak ! You should have told Hortense to ask. But you
are not so much alike : it is only your height, your figure,
and complexion that are so similar.'

' And I am Eobert, am I not ? ' asked the new comer,
making a first effort to overcome what seemed his natural
shyness.

Caroline shook her head gently. A soft, expressive
ray from her eye beamed on the real Eobert : it said
much.

She was not permitted to quit her cousins soon : Eobert
himself was peremptory in obliging her to remain. Glad,

424 - SfllELEY

simple, and affable in her demeanour (glad for this night, at
least), in light, bright spirits for the time, she was too
pleasant an addition to the cottage circle to be willingly
parted with by any of them. Louis seemed naturally rather
a grave, still, retiring man, but the CaroUne of this evening,
which was not (as you know, reader) the Caroline of evfery
day, thawed his reserve, and cheered his gravity soon. He
sat near her, and talked to her. She already knew his
vocation was that of tuition ; she learned now he had for
some years been the tutor of Mr. Sympson's son ; that he
had been travelling with him, and had accompanied him to
the north. She inquired if he liked his post, but got a look
in reply which did not invite or license further question.
The look woke CaroUne's ready sympathy : she thought it a
very sad expression to pass over so sensible a face as
Louis's ; for he had a sensible face, — though not handsome,
she considered, when seen near Eobert's. She turned to
make the comparison. Eobert was leaning against the wall,
a little behind her, turning over the leaves of a book of
engravings, and probably listening, at the same time, to the
dialogue between her and Louis.

' How could I think them alike ? ' she asked herself :
' I see now it is Hortense, Louis resembles, not Eobert.'

And this was in part true : he had the shorter nose and
longer upper-lip of his sister, rather than the fine traits of
his brother : he had her mould of mouth and chin — all less
decisive, accurate, and clear than those of the young mill-
owner. His air, though dehberate and reflective, could
scarcely be called prompt and acute. You felt, in sitting
near and lookihg up at him, that a slower and probably a
more benignant nature than that of the elder Moore shed
calm on your impressions.

Eobert — perhaps aware that Caroline's glance had
wandered towards and dwelt upon him, though he had
neither met nor answered it — put down the book of engrav-
ings, and approaching, took a seat at her side. She resumed
her conversation with Louis, but, while she talked to him,

AN EVENING OUT 425

her thoughts were elsewhere : her heart beat on the side
from which her face was half-averted. She acknowledged
a steady, manly, kindly air in Louis ; but she bent before
the secret power of Eobert. To be so near him— though he
was silent — i^ough he did not touch so much as her scarf-
fringe, or the white hem of her dress — affected her like a
spell. Had she been obliged to speak to him only, it would
have quelled — but, at liberty to address another, it excited
her. Her discourse flowed freely : it was gay, playful,
eloquent. The indulgent look and placid manner of her
auditor encouraged her to ease ; the sober pleasure expressed
by his smile drew out all that was brilliant in her nature.
She felt that this evening she appeared to advantage, and,
as Eobert was a spectator, the consciousness contented her :
had he been called away, collapse would at once have
succeeded stimulus.

But her enjoyment was not long to shine full-orbed : a
cloud soon crossed it.

Hortense, who for some time had been on the move
ordering supper, and was now clearing the little table of
some books, &c., to make room for the tray, called Eobert's
attention to the glass of flowers, the carmine, and snow,
and gold of whose petals looked radiant indeed by candle-
light.

' They came from Pieldhead,' she said, ' intended as a
gift to you, no doubt : we know who is the favourite there —
not I, I'm sure.'

It was a wonder to hear Hortense jest ; a sign that her
spirits were at high-water mark indeed.

' We are to understand, then, that Eobert is the
favourite ? ' observed Louis.

' Mon cher,' replied Hortsnse, ' Eobert — c'est tout ce
qu'il y a de plus pr^cieux au monde : k c6t6 de lui, le reste
du genre humain n'est que du rebut. N'ai-je pas raison,
mon enfant ? ' she added, appealing to Caroline.

Caroline was obliged to reply, ' Yes ' — and her beacon
was quenched ; her star withdrew as she spoke.

426 SHIELEY

' Et toi, Eobert ? ' inquired Louis.

' When you shall have an opportunity, ask herself,' was
the quiet answer. Whether he reddened or paled Caroline
did not examine : she discovered it was late, and she must
go home. Home she would go: not even Bobert could
detain her now.

CHAPTEE XXIV

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH

The future sometimes seems to sob a low warning of the
events it is bringing us, like some gathering though yet
remote storm, which, in tones of the wind, in flushings of
the firmament, in clouds strangely torn, announces a blast
strong to strew the sea with wrecks ; or commissioned to
bring in fog the yellow taint of pestilence, covering white
Western isles with the poisoned exhalations of the East,
dimming the lattices of English homes with the breath of
Indian plague. At other times this Future bursts suddenly,
as if a rock had rent, and in it a grave had opened, whence
issues the body of one that slept. Ere you are aware you
stand face to face with a shrouded and unthought-of Calamity
— a new Lazarus.

Caroline Helstone went home from Hollow's cottage in
good health, as she imagined. On waking the next morning
she felt oppressed with unwonted languor : at breakfast, at
each meal of the following day, she missed all sense of
appetite : palatable food was as ashes and sawdust to her.

' Am I ill ? ' she asked, and looked at herself in the
glass. Her eyes were bright, their pupils dilated, her
cheeks seemed rosier and fuller than usual. ' I look well 1
Why can I not eat ? '

She felt a pulse beat fast in her temples : she felt, too,
her brain in strange activity : her spirits were raised ;
hundreds of busy and broken, but brilliant thoughts engaged
her mind: a glow rested on them, such as tinged her
complexion.

m shieley

Now followed a hot, parched, thirsty, restless night
Towards morning one terrible dream seized her like a tiger-
When she woke, she felt and knew she was ill.

How she had caught the fever (fever it was), she could
not tell. Probably in her late walk home, some sweet,
poisoned breeze, redolent of honey-dew and miasma, had
passed into her lungs and veins, and finding there already a
fever of mental excitement, and a languor of long conflict
and habitual sadness, had fanned the spark of flame, and
left a well-lit fire behind it.

It seemed, however, but a gentle fire : aiter two hot days
and worried nights, there was no violence in the symptoms,
and neither her uncle, nor Fanny, nor the doctor, nor M^iss
Keeldar, when she called, had any fear for her : a few days
would restore her, every one believed.

The few days passed, and — though it was still thought
it could not long delay — the revival had not begun. Mrs.
Pryor, who had visited her daify — being present in h^
chamber one morning when she had been ill a fortnight —
watched her very narrowly for some minutes : she took her
hand, and placed her finger on her wrist ; then, quietly
leaving the chamber, she went to Mr. Helstone's study.
With him she remained closeted a long time — half the
morning. On returning to her sick young friend, she laid
aside shawl and bonnet : she stood a while at the bedside,
one hand placed in the other, gently rocking herself to and
fro, in an attitude and with a movernent habitual to her.
At last she said — ' I have sent Fanny to Fieldhead to fetch
a few things for me, such as I shall want during a short
stay here : it is my wish to remain with you till you are
better. Your uncle kindly permits my attendance : will it
to yourself be acceptable, Caroline ?.' ,

'lam sorry you should take such needless ; trouble. I
do not feel very ill, but, I cannot, refuse resolutely :. it will be
such comfort to know you are in the house, to see you
sometimes in the room ; but don't confine yourself on my
account, dear Mrs. Pryor. Fanny nurses me very well.'

THE VALLEY OP THE SHADOW OF DEATH 429

Mrs. Pryor — bending over the pale little sufferer — was
now snjoothing the hair under her cap, and gently raising
her pillow. As she performed these offices, CaroUne,
smiling, lifted her face to kiss her.

' Are you free from pain ? Are you tolerably at ease ? '
was inquired in a low, earnest voice, as the self -elected nurse
yielded to the caress.

' I think I am almost happy.'

' You wish to drink ? Your lips are parched.'

She held a glass filled with some cooling beverage to her
mouth.

' Have you eaten anything to-day, Caroline ? '

' I cannot eat.'

' But soon your appetite will return : it mwsi return : that
is, I pray God it may ! '

In laying her again on the couch, she encircled her in her
arms ; and while so doing, by a movement which seemed
soaroely voluntary, she drew her to her heart, and held her
close gathered an instant.

' I shall hardly wish to get well, that I may keep you
always,' said Caroline.

Mrs. Pryor did not smile at this speech : over her features
ran a tremor, which for some minutes she was absorbed in
repressing.

' You are more used to Fanny than to me,' she remarked,
erelong. ' I should think my attendance must seem strange,
officious ?, '

' No : quite natural, and very soothing. You must have
been accustomed to wait on sick people, ma'am. You move
about the room so softly, and you speak so quietly, and touch
me so gently.'

' I am dexterous in nothing, my dear. You vrill often find
me awkward, but never negligent.'

Negligent, indeed, she was not. From that hour Fanny
and 'EUza becameciphers in the sick-room : Mrs. Pryor made
it her domain : she performed all its duties ; she lived in it
day and night. The patient remonstrated— faintly, however,

430 SHIRLEY

from the first, and not at all erelong ; loneliness and gloom
were now banished from her bedside ; protection and solace
sat there instead. She and her nurse coalesced in wondrous
union. Caroline was usually pained to require or receive
much attendance ; Mrs. Pryor, under ordinary circumstances,
had neither the habit nor the art of performing httle ofi&ces
of service ; but all now passed with such ease — so naturally,
that the patient was as willing to be cherished as the nurse
was bent on cherishing : no sign of weariness in the latter
ever reminded the former that she ought to be anxious.
There was, in fact, no very hard duty to perform ; but a
hireling might have found it hard.

With all this care, it seemed strange the sick girl did not
get well ; yet such was the case : she wasted like any snow-
wreath in thaw ; she faded like any flower in drought. Miss
Keeldar, on whose thoughts danger or death seldom intruded,
had at first entertained no fears at all for her friend ; but
seeing her change and sink from time to time when she paid
her visits, alarm clutched her heart. She went to Mr.
Helstone and expressed herself with so much energy that
that gentleman was at last obliged, however unwQlingly, to
admit the idea that his niece was ill of something more than
a migraine ; and when Mrs. Pryor came and quietly demanded
a physician, he said she might send for two if she liked. One
came, but that one was an oracle : he delivered a dark saying
of which the future was to solve the mystery, wrote some
prescriptions, gave some directions — the whole with an air of
crushing authority — pocketed his fee, and went. Probably,
he knew well enough he could do no good : but didn't like to
say so.

Still, no rumour of serious illness got wind in the neigh-
bourhood. At HoUow's-cottage it was thought that Caroline
had only a severe cold, she having written a note to Hortense
to that effect ; and Mademoiselle contented herself with send-
ing two pots of currant jam, a receipt for a tisane, and a note
of advice.

Mrs. Yorke being told that a physician had been

THE VALLEY OP THE SHADOW OE DEATH 4S1

summoned, sneered at the hypochondriac fancies of the rich
and idle, who, she said, have nothing but themselves to think
about, and must needs send for a doctor if only so much as
their little finger ached.

The ' rich and idle ' represented in the person of Caroline
were meantime falhng fast into a condition of prostration,
whose quickly consummated debility puzzled all who
witnessed it, except one ; for that one alone reflected how
liable is the undermined structure to sink in sudden ruin.

Sick people often have fancies inscrutable to ordinary
attendants, and Caroline had one which even her tender nurse
could not at first explain. On a certain day in the week, at
a certain hour, she would — whether worse or better — entreat
to be taken up and dressed, and suffered to sit in her chair
near the window. This station she would retain till noon was
past : whatever degree of exhaustion or debility her wan
aspect betrayed, she still softly put off all persuasion to seek
repose until the church-clock had duly tolled mid-day : the
twelve strokes sounded, she grew docile, and would meekly
lie down. Eeturned to the couch, she usually buried her
face deep in the pillow, and drew the coverlets close
round her, as if to shut out the world and sun, of which
she was tired : more than once, as she thus lay, a slight
convulsion shook the sick-bed, and a faint sob broke the
silence round it. These things were not unnoted by
Mrs. Pryor.
' One Tuesday morning, as usual, she had asked leave to rise,
and now she sat wrapped in her white dressing-gown, leaning
forward in the easy-chair, gazing steadily and patiently from
the lattice. Mrs. Pryor was seated a little behind, knitting,
as it seemed, but, in truth, watching her. A change crossed
her pale mournful brow, animating its languor ; a light shot
into her faded eyes, reviving their lustre ; she half rose and
looked earnestly out. Mrs. Pryor, drawing softly near,
glanced over her shoulder. From this window was visible
the churchyard, beyond it the road, and there, riding sharply
by appeared a horseman. The figure was not yet too remote

432 SHIBLEY

for recognition : Mrs. Pryor had long sight ; she knew Mr.
Moore. Just as an intercepting rising ground concealed him
from view, the clock struck twelve.

' May I lie dovyn again ? ' asked Caroline.

Her nurse assisted her to bed : having laid her down and
dravm the curtain, she stood listening near. The little couch
trembled, the suppressed sob stirred the air. A contraction as
of anguish altered Mrs. Pryor's features ; she wrung her
hands ; half a groan escaped her Ups. She now remembered
that Tuesday was Whinbury market-day : Mr. Moore must
always pass the Eectory on his way thither, just ere noon of
that day.

Caroline wore continually round her neck a slender braid
of silk, attached to which was some trinket. Mrs. Pryor had
seen the bit of gold glisten ; but had not yet obtained a fair
view of it. Her patient never parted with it : when dressed
it was hidden in her bosom ; as she lay in bed she always held
it in her hand. That Tuesday afternoon the transient doze
—more like lethargy than sleep — which sometimes abridged
the long days, had stolen over her : the weather was hot ;
while turning in febrile restlessness, she had pushed the
coverlets a little aside ; Mrs. Pryor bent to replace them ;
the small, wasted hand lying nerveless on the sick girl's
breast, clasped as usual her jealously-guarded treasure : those
fingers whose attenuation it gave pain to see, were now
relaxed in sleep : Mrs. Pryor gently disengaged the braid,
drawing out a tiny locket — a slight thing it was, such as it
suited her small purse to purchase : under its crystal face
appeared a curl of black hair — too short and crisp to have
been severed from a female head.

Some agitated movement occasioned a twitch of the silken
chain : the sleeper started and woke. Her thoughts were
usually now somewhat scattered on waking ; her look gene-
rally wandering. Half -rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed :
' Don't take it from me, Eobert ! Don't ! It is my last
comfort— ^let me keep it. I never tell any one whose hair it
is — I never show it.'

THE VALLEY OE THE SHADOW OP DEATH 433

Mrs. Pry or had already disappeared behind the curtain :
reclining far back in a deep arm-chair by the bedside, she was
withdrawn from view. Caroline looked abroad into the cham-
ber : she thought it empty. As her stray ideas returned
slowly, each folding its weak wings on the mind's sad shore,
like birds exhausted, beholding void, and perceiving silence
round her, she beUeved herself alone. Collected, she was not
yet : perhaps healthy self-possession and self-control were to
be hers no more ; perhaps that world the strong and pro-
sperous live in had already rolled from beneath her feet for
ever : so, at least, it often seemed to herself. In health, she
had never been accustomed to think ailoud ; but now words
escaped her Hps unawares.

' Oh ! I should see him once more before all is over :
Heaven might favour me thus far ! ' she cried. ' God grant
me a little comfort before I die ! ' was her humble petition.

' But he will not know I am ill till I am gone ; and he
will come when they have laid me out, and I am senseless,
cold, and stiff.

' What can my departed soul feel then ? Can it see or
know what happens to the clay ? Can spirits, through any
medium, communicate with living flesh ? Can the dead at all
revisit those they leave ? Can they come in the elements ?
Will windjWater, fire, lend me a path to Moore?

' Is it for nothing the wind sounds almost articulately
sometimes — sings as I have lately heard it sing at night — or
passes the casernent sobbing, as if for sorrow to come ? Does
nothing, then, haunt it — nothing inspire it ?

' Why, it suggested to me words one night : it poured a
strain which I could have written down, only I was appalled,
and dared not rise to seek pencil and paper by the dim
watchlight.

' What is that electricity they speak of, whose changes
make us well or ill ; whose lack or excess blasts ; whose
even balance revives ? What are all those influences that
are about us in the atmosphere, that keep playing over our
nerves like fingers on stringed instruments, and call forth

434 SHIELEY

now a sweet note, and now a wail — now an exultant swell,
and, anon, the saddest cadence?

' Where is the other world ? In what will another life
consist ? Why do I ask ? Have I not cause to think that
the hour is hasting but too fast when the veil must be rent
for me ? Do I not know the Grand Mystery is likely to
burst prematurely on me ? Great Spirit ! in whose good-
ness I confide ; whom, as my Father, I have petitioned
night and morning from early infancy, help the weak
creation of thy hands ! Sustain me through the ordeal I
dread and must undergo ! Give me strength ! Give me
patience ! Give me — oh ! give me faith ! '

She fell back on her pillow. Mrs. Pryor found means
to steal quietly from the room : she re-entered it soon after,
apparently as composed as if she had reaUy not overheard
this strange soliloquy.

The next day several callers came. It had become
known that Miss Helstone was worse. Mr. Hall and his
sister Margaret arrived ; both, after they had been in the
sick-room, quitted it in tears ; they had found the patient
more altered than they expected. Hortense Moore came.
Caroline seemed stimulated by her presence : she assured
her, smiling, she was not dangerously illj she talked to her
in a low voice, but cheerfully : during her stay, excitement
kept up the flush of her complexion : she looked better.

' How is Mr. Eobert ? ' asked Mrs. Pryor, as Hortense
was preparing to take leave.

' He was very well when he left.'

' Left ! Is he gone from home ? '

It was then explained that some police intelligence
about the rioters of whom he was in pursuit, had, that
morning, called him away to Birmingham, and probably a
fortnight might elapse ere he returned.

' He is not aware that Miss Helstone is very ill ? '

' Oh 1 no. He thought, like me, that she had only a bad
cold.'

After this visit, Mrs. Pryor took care not to approach

THE VALLEY OP THE SHADOW OP DEATH 435

Caroline's couch for above an hour : she heard her weep,
and dared not look on her tears.

As evening closed in, she brought her some tea. Caroline,
opening her eyes from a moment's slumber, viewed her nurse
with an unrecognising glance.

' I smelt the honeysuckles in the glen this summer
morning,' she said, ' as I stood at the counting-house
window.'

Strange words like these from pallid lips pierce a loving
listener's heart more poignantly than steel. They sound
romantic, perhaps, in books : in real life, they are harrowing.

' My darling, do you know me ? ' said Mrs. Pryor.

' I went in to call Eobert to breakfast : I have been
with him in the garden : he asked me to go : a heavy dew
has refreshed the flowers : the peaches are ripening.'

' My darling ! my darling ! ' again and again repeated the
nurse.

' I thought it was daylight— long after sunrise : it looks
dark — is the moon now set ? '

That moon, lately risen, was gazing full and mild
upon her : floating in deep blue space, it watched her un-
clouded.

' Then it is not morning ? I am not at the cottage ?
Who is this ? — I see a shape at my bedside.'

' It is myself — it is your friend — your nurse — your .

Lean your head on my shoulder : collect yourself.' (In a
lower tone.) ' Oh God, take pity ! Give her life, and me
strength ! Send me courage — teach me words ! '

Some minutes passed in silence. The patient lay mute
and passive in the trembling arms — on the throbbing bosom
of the nurse.

' I am better now,' whispered Caroline, at last, ' much
better — I feel where I am : this is Mrs. Pryor near me : I
was dreaming — I talk when I wake up from dreams : people
often do in illness. How fast your heart beats, ma'am ! Do
not be afraid.'

' It is not fear, child ; only a little anxiety, which will

436 SHIELEY

pass. I have brought ypusome tea, Gary ; your uncle made
it himself. You know he says he can make a better cup
of tea than any housewife can. Taste it. He • is concerned
to hear that you eat so little : he would be glad if you had a
better appetite.'

' I am thirsty : let me drink.'

She drank eagerly. ,

' What o'clock is it, ma'am ? ' she asked.

' Past nine.'

'Not later ? Oh! I have yet a long night before me:
but the tea has made me strong : I will sit up.'

Mrs. Pryor raised her, and arranged her pillows.

'Thank Heaven! I am not always equally miserable,
and ill, and hopeless. The afternoon has been bad since
Hortense went : perhaps the evening may be better. It is a
fine night, I think ? The moon shines clear.'

' Very fine : a perfect summer night. The old church-
tower gleams white almost, as silver.'

' And does the churchyard look peaceful ? '

' Yes, and the garden also : dew glistens on the foliage.'

' Can you see many long, weeds and nettles amongst the
graves, or do they look tiirf y and flowery ? '

' I. see closed daisy -heads,' gleaming like pearls on some
mounds. Thomas has mown down the dock-leaves and rank
grass, and cleared all away.'

' I always like that to be done : it soothes one's mind to
see the place in order : and, I dare say, within the church
just now that moonHght shines as softly as in my room. It
will fall through the east window full on the Helstone
monument. When I close my eyes I seem to see poor
papa's epitaph in black letters on the white marble. There
is pjenty of room for otl^er inscriptions underneath.'

' William Farren came to look after your flowers this
morning : he was afraid, now you cannot tend them yourself,
they would be neglected. He has taken two of your
favourite plants home to nurse for you.'

' If I were to mak,e a will, I would leave William all my

THE VALLEY OE THE SHADOW OE DEATH 437

plants ; Shirley my trinkets— except one, which must not
be taken off my neck ; -and you, ina'am, my bpoks.' (After
a pause.) 'Mrs. Pryor, I feel a longing wish for some-
thing.'

' For what, Caroline ? ' '

' You know I always delight to hear you sing ; sing me
a hymn just now : sing that hymn which begins, —

Our God, our help in ages past, —
Our hope for years to come ; i

Our shelter from the stormy blast ;
Our refuge, haven, home I '

Mrs. Pryor at once complied.

No wonder CaroUne liked to hear her sing : her voice,
even in speaking, was sweet and silver clear ; in song, it
was almost divine : neither flute nor dulcirner has tones so
pure. But the tone was secondary compared to the ex-
pression which trembled through : a tender vibration from
a feeling heart. ,

The servants in the kitchen, hetiring the strain, stole to
the stair-foot to listen : even old Helstone, as he walked in
the garden, pondering over tlje unaccountable and feeble
nature of women. Stood still arnongst his borders to catch
the mournful melody more distinctly. Why it reminded
him of his forgotteij dead wifCj he could not teU ; nor why
it made him more concerned than he had hitherto been for
Caroline's fading girlhood^ He was glad to recollect that
he had promised to pay Wynne, the magistrate, a visit that
evening. Low spirits and gloomy thoughts were very much
his aversion : wheti ■^th'ey attacked him he usually found
means to make them march in double-quick time. The
hymn followed him faintly as he crossed the fields : he
hastened bis customary sharp pace, that he might get beyond
its reach.

Thy word commands our flesh to dust, —

' Return, ye sons of men ; '
All nations rose from earth at first.
And turn to earth again.

m SHIRLEY

A thousand ages in thy sight

Are like an evening gone ;
Short as the watch that ends the night

Before the rising sun.

Time, like an ever-rolling stream,

Bears all its sons away ;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream

pies at the opening day.

Like flowery fields, the nations stand,

Fresh in the morning light ;
The flowers beneath the mower's hand

Lie withering ere 'tis night.

Our God, our help in ages past, —

Our hope for years to come ;
Be thou our guard while troubles last,-

O Father, be our home !

' Now sing a song — a Scottish song,' suggested Caroline
when the hymn was over, — ' " Ye banks and braes o' bonny
Doon." •

Again Mrs. Pryor obeyed, or essayed to obey. At the
close of the first stanza she stopped : she could get no
further : her full heart flowed over.

' You are weeping at the pathos of the air : come here,
and I will comfort you,' said Caroline, in a pitying accent.
Mrs. Pryor came : she sat down on the edge of her patient's
bed, and allowed the wasted arms to encircle her.

' You often soothe me, let me soothe you,' murmured the
young girl, kissing her cheek. ' I hope,' she added, ' it is
not for me you weep.'

No answer followed.

' Do you think I shall not get better ? I do not feel very
ill — only weak.'

' But your mind, Caroline : your mind is crushed ; your
heart is almost broken : you have been so neglected, so
repulsed, left so desolate.'

' I beUeve grief is, and always has been, my worst ail-

THE VALLEY OP THE SHADOW OF DEATH 439

ment. I sometimes think, if an abundant gush of happi-
ness came on me, I could revive yet.'

' Do you wish to live ? '

' I have no object in life.'

' You love me, Caroline ? '

' Very much, — very truly, — inexpressibly sometimes :
just now I feel as if I could almost grow to your heart.'

' I wiU return directly, dear,' remarked Mrs. Pryor, as
she laid Caroline down.

Quitting her, she glided to the door, softly turned the
key in the lock, ascertained that it was fast, and came
back. She bent over her. She threw back the curtain to
admit the moonlight more freely. She gazed intently on
her face.

' Then, if you love me,' said she, speaking quickly, with
an altered voice : ' if you feel as if — to use your own words
— you could " grow to my heart," it will be neither shock nor
pain for you to know that that heart is the source whence
yours was filled : that from my veins issued the tide which
flows in yours ; that you are mine — my daughter ^ — my own
child.'

' Mrs. Pryor 1 '

' My own child ! '

' That is — that means — you have adopted me ? '

' It means that, if I have given you nothing else, I at
least gave you life ; that I bore you — nursed you ; that I am
your true mother : no other woman can claim the title — ^it is
mine.'

' But Mrs. James Helstone — but my father's wife whom
I do not remember ever to have seen, she is my mother ? '

' She is your mother : James Helstone was my husband.
I say you are mine. I have proved it. I thought perhaps
you were all his, which would have been a cruel dispensa-
tion for me : I find it is not so. God permitted me to be the
parent of my child's mind : it belongs to me : it is my
property — my right. These features are James's own. He
had a fine face when he was young, and not altered by

440 SHIRLEY

error. Fapa, my darling, gave yovi your blue eyes and soft
brown hair : he gave you the oval of your face and the
regularity of your lineaments : the outside lie conferred ;
but the heart and the brain are miiie : the gertos are from
me, and they are improved, they; are developed to excellence.
I esteem and approve my child as highly as I do most
fondly love her.'

' Is what I hear true ? Is it no dream ? '

' I wish it were as true that the substance and colour of
health were restored to your cheek.'

' My own mother ! is she one I can be so fond of as I
can of you ? People generally did not like her, so I have
been given to understand.'

' They told you that ? Well, your mother now teUs you,
that, not having the gift to please people generally, for their
approbation she does not care : her thoughts are centered in
her child : does that child welcome or reject her ? '

' But if you are my mother, the world is all changed to
me. Surely I can live — -I should hke to recover '

' You must recover. You drew life and strength from
my breast when you were a tiny, fair infant, over whose blue
eyes I used to weep, fearing I beheld in your very beauty
the sign of qualities that had entered my heart Uke iron,
and pierced through my soul like a sword. Daughter I we
have been long parted : I return now to cherish you again.'

She held her to her bosom: she cradled her in her
arms : she rocked her softly, as if lulling a young child to
sleep.

' My mother I My own mother I '

The offspring nestled to the parent : that parent, feeling
the endearment and hearing the appeal, gathered her closer
still. She covered her with noiseless kisses : she murmured
love over her, hke a cushat fostering its young.

There was silence in the room for a long while.

' Does my uncle know ? '

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 0^ DEATH 441

' Your uncle knows : I told him when I first came to ptay
with you here.'

' Did you recognise me when we first met at Pieldhead ? '

' How could it be otherwise ? Mr. and Miss Helstone
being announced, I was prepared to see my child.',

' It was that then which moved you : I saw you
disturbed.'

' You saw nothing, Caroline, I can cover my feelings.
You can never tell what an age of strange sensation I lived,
during the two minutes that elapsed between the report of
your name and your entrance. You can never tell how your
look, mien, carriage, shook me.'

' Why ? Were you disappointed ? '

' What will she be like ? I had asked myself ; and when
I saw what you were like, I could have dropped.'

' Mamma, why ? '

' I trembled in your presence. I said I will never own
her ; she shall never knbw me.'

' But I said and did nothing remarkable. I felt a little
diffident at the thought of an introduction to strangers, that
was all.'

' I soon saw you were diffident ; that was the first thing
which re-assured me : had you been rustic, clownish,
awkward, I should have been content.'

' You puzzle me.'

' I had reason to dread a fair outside, to mistrust a
popular bearing, to shudder before distinction, grace, and
courtesy. Beauty and affability had come in my way when
I was recluse, desolate, young, and ignorant : a toil-worn
governess perishing of uncheered labour, breaking down
before her time. These, Caroline, when they smiled on me,
I mistook for angels ! I followed them home, and when
into their hands I had given without reserve my whole
chance of future happiness, it was my lot to witness a trans-
figuration on the domestic hearth : to see the white mask
lifted, the bright disguise put away, and opposite, me sat
down oh God I I have suffered 1 '

442 SHIELEY

She sank on the pillow.

' I have suffered ! None saw — none knew : there was no
sympathy — no redemption — no redress ! '

' Take comfort, mother : it is over now.'
v' It is over, and not fruitlessly. I tried to keep the word
of His patience : He kept me in the days of my anguish. I
was afraid with terror — I was troubled : through great
tribulation He brought me through to a salvation revealed
in this last time. My fear had torment — He has cast it
out : He has given me in its stead perfect love. . . . But,
Caroline '

Thus she invoked her daughter after a pause.

' Mother ! '

' I charge you, when you next look on your father's
monument, to respect the name chiselled there. To you he
did only good. On you he conferred his whole treasure of
beauties; nor added to them one dark defect. All you
derived from him is excellent. You owe him gratitude.
Leave, between him and me, the settlement of our mutual
account : meddle not : God is the arbiter. This world's laws
never came near us — never ! They were powerless as a
rotten bulrush to protect me ! — impotent as idiot babblings
to restrain him 1 As you said, it is all over now : the grave
lies between us. There he sleeps — in that church ! To his
dust I say this night, what I never said before, " James,
slumber peacefully ! See ! your terrible debt is cancelled !
Look ! I wipe out the long, black account with my own
hand ! James, your child atones : this living likeness of you
— this thing with your perfect features — this one good gift
you gave me has nestled affectionately to my heart, and
tenderly called me ' mother.' Husband ! rest forgiven ! " '

' Dearest mother, that is right ! Can papa's spirit hear
us ? Is he comforted to know that we still love him ? '

' I said nothing of love : I spoke of forgiveness. Mind
the truth, child — I said nothing of love ? On the threshold
of eternity, should he be there to see me enter, will I
maintain that.'

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OP DEATH 443

' Oh, mother ! you must have suffered ! '

' Oh, child ! the human heart can suffer. It can hold
more tears than the ocean holds waters. We never know
how deep — how wide it is, till misery begins to unbind her
clouds, and fill it with rushing blackness.'

' Mother, forget.'

' Forget ! ' she said, with the strangest spectre of a
laugh. 'The north pole will rush to the south, and the
headlands of Europe be locked into the bays of Australia ere
I forget.'

' Hush, mother ! rest ! — be at peace ! '

And the child lulled the parent, as the parent had erst
lulled the child. At last Mrs. Pryor wept : she then grew
calmer. She resumed those tender cares agitation had for a
moment suspended. Beplacing her daughter on the couch,
she smoothed the pillow and spread the sheet. The soft
hair whose locks were loosened, she rearranged ; the damp
brow she refreshed with a cool, fragrant essence.

' Mamma, let them bring a candle, that I may see you ;
and tell my uncle to come into this room by-and-by: I
want to hear him say that I am your daughter : and,
mamma, take your supper here; don't leave me for one
minute to-night.'

' Oh, Caroline ! it is well you are gentle. You will say
to me go, and I shall go ; come, and I shall come ; do this,
and I shall do it. You inherit a certain manner as well as
certain features. It will be always " mamma " prefacing a
mandate : softly spoken though from you, thank God !
Well ' (she added, under her breath), ' he spoke softly too,
once, — like a flute breathing tenderness ; and then, when
the world was not by to listen, discords that split the nerves
and curdled the blood — sounds to inspire insanity.'

' It seems so natural, mamma, to ask you for this and
that. I shall want nobody but you to be near me, or to do
anything for me ; but do not let me be troublesome : check
me, if I encroach.'

' You must not depend on me to check you : you must

444 .: : . SHIBLEY

keep guard over ydurself. I bave littlei moral courage : the
w&,qt of 'it is my bane.- , , It ; 13 that which has' made me an
unnatural parent — which haS kejpt me apirt.fr6m my child
during the ten yeats wl}ich have elapsed since my husband's
death left me at Ubferty to claim her : it was that Which first
unnerved my arms and permitted the infant I might have
retained a while longer, to be snat6hed prematurely from
their embraice.'

'How, mamma?' c ' .• '

' I let you go as a babe, because you were pretty, and I
feared your lovelin6ssi deemingjt'the stamp of perversity.
Theyaent me your'' porti'ait, taken at eight years old; that
portrait confirmed my fears. Had it shown me a sunburnt
little rustic— a heavy^ blunt-featured, commonplace child —
I should have hastened to blaim yoil'; but there, under the
silver paper, I saw blobming the, delidaicy of ah aristocratic
flower^" little lady " was written on every trait. I had too
recently crawled from under the yoke of the fine gentleman
-^escaped, galled, crushed, paralyzed, dying^-to dare to
encounter his still finer and most fairy-like representative.
My sweet: Uttle lady overwhelmed me with' dismay : her air
of native elegance froze my very marrow. In my experience
I had not met with truth, modesty, good principle as the
concomitants of [beauty; A- form so straight, afid fine, I
argued) must conceal a mind warped and cruel. I had little
faith in the power of education to -rectify suteh' a mind; or
rather, I entirely mi3doubted my. own ability to influence it.
Caroline, I dared not undertake to, rear you : I resolved to
leave you in' your uncle's ha^nds. Ma<lithewson Helstone, I
knew, if an austere, was an upright man. He and all the
world thought hardly -of me for my strange, unmotherly
resolve, and I deserved to be misjudged.'

' Mamma, ,why did you cftll yourself Mrs. Pryor ? '

, 'It was a name' in my mother's family. I adopted it

that I might live unniolested. ,My marjried name recalled

too vividly my married life : I could not bear it. Besides,

threats.wereatteited. 'of forging) me/ to return. to bondage: it

THE VALLEY OP THE SHADOW OF DEATH 445

could not be ; rather a bier for a bed — the g*ave for a home.
My new name sheltered me : I resumed under its screen my '
old occupation of teaching. At first, it scarcely procured'
me the means of sustaining life ; but how savoury was
hunger when I fasted in peace ! How safe seemed the
darkness and chill of an nnkindled hearth, wheii no lurid
reflection from terror crimsoned its desolation ! How
serene was solitude, when I fearied not the irruption of
violence and vice ! '

' But, mamma, you have been in this neighbourhood
before. How did it happen, that when you reappeared here
with Miss Keeldar, you were hot rlBco^sed ? '

' I only paid a short visit, as a bride, twenty years ago ;
and then I was very different to what- 1 am " now— slender,
almost as slender as iny daughter is at this day: my com-
plexion— my very features are changed ; my hair, my style
of dress — everything is altered. You cannot fancy me a
slim youngperson, attired in scanty drapery of white muslin,
with bare arms, bracelets and necklace of beads, and hair
disposed in round Gtecian oui:ls above my forehead? '

' You must, indeed, have been different. Mamma, I heard
the front door open: if it' is my uncle coming ' in', just ask
him to step up-stairs, and let rtle hear his assurance that I
am truly awake and obllected, aAd not dreaming or delirious.'

The Eeotor, of his own accord, was mounting the stairs ;
and Mrs. Pryor summoned him to his niece's apartment.

' She's not worse, I hope ? ' he inquired hastily.

'I think her better; she is disposed to converse — she
seems stronger.'

' Good ! ' said he, brushing quickly into the room. ' Ha,
Gary! how do?' Did you drink my cup of tea ? I made it
for you just as I like it myself.'

' I drank it every drop, uncle : it did me good— it has made
me quite alive. I have a wish for company, so I begged
Mrs. Pryor to call you in.'

The respected ecclesiastic looked pleased, and yet embar-
rassed. He was willing enough to bestow his company on his

446 SHlRLlit

sick niece iot ten minutes, since it was her whim to wish it ;
but what means to employ for her entertainment, he knew
not : he hemmed — he fidgeted.

'You'll be up in a trice,' he observed, by way of saying
something. ' The little weakness will soon pass off ; and then
you must drink port- wine— a pipe, if you can —and eat game
and oysters : I'll get them for you, if they are to be had any-
where. Bless me ! we'll make you as strong as Samson
before we've done with you.'

' Who is that lady, uncle, standing beside you at the bed-
foot?'

' Good God ! ' he ejaculated. ' She's not wandering^is
she, ma'am ? '

Mrs. Pryor smiled.

' I am wandering in a pleasant world,' said Caroline, in a
soft, happy voice, ' and I want you to tell me whether it is
real or visionary. "What lady is that ? Give her a name-
uncle?'

' We must have Dr. Eile again, ma'am, or better still,
MacTurk : he's less of a humbug. Thomas must saddle the
pony, and go for him.'

' No : I don't want a doctor ; mamma shall be my only
physician. Now, do you understand, uncle ? '

Mr. Helstone pushed up his spectacles from his
nose to his forehead, handled his snuff-box, and administered
to himself a portion of the contents. Thus fortified, he
answered briefly : — ' I see daylight. You've told her then.

ma am

•>•

' And is it true ? ' demanded Caroline, rising on her pillow.
' Is she really my mother ? '

' You won't cry, or make any scene, or turn hysterical, if
I answer Yes ? '

' Cry ? I'd cry if you said No. It would be terrible to be
disappointed now. But give her a name : how do you call
her?'

' I call this stout lady in a quaint black dress, who looks
young enough to wear much smarter raiment, if she would —

THE VALLEY OP THE SHADOW OP DEATH 447

I call her Agnes Helstone : she married my brother James,
and is his widow.'

' And my mother ? '

' What a little sceptic it is ! Look at her small face, Mrs.
Pryor, scarcely larger than the palm of my hand, alive with
acuteness and eagerness.' (To Caroline.) — 'She had the
trouble of bringing you into the world at any rate : mind you
show your duty to her by quickly getting well, and repairing
the waste of these cheeks. Heigho ! she used to be plump :
what she has done with it all, I can't, for the life of me,
divine.'

' If wishing to get well will help me, I shall not be long
sick. This morning, I had no reason and no strength to
wish it.'

Fanny here tapped at the door, and said that supper was
ready.

' Uncle, if you please, you may send me a little bit of
supper — anything you hke, from your own plate. That is
wiser than going into hysterics, — is it not ? '

' It is spoken like a sage, Gary : see if I don't cater for
you judiciously. When women are sensible — and, above all,
intelligible — I can get on with them. It is only the vague,
superfine sensations, and extremely wire-drawn notions, that
put me about. Let a woman ask me to give her an edible or
a wearable — be the same a roe's egg or the breastplate of
Aaron, a share of St. John's locusts and honey or the
leathern girdle about his loins — I can, at least, understand
the demand : but when they pine for they know not what —
sympathy — sentiment — some of these indefinite abstractions
— I can't do it ; I don't know it ; I haven't got it. Madam,
accept my arm.'

Mrs. Pryor signified that she should stay with her
daughter that evening. Helstone, accordingly, left them to-
gether. He soon returned, bringing a plate in his own
consecrated hand.

' This is chicken,' he said ; ' but we'll have partridge to-
morrow. Lift her up, and put a shawl over her. On my

448 SHIELEY

word, I understand nursing. Now, here is the very same little
silver fork you used when you first came to the Eeotory :
that strikes me as being what you may call a happy thpnght
— a delicate atteotipni Take .it, Gary, aqd munch away
cleverly.' : : ; , '

Caroline did her best. H^r uncle frowned to see that her
powers were so limited : he prophesied, however, great things
for the future ; and as she praised the morsel he had brought,
and smiled gratefully in' his face, he stooped over her pillow,
kissed her^ and said, with a broken, rugged accent, — ' Good-
night, baimie ! God bless thee ! '

Caroline enjoyed such peaceful rest that night, circled
by her mother's arms, and pillowed on her , breast, that she
forgot to wish for any other stay ; and though more than
one feverish dream came to Ijer "in slumber, yet, when she
woke up panting, so happy and contented a feeling returned
with returning consciousness, that her agitation was soothed
almost as soon as felt. -

As to the mother, she. spent the night like Jacob at Peniel.
Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest prayer.

CHAPTEB XXV

THE WEST WIND BLOWS

Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail.
Night after night the sweiat of agony may burst dark on the
forehead; the supplicant may cry for mercy with that sounds
less voice the soul utters when its appeal is to the Invisible.
' Spare my beloved,' it may implore. ' Heal my life's hfe.
Eend not from me what long affection entwines with my
whole nature. God of heaven— bend— hear— be clement ! '
And after this cry and strife, the sun may rise and see him
worsted. That opening morn, which used to salute him with
the whisper of zephyrs, the carol of skylaiis, xaay breathe, as
its first accents, from the* dear lips which, colour and heat
have quitted, ' Oh ! I have had a suffering night. This morn-
ing I am worse. I have tried to rise. I cannot. Dreams I
am unused to have troubled me;'

Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees
a new and strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at
once that the insufferablemoment draws nigh, knows that it
is God's wUl his idol shall be broken, and bends his head, and
subdues his soul to the sentence he cannot avert, and scarce
can bear. ,

Happy Mrs. Pryor ! She was still praying, unconsciqiis
that the summer sun hung above the hills,' when her child
softly woke in her arms. No piteous,, unconscious moaning
— sound which so wastes our stirength that, even if We have
sworn to be firm, a rush of unconquerable tears sweeps away
the oath — preceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy
followed. The first words spoken were not those of ohe

450 SHIELBY

becoming estranged from this world, and already permitted to
stray at times into realms foreign to the living. Caroline
evidently remembered with clearness what had happened.

' 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 joyful tears called into her eyes by that affectionate
word ' mamma,' and the welcome assurance that followed it.

For many days the mother dared rejoice only with
trembling. That first revival seemed Eke the flicker of a
dying lamp : if the flame streamed up bright one moment, the
next it sank dim in the socket. Exhaustion followed close
on excitement.

There was always a touching endeavour to appear better,
but too often ability refused to second wiU ; too often the
attempt to bear up failed : the effort to eat, to talk, to look
cheerful, was unsuccessful. Many an hour passed, during
which Mrs. Pryor feared that the chords of hfe could never
more be strengthened, though the time of their breaking
might be deferred.

During this space the mother and daughter seemed left
almost alone in the neighbourhood. It was the close of
August : the weather was fine — that is to say, it was very
dry and very dusty, for an arid wind had been blowing from
the east this month past : very cloudless, too, though a pale
haze, stationary in the atmosphere, seemed to rob of all
depth 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 was absent on an excursion. Miss
Keeldar and her friends were at the sea-side ; 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 a pedestrian excursion to the Lakes.
Even Hortense, who would fain have stayed at home and
aided Mrs. Pryor in nursing CaroHne, had been so earnestly
entreated by Miss Mann to accompany her once more to

THE WEST WIND BLOWS 451

Wormwood Wells, in the hope of alleviating sufferings
greatly aggravated by the insalubrious v^eather, that she felt
obliged to comply ; indeed, it w&s not in her nature to refuse
a request that at once appealed to her goodness of heart,
and — by a confession of dependency — flattered her amour-
propre. As for Eobert, from Birmingham he had gone on to
London, where he still sojourned.

So long as the breath of Asiatic deserts parched Caroline's
lips and fevered her veins, her physical convalescence could
not keep pace with her returning mental tranquilUty : but
there came a day when the wind ceased to sob at the
eastern gable of the Eectory, and at the oriel window of the
church. A little cloud like a man's hand arose in the west;
gusts from the same quarter drove it on and spread it wide ;
wet and tempest prevailed a while. When that was over
the sun broke out genially, heaven regained its azure, and
earth its green : the livid cholera-tint had vanished from the
face of nature : the hills rose clear round the horizon, ab-
solved from that pale malaria-haze.

Caroline's youth could now be of some avail to her, and
so could her mother's nurture: both — crowned by God's
blessing, sent in the pure west wind blowing soft as fresh
through the ever-open chamber lattice — rekindled her long-
languishing energies. At last Mrs. Pryor saw that it was
permitted to hope — a genuine, material convalescence had
commenced. It was not merely Caroline's smile which was
brighter, or her spirits which were cheered, but a certain look
had passed from her face and eye — a look dread and unde-
scribable, but which will easily be recalled by those who
have watched the couch of dangerous disease. Long before
the emaciated outlines of her aspect began to fill, or its de-
parted colour to return, a more subtle change took place : all
grew softer and warmer. Instead of a marble mask and
glassy eye, Mrs. Pryor saw laid on the pillow a face pale
and wasted enough, perhaps more haggard than the other
appearance, but less awful ; for it was a sick, living girl-
not a mere white mould, or rigid piece of statuary.

>6

452 SHIELEY

Now, too, she was not always petitioning to drini. The
words ' I am so thirsty,' ceased to be her plaint. Sometimes,
when she had swallowed a morsel, she would say it had re-
vived her : all descriptions of food were no longer equally
distasteful ; she could be induced, sometimes, to indicate a
preference. With what trembling pleasure and anxious care
did not her nurse prepare what was selected ! How she
watched her as she partook of it !

Nourishment brought strength. She could sit up. Then
she longed to breathe the fresh air, to revisit her flowers, to see
how the fruit had ripened. Her uncle, always liberal, had
bought a garden-chair for her express use : he carried her
down in his own arms, and placed her in it himself, and
William Farren was there to wheel her round the walks, to
show her what he had done amongst her plants, to take her
directions for further work.

William and she found plenty to talk about : they had a
dozen topics in common ; interesting to them, unimportant
to the rest of the world. They took a similar interest
in animals, birds, insects, and plants : they held similar
doctrines about humanity to the lower creation ; and had a
similar turn for minute observation on points of natural
history.. The nest and proceedings of some ground-bees,
which had burrowed in the turf under an old cherry-tree,
was one subject of interest : the haunts of certain hedge-
sparrows, and the welfare of certain pearly eggs and callow
fledglings, another.

Had Chambers's Journal existed in those days, it would
certainly have formed Miss Helstone's and Parren's favourite
periodical. She would have subscribed for it ; and to him
each number would duly have been lent : both would have
put implicit faith, and found great savour in its marvellous
anecdotes of animal sagacity.

This is a digression ; but it suflBices to explain why
Caroline would have no other hand than Wilham's to guide
her chair, and why his society and conversation sufficed to
give interest to her garden-airings.

THE WEST WIND BLOWS 453

Mrs. Pryor, walking near, wondered how her daughter
could be so much at ease with a ' man of the people.' She
found it impossible to speak to him otherwise than stiffly.
She felt as if a great gulf lay between her caste and his ;
and that to cross it, or meet him half-way, would be to de-
grade herself. She gently asked Caroline — ' Are you not
afraid, my dear, to converse with that person so unre-
servedly? He may presume, and become troublesomely
garrulous.'

' WiUiam presume, mamma ? You don't know him. He
never presumes : he is altogether too proud and sensitive to
do so. William has very fine feelings.'

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

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

The evening restored Caroline entirely to her mother,
and Mrs. Pryor liked the evening ; for then, alone with her
daughter, no human shadow came between her and what she
loved. During the day she would have her stiff demeanour
and cool moments, as was her wont. Between her and Mr.
Helstone a very respectful but most rigidly ceremonioua
intercourse was kept up : anything like famiUarity would
have bred contempt at once in one or both these personages ;
but by dint of strict civility and well-maintained distance,
they got on very smoothly.

Towards the servants, Mrs. Pryor's bearing was not
unoourteous, but shy, freezing, ungenial. Perhaps it was
diffidence rather than pride which made her appear so
haughty ; but, as was to be expected, Fanny and Eliza
failed to make the distinction, and she was unpopular with
them accordingly. She felt the effect produced : it rendered
her at times dissatisfied with herself for faults she could
not help ; and vrith all else, dejected, chill, and taciturn.

This mood changed to Caroline's influence, and to that

454 SHIELEY

influence alone. The dependent fondness of her nursling,
the natural affection of her child, came over her suavely : her
frost fell away ; her rigidity unbent : she grew smiling and
pliant. Not that Caroline made any wordy profession of
love — that would ill have suited Mrs. Pryor: she would
have read therein the proof of insincerity ; but she hung on
her with easy dependence ; she confided in her with fearless
reliance : these things contented the mother's heart.

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

Nobody else — not one living thing — had ever so claimed
her services, so looked for help at her hand. Other people
were always more or less reserved 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 reproachful
sensitiveness now, than she had done when a suckling of
three' months old.

Yet Caroline could find fault. Blind to the constitu-
tional defects that were incurable, she had her eyes wide
open to the acquired habits that were susceptible of remedy.
On certain points she would quite artlessly lecture her
parent ; and that parent, instead of being hurt, felt a sensa-
tion 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 ; its fashion is not becoming : it is too
straight in the skirt. You shall put on your black sillc every
afternoon ; in that you look nice : it suits you ; and you
shall have a black satin dress for Sundays — a real satin —
not a satinet or any of the shams. And, mamma, when
you get the new one, mind you must wear it.'

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

' Nonsense, mamma : my uncle gives me cash to get

ME WEST WIND BLOWS 455

what I want : you know he is generous enough ; and I
have set my heart on seeing you in a black satin. Get it
soon, and let it be made by a dressmaker of my recommend-
ing ; let me choose the pattern. You always want to
disguise yourself like a grandmother : you would persuade
one that you are old and ugly, — not at all ! On the con-
trary, when well dressed and cheerful, you are very comely
indeed. Your smile is so pleasant, your teeth are so white,
your hair is still such a pretty light colour. And then you
speak like a young lady, with such a clear, fine tone, and
you sing better than any young lady I ever heard. Why
do you wear such dresses and bonnets, 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 you are not, for you give liberally to the
poor and to religious societies: though your gifts are
conveyed so secretly and quietly, that they are known to
few except the receivers. But I will be your maid myself :
when I get a little stronger I will set to work, and you must
be good, mamma, and do as I bid you.'

And Caroline, sitting near her mother, re-arranged her
mushn handkerchief, and re-smoothed her hair.

' My own mamma,' then she went on, as if pleasing
herself with the thought 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 be afraid of loving.
Mamma, who gave you this little brooch ? Let me unpin
it and look at it.'

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

' Did papa give you this, mamma? '

' My sister gave it me — my only sister, Gary. Would
that your aunt Caroline had lived to see her niece ! '

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

' I have one thing.'

456 SHIRLEY

'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 you alone ; who, when you go into your room,
cannot help running to seek for you; who follows you
up-stairs and down, like a dog.'

' Whose features still give me such a strange thrill some-
times. I half fear your fair looks yet, child.'

' You don't ; you can't. Mamma, I am sorry papa was
not good: I do so wish he had been. Wickedness spoils
and poisons all pleasant things : it kills love. If you and I
thought each other wicked, we could not love each other,
could we ? '

' And if we could not trust each other, Gary ? '

' How miserable we should be ! Mother, before I knew
you, I had an apprehension that you were not good, that I
could not esteem you : that dread damped my wish to see
you ; and now my heart is elate because I find you perfect,
— almost ; kind, clever, nice. Your sole fault is that you
are old-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you. Mamma,
put your work down : read to me. I like your southern
accent : it is so pure, so soft. It has no rugged burr, no nasal
twang, such as almost every one's voice here in the north
has. My uncle and Mr. Hall say that you are a fine reader,
mamma. Mr. Hall said he never heard any lady read with
such propriety of expression, or purity of accent.'

' I wish I could reciprocate the compliment, Gary ; but
really, the first time I heard your truly excellent friend read
and preach, I could not understand his broad, northern
tongue.'

' Gould you understand me, mamma ? Did I seem to
speak roughly ? '

THE WEST WIND BLOWS 457

' No : I almost wished you had, as I wished you had
looked unpolished. Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke
well ; quite otherwise than your worthy 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 no conception — I cannot tell : it is a deep
mystery. The key is in the hands of his Maker : there I
leave it.'

' Mamma, you will keep stitching, stitching away : put
down the sewing ; I am an enemy to it. It cumbers your
lap, and I want it for my head : it engages your eyes, and I
want them fdr a book. Here is your favourite — Cowper.'

These importunities were the mother's pleasure. If
ever she delayed compliance, it was only to hear them
repeated, and to enjoy her child's soft, half-playful, half-
petulant m-gency. And then, when she yielded, Caroline
would say, archly, — ' You will spoil me, mamma. I always
thought I should like to be spoiled, and I find it very
sweet.'

So did Mrs. Pryor.

CHAPTER XXVI

OLD COPT-BOOKS

By the time the Fieldhead party returned to Briarfield,
Caroline was nearly well. Miss Keeldar, who had received
news by post of her friend's convalescence, hardly suffered
an hour to elapse between her arrival at home and her first
call at the Eectory.

A shower of rain was falling gently, yet fast, on the late
flowers and russet autumn shrubs, when the garden-wicket
was heard to swing open, and Shirley's well-known form
passed the window. On her entrance, her feelings were
evinced in her own peculiar fashion. When deeply moved,
by serious fears or joys, she was not garrulous. The strong
emotion was rarely suffered to influence her tongue ; and
even her eye refused it more than a furtive and fitful
conquest. She took Caroline in her arms, gave her one
look, one kiss, then said — ' You are better.'

And a minute after — ' I see you are safe now, but take
care. God grant your health may be called on to sustain
no more shocks ! '

She proceeded to talk fluently about the journey. In
the midst of vivacious discourse, her eye still wandered to
Caroline : there spoke in its light a deep solicitude, some
trouble, and some amaze.

' She may be better,' it said ; ' but how weak she still is !
What peril she has come through ! '

Suddenly her glance reverted to Mrs. Pryor : it pierced
her through.

' When will my governess return to me ? ' she asked.

OLD COPY-BOOKS 459

' May I tell her all? ' demanded Caroline of her mother.
Leave being signified by a gesture, Shirley was presently
enlightened on what had happened in her absence.

' Very good ! ' was the cool comment. ' Very good ! But
it is no news to me.'

'What! Did you know?'

' I guessed long since the whole business. I have heard
somewhat of Mrs. Pryor's history — not from herself, but
from others. With every detail of Mr. James Helstone's
career and character I was acquainted : an afternoon's sitting
and conversation with Miss Mann had rendered me familiar
therewith : also he is one of Mrs. Yorke's warning-examples
— one of the blood-red lights she hangs out to scare young
ladies from matrimony. I believe I should have been scep-
tical about the truth of the portrait traced by such fingers —
both these ladies take a dark pleasure in offering to view the
dark side of life — but I questioned Mr. Yorke on the subject,
and he said — " Shirley, my woman, if you want to know
aught about yond' James Helstone, I can only say he was a
man-tiger. He was handsome, dissolute, soft, treacherous,

courteous, cruel " Don't cry, Gary ; we'll say no more

about it.'

' I am not crying, Shirley ; or if I am, it is nothing — go
on : you are no friend if you withhold from me the truth : I
hate that false plan of disguising, mutilating the truth.'

' Fortunately, I have said pretty nearly all that I have to
say, except that your uncle himself confirmed Mr. Yorke's
words : for he too scorns a lie, and deals in none of those
conventional subterfuges that are shabbier than lies.'

' But papa is dead : they should let him alone now.'

' They should — and we will let him alone. Cry away,
Cary, it will do you good : it is wrong to check natural tears ;
besides, I choose to please myself by sharing an idea that at
this moment beams in your mother's eye while she looks at
you : every drop blots out a sin. Weep — your tears have the
virtue which the rivers of Damascus lacked : like Jordan, they
can cleanse a leprous memory.'

460 SHIELEY

■ Madam,' she continued, addressing Mrs. Pryor, ' did you
think I could be daily in the habit of seeing you and your
daughter together — marking your marvellous similarity in
many points— observing, pardon me — your irrepressible
emotions in the presence, and still more in the absence of
your child, and not form my own conjectures ? I formed
them, and they are literally correct. I shall begin to think
myself shrewd.'

' And you said nothing ? ' observed Caroline, who soon
regained the quiet control of her feelings.

' Nothing. I had no warrant to breathe a word on the
subject. My business it was not : I abstained from making
it such.'

' You guessed so deep a secret, and did not hint that you
guessed it ? '

'Isthat sodifBcult?'
' It is not like you.'
' How do you know ? '

' You are not reserved. You are frankly communicative.'

' I may be communicative, yet know where to stop. In

showingmytreasure, Imay withhold a gem or two — a curious,

unbought, graven stone — an amulet, of whose mystic glitter

I rarely permit even myself a glimpse. Good-day.'

Caroline thus seemed to get a view of Shirley's character
under a novel aspect. Erelong, the prospect was renewed :
it opened upon her.

No sooner had she regained sufficient strength to bear a
change of scene — the excitement of a little society — than Miss
Keeldar sued daily for her presence at Keldhead. Whether
Shirley had become wearied of her honoured relatives is not
known : she did not say she was ; but she claimed and retained
Caroline with an eagerness which proved that an addition to
that worshipful company was not unwelcome.

The Sympsons were Church people : of course, the Eec-
tor's niece was receiveid by them with courtesy. Mr. Sympson
proved to be a man of spotless respectability, worrying temper,
pious principles, and worldly views ; his lady was a very

OLD COPY-BOOKS 461

good woman, patient, kind, well-bred. She had been brought
up on a narrow system of views — starved on a few prejudices :
a mere handful of bitter herbs ; a few preferences, soaked till
their natural flavour was extracted, and with no seasoning
added in the cooking ; some excellent principles, made up in
a stiff raised-crust of bigotry, difficult to digest : far too sub-
missive was she to complain of this diet, or to ask for a crumb
beyond it.

The daughters were an example to their sex. They were
tall, with a Boman nose a-piece. They had been educated
faultlessly. All they did was well done. History, and the
most solid books, had cultivated their minds. Principles and
opinions they possessed which could not be mended. More
exactly-regulated lives, feelings, manners, habits, it would
have been difficult to find anywhere. They knew by heart
a certain young-ladies'-school-room code of laws on language,
demeanour, &c.; themselves never deviated from its curious
little pragmatical provisions ; and they regarded with secret,
whispered horror, all deviations in others. The Abomination
of Desolation was no mystery to them : they had discovered
that unutterable Thing in the characteristic others call Origi-
nality. Quick were they to recognise the signs of this evil ;
and wherever they saw its trace — whether in look, word, or
deed ; whether they read it in the fresh, vigorous style of a
book, or listened to it in interesting, unhackneyed, pure, ex-
pressive language — they shuddered — they recoiled: danger
was above their heads— peril about their steps. What was
this strange thing? Being unintelligible, it must be bad.
Let it be denounced and chained up.

Henry Sympson — the only son, and youngest child of the
family — was a boy of fifteen. He generally kept with his
tutor ; when he left him, he sought his cousin Shirley. This
boy differed from his sisters ; he was little, lame, and pale ;
his large eyes shone somewhat languidly in a wan orbit : they
were, indeed, usually rather dim — but they were capable of
illumination : at times, they could not only shine, but blaze :
inward emotion could likewise give colour to bis cheek and

462 SHIELEY

decision to his crippled movements. Henry's mother loved
him ; she thought his peculiarities were a mark of election :
he was not like other children, she allowed ; she beheved him
regenerate — a new Samuel — called of God from his birth :
he was to be a clergyman. Mr. and the Misses Sympson,
not understanding the youth, let him much alone. Shirley
made him her pet ; and he made Shirley his playmate.

In the midst of this family-circle — or rather outside it —
moved the tutor — the satellite.

Yes ; Louis Moore was a satellite of the house of Symp-
son : connected, yet apart ; ever attendant — ever distant.
Each member of that correct family treated him with proper
dignity. The father was austerely civil, sometimes irritable ;
the mother, being a kind woman, was attentive, but formal ;
the daughters saw in him an abstraction, not a man. It
seemed, by their manner, that their brother's tutor did not
liveforthem. They were learned : sowashe — but not for them.
They were accomplished : he had talents too, imperceptible
to their senses. The most spirited sketch from his fingers
was a blank to their eyes ; the most original observation from
his lips fell unheard on their ears. Nothing could exceed the
propriety of their behaviour.

I should have said, nothing could have equalled it ; but I
remember a fact which strangely astonished Caroline Hel-
stone. It was — to discover that her cousin had absolutely
no sympathizing friend at Fieldhead : that to Miss Keeldar
he was as much a mere teacher, as little a gentleman, as little
a man, as to the estimable Misses Sympson.

What had befallen the kind-hearted Shirley that she
should be so indifferent to the dreary position of a fellow-
creature thus isolated under her roof ? She was not, perhaps,
haughty to him, but she never noticed him : she let him alone.
He came and went, spoke or was silent, and she rarely
recognised his existence.

As to Louis Moore himself, he had the air of a man used
to this life, and who had made up his mind to bear it for a
time. His faculties seemed walled up in him, and were

OLD CO^Y-BOOKS 463

Unnmrmuring in their captivity. He never laughed ; he
seldom smiled, he was uncomplaining. He fulfilled the
round of his duties scrupulously. His pupil loved him ; he
asked nothing more than civility from the rest of the vrorld.
It even appeared that he vrould accept nothing more : in that
abode at least ; for when his cousin Caroline made gentle
overtures of friendship, he did not encourage them ; he
rather avoided than sought her. One living thing alone,
besides his pale, crippled scholar, he fondled in the house, and
that was the ruf&anly Tartar ; who, sullen and impracticable
to others, acquired a singular partiality for him : a partiality
so marked that sometimes, when Moore, summoned to a meal,
entered the room and sat down unwelcomed, Tartar would
rise from his lair at Shirley's feet, and betake himself to the
taciturn tutor. Once — but once — ^she noticed the desertion ;
and holding out her white hand, and speaking softly, tried to
coax him back. Tartar looked, slavered, and sighed, as his
manner was, but yet disregarded the invitation, and coolly
settled himself on his haunches at Louis Moore's side. That
gentleman drew the dog's big, black-muzzled head on to his
knee, patted him, and smiled one little smile to himself.

An acute observer might have remarked, in the course of
the same evening, that after Tartar had resumed his allegi-
ance to Shirley, and was once more couched near her foot-
stool, the audacious tutor by one word and gesture fascinated
him again. He pricked up his ears at the word ; he started
erect at the gesture, and came, with head lovingly depressed,
to receive the expected caress : as it was given, the signi-
ficant smile again rippled across Moore's quiet face.

' Shirley,' said Caroline, one day, as they two were
sitting alone in the summer-house, ' did you know that my
cousin Louis was tutor in your uncle's family before the
Sympsons came down here ? '

Shirley's reply was not so prompt as her responses usually

464 SHIRLEY

were, but at last she answered, ' Yes, — of course : I knew it
well."

'I thought you must have been aware of the circum-
stance.'

'Weill what then?'

' It puzzles me to guess how it chanced that you never
mentioned it to me.'

' Why should it puzzle you ? '

' It seems odd. I cannot account for it. You talk a
great deal, — you talk freely. How was that circumstance
never touched on ? '

' Because it never was,' and Shirley laughed.

' You are a singular being ! ' observed her friend : ' I
thought I knew you quite well : I begin to find myself mis-
taken. You were silent as the grave about Mrs. Pryor ;
and now, again, here is another secret. But why you made
it a secret is the mystery to me.'

' I never made it a secret : I had no reason for so doing.
If you had asked me who Henry's tutor was, I would have
told you : besides, I thought you knew.'

' I am puzzled about more things than one in this matter :
you don't like poor Louis, — why? Are you impatient at
what you perhaps consider his servile position? Do
you wish that Eobert's brother were more highly placed ? '

' Eobert's brother, indeed I ' was the exclamation, uttered
in a tone like the accents of scorn ; and, with a movement of
proud impatience, Shirley snatched a rose from a branch
peeping through the open lattice.

' Yes,' repeated Caroline, with mild firmness ; ' Eobert's
brother. He is thus closely related to Gerard Moore of the
Hollow, though nature has not given him features so
handsome, or an air so noble as his kinsman ; but his
blood is as good, and he is as much a gentleman, were he
free.'

' Wise, humble, pious Caroline ! ' exclaimed Shirley,
ironically. ' Men and angels, hear her I We should not
despise plain features, nor a laborious yet honest occupation,

OLD COPY-BOOKS 465

should we ? Look at the subject of your panegyric, — he is
there La the garden," she continued, pointing through an
aperture in the clustering creepers ; and by that aperture
Louis Moore was visible, coming slowly down the walk.

' He is not ugly, Shirley,' pleaded CaroUne ; ' he is not
ignoble ; he is sad : silence seals his mind ; but I believe
him to be intelligent, and be certain, if he had not something
very commendable in his disposition, Mr. Hall would never
seek his society as he does.'

Shirley laughed : she laughed again ; each time with a
slightly sarcastic sound.

' WeU, well,' was her comment. ' On the plea of the
man being Cyril HaU's friend and Eobert Moore's brother,
we'll just tolerate his existence — won't we, Gary? You
believe him to be intelligent, do you ? Not quite an idiot —
eh ? Something commendable in his disposition ! id est,
not an absolute ruf&an. Good ! Your representations have
weight with me ; and to prove that they have, should he come
this way I will speak to him.'

He approached the summer-house : unconscious that it
was tenanted, he sat down on the step. Tartar, now his
customary companion, had followed him, and he crouched
across his feet.

' Old boy ! ' said Louis, pulling his tawny ear, or rather
the mutilated remains of that organ, torn and chewed in a
hundred battles, ' the autumn sun shines as pleasantly on us
as on the fairest and richest. This garden is none of ours,
but we enjoy its greenness and perfume, don't we ? '

He sat silent, still caressing Tartar, who slobbered with
exceeding affection. A faint twittering commenced among
the trees round : something fluttered down as light as
leaves : they were little birds, which, lighting on the sward
at shy distance, hopped as if expectant.

' The small brown elves actually remember that I fed
them the other day,' again soliloquized Louis. ' They want
some more biscuit : to-day, I forgot to save a fragment.
Eager httle sprites, I have not a crumb for you.'

466 SHIELEY

He put his hand in his pocket and drew it out empty.

'A want easily supplied,' whispered the listening Miss
Keeldar.

She took from her reticule a morsel of sweet-cake : for
that repository was never destitute of something available to
throw to the chickens, young ducks, or sparrows ; she
crumbled it, and bending over his shoulder, put the crumbs
into his hand.

' There,' said she ; ' there is a Providence for the impro-
vident.'

' This September afternoon is pleasant,' observed Louis
Moore, as — not at all discomposed — he calmly cast the
crumbs on to the grass.

' Even for you ? '

' As pleasant for me as for any monarch.'

' You take a sort of harsh, solitary triumph in drawing
pleasure out of the elements, and the inanimate and lower
animate creation.'

' Solitary, but not harsh. With animals I feel I am
Adam's son ; the heir of him to whom dominion was given
over " every living thing that moveth upon the earth."
Your dog likes and follows me ; when I go into that yard,
the pigeons from your dove-cot flutter at my feet; your
mare in the stable knows me as well as it knows you, and
obeys me better.'

' And my roses smell sweet to you, and my trees ^ve you
shade.'

' And,' continued Louis, ' no caprice can withdraw these
pleasures from me : they are mine.'

He walked off: Tartar followed him, as if in duty and
affection bound, and Shirley remained standing on the
summer-house step. Caroline saw her face as she looked
after the rude tutor : it was pale, as if her pride bled
inwardly.

' You see,' remarked Caroline, apologetically, ' his feelings
are so often hurt, it makes him morose.'

' You see," retorted Shirley, with ire, ' he is a topic on

OLD COPY-BOOKS 467

which you and I shall quarrel if we discuss it often ; so drop
it henceforward and for ever.'

' I suppose he has more than once behaved in this way,'
thought Caroline to herself ; ' and that renders Shirley so
distant to him : yet I wonder she cannot make allowance
for character and circumstances : I wonder the general
modesty, manliness, sincerity of his nature, do not plead
with her in his behalf. She is not often so inconsiderate —
so irritable.'

The verbal testimony of two friends of Caroline's to her
cousin's character augmented her favourable opinion of him.
WilUam Farren, whose cottage he had visited in company
with Mr. Hall, pronounced him a ' real gentleman : ' there
was not such another in Briarfield : he — William — ' could
do aught for that man. And then to see how t' bairns liked
him, and how t' wife took to him first minute she saw him :
he never went into a house but t' childer wor about him
directly : them little things wor like as if they'd a keener
sense nor grown-up folks i' finding out folk's natures.'

Mr. Hall, in answer to a question of Miss Helstone's, as
to what he thought of Louis Moore, replied promptly, that
he was the best fellow he had met with since he left
Cambridge.

' But he is so grave,' objected Caroline.

' Grave ! The finest company in the world ! Full of
odd, quiet, out-of-the-way humour. Never enjoyed an
excursion so much in my life as the one I took with him to
the Lakes. His understanding and tastes are so superior, it
does a man good to be within their influence ; and as to
his temper and nature, I call them fine.'

' At Pieldhead he looks gloomy, and, I believe, has the
character of being misanthropical.'

' Oh I I fancy he is rather out of place there — in a false
position. The Sympsons are most estimable people, but
not the folks to comprehend hta ; they think a great deal

468 SHIELEY

about form and ceremony, which are quite out of Louis's
■way.'

' I don't think Miss Keeldar likes him.'

' She doesn't know him — she doesn't know him ; other-
wise, she has sense enough to do justice to his merits.'

' Well, I suppose she doesn't know him,' mused CaroUne
to herself, and by this hypothesis she endeavoured to
account for what seemed else unaccountable. But such
simple solution of the difficulty was not left her long : she
was obliged to refuse Miss Keeldar even this negative excuse
for her prejudice.

One day she chanced to be in the school-room with
Henry Sympson, whose amiable and affectionate disposition
had quickly recommended him to her regard. The boy was
busied about some mechanical contrivance : his lameness
made him fond 6i sedentary occupation : he began to
ransack his tutor's desk for a piece of wax, or twine,
necessary to his work. Moore happened to be absent. Mr.
Hall, indeed, had called for him to take a long walk. Henry
could not immediately find the object of his search : he
rummaged compartment after compartment ; and, at last
opening an inner drawer, he came upon — not a ball of cord,
or a lump of bees'-wax — but a little bundle of small marble-
coloured cahiers, tied with tape. Henry looked at them.

' What rubbish Mr. Moore stores up in his desk ! ' he
said : ' I hope he won't keep my old exercises so carefully.'

'What is it?*

' Old copy-books.'

He threw the bundle to Caroline. The packet looked so
neat externally, her curiosity was excited to see its contents.
If they are only copy-books, I suppose I may open
them ? '

' Oh ! yes ; quite freely. Mr. Moore's desk is half mine
— for he lets me keep all sorts of things in it — and I give
you leave.'

On scrutiny they proved to be French compositions,
written in a hand peculiar but compact, and exquisitely

OLD COPY-BOOKS 469

clean and clear. The writing was recognisable : she
scarcely needed the further evidence of the name signed at
the close of each theme, to tell her whose they were. Yet
that name astonished her : ' Shirley Keeldar, Sympson

Grove, shire ' (a southern county), and a date four

years back.

She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, medi-
tating over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had
violated a confidence.

' They are Shirley's, you see,' said Henry, carelessly.

' Did you give them to Mr. Moore ? She wrote them
with Mrs. Pryor, I suppose ? '

' She virrote them in my school-room at Sympson Grove,
when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her
French : it is his native language.'

' I know .... Was she a good pupil, Henry ? '

' She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have
in the room : she made lesson-time charming. She learned
fast — you could hardly teU when or how. French was
nothing to her : she spoke it quick — quick ; as quick as
Mr. Moore himself.'

' Was she obedient ? Did she give trouble ? '

' She gave plenty of trouble in a way : she was giddy,
but I liked her. I'm desperately fond of Shirley.'

' Desperately fond — you small simpleton ! You don't
know what you say.'

' I am desperately fond of her : she is the light of my
eyes : I said so to Mr. Moore last night.'

' He would reprove you for speaking with exaggeration.'

'He didn't. He never reproves and reproves, as girls'
governesses do. He was reading, and he only smiled into
his book, and said that if Miss Keeldar was no more than
that, she was less than he took her to be ; for I was but a
dim-eyed, short-sighted little chap. I'm afraid I am a poor
unfortunate. Miss Caroline Helstone. I am a cripple, you
know.'

' Never mind, Henry, you are a very nice little fellow ;

470 SHIELEY

and if God has not given you health and strength, He has
given you a good disposition, and an excellent heart and
brain.'

' I shall be despised. I sometimes think both Shirley
and you despise me.'

' Listen, Henry. Generally, I don't like school-boys : I
have a great horror of them. They seem to me little
ruffians, ■who take an unnatural delight in killing and
tormenting birds, and insects, and kittens, and whatever is
vceaker than themselves ; but you are so different, I am
quite fond of you. You have almost as much sense as a
man (far more, God wot,' she muttered to herself, ' than
many men) ; you are fond of reading, and you can talk
sensibly about what you read.'

' I am fond of reading. I know I have sense, and I know
I have feeling.'

Miss Keeldar here entered.

' Henry,' she said, ' I have brought your lunch here : I
shall prepare it for you myself.'

She placed on the table a glass of new milk, a plate of
something which looked not unlike leather, and a utensil
which resembled a toasting-fork.

' What are you two about,' she continued, ' ransacking
Mr. Moore's desk ? '

' Looking at your old copy-books,' returned CaroUne.

' My old copy-books ? '

' French exercise-books. Look here ! They must be held
precious : they are kept carefully.'

She showed the bundle. Shirley snatched it up : ' Did
not know one was in existence,' she said. ' I thought the
whole lot had long since lit the kitchen-fire, or curled the
maid's hair at Sympson Grove. What made you keep them,
Henry ? '

' It is not my doing : I should not have thought of it :
it never entered my head to suppose copy-books of value.
Mr. Moore put them by in the inner drawer of his desk :
perhaps he forgot them.'

OLD COPY-BOOKS 471

' C'est cela : he forgot them, no doubt,' echoed Shirley.
' They are extremely well written,' she observed, com-
placently.

' What a giddy girl you were, Shirley, in those days ! I
remember you so well : a slim, light creature whom, though
you were so tall, I could lift off the floor. I see you with
your long, countless curls on your shoulders, and your
streaming sash. You used to make Mr. Moore lively, that
is, at first : I beheve you grieved him after a while.'

Shirley turned the closely written pages and said
nothing. Presently she observed, ' That was written one
winter afternoon. It was a description of a snow-scene.'

' I remember,' said Henry ; ' Mr. Moore, when he read
it, cried " Voili le Fran^ais gagn6 ! " He said it was well
done. Afterwards, you made him draw, in sepia, the land-
scape you described.'

' You have not forgotten then, Hal ? '

' Not at all. We were all scolded that day for not
coming down to tea when called. I can remember my tutor
sitting at his easel, and you standing behind him, holding
the candle, and watching him draw the snowy cliff, the
pine, the deer couched under it, and the half -moon hung
above.'

' Where are his drawings, Henry ? Caroline should see
them.'

' In his portfolio : but it is padlocked : he has the key.'

' Ask him for it when he comes in.'

' You should ask him, Shirley ; you are shy of him now :
you are grown a proud lady to him, I notice that.'

' Shirley, you are a real enigma,' whispered Caroline in
her ear. ' What queer discoveries I make day by day
now ! I, who thought I had your confidence. Inexplicable
creature ! even this boy reproves you.'

'I have forgotten "Auld Langsyne," you see, Harry,'
said Miss Keeldar, answering young Sympson, and not
heeding Caroline.

' Which you never should have done. You don't

472 SHIELEY

deserve to be a man's morning star, if you have so short
a memory.'

' A man's morning star, indeed ! and by " a man " is
meant your worshipful self, I suppose ? Come, drink your
new milk while it is warm.'

The young cripple rose and hmped towards the fire ; he
had left his crutch near the mantel-piece.

' My poor lame darling ! ' murmured Shirley, in her
softest voice, aiding him.

' Whether do you like me or Mr. Sam Wynne best,
Shirley ? ' inquired the boy, as she settled him in an arm-
chair.

' Oh, Harry ! Sam Wynne is my aversion : you are my
pet.'

' Me or Mr. Malone ? '

' You again, a thousand times.'

'Yet, they are great whiskered fellows, six feet high
each.'

' Whereas, as long as you live, Harry, you will never be
anything more than a little pale lameter.'

' Yes, I know.'

'You need not be sorrowful. Have I not often told
you who was almost as little, as pale, as suffering as you,
and yet potent as a giant, and brave as a lion ? '

' Admiral Horatio ? '

' Admiral Horatio, Viscount Nelson, and Duke of Bronti ;
great at heart as a Titan ; gallant and heroic as all the
world and age of chivalry ; leader of the might of England ;
commander of her strength on the deep; hurler of her
thunder over the flood.'

' A great man : but I am not warlike, Shirley : and yet
my mind is so restless, I burn day and night — for what — I
can hardly tell — ^to be — to do — to suffer, I think.'

'Harry, it is your mind, which is stronger and older
than your frame, that troubles you. It is a captive. It hes
in physical bondage. But it will work its own redemption
yet, Study carefully, not only books but the world. You

OLD COPY-BOOKS m

love nature ; love her without fear. Be patient — wait the
course of time. You will not be a soldier or a sailor,
Henry : but, if you live, you will be — listen to my prophecy
— you will be an author — perhaps, a poet.'

' An author ! It is a flash — a flash of light to me ! I
will — I will I I'll write a book that I may dedicate it to
you.'

' You will write it, that you may give your soul its
natural release. Bless me 1 what am I saying ? more than
I understand, I believe, or can make good. Here, Hal ;
here is your toasted oat-cake— eat and live ! '

' WiUingly ! ' here cried a voice outside the open
window, ' I know that fragrance of meal bread. Miss
Keeldar, may I come in and partake ? '

' Mr. Hall ' (it was Mr. Hall, and with him was Louis
Moore, returned from their walk), 'there is a proper
luncheon laid out in the dining-room, and there are proper
people seated round it : you may join that society and share
that fare if you please ; but if your ill-regulated tastes lead
you to prefer ill-regulated proceedings, step in here, and do
as we do.'

' I approve the perfume, and therefore shall suffer myself
to be led by the nose,' returned Mr. Hall, who presently
entered, accompanied by Louis Moore. That gentleman's
eye fell on his desk, pillaged.

' Burglars ! ' said he. ' Henry, you merit the ferule.'

' Give it to Shirley and Caroline — they did it,' was alleged
with more attention to effect than truth.

' Traitor and false witness ! ' cried both the girls. ' We
never laid hands on a thing, except in the spirit of laudable
inquiry.'

' Exactly so,' said Moore, with his rare smile. ' And
what have you ferreted out, in your "spirit of laudable
inquiry " ? '

He perceived the inner drawer open.

' This is empty,' said he. ' Who has taken ? '

' Here 1 here ! ' Caroline hastened to say ; and she

474 SHIELEY

restored the little packet to its place. He shut it up ; he
locked it in with a small key attached to his watch-guard ;
he restored the other papers to order, closed the repository,
and sat down without further remark.

'I thought you would have scolded much more, sir,'
said Henry. ' The girls deserve reprimand.'

' I leave them to their own consciences.'

'It accuses them of crimes intended as well as per-
petrated, sir. If I had not been here, they would have treated
your portfolio as they have done your desk ; but I told
them it was padlocked.'

'And will you have lunch with us?' here interposed
Shirley, addressing Moore, and desirous, as it seemed, to
turn the conversation.

' Certainly, if I may.'

' You will be restricted to new milk and Yorkshire oat-
cake.'

' Va — pour le lait frais ! ' said Louis. ' But for your oat-
cake ! ' and he made a grimace.

' He cannot eat it,' said Henry : ' he thinks it is like
bran, raised with sour yeast.'

' Come, then, by special dispensation, we will allow him
a few cracknels ; but nothing less homely.'

The hostess rang the bell and gave her frugal orders,
which were presently executed. She herself measured out
the milk and distributed the bread round the oozy circle
now enclosing the bright little school-room fire. She then
took the post of toaster-general ; and kneehng on the rug,
fork in hand, fulfilled her office with dexterity. Mr. Hall,
who relished any homely innovation on ordinary usages,
and to whom the husky oat-cake was from custom suave as
manna — seemed in his best spirits. He talked and laughed
gleefully — now with Caroline, whom he had fixed by his
side, now with Shirley, and again with Louis Moore. And
Louis met him in congenial spirit : he did not laugh much,
but he uttered in ths quietest tone the wittiest things.
Gravely spoken sentences, marked by unexpected turns and

OLD COPY-BOOKS 475

a quite fresh flavour and poignancy, fell easily from his lips.
He proved himself to be — what Mr. Hall had said he was —
excellent company. Caroline marvelled at his humour, but
still more at his entire self-possession. Nobody there
present seemed to impose on him a sensation of unpleasant
restraint : nobody seemed a bore — a check— a chill to him ;
and yet there was the cool and lofty Miss Keeldar kneeling
before the fire, almost at his feet.

But Shirley was cool and lofty no longer — at least not at
this moment. She appeared unconscious of the humility of
her present position — or if conscious, it was only to taste a
charm in its lowliness. It did not revolt her pride that the
group to whom she voluntarily ofBeiated as handmaid should
include her cousin's tutor : it did not scare her that while
she handed the bread and milk to the rest, she had to offer
it to him also ; and Moore took his portion from her hand
as calmly as if he had been her equal.

' You are overheated now,' he said, when she had
retained the fork for some time : ' let me relieve you.'

And he took it from her with a sort of quiet authority,
to which she submitted passively — neither resisting him nor
thanking him.

' I should like to see your pictures, Louis,' said Caroline,
when the sumptuous luncheon was discussed. ' Would not
you, Mr. Hall ? '

' To please you, I should ; but, for my own part, I have
cut him as an artist. I had enough of him in that capacity
in Cumberland and Westmoreland. Many a wetting we got
amongst the mountains because he would persist in sitting
on a camp-stool, catching effects of rain-clouds, gathering
mists, fitful sunbeams, and what not.'

' Here is the portfolio,' said Henry, bringing it in one
hand, and leaning on his crutch with the other.

Louis took it, but he still sat as if he wanted another to
speak. It seemed as if he would not open it unless the
proud Shirley deigned to show herself interested in the
exhibition.

476 SHIELEY

' He makes us wait to whet our curiosity,' she said.

' You understand opening it,' observed Louis, giving her
the key. ' You spoiled the lock for me once — try now.'

He held it : she opened it ; and, monopoUzing the
contents, had the first view of every sketch herself. She
enjoyed the treat — if treat it were — in silence, without a
single comment. Moore stood behind her chair and looked
over her shoulder, and when she had done, and the others
were still gazing, he left his post and paced through the
room.

A carriage was heard in the lane — the gate-bell rang :
Shirley started.

' There are callers,' she said, ' and I shall be summoned
to the room. A pretty figure — as they say — I am to receive
company : I and Henry have been in the garden gathering
fruit half the morning. Oh, for rest under my own vine
and my own fig-tree ! Happy is the slave wife of the
Indian chief, in that she has no drawing-room duty to
perform, but can sit at ease weaving mats, and stringing
beads, and peacefully flattening her pickaninny's head in an
unmolested corner of her wigwam. I'll emigrate to the
western woods.'

Louis Moore laughed.

' To marry a "White Cloud or a Big Buffalo ; and after
wedlock to devote yourself to the tender task of digging
your lord's maize field, while he smokes his pipe or drinks
fire-water.'

Shirley seemed about to reply, but here the school-room
door unclosed, admitting Mr. Sympson. That personage
stood aghast when he saw the group around the fire.

' I thought you alone, Miss Keeldar,' he said. ' I find
quite a party.'

And evidently from his shocked, scandalized air — had he
not recognised in one of the party a clergyman — he would
have delivered an extempore phihppic on the extraordinary
habits of his niece : respect for the cloth arrested him.

' I merely wished to announce,' he proceeded, coldly, ' that

OLD COPY-BOOKS 477

the family from De Walden Hall, Mr., Mrs., the Misses, and
Mr. Sam Wynne, are in the drawing-room.' And he bowed
and withdrew.

'The family from De Walden Hall! Couldn't be a
worse set,' murmured Shirley.

She sat still, looking a little contumacious and very
much indisposed to stir. She was flushed with the fire : her
dark hair had been more than once dishevelled by the
morning wind that day ; her attire was a light, neatly
fitting, but amply flovring dress of muslin ; the shawl she
had worn in the garden was still draped in a careless fold
round her. Indolent, wilful, picturesque, and" singularly
pretty was her aspect — prettier than usual, as if some soft
inward emotion — stirred who knows how? — had given new
bloom and expression to her features.

' Shirley — Shirley, you ought to go,' whispered Caroline.

' I wonder why ? '

She lifted her eyes, and saw in the glass over the
fireplace both Mr. Hall and Louis Moore gazing at her
gravely.

' If,' she said, with a yielding smile — ' if a majority of
the present company maintain that the De Walden Hall
people have claims on my civility, I will subdue my inclina-
tions to my duty. Let those who think I ought to go, hold
up their hands.'

Again consulting the mirror it reflected an unanimous
vote against her.

' You must go,' said Mr. Hall, ' and behave courteously,
too. You owe many duties to society. It is not permitted
you to please only yourself.'

Louis Moore assented with a low ' Hear ! hear ! '

Caroline, approaching her, smoothed her wavy curls, gave
to her attire a less artistic and more domestic grace, and
Shirley was put out of the room, protesting still, by a
pouting lip, against her dismissal.

' There is a curious charm about her,' observed Mr. Hall,
when she was gone. ' And now,' he added, ' I must away,

for Sweeting is off to see his mother and there are two
funerals.'

' Henry, get your books ; it is lesson-time,' said Moore,
sitting down to his desk.

' A curious charm I ' repeated the pupil, when he and his
master were left alone. ' True. Is she not a kind of white
witch ? ' he asked.

' Of whom are you speaking, sir ? '

' Of my cousin, Shirley.'

' No irrelevant questions. Study in silence.'

Mr. Moore looked and spoke sternly — sourly. Henry
knew this mood : it was a rare one with his tutor ; but when
it came he had an awe of it : he obeyed.

CHAPTEE XXVII

THE FIEST BLUE-STOCKING

Miss Keeldae and her uncle had characters that would not
harmonize, — that never had harmonized. He was irritable,
and she was spirited : he was despotic, and she liked
freedom ; he was worldly, and she, perhaps, romantic.

Not without purpose had he come down to Yorkshire :
his mission was clear, and he intended to discharge it
conscientiously : he anxiously desired to have his niece
married ; to make for her a suitable match ; give her in
charge to a proper husband, and wash his hands of her for
ever.

The misfortune was, from infancy upwards, Shirley and
he had disagreed on the meaning of the words ' suitable '
and ' proper.' She never yet had accepted his definition ;
and it was doubtful whether, in the most important step of
her Ufe, she would consent to accept it.

The trial soon came.

Mr. Wynne proposed in form for his son, Samuel
Fawthrop Wynne.

' Decidedly suitable ! Most proper ! ' pronounced Mr.
Sympson. ' A fine unencumbered estate : real substance ;
good connections. It must he done ! '

He sent for his niece to the oak parlour ; he shut him-
self up there vnth her alone ; he communicated the offer ;
he gave his opinion ; he claimed her consent.

It was withheld.

' No : I shall not marry Samuel Pawthrop Wynne.'

480 SHIELEY

' I ask why ? I must have a reason. In all respects he
is more than worthy of you.'

She stood on the hearth ; she was pale as the white
marble slab and cornice behind her ; her eyes flashed large,
dilated, unsmiling.

' And I ask in what sense that young man is worthy of
me ?'

' He has twice your money, — twice your common sense ;
— equal connections, — equal respectability.'

' Had he my money counted five score times, I would
take no vow to love him.'

' Please to state your objections.'

'He has rvm a course of despicable, commonplace
profligacy. Accept that as the first reason why I spurn
him.'

' Miss Keeldar, you shock me ! '

' That conduct alone sinks him in a gulf of immeasurable
inferiority. His intellect reaches no standard I can esteem :
— there is a second stumbling-block ; his views are narrow ;
his feelings are blunt ; his tastes are coarse ; his manners
vulgar,'

' The man is a respectable, wealthy man. To refuse him
is presumption on your part.'

' I refuse, point-blank I Cease to annoy me with the
subject : I forbid it ! '

' Is it your intention ever to marry, or do you prefer
celibacy ? '

' I deny your right to claim an answer to that question.'

' May I ask if you expect some man of title — some peer
of the realm — to demand your hand ? '

' I doubt if the peer breathes on whom I would confer
it."

' Were there insanity in the family, I should believe you
mad. Your eccentricity and conceit touch the verge of
frenzy.'

' Perhaps, ere I have finished, you will see me over-
leap it.'

THE FIEST BLUE-STOCKING 481

' I anticipate no less. Frantic and impracticable girl !
Take warning ! — I dare you to sully our name by a
mesalliance ! '

• Our name ! Am I called Sympson ? '

' God be thanked that you are not ! But be on your
guard ! I will not be trifled with ! '

' "What, in the name of common law and common sensei
would you, or could you do, if my pleasure led me to a
choice you disapproved ? '

' Take care ! take care ! ' (warning her with voice and
hand that trembled alike).

' Why ? What shadow of power have you over me ?
Why should I fear you ? '

' Take care, madam ! '

' Scrupulous care I will take, Mr. Sympson. Before I
marry, I am resolved to esteem — to admire — to love.'

' Preposterous stuff! — indecorous — unwomanly! '

' To love with my whole heart. I know I speak in an
unknown tongue ; but I feel indifferent whether I am com-
prehended or not.'

' And if this love of yours should fall on a beggar ? '

' On a beggar it will never fall. Mendicancy is not
estimable.'

' On a low clerk, a play-actor, a play-writer, or — or '

' Take courage, Mr. Sympson ! Or what ? '

' Any literary scrub, or shabby, whining artist.'

' For the scrubby, shabby, whining, I have no taste : for
literature and the arts, I have. And there I wonder how
your Pawthrop Wynne would suit me ? He cannot write a
note without orthographical errors ; he reads only a sporting
paper : he was the booby of Stilbro' grammar school I '

' Unladylike language ! Great God ! — to what will she
come ? ' He lifted hands and eyes.

' Never to the altar of Hymen with Sam Wynne.'

' To what will she come ? Why are not the laws more
stringent, that I might compel her to hear reason ? '

' Console yourself, uncle. Were Britain a serfdom, and

482 SHIRLEY

you the Czar, you could not compel me to this step. I will
write to Mr. Wynne. Give yourself no further trouble on
the subject.'

Fortune is proverbially called changeful, yet her caprice
often takes the form of repeating again and again a similar
stroke of luck in the same quarter. It appeared that Miss
Keeldar — or her fortune — had by this time made a sensation
in the district, and produced an impression in quarters by
her unthought of. No less than three offers followed Mr.
Wynne's — all more or less eUgible. All were in succession
pressed on her by her uncle, and all in succession she
refused. Yet amongst them was more than one gentleman
of unexceptionable character, as well as ample wealth.
Many besides her uncle asked what she meant, and whom
she expected to entrap, that she was so insolently fas-
tidious.

At last the gossips thought they had found the key to
her conduct, and her uncle was sure of it; and, what is
more, the discovery showed his niece to him in quite a
new light, and he changed his whole deportment to her
accordingly.

Keldhead had, of late, been fast growing too hot to hold
them both : the suave aunt could not reconcile them ; the
daughters froze at the view of their quarrels : Gertrude and
Isabella whispered by the hour together in their dressing-
room, and became chilled vfith decorous dread if they
chanced to be left alone with their audacious cousin. But,
as I have said, a change supervened : Mr. Sympson was
appeased and his family tranquillized.

The village of Nunnely has been alluded to : its old
church, its forest, its monastic ruins. It had also its Hall,
called the Priory — an older, a larger, a more lordly abode
than any Briarfield or Whinbury owned ; and, what is
more, it had its man of title — its baronet, which neither
Briarfield nor Whinbury could boast. This possession — its

THE PIEST BLUE-STOCKING 483

proudest and most prized — had for years been nominal
only : the present baronet, a young man hitherto resident
in a distant province, was unknown on his Yorkshire estate.

During Miss Keeldar's stay at the fashionable watering-
place of Cliflfbridge, she and her friends had met with and
been introduced to Sir Philip Nunnely. They encountered
him again and again on the sands, the chffs, in the various
walks, sometimes at the public balls of the place. He
seemed solitary ; his manner was very unpretending — too
simple to be termed affable ; rather timid than proud : he
did not condescend to their society— he seemed glad of it.

With any unaffected individual, Shirley could easily and
quickly cement an acquaintance. She walked and talked
with Sir Philip ; she, her aunt, and cousins, sometimes took
a sail in his yacht. She liked him because she found him
kind and modest, and was charmed to feel she had the
power to amuse him.

One slight drawback there was — where is the friendship
without it ? Sir Philip had a literary turn : he wrote poetry,
sonnets, stanzas, ballads. Perhaps Miss Keeldar thought
him a little too fond of reading and reciting these composi-
tions ; perhaps she wished the rhyme had possessed more
accuracy — the measure more music — the tropes more fresh-
ness— the inspiration more fire ; at any rate, she always
winced when he recurred to the subject of his poems, and
usually did her best to divert the conversation into another
channel.

He would beguile her to take moonlight walks with him
on the bridge, for the sole purpose, as it seemed, of pouring
into her ear the longest of his ballads : he would lead her
away to sequestered rustic seats, whence the rush of the surf
to the sands was heard soft and soothing ; and when he had
her all to himself, and the sea lay before them, and the
scented shade of gardens spread round, and the tall
shelter of cliffs rose behind them, he would pull out his last
batch of sonnets, and read them in a voice tremulous with
emotion. He did not seem to know, that though they might

484 SHIRLEY

be rhyme, they were not poetry. It appeared by Shirley's
downcast eye and disturbed face that she knew it, and felt
heartily mortified by the single foible of this good and
amiable gentleman.

Often she tried, as gentle as might be, to wean him from
this fanatic worship of the Muses : it was his monomania —
on all ordinary subjects he was sensible enough ; and fain
was she to engage him in ordinary topics. He questioned
her sometimes about his place at Nunnely ; she was but too
happy to answer his interrogatories at length : she never
wearied of describing the antique Priory, the wild sylvan
park, the hoary church and hamlet ; nor did she fail to
counsel him to come down and gather his tenantry about
him in his ancestral halls.

Somewhat to her surprise Sir Philip followed her advice
to the letter ; and actually, towards the close of September,
arrived at the Priory.

He soon made a call at Pieldhead, and his first visit was
not his last : he said — when he had achieved the round of
the neighbourhood — that under no roof had he found such
pleasant shelter as beneath the massive oak beams of the
grey manor-house of Briarfield : a cramped, modest dwelling
enough, compared with his own — but he liked it.

Presently, it did not suffice to sit with Shirley in her
panelled parlour, where others came and went, and where
he could rarely find a quiet moment to show her the latest
production of his fertile muse ; he must have her out
amongst the pleasant pastures, and lead her by the still
waters. T6te-5i-t6te rambUngs she shunned ; so he made
parties for her to his own grounds, his glorious forest ; to
remoter scenes — woods severed by the Wharfe, vales watered
by the Aire.

Such assiduity covered Miss Keeldar with distinction.
Her uncle's prophetic soul anticipated a splendid future : he
already scented the time afar off when, with nonchalant air,
and left foot nursed on his right knee, he should be able
to make dashingly familiar allusion to his 'nephew the

THE FIEST BLUE-STOCKING 485

baronet.' Now his niece dawned upon him no longer ' a
mad girl,' but a ' most sensible woman.' He termed her, in
confidential dialogues with Mrs. Sympson, ' a truly superior
person : peculiar, but very clever.' He treated her with
exceeding deference ; rose reverently to open and shut doors
for her ; reddened his face, and gave himself headaches, with
stooping to pick up gloves, handkerchiefs, and other loose
property, whereof Shirley usually held but insecure tenure.
He would cut mysterious jokes about the superiority of
woman's wit over man's wisdom ; oomipence obscure
apologies for the blundering mistake he had committed
respecting the generalship, the tactics, of ' a personage not
a hundred miles from Pieldhead : ' in short, he seemed elate
as any ' midden-cock on pattens.'

His niece viewed his manoeuvres, and received his
innuendoes, with phlegm : apparently, she did not above half
comprehend to what aim they tended. When plainly
charged with being the preferred of the baronet, she said,
she believed he did like her, and for her part she liked him :
sh^ had never thought a man of rank — the only son of a
proud, fond mother — the only brother of doting sisters —
could have so much goodness, and, on the whole, so much
sense.

Time proved, indeed, that Sir Philip liked her. Perhaps
he had found in her that ' curious charm ' noticed by Mr.
Hall. He sought her presence more and more ; and, at last,
with a frequency that attested it had become to him an
indispensable stimulus. About this time strange feelings
hovered round Fieldhead; restless hopes and haggard
anxieties haunted some' of its rooms. There was an unquiet
wandering of some of the inmates among the still fields
round the mansion ; there was a sense of expectancy that
kept the ner^'es strained.

One thing seemed clear. Sir Philip was not a man to
be despised : he was amiable ; if not highly intellectual, he
was intelligent. Miss Keeldar could not affirm of him —
what she had so bitterly af&rmed of Sam Wynne — that hig

486 SHIELEY

feelings were blunt, his tastes coarse, and his manners
vulgar. There was sensibility in his nature; there was a
very real, if not a very discriminating, love of the arts;
there was the English gentleman in all his deportment : as
to his lineage and wealth, both were, of course, far beyond
her claims.

His appearance had at first elicited some laughing,
though not ill-natured, remarks from the merry Shirley. It
was boyish : his features were plain and slight ; his hair
sandy ; his stature insignificant. But she soon checked her
sarcasm on this point ; she would even fire up if any one
else made uncomplimentary allusion thereto. He had ' a
pleasing countenance,' she affirmed ; ' and there was that in
his heart which was better than three Boman noses, than
the locks of Absalom, or the proportions of Saul.' A spare
and rare shaft she still reserved for his unfortunate poetic
propensity : but, even here, she would tolerate no irony save
her own.

In short, matters had reached a point which seemed fully
to warrant an observation made about this time by Mr.
Yorke to the tutor, Louis.

' Yond' brother Eobert of yours seems to me to be either
a fool or a madman. Two months ago, I could have sworn
he had the game all in his own hands ; and there he runs
the country, and quarters himself up in London for weeks
together, and by the time he comes back he'll find himself
checkmated. Louis, " There is a tide in the affairs of men,
which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; " but, once
let slip, never returns again. I'd write to Eobert, if I were
you, and remind him of that.'

' Eobert had views on Miss Keeldar ? ' inquired Louis,
as if the idea were new to him.

' Views I suggested to him myself, and views he might
have realized, for she liked him.'

' As a neighbour ? '

• As more than that. I have seen her change counten-
ance and colour at the mere mention of his name. Write

THE FIEST BLUfi-STOCKlNG 48?

to the lad, I say, and tell him to come home. He is a finer
gentleman than this bit of a baronet, after all.'

'Does it not strike you, Mr. Yorke, that for a mere
penniless adventurer to aspire to a rich woman's hand is
presumptuous— contemptible ? '

' Oh ! if you are for high notions, and double-refined
sentiment, I've naught to say. I'm a plain, practical man
myself ; and if Eobert is willing to give up that royal
prize to a lad-rival — a puling slip of aristocracy — I am quite
agreeable. At his age, in his place, with his inducements, I
would have acted differently. Neither baronet, nor duke,
nor prince, should have snatched my sweetheart from me
without a struggle. But you tutors are such solemn chaps :
it is almost like speaking to a parson to consult with you.'

Flattered and fawned upon as Shirley was just now, it
appeared she was not absolutely spoiled — that her better
nature did not quite leave her. Universal report had
indeed ceased to couple her name with that of Moore, and
this silence seemed sanctioned by her own apparent oblivion
of the absentee ; but that she had not quite forgotten him —
that she still regarded him, if not with love yet with interest
— seemed proved by the increased attention which at this
juncture of affairs a sudden attack of illness induced her to
show that tutor-brother of Eobert's to whom she habitually
bore herself with strange alternations of cool reserve and
docile respect : now sweeping past him in all the dignity of
the moneyed heiress and prospective Lady Nunnely, and
anon accosting him as abashed school-girls are wont to
accost their stern professors : bridling her neck of ivory, and
curling her lip of carmine, if he encountered her glance, one
minute ; and the next submitting to the grave rebuke of his
eye, with as much contrition as if he had the power to inflict
penalties in case of contumacy.

Louis Moore had perhaps caught the fever, which for a
few days laid him low, in one of the poor cottages of the

488 SHIELEY

district, which he, his lame pupil, and Mr. Hall, were in the
habit of visiting together. At any rate he sickened, and
after opposing to the malady a taciturn resistance for a day
or two, was obliged to keep his chamber.

He lay tossing on his thorny bed one evening, Henry,
who would not quit him, watching faithfully beside him,
when a tap — too light to be that of Mrs. Gill or the house-
maid— summoned young Sympson to the door.

' How is Mr. Moore to-night ? ' ^sked a low voice from
the dark gallery.

' Come in and see him yourself.'

' Is he asleep ? '

'I wish he could sleep. Gome and speak to him,
Shirley.'

' He would not like it.'

But the speaker stepped in, and Henry, seeing her
hesitate on the threshold, took her hand and drew her to the
couch.

The shaded light showed Miss Keeldar's form but
imperfectly, yet it revealed her in elegant attire. There was
a party assembled below, including Sir Philip Nunnely ; the
ladies were now in the drawing-room, and their hostess had
stolen from them to visit Henry's tutor. Her pure white
dress, her fair arms and neck, the trembling chainlet of gold
circling her throat, and quivering on her breast, glistened
strangely amid the obsoxu-ity of the sick-room. Her mien
was chastened and pensive : she spoke gently.

' Mr. Moore, how are you to-night ? '

' I have not been very ill, and am now better.'

' I heard that you complained of thirst : I have brought
you some grapes : can you taste one ? '

' No : but I thank you for remembering me.'

' Just one.'

From the rich cluster that filled a small basket held in
her hand, she severed a berry and offered it to his lips. He
shook his head, and turned aside his flushed face.

' But what then can I bring you instead ? You have no

THE FIEST BLUE-STOCKING 489

•wish for fruit ; yet I see that your lips are parched. What
beverage do you prefer?"

' Mrs. Gill supplies me with toast-and- water : I like it
best.'

Silence fell for some minutes.

' Do you suffer ? Have you pain ? '

' Very little.'

' What made you ill ? '

Silence.

' I wonder what caused this fever ? To what do you
attribute it ? '

' Miasma, perhaps — malaria. This is autumn, a season
fertile in fevers.'

' I hear you often visit the sick in Briarfield, and
Nunnely too, with Mr. Hall : you should be on your guard :
temerity is not wise.'

' That reminds me. Miss Keeldar, that perhaps you had
better not enter this chamber or come near -this couch. I
do not believe my illness is infectious : I scarcely fear '
(with a sort of smile) ' you will take it ; but why should you
run even the shadow of a risk ? Leave me.'

' Patience : I will go soon ; but I should like to do some-
thing for you before I depart ^-any little service '

' They will miss you below.'

' No, the gentlemen are still at table.'

'They will not linger long: Sir Philip Nunnely is no
wine-bibber, and I hear him just now pass from the dining-
room to the drawing-room.'

' It is a servant.'

' It is Sir Philip, I know his step.'

' Your hearing is acute.'

' It is never dull, and the sense seems sharpened at
present. Sir Philip was here to tea last night. I heard
you sing to him some song which he had brought you. I
heard him, when he took his departure at eleven o'clock,
caU you out on to the pavement, to look at the evening
star.'

490 SHIELEY

' You must be nervously sensitive.'

' I heard him kiss your hand.'

' Impossible ! '

' No ; my chamber is over the hall, the window juat
above the front door, the sash was a little raised, for I felt
feverish : you stood ten minutes with him on the steps : I
heard your discourse, every word, and I heard the salute.
Henry, give me some water.'

' Let me give it him.'

But he half rose to take the glass from young Sympson,
and declined her attendance.

' And can I do nothing ? '

' Nothing : for you cannot guarantee me a night's peace-
ful rest, and it is all I at present want.'

' You do not sleep well ? '

' Sleep has left me.'

' Yet you said you were not very ill ? '

' I am often sleepless when in high health.'

' If I had power, I would lap you in the most placid
slumber ; quite deep and hushed, without a dream.'

' Blank annihilation ! I do not ask that.'

' With dreams of all you most desire.'

' Monstrous delusions ! The sleep would be delirium,
the waking death.'

' Your wishes are not so chimerical : you are no
visionary ? '

' Miss Keeldar, I suppose you think so ; but my character
is not, perhaps, quite as legible to you as a page of the last
new novel might be.'

' That is possible. . . . But this sleep : I should like to
woo it to your pillow — to win for you its favour. If I took

a book and sat down, and read some pages ? I can

well spare half -an -hour.'

' Thank you, but I will not detain you.'

' I would read softly.'

' It would not do. I am too feverish and exeitftble to

THE PIEST BLUE-STOCKING 491

bear a soft, cooing, vibrating voice close at my ear. You
had better leave me.'

' Well, I will go."

' And no good-night ? '

' Yes, sir, yes. Mr. Moore, good-night.' (Exit Shirley.)

' Henry, my boy, go to bed now: it is time you had
some repose.'

' Sir, it would please me to watch at your bed-side all
night.'

' Nothing less called for : I am getting better : there, go.'

' Give me your blessing, sir.'

' God bless you, my best pupil ! '

' You never call me your dearest pupil ! '

' No, nor ever shall.'

Possibly Miss Keeldar resented her former teacher's
rejection of her courtesy : it is certain she did not repeat the
ofifer of it. Often as her light step traversed the gallery in
the course of a day, it did not again pause at his door ; nor
did her ' cooing, vibrating voice ' disturb a second time the
hush of the sick-room. A sick-room, indeed, it soon ceased
to be ; Mr. Moore's good constitution quickly triumphed
over his indisposition : in a few days he shook it off, and
resumed his duties as tutor.

That ' Auld Langsyne ' had still its authority both with
preceptor and scholar, was proved by the manner in which
he sometimes promptly passed the distance she usually
maintained between them, and put down her high reserve
with a firm, quiet hand.

One afternoon the Sympson family were gone out to
take a carriage airing. Shirley, never sorry to snatch a
reprieve from their society, had remained behind, detained
by business, as she said. The business — a little letter-
writing — was soon despatched after the yard-gates had
closed on the carriage : Miss Keeldar betook herself to the
garden.

492 SSIELEY

It was a peaceful autumn day. The gilding of the Indian
summer mellowed the pastures far and wide. The russet
woods stood ripe to be stript, but were yet full of leaf. The
purple of heath-bloom, faded but not withered, tinged the
hills. The beck wandered down to the Hollow, through a
silent district ; no wind followed its course, or haunted its
woody borders. Pieldhead gardens bore the seal of gentle
decay. On the walks, swept that morning, yellow leaves
had fluttered down again. Its time of flowers, and even of
fruits, was over; but a scantUng of apples enriched the
trees ; only a blossom here and there expanded pale and
delicate amidst a knot of faded leaves.

These single flowers — the last of their race — Shirley
culled as she wandered thoughtfully amongst the beds. She
was fastening into her girdle a hueless and scentless nosegay,
when Henry Sympson caUed to her as he came limping from
the house.

' Shirley, Mr. Moore would be glad to see you in the
school-room and to hear you read a little French, if you
have no more urgent occupation.'

The messenger delivered his commission very simply, as
if it were a mere matter of course.

' Did Mr. Moore tell you to say that ? '

' Certainly : why not ? And now, do come, and let us
once more be as we were at Sympson-grove. We used to
have pleasant school-hours in those days.'

Miss Keeldar, perhaps, thought that circumstances were
changed since then ; however, she made no remark, but
after a little reflection quietly followed Henry.

Entering the school-room, she inclined her head vrith a
decent obeisance, as had been her wont in former times ;
she removed her bonnet, and hung it up beside Henry's cap.
Louis Moore sat at his desk, turning the leaves of a book,
open before him, and marking passages with his pencil ; he
just moved, in acknowledgment of her curtsey, but did not
rise.

' You proposed to read to me a few nights ago,' said he.

THE PIEST BLUE-STOCKING 493

' I could not hear you then ; my attention is now at your
service. A little renewed practice in French may not be
unprofitable : your accent, I have observed, begins to
rust.'

' What book shaU I take ? '

' Here are the posthtimous works of St. Pierre. Bead a
few pages of the " Fragments de I'Amazone." '

She accepted the chair which he had placed in readiness
near his own — the volume lay on his desk — there was but
one between them, her sweeping curls drooped so low as to
hide the page from him.

' Put back your hair,' he said.

For one moment, Shirley looked not quite certain
whether she would obey the request or disregard it : a
flicker of her eye beamed furtive on the professor's face ;
perhaps if he had been looldng at her harshly or timidly, or
if one undecided line had marked his countenance, she would
have rebelled, and the lesson had ended there and then ;
but he was only awaiting her compliance — as calm as
marble, and as cool. She threw the veil of tresses behind
her ear. It was well her face owned an agreeable outline,
and that her cheek possessed the polish and the roundness
of early youth, or, thus robbed of a softening shade, the con-
tours might have lost their grace. But what mattered that
in the present society ? Neither Calypso nor Eucharis cared
to fascinate Mentor.

She began to read. The language had become strange
to her tongue ; it faltered : the lecture flowed unevenly,
impeded by hurried breath, broken by Anglicised tones. She
stopped.

' I can't do it. Bead me a paragraph, if you please, Mr.
Moore.'

What he read, she repeated : she caught his accent in
three minutes.

' Tr6s bien,' was the approving comment at the close of
the piece.

' C'est presque le Fran9ais rattrap6, n'est-ce pas ? '

494 SHIELEY

' You could not write French as you once could, I dare-
say ? '

' Oh ! no. I should make strange work of my concords
now.'

' You could not compose the devoir of " La PremiSre
Femme Savante ? '

' Do you still remember that rubbish ? '

' Every line.'

' I doubt you.'

' I will engage to repeat it word for word.'

' You would stop short at the first Une.'

' Challenge me to the experiment.'

' I challenge you.'

He proceeded to recite the following : he gave it in
French, but we must translate, on pain of being unintelligible
to some readers.

* And it came to pass when men began to multiply on the face of the
earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw
the daughters of men that they were fair ; and they took them wives of
all which they chose.'

This was in the dawn of time, before the morning stars
were set, and while they yet sang together.

The epoch is so remote, the mists and dewy grey of
matin twilight veil it with so vague an obscurity, that aU
distinct feature of custom, all clear line of locality, evade
perception and baflSe research. It must su£Bce to know that
the world then existed ; that men peopled it ; that man's
nature, with its passions, sympathies, pains, and pleasures,
informed the planet and gave it soul.

A certain tribe colonized a certain spot on the globe ; of
what race this tribe — unknown : in what region that spot —
untold. We usually think of the East when we refer to
transactions of that date ; but who shall declare that there
was no life in the West, the South, the North ? What is to
disprove that this tribe, instead of camping under palm-

THE FIEST BLUE-STOCKING 496

groves in Asia, wandered beneath island oak-woods rooted
in our own seas of Europe ?

It is no sandy plain, nor any circumscribed and scant
oasis I seem to realize. A forest valley, with rocky sides
and brown profundity of shade, formed by tree crowding on
tree, descends deep before me. Here, indeed, dwell human
beings, but so few, and in alleys so thick-branched and over-
arched, they are neither heard nor seen. Are they savage ?
— doubtless. They live by the crook and the bow : half
shepherds, half hunters, their flocks wander wild as their
prey. Are they happy ? — no : not more happy than we are
at this day. Are they good ? — no : not better than our-
selves : their nature is our nature — human both. There is
one in this tribe too often miserable — a child bereaved of
both parents. None cares for this child : she is fed some-
times, but oftener forgotten : a hut rarely receives her : the
hollow tree and chill cavern are her home. Forsaken, lost,
and wandering, ghe lives more with the wild beast and bird
than with her own kind. Hunger and cold are her comrades :
sadness hovers over, and solitude besets her round. Un-
heeded and unvalued, she should die : but she both hves
and grows : the green wilderness nurses her, and becomes
to her a mother : feeds her on juicy berry, on saccharine
root and nut.

There is something in the air of this clime which fosters
life kindly : there must be something, too, in its dews, which
heals with sovereign balm. Its gentle seasons exaggerate
no passion, no sense ; its temperature tends to harmony ; its
breezes, you would say, bring down from heaven the germ
of pure thought, and purer feeling. Not grotesquely
fantastic are the forms of cliff and foliage ; not violently
vivid the colouring of flower and bird : in all the grandeur
of these forests there is repose ; in all their freshness there
is tenderness.

The gentle charm vouchsafed to flower and tree, —
bestowed on deer and dove, — has not been denied to the
human nursling. All solitary, she has sprung up straight

496 SHIELBY

and graceful. Nature cast her features in a fine mould ;
they have matured in their pure, accurate first lines, un-
altered by the shocks of disease. No fierce dry blast has
dealt rudely with the surface of her frame ; no burning sun
has crisped or withered her tresses : her form gleams ivory-
white through the trees ; her hair flows plenteous, long, and
glossy ; her eyes not dazzled by vertical fires, beam in the
shade large and open, and full and dewy : above those eyes,
when the breeze bares her forehead, shines an expanse fair
and ample, — a clear, candid page, whereon knowledge,
should knowledge ever come, might write a golden record.
You see in the desolate young savage nothing vicious or
vacant ; she haunts the wood harmless and thoughtful :
though of what one so untaught can think, it is not easy to
divine.

On the evening of one summer day, before the Mood,
being utterly alone — for she had lost all trace of her tribe,
who had wandered leagues away, she knew not where, — she
went up from the vale, to watch Day take leave and Night
arrive. A crag, overspread by a tree, was her station : the
oak-roots, turfed and mossed, gave a seat : the oak-boughs,
thick-leaved, wove a canopy.

Slow and grand the Day withdrew, passing in purple
fire, and parting to the farewell of a vnld, low chorus from
the woodlands. Then Night entered, quiet as death : the
wind fell, the birds ceased singing. Now every nest held
happy mates, and hart and hind slumbered blissfully safe in
their lair.

The girl sat, her body still, her soul astir ; occupied, how-
ever, rather in feeling than in thinking, — in wishing, than
hoping, — in imagining, than projecting. She felt the world,
the sky, the night, boundlessly mighty. Of all things, herself
seemed to herself the centre, — a small, forgotten atom of life,
a spark of soul, emitted inadvertent from the great creative
source, and now burning unmarked to waste in the heart of
a black hollow. She asked, was she thus to burn out and
perish, her living light doing no good, never seen, never

THE PIEST BLUE-STOCKING 497

needed, — a star in an else starless firmament, — which nor
shepherd, nor wanderer, nor sage, nor priest, tracked as a
guide, or read as a prophecy ? Could this be, she demanded,
when the flame of her intelligence burned so vivid ; when
her life beat so true, and real, and potent ; when something
within her stirred disquieted, and restlessly asserted a God-
given strength, for which it insisted she should find exercise?

She gazed abroad on Heaven and Evening : Heaven and
Evening gazed back on her. She bent down, searching
bank, hill, river, spread dim below. All she questioned re-
sponded by oracles : she heard, she was impressed ; but she
could not understand. Above her head she raised her hands
joined together.

' Guidance — help — comfort — come ! ' was her cry.

There was no voice, nor any that answered.

She waited, kneeling, steadfastly looking up. Yonder
sky was sealed : the solemn stars shone alien and remote.

At last, one over-stretched chord of her agony slacked :
she thought Something above relented: she felt as if Some-
shing far round drew nigher : she heard as if Silence spoke.
There was no language, no word, only a tone.

Again— a fine, full, lofty tone, a deep, soft sound, like a
storm whispering, made twilight undulate.

Once more, profounder, nearer, clearer, it rolled har-
monious.

Yet, again a distinct voice passed between Heaven

and Earth.

'Eva!'

If Eva were not this woman's name, she had none. She
rose.

' Here am I.'

'Eva I'

' Oh, Night ! (it can be but Night that speaks) I am here ! '

The voice, descending, reached Earth.

'Eva!'

' Lord ! ' she cried, ' behold thine handmaid ! '

She had her religion : all tribes held some creed.

498 SHIRLEY

' I come : a Comforter I '

' Lord, come quickly ! '

The Evening flushed full of hope : the Air panted ; the
Moon — rising before — ascended large, but her light showed
no shape.

' Lean towards me, Eva. Enter my arms ; repose thus.'

' Thus I lean, 0 Invisible, but felt ! And what art thou?'

' Eva, I have brought a living draught from heaven.
Daughter of Man, drink of my cup ! '

' I drink — it is as if sweetest dew visited my lips in a full
current. My arid heart revives : my affliction is lightened :
my strait and struggle are gone. And the night changes !
the wood, the hill, the moon, the wide sky — aU change I '

' All change, and for ever. I take from thy vision, dark-
ness : I loosen from thy faculties, fetters ! I level in thy
path, obstacles : I, with my presence, fill vacancy : I claim
as mine the lost atom of hfe : I take to myself the spark of
soul — burning, heretofore, forgotten ! '

' Oh, take me ! Oh, claim me ! This is a god.'

' This is a son of God : one who feels himself in the
portion of life that stirs you : he is suffered to reclaim his
own, and so to foster and aid that it shall not perish
hopeless.'

' A Son of God ! Am I indeed chosen ? '

' Thou only in this land. I saw thee that thou wert fair :
I knew thee that thou wert mine. To me it is given to
rescue, to sustain, to cherish, mine own. Acknowledge in
me that Seraph on earth, named Genius.'

' My glorious Bridegroom ! True Dayspring from on
high ! All I would have, at last I possess. I receive a
revelation. The dark hint,- the obscure whisper, which have
haunted me from childhood, are interpreted. Thou art He I
sought. God-born, take me, thy bride ! '

' Unhumbled, I can take what is mine. Did I not give
from the altar the very flame which lit Eva's being ? Come
again into the heaven whence thou wert sent.'

That Presence, invisible, but mighty, gathered her in like

THE FIEST BLUE-STOCKING 499

a lamb to the fold; that voice, soft, but all-pervading,
vibrated through her heart like masic. Her eye received
no image : and yet a sense visited her vision and her brain
as of the serenity of stainless air, the povyer of sovereign
seas, the majesty of marching stars, the energy of colliding
elements, the rooted endurance of hills wide based, and,
above all, as of the lustre of heroic beauty rushing victorious
on the Night, vanquishing its shadows like a diviner sun.

Such was the bridal-hour of Genius and Humanity.
Who shall rehearse the tale of their after-union ? Who
shall depict its bliss and bale? Who shall tell how He,
between whom and the Woman God put enmity, forged
deadly plots to break the bond or defile its purity ? Who
shall record the long strife between Serpent and Seraph?
How still the Father of Lies insinuated evil into Good —
pride into wisdom — grossness into glory — pain into bliss —
poison into passion? How the 'dreadless Angel' defied,
resisted, and repelled ? How, again and again, he refined
the polluted cup, exalted the debased emotion, rectified the
perverted impulse, detected the lurking venom, baffled the
frontlesa temptation — purified, justified, watched, and with-
stood? How, by his patience, by his strength, by that
unutterable excellence he held from God — his Origin — this
faithful Seraph fought for Humanity a good fight through
time ; and, when Time's course closed, and Death was
encountered at the end, barring with fleshless arm the
portals of Eternity, how Genius still held close his dying
bride, sustained her through the agony of the passage, bore
her triumphant into his own home — Heaven ; restored her,
redeemed, to Jehovah — her Maker; and at last, before Angel
and Archangel, crowned her with the crown of Immortality.

Who shall, of these things, write the chronicle ?

'I never could correct that composition,' observed Shirley,
as Moore concluded. ' Your censor-pencil scored it with
condemnatory lines, whose signification I strove vainly to
fathom,'

500 SHIELEY

She had taken a crayon from the tutor's desk, and was
drawing little leaves, fragments of pillars, broken crosses,
on the margin of the book.

' French may be half-forgotten, but the habits of the
French lesson are retained, I see,' said Louis : ' my books
would now, as erst, be unsafe with you. My newly bound
St. Pierre would soon be Hke my Eaoine : Miss Keeldar,
her mark — traced on every page.'

Shirley dropped her crayon as if it burned her fingers.

'Tell me what were the faults of that devou-?' she asked.
' Were they grammatical errors, or did you object to the
substance ? '

' I never said that the Unes I drew were indications of
faults at all. You would have it that such was the case,
and I refrained from contradiction.'

' What else did they denote ? '

' No matter now.'

' Mr. Moore,' cried Henry, ' make Shirley repeat some of
the pieces she used to say so well by heart.'

•If I ask for any, it will be " Le Cheval Dompt6," ' said
Moore, trimming with his penknife the pencil Miss Keeldar
had worn to a stump.

She turned aside her head ; the neck, the clear cheek,
forsaken by their natural veil, were seen to flush warm.

' Ah ! she has not forgotten, you see, sir,' said Henry,
exultant. ' She knows how naughty she was.'

A smile, which Shirley would not permit to expand,
made her lip tremble ; she bent her face, and hid it half
with her arms, half in her curls, which, as she stooped fell
loose again.

' Certainly, I was a rebel I ' she answered.

' A rebel ! ' repeated Henry. ' Yes : you and papa had
quarrelled terribly, and you set both him and mamma, and
Mrs. Pryor, and everybody, at defiance : you said he had
insulted you '

' He had insulted me,' interposed Shirley.

' And you wanted to leave Sympson Grove directly.

THE FIEST BLUE-STOCKING 501

You packed your things up, and papa threw them out of
your trunk ; mamma cried — Mrs. Pryor cried ; they both
stood wringing their hands, begging you to be patient, and
you knelt on the floor with your things and your upturned box
before you, looking, Shirley — looking— why, in one of your
passions. Your features, in such passions, are not distorted :
they are fixed, but quite beautiful : you scarcely look angry,
only resolute, and in a certain haste ; yet one feels that, at
such times, an obstacle cast across your path would be split
as with lightning. Papa lost heart, and called Mr. Moore.'

' Enough, Henry.'

' No : it is not enough. . I hardly know how Mr. Moore
managed, except that I recollect he suggested to papa that
agitation would bring on his gout ; and then he spoke quietly
to the ladies, and got them away ; and afterwards he said to
you. Miss Shirley, that it was of no use talking or lecturing
now, but that the tea-things were just brought into the
school-room, and he was very thirsty, and he would be glad
if you would leave your packing for the present and come
and make a cup of tea for him and me. You came : you
would not talk at first; but soon you softened and grew
cheerful. Mr. Moore began to tell us about' the Continent,
the war, and Buonaparte; subjects we were both fond of
Ustening to. After tea he said we should neither of us leave
him that evening : he would not let us stray out of his sight,
lest we should again get into mischief. We sat one on each
side of him : we were so happy. I never passed so pleasant
an evening. The next day he gave you, missy, a lecture of
an hour, and wound it up by marking you a piece to learn in
Bossuet as a punishment-lesson, — " Le Cheval Dompt6."
You learned it instead of packing up, Shirley. We heard no
more of your running away. Mr. Moore used to tease you
on the subject for a year afterwards.'

' She never said a lesson with greater spirit,' subjoined
Moore. ' She then, for the first time, gave me the treat of
hearing my native tongue spoken without accent by an
English girl.'

602 SHifiLEY

' She was as sweet as summer-cherries for a month after-
wards,' struck in Henry : ' a good hearty quarrel always left
Shirley's temper better than it found it.'

' You talk of me as if I were not present,' observed Miss
Keeldar, who had not yet lifted her face.

' Are you sure you are present ? ' asked Moore : ' there
have been moments since my arrival here, when I have been
tempted to inquire of the lady of Keldhead if she knew what
had become of my former pupil ? '

' She is here now.'

' I see her, and humble enough ; but I would neither
advise Harry, nor others, to believe too implicitly in the
humility which one moment can hide its blushing face like a
modest little child, and the next lift it pale and lofty as a
marble Juno.'

' One man in times of old, it is said, imparted vitality to
the statue he had chiselled. Others may have the contrary
gift of turning life to stone.'

Moore paused on this observation before he replied to it.
His look, at once struck and meditative, said, 'A strange
phrase : what may it mean ? ' He turned it over in his mind,
with thought deep and slow, as some German pondering
metaphysics.

'You mean,' he said, at last, 'that some men inspire
repugnance, and so chill the kind heart.'

' Ingenious 1' responded Shirley. 'If the interpretation
pleases you, you are welcome to hold it valid. I don't care.'

And with that she raised her head, lofty in look, and
statue-like in hue, as Louis had described it.

' Behold the metamorphosis ! ' he said : ' scarce imagined
ere it is realized: a lowly nymph develops to an inacces-
sible goddess. But Henry must not be disappointed of his
recitation, and Olympia will deign to oblige him. Let us
begin.'

' I have forgotten the very first line.'

' Which I have not. My memory, if a slow, is a retentive
one. I acquire deliberately both knowledge and liking : the

THE FIEST BLUE-STOCKING 503

acquisition grows into my brain, and the sentiment into my
breast ; and it is not as the rapid springing produce which,
having no root in itself, flourishes verdurous enough for a
time, but too soon falls withered away. Attention, Henry !
Miss Keeldar consents to favour you. " Voyez ce Cheval
ardent et imp6tueux," so it commences.'

Miss Keeldar did consent to make the effort; but she
soon stopped.

' Unless I heard the whole repeated, I cannot continue
it,' she said.

' Yet it was quickly learned, " soon gained, soon gone," '
moralized the tutor. He recited the passage deliberately,
accurately, with slow, impressive emphasis.

Shirley, by degrees, inclined her ear as he went on. Her
face, before turned from him, returned towards him. When
he ceased, she took the word up as if from his lips : she took
his very tone ; she seized his very accent ; she delivered the
periods as he had delivered them : she reproduced his man-
ner, his pronunciation, his expression.

It was now her turn to petition.

' Eecall " Le Songe d'Athalie," ' she entreated, ' and
say it.'

He said it for her ; she took it from him ; she found
lively excitement in the pleasure of making his language her
own : she asked for further indulgence ; all the old school-
pieces were revived, and with them Shirley's old school-
days.

He had gone through some of the best passages of Eacine
and Corneille, and then had heard the echo of his own deep
tones in the girl's voice, that modulated itself faithfully on
his : — ' Le Chfene et le Eoseau,' that most beautiful of
La Fontaine's fables, had been recited, well recited by the
tutor, and the pupil had animatedly availed herself of the
lesson. Perhaps a simultaneous feeling seized them now,
that their enthusiasm had kindled to a glow, which the
slight fuel of French poetry no longer sufficed to feed ;
perhaps they longed for a trunk of English oak to be

504 SHIELEY

thrown as a Yule log to the devouving flame. Moore ob-
served, ' And these are our best pieces ! And we have
nothing more dramatic, nervous, natural ! '

And then he smiled and was silent. His whole nature
seemed serenely alight : he stood on the hearth, leaning his
elbow on the mantel-piece, musing not unblissfully.

Twilight was closing on the diminished autumn day :
the school-room windows — darkened with creeping plants,
from which no high October winds had as yet swept the
sere foliage — admitted scarce a gleam of sky ; but the fire
gave light enough to talk by.

And now Louis Moore addressed his pupil in French ;
and she answered, at first, with laughing hesitation and in
broken phrase : Moore encouraged while he corrected her ;
Henry joined in the lesson ; the two scholars stood opposite
the master, their arms round each other's waists : Tartar,
who long since had craved and obtained admission, sat
sagely in the centre of the rug, staring at the blaze which
burst fitful from morsels of coal among the red cinders : the
group were happy enough, but —

' Pleasures are like poppies spread ;
Tou seize the flower — its bloom is shed.'

The dull, rumbling sound of wheels was heard on the pave*
ment in the yard.

' It is the carriage returned,' said Shirley ; ' and dinner
must be just ready, and I am not dressed.'

A servant came in with Mr. Moore's candle and tea : for
the tutor and his pupil usually dined at luncheon time.

'Mr. Sympson and the ladies are returned," she said,
' and Sir Philip Nunnely is with them.'

'How you did start, and how your hand trembled,
Shirley ! ' said Henry, when the maid had closed the shutter
and was gone. ' But I know why — don't you, Mr. Moore ?
I know what papa intends. He is a Uttle ugly man, that
Sir Philip : I wish he had not come : I wish sisters and all
of them had stayed at De Walden Hall to dine. Shirley

THE PIBST BLUE-STOCKINa 505

should once more have made tea for you and me, Mr.
Moore, and we would have had a happy evening of it.'

Moore was locking up his desk, and putting away his
St. Pierre — ' That was your plan — was it, my boy ? '

' Don't you approve it, sir ? '

' I approve nothing Utopian. Look Life in its iron
face : stare EeaUty out of its brassy countenance. Make
the tea, Henry ; I shall be back in a minute.'

He left the room : so did Shirley, by another door.

CHAPTEB XXVIII

PHCEBE

Shirley probably got on pleasantly with Sir Philip that
evening, for the next morning she came down in one of her
best moods.

' Who will take a walk with me ? ' she asked, after break-
fast. ' Isabella and Gertrude — will you ? '

So rare was such an invitation from Miss Keeldar to her
female cousins that they hesitated before they accepted it.
Their mamma, however, signifying acquiescence in the
project, they fetched their bonnets, and the trio set out.

It did not suit these three young persons to be thrown
much together : Miss Keeldar liked the society of few Lidies :
indeed, she had a cordial pleasure in that of none except
Mrs. Pryor and Caroline Helstone. She was civil, kind,
attentive even to her cousins ; but still she usually had httle
to say to them. In the sunny mood of this particular
morning, she contrived to entertain even the Misses
Sympson. Without deviating from her wonted rule of dis-
cussing with them only ordinary themes, she imparted to
these themes an extraordinary interest : the sparkle of her
spirit glanced along her phrases.

What made her so joyous ? All the cause must have
been in herself. The day was not bright ; it was dim — a
pale, waning autumn day : the walks through the dun
woods were damp ; the atmosphere was heavy, the sky
overcast ; and yet, it seemed that in Shirley's heart lived all
the light and azure of Italy, as all its fervour laughed in her
grey English eye.

Some directions necessary to be given to her foreman,

PHCEBE 507

John, delayed her behind her cousins as they neared Field-
head on their return ; perhaps an interval of twenty minutes
elapsed between her separation from them and her re-
entrance into the house : in the meantime she had spoken
to John, and then she had lingered in the lane at the gate.
A summons to luncheon called her in : she excused herself
from the meal, and went upstairs.

' Is not Shirley coming to luncheon ? ' asked Isabella :
' she said she was not hungry.'

An hour after, as she did not quit her chamber, one of
her cousins went to seek her there. She was found sitting
at the foot of the bed, her head resting on her hand : she
looked quite pale, very thoughtful, almost sad.

' You are not ill ? ' was the question put.

' A little sick,' replied Miss Keeldar.

Certainly she was not a little changed from what she
had been two hours before.

This change, accounted for only by those three words,
explained no otherwise ; this change — whencesoever spring-
ing, effected in a brief ten minutes — passed like no light
summer cloud. She talked when she joined her friends at
dinner, talked as usual ; she remained with them during the
evening ; when again questioned respecting her health, she
declared herself perfectly recovered : it had been a mere
passing faintness : a momentary sensation, not worth a
thought : yet it was felt there was a difference in Shirley.

The next day — the day — the week — the fortnight after —
this new and peculiar shadow lingered on the countenance,
in the manner of Miss Keeldar. A strange quietude settled
over her look, her movements, her very voice. The
alteration was not so marked as to court or permit frequent
questioning, yet it was there, and it would not pass away :
it hung over her like a cloud which no breeze could stir or
disperse. Soon it became evident that to notice this change
was to annoy her. First she shrunk from remark ; and, if
persisted in, she, with her own peculiar hauteur, repelled it,
• Was she ill ? ' The reply came with decision.

508 SHIELEY

' I am not.'

'Did anything weigh on her mind? Had anything
happened to affect her spirits ? '

She scornfully ridiculed the idea.

' What did they mean by spirits ? She had no spirits,
black or white, blue or grey, to affect.'

' Something must be the matter — she was so altered.'

' She supposed she had a right to alter at her ease. She
knew she was plainer : if it suited her to grow ugly, why
need others fret themselves on the subject.'

' There must be a cause for the change — what was it ? '

She peremptorily requested to be let alone.

Then she would make every effort to appear quite gay,
and she seemed indignant at herself that she could not
perfectly succeed : brief, self-spurning epithets burst from
her lips when alone. ' Pool ! Coward ! ' she would term
herself. ' Poltroon ! ' she would say : ' if you must tremble
— tremble in secret ! Quail where no eye sees you ! '

' How dare you ' — she would ask herself — ' how dare you
show your weakness and betray your imbecile anxieties?
Shake them off : rise above them : if you cannot do this,
hide them.'

And to hide them she did her best. She once more
became resolutely Uvely in company. When weary of effort
and forced to relax, she sought solitude : not the solitude of
her chamber — she refused to mope, shut up between four
walls — but that wilder solitude which Ues out of doors,
and which she could chase, mounted on Zoe, her mare.
She took long rides of half a day. Her uncle disapproved,
but he dared not remonstrate : it was never pleasant to
face Shirley's anger, even when she was healthy and gay ;
but now that her face showed thin, and her large eye
looked hollow, there was something in the darkening of
that face and kindling of that eye which touched as well as
alarmed.

To all comparative strangers who, unconscious of the
alteration in her spirits, commented on the alteration in her

PHCBBB 509

looks, she had one reply : ' I am perfectly well : I have not
an ailment.'

And health, indeed, she must have had, to be able to
bear the exposure to the weather she now encountered.
Wet or fair, calm or storm, she took her daily ride over
Stilbro' Moor, Tartar keeping up at her side, with his wolf-
like gallop, long and untiring.

Twice— three times, the eyes of gossips — those eyes
which are everywhere : in the closet and on the hill-top —
noticed that instead of turning on Eushedge, the top-ridge
of Stilbro' Moor, she rode forwards all the way to the town.
Scouts were not wanting to mark her destination there ; it
was ascertained that she alighted at the door of one Mr.
Pearson Hall, a solicitor, related to the Vicar of Nunnely :
this gentleman and his ancestors had been the agents of the
Keeldar family for generations back : some people affirmed
that Miss Keeldar was become involved in business specula-
tions connected with Hollow's-mill ; that she had lost money,
and was constrained to mortgage her land : others con-
jectured that she was going to be married, and that the
settlements were preparing.

Mr. Moore and Henry Sympson were together in the
school-room : the tutor was waiting for a lesson which the
pupil seemed busy in preparing.

' Henry, make haste ! the afternoon is getting on.'

' Is it, sir ? '

' Certainly. Are you nearly ready with that lesson ? '

•No.'

' Not nea/rly ready ? '

' I have not construed a line.'

Mr. Moore looked up: the boy's tone was rather
peculiar.

' The task presents no difificulties, Henry ; or, if it does,
bring them to me : we will work together.'

• Mr. Moore, I can do no work.'

510 SmflLEY

' My boy, you are ill.'

' Sir, I am not worse in bodily health than usual, but tiiy
heart is full.'

' Shut the book. Come hither, Harry. Come to the
fireside.'

Harry limped forward ; his tutor placed him in a chair :
his lips were quivering, his eyes brimming. He laid his
crutch on the floor, bent down his head, and wept.

' This distress is not occasioned by physical pain, you
say, Harry? You have a grief : — tell it me.'

' Sir, I have such a grief as I never had before. I wish
it could be relieved in some way : I can hardly bear it.'

' Who knows but, if we talk it over, we may relieve it ?
What is the cause ? Whom does it concern ? '

' The cause, sir, is Shirley : it concerns Shirley.'

' Does it ? . . . You think her changed ? '

' All who know her think her changed : you too, Mr.
Moore.'

' Not seriously, — no. I see no alteration but such as a
favourable turn might repair in a few weeks : besides, her
own word must go for something : she says she is well.'

' There it is, sir : as long as she maintained she was well,
I believed her. When I was sad out of her sight, I soon
recovered spirits in her presence. Now . . .'

' Well, Harry, now . . . ? Has she said anything to
you ? You and she were together in the garden two hours
this morning : I saw her talking, and you listening. Now,
my dear Harry ! if Miss Keeldar had said she is ill, and
enjoined you to keep her secret, do not obey her. For her
life's sake, avow everything. Speak, my boy ! '

' She say she is ill ! I believe, sir, if she were dying, she
would smile, and aver " Nothing ails me." '

' What have you learned, then ? What new circum-
stance . . . ? '

' I have learned that she has just made her will.'

' Made her will ? '

The tutor and the pupil were silent.

PHCEBE 511

' She told you that ? ' asked Moore, when some minutea
had elapsed.

' She told me quite cheerfully : not as an ominous circum-
stance, which I felt it to be. She said I was the only person
besides her solicitor, Pearson Hall, and Mr. Helstone and
Mr. Yorke, who knew anything about it ; and to me, she
intimated, she wished specially to explain its provisions.'

' Go on, Harry.'

' " Because," ' she said, looking down on me with her
beautiful eyes, — oh ! they are beautiful, Mr. Moore ! I love
them, — I love her ! She is my star ! Heaven must not
claim her ! She is lovely in this world, and fitted for this
world. Shirley is not an angel ; she is a woman, and she
shall live with men. Seraphs shall not have her ! Mr.
Moore — if one of the " sons of God," with wings wide and
bright as the sky, blue and sounding as the sea, having seen
that she was fair, descended to claim her, his claim should
be withstood —withstood by me — boy and cripple as I
am ! '

' Henry Sympson, go on, when I tell you.'

' " Because," she said, " if I made no will, and died before
2^u, Harry, all my property would go to you ; and I do not
intend that it should be so, though your father would like it.
But you," she said, "will have his whole estate, which is
large — larger than Fieldhead ; your sisters will have nothing,
so I have left them some money : though I do not love them,
both together, half so much as I love one lock of your fair
hair." She said these words, and she called me her
" darUng," and let me kiss her. She went on to tell me that
she had left Caroline Helstone some money too ; that this
manor-house, with its furniture and books, she had be-
queathed to me, as she did not choose to take the old family
place from her own blood ; and that all the rest of her
property, amounting to about twelve thousand pounds,
exclusive of the legacies to my sisters and Miss Helstone, she
had willed, not to me, seeing I was already rich, but to a
good man, who would make the best use of it that any

512 SHIRLEY

human being could do : a man, she aaid, that was both
gentle and brave, strong and merciful ; a man that might
not profess to be pious, but she knew he had the secret of
religion pure and undefiled before God. The spirit of love
and peace was with him : he visited the fatherless and
widows in their affliction, and kept himself unspotted from
the world. Then she asked, " Do you approve what I have
done, Harry 1" I could not answer, — my tears choked me,
as they do now.'

Mr. Moore allowed his pupil a moment to contend with
and master his emotion : he then demanded ; — ' What else
did she say ? '

' When I had signified my full consent to the conditions
of her will, she told me I was a generous boy, and she was
proud of me : " And now," she added, " in case anything
should happen, you will know what to say to Malice when
she comes whispering hard things in -your eay, insinuating
that Shirley has wronged you; that she did not love you.
You will know that I did love you, Harry ; that no sister
could have loved you better, my own treasure." Mr. Moore,
sir, when I remember her voice, and recall her look, my
heart beats as if it would break its strings. She may go to
heaven before me — if God commands it, she must ; but the
rest of my life — and my life will not be long — I am glad of
that now — shall be a straight, quick, thoughtful journey in
the path her step has pressed. I thought to enter the vault
of the Keeldars before her : should it be otherwise, lay my
cofBn by Shirley's side.'

Moore answered him with a weighty calm, that offered a
strange contrast to the boy's perturbed enthusiasm.

' You are wrong, both of you — you harm each other. If
youth once falls under the influence of a shadowy terror, it
imagines there will never be full sunlight again — its first
calamity it fancies will last a lifetime ? What more did she
say ? Anything more ? '

' We settled one or two family points between ourselvea.'

' I should rather like to know what '

PflOSBE 513

'But, Mr. Moore, you smile — I could not smile to see
Shirley in such a mood.'

' My boy, I am neither nervous, nor poetic, nor inexperi-
enced. I see things as they are : you don't as yet. Tell
me these family points.'

'Only, sir, she asked me whether I considered myself
most of a Keeldar or a Sympson ; and I answered I was
Keeldar to the core of the heart, and to the marrow of the
bones. She said she was glad of it ; for, besides her, I was
the only Keeldar left in England : and then we agreed on
some matters.'

' Well ? '

'Well, sir, that if I lived to inherit my father's estate,
and her house, I was to take the name of Keeldar, and to
make Fieldhead my residence. Henry Shirley Keeldar I
said I would be called : and I will. Her name and her
manor-house are ages old, and Sympson and Sympson-grove
are of yesterday.'

' Come, you are neither of you going to heaven yet. I
have the best hopes of you both, with your proud distinctions
— a pair of halt-fledged eaglets. Now, what is your infer-
ence from all you have told me ? put it into words.'

' That Shirley thinks she is going to die.'

' She referred to her health ? '

' Not once ; but I assure you she is wasting : her hands,
are growing quite thin, and so is her cheek.'

' Does she ever complain to your mother or sisters ? '

' Never. She laughs at them when they question her.
Mr. Moore, she is a strange being — so fair and girlish : not
a man-like woman at all — not an Amazon, and yet lifting her
head above both help and sympathy.'

'Do you know where she is now, Henry? Is she in
the house, or riding out ? '

' Surely not out, sir — it rains fast.'

' True : which, however, is no guarantee that she is not
at this moment cantering over Eushedge. Of late she has
never permitted weather to be a hindrance to her rides.'

514 SHIELEY

' You remember, Mr. Moore, how wet and stormy it was
last Wednesday? so wild, indeed, that she would not per-
mit Zoe to be saddled ; yet the blast she thought too tem-
pestuous for her mare, she herself faced on foot ; that
afternoon she walked nearly as far as Nunnely. I asked
her, when she came in, if she was not afraid of taking cold.
" Not I," she said, " it would be too much good luck for me. I
don't know, Harry ; but the best thing that could happen to
me would be to take a good cold and fever, and so pass off
like other Christians." She is reckless, you see, sir.'

' Eeckless indeed ! Go and find out where she is ; and
if you can get an opportunity of speaking to her, without
attracting attention, request her to come here a minute.'

' Yes, sir."

He snatched his crutch, and started up to go.

' Harry ! '

He returned.

'Do not deliver the message formally. Word it as, in
former days, you would have worded an ordinary summons
to the school-room.'

' I see, sir ; she will be more likely to obey.'

' And Harry '

'Sir?'

'I will call you when I want you: till then, you are
dispensed from lessons.'

He departed. Mr. Moore, left alone, rose from his desk.

'I can be very cool and very supercilious with Henry,'
he said. ' I can seem to make light of his apprehensions,
and look down " du haut de ma grandeur " on his youthful
ardour. To him I can speak as if, in my eyes, they were
both children. Let me see if I can keep up the same role
with her. I have known the moment when I seemed about
to forget it : when Confusion and Submission seemed about
to crush me with their soft tyranny; when my tongue
faltered, and I have almost let the mantle drop, and stood in
her presence, not master — no — but something else. I trust
I shall never so play the fool : it is well for a Sir Philip

PHCEBE 515

Nunnely to redden when he meets her eye : he may permit
himself the indulgence of submission — he may even without
disgrace suffer his hand to tremble when it touches hers ;
but if one of her farmers were to show himself susceptible
and sentimental, he would merely prove his need of a strait-
waistcoat. So far I have always done very well. She has
sat near me, and I have not shaken — more than my desk.
I have encountered her looks and smiles Uke — why, like
a tutor, as I am. Her hand I never yet touched — never
underwent that test. Her farmer or her footman I am not
— no serf nor servant of hers have I ever been : but I am
poor, and it behoves me to look to my self-respect — not to
compromise an inch of it. What did she mean by that allusion
to the cold people who petrify flesh to marble ? It pleased
me — I hardly know why — I would not permit myself to
inquire — I never do indulge in scrutiny either of her language
or countenance ; for if I did, I should sometimes forget
Common Sense and believe in Eomance. A strange, secret
ecstasy steals through my veins at moments : I'll not
encourage — I'll not remember it. I am resolved, as long
as may be, to retain the right to say with Paul — " I am not
mad, but speak forth the words of truth and soberness." '

He paused — listening.

' Will she come, or will she not come ? ' he inquired.
' How will she take the message ? naively or disdainfully ?
like a child or like a queen ? Both characters are in her
nature.

' If she comes, what shall I say to her ? How account,
firstly, for the freedom of the request ? Shall I apologize to
her ? I could in all humility ; but would an apology tend
to place us in the positions we ought relatively to occupy in
this matter? I must keep up the professor, otherwise — I
hear a door '

He waited. Many minutes passed.

' She will refuse me. Henry is entreating her to come :
she declines. My petition is presumption in her eyes : let
her only come, I can teach her to the contrary. I would

iS

516 SHIELEY

rather she were a little perverse — it will steel me. I prefer
her, cuirassed in pride, armed with a taunt. Her soom
startles me from my dreams — I stand up myself. A
sarcasm from her eyes or lips puts strength into every
nerve and sinew I have. Some step approaches, and not
Henry's. . . .'

The door unclosed ; Miss Keeldar came in. The message,
it appeared, had found her at her needle : she brought her
work in her hand. That day she had not been riding out :
she had evidently passed it quietly. She wore her neat in-
door dress and silk apron. This was no Thalestris from the
fields, but a quiet domestic character from the fireside.
Mr. Moore had her at advantage : he should have addressed
her at once in solemn accents, and with rigid mien ; perhaps
he would, had she looked saucy ; but her air never showed
less of cr&nerie ; a soft kind of youthful shyness depressed
her eyelid and mantled on her cheek. The tutor stood
silent.

She made a full stop between the door and his desk.

' Did you want me, sir ? ' she asked.

' I ventured. Miss Keeldar, to send for you — that is, to
ask an interview of a few minutes.'

She waited : she plied her needle.

' Well, sir ' (not lifting her eyes) — ' what about ? '

' Be seated first. The subject I would broach is one of
some moment : perhaps I have hardly a right to approach
it : it is possible I ought to frame an apology : it is possible
no apology can excuse me. The liberty I have taken arises
from a conversation with Henry. The boy is unhappy about
your health : all your friends are unhappy on that subject.
It is of your health I would speak.'

' I am quite well,' she said briefly.

' Yet changed.'

' That matters to none but myself. We all change.'

' Will you sit down ? Formerly, Miss Keeldar, I had
some influence with you — have I any now ? May I feel that
what I am saying is not accounted positive presumption ? '

PHCEBE 817

' Let me read some French, Mr. Moore, or 1 will even
take a spell at the Latin grammar, and let us proclaim a
truce to all sanitary discussions.'

' No — no : it is time there were discussions.'

' Discuss away, then, but do not choose me for your text;
I am a healthy subject.'

' Do you not think it wrong to affirm and reaffirm what
is substantially untrue ? '

' I say I am well : I have neither cough, pain, nor fever.'

' Is there no equivocation in that assertion ? Is it the
direct truth ? '

' The direct truth.'

Louis Moore looked at her earnestly.

' I can myself,' he said, ' trade no indications of actual
disease ; but why, then, are you altered ? '

' Am I altered ? '

' We will try : we wiU seek a proof.'

•How?'

' I ask, in the first place, do you sleep as you used to? '

' I do not : but it is not because I am ill.'

' Have you the appetite you once had ? '

' No : but it is not because I am ill.'

' You remember this little ring fastened to my watch-
chain ? It was my mother's, and is too small to pass the
joint of my little finger. You have many a time sportively
purloined it : it fitted your forefinger. Try now.'

She permitted the test : the ring dropped from the wasted
little hand. Louis picked it up, and re-attached it to the
chain. An uneasy flush coloured his brow. Shirley again
said : — ' It is not because I am ill.'

' Not only have you lost sleep, appetite, and flesh,' pro-
ceeded Moore, ' but your spirits are always at ebb : besides,
there is a nervous alarm in your eye — a nervous disquiet in
your manner : these peculiarities were not formerly yours.'

' Mr. Moore, we will pause here. You have exactly hit
it : I am nervous. Now, talk of something else. What wet
weather we have I Steady, pouring rain I '

518 SHIELEY

' You nervous ! Yes : and if Miss Keeldar is nervous,
it is not without a cause. Let me reach it. Let me look
nearer. The ailment is not physical : I have suspected that.
It came in one moment. I knovy the day. I noticed the
change. Your pain is mental.'

' Not at all : it is nothing so dignified — merely nervous.
Oh ! dismiss the topic'

' When it is exhausted : not till then. Nervous alarms
should always be communicated, that they may be dissipated.
I wish I had the gift of persuasion, and could incline you to
speak willingly. I believe confession, in your case, would
be half equivalent to cure.'

'No,' said Shirley, abruptly: 'I wish that were at all
probable ; but I am afraid it is not.'

She suspended her work a moment. She was now seated.
Eesting her elbow on the table, she leaned her head on her
hand. Mr. Moore looked as if he felt he had at last gained
some footing in this difficult path. She was serious, and in
her wish was implied an important admission; after that,
she could no longer affirm that nothing ailed her.

The tutor allowed her some minutes for repose and
reflection, ere he returned to the charge : once, his lips
moved to speak ; but he thought better of it, and prolonged
the pause. Shirley lifted her eye to his : had he betrayed
injudicious emotion, perhaps obstinate persistence in silence
would have been the result; but he looked calm, strong,
trustworthy.

' I had better tell you than my aunt,' she said, ' or than
my cousins, or my uncle : they would all make such a bustle
— and it is that very bustle I dread ; the alarm, the flurry,
the &clat : in short, I never liked to be the centre of a small
domestic whirlpool. You can bear a little shock — eh ? '

• A great one, if necessary.'

Not a muscle of the man's frame moved, and yet his
large heart beat fast in his deep chest. What was she going
to tell him ? Was irremediable mischief done ?

' Had T thought it right to go to you, I would never have

IPHCEBE 519

made a secret of the matter one moment,' she continued :
' I would have told you at once, and asked advice.'

' Why was it not right to come to me ? '

' It might be right — I do not mean that ; but I could not
do it. I seemed to have no title to trouble you : the mishap
concerned me only — I wanted to keep it to myself, and
people will not let me. I tell you, I hate to be an object of
worrying attention, or a theme for village gossip. Besides,
it may pass away without result — God knows ! '

Moore, though tortured with suspense, did not demand a
quick explanation ; he suffered neither gesture, glance, nor
word, to betray impatience. His tranquillity tranquillized
Shirley ; his confidence reassured her.

' Great effects may spring from trivial causes,' she re-
marked, as she loosened a bracelet from her wrist ; then,
unfastening her sleeve, and partially turning it up, — ' Look
here, Mr. Moore.'

She showed a mark in her white arm ; rather a deep
though healed-up indentation : something between a burn
and a cut.

' I would not show that to anyone in Briarfield but you,
because you can take it quietly.'

' Certainly there is nothing in the little mark to shock :
its history will explain.'

' Small as it is, it has taken my sleep away, and made
me nervous, thin, and foolish ; because, on account of that
little mark, I am obliged to look forward to a possibility that
has its terrors.'

The sleeve was readjusted ; the bracelet replaced.

' Do you know that you try me ? ' he said smiling.
'I am a patient sort of man, but my pulse is quicken-
ing.'

' Whatever happens, you will befriend me, Mr. Moore.
You will give me the benefit of your self-possession, and
not leave me at the mercy of agitated cowards ? '

' I make no promise now. Tell me the tale, and then
exact what pledge you will.'

520 SHIRLEY

' It is a very short tale. I took a walk with Isabella and
Gertrude one day, about three weeks ago. They reached
home before me : I stayed behind • to speak to John.
After leaving him, I pleased myself with lingering in the
lane, where all was very still and shady: I was tired of
chattering to the girls, and in no hurry to rejoin them. As
I stood leaning against the gate-pillar, thinking some very
happy thoughts about my future life — for that morning I
imagined that events were beginning to turn as I had long
wished them to turn '

' Ah ! Nunnely had been with her the evening before ! '
thought Moore, parenthetically.

' I heard a panting sound ; a dog came running up the
lane. I know most of the dogs in this neighbourhood ; it
was Phoebe, one of Mr. Sam Wynne's pointers. The poor
creature ran with her head down, her tongue hanging out ;
she looked as if bruised and beaten all over. I called her ;
I meant to coax her into the house, and give her some water
and dinner ; I felt sure she had been ill-used : Mr. Sam
often flogs his pointers cruelly. She was too flurried to
know me ; and when I attempted to pat her head, she
turned and snatched at my arm. She bit it so as to draw
blood, then ran panting on. Directly after, Mr. Wynne's
keeper came up, carrying a gun. He asked if I had seen a
dog, I told him I had seen Phoebe.

' " You had better chain up Tartar, ma'am," he said,
" and tell your people to keep within the house ; I am after
Phoebe to shoot her, and the groom is gone another way.
She is raging mad." '

Mr. Moore leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms
across his chest ; Miss Keeldar resumed her square of silk
canvas, and continued the creation of a wreath of Parmese
violets.

' And you told no one, Sought no help, no cure : you
would not come to me ? '

' I got as far as the school-room door ; there my courage
failed : I preferred to cushion the matter.'

PHCEPE 521

' Why ? What can I demand better m this world than
to be of use to you ? '

'I had no claim.'

' Monstrous ! And you did nothing ? '

' Yes : I walked straight into the laundry, where they
are ironing most of the week, now that I have so many
guests in the house. While the maid was busy crimping
or starching, I took an Italian iron from the fire, and
appUed the hght scarlet glowing tip to my arm : I bored
it well in : it cauterized the little wound. Then I went
upstairs.'

' I dare say you never once groaned ? '

' I am sure I don't know. I was very miserable. Not
firm or tranquil at all, I think : there was no calm in my
mind.'

' There was calm in your person. I remember listening
the whole time we sat at luncheon to hear if you moved in
the room above : all was quiet.'

' I was sitting at the foot of the bed, wishing Phoebe had
not bitten me.'

' And alone ! You like sohtude.'

' Pardon me.'

' You disdain sympathy.'

• Do I, Mr. Moore ? '

' With your powerful mind, you must feel independent
of help, of advice, of society.'

' So be it — since it pleases you.'

She smiled. She pursued her embroidery carefully and
quickly; but her eyelash twinkled, and then it glittered,
and then a drop fell.

Mr. Moore leaned forward on his desk, moved his chair,
altered his attitude.

' If it is not so,' he asked, with a peculiar mellow change
in his voice, ' how is it, then ? '

' I don't know.'

' You do know, but you won't speak : all must be locked
up in yourself.'

622 SHIELEY

' Because it is not worth sharing.'

' Because nobody can give the high price you require for
your confidence. Nobody is rich enough to purchase it.
Nobody has the honour, the intellect, the power you demand
in your adviser. There is not a shoulder in England on
which you would rest your hand for support — far less a
bosom which you would permit to pillow your head. Of
course you must live alone.'

' I can live alone, if need be. But the question is not
how to live — but how to die alone. That strikes me in a
more grisly light.'

'You apprehend the effects of the virus You

anticipate an indefinitely threatening, dreadful doom ? '

She bowed.

' You are very nervous and womanish.'

' You comphmented me two minutes since on my
powerful mind.'

' You are very womanish. If the whole afifair were coolly
examined and discussed, I feel assured it would turn out
that there is no danger of your dying at all.'

' Amen I I am very willing to live, if it please God. I
have felt life sweet.'

' How can it be otherwise than sweet with your endow-
ments and nature ? Do you truly expect that you will be
seized with hydrophobia, and die raving mad ? '

' I expect it, and have feared it. Just now, I fear
nothing.'

' Nor do I, on your account. I doubt whether the
smallest particle of virus mingled with your blood : and if
it did, let me assure you that — young, healthy, faultlessly
sound as you are — no harm will ensue. For the rest, I
shall inquire whether the dog was really mad. I hold she
was not mad.'

' Tell nobody that she bit me.'

• Why should I, when I believe the bite innocuous as a
cut of this penknife? Make yourself easy: I am easy,
though I value your life as much as I do my own chance pf
happiness in eternity. Look up.'

PHCEBB 523

'Why, Mr. Moore?'

' I wish to see if you are cheered. Put your work down :
raise your head.'

' There '

' Look at me. Thank you ! And is the cloud broken ? '

' I fear nothing.'

' Is your mind restored to its own natural sunny clime ? '

' I am very content ; but I want your promise.'

' Dictate.'

'You know, in case the worst I have feared should
happen, they will smother me. You need not smile : they
will — they always do. My uncle will be full of horror,
weakness, precipitation ; and that is the only expedient
which will suggest itself to him. Nobody in the house will
be self-possessed but you : now promise to befriend me — to
keep Mr. Sympson away from me — not to let Henry come
near, lest I should hurt him. Mind — mind that you take
care of yourself, too : but I shall not injure you, I know I
shall not. Lock the chamber-door against the surgeons —
turn them out, if they get in. Let neither the young nor the
old MacTurk lay a finger on me ; nor Mr. Greaves, their
colleague ; and, lastly, if I give trouble, with your own hand
administer to me a strong narcotic : such a sure dose of
laudanum as shall leave no mistake. Promise to do this.'

Moore left his desk, and permitted himself the recreation
of one or two turns through the room. Stopping behind
Shirley's chair, he bent over her, and said, in a low, emphatic
voice, ' I promise all you ask— without comment, without
reservation.'

' If female help is needed, call in my housekeeper, Mrs.
Gill : let her lay me out, if I die. She is attached to me.
She wronged me again and again, and again and again I
forgave her. She now loves me, and would not defraud me
of a pin : confidence has made her honest ; forbearance has
made her kindhearted. At this day, I can trust both her
integrity, her courage, and her affection. Call her; but
keep my good aunt and my timid cousins away. Once
more, promise.'

524 SHIELEY

' I promise.'

' That is good in you,' she said, looking up at him as he
bent above her, and smiling.

' Is it good ? Does it comfort ? '

' Very much.'

' I will be -with you — I and Mrs. Gill only — in any, in
every extremity where calm and fidelity are needed. No
rash or coward hand shall meddle.'

' Yet you think me childish?'

'I do.'

' Ah ! you despise me.'

' Do we despise children ? '

' In fact, I am neither so strong, nor have I such pride
in my strength, as people think, Mr. Moore ; nor am I so
regardless of sympathy ; but when I have any grief, I fear
to impart it to those I love, lest it should pain them ;
and to those whom I view with indifference, I cannot con-
descend to complain. After all, you should not taunt me
with being childish ; for if you were as unhappy as I have
been for the l&ist three weeks, you too would want some
friend.'

' We all want a friend, do we not ? '

' All of us that have anything good in our natures.*

' Well, you have Caroline Helstone.'

' Yes. . . . And you have Mr. Hall.'

' Yes. . . . Mrs. Pryor is a wise, good woman : she can
counsel you when you need counsel.'

' For your part you have your brother Eobert.'

' For any right-hand defections, there is the Eev. Mathew-
son Helstone, M.A., to lean upon ; for any left-hand fallings-
off, there is Hiram Yorke, Esq. Both elders pay you
homage.'

' I never saw Mrs. Yorke so motherly to any young man
as she is to you. I don't know how you have won her heart ;
but she is more tender to you than she is to her own sons.
You have, besides, your sister, Hortense.'

' It appears we are both well provided.'

PHCBBE 525

' It appears so.'

' How thankful we ought to be I '

' Yes.'

' How contented I '

'Yes.'

' For my part, I am almost contented just now, and very
thankful. Gratitude is a divine emotion : it fills the heart,
but not to bursting : it warms it, but not to fever. I like to
taste leisurely of bliss : devoured in haste, I do not know its
flavour.'

Still leaning on the back of Miss Keeldar's chair, Moore
watched the rapid motion of her fingers, as the green and
purple garland grew beneath them. After a prolonged pause
he again asked, ' Is the shadow quite gone ? '

'WhoUy. As I was two hours since, and as I am
now, are two different states of existence. I believe, Mr.
Moore, griefs and fears nursed in silence grow like Titan
infants,'

' You will cherish such feelings no more in silence ? '

' Not if I dare speak.'

• In using the word '' da^e," to whom do yo» allude ? '

' To you.'

' How is it applicable to me ? '

' On account of your austerity and shyness.'

' Why am I austere and shy ? '

' Because you are proud.'

' Why am I proud ? '

< I should like to know : will you be good enough to
tell me?'

' Perhaps, because I am poor, for one reason : poverty
and pride often go together.'

' That is such a nice reason : I should be charmed to
discover another that would pair with it. Mate that turtle,
Mr. Moore.'

' Immediately. What do you think of marrying to sober
Poverty many-tinted Caprice ? '

' Are you capricious ? '

526 SHIELEY

' You are.'

' A libel. I am steady as a rock : fixed as the Polar
Star.'

' I look out at some early hour of the day, and see a fine
perfect rainbow, bright with promise, gloriously spanning the
beclouded welkin of life. An hour afterwards I look again
— half the arch is gone, and the rest is faded. Still later, the
stern sky denies that it ever wore so benign a symbol of
hope.'

'Well, Mr. Moore, you should contend against these
changeful humours : they are your besetting sin. One never
knows where to have you.'

' Miss Keeldar, I had once — for two years — a pupil who
grew very dear to me. Henry is dear, but she was dearer.
Henry never gives me trouble ; she — well — she did. I
think she vexed me twenty-three hours out of the twenty-
four '

' She was never with you above three hours, or at the
most six at a time.'

' She sometimes spilled the draught from my cup, and
stole the food from my plate ; and when she had kept me
unfed for a day (and that did not suit me, for I am a man
accustomed to take my meals with reasonable relish, and to
ascribe due importance to the rational enjoyment of creature

comforts) '

know you do. I can tell what sort of dinners you
like best — perfectly well. I know precisely the dishes you
prefer '

' She robbed these dishes of flavour, and made a fool of
me besides. I like to sleep well. In my quiet days, when
I was my own man, I never quarrelled with the night for
being long, nor cursed my bed for its thorns. She changed
all this.'

' Mr. Moore '

' And having taken from me peace of mind, and ease of
life, she took from me herself ; quite coolly — just as if, when
she was gone, the world would be all the same to me. I

knew I should see her again at some time. At the end of
two years, it fell out that we encountered again under her
own roof, where she was mistress. How do you think she
bore herself towards me, Miss Keeldar ? '

' Like one who had profited well by lessons learned from
yourself.'

' She received me haughtily : she meted out a wide
space between us, and kept me aloof by the reserved
gesture, the rare and alienated glance, the word calmly
civil.'

' She was an excellent pupil ! Having seen you distant,
she at once learned to withdraw. Pray, sir, admire, in her
hauteur, a careful improvement on your own coolness.'

' Conscience, and honour, and the most despotic ne-
cessity, dragged me apart from her, and kept me sundered
with ponderous fetters. She was free : she might have been
clement.'

' Never free to compromise her self-respect : to seek
where she had been shunned.'

' Then she was inconsistent : she tantalized as before.
When I thought I had made up my mind to seeing in her
only a lofty stranger, she would suddenly show me such a
glimpse of loving simplicity — she would warm me with such
a beam of reviving sympathy, she would gladden an hour
with converse so gentle, gay, and kindly — that I could no
more shut my heart on her image, than I could close that
door against her presence. Explain why she distressed
me so.'

' She could not bear to be quite outcast ; and then she
would sometimes get a notion into her head, on a cold, wet
day, that the school-room was no cheerful place, and feel it
incumbent on her to go and see if you and Henry kept up a
good fire ; and once there she liked to stay.'

' But she should not be changeful : if she came at all,
she should come oftener.'

' There is such a thing as intrusion.'

' To-morrow, you will not be as you are to-day.'

528 SHIELEY

' I don't know. Will you ? '

' I am not mad, most noble Berenice ! We may give
one day to dreaming, but the next we must awake ; and I
shall awake to purpose the morning you are married to Sir
Philip Nunnely. The fire shines on you and me, and shows
us very clearly in the glass. Miss Keeldar ; and I have been
gazing on the picture all the time I have been talking.
Look up ! What a difference between your head and mine I
—I look old for thirty ! '

' You are so grave ; you have such a square brow ; and
your face is sallow. I never regard you as a young man,
nor as Eobert's junior.'

'Don't you? I thought not. Imagine Eobert's clear-
cut, handsome face looking over my shoulder. Does not
the apparition make vividly manifest the obtuse mould of
my heavy traits ? There ! ' (he started) ' I have been
expecting that wire to vibrate this last haU-hour.'

The dinner-bell rang, and Shirley rose.

'Mr. Moore,' she said, as she gathered up her silks,
' have you heard from your brother lately ? Do you know
what he means by staying in town so long ? Does he talk
of returning ? '

' He talks of returning ; but what has caused his long
absence I cannot teU. To speak the truth, I thought none
in Yorkshire knew better than yourself why he was reluctant
to come home.'

A crimson shadow passed across Miss Keeldar's cheek.

'Write to him, and urge him to come,' she said. 'I
know there has been no impolicy in protracting his absence
thus far : it is good to let the mill stand, while trade is so
bad ; but he must not abandon the county.'

' I am aware,' said Louis, ' that he had an interview with
you the evening before he left, and I saw him quit Fieldhead
afterwards. I read his countenance, or tried to read it. He
turned from me. I divined that he would be long away.
Some fine, slight fingers have a wondrous knack at pul-
verizing a man's brittle pride. T suppose Eobert put too

PHCEBB 529

much trust in his manly beauty and native gentlemanhood.
Those are better off who, being destitute of advantage,
cannot cherish delusion. But I will write, and say you
advise his return.'

'Do not say I advise his return, but that his return is
advisable.'

The second bell rang, and Miss Keeldar obeyed its call.

CHAPTER XXIX

LOUIS MOOBE

Louis Mooee was used to a quiet life ; being a quiet man,
he endured it better than most men would : having a
large world of his own in his own head and heart, he toler-
ated confinement to a small, still corner of the real world
very patiently.

How hushed is Pieldhead this evening I All but Moore —
Miss Keeldar, the whole family of the Sympsons, even Henry
— are gone to Nunnely. Sir Philip would have them come :
he wished to make them acquainted with his mother and
sisters, who are now at the Priory. Kind gentleman as the
Baronet is, he asked the Tutor too; but the Tutor would
much sooner have made an appointment with the ghost of
the Earl of Huntingdon to meet him, and a shadowy ring of
his merry men, under the canopy of the thickest, blackest,
oldest oak in Nunnely Forest. Yes, he would rather have
appointed tryst with a phantom abbess, or mist-pale nun,
among the wet and weedy relics of that ruined sanctuary of
theirs, mouldering in the core of the wood. Louis Moore
longs to have something near him to-night : but not the
boy-baronet, nor his benevolent but stem mother, nor his
patrician sisters, nor one soul of the Sympsons.

This night is not calm : the equinox still struggles in its
storms. The wild rains of the day are abated : the great
single cloud disparts and rolls away from heaven, not passing
and leaving a sea all sapphire, but tossed buoyant before a
continued long-sounding, high-rushing moonlight tempest.
The Moon reigns glorious, glad of the gale ; as glad as if she

LOUIS MOOEE 531

gave herself to his fierce caress with love. No Endymion
■will watch for his goddess to-night : there are no flocks out
on the mountains ; and it is well, for to-night she welcomes
^olus.

Moore — sitting in the school-room — heard the storm roar
round the other gahle, and along the hall-front : this end was
sheltered. He wanted no shelter; he desired no subdued
sounds, or screened position.

' All the parlours are empty,' said he : ' I am sick at heart
of this cell.'

He left it, and went where the casements, larger and
freer than the branch-screened lattice of his own apartment,
admitted unimpeded the dark-blue, the silver-fleeced, the
stirring and sweeping vision of the autumn night-sky. He
carried no candle : unneeded was lamp or fire : the broad
and clear, though cloud-crossed and fluctuating beam of the
moon shone on every floor and wall.

Moore wanders through all the rooms : he seems follow-
ing a phantom from parlour to parlour. In the oak-room he
stops: this is not chill, and polished, and fireless hke the
salon : the hearth is hot and ruddy ; the cinders tinkle in the
intense heat of their clear glow ; near the rug is a little work-
table, a desk upon it, a chair near it.

Does the vision Moore has tracked occupy that chair?
You would think so, could you see him standing before it.
There is as much interest now in his eye, and as much sig-
nificance in his face, as if in this household soUtude he had
found a Uving companion, and was going to speak to it.

He makes discoveries. A bag, a small satin bag, hangs
on the chair-back. The desk is open, the keys are in the
lock ; a pretty seal, a silver pen, a crimson berry or two of
ripe fruit on a green leaf, a small, clean, delicate glove — these
trifles at once decorate and disarrange the stand they strew.
Order forbids details in a picture : she puts them tidily away;
but details give charm.

Moore spoke.

'Her mark/ he said; 'here she ha,s been — careless,

532 SHIELEY

attractive thing ! — called away in haste, doubtless, and for-
getting to return and put all to rights^ Why does she leave
fascination in her footprints ? Whence did she acquire the
gift to be heedless, and never offend ? There is always some-
thing to chide in her, and the reprimand never settles in
displeasure on the heart ; but, for her lover or her husband,
when it had trickled a while in words, would naturally melt
from his lips in a kiss. Better pass half an hour in remon-
strating with her, than a day in admiring or praising any
other woman alive. Am I muttering? — soliloquizing? Stop
that.'

He did stop it. He stood thinking ; and then he made
an arrangement for his evening's comfort.

He dropped the curtains over the broad vrindow and regal
moon : he shut out Sovereign and Court and Starry Armies ;
he added fuel to the hot but fast-wasting fire ; he lit a candle,
of which there were a pair on the table ; he placed another
chair opposite that near the work-stand, and then he sat
down. His next movement was to take from his pocket a
small, thick book of blank paper ; to produce a pencil ; and
to begin to write in a cramped, compact hand. Come near,
by all means, reader : do not be shy : stoop over his shoulder
fearlessly, and read as he scribbles.

'It is nine o'clock; the carriage will not return before
eleven, I am certain. Freedom is mine till then : till then, I
may occupy her room ; sit opposite her chair ; rest my elbow
on her table ; have her little mementoes about me.

' I used rather to like Solitude — to fancy her a somewhat
quiet and serious, yet fair nymph ; an Oread, descending to
me from lone mountain-passes ; something of the blue mist
of hills in her array, and of their chill breeze in her breath —
but much, also, of their solemn beauty in her mien. I once
could court her serenely, and imagine my heart easier when
I held her to it— all mute, but majestic.

' Since that day I called S. to me in the scb^oi-room, and
she came and sat so near my side; since she opened the
trouble of her mind to me — asked my protection — appealed

LOUIS MOOEE 533

to my strength : since that hour I abhor Solitude. Cold ab-
straction— fleshless skeleton — daughter — mother — and mate
of Death !

' It is pleasant to write about what is near and dear as
the core of my heart : none can deprive me of this little book,
and through this pencil, I can say to it what I will — say
what I dare utter to nothing living — say what I dare not
think aloud.

' We have scarcely encountered each other since that
evening. Once, when I was alone in the drawing-room,
seeking a book of Henry's, she entered, dressed for a concert
at Stilbro'. Shyness — her shyness, not mine — drew a silver
veil between us. Much cant have I heard and read about
"maiden modesty;" but, properly used, and not hackneyed,
the words are good and appropriate words : as she passed to
the window, after tacitly but gracefully recognising me, I
could call her nothing in my own mind save " stainless
virgin : " to my perception, a delicate splendour robed her,
and the modesty of girlhood was her halo. I may be the
most fatuitous, as I am one of the plainest, of men ; but, in
truth, that shyness of hers touched me exquisitely : it flattered
my finest sensations. I looked a stupid block, I dare say : I
was alive with a life of Paradise, as she turned her glance
from my glance, and softly averted her head to hide the
suffusion of her cheek.

' I know this is the talk of a dreamer — of a rapt, romantic
lunatic : I do dream : I will dream now and then ; and if
she has inspired romance into my prosaic composition, how
can I help it ?

' What a child she is sometimes ! What an unsophisti-
cated, untaught thing ! I see her now, looking up into my
face, and entreating me to prevent them from smothering
her, and to be sure and give her a strong narcotic : I see
her confessing that she was not so self-sufficing, so in-
dependent of synapathy, as people thought : I see the secret
tear drop quietly from her eyelash. She said I thought her
childish— and I did. She imagined I despised her. —

534 SHIELEY

Despised her ! it was unutterably sweet to feel myself at
once near her and above her : to be conscious of a natural
right and power to sustain her, as a husband should sustain
his wife.

' I Worship her perfections : but it is her faults, or at least
her foibles, that bring her near to me — that nestle her to my
heart — that fold her about with my love — and that for a
most selfish, bat deeply-natural reason : these faults are the
steps by which I mount to ascendency over her. If she
rose a trimmed, artificial mound, without inequality, what
vantage would she offer the foot ? It is the natural hill,
with its mossy breaks and hollows, whose slope invites
ascent — whose summit it is pleasure to gain.

' To leave metaphor. It deUghts my eye to look on her :
she suits me : if I were a king, and she the housemaid that
swept my palace-stairs — across all that space between us —
my eye would recognise her qualities ; a true pulse would
beat for her in my heart, though an unspanned gulf made
acquaintance impossible. If I were a gentleman, and she
waited on me as a servant, I could not help liking that
Shirley. Take from her her education — take her ornaments,
her sumptuous dress — all extrinsic advantages — take all
grace, but such as the symmetry of her form renders
inevitable ; present her to me at a cottage-door, in a stuff
gown ; let her offer me there a draught of water, with that
smile — with that warm good-will with which she now
dispenses manorial hospitality — I should like her. I should
wish to stay an hour : I should linger to talk with that
rustic. I should not feel as I now do : I should find in her
nothing divine ; but whenever I met the young peasant, it
would be with pleasure — whenever I left her, it would be
with regret.

' How culpably careless in her to leave her desk open,
where I know she has money ! In the lock hang the keys
of all her repositories, of her very jewel-casket. There is a
purse in that little satin bag: I see the tassel of silver

LOUIS MOOEE 535

beads hanging out. That spectacle would provoke my
brother Eobert : all her little failings would, I know, be a
source of irritation to him ; if they vex me it is a most
pleasurable vexation ; I delight to find her at fault, and
were I always resident with her, I am aware she would be
DO niggard in thus ministering to my enjoyment. She
would just give me something to do ; to rectify : a theme
for my tutor-lectures. I never lecture Henry : never feel
disposed to do so : if he does wrong, — and that is very
seldom, dear excellent lad ! — a word suffices : often I do no
more than shake my head ; but the moment her ' minois
mutin ' meets my eye, expostulatory words crowd to my
lips : from a taciturn man, I believe she would transform me
into a talker. Whence comes the delight I take in that
talk ? It puzzles myself sometimes ; the more crtoe, malin,
taquin is her mood, consequently the clearer occasion she
gives me for disapprobation, the more I seek her, the better
I like her. She is never wilder than when equipped in her
habit and hat : never less manageable than when she and
Zoe come in fiery from a race with the wind on the hills :
and I confess it — to this mute page I may confess it — I
have waited an hour in the court, for the chance of witness-
ing her return, and for the dearer chance of receiving her in
my arms from the saddle. I have noticed (again, it is to
this page only I would make the remark) that she will never
permit any man but myself to render her that assistance. I
have seen her politely decHne Sir Philip Nunnely's aid : she
is always mighty gentle with her young baronet ; mighty
tender of his feelings, forsooth, and of his very thin-skinned
amour-propre : I have marked her haughtily reject Sam
Wynne's. Now I know — my heart knows it, for it has felt
it — that she resigns herself to me unreluctantly : is she
conscious how my strength rejoices to serve her ? I myself
am not her slave — I declare it, — but my faculties gather to
her beauty, like the genii to the glisten of the Lamp. All
my knowledge, all my prudence, all my calm, and all my

536 SHIELEY

power, stand in her presence humbly waiting a task. How
glad they are when a mandate comes ! What joy they take
in the toil she assigns I Does she know it ?

' I have called her careless : it is remarkable that her
carelessness never compiomises her refinement; indeed,
through this very loophole of character, the reality, depth,
genuineness of that refinement may be ascertained : a whole
garment sometimes covers meagreness and malformation ;
through a rent sleeve, a fair round arm may be revealed. I
have seen and handled many of her possessions, because they
are frequently astray. I never saw anything that did not
proclaim the lady : nothing sordid, nothing soiled ; in one
sense she is as scrupulous as, in another, she is unthinking ;
as a peasant girl, she would go ever trim and cleanly. Look
at the pure kid of this little glove,— at the fresh, unsullied
satin of the bag.

'What a difference there is between S, and that pearl
C. H. ! Caroline, I fancy, is the soul of conscientious
punctuality and nice exactitude ; she would precisely suit
the domestic habits of a certain fastidious kinsman of mine :
so deUcate, dexterous, quaint, quick, quiet; all done to a
minute, all arranged to a strawbreadth : she would suit
Eobert ; but what could I do with anything so nearly fault'
less ? She is my equal ; poor as myself ; she is certainly
pretty: a little Eaffaelle head hers; Eaffaelle in feature,
quite English in expression : all insular grace and purity ;
but where is there anything to alter, anything to endure,
anything to reprimand, to be anxious about ? There she is,
a lily of the valley, untinted, needing no tint. What change
could improve her ? What pencil dare to paint ? My sweet-
heart, if I ever have one, must bear nearer affinity to the
rose : a sweet, lively delight guarded with prickly peril.
My wife, if I ever marry, must stir my great frame with
a sting now and then : she must furnish use to her husband's
vast mass of patience. I was not made so enduring to be.
mated with a lamb : I should find more congenial respon-
sibility in the charge of a young lioness or leopardess. I

LOUIS MOOEE 537

like few things sweet, but what are likewise pungent ; few
things bright, but what are likewise hot. I like the sammer-
day, whose sun makes fruit blush and corn blanch. Beauty
is never so beautiful as when, if I tease it, it wreathes back
on me with spirit. Fascination is never so imperial as
when, roused and half ireful, she threatens transformation
to fierceness. I fear I should tire of the mute, monotonous
innocence of the lamb ; I should erelong feel as burdensome
the nestling dove which never stirred in my bosom : but my
patience would exult in stilling the flutterings and training
the energies of the restless merlin. In managing the wild
instincts of the scarce manageable " bSte fauve," my powers
would revel.

' Oh, my pupil ! Oh, Peri ! too mutinous for heaven —
too innocent for hell ! never shall I do more than see, and
worship, and wish for thee. Alas 1 knowing I could make
thee happy, will it be my doom to see thee possessed by
those who have not that power ?

' However kindly the hand — if it is feeble, it cannot bend
Shirley ; and she must be bent : it cannot curb her ; and
she must be curbed.

' Beware ! Sir Philip Nunnely ! I never see you walking
or sitting at her side, and observe her lips compressed, or
her brow knit, in resolute endurance of some trait of your
character which she neither admires nor likes ; in deter-
mined toleration of some weakness she believes atoned for
by a virtue, but which annoys her, despite, that belief :
I never mark the grave glow of her face, the unsmiling
sparkle of her eye, the slight recoil of her whole frame when
you draw a little too near, and gaze a little too expressively,
and whisper a little too warmly : I never witness these things,
but I think of the fable of Semele reversed.

' It is not the daughter of Cadmus I see : nor do I realize
her fatal longing to look on Jove in the majesty of his god-
head. It is a priest of Juno that stands before me, watching
late and lone at a shrine in an Argive temple. For years of
solitary ministry, he has lived on dreams : there is divine

638 SHIBLEY

madness upon him : he loves the idol he serves, and prays
day and night that his frenzy may be fed, and that the
Ox-eyed may smile on her votary. She has heard ; she will
be propitious. All Argos slumbers. The doors of the temple
are shut : the priest waits at the altar.

• A shock of heaven and earth is felt — not by the slum-
bering city ; only by that lonely watcher, brave and unshaken
in his fanaticism. In the midst of silence, with no preluding
sound, he is wrapt in sudden light. Through the roof —
through the rent, wide-yawning, vast, white-blazing blue
of heaven above, pours a wondrous descent — dread as the
down-rushing of stars. He has what he asked : withdraw —
forbear to look — I am blinded. I hear in that fane an
unspeakable sound — would that I could not hear it ! I see
an insufferable glory burning terribly between the pillars.
Gods be merciful and quench it !

' A pious Argive enters to make an early offering in the
cool dawn of morning. There was thunder in the night : the
bolt fell here. The shrine is shivered : the marble pavement
round, split and blackened. Saturnia's statue rises chaste,
grand, untouched : at her feet, piled ashes lie pale. No
priest remains : he who watched will be seen no more.

' There is the carriage ! Let me lock up the desk and
pocket the keys : she will be seeking them to-morrow : she
will have to come to me. I hear her — " Mr. Moore, have
you seen my keys ? "

' So she will say, in her clear voice, speaking with
reluctance, looking ashamed, conscious that this is the
twentieth time of asking. I will tantahze her: keep her
with me, expecting, doubting ; and when I do restore them,
it shall not be without a lecture. Here is the bag, too, and
the purse ; the glove — pen — seal. She shall vnring them all
out of me slowly and separately: only by confession,
penitence, entreaty. I never can touch her hand, or a
ringlet of her head, or a ribbon of her dress, but I v?ill make
privileges for myself : every feature of her face, her bright

LOUIS MOOKB 539

eyes, her lips, shall go through each change they know, for
my pleasure : display each exquisite variety of glance and
curve, to deUght — thrill — perhaps, more hopelessly to
enchain me. If I must be her slave, I will not lose my
freedom for nothing.'

He locked the desk, pocketed ail the property, and went.

CHAPTEE XXX

BUSHEDGB, A CONFESSIONAL

EvEETBODY Said it was high time for Mr. Moore to return
home : all Briarfield wondered at his strange absence, and
Whinbury and Nunnely brought each its separate contribu-
tion of amazement.

Was it known why he stayed away ? Yes : it was known
twenty — forty times over; there being, at least, forty
plausible reasons adduced to account for the unaccount-
able circumstance. Business it was not — that the gossips
agreed : he had achieved the business on which he departed
long ago : his four ringleaders he had soon scented out and
run down : he had attended their trial, heard their convic-
tion and sentence, and seen them safely shipped prior to
transportation.

This was known at Briarfield : the newspapers had
reported it : the Stilbro' Courier had given every particular,
with amplifications. None applauded his perseverance or
nailed his success ; though the mill-owners were glad of it,
trusting that the terrors of Law vindicated would hence-
forward paralyze the sinister valour of disaffection. Dis-
affection, however, was still heard muttering to himself. He
swore ominous oaths over the drugged beer of alehouses,
and drank strange toasts in fiery British gin.

One report affirmed that Moore dared not come to
Yorkshire ; he knew his life was not worth an hour's pur-
chase, if he did.

■ I'll tell him that,' said Mr. Yorke, when his foreman

EUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL 541

mentioned the rumour ; ' and if that does not bring him
home full-gallop — nothing will.'

Either that or some other motive prevailed, at last, to
recall him. He announced to Joe Scott the day he should
arrive at Stilbro', desiring his hackney to be sent to the
' George ' for his accommodation ; and Joe Scott having
informed Mr. Yorke, that gentleman made it in his way to
meet him.

It was market-day : Moore arrived in time to take
his usual place at the market-dinner. As something of a
stranger — and as a man of note and action — the assembled
manufacturers received him with a certain distinction.
Some— who in public would scarcely have dared to acknow-
ledge his acquaintance, lest a little of the hate and vengeance
laid up in store for him should perchance have fallen on
them — in private hailed him as in some sort their champion.
When the wine had circulated, their respect would have
kindled to enthusiasm, had not Moore's unshaken non-
chalance held it in a damp, low, smouldering state.

Mr. Yorke — the permanent president of these dinners —
witnessed his young friend's bearing with exceeding com-
placency. If one thing could stir his temper or excite his
contempt more than another, it was to see a man befooled
by flattery, or elate with popularity. If one thing smoothed,
soothed, and charmed him especially, it was the spectacle
of a public character incapable of relishing his publicity:
incapable, I say ; disdain would but have incensed — it was
indifference that appeased his rough spirit.

Robert, leaning back in his chair, quiet and almost
surly, while the clothiers and blanket-makers vaunted his
prowess and rehearsed his deeds — many of them interspers-
ing their flatteries with coarse invectives against the
operative class — was a delectable sight for Mr. Yorke. His
heart tingled with the pleasing conviction that these gross
eulogiums shamed Moore deeply, and made him half scorn
himself and his work. On abuse, on reproach, on calumny,
it is easy to smile ; but painful indeed is the panegyric of

642 gfitflLEY

those we contemn. Oflen had Moore gazed with a brilliant
countenance over howling crowds from a hostile hustings :
he had breasted the storm of unpopularity with gallant
bearing and soul elate ; but he drooped his head under the
half-bred tradesmen's praise, and shrank chagrined before
their congratulations.

Yorke could not help asking him how he liked his
supporters, and whether he did not think they did honour
to his cause. ' But it is a pity, lad,' he added, ' that you did
not hang these four samples of the Unwashed. If you had
managed that feat, the gentry here would have riven the
horses out of the coach, yoked-to a score of asses, and drawn
you into Stilbro' like a conquering general.'

Moore soon forsook the wine, broke from the party, and
took the road. In less than five minutes Mr. Yorke followed
him : they rode out of Stilbro' together.

It was early to go home, but yet it was late in the day :
the last ray of the sun had already faded from the cloud-
edges, and the October night was casting over the moorlands
the shadow of her approach.

Mr. Yorke — moderately exhilarated with his moderate
libations, and not displeased to see young Moore again in
Yorkshire, and to have him for his comrade during the long
ride home — took the discourse much to himself. He
touched briefly, but scofBngly, on the trials and the convic-
tion ; he passed thence to the gossip of the neighbourhood,
and, erelong, he attacked Moore on his own personal
concerns.

' Bob, I believe you are worsted ; and you deserve it. All
was smooth. Fortune had fallen in love with you : she had
decreed you the first prize in her wheel— twenty thousand
pounds : she only required that you should hold your hand
out and take it. And what did you do ? You called for a
horse and rode a-hunting to Warwickshire. Your sweetheart
— Fortune, I mean — was perfectly indulgent. She said, " I'll
excuse him : he's young." She waited like " Patience on a
monument," till the chase was over, and the vermin-prey

EUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL 543

run down. She expected you would come back then, and
be a good lad : you might still have had her first prize.

' It capped her beyond expression, and me too, to find
that, instead of thundering home in a breakneck gallop, and
laying your assize-laurels at her feet, you coolly took coach
up to London. "What you have done there, Satan knows :
nothing in this world, I believe, but sat and sulked : your
face was never lily-fair, but it is olive-green now. You're
not as bonnie as you were, man.'

' And who is to have this prize you talk so much
about ? '

' Only a baronet : that is all. I have not a doubt in my
own mind you've lost her : she will be Lady Nunnely before
Christmas.'

' Hem ! Quite probable.'

' But she need not to have been. Pool of a lad I I
swear you might have had her ! '

' By what token, Mr. Yorke ? '

' By every token. By the light of her eyes, the red of
her cheeks : red they grew when your name was mentioned,
though of custom they are pale.'

' My chance is quite over, I suppose ? '

' It ought to be ; but try : it is worth trying. I call this
Sir Philip milk-and-water. And then he writes verses, they
say — tags rhymes. You are above that. Bob, at all events.'

' Would you advise me to propose, late as it is, Mr.
Yorke ? at the eleventh hour ? '

' You can but make the experiment, Robert. If she has
a fancy for you — and, on my conscience, I believe she has,
or had — she will forgive much. But, my lad, you are
laughing : is it at me ? You had better girn at your own
perverseness. I see, however, you laugh at the wrong side
of your mouth : you have as sour a look at this moment as
one need wish to see.'

'I have so quarrelled with myself, Yorke. I have so
kicked against the pricks, and struggled in a strait- waistcoat,
and dislocated my wrists with wrenching them in handcuffs,

5ii SHIELEY

and battered my hard head, by driving it against a harder
wall.'

' Ha ! I'm glad to hear that. Shaorp exercise yon' ! T
hope it has done you good ; ta'en some of the self-conceit
out of you ? '

' Self-conceit ! What is it ? Self-respect, self -tolerance,
even, what are they? Do you sell the articles? Do you
know anybody who does ? Give an indication : they would
find in me a liberal chapman. I would part with my last
guinea this minute to buy.'

' Is it so with you, Eobert ? I find that spicy. I like a
man to speak his mind. What has gone wrong ? '

' The machinery of all my nature ; the whole enginery of
this human mill : the boiler, which I take to be the heart, is
fit to burst.'

' That suld be putten i' print : it's striking. It's almost
blank verse. Ye'll be jingUng into poetry just e' now. If
the afflatus comes, give way, Bobert ; never heed me : I'll
bear it this whet (time).'

' Hideous, abhorrent, base blunder ! You may commit in
a moment what you may rue for years — what life cannot
cancel.'

• Lad, go on. I call it pie, nuts, sugar-candy. I like the
taste uncommonly. Go on : it will do you good to talk :
the moor is before us now, and there is no life for many a
mile round.'

' I will talk. I am not ashamed to tell. There is a sort
of wild cat in my breast, and I choose that you shall hear
how it can yell.'

' To me it is music. What grand voices you and Louis
have ! When Louis sings — tones off Uke a soft, deep bell,
I've felt myself tremble again. The night is still : it listens :
it is just leaning down to you, like a black priest to a
blacker penitent. Confess, lad : smooth naught down : be
candid as a convicted, justified, sanctified methody at an
experience-meeting. Make yourself as wicked as Beelze-
bub : it will ease your mind.'

RUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL 545

' As mean as Mammon, you would say. Yorke, if I got
off horseback and laid myself down across the road, would
you have the goodness to gallop over me — backwards and
forwards^about twenty times ? '

' Wi' all the pleasure in life, if there were no such thing
as a coroner's inquest.'

' Hiram Yorke, I certainly believed she loved me. I
have seen her eyes sparkle radiantly when she has found
me out in a crowd : she has flushed up crimson when she
has offered me her hand, and said, " How do you do, Mr.
Moore ? "

' My name had a magical influence over her : when
others uttered it, she changed countenanoe,7— I know she
did. She pronounced it herself in the most musical of her
many musical tones. She was cordial to me ; she took an
interest in me ; she was anxious about me ; she wished me
well; she sought, she seized every opportunity to benefit
me. I considered, paused, watched, weighed, wondered : I
could come to but one conclusion — this is love.

' I looked at her, Yorke : I saw, in her, youth and a
species of beauty. I saw power in her. Her wealth offered
me the redemption of my honour and my standing. I owed
her gratitude. She had aided me substantially and effec-
tually by a loan of five thousand pounds. Could I remember
these things ? Could I believe she loved me ? Could I hear
wisdom urge me to marry her, and disregard every dear
advantage, disbelieve every flattering suggestion, disdain
every well-weighed counsel, turn and leave her? Young,
graceful, gracious, — my benefactress, attached to me,
enamoured of me, — I used to say so to myself; dwell on
the word ; mouth it over and over again ; swell over it
with a pleasant, pompous complacency, — with an admiration
dedicated entirely to myself, and unimpaired even by esteem
for her ; indeed, I smiled in deep secrecy at her nwiveti and
simplicity, in being the first to love, and to show it. That
whip of yours seems to have a good heavy handle, Yorke :
you can swing it about your head and knock me out of the

546 SHIRLEY

saddle, if you choose. I should rather relish a loundering
whack.'

' Tak' patience, Robert, tiU the moon rises, and I can see
you. Speak plain out, — did you love her or not? I could
like to know : I feel curious.'

' Sir . . . Sir — I say — she is very pretty, in her own
style, and very attractive. She has a look, at times, of a
thing made out of fire and air, at which I stand and marvel,
without a thought of clasping and kissing it. I felt in her a
powerful magnet to my interest and vanity : I never felt as
if nature meant her to be my other and better self. When a
question on that head rushed upon me, I flung it off, saying
brutally, I should be rich with her, and ruined without her :
vowing I would be practical, and not romantic'

' A very sensible resolve. What mischief came of it. Bob ? '

' With this sensible resolve, I walked up to Pieldhead one
night last August : it was the very eve of my departure for
Birmingham — for — you see — I wanted to secure fortune's
splendid prize : I had previously despatched a note, re-
questing a private interview. I found her at home, and
alone.

' She received me without embarrassment, for she thought
I came on business : I was embarrassed enough, but deter-
mined. I hardly know how I got the operation over ; but I
went to work in a hard, firm fashion, — frightful enough, I
dare say. I sternly offered myself — my fine person — with my
debts, of course, as a settlement.

' It vexed me ; it kindled my ire, to find that she neither
blushed, trembled, nor looked down. She responded ; — " I
doubt whether I have understood you, Mr. Moore."

' And I had to go over the whole proposal twice, and word
it as plainly as A B C, before she would fully take it in. And
then, what did she do ? Instead of faltering a sweet Yes, or
maintaining a soft, confused silence (which would have been
as good) she started up, walked twice fast through the room,
in the way that she only does, and no other woman, and
ejaculated — " God bless me ! "

EUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL 547

'Yorke, I stood on the hearth, backed by the mantel-
piece; against it I leaned, and prepared for anything —
everything. I knew my doom, and I knew myself. There
was no misunderstanding her aspect and voice. She stopped
and looked at me.

' " God bless me ! " she piteously repeated, in that shocked,
indignant, yet saddened accent. " You have made a strange
proposal — strange from you : and if you knew how strangely
you worded it, and looked it, you would be startled at your-
self. You spoke like a brigand who demanded my purse,
rather than like a lover who asked my heart."

' A queer sentence, was it not, Yorke ? and I knew, as
she uttered it, it was true as queer. Her words were a
mirror in which I saw myself.

' I looked at her, dumb and wolfish : she at once enraged
and shamed me.

' " Gerard Moore, you know you don't love Shirley Keel-
dar." I might have broken out into false swearing : vowed
that I did love her ; but I could not lie in her pure face : I
could not perjure myself in her truthful presence. Besides,
such hollow oaths would have been vain as void : she would
no more have believed me than she would have believed the
ghost of Judas, had he broken from the night and stood
before her. Her female heart had finer perceptions than to
be cheated into mistaking my half-coarse, half-cold admira-
tion, for true-throbbing, manly love.

' What next happened ? you will say, Mr. Yorke.

' Why, she sat down in the window-seat and cried. She
cried passionately : her eyes not only rained, but lightened.
They flashed, open, large, dark, haughty, upon me : they
said — "You have pained me: you have outraged me: you
have deceived me."

' She added words soon to looks.

' " I did respect — I did admire — I did like you," she said :
" yes — as much as if you were my brother : and you — ycm
want to make a speculation of me. You would immolate me
to that mill — your Moloch 1 "

548 SHIRLEY

' I had the common sense to abstain from any word of
excuse— any attempt at palliation : I stood to be scorned.

'Sold to the devil for the time being, I was certainly
infatuated : when I did speak, what do you think I said ?

' " Whatever my own feelings were, I was persuaded you
loved me, Miss Keeldar."

' Beautiful 1 — was it not ?. She sat quite confounded.
" Is it Eobert Moore that speaks ? " I heard her mutter. " Is
it a man — or something lower ? "

' "Do you mean," she asked aloud — "do you mean you
thought I loved you as we love those we wish to marry ? "

' It was my meaning ; and I said so.

' " You conceived an idea obnoxious to a woman's
feelings," was her answer : " you have announced it in a
fashion revolting to a woman's soul. You insinuate that all
the frank kindness I have shown you has been a complicated,
a bold, and an immodest manoeuvre to ensnare a husband :
you imply that at last you come here out of pity to offer me
your hand, because I have courted you. Let me say this :
— Your sight is jaundiced: you have seen wrong. Your
mind is warped : you have judged wrong. Your tongue
betrays you : you now speak wrong. I never loved you.
Be at rest there. My heart is as pure of passion for you as
yours is barren of affection for me."

' I hope I was answered, Yorke ?

' " I seem to be a blind, besotted sort of person," was my
remark.

' " Loved you ! " she cried. " Why, I have been as frank
with you as a sister — never shunned you — never feared you.
You cannot," she affirmed triumphantly — " you cannot
make me tremble with your coming, nor accelerate my pulse
by your influence."

' I alleged that often, when she spoke to me, she blushed,
and that the sound of my name moved her.

' " Not for your sake ,! " she declared briefly : I urged
explanation, but could get none.

' " When I sat beside you at the school-feast, did you

EUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL 549

think I loved you then ? When I stopped you in Maythorn-
lane did you think I loved you then ? When I called on
you in the counting-house — when I walked with you on the
pavement — did you think I loved you then ? "

' So she questioned me ; and I said I did,

' By the Lord t Yorke— she rose— she grew tall^she
expanded and refined almost to flame : there was a
trembling all through her, as in live coal, when its vivid
vermiUon is hottesti

' " That is to say, that you have the worst opinion of me :
that you deny me the possession of all I value most. That
is to say, that I am a traitor to all my sisters : that I have
acted as no woman can act, without degrading herself and
her sex : that I have sought where the incorrupt of my kind
naturally scorn and abhor to seek." She and I were silent,
for many a minute. "Lucifer — Star of the Morning ! " she
went on, " thou art fallen. You — once high in my esteem — ■
are hurled down : you— once intimate in my friendship — are
cast out. Go ! "

' I went not : I had heard ^er voice tremble — seen her
lip quiver : I knew another storm of tears would fall ; and
then, I believed, some calm and some sunshine must come,
and I would wait for it.

' As fast, but more quietly than before, the warm rain
streamed down : there was another sound in her weeping —
a softer, more regretful sound. While I watched, her eyes
lifted to me a gaze more reproachful than haughty— more
mournful than incensed.

' " Oh, Moore ! " said she : " it was worse than Et tu.
Brute ! "

' I relieved myself by what should have been a sigh, but
it became a groan. A sense of Cain-like desolation made my
breast ache.

' " There has been error in what I have done," I said,
" and it has won me bitter wages : which I will go and
spend far from her who gave them."

' I took my hat. AU the time I could not have borne to

560 SHIELEY

depart so ; and I believed she would not let me. Nor would
she, but for the mortal pang I had given her pride, that
cowed her compassion and kept her silent.

' I was obliged to turn back of my own accord when I
reached the door, to approach her and to say, " Forgive me."

' " I could, if there was not myself to forgive, too," was
her reply ; " bat to mislead a sagacious man so far, I must
have done wrong."

' I broke out suddenly with some declamation I do not
remember : I know that it was sincere, and that my wish
and aim were to absolve her to herself : in fact, in her case,
self-accusation was a chimera.

' At last, she extended her hand. For the first time I
wished to take her in my arms and kiss her. I did kiss her
hand many times.

' " Some day we shall be friends again," she said, " when
you have had time to read my actions and motives in a true
light, and not so horribly to misinterpret them. Time may
give you the right key to all : then, perhaps, you will com-
prehend me ; and then we shall be reconciled."

' Farewell drops rolled slow down her cheeks : she wiped
them away.

' " I am sorry for what has happened — deeply sorry," she
sobbed. So was I God knows ! Thus were we severed.'

' A queer tale ! ' commented Mr. Yofke.

' I'll do it no more,' vowed his companion : ' never more
will I mention marriage to a woman, unless I feel love.
Henceforth, Credit and Commerce may take care of them-
selves. Bankruptcy may come when it lists. I have done
with slavish fear of disaster. I mean to work diligently,
wait patiently, bear steadily. Let the worst come — I will
take ail axe and an emigrant's berth, and go out with Louis
to the West — he and I have settled it. No woman shall
ever again look at me as Miss Keeldar looked — ever again
feel towards me as Miss Keeldar felt: in no woman's
presence will I ever again stand at once such a fool and
such a knave — such a brute and such a puppy.'

EUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL 561

' Tut ! ' said the imperturbable Yorke, ' you make too
much of it ; but still, I say, I am capped : firstly, that she
did not love you ; and, secondly, that you did not love her.
You are both young ; you are both handsome ; you are both
well enough for wit, and even for temper— take you on the
right side : what ailed you that you could not agree ? '

' "We never have been — never could be at home with each
other, Yorke. Admire each other as we might at a distance,
still we jarred when we came very near. I have sat at one
side of a room and observed her at the other ; perhaps in an
excited, genial moment, when she had some of her favourites
round her — her old beaux, for instance, yourself and
Helstone, with whom she is so playful, pleasant and elo-
quent. I have watched her when she was most natural, most
lively, and most lovely ; my judgment has pronounced her
beautiful : beautiful she is, at times, when her mood and her
array partake of the splendid. I have drawn a little nearer,
feeling that our terms of acquaintance gave me the right of
approach ; I have joined the circle round her seat, caught
her eye, and mastered her attention ; then we have con-
versed ; and others — thinking me, perhaps, peculiarly privi-
leged— have withdrawn by degrees, and left us alone. Were
we happy thus left ? For myself, I must say. No. Always
a feeling of constraint came over me ; always I was disposed
to be stern and strange. We talked politics and business :
no soft sense of domestic intimacy ever opened our hearts,
or thawed our language, and made it flow easy and limpid.
If we had confidences, they were confidences of the counting-
house, not of the heart. Nothing in her cherished affection
in me — made me better, gentler : she only stirred my brain
and whetted my acuteness : she never crept into my heart
or influenced its pulse ; and for this good reason, no doubt,
because I had not the secret of making her love me.'

' Well, lad, it is a queer thing. I might laugh at thee,
and reckon to despise thy refinements; but as it is dark
night and we are by ourselves, I don't mind telling thee
that thy talk brings back a glimpse of my own past Ufe.

652 SHIRLEY

Twenty-five years ago, I tried to persuade a beautiful woman
to love me, and she would not. I had not the key to her
nature : she was a stone wall to me, doorless and window-
less.'

' But you loved her, Yorke : you worshipped Mary Cave :
your conduct, after all, was that of a man — never of a fortune-
hunter.'

' Ay ! I did love her : but then she was beautiful as the
moon we do not see to-night : there is nought like her in
these days : Miss Helstone, maybe, has a look of her, but
nobody else.'

' Who has a look of her ? '

' That black-coated tyrant's niece ; that quiet, deUoate
Miss Helstone. Many a time I have put on my spectacles
to look at the lassie in church, because she has gentle blue
een, wi' long lashes ; and, when she sits in shadow, and is
very still and very pale, and is, happen, about to fall asleep
wi' the length of the sermon and the heat of the biggin' —
she is as like one of Canova's marbles as aught else.'

' Was Mary Cave in that style ? '

' Far grander ! Less lass-like and flesh-like. You won-
dered why she hadn't wings and a crown. She was a stately,
peaceful angel— was my Mary.'

' And you could not persuade her to love you ? '

' Not with all I could do ; though I prayed Heaven many
a time, on my bended knee, to help me.'

' Mary Cave was not what you think her, Yorke-'I have
seen her picture at the Eectory. She is no angel, but a fair,
regular-featured, taciturnrlooking woman — rather too white
and lifeless for my taste. But — supposing she had been
something better than she was '

' Eobert,' interrupted Yorke, ' I could fell you off your
horse at this moment. However, I'll hold my hand.
Season tells me you are right, and I am wrong. I know
well enough that the passion I still have is only the remnant
of an illusion. If Miss Cave had possessed either feeling or
sense, she could not have been so- perfectly impassible to my

EUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL 553

regard as she sho-wed herself — she must have preferred me
to that copper-faced despot.'

' Supposing, Yorke, she had been educated (no women
were educated in those days) : supposing she had possessed
a thoughtful, original mind, a love of knowledge, a wish for
information, which she took an artless delight in receiving
from your lips, and having measured oat to her by your
hand : supposing her conversation — when she sat at your
side — was fertile, varied, imbued with a picturesque grace
and genial interest, quiet flowing but clear and bounteous ;
supposing that when you stood near her by chance, or when
you sat near her by design, comfort at once became your
atmosphere, and content your element ; supposing that
whenever her face was under your gaze, or her idea filled
your thoughts, you gradually ceased to be hard and anxious,
and pure affection, love of home, thirst for sweet discourse,
unselfish longing to protect and cherish, replaced the sordid,
cankering calculations of your trade ; supposing — with all
this — that many a time, when you had been so happy as to
possess your Mary's little hand, you had felt it tremble as
you held it — just as a warm little bird trembles when you
take it from its nest ; supposing you had noticed her shrink
into the background on your entrance into a room, yet if you
sought her in her retreat she welcomed you with the sweetest
smile that ever lit a fair virgin face, and only turned her
eyes from the encounter of your own, lest their clearness
should reveal too much ; supposing, in short, your Mary had
been — not cold, but modest ; not vacant, but reflective ; not
obtuse, but sensitive ; not inane, but innocent ; not prudish,
but pure — would you have left her to court another woman
for her wealth ? '

Mr. Yorke raised his hat, and wiped his forehead with his
handkerchief.

' The moon is up,' was his first not quite relevant remark,
pointing with his whip across the moor. ' There she is,
rising into the haze, staring at us wi' a strange red glower.
She is no more silver than old Helstone's brow is ivory.

554 SHIELEY

What does she mean by leaning her cheek on Eusheige i'
that way, and looking at us wi' a scowl and a menace ? '

' Yorke, if Mary had loved you silently, yet faithfully —
chastely, yet fervently — as you would wish your wife to love,
would you have left her ? '

' Eobert I ' he Ufted his arm : he held it suspended, and
paused. ' Eobert I this is a queer world, and men are
made of the queerest dregs that Chaos churned up in her
ferment. I might swear sounding oaths — oaths that would
make the poachers think there was a bittern booming in
Bilberry Moss — that, in the case you put. Death only should
have parted me from Mary. But I have lived in the world
fifty-five years ; I have been forced to study human nature ;
and — to speak a dark truth — the odds are, if Mary had
loved and not scorned me ; if I had been secure of her
affection, certain of her constancy, been irritated by no
doubts, stung by no humiliations — the odds are ' (he let his
hand fall heavy on the saddle) — 'the odds are, I should
have left her ! '

They rode side by side in silence. Ere either spoke again,
they were on the other side of Eushedge : Briarfield lights
starred the purple skirt of the moor. Eobert, being the
youngest, and having less of the past to absorb him than his
comrade, recommenced first.

'I believe — I daily find it proved — that we can get
nothing in this world worth keeping, not so much as a prin-
ciple or a conviction, except out of purifying flame, or through
strengthening peril. We err ; we fall ; we are humbled — then
we walk more carefully. We greedily eat and drink poison out
of the gilded cup of vice, or from the beggar's wallet of avarice ;
we are sickened, degraded; everything good in us rebels
against us ; our souls rise bitterly indignant against our
bodies ; there is a period of civil war ; if the soul has strength,
it conquers and rules thereafter.'

' What art thou going to do now, Eobert ? What are
thy plans?'

' J?or mj private plans, I'll keep them to myself ; which

EUSHEDGE, A CONFESSIONAL 555

is very easy, as at present I have none : no private life is
permitted a man in my position, a man in debt. For my
public plans, my views are a little altered. While I was in
Birmingham, I looked a little into reality, considered closely,
and at their source, the causes of the present troubles of
this country ; I did the same in London. Unknown, I could
go where I pleased, mix with whom I would. I went where
there was want of food, of fuel, of clothing ; where there was
no occupation and no hope. I saw some, with naturally
elevated tendencies and good feelings, kept down amongst
sordid privations and harassing griefs. I saw many
originally low, and to whom lack of education left scarcely
anything but animal wants, disappointed in those wants,
ahungered, athirst and desperate as famished animals. I
saw what taught my brain a new lesson, and filled my breast
with fresh feelings. I have no intention to profess more
softness or sentiment than I have hitherto professed ; mutiny
and ambition I regard as I have always regarded them : I
should resist a riotous mob just as heretofore : I should open
on the scent of a runaway ringleader as eagerly as ever, and
run him down as relentlessly, and follow him up to condign
punishment as rigorously ; but I should do it now chiefly for
the sake and the security of those he misled. Something
there is to look to, Yorke, beyond a man's personal interest :
beyond the advancement of well-laid schemes ; beyond even
the discharge of dishonouring debts. To respect himself, a
man must believe he renders justice to his fellow-men.
Unless I am more considerate to ignorance, more forbearing
to suffering, than I have hitherto been, I shall scorn myself
as grossly unjust. What now ? ' he said, addressing his
horse, which, hearing the ripple of water, and feeling thirsty,
turned to a way-side trough, where the moonbeam was
playing in a crystal eddy.

' Yorke,' pursued Moore, ' ride on : I must let him
drink.'

Yorke accordingly rode slowly forwards, occupying himself
as he advanced, in discriminating, amongst the many lights

556 SHIELEt

now spangling the distance, those of Briarmains. Stilbro'
Moor was left behind : plantations rose dusk on either hand ;
they were descending the hill : below them lay the valley
with its populous parish : they felt already at home.

Surrounded no longer by heath, it was not startling to
Mr. Yorke to see a hat rise, and to hear a voice speak
behind the wall. The words, however, were peculiar.

' When the wicked perisheth, there is shouting,' it said ;
and added, ' As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no
more ' (with a deeper growl) ; ' terrors take hold of him as
waters; hell is naked before him. He shall die without
knowledge.'

A fierce flash and sharp crack violated the calm of
night. Yorke, ere he turned, knew the four convicts of
Birmingham were avenged.

CHAPTEE XXXI

UNCLE AND NIECE

The die was cast. Sir Philip Nunnely knew it: Shirley
knew it: Mr. Sympson knew it. That evening, when all
the Fieldhead family dined at Nunnely Priory, decided the
business.

Two or three things conduced to bring the baronet to a
point. He had observed that Miss Keeldar looked pensive
and delicate. This new phase in her demeanour smote him
on his weak or poetic side : a spontaneous sonnet brewed in
bis brain ; and while it was still working there, one of his
Bisters pei;suaded his lady-love to sit down to the piano and
sing a ballad — one of Sir Philip's own ballads. It was the
least elaborate, the least affected — out of all comparison the
best of his numerous efforts.

It chanced that Shirley, the moment before, had been
gazing from a window down on the park ; she had seen that
stormy moonlight which ' le Professeur Louis ' was, perhaps,
at the same instant contemplating from her own oak-parlour
lattice ; she had seen the isolated trees of the domain —
broad, strong, spreading oaks, and high-towering heroic
beeches — wrestling with the gale. Her ear had caught the full
roar of the forest lower down ; the swift rushing of clouds,
the moon, to the eye, hasting swifter still, had crossed her
vision : she turned from sight and sound — touched, if not
rapt, — wakened if not inspired.

She sang, as requested. There was much about love in
the ballad : faithful love that refused to abandon its object ;
love that disaster could not shake ; love that, in calamity
waxed fonder, in poverty clung closer. The words were set

558 SHIELEY

to a fine old air — in themselves they were simple and sweet :
perhaps when read, they wanted force ; when well sung,
they wanted nothing. Shirley sang them well : she breathed
into the feeling, softness ; she poured round the passion,
force : her voice was fine that evening ; its expression
dramatic : she impressed all, and charmed one.

On leaving the instrument, she went to the fire, and sat
down on a seat — semi-stool, semi-cushion : the ladies were
round her — none of them spoke. The Misses Sympson and
the Misses Nunnely looked upon her, as quiet poultry might
look on an egret, an ibis, or any other strange fowl. What
made her sing so ? They never sang so. Was it proper to
sing with such expression, with such originality — so unlike
a school-girl ? Decidedly not : it was strange, it was
unusual. What was strange must be wrong; what was
unusual must be improper. Shirley was judged.

Moreover, old Lady Nunnely eyed her stonily from her
great chair by the fireside : her gaze said, ' This, woman is
not of mine or my daughters' kind : I object to her as my
son's wife.'

Her son, catching the look, read its meaning : he grew
alarmed : what he so wished to win, there was danger he
might lose. He must make haste.

The room they were in had once been a picture-gallery.
Sir Philip's father — Sir Monckton — had converted it into a
saloon ; but still it had a shadowy, long-withdrawing look.
A deep recess with a window — a recess that held one couch,
one table, and a fairy cabinet, formed a room within a room.
Two persons standing there might interchange a dialogue,
and, so it were neither long nor loud, none be the wiser.

Sir Philip induced two of his sisters to perpetrate a duet ;
he gave occupation to the Misses Sympson : the elder ladies
were conversing together. He was pleased to remark that,
meantime, Shirley rose to look at the pictures. He had a
tale to tell about one ancestress, whose dark beauty seemed
as that of a flower of the south : be joined her, and began to
tell it.

UNCLE AND NlECE 659

There were mementoes of the same lady in the cabinet
adorning the recess ; and while Shirley was stooping to
examine the missal and the rosary on the inlaid shelf, and
while the Misses Nunnely indulged in a prolonged screech,
guiltless of expression, pure of originality, perfectly conven-
tional and absolutely unmeaning. Sir Philip stooped too, and
whispered a few hurried sentences. At first, Miss Keeldar
was struck so still, you might have fancied that whisper a
charm which had changed her to a statue ; but she presently
looked up and answered. They parted. Miss Keeldar
returned to the fire, and resumed her seat : the baronet
gazed after her, then went and stood behind his sisters.
Mr. Sympson — Mr. Sympson only — had marked the
pantomime.

That gentleman drew his own conclusions. Had he been
as acute as he was meddling, as profound as he was prying,
he might have found that in Sir Philip's face whereby to
correct his inference. Ever shallow, hasty, and positive, he
went home quite cock-a-hoop.

He was not a man that kept secrets well : when elate on
a subject, he could not avoid talking about it. The next
morning, having occasion to employ his son's tutor as his
secretary, he must needs announce to him, in mouthing
accents, and with much flimsy pomp of manner, that he had
better hold himself prepared for a return to the south, at an
early day, as the important business which had detained
him (Mr. Sympson) so long in Yorkshire, was now on the
eve of fortunate completion : his anxious and laborious
efforts were likely, at last, to be crowned with the happiest
success : a truly eligible addition was about to be made to
the family connections.

' In Sir Philip Nunnely ? ' Louis Moore conjectured.

Whereupon Mr. Sympson treated himself simultaneously
to a pinch of snuflf and a chuckling laugh, checked only by a
sudden choke of dignity, and an order to the tutor to proceed
with business.

For a day or two, Mr. Sympson continued as bland as

660 SHIELEY

oil ; but also he seemed to sit on pins, and his gait, when he
walked, emulated that of a hen treading a hot girdle. He
was for ever looking out of the window, and listening for
chariot-wheels : Bluebeard's wife — Sisera's mother — were
nothing to him. He waited when the matter should be
opened in form ; when himself should be consulted ; when
lawyers should be summoned ; when settlement discussions,
and all the deUcious worldly fuss, should pompously begin.

At last there came a letter ; he himself handed it to Miss
Keeldar out of the bag : he knew the handwriting ; he knew
the crest on the seal. He did not see it opened and read,
for Shirley took it to her own room ; nor did he see it
answered, for she wrote her reply shut up, and was very long
about it, — the best part of a day. He questioned her
whether it was answered ; she responded, ' Yes.'

Again he waited — waited in silence — absolutely not
daring to speak : kept mute by something in Shirley's face, —
a very avrful something — inscrutable to him as the writing
on the wall to Belshazzar. He was moved more than once
to call Daniel — in the person of Louis Moore, and to ask
an interpretation; but his dignity forbade the familiarity.
Daniel himself, perhaps, had his own private diflSculties
connected with that ba£9ing bit of translation : he looked
like a student for whom grammars are blank, and diction-
aries dumb.

Mr. Sympson had been out, to while away an anxious
hour in the society of his friends at De Walden Hall. He
returned a little sooner than was expected ; his family and
Miss Keeldar were assembled in the oak-parlour ; addressing
the latter, he requested her to step with him into another
room : he wished to have with her a ' strictly private
interview.'

She rose, asking no questions, and professing no
surprise.

'Very well, sir,' she said in the tone of a determined
person, who is informed that the dentist is come to extract

UNCLE AND NIECE 561

that large double tooth of his, from which he has suffered
such a purgatory this month past. She left her sewing and
her thimble in the window-seat, and followed her uncle
where he led.

Shut into the drawing-room, the pair took seats, each in
an armchair, placed opposite, a few yards between them.

'I have been to De Walden Hall,' said Mr. Sympson.
He paused. Miss Keeldar's eyes were on the pretty white
and green carpet. That information required no response :
she gave none.

' I have learned,' he went on, slowly, — ' I have learned a
circumstance which surprises me.'

Besting her cheek on her forefinger, she waited to be told
what circumstance.

' It seems that Nunnely Priory is shut up ; that the

family are gone back to their place in shire. It seems

that the baronet — that the baronet — that Sir Philip himself
has accompanied his mother and sisters.'

' Indeed ! ' said Shirley.

'May I ask if you share the amazement with which I
received this news ? '

' No, sir.'

' Js it news to you ? '

' Yes, sir.'

' I mean — I mean — ' pursued Mr. Sympson, now fidgeting
in his chair, quitting his hitherto brief and tolerably clear
phraseology, and returning to his customary wordy, confused,
irritable style ; ' I mean to have a thorough explanation. I
will 7wt be put off. I — I — shall insist on being heard ; and on
— on having my ovm way. My questions must be answered.
I will have clear, satisfactory replies. I am not to be trifled
with. (Silence.)

'It is a strange and an extraordinary thing— a very
singular — a most odd thing ! I thought all was right : knew
no other : and there — the family are gone ! '

' I suppose, sir, they had a right to go.'

' Sir Philip is gone I ' (with emphasis).

562 SHIELEY

Shirley raised her brows : ' Bon voyage ! ' said she.

' This will not do : this must be altered, ma'am.'

He drew his chair forward ; he pushed it back ; he looked
perfectly incensed, and perfectly helpless.

' Come, come, now, uncle,' expostulated Shirley, ' do not
begin to fret and fume, or we shall make no sense of the
business. Ask me what you want to know : I am as will-
ing to come to an explanation as you : I promise you truthful
replies.'

' I want — I demand to know, Miss Keeldar, whether Sir
Philip has made you an offer ? '

' He has.'

' You avow it ? '

' I avow it. But now, go on : consider that point settled.'

' He made you an offer that night we dined at the
Priory ? '

' It is enough to say that he made it. Go on.'

' He proposed in the recess — in the room that used to
be a picture-gallery — that Sir Monckton converted into a
saloon ? '

No answer.

' You were both examining a cabinet : I saw it all : my
sagacity was not at fault — it never is. Subsequently, you
received a letter from him. On what subject— of what nature
were the contents ? '

' No matter.'

' Ma'am, is that the way in which you speak to me ? '

Shirley's foot tapped quick on the carpet.

' There you sit, silent and sullen — you who promised
truthful replies ! '

' Sir, I have answered you thus far : proceed.'

' I should like to see that letter.'

' You cannot se,e it.'

' I must and shall, ma'am. I am your guardian.'

' Having ceased to be a ward, I have no guardian.'

' Ungrateful being ! Reared by me as my pwn
daughter '

UNCLE AND NIECE 563

' Once more, uncle, have the kindness to keep to the
point. Let us both remain cool. For my part, I do not
wish to get into a passion ; but, you know, once drive me
beyond certain bounds, I care little what I say : I am not
then soon checked. Listen ! You have asked me whether
Sir Philip made me an offer : that question is answered.
What do you wish to know next ? '

' I desire to know whether you accepted or refused him ?
and know it I will.'

' Certainly : you ought to know it. I refused him.'

' Eefused him ! You— ^ow, Shirley Keeldar, refused Sir
Philip Nunnely ? '

'I did.'

The poor gentleman bounced from his chair, and first
rushed, and then trotted, through the room.

' There it is ! There it is ! There it is ! '

' Sincerely speaking, I am sorry, uncle, you are so
disappointed.'

Concession — contrition — never do any good with soma
people. Instead of softening and conciliating, they but
embolden and harden them : of that number was Mr.
Sympson.

' I disappointed ! What is it to me ? Have / an interest
in it ? You would insinuate, perhaps, that I have motives ? '

' Most people have motives, of some sort, for their actions.'

' She accuses me to my face ! I — that have been a parent
to her — she charges with bad motives ! '

' Bad motives, I did not say.'

• And now you prevaricate. You have no principles ! '
' Uncle, you tire me : I want to go away.'

' Go you shall not ! I vrill be answered. What are your
intentions. Miss Keeldar ? '
' In what respect ? '
' In respect of matrimony.'

• To be quiet — and to do just as I please.*

' Just as you please ! The words are to the last degree
jndeqorous,'

564 SHIELEY

' Mr. Sympson, I advise you not to become insulting :
you know I will not bear that.'

' You read French. Your mind is poisoned with French
novels. You have imbibed French principles.'

'The ground you are treading now returns a mighty
hollow sound under your feet. Beware ! '

' It will end in infamy, sooner or later : I have foreseen
it all along.'

' Do you assert, sir, that something in which I am con-
cerned will end in infamy ? '

' That it will — that it will. You said just now you
would act as you please. You acknowledge no rules — no
limitations.'

' Silly stuff ! and vulgar as silly ! '

' Eegardless of decorum, you are prepared to fly in the
face of propriety.'

' You tire me, uncle.'

' What, madam — what could be your reasons for refusing
Sir Philip?'

' At last, there is another sensible question : I shall be
glad to reply to it. Sir Philip is too young for me : I
regard him as a boy : all his relations — his mother especially
— would be annoyed if he married me : such a step would
embroil him with them : I am not his equal in the world's
estimation.'

' Is that all ? '

' Our dispositions are not compatible.'

' "Why, a more amiable gentleman never breathed.'

' He is very amiable — very excellent — truly estimable,
but not wy master ; not in one point. I could not trust
myself with his happiness : I would not undertake the
keeping of it for thousands : I will accept no hand which
cannot hold me in check.'

' I thought you liked to do as you please : you are vastly
inconsistent.'

' When I promise to obey, it shall be under the conviction
that I can keep that promise : I could not obey a youth like

UNCLE AND NIECE 565

Sir Philip. Besides, he would never command me : he
would expect me always to rule — to guide, and I have no
taste whatever for the office.'

' You no taste for swaggering, and subduing, and ordering,
and ruling ? '

' Not my husband : only my uncle.'

' Where is the difference ? '

' There is a slight difference : that is certain. And I know
full well, any man who wishes to live in decent comfort
with me as a husband must be able to control me.'

' I wish you had a real tyrant.'

' A tyrant would not hold me for a day — not for an hour.
I would rebel — break from him — defy him.'

' Are you not enough to bewilder one's brain with your
self-contradiction ? '

' It is evident I bewilder your brain.'

'You talk of Sir PhiUp being young: he is two-and-
twenty.'

' My husband must be thirty, with the sense of forty.'

' You had better pick out some old man — some white-
headed or bald-headed swain.'

' No, thank you.'

' You could lead some doting fool : you might pin him to
your apron.'

' I might do that with a boy : but it is not my vocation.
Did I not say I prefer a master ? One in whose presence
I shall feel obliged and disposed to be good. One whose
control my impatient temper must acknowledge. A man
whose approbation can reward— whose displeasure punish
me. A man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and very
possible to fear.'

' What is there to hinder you from doing all this with
Sir Philip ? He is a baronet ; a man of rank, property,
connections, far above yours. If you talk of intellect, he is
a poet : he ivrites verses : which you, I take it, cannot do,
with all your cleverness.'

' Neither his title, wealth, pedigree, nor poetry, avail to

666 SHIELEY

invest him with the power I describe. These are feather-
weights : they want ballast : a measure of sound, solid
practical sense would have stood him in better stead with
me.'

' You and Henry rave about poetry : you used to catch
fire like tinder on the subject when you were a girl.'

' Oh ! uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this
world there is nothing glorious in the world to come, that is
not poetry ! '

' Marry a poet, then, in God's name ! '

' Show him me, and I will.'

' Sir Philip.'

' Not at all. You are almost as good a poet as he.

' Madam, you are wandering from the point.'

' Indeed, uncle, I wanted to do so ; and I shall be glad
to lead you away with me. Do not let us get out of temper
with each other : it is not worth while.'

'Out of temper. Miss Keeldar! I should be glad to
know who is out of temper.'

' I am not, yet.'

' If you mean to insinuate that I am, I consider that you
are guilty of impertinence.'

' You will be soon, if you go on at that rate.'

' There it is ! With your pert tongue, you would try the
patience of a Job.'

' I know I should.'

' No levity, miss ! This is not a laughing matter. It is
an affair I am resolved to probe thoroughly, convinced that
there is mischief at the bottom. You described just now,
with far too much freedom for your years and sex, the sort
of individual you would prefer as a husband. — Pray, did you
paint from the life ? '

Shirley opened her lips ; but instead of speaking she
only glowed rose-red.

' I shall have an answer to that question," affirmed Mr.
Sympson, assuming vast courage and consequence on the
strength of this symptom of confusion.

UNCLE AND NIECE 567

'It was an historical picture, uncle, from several
originals.'

' Several originals ! Bless my heart I '

' I have been in love several times.'

' This is cynical.'

' With heroes of many nations.'

' What next ? '

' And philosophers.'

' She is mad '

' Don't ring the bell, uncle ; you will alarm my aunt.'

' Your poor dear aunt, what a niece has she ! '

' Once I loved Socrates.'

* Pooh ! No trifling, ma'am.'

' I admired Themistocles, Leonidas, Epaminondas.'

' Miss Keeldar '

' To pass over a few centuries, Washington was a plain
man, but I liked him : but, to speak of the actual pre-
sent '

' Ah ! the actual present.'

' To quit crude school-girl fancies, and come to reali-
ties '

' Bealities I That is the test to which you shall be
brought, ma'am.'

' To avow before what altar I now kneel — to reveal the
present idol of my soul '

' You will make haste about it, if you please ; it is near
luncheon time, and confess you shall.'

' Confess, I must : my heart is full of the secret ; it must
be spoken : I only wish you were Mr. Helstone instead of
Mr. Sympson, you would sympathize with me better.'

' Madam — it is a question of common sense and common
prudence, not of sympathy and sentiment, and so on. Did
you say it was Mr. Helstone ? '

' Not precisely, but as near as may be : they are rather
alike.'

' I will know the name — I will have particulars.'

' They positively are rather alike ; their very faces are

568 SHIELEY

not dissimilar-^a pair of human falcons — and dry, direct,
decided both. But my hero is the mightier of the two : his
mind has the clearness of the deep sea, the patience of its
rooks, the force of its billows.'
' Bant and fustian ! '

' I daresay he can be harsh as a saw-edge, and gruff as a
hungry raven.'

'Miss Keeldar, does the person reside in Briarfield?
answer me that.'

' Uncle — I am going to tell you — his name is trembling
on my tongue.'
' Speak, girl ! '

' That was well said, uncle. " Speak girl ! " it is quite
tragic. England has howled savagely against this man, uncle ;
and she will one day roar exultingly over him. He has been
unscared by the howl, and he will he unelated by the shout.'

' I said she was mad — she is.'

'This country will change and change again in her
demeanour to him : he will never change in his duty to her.
Come, cease to chafe, uncle, I'll tell you his name.'

' You shall teU me, or '

' Listen ! Arthur Wellesley, Lord Welhngton.'

Mr. Sympson rose up furious : he bounced out of the
room, but immediately bounced back agaiij, shut the door,
and resumed his seat.

' Ma'am, you shall tell me this : will your principles
permit you to marry a man without money — a man below
you?'

• Never a man below me.'

(In a high voice.) 'Will you, Miss Keeldar, marry a
poor man ? '

' What right have you, Mr. Sympson, to ask me ? '

' I insist upon knowing.'

' You don't go the way to know.'

' My family respectability shall not be compromised,'

' A good resolution : keep it.'

' Madam, it is you who shall keep it.'

UNCLE AND NIECE 669

' Impossible, sir, since I form no part of your family.'

' Do you disown us ? '

' I disdain your dictatorship.'

' Whom will you marry, Miss Keeldar ? '

'Not Mr. Sam Wynne, because I scorn him: not Sir
Philip Nunnely, because I only esteem him.'

' Whom have you in your eye ? '

' Pour rejected candidates.'

' Such obstinacy could not be, unless you were under
improper influence.'

' What do you mean ? There are certain phrases potent
to make my blood boil — improper influence ! What old
woman's cackle is that ? '

' Are you a young lady ? '

' I am a thousand times better. I am an honest woman,
and as such I will be treated.'

' Do you know ' (leaning mysteriously forward, and
speaking with ghastly solemnity), ' do you know the whole
neighbourhood teems with rumours respecting you and a
bankrupt tenant of yours — the foreigner Moore ? '

' Does it ? '

' It does. Your name is in every mouth.'

' It honours the lips it crosses, and I wish to the gods it
may purify them.'

' Is it that person who has power to influence you ? '

' Beyond any whose cause you have advocated.'

' Is it he you will marry ? '

' He is handsome and manly, and commanding.'

' You declare it to my face ! The Flemish knave 1 The
low trader I '

' He is talented, and venturous, and resolute. Prince is
on his brow, and ruler in his bearing.'

' She glories in it I She conceals nothing ! No shame,
no fear ! '

' When we speak the name of Moore, shame should be
forgotten and fear discarded : the Moores know only honour
and courage.'

670 SHIELEY

' I say she is mad.'

' You have taunted me till my blood is up. You have
worried me till I turn again.'

' That Moore is the brother of my son's tutor. Would
you let the Usher call you Sister ? '

Bright and broad shone Shirley's eye, as she fixed it on
her questioner now.

' No : no. Not for a province of possession — not for a
century of life.'

' You cannot separate the husband from his family.'

' What then ? '

' Mr. Louis Moore's sister you will be.'

' Mr. Sympson I am sick at heart with all this

weal^ trash : I will bear no more. Your thoughts are not
my thoughts, your aims are not my aims, your gods are not
my gods. We do not view things in the same light ; we do
not measure them by the same standard ; we hardly speak
in the same tongue. Let us part.

' It is not,' she resumed, much excited — ' It is not that I
hate you ; you are a good sort of man : perhaps you mean
well in your way ; but we cannot suit : we are ever at
variance. You annoy me with small meddling, with petty
tyranny ; you exasperate my temper, and make and keep
me passionate. As to your small maxims, your narrow
rules, your little prejudices, aversions, dogmas, bundle them
off : Mr. Sympson — go, offer them a sacrifice to the deity
you worship ; I'll none of them : I wash my hands of the
lot. I walk by another creed, light, faith, and hope than
you.'

' Another creed ! I believe she is an infidel.'

' An infidel to your religion ; an atheist to your god.'

'An^atheist!!!'

' Your god, sir, is the World. In my eyes, you too, if
not an infidel, are an idolater. I conceive that you ignorantly
worship : in all things you appear to me too superstitious.
Sir, your god, your great Bel, your fish-tailed Dagon, rises
before me as a demon. You, and such as you, have raised

UNCLE AND NIECE 571

him to a throne, put on him a erown, given him a sceptre.
Behold how hideously he governs ! See him busied at the
work he likes best — making marriages. He binds the young
to the old, the strong to the imbecile. He stretches out the
arm of Mezentius and fetters the dead to the living. In his
realm there is hatred— secret hatred : there is disgust —
unspoken disgust : there is treachery — family treachery :
there is vice — deep, deadly, domestic vice. In his dominions,
children grow unloving between parents who have never
loved : infants are nursed on deception from their very birth ;
they are reared in an atmosphere corrupt with lies. Your
god rules at the bridal of kings — look at your royal
dynasties ! Your deity is the deity of foreign aristocracies —
analyse the blue blood of Spain ! Your god is the Hymen
of France — what is French domestic life ? All that surrounds
him hastens to decay : all declines and degenerates under
his sceptre. Your god is a masked Death.'

' This language is terrible ! My daughters and you must
associate no longer, Miss Keeldar : there is danger in
such companionship. Had I known you a little earlier
— but, extraordinary as I thought you, I could not have
believed '

' Now, sir, do you begin to be aware that it is useless to
scheme for me ? That, in doing so, you but sow the wind
to reap the whirlwind ? I sweep your cobweb-projects from
my path, that I may pass on unsullied. I am anchored on
a resolve you cannot shake. My heart — my conscience
shall dispose of my hand — ihey only. Know this at
last.'

Mr. Sympson was becoming a little bevsdldered.

' Never heard such language ! ' he muttered again and
again. ' Never was so addressed in my life — never was so
used.'

' You are quite confused, sir. You had better withdraw,
or I will.'

He rose hastily.

' We must leave this place : they must pack up at onpe,'

572 SHIELEY

' Do not hurry my aunt and cousins : give them
time.'

' No more intercourse : she's not proper.'

He made his way to the door ; he came back for his
handkerchief ; he dropped his snuff-box : leaving the con-
tents scattered on the carpet, he stumbled out : Tartar lay
outside across the mat — Mr. Sympson almost fell over him :
in the climax of his exasperation he hurled an oath at the
dog, and a coarse epithet at his mistress.

' Poor Mr. Sympson ! He is both feeble and vulgar,'
said Shirley to herself. ' My head aches, and I am tired,'
she added ; and leaning her head upon a cushion, she softly
subsided from excitement to repose. One, entering the
room a quarter of an hoxu* afterwards, found her asleep.
When Shirley had been agitated, she generally took this
natural refreshment : it would come at her call.

The intruder paused in her unconscious presence, and
said — ' Miss Keeldar.'

Perhaps his voice harmonized with some dream into
which she was passing — it did not startle, it hardly roused
her : without opening her eyes, she but tiu:ned her head a
little, so that her cheek and profile, before hidden by her
arm, became visible : she looked rosy, happy, half-smiling,
but her eyelashes were wet : she had wept in slumber ; or
perhaps, before dropping asleep, a few natural tears had
fallen after she had heard that epithet: no man — no
woman is always strong, always able to bear up against the
unjust opinion — the vilifying word : calumny, even from the
mouth of a fool, will sometimes cut into unguarded feelings.
Shirley looked like a child that had been naughty and
punished, but was now forgiven and at rest.

' Miss Keeldar,' again said the voice : this time it woke
her ; she looked up and saw at her side Louis Moore— not
close at her side, but standing, with arrested step, two or
three yards from her.

' Oh, Mr. Moore ! ' she said ; ' I was afraid it was my
uncle again : he and I have quarrelled.'

UNCLE AND NIECE 673

' Mr. Sympson should let you alone,' was the reply : ' can
he not see that you are as yet far from strong ? '

' I assure you he did not find me weak : I did not cry
when he was here.'

' He is about to evacuate Fieldhead — so he says. He is
now giving orders to his family : he has been in the school-
room issuing commands in a manner which, I suppose, was
a continuation of that with which he has harassed you.'

' Are you and Henry to go ? '

'I believe, as far as Henry is concerned, that was the
tenor of his scarcely-intelligible directions ; but he may
change all to-morrow : he is just in that mood when you
cannot depend on his consistency for two consecutive hours :
I doubt whether he will leave you for weeks 'yet. To myself
he addressed some words which will require a little attention
and comment by-and-by, when I have time to bestow on
them. At the moment he came in, I was busied with a note
I had got from Mr. Yorke — so fully busied that I cut short
the interview with him somewhat abruptly: I left him
raving : here is the note — I wish you to see it— it refers to
my brother Eobert.' And he looked at Shirley.

' I shall be glad to hear news of him : is he coming
home?'

' He is come : he is in Yorkshire : Mr. Yorke went
yesterday to Stilbro' to meet him.'

' Mr. Moore — something is wrong ? '

' Did my voice tremble ? He is now at Briarmains —
and I am going to see him.'

' What has occurred ? '

' If you turn so pale I shall be sorry I have spoken.
It might have been worse : Eobert is not dead, but much
hurt.'

' Oh ! sir ; it is you who are pale. Sit down near me.'

' Eead the note — let me open it.'

Miss Keeldar read the note : it briefly signified that last
night Eobert Moore had been shot at from behind the wall
of Milldean plantation, at the foot of the Brow ; that he was

574 SSmLEY

■wounded severely, but it was hoped not fatally : of the
assassin, or assassins, nothing was known — they had escaped.
' No doubt,' Mr. Yorke observed, ' it was done in revenge :
it was a pity ill-will had ever been raised ; but that could
not be helped now.'

' He is my only brother,' said Louis, as Shirley returned
the note. ' I cannot hear unmoved that ruflSans have lain
in wait for him, and shot him down like some wild beast
from behind a wall.'

' Be comforted : be hopeful. He will get better — I know
he will.'

Shirley, solicitous to soothe, held her hand over Mr.
Moore's, as it lay on the arm of the chair : she just touched
it lightly, scarce palpably.

' Well, give me your hand,' he said ; ' it will be for the
first time : it is in a moment of calamity — give it me.'

Awaiting neither consent nor refusal, he took what he
asked.

' I am going to Briarmains now,' he went on. ' I want
you to step over to the Eectory, and tell Caroline Helstone
what has happened : will you do this ? she will hear it
best from you.'

'Immediately,' said Shirley, with docile promptitude.
' Ought I to say that there is no danger ? '

' Say so.'

' You will come back soon, and let me know more ? '

' I will either come or write.'

' Trust me for watching over Caroline. I will com-
municate with your sister, too ; but, doubtless, she is already
with Eobert ? '

' Doubtless ; or will be soon. Good morning, now.'

' You will bear up, come what may ? '

' We shall see that.'

Shirley's fingers were obliged to withdraw from the
Tutor's : Louis was obliged to relinquish that hand folded,
clasped, hidden in his own.

' I thought I should have had to support her,' he said, as

UNCLE AND NIECE 575

he walked towards Briarmains, ' and it is she who has made
me strong. That look of pity— that gentle touch! No
down was ever softer — no elixir more potent ! It lay hke
a snowflake : it thrilled like hghtning. A thousand times
I have longed to possess that hand — to have it in mine. I
have possessed it — for five minutes I held it. Her fingers
and mine can never be strangers more — having met once,
they must meet again.'

CHAPTER XXXII

THE SCHOOLBOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPH

Beiaemains being nearer than the Hollow, Mr. Yorke had
conveyed his young comrade there. He had seen him laid
in the best bed of the house, as carefully as if he had been
one of his own sons. The sight of his blood, welling from
the treacherously-inflicted wound, made him indeed the son
of the Yorkshire gentleman's heart. The spectacle of the
sudden event ; of the tall, straight shape prostrated in its
pride across the road : of the fine southern head laid low in
the dust ; of that youth in prime flung at once before him
pallid, lifeless, helpless — this was the very combination of
circumstances to win for the victim Mr. Yorke's liveliest
interest.

No other hand was there to raise — to aid; no other
voice to question kindly ; no other brain to concert measures :
he had to do it all himself. This utter dependence of the
speechless, bleeding youth (as a youth he regarded him) on
his benevolence, secured that benevolence most effectually.
Well did Mr. Yorke like to have power, and to use it : he
had now between his bands power over a fellow-creature's
life : it suited him.

No less perfectly did it suit his saturnine better-half:
the incident was quite in her way, and to her taste. Some
women would have been terror-struck to see a gory man
brought in over their threshold, and laid down in their hall
in the ' howe of the night.' There, you would suppose, was
subject-matter for hysterics. No : Mrs. Yorke went into
hysterics when Jessie would not leave the garden to come to

THE SCHOOLBOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPH 577

her knitting, or when Martin proposed starting ior Australia,
with a view to reahze freedom, and escape the tyranny of
Matthew; but an attempted murder near her door — a half-
murdered man in her best bed — set her straight, cheered her
spirits, gave her cap the dash of a turban.

Mrs. Yorke was just the woman who, while rendering
miserable the drudging life of a simple maid-servant, would
nurse like a heroine an hospital full of plague patients.
She almost loved Moore: her tough heart almost yearned
towards him, when she found him committed to her charge —
left in her aarms, as dependent on her as her youngest-born
in the cradle. Had she seen a domestic, or one of her
daughters, give him a draught of water, or smooth his
pillow, she would have boxed the intruder's ears. She
chased Jessie and Eose from the upper realm of the
house : she forbade the housemaids to set their foot in it.

Now, if the accident had happened at the Eectory gates,
and old Helstone had taken in the martyr, neither Yorke
nor his wife would have pitied him : they would have ad-
judged him right served for his tyranny and meddling :
as it was, he became, for the present, the apple of their
eye.

Strange ! Louis Moore was permitted to come, — to sit
down on the edge of the bed, and lean over the pillow, — to
hold his brother's hand, and press his pale forehead with his
fraternal lips : and Mrs. Yorke bore it well. She suffered
him to stay half the day there ; she once suifered him to sit
up all night in the chamber ; she rose herself at five o'clock
of a wet November morning, and with her own hands lit the
kitchen fire, and made the brothers a breakfast, and served
it to them herself. Majestically arrayed in a boundless
flannel wrapper, a shawl, and her nightcap, she sat and
watched them eat, as complacently as a hen beholds her
chickens feed. Yet she gave the cook warning that day for
venturing to make and carry up to Mr. Moore a basin of
sago-gruel ; and the housemaid lost her favour because, when
Mr. Louis was departing, she brought him his surtout aired

578 SHIRLEY

from the kitchen, and, like a ' forward piece,' as she was
helped him on with it, and accepted, in return, a smile, a
' thank you, my girl,' and a shilling. Two ladies called one
day, pale and anxious, and begged earnestly, humbly, to be
allowed to see Mr. Moore one instant : Mrs. Yorke hardened
her heart, and sent them packing, — not without opprobrium.
But how was it when Hortense Moore came ? — Not so
bad as might have been expected : the whole family of the
Moores really seemed to suit Mrs. Yorke so as no other
family had ever suited her. Hortense and she possessed
an exhaustless mutual theme of conversation in the corrupt
propensities of servants. Their views of this class were
similar : they watched them with the same suspicion, and
judged them with the same severity. Hortense, too, from
the very first, showed no manner of jealousy of Mrs. Yorke's
attentions to Eobert: she let her keep the post of nurse
with little interference; and, for herself, found ceaseless
occupation in fidgeting about the house, holding the kitchen
under surveillance, reporting what passed there, and, in
short, making herself generally useful. Visitors, they both
of them agreed in excluding sedulously from the sick-room.
They held the young millowner captive, and hardly let the
air breathe or the sun shine on him.

Mr. MacTurk, the surgeon to whom Moore's case had
been committed, pronounced his wound of a dangerous, but,
he trusted, not of a hopeless character. At first he wished
to place with him a nurse of his own selection ; but this
neither Mrs. Yorke nor Hortense would hear of : they pro-
mised faithful observance of directions. He was left, there-
fore, for the present, in their hands.

Doubtless, they executed the trust to the best of their
ability ; but something got wrong : the bandages were dis-
placed, or tampered with ; great loss of blood followed.
MaoTurk, being summoned, came with steed afoam. He
was one of those surgeons whom it is dangerous to vex :
abrupt in his best moods ; in his worst, savage. On seeing
Moore's state, he relieved his feelings by a little flowery

THE SCHOOLBOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPH 579

language, with which it is not necessary to strew the present
page. A bouquet or two of the choicest blossoms fell on the
unperturbed head of one Mr. Graves, a stony young assistant,
he usually carried about with him ; with a second nosegay
he gifted another young gentleman in his train — an interesting
fac-simile of himself, being, indeed, his own son ; but the
full corbeiUe of blushing bloom fell to the lot of meddling
womankind, en masse.

For the best part of one winter night, himself and
satellites were busied about Moore. There, at his bedside,
shut up alone with him in his chamber, they wrought and
wrangled over his exhausted frame. They three were on
one side of the bed, and Death on the other. The conflict
was sharp : it lasted till day broke, when the balance between
the belligerents seemed so equal that both parties might have
claimed the victory.

At dawn. Graves and young MacTurk were left in charge
of the patient, while the senior went himself in search of
additional strength, and secured it in the person of Mrs.
Horsfall, the best nurse on his staff. To this woman he
gave Moore in charge, with the sternest injunctions respect-
ing the responsibility laid on her shoulders. She took this
responsibility stolidly, as she did also the easy-chair at the
bed-head. That moment she began her reign.

Mrs. Horsfall had one virtue,- — orders received from
MacTurk she obeyed to the letter : the Ten Commandments
were less binding in her eyes than her surgeon's dictum. In
other respects, she was no woman, but a dragon. Hortense
Moore fell effaced before her; Mrs. Yorke withdrew —
crushed ; yet both these women were personages of some
dignity in their own estimation, and of some bulk in the
estimation of others. Perfectly cowed by the breadth, the
height, the bone, and the brawn of Mrs. Horsfall, they
retreated to the back-parlour. She, for her part, sat up-
stairs when she liked, and down-stairs when she preferred
it : she took her dram three times a-day, and her pipe of
tobacco four times.

580 SHIELEt

As to Moore, no one now ventured to inquire about him :
Mrs. Horsfall had him at dry-nurse : it was she who was to
do for him ; and the general conjecture now ran that she
did for him accordingly.

Morning and evening MacTurk came to see him : his
case, thus complicated by a new mischance, was become one
of interest in the surgeon's eyes : he regarded him as a
damaged piece of clock-work, which it would be credit-
able to his skill to set a-going again. Graves and young
MacTurk — Moore's sole other visitors — contemplated him
in the Ught in which they were wont to contemplate the
occupant for the time being of the dissecting-room at Stilbro'
Infirmary.

Eobert Moore had a pleasant time of it: in pain; in
danger ; too weak to move ; almost too weak to speak ; a sort
of giantess his keeper ; the three surgeons his sole society.
Thus he lay through the diminishing days and lengthen-
ing nights of the whole drear month of November.

In the commencement of his captivity, Moore used feebly
to resist Mrs. Horsfall : he hated the sight of her rough bulk,
and dreaded the contact of her hard hands : but she taught
him docility in a trice. She made no account whatever of
his six feet — his manly thews and sinews : she turned him
in his bed as another woman would have turned a babe in
its cradle. When he was good, she addressed him as ' my
dear ' and ' honey ; ' and when he was bad, she sometimes
shook him. Did he attempt to speak when MacTurk was
there, she lif led her hand and bade him ' hush ! ' like a nurse
checking a forward child. If she had not smoked — if she
had not taken gin, it would have been better, he thought ;
but she did both. Once — in her absence — he intimated to
MacTurk, that ' that woman was a dram-drinker.'

' Pooh ! my dear sir ; they are all so,' was the reply he
got for his pains. ' But Horsfall has this virtue,' added
the surgeon, — ' drunk or sober, p^'^ always remembers to
obey w '

THE SCHOOLBOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPH 681

At length the latter autumn passed ; its fogs, its rains
withdrew from England their mourning and their tears ;
its winds swept on to sigh over lands far away. Behind
November came deep winter; clearness, stillness, frost
accompanying.

A calm day had settled into a crystalline evening : the
world wore a North Pole colouring : all its lights and tints
looked like the ' reflets ' * of white, or violet, or pale green
gems. The hills wore a lilac blue ; the setting sun had
purple in its red ; the sky was ice, all silvered azure ; when
the stars rose, they were of white crystal — not gold ; gray, or
cerulean, or faint emerald hues — cool, pure, and transparent
— tinged the mass of the landscape.

What is this by itself in a wood no longer green, no
longer even russet ; a wood, neutral tint — this dark blue
moving object? Why, it is a schoolboy — a Briarfield
grammar-schoolboy — who has , left his companions, now
trudging home by the high-road, and is seeking a certain
tree, with a certain mossy mound at its root — convenient as
a seat. Why is he lingering here ? — the air is cold, and the
time wears late. He sits down : what is he thinking about ?
Does he feel the chaste charm Nature wears to-night ? A
pearl-white moon smiles through the green trees : does he
care for her smile ?

Impossible to say ; for he is silent, and his countenance
does not speak : as yet, it is no mirror to reflect sensation,
but rather a mask to conceal it. This boy is a stripling of
fifteen — slight, and tall of his years ; in his face there is aa
little of amenity as of servility : his eye seems prepared to
note any incipient attempt to control or overreach him, and
the rest of his features indicate faculties alert for resistance.
Wise ushers avoid unnecessary interference with that lad.
To break him in by severity would be a useless attempt ; to
win him by flattery would be an effort worse than useless.

* Find me an English word as good, reader, and I will gladly
dispense with the French word. ' Reflections ' won't do.

582 SHIELEY

He is bast let alone. Time will educate, and experience
train him.

Professedly, Martin Yorke (it is a young Yorke, of
course) tramples on the name of poetry : talk sentiment to
him, and you would be answered by sarcasm. Here he is, '
wandering alone, waiting duteously on Nature, while she
unfolds a page of stem, of silent, and of solemn poetry,
beneath his attentive gaze.

Being seated, he takes from his satchel a book — not
the Latin grammar, but a contraband volume of Fairy
tales ; there will be light enough yet for an hour to serve
his keen young vision : besides, the moon waits on him
— her beam, dim and vague as yet, fills the glade where
he sits.

He reads : he is led into a solitary mountain region ;
all round him is rude and desolate, shapeless, and almost
colourless. He hears bells tinkle on the wind ; forth-riding
from the formless folds of the mist, dawns on him the
brightest vision — a green-robed lady, on a snow-white
palfrey ; he sees her dress, her gems, and her steed ; she
arrests him with some mysterious question : he is spell-
bound, and must follow her into Fairyland.

A second legend bears him to the sea-shore : there
tumbles in a strong tide, boiling at the base of dizzy cliffs :
it rains and blows. A reef of rocks, black and rough,
stretches far into the sea ; all along, and among, and above
these crags, dash and flash, sweep and leap, swells, wreaths,
drifts of snowy spray. Some lone wanderer is out on these
rocks, treading, with cautious step, the wet, wild sea-weed ;
glancing down into hollows where the brine lies fathoms
deep and emerald-clear, and seeing there wilder and stranger,
and huger vegetation, than is found on land, with treasure
of shells — some green, some piu'ple, some pearly — clustered
in the curls of the snaky plants. He hears a cry. Looking
up, and forward, he sees, at the bleak point of the reef, a
tall, pale thing — shaped like man, but made of spray —
transparent, tremulous, awful : it stands not alone ; they are

ME SCaOOLBOt AND ¥Hil WOOD-NYMPH S83

all human figures that wanton in the rocks — a crowd of
foam-women— a band of white, evanescent Nereides.

Hush 1 — shut the book : hide it in the satchel : —Martin
hears a tread. He listens : No — Yes : Once more, the dead
leaves, lightly crushed, rustle on the wood-path. Martin
watches : the trees part, and a woman issues forth.

She is a lady dressed in dark silk, a veil covering her
face. Martin never met a lady in this wood before — nor any
female, save, now and then, a village-girl come to gather
nuts. To-night, the apparition does not displease him. He
observes, as she approaches, that she is neither old nor
plain, but, on the contrary, very youthful ; and, but that he
now recognizes her for one whom he has often wilfully
pronounced ugly, he would deem that he discovered traits of
beauty behind the thin gauze of that veil.

She passes him, and says nothing. He knew she would :
all women are proud monkeys — and he knows no more
conceited doll than that Caroline Helstone. The thought is
hardly hatched in his mind, when the lady retraces those
two steps she had got beyond him, and, raising her veil,
reposes her glance on his face, while she softly asks, ' Are
you one of Mr. Yorke's sons ? '

No human evidence would ever have been able to per-
suade Martin Yorke that he blushed when thus addressed ;
yet blush he did, to the ears.

' I am,' he said, bluntly ; and encouraged himself to
wonder, superciliously, what would come next.

' You are Martin, I think ? ' was the observation that
followed.

It could not have been more felicitous : it was a simple
sentence — very artlessly, a little timidly pronounced ; but it
chimed in harmony to the youth's nature : it stilled him like
a note of music.

Martin had a keen sense of his personality : he felt it
right and sensible that the girl should discriminate him from
his brothers. Like his father, he hated ceremony : it was
acceptable to hear a lady address him as ' Martin,' and not

684 SHIRLEY

Mr. Martin, or Master Martin, which form would have lost
her his good graces for ever. Worse, if possible, than
ceremony, was the other extreme of slipshod familiarity : the
shght tone of bashfulness — the scarcely perceptible hesita-
tion— was considered perfectly in place.

' I am Martin,' he said.

' Are your father and mother well ? ' — (it was lucky she
did not say papa and mamma : that would have undone all,)
— ' and Eose and Jessie ? '

' I suppose so.'

' My cousin Hortense is still at Briarmains ? '

'Oh, yes!.'

Martin gave a comic half-smile and demi-groan : the
half -smile was responded to by the lady, who could guess in
what sort of odour Hortense was likely to be held by the
young Yorkes.

' Does your mother like her ? '

' They suit so well about the servants, they can't help
liking each other ! '

' It is cold to-night.'

' Why are you out so late ?'

' I lost my way in this wood.'

Now, indeed, Martin allowed himself a refreshing laugh
of scorn.

' Lost your way in the mighty forest of Briarmains 1
You deserve never more to find it.'

' I never was here before, and I believe I am trespassing
now : you might inform against me if you chose, Martin, and
have me fined : it is your father's wood.'

' I should think I knew that ; but since you are so simple
as to lose your way, I will guide you out.'

' You need not : I have got into the track now : I shall
be right. Martin ' (a little quickly), ' how is Mr. Moore ? '

Martin had heard certain rumours : it struck him that it
might be amusing to make an experiment.

' Going to die. Nothing can save him. All hope fluns;
overboard ! '

THE SCHOOLBOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPH 585

She puji her veil aside. She looked into his eyes, and
said, ' To die ! '

' To die. All along of the women, my . mother and the
rest : they did something about his bandages that finished
everything : he would have got better but for them. I am
sure they should be arrested, cribbed, tried, and brought in
for Botany Bay, at the very least.'

The questioner, perhaps, did not hear this judgment :
she stood motionless. In two minutes, without another
word, she moved forwards : no good-night, no further inquiry.
This was not amusing, nor what Martin had calculated on :
he expected something dramatic and demonstrative : it was
hardly worth while to frighten the girl, if she would not
entertain him in return. He called, ' Miss Helstone ! '

She did not hear or turn. He hastened after and over-
took her.

' Come. Are you uneasy about what I said ? '

' You know nothing about death, Martin : you are too
young for me to talk to concerning such a thing.'

' Did you believe me ? It's all flummery ! Moore eats
like three men : they are always making sago or tapioca, or
something good for him : I never go into the kitchen, but
there is a saucepan on the fire, cooking him some dainty.
I think I vrill play the old soldier, and be fed on the fat of
the land like him.'

' Martin ! Martin ! ' here her voice trembled, and she
stopped. ' It is exceedingly wrong of you, Martin : you have
almost killed me.'

Again she stopped : she leaned against a tree, trembling,
shuddering, and as pale as death.

Martin contemplated her with inexpressible curiosity. In
one sense it was, as he would have expressed it, ' nuts ' to
him to see this : it told him so much, and he was beginning
to have a great relish for discovering secrets ; in another
sense, it reminded him of what he had once felt when he
had heard a blackbird lamenting for her nestlings, which
Matthew bad crushed with a stone, and that was not a

586 SHIBLEY

pleasant feeling. Unable to find anything very appropriate
to say, in order to comfort her, he began to cast about in his
mind what he could do : he smiled : the lad's smile gave
■wondrous transparency to his physiognomy.

' Eureka ! ' he cried. ' I'll set all straight by-and-by.
You are better nov7, Miss Caroline : walk forward,' he
urged.

Not reflecting that it would be more difficult for Miss
Helstone than for himself to climb a wall or penetrate a
hedge, he piloted her by a short cut which led to no gate.
The consequence was he had to help her over some for-
midable obstacles, and, while he railed at her for helpless-
ness, he perfectly Uked to feel himself of use.

' Martin, before we separate, assure me seriously, and on
your word of honour, that Mr. Moore is better.'

' How very much you think of that Moore ! '

' No — but — many of his friends may ask me, and I wish
to be able to give an authentic answer.'

' You may tell them he is well enough, only idle : you
may tell them that he takes mutton-chops for dinner, and
the best of arrowroot for supper. I intercepted a basin
myself one night on its way up-stairs, and ate half of it.'

' And who waits on him, Martin ? Who nurses him ? '

' Nurses him ? — the great baby ! Why, a woman as round
and big as our largest water-butt — a rough, hard-favoured
old girl. I make no doubt she leads him a rich life : nobody
else is let near him : he is chiefly in the dark. It is my
belief she knocks him about terribly in that chamber. I
listen at the wall sometimes when I am in bed, and I think
I hear her thumping him. You should see her fist : she
could hold half a dozen hands like yours in her one palm.
After all, notwithstanding the chops and jellies he gets, I
would not be in his shoes. In fact, it is my private opinion
that she eats most of what goes up on the tray to Mr. Moore.
I wish she may not be starving him.'

Profound silence and meditation on Caroline's part, and
a sly watchfulness on Martin's,

THE SCHOOLBOY AND THE WOOD-NYMPH 587

' You never see him, I suppose, Martin ? '

'I? No : I don't care to see him, for my own part.'

Silence again.

' Did not you come to our house once with Mrs. Pryor,
about five weeks since, to ask after him ? ' again inquired
Martin.

'Yes.'

' I daresay you wished to be shown up-stairs ? '

' We did wish it : we entreated it ; but your mother
declined.'

' Ay ! she declined. I heard it all : she treated you as it
is her pleasure to treat visitors now and then : she behaved
to you rudely and harshly."

' She was not kind ; for, you know, Martin, we are
relations, and it is natural we should take an interest in Mr.
Moore. But here we must part : we are at your father's
gate.'

'Very well — what of that? I shall walk home with
you.'

' They will miss you, and wonder where you are.'

' Let them I can take care of myself, I suppose.'

Martin knew that he had already incurred the penalty of
a lecture, and dry bread for his tea. No matter, the evening
had furnished him with an adventure : it was better than
mu£Qns and toast.

He walked home with Caroline. On the way he promised
to see Mr. Moore, in spite of the dragon who guarded his
chamber, and appointed an hour on the next day, when
Caroline was to come to Briarmains Wood and get tidings of
him : he would meet her at a certain tree. The scheme led
to nothing : still he liked it.

Having reached home, the dry bread and the lecture were
duly administered to him, and he was dismissed to bed at an
early hour. He accepted his punishment with the toughest
stoicism.

Ere ascending to his chamber he paid a secret visit to
the dining-room, a still, cold, stately apartment, seldom

688 SHIELEY

used ; for the family customarily dined in the back-parlour.
He stood before the mantelpiece, and lifted his candle to
two pictures hung above — female heads : one, a type of se-
rene beauty — happy and innocent ; the other, more lovely —
but forlorn and desperate.

' She looked like that,' he said, gazing on the latter
sketch, ' when she sobbed, turned white, and leaned against
the tree. I suppose,' he pursued, when he was in his room,
and seated on the edge of his pallet-bed — ' I suppose she is,
what they call, " in love ; " yes, in love with that long thing
in the next chamber. Whisht! is that Horsfall clattering
him ? I wonder he does not yell out. It really sounds as
if she had fallen on him tooth and nail ; but I suppose she
is making the bed. I saw her at it once — she hit into the
mattresses as if she was boxing. It is queer, ZUlah (they
call her Zillah) — Zillah Horsfall is a woman, and Caroline
Helstone is a woman : they are two individuals of the same
species — not much alike though. Is she a pretty girl, that
Caroline ? I suspect she is — very nice to look at — something
so clear in her face — so soft in her eyes. I approve of her
looking at me ; it does me good. She has long eyelashes :
their shadow seems to rest where she gazes, and to instil
peace and thought. If she behaves well, and continues to
suit me, as she has suited me to-day, I may do her a good
turn. I rather relish the notion of circumventing my mother
and that ogress, old Horsfall. Not that I like humouring
Moore ; but whatever I do I'll be paid for, and in coin of
my own choosing : I know what reward I will claim — one
displeasing to Moore, and agreeable to myself.'

He turned into bed.

CHAPTEE XXXin
mabtin's tactics

It was necessary to the arrangement of Martin's plan, that
he should stay at home that day. Accordingly, he found no
appetite for breakfast ; and, just about school-time, took a
severe pain about his heart, which rendered it advisable
that, instead of setting out to the grammar-school with
Mark, he should succeed to his father's arm-chair by the
fireside, and also to his morning-paper. This point being
satisfactorily settled, and Mark being gone to Mr. Sum-
ner's class, and Matthew and Mr. Yorke withdrawn to the
counting-house, three other exploits, nay four, remained to
be achieved.

The first of these was to realize the breakfast he had not
yet tasted, and with which his appetite of fifteen could ill
afford to dispense ; the second, third, fourth, to get his
mother. Miss Moore, and Mrs. Horsfall successively, out
of the way before four o'clock that afternoon.

The first was, for the present, the mo^t pressing, since
the work before him demanded an amount of energy which
the present empty condition of his youthful stomach did
not seem likely to supply.

Martin knew the way to the larder ; and knowing this
way, he took it. The servants were in the kitchen, break-
fasting solemnly with closed doors ; his mother and Miss
Moore were airing themselves on the lawn, and discussing
the closed doors aforesaid : Martin, safe in the larder, made
fastidious selection from its stores. His breakfast had been
delayed — he was determined it should be recherche ; it

590 SHIELEY

appeared to him that a variety on hia usual somewhat insipid
fare of bread-and-milk was both desirable and advisable :
the savoury and the salutary he thought might be combined.
There was store of rosy apples laid in straw upon a shelf ;
he picked out three. There was pastry upon a dish ; he
selected an apricot-puff and a damson tart. On the plain
household bread his eye did not dwell ; but he surveyed
with favour some currant tea-cakes, and condescended to
make choice of one. Thanks to his clasp-knife, he was able
to appropriate a wing of fowl and a slice of ham ; a cantlet
of cold custard-pudding he thought would harmonize with
these articles ; and having made this final addition to his
booty, he at length sallied forth into the hall.

He was already half way across — three steps more would
have anchored him in the harbour of the back-parlour
— when the front door opened, and there stood Matthew.
Better far had it been the Old Gentleman, in full equipage
of horns, hoofs, and tail.

Matthew, sceptic and scoffer, had already failed to sub-
scribe a prompt belief in that pain about the heart : he
had muttered some words, amongst which the phrase
' shamming Abraham ' had been very distinctly audible ;
and the succession to the arm-chair and newspaper had
appeared to affect him with mental spasms : the spectacle
now before him, the apples, the tarts, the tea-cake, the
fowl, ham and pudding, offered evidence but too well
calculated to inflate his opinion of his own sagacity.

Martin paused ' interdit ' one minute, one instant ; the
next he knew his ground, and pronounced all well. With
the true perspicacity ' des a.mes Elites,' he at once saw how
this — at first sight untoward event — might be turned to
excellent account : he saw how it might be so handled as to
secure the accomplishment of his second task, viz. the
disposal of his mother. He knew that a collision between
him and Matthew always suggested to Mrs. Yorke the
propriety of a fit of hysterics ; he further knew that, on the
principle of calm succeeding to storm, after a morning of

MAETIN'S TACTICS 591

hysterics, his mother was sure to indulge in an afternoon of
bed. This would accommodate him perfectly.

The collision duly took place in the hall. A dry laugh,
an insulting sneer, a contemptuous taunt, met by a noncha-
lant but most cutting reply, were the signals. They rushed
at it. Martin, who usually made little noise on these occa-
sions, made a great deal now. In flew the servants, Mrs.
Yorke, Miss Moore : no female hand could separate them :
Mr. Yorke was summoned.

' Sons,' said he, ' one of you must leave my roof if this
occurs again : I will have no Cain and Abel strife here.'

Martin now allowed himself to be taken off : he had been
hurt, he was the youngest and slightest : he was quite cool,
in no passion : he even smiled, content that the most
difficult part of the labour he had set himself was over.

Once he seemed to flag in the course of the morning.

' It is not worth while to bother myself for that Caroline,'
he remarked. But, a quarter of an hour afterwards, he was
again in the dining-room, looking at the head ynth dis-
hevelled tresses and eyes turbid with despair.

' Yes,' he said, ' I made her sob, shudder, almost faint :
I'll see her smile before I've done with her : besides, I
want to outwit all these womenites.'

Directly after dinner, Mrs. Yorke fulfilled her son's
calculation, by withdrawing to her chamber. Now for
Hortense.

That lady was just comfortably settled to stocking-
mending in the back-parlour, when Martin — laying down a
book which, stretched on the sofa (he was still indisposed,
according to his own account), he had heen perusing in
all the voluptuouEi ease of a yet callow pacha — lazily
introduced some discourse about Sarah, the maid at the
Hollow. In the course of much verbal meandering, he
insinuated information that this damsel was said to have
three suitors, Frederic Murgatroyd, Jeremiah Pighills, and
John-of-Mally's-of-Hannah's-of-Deb's ; and that Miss Mann
had affirmed she knew for a fact, that, now the girl was left

592 SHIELBY

in sole charge of the cottage, she often had her swains
to meals, and entertained them with the best the house
afforded.

It needed no more. Hortense could not have lived
another hour without betaking herself to the scene of these
nefarious transactions, and inspecting the state of matters in
person. Mrs. Horsfall remained.

Martin, master of the field now, extracted from his
mother's work-basket a bunch of keys ; with these he ■
opened the sideboard cupboard, produced thence a black
bottle and a small glass, placed them on the table, nimbly
mounted the stairs, made for Mr. Moore's door, tapped, the
nurse opened.

' If you please, ma'am, you are invited to step into the
back-parlour, and take some refreshment : you wiU not be
disturbed : the family are out.'

He watched her down ; he watched her in ; himself shut
the door : he knew she was safe.

The hard work was done; now for the pleasure. He
snatched his cap, and away for the wood.

It was yet but half-past three ; it had been a fine morn-
ing, but the sky looked dark now : it was beginning to
snow ; the wind blew cold ; the wood looked dismal ; the
old tree grim. Yet Martin approved the shadow on his
path: he found a charm in the spectral aspect of the
doddered oak.

He had to wait : to and fro he walked, while the flakes
fell faster ; and the wind, which at first had but moaned,
pitifully howled.

'She is long in coming,' he muttered, as he glanced

along the narrow track. ' I wonder,' he subjoined, * what

■ I wish to see her so much for ? She is not coming for me.

But I have power over her, and I want her to come that I

may use that power.'

H(3 continued his walk.

' Now,' he resumed, ' when a further period had elapsed,
' if she fails to come, I shall hate and scorn her.'

MARTIN'S TACTICS 693

It struck four : he heard the ohuroh-clook far away. A
step so quick, so light, that, but for the rustling of leaves, it
would scarcely have sounded on the wood-walk, checked
his impatience. The wind blew fiercely now, and the
thickened white storm waxed bewildering ; but on she
came, and not dismayed.

' Well, Martin,' she said, eagerly, ' how is he ? '

' It is queer how she thinks of him,' reflected Martin :
' the blinding snow and bitter cold are nothing to her, I
believe: yet she is but a " chitty -faced creature," as my
mother would say. I could find in my heart to wish I had
a cloak to wrap her in,'

Thus meditating to himself, he neglected to answer Miss
Helstone.

' You have seen him ? '

'No.'

' Oh ! You promised you would.'

I mean to do better by you than that. Didn't I say, I
don't care to see him ? '

' But now it will be so long before I get to know any-
thing certain about him, and I am sick of waiting. Martin,
do see him, and give him Caroline Helstone's regards, and
say she wished to know how he was, and if anything could
be done for his comfort.'

' I won't.'

' You are changed : you were so friendly last night.'

' Come : we must not stand in this wood ; it is too
cold.'

' But, before I go, promise me to come again to-morrow
with news.'

' No such thing ; I am much too delicate to make and
keep such appointments in the winter season : if you knew
what a pain I had in my chest this morning, and how I
went without breakfast, and was knocked down besides,
you'd feel the impropriety of bringing me here in thf) snow.
Come, I say.'

' Are you really deUcate, Martin ? '

594 SHIELEY

'Don't Hook BO?'

' You have rosy cheeka.'

' That's hectic. Will you come — or you won't ? '

' Where ? '

' With me. I was a fool not to bring a cloak : I would
have made you cozy.'

' You are going home : my nearest road lies in the
opposite direction.'

' Put your arm through mine. I'U take care of you.'

' But, the wall — the hedge — it is such hard work climbing,
and you are too slender and young to help me without
hurting yourself.'

' You shall go through the gate.'

' But '

' But ! — but ! Will you trust me or not ? '

She looked into his face.

' I think I will. Anything rather than return as anxious
as I came.'

' I can't answer for that. This, however, I promise you ;
be ruled by me, and you shall see Moore yourself.'

' See him myself ? '

' Yourself.'

'But, dear Martin, does he know? '

' Ah ! I'm dear now. No : he doesn't know.'

' And your mother and the others ? '

' All is right.'

Caroline fell into a long silent fit of musing, but still
she walked on with her guide : they came in sight of
Briarmains.

' Have you made up your mind ? ' he asked.

She was silent.

' Decide. We are just on the spot. I won't see him —
that I tell you— except to announce your amval.'

' Martin, you are a strange boy, and this is a strange
step ; but all I feel is and has been, for a long time, strange
I will see him.'

' Having said that, you will neither hesitate nor retract.'

MAETIN'S TACTICS 695

'No.'

' Here we are, then. Do not be afraid of passing the
parlour window : no one will see you. My father and
Matthew are at the mill ; Mark is at school ; the servants
are in the back-kitchen ; Miss Moore is at the cottage ; my
mother in her bed ; and Mrs. Horsfall in Paradise. Observe
— I need not ring : I open the door ; the hall is empty ;
the staircase quiet ; so is the gallery : the whole house and
all its inhabitants are under a spell, which I will not break
till you are gone.'

' Martin, I trust you.'

' You never said a better word. Let me take your
shawl : I will shake off the snow and dry it for you. You
are cold and wet : never mind ; there is a fire upstairs.
Are you ready ? '

•Yes.'

' Follow me.'

He left his shoes on the mat ; mounted the stair
unshod ; Caroline stole after, with noiseless step : there was
a gallery, and there was a passage ; at the end of that passage
Martin paused before a door and tapped: he had to tap
twice — thrice : a voice, known to one listener, at last said, —
' Come in.'

The boy entered briskly.

' Mr. Moore, a lady called to inquire after you : none of
the women were about : it is washing-day, and the maids
are over the crown of the head in soap-suds in the back-
kitchen : so I asked her to step up.'

'Up here, sir?'

' Up here, sir ; but if you object, she shall go down
again.' ,

' Is this a place, or am I a person to bring a lady to, you
absurd lad ? '

' No : so I'll take her off.'

' Martin, you will stay here. Who is she ? '

' Your grandmother from that chateau on the Scheldt
Miss Moore t^lke about,'

596 SHIELEY

' Martin,' said the softest whisper at the door, • don't be
foolish.'

' Is she there ? ' inquired Moore, hastily. He had
caught an imperfect sound.

' She is there, fit to faint : she is standing on the mat,
shocked at your want of filial affection.'

' Martin, you are an evil cross between an imp and a
page. What is she like ? '

' More like me than you ; for she is young and beautiful.'

' You are to show her forward. Do you hear ? '

' Come, Miss Caroline.'

' Miss Caroline ! ' repeated Moore.

And when Miss Caroline entered, she was encountered
in the middle of the chamber by a tall, thin, wasted figurei
who took both her hands.

' 1 give you a quarter-of-an-hour,' said Martin, as he
withdrew : ' no more. Say what you have to say in that
time : till it is past, I will wait in the gallery : nothing shall
approach : I'll see you safe away. Should you persist in
staying longer, I leave you to your fate.'

He shut the door. In the gallery he was as elate as, a
king : he had never been engaged in an adventure he liked
so well ; for no adventure had ever invested him with so
much importance, or inspired him with so much interest.

' You are come at last,' said the meagre man, gazing on
his visitress with hollow eyes.

' Did you expect me before ? '

' For a month — near two months, we have been very near ;
and I have been in sad pain, and danger, and misery, Cary.'

' I could not come."

' Couldn't you ? But the Eeotory and Briarmains are
very near : not two miles apart.'

There was pain — there was pleasure in the girl's face as
she listened to these implied reproaches: it was sweet — it
was bitter to defend herself.

' When I say I could not come, I mean I could not see
you, for I came with mamma the very day we heard what

MAETIN'S TACTICS 697

had happened. Mr. MaoTurk then told us it was impossible
to admit any stranger.'

' But afterwards — every fine afternoon these many weeksf
past I have waited and listened. Something here, Gary '
(laying his hand on his breast), ' told me it was impossible
but that you should think of me. Not that I merit thoughlj ;
but we are old acquaintance : we are cousins.'

' I came again, Eobert : mamma and I came again.'

' Did you ? Come, that is worth hearing : since yoij
came again, we will sit down and talk about it.

They sat down. Caroline drew her chair up to his.
The air was now dark with snow : an Iceland blast was
driving it wildly. This pair neither heard the long ' wuther-
ing ' rush, nor saw the white burden it drifted : each seemed
conscious but of one thing — the presence of the other.

' And so mamma and you came again ? '

' And Mrs. Yorke did treat us strangely. We asked to
see you. " No," said she ; " not in my house. I am a';
present responsible for his life : it shall not be forfeited for
half-an-hour's idle gossip." But I must not tell you all sho
said : it was very disagreeable. However, we came yet
again — mamma, Miss Keeldar, and I. This time we thought
we should conquer, as we were three against one, and
Shirley was on our side. But Mrs. Yorke opened such a
battery.'

Moore smiled.

'What did she say?'

' Things that astonished us. Shirley laughed at last ; I
cried ; mamma was seriously annoyed : we were all three
driven from the field. Since that time I have only walked
once a day past the house, just for the satisfaction of looking
up at your window, which I could distinguish by the drawn
curtains. I really dared not come in\'

' I have wished for you, Caroline.'

' I did not know that. I never dreamt one instant that
you thought of me. If I had but most distantly imagined
such a possibility '

598 SHIELEY

' Mrs. Yorke would still have beaten you.'

'She would not. Stratagem should have been tried, if
persuasion failed. I would have come to the kitchen door ;
the servant should have let me in ; and I would have walked
straight up-stairs. In fact, it was far more the fear of
intrusion — the fear of yourself, that baffled me, than the fear
of Mrs. Ycrke.'

' Only last night, I despaired of ever seeing you again.
Weakness has wrought terrible depression in me — terrible
depression.'

' And you sit alone ? '

' Worse than alone.'

'But you must be getting better, since you can leave
your bed ? '

' I doubt whether I shall live : I see nothing for it, after
such exhaustion, but decline.'

' You — you shall go home to the Hollow.'

'Dreariness would accompany — nothing cheerful come
near me.'

' I will alter this : this shall be altered, were there ten
Mrs. Yorkes to do battle with.'

' Gary, you make me smile.'

' Do smile : smile again. Shall I tell you what I should
like?'

' Tell me anything — only keep talking. I am Saul : but
for music I should perish.'

' I shouM like you to be brought to the Rectory, and
given to me and mamma.'

' A precious gift ! I have not laughed since they shot
me till now.'

' Do you suffer pain, Eobert ? '

' Not so much pain now : but I am hopelessly weak, and
the state of my mind is inexpressible — dark, barren, impotent.
Do you not read it all in my face ? I look a mere ghost.'

' Altered, yet I should have known you anywhere : but I
understand your feelings : I experienced something like it.
Since we met, I too have been very ill.'

MAETIN'S TACTICS 599

'Fery ill?'

' I thought I should die. The tale of my life seemed told.
Every night, just at midnight, I used to wake from awful
dreams — and the book lay open before me at the last page,
where was written " Finis." I had strange feelings.'

' You speak my experience.'

' I believed I should never see you again ; and I grew so
thin — as thin as you are now : I could do nothing for myself
— neither rise nor he down ; and I could not eat — yet, you
see I am better.'

' Comforter ! sad as sweet : I am too feeble to say what I
feel ; but, while you speak, I do feel.'

' Here, I am at your side, where I thought never more to
be : here I speak to you — I see you listen to me wilhngly —
look at me kindly. Did I count on that ? I despaired.'

Moore sighed — a sigh so deep, it was nearly a groan : be
covered his eyes with his hand.

' May I be spared to make some atonement.'

Such was his prayer.

' And for what ? '

' We will not touch on it now, Cary ; unmanned as I am,
I have not the power to cope with such a topic. Was Mrs.
Pryor with you during your ilhiess ? '

' Yes,' (Caroline smiled brightly) — ' you know she is
mamma?'

' I have heard : Hortensa told me ; but that tale too I
will receive from yourself. Does she add to your happi-
ness ? '

' What ! mamma ? She is dear to me ; how dear I cannot
say. I was altogether weary, and she held me up.'

' I deserve to hear that in a moment when I can scarce
lift my hand to my head. I deserve it.'

' It is no reproach against you.'

' It is a coal of fire heaped on my head ; and so is every
word you address to me, and every look that lights your
sweet face. Come still nearer, Lina, and give me your hand
— if my thin fingers do not scare you.'

600 SHIELEY

She took those thin fingers between her two Uttle
Hands — she bent her head ' et les effleura de ses 16vres ' (I
J)at that in French, because the word ' efifleurer ' is an
exquisite word). Moore was much moved : a large tear or
two coursed down his hollow cheek.

' I'll keep these things in my heart, Gary ; that kiss I
will put by, and you shall hear of it again one day.'

' Come out ! ' cried Martin, opening the door. ' Come
away — you have had twenty minutes instead of a quarter of
an hour.'

' She will not stir yet — you hempseed.'

' I dare not stay longer, Eobert.'

' Can you promise to return ? '

' No, she can't,' responded Martin. ' The thing musn't
become customary : I can't be troubled. It's very well for
once : I'll not have it repeated,'

' You'U. not have it repeated.'

' Hush ! don't vex him— we could not have met to-day but
for him : but I will come again, if it is your wish that I
should come.'

' It is my wish — my one wish — almost the only wish I oan
feel'

' Come this minute : my mother has coughed, got up, set
her feet on the floor. Let her only catch you on the stairs.
Miss Caroline: you're not to bid him good-by' (stepping
between her and Moore) — ' you are to march.'

' My shawl, Martin.'

' I have it. I'll put it on for you when you are in the
hall.'

He made them part : he would suffer no farewell but
what could be expressed in looks : he half carried Caroline
down the stairs. In the hall he WTapped her shawl round her,'
and — but that his mother's tread then creaked in the gallery,
and but that a sentiment of diffidence^the proper, natural^
therefore the noble impulse of his boy's heart, held him back,
he would have claimed his reward — he would have said,
' Now, Miss Caroline, for all this give me one kiss.' But era

MAETIN'g TACTICS 601

the words had passed his hps, she was across the snowy
road, rather skimming than wading the drifts.

' She is my debtor, and I will be paid.'

He flattered himself that it was opportunity, not
audacity, which had failed him : he misjudged the quality of
his own nature, and held it for something lower than it was.

CHAPTER XXXIV

CASE OP DOMESTIC PERSECUTION — BEMAEKABLB INSTANCE
OP PIOUS PEESEVEBANCE IN THE DISCHAKGE OP EELI-
GIOUS DUTIES

Martin having known the taste of excitement, wanted a
second draught ; having felt the dignity of power, he loathed
to relinquish it. Miss Helstone — that girl he had always
called ugly, and whose face was now perpetually before his
eyes, by day and by night, in dark and in sunshine — had
once come within his sphere : it fretted him to think the visit
might never be repeated. Though a schoolboy, he was no
ordinary schoolboy : he was destined to grow up an original.
At a few years' later date, he took great pains to pare and
polish himself down to the pattern of the rest of the world,
but he never succeeded : an unique stamp marked him
always. He now sat idle at his desk in the grammar-
school, casting about in his mind for the means of adding
another chapter to his commenced romance : he did not yet
know how many commenced life-romances are doomed
never to get beyond the first — or, at most, the second
chapter. His Saturday half -holiday he spent in the wood
with his book of fairy legends, and that other unwritten book
of his imagination.

Martin harboured an irreligious reluctance to see the
approach of Sunday. His father and mother — while dis-
claiming community with the establishment — failed not duly,
once on the sacred day, to fill their large pew in Briarfield
church with the whole of their blooming family. Theoreti-
cally, Mr. Yorke placed all sects and churches on a level :
Mrs. Yorke awarded the palm to Moravians and Quakers,

CASE OP DOMESTIC PERSECUTION 603

on account of that crown of humility by these worthies worn :
neither of them were ever known, however, to set foot in a
conventicle.

Martin, I say, disliked Sunday, because the morning
service was long, and the sermon usually little to his taste :
this Saturday afternoon, however, his woodland musings dis-
closed to him a new-found charm in the coming day.

It proved a day of deep snow : so deep, that Mrs. Yorke,
during breakfast, announced her conviction that the children,
both boys and girls, would be better at home ; and her
decision that, instead of going to church, they should sit
silent for two hours in the back-parlour, while Eose and
Martin alternately read a succession of sermons— John
Wesley's Sermons : John Wesley, being a Eeformer and an
Agitator, had a place both in her own and her husband's
favour. ' Eose will do as she pleases,' said Martin, not look-
ing up from the book which, according to his custom then
and in after-life, he was studying over his bread-and-milk.

' Eose will do as she is told, and Martin too,' observed
the mother.

' I am going to church.' So her son replied, with the
ineffable quietude of a true Yorke, who knows his will and
means to have it, and who, if pushed to the wall, will let him-
self be crushed to death, provided no way of escape can be
found — but will never capitulate.

' It is not fit weather,', said the father. No answer : the
youth read studiously; he slowly broke his bread and
sipped his milk. 'Martin hates to go to church, but he
hates still more to obey,' said Mrs. Yorke.

' I suppose I am influenced by pure perverseness ? '

' Yes — you are.'

• Mother — I am not.'

' By what, then, are you influenced ? '

' By a complication of motives ; the intricacies of which I
should as soon think of explaining to you as I should of
turning myself inside out to exhibit the internal machinery
of my frame.'

604 SHIELEY

' Hear Martin I Hear him ! ' cried Mr. Yorke. ' I must
see and have this lad of mine brought up to the Bar : Nature
meant hina to live by his tongue. Hesther, your third son
must certainly be a lawyer : he has the stock in trade — brass,
self-conceit, and words — words.'

' Some bread, Eose, if you please,' requested Martin, with
intense gravity, serenity, phlegm : the boy had naturally a
low, plaintive voice, which, in his ' dour moods,' rose scarcely
above a lady's whisper : the more inflexibly stubborn the
humour, the softer, the sadder the tone. He rang the bell,
and gently asked for his walking-shoes.

' But, Martin,' urged his sire, ' there is drift all the way
— a man could hardly wade through it. However, lad,' he
continued, seeing that the boy rose as the church-bell began
to toll, ' this is a case wherein I would by no means baulk
the obdurate chap of his will. Go to church by all means.
There is a pitiless wind, and a sharp, frozen sleet, besides
the depth underfoot. Go out into it, since thou prefers it to
a warm fireside.'

Martin quietly assumed his cloak, comforter, and cap,
and deliberately went out. ' My father has more sense than
my mother,' he pronounced. ' How women miss it ! They
drive the nail into the flesh, thinking they are hammering
away at insensate stone.' — He reached church early. —
' Now, if the weather frightens her (and it is a real December
tempest), or if that Mrs. Pryor objects to her going out, and
I should miss her after all, it will vex me : but, tempest or
tornado, hail or ice, she otight to come ; and, if she has a
mind worthy of her eyes and features, she will come : she
will be here for the chance of seeing me, as I am here for
the chance of seeing her : she wiU want to get a word
respecting her confounded sweetheart, as I want to get
another flavour of what I think the essence of life : a taste
of existence, with the spirit preserved in it, and not
evaporated. Adventure is to stagnation what champagne is
to flat porter.'

He looked round. The church was cold, silent, empty.

CASE OP DOMESTIC PEBSECUTION 605

but for one old woman. As the chimes subsided, and the
single bell tolled slowly, another and another elderly
parishioner came dropping in, and took a humble station in
the free sittings. It is always the frailest, the oldest, and the
poorest that brave the worst weather, to prove and maintain
their constancy to dear old mother Church : this wild
morning, not one affluent family attended, not one carriage
party appeared — all the lined and cushioned pews were
empty ; only on the bare oaken seats sat ranged the grey-
haired elders and feeble paupers.

' I'll scorn her, if she doesn't come,' muttered Martin
shortly and savagely to himself. The Eector's shovel-hat
had passed the porch : Mr. Helstone and his clerk were in
the vestry. The beUs ceased — the reading-desk was filled — •
the doors were closed — the service commenced : void stood
the Rectory -pew — she was not there : Martin scorned her.
' Worthless thing I Vapid thing ! Commonplace humbug !
Like aU other girls — weakly, selfish, shallow ! ' Such was
Martin's Uturgy. ' She is not like our picture : her eyes are
not large and expressive : her nose is not straight, delicate,
Hellenic : her mouth has not that charm I thought it had — ■
which, I imagined, coidd beguile me of sullenness in my
worst moods. What is she ? A thread-paper, a doll, a toy
— a girl, in short.'

So absorbed was the young cynic, he forgot to rise from
his knees at the proper place, and was stiU in an exemplary
attitude of devotion when — the litany over — the first hymn
was given out. To be so caught did not contribute to soothe
him : he started up red (for he was as sensitive to ridicule
as any girl). To make the matter worse, the church-door
had re-opened, and the aisles were filhng: patter, patter,
patter, a hundred little feet trotted in. It was the Sunday-
scholars. Accoi'ding to Briarfield winter custom, these
children had till now been kept where there was a warm
stove, and only led into church just before the Communion
and Sermon.

The little ones were settled first, and at last, when the

606 SHlfeLE"^

boys and the younger girls were all arranged — when the
organ was swelling high, and the choir and congregation
were rising to uplift a spiritual song — a tall class of young
women came quietly in, closing the procession. Their
teacher, having seen them seated, passed into the Eectory-
pew. The French-grey cloak and small beaver bonnet were
known to Martin : it was the very costume his eyes had
ached to catch. Miss Helstone had not suffered the storm
to prove an impediment : after all, she was come to church.
Martin probably whispered his satisfaction to his hymn-
book ; at any rate, he therewith hid his face two minutes.
Satisfied or not, he had time to get very angry with her
again before the sermon was over; she had never once
looked his way : at least, he had not been so lucky as to
encounter a glance. ' If,' he said — ' if she takes no notice
of me ; if she shows I am not in her thoughts, I shall
have a worse, a meaner opinion of her than ever. Most
despicable would it be to come for the sake of those sheep-
faced Sunday-scholars, and not for my sake, or that long
skeleton Moore's.' The sermon found an end ; the bene-
diction was pronounced ; the congregation dispersed : she had
not been near him. Now, indeed, as Martin set his face
homeward, he felt that the sleet was sharp, and the east
wind cold.

His nearest way lay through some fields : it was a
dangerous, because an untrodden way : he did not care ; he
would take it. Near the second stile rose a clump of trees :
was that an umbrella waiting there ? Yes : an umbrella held
with evident difiBculty against the blast : behind it fluttered
a French-grey cloak. Martin grinned as he toiled up the
steep encumbered field, difficult to the foot as a slope in the
upper realms of Etna. There was an inimitable look in his
face when, having gained the stile, he seated himself coolly
thereupon, and thus opened a conference which, for his
own part, he was willing to prolong indefinitely. ' I
think you had better strike a bargain : exchange me for
Mrs. Pry or.'

BIRSTALL CHURCH (bRIARFIELD OHURCH).

The tower oaly remains of the church described.

CASE OF DOMESTIC PERSECUTION 607

' I was not sure whether you would come this way,
Martin ; but I thought I would run the chance : there is no
such thing as getting a quiet word spoken in the church or
churchyard.'

' Will you agree ? Make over Mrs. Pryor to my mother,
and put me in her skirts ? '

' As if I could understand you ! What puts Mrs. Pryor
into your head ? '

' You call her " mamma," don't you ? '

' She is my mamma.'

' Not possible — or so inefficient, so careless a mamma— I
should make a five times better one. You may laugh : I
have no objection to see you laugh : your teeth — I hate ugly
teeth ; but yours are as pretty as a pearl necklace, and a
necklace, of which the pearls are very fair, even, and well
matched too.'

' Martin, what now ? I thought the Yorkes never paid
compUments ? '

' They have not done till this generation ; but I feel as if
it were my vocation to turn out a new variety of the Yorke
species. I am rather tired of my own ancestors : we have
traditions going back for four ages — tales of Hiram, which
was the son of Hiram, which was the son of Samuel, which
was the son of John, which was the son of Zerubbabel
Yorke. All, from Zerubbabel down to the last Hiram, were
such as you see my father. Before that, there was a
Godfrey : we have his picture ; it hangs in Moore's bed-
room: it is like me. Of his character we know nothing;
but I am sure it was different to his descendants: he has
long curling dark hair ; he is carefully and cavalierly dressed.
Having said that he is like me, I need not add that he is hand-
some.'

' You are not handsome, Martin.'

' No ; but wait a while : just let me take my time : I
mean to begin from this day to cultivate, to polish, — and we
shall see.'

' You are a very strange — a very unaccountable boy.

608 SHIELEY

Martin ; but don't imagine you ever will be handsome : you
cannot.'

' I mean to try. But we were talking about Mrs. Pryor :
she must be the most unnatural mamma in existence, coolly
to let her daughter come out in this weather. Mine was in
such a rage, because I would go to church : she was fit to
fling the kitchen-brush after me. Mamma was very much
concerned about me ; but I am afraid I was obstinate : I
would go.'

' To see me ? '

'Exactly: I thought of nothing else. I greatly feared
the snow would hinder you from coming : you don't know
how pleased I was to see you all by yourself in the pew.'

'I came to fulfil my duty, and set the parish a good'
example. And so you were obstinate, were you ? I should
like to see you obstinate, I should. Wouldn't I have you
in good discipline, if I owned you? Let me take the
umbrella. I can't stay two minutes : our dinner will be
ready.'

' And so will ours ; and we have always a hot dinner
on Sundays. Eoast goose to-day, with apple-pie and rice-
pudding. I always contrive to know the bill of fare : well,
I hke these things xmcommonly ; but I'll make the sacrifice,
if you will.'

'We have a cold dinner: my uncle will allow no un-
necessary cooking on the Sabbath. But I must return : the
house would be in commotion, if I failed to appear.'

' So will Briarmains, bless you t I think I hear my
father sending out the overlooker and five of the dyers, to
look in sjx directions for the body of his prodigal son in the
snow : and my mother repenting her of her many misdeeds
towards me, now I am gone.'

' Martin, how is Mr. Moore ? '

' That is what you came for — just to say that word.'

' Come, tell me quickly.'

' Hang him ! he is no worse ; but as ill-used as ever — >
mewed up, kept in solitary confinement. They mean to

CASE OP DOMESTIC J?EE8ECUTI0N 600

make either an idiot or a maniac of him, and take out a
commission of lunacy. Horsfall starves him : you saw how
thin he was.'

' You were very good the other day, Martin.'

' What day ? I am always good — a model.'

' When will you be so good again ? '

' I see what you are after ; but you'll not wheedle me :
I am no cat's paw.'

' But it must be done : it is quite a right thing, and a
necessary thing.'

' How you encroach I Eemember, I managed the matter
of my own free will before.'

' 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 daresay ' (coolly).

' It is too bad of your mother to exclude his iriends.'

' 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-depend-
ence.'

' 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 ;

610 SHIELEY

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

WHEEEIN MATTERS MAKE SOME PEOGRESS, BUT NOT MUCH

Mabtin had planned well : he had laid out a dexterously con-
certed 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
Pate — 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 Eed-House
Inn. He was resolved, he said, to return home to the
Hollow that very afternoon. Mr. Yorke, instead of oppos-
ing, 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;

612 SHIELEY

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 hoUow
eyes.

' Good-by ! ' he said ; and, as he spoke, the smile glit-
tered and mejted, He had no iron mastery of his sens3/tions
now : a trifling emotion mad^ itself, apparent in his present
weak state.

' And what are you going to leave us for ? ' ghe asked :
' we will keep you, and do anything in the v^prld for you, if
you will only stay till ypu are. stronger.'

' Good-by ! ' he again said : and added, ' you have been a
mother to me : give your wilfvil spn one embrace.'

Like a foreigner, as he was, he offered her first one che^,
then the other : she kissed him.

' What a trouble — what a burden I have been to you I ' he
rauttered. . , ,

' 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 morp, 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, Bose 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.

MATTEES MAKE SLOW PEOGEESS 613

The boys were standiiig about the chaise as Moors' entered
it ; but for them ie 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 hbspital.
Come and see me at the cottage soon.'

He drew up the glass ; the chaioe 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 of this gate,' said he, ' a
proud, angry, disappointed man ; I come back sadder and
wiser ; weakly enough, but not worried. A cold, grey, yet
quiet world lies round — a world where, if I hope httle, 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. Euin is an evil; but one for which I am
prepared ; the day of whose coming I know, for I have cal-
culated. 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. Euin 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 waa already dark. Sarah had lit a

614 SHIELEY

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 expres-
sion 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 e£fect.

He sat down, but soon rose again : he went to the win-
dow ; he came back to the fire.

' Hortense ! '

' Mon fr6re ? '

'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 my 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 Gerard ! 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 Eectory 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

MATDEES MAKE SLOW PEOGEESS 615

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 despatch Harry Scott to the Eectory, 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 tortoiseshell 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 her-
self to the parlour.

The gentle salutation, the friendly welcome, were inter-
changed 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 burned 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 improve-
ment 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.

616 SHIRLEY

After tea, Hortense went Up-stairs : she 'kact not rum-
maged her drawers for a month past, and the impulse to
perform that operatioii 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 conver-
sation. 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 1 '

' 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 weU, 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 maldng dresses and
sewing for her. She looks so nice now, Eobert : 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

MATTEES MAKE SLOW PEOGEESS 617

about " mamma," it is enough to make one jealous of the
old lady."

' She is not oli^, Eobert.'

' Of the young lady, then;'

' She does hot 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 a,m glad you are better.'

' What besides ? '

' I am glad we are friends.'

' You and I ? '

' Yes : I once thought we never should be.'

' Gary, some day I mean to teU 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 J

' You do not.'

' I believe I do.'

' Whom does it concern besides me ? '

She coloured ; she hesitated ; she was silent.

' Speak, Gary ! —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, Gary.'

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 Eectory about a week since. The
evening came on very wintry, and we persuaded her to stay
all night.'

618 SHIELEY

' And you and she curled your hair together ? '

' How do you know that ? '

' And then you chatted ; 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 1 '

' 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 indig-
nantly 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 Uke 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, Gary — 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 ? '

' Eobert — Shirley is a curious, magnanimous being.'

' I daresay : I can imagine there are both odd points and
grand points about her.'

' J hsive found her chary in showing her feelings ; butj

MATTERS MAKE SLOW tEOGBESS 619

when they rush out, river-hke, and pass full and powerful
before you, — almost without leave from her — you gaze, you
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 glim-
mered in our chamber, — then I saw Shirley's heart.'

'Her heart's core? Do yov 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 ; hke^ 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 arc 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 afiec-
tion.'

' 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

620 SHiELEt

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, Gary, 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.'

' You don't know her, Eobert ; and somehow, I fancy now
(I had other ideas formerly), that you cannot know her : you
and she are not so constructed as to be able thoroughly to
understand each other.'

' It may be so. I esteem her ; I admire her ; and yet my
impressions concerning her are harsh — ^perhaps uncharitable.
I believe, for instance, that she is incapable of love '

' Shirley incapable of love ! '

' That she will never marry : I imagine her jealous of
compromising her pride, of relinquishing her power, of
sharing her property.'

' Shirley has hurt your amour-propre.'

' She did hurt it — though I had not an emotion of tender-
ness, not a spark of passion for her.'

' Then, Eobert, it was very wicked in you to want to
marry her.'

' And very mean, my little pastor, my pretty priestess. I
never wanted to kiss Miss Keeldar in my life, though she has
fine lips, scarlet and round, as ripe cherries ; or, if I did wish
it, it was the mere desire of the eye.'

' I doubt, now, whether you are speaking the truth : the
grapes or the cherries are sour — " hung too high." '

' She has a pretty figure, a pretty face, beautiful hair : I
acknowledge all her charms and feel none of them ; or only
feel them in a way she would disdain. I suppose I was truly
tempted, by the mere gilding of the bait. Caroline, what a

MATTEES MAKE SLOW PEOGEBSS 621

noble fellow your Eobert is — great, good, disinterested, and
then so pure ! '

' But not perfect : he made a great blunder once, and we
will hear no more about it.'

' And shall we think no more about it, Gary ? Shall we
not despise him in our heart, gentle but just, compassionate
but upright ? '

' Never ! We wiU remember that with what measure we
mete it shall be measured unto us, and so we will give no
scorn — only affection.'

' Which won't satisfy, I warn you of that. Something
besides affection — something far stronger, sweeter, warmer —
will be demanded one day : is it there to give ? '

CaroHne was moved — much moved.

' Be calm, Lina,' said Moore, soothingly ; ' I have no
intention, because I have no right, to perturb your mind
now, nor for months to come : don't look as if you would
leave me ; we will make no more agitating allusions : we
will resume our gossip. Do not tremble : look me in the
faoe ; see what a poor, pale, grim phantom I am — more
pitiable than formidable,'

She looked shyly. ' There is something formidable still,
pale as you are,' she said, as her eye fell under his.

' To return to Shirley,' pursued Moore ; ' is it your opinion
that she is ever likely to marry? '

' She loves,'

' Platonically — theoretically — all humbug ! '

' She loves, what I call, sincerely.'

' Did she say so ? '

' I cannot affirm that she said so : no such confession as,
I love this man or that, passed her lips.'

' I thought not.'

' But the feeling made its way in spite of her, and I saw
it. She spoke of one man in a strain not to be misunder-
stood : her voice alone was sufficient testimony. Having
wrung from her an opinion on your character, I demanded
a second opinion of another person about whom I had

622 SHIELEY

my conjectures; though they were the most tangled and
puzzled conjectures in the world. I would make her
speak : I shook her, I chid her, I pinched her fingers
when she tried to put me off with gibes and jests in her
queer, provoking way, and at last, oat it came : the voice, I
say, was enough ; hardly raised above a whisper, and yet
such a soft vehemence in its tones. There was no confes-
sion— no confidence in the matter: to these things she
cannot condescend ; but I am sure that man's happiness is
dear to her as her own Ufe.'

' "Who is it ? ■

' I charged her vsdth the fact ; she did not deny ; she did
not avow, but looked at me : I saw her eyes by the snow-
gleam. It was quite enough: I triumphed over her
mercilessly.'

' What right had you to triumph ? Do you mean to say
you are fancy-free ? '

' Whatever I am, Shirley is a bondswoman. Lioness !
She has found her captor. Mistiness she may be of all round
her — but her own mistress she is not.'

' So you exulted at recognising a fellow-slave in one so
fair and imperial ? '

'I did; Eobert, you say right, in one so fair and
imperial.'

' You confess it — a, fellow-slsive ? '

' I confess nothing ; but I say that haughty Shirley is no
more free than was Hagar.'

' And who, pray, is the Abraham : the hero of a patriarch
who has achieved such a conquest ? '

' You still speak scornfully, and cynically, and sorely ;
but I will make you change your note before I have done
with you.'

' We will see that : can she marry this Cupidon ? '

' Cupidon ! he is just about as much a Cupidon as yod
are a Cyclops.'

' Can she marry him ? '

' You will see.'

MATTIES MAKE SLOW PEOGKESS 623

' I want to know his name, Gary.'

' Guess it.'

' Is it any one in this neighbourhood ? '

' Yes, in Briarfield parish.'

' Then it is some person unworthy of her. I don't know
a soul in Briarfield parish her equal."

' Guess.'

' Impossible. I suppose she is under a delusion, and
will plunge into some absurdity after all.'

Caroline smiled.

' Do you approve the choice ? ' asked Moore.

' Quite, quite.'

' Then I am puzzled ; for the head which owns this
bounteous fall of hazel curls is an excellent little thinking
machine, most accurate in its working : it boasts a correct,
steady judgment, inherited from " mamma," I suppose.'

' And I quite approve, and mamma was charmed.'

' " Mamma " charmed ! Mrs. Pryor ! It can't be romantic,
then?'

' It is romantic, but it is also right.'

' Tell me, Gary. Tell me out of pity : I am too weak to
be tantalized.'

' You shaU be tantalized : it will do you no harm : you
are not so weak as you pretend.'

' I have twice this evening had some thoughts of falling
on the floor at your feet.'

' You had better not : I shall decline to help you
up.'

'And worshipping you downright. My mother was a
Eoman Catholic ; you look like the loveliest of her pictures
of the Virgin : I think I will embrace her faith, and kneel
and adore.'

' Eobert, Eobert, sit still ; don't be absurd ; I will go to
Hortense, if you commit extravagances.'

' You have stolen my senses : just now nothing will
come into my mind but " les litanies de la sainte Vierge.
Eose c6Ieste, reine dea Anges ! " '

624 SHIELBY

' " Tour d'ivoire, maison d'or : " is not that the jargon ?
Well, sit down quietly, and guess your riddle.'

' But, " mamma " charmed ! There's the puzzle.'

' I'll tell you what mamma said when I told her :
"Depend upon it, my dear, such a choice will make the
happiness of Miss Keeldar's hfe." '

' I'll guess once, and no more. It is old Helstone. She
is going to be your aunt.'

' I'll tell my uncle ; I'll teH Shirley ! ' cried Carohne,
laughing gleefully. ' Guess again, Robert ; your blunders
are charming.'

' It is the parson, Hall.'

' Indeed, no : he' is mine, if you please.'

' Yours ! Ay ! the whole generation of women in Briar-
field seem to have made an idol of that priest : I wonder
why : he is bald, sand-blind, grey-haired.'

' Fanny will be here to fetch me, before you have solved
the riddle, if you don't make haste.'

' I'll guess no more, I am tired : and then I don't care.
Miss Keeldar may marry " le girand Turc " for me.'

'Must I whisper? "

' That you must, and quickly : here comes Hortense ;
come near, a little nearer, my own Lina : I care for the
whisper more than the words.'

She whispered : Eobert gave a start, a flash of the eye,
a brief laugh : Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed
behind, with information that Fanny was come. The hour
of converse was over.

Eobert found a moment to exchange a few more whis-
pered sentences : he was waiting at the foot of the staircase,
as Caroline descended after putting on her shawl.

' Must I call Shirley a noble creature now ? ' he asked.

' If you wish to speak the truth, certainly.'

' Must I forgive her ? '

' Forgive her ? Naughty Eobert ! Was she in the
wrong, or were you ? '

' Must I at length love her downright, Gary ? '

MATTERS MAKE SLOW PROGRESS 625

Caroline looked keenly up, and made a movement
towards him, something between the loving and the
petulant.

' Only give the word, and I'll try to obey you.'

" Indeed, you must not love her : the bare idea is
perverse.'

But then she is handsome, pecuharly handsome : hers
is a beauty that grows on you : you think her but graceful,
when you first see her; you discover her to be beautiful,
when you have known her for Sf year.'

'It is not you who are to say these things. Now,
Robert, be good.'

' Oh ! Gary, I have no love to give. Were the. godd,ess
of beauty to woo me, I could not meet her advances : there
is no heart which I can call mine in this breast.'

' So much the better : you are a great deal safer with-
out : good-night.'

' Why must you always go, Lina, at the very instant
when 1 most want you to stay ? '

' Because you most wish to retain when you are most
certain to lose.'

' Listen ; one other word. Take care of your own heart. :
do you hear me ? '

' There is no danger.'

' I am not convinced of that : the Platonic parson, for
instance.'

'Who? Malone?'

' Cyril Hall : I owe more than one twinge of jealousy to
that quarter.'

' As to you, you have been flirting with Miss Mann : she
showed me the other day a plant you had given her, —
F' - I am ready.'

CHAPTEB XXXVI

WBITTEN IN THE SCHOOLROOM

Louis Moose's doubts, respecting the immediate evacuation
of Pieldhead by Mr. Sympson, turned out to be perfectly
well founded. The very next day after the grand quarrel
about Sir Philip Nunnely, a sort of reconciliation was
patched up between uncle and niece: Shirley, who could
never find it in her heart to be or to seem inhospitable
(except in the single instance of Mr. Donne), begged the
whole party to stay a little longer: she begged in such
earnest, it was evident she wished it, for some reason. They
took her at her word : indeed, the uncle could not bring him-
self to leave her quite unwatched— at full liberty to marry
Robert Moore, as soon as that gentleman should be able
(Mr. Sympson piously prayed this might never be the case)
to reassert his supposed pretensions to her hand. They all
stayed.

In his first rage against all the house of Moore, Mr.
Sympson had so conducted himself towards Mr. Louis, that
that gentleman — patient of labour or suffering, but intolerant
of coarse insolence — had promptly resigned his post, and
could now be induced to resume and retain it only till such
time as the family should quit Yorkshire : Mrs. Symp-
son's entreaties prevailed with him thus far ; his own
attachment to his pupil constituted an additional motive for
concession ; and probably he had a third motive, stronger
than either of the other two : probably he would have found
it very hard indeed to leave Fieldhead just now,

WEITTEN IN THE SCHOOLBOOM 627

Things went on, for some time, pretty smoothly ; Miss
Keeldar's health was re-established; her spirits resumed
their flow : Moore had found means to relieve her from every
nervous apprehension; and, indeed, from the moment of
giving him her confidence, every fear seemed to have taken
wing : her heart became as lightsome, her manner as care-
less, as those of a little child, that, thoughtless of its own
life or death, trusts all responsibility to its parents. He and
William Farren — through whose medium he made inquiries
concerning the state of Phoebe — agreed in asserting that the
dog was not mad : that it was only ill-usage which had
driven her from home : for it was proved that her master
was in the frequent habit of chastising her violently. Their
assertion might, or might not, be true : the groom and game-
keeper affirmed to the contrary ; both asserting that, if hers
was not a clear case of hydrophobia, there was no such
disease. But to this evidence Louis Moore turned an in-
credulous ear : he reported to Shirley only what was en-
couraging : she believed him ; and, right or wrong, it is
certain that in her case the bite proved innocuous.

November passed ; December came : the Sympsons were
now really departing ; it was incumbent on them to be at
home by Christmas ; their packages were preparing ; they
were to leave in a few days. One winter evening, during
the last week of their stay, Louis Moore again took out his
little blank book, and discoursed with it as follows : —

' She is lovelier than ever. Since that little cloud was dis-
pelled, all the temporary waste and wanness have vanished.
It was marvellous to see how soon the magical energy
of youth raised her elastic, and revived her blooming.

' After breakfast this morning, when I had seen her, and
listened to her, and — so to speak — felt her, in every sentient
atom of my frame, I passed from her sunny presence into
the chill drawing-room. Taking up a little gilt volume, I
fpvin^ it to cgntain a selection of lyrics. I read a, poenq oj-

628 SHIELBY

two : whether the spell was in me or in the verse, I know not,
but my heart filled genially — my pulse rose : I glowed, not-
withstanding the frosty air. I, too, am young as yet : though
she said she never considered me young, I am barely thirty :
there are moments when hfe — for no other reason than my
own youth — beams with sweet hues upon me.

' It was time to go to the schoolroom : I went. That
same schoolroom is rather pleasant in a morning ; the sun
then shines through the low lattice ; the books are in order :
there are no papers strewn about ; the fire is clear and clean ;
no cinders have fallen, no ashes accumulated. I found
Henry there, and he had brought with him Miss Eeeldar :
they were together.

' I said she was lovelier than ever : she is. A fine rose,
not deep but delicate, opens on her cheek ; her eye, always
dark, clear, and speaking, utters now a language I cannot
render — it is the utterance, seen not heard, through which
angels must have communed when there was " silence in
heaven." Her hair was always dusk as night, and fine as
silk ; her neck was always fair, flexible, pohshed — but both
have now a new charm : the tresses are soft as shadow, the
shoulders they fall on wear a goddess-grace. Once I only
saw her beauty, now I feel it.

' Henry was repeating his lesson to her before bringing
it to me — one of her hands was occupied with the book,
he held the other : that boy gets more than his share of
privileges ; he dares caress and is caressed. What indul-
gence and compassion she shows him ! Too much : if this
went on, Henry, in a few years, when his soul was formed,
would offer it on her altar, as I have offered mine.

' I saw her eyelid flitter when I came in, but she did not
look up: now she hardly ever gives me a glance. She
seems to grow silent, too — to me she rarely speaks, and,
when I am present, she says little to others. In my gloomy
moments, I attribute this change to indifference, — aversion,
—what not ? In my sunny intervals I give it another mean-
ing : I say, were I her equal, I could find in this shyness —

WElTTfiN IN THE SCHOOLEOOM 629

coyness, aud in that coyness — love. As it is, dare I look
for it ? What could I do with it, if found ?

' This morning I dared, at least, contrive an hour's com-
munion for her and me ; I dared not only wish — but will an
interview with her : I dared summon solitude to guard us.
Very decidedly I called Henry to the door : without hesita-
tion, I said, " Go where you will, my boy ; but, till I call
you, return not here."

' Henry, I could see, did not like his dismissal : that boy
is young, but a thinker : his meditative eye shines on me
strangely sometimes : he half feels what links me to
Shirley ; he half guesses that there is a dearer delight in the
reserve ■with, which I am treated, than in all the endearments
he is allowed. The young, laine, half-grown lion would
growl at me now and then, because I have tamed his lioness
and am her keeper, did not the habit of discipline and the
instinct of affection hold him subdued. Go, Henry; you
must learn to take your share of the bitter of life with all of
Adam's race that have gone before, or wiU come after you :
your destiny can be no exception to the common lot : be
grateful that your love is overlooked thus early, before it
can claim any af&nity to passion : an hour's fret, a pang of
envy, suffice to express what you feel : Jealousy, hot as the
sun above the line, Eage, destructive as the tropic storm, the
clime of your sensations ignores — as yet.

'I took my usual seat at the desk, quite in my usual
way : I am blessed in that power to cover all inward
ebullition with outward calm. No one who looks at my
slow face can guess the vortex sometimes whirling in
my heart, and engulfing thought, and wrecking prudence.
Pleasant is it to" have the gift to proceed peacefully and
powerfully in your course without alarming by one eccentric
movement. It was not my present intention to utter one
word of love to her, or to reveal one glimpse of the fire in
which I wasted. Presumptuous, I never have been ; pre-
sumptuous, I never will be : rather than even seem selfish
and interested, I would resolutely rise, gird my loins, part

630 SHIELEY

and leave her, and seek, on the other side of the globe, a
new life, cold and barren as the rock the salt tide daily
washes. My design this morning was to take of her a near
scrutiny— to read a line in the page of her heart ; before I
left, I determined to know what I was leaving.

' I had some quills to make into pens : most men's hands
would have trembled when their hearts were so stirred;
mine went to work steadily, and my voice, when I called it
into exercise, was firm.

• " This day week you will be alone at Fieldhead, Miss
Keeldar."

'"Yes: I rather think my uncle's intention to go is a
settled one now."

' " He leaves you dissatisfied."

' " He is not pleased with me."

'"He departs as he came — no better for his journey:
this is mortifying."

' " I trust the failure of his plans will take from him all
inclination to lay new ones."

' " In his way, Mr. Sympson honestly wished you well.
All he has done, or intended to do, he believed to be for the
best."

' " You are kind to undertake the defence of a man who
has permitted himself to treat you with so much insolence."

' " I never feel shocked at, or bear malice for, what is
spoken in character ; and most perfectly in character was that
vulgar and violent onset against me, when he had quitted
you worsted."

' " You cease now to be Henry's tutor ? "

'"I shaU be parted from Henry for a while — (if he and I
live we shall meet again somehow, for we love each other) —
and be ousted from the bosom of the Sympson family for
ever. Happily this change does not leave me stranded : it
but hurries into premature execution designs long formed."

' " No change finds you off your guard : I was sure, in
your calm way, you would be prepared for sudden mutation.
I always think you stand in the world like a solitary but

WEITTEN IN THE SCHOOLEOOM 631

watchful, thoughtful archer in a wood ; and the quiver on
your shoulder holds more arrows than one; your bow is
provided with a second string. Such too is your brother's
wont. You two might go forth homeless hunters to the
loneliest western wilds ; all would be well with you. The
hewn tree would make you a hut, the cleared forest yield
you fields from its stripped bosom, the buffalo would feel
your rifle-shot, and with lowered horns and hump pay
homage at your feet."

' " And any Indian tribe of Black-feet, or Flat-heads,
would afford us a bride, perhaps ? "

' " No " (hesitating) : " I think not. The savage is sordid :
I think, — that is, I hope, — you would neither of you share your
hearth vrith that to which you could not give your heart."

'"What suggested the wild West to your mind. Miss
Keeldar ? Have you been with me in spu^t when I did not
see you ? Have you entered into my day-dreams, and beheld
my brain labouring at its scheme of a future."

' She had separated a slip of paper for lighting tapers — a
spill, as it is called — into fragments : she threw morsel by
morsel into the fire, and stood pensively watching them
consume. She did not speak.

' " How did you learn what you seem to know about my
intentions ? "

' " I know nothing : I am only discovering them now : I
spoke at hazard."

' " Your hazard sounds like divination. A tutor I will
never be again : never take a pupil after Henry and your-
self : not again will I sit habitually at another man's table —
no more be the appendage of a family. I am now a man of
thirty : I have never been free since I was a boy of ten. I
have such a thirst for freedom — such a deep passion to know
her and call her mine — such a day-desire and night-longing
to win her and possess her, I will not refuse to cross the
Atlantic for her sake: her I will follow deep into virgin
woods. Mine it shall not be to accept a savage girl as a
slave — she could not be a wife. I know no white woman

632 SHIELEY

whom I love that would accompany me ; but I am certain
Liberty will await me, sitting under a pine : when I call her
she will come to my log-bouse, and she shall fill my arms."

' She could not hear me speak so unmoved, and she was
moved. It was right — I meant to move her. She could not
answer me, nor could she look at me : I should have been
sorry if she could have done either. Her cheek glowed as if
a crimson flower, through whose petals the sun shone, had
cast its light upon it. On the white lid and dark lashes of
her downcast eye, trembled all that is graceful in the sense
ofiialf-painful, half-pleasing shame.

' Soon she controlled her emotion, and took all her feel-
ings under command. I saw she had felt insurrection, and
was waking to empire — she sat down. There was that in
her face which I could read : it said, I see the line which is
my limit — nothing shall make me pass it. • I feel —I know
how far I may reveal my feelings, and when I must clasp
the volume. I have advanced to a certain distance, as far aa
the true and sovereign and undegraded nature of my kind
permits — now here I stand rooted. My heart may break if
it is baffled : let it break — it shall never dishonour me— it
shall never dishonour my sisterhood in me. Suffering before
degradation ! death before treachery !

'I, for my part, said, "If she were poor, I would be at
her feet. If she were lowly, I would take her in my arms.
Her Gold and her Station are two grifi&ns, that guard her on
each side. Love looks and longs, and dares not : Passion
hovers round, and is kept at bay : Truth and Devotion are
scared. There is nothing to lose in winning her — no sacri-
fice to make — it is all clear gain, and therefore unimaginably
difficult."

' Difficult or not, something must be done ; something
must be said. I could not, and would not, sit silent with all
that beauty modestly mute in my presence. I spoke thus,
and stUl I spoke with calm : quiet as my words were, I could
hear they fell in a tone distinct, round, and deep.

' " Still, I know I shall be strangely placed with that

WBITTEN IN THE SCHOOLROOM 633

mountain nymph, Liberty. She is, I suspect, akin to that
Solitude which I once wooed, and from which I now seek a
divorce. These Oreads are peculiar : they come upon you
with an unearthly charm, like some starUght evening ; they
inspire a wild but not warm delight; their beauty is the
beauty of spirits : their grace is not the grace of life, but of
seasons or scenes in Nature : theirs is the dewy bloom of
morning — the languid flush of evening — the peace of the
moon — the changefulness of clouds. I want and will have
something different. This elfish splendour looks chill to my
vision, and ■ feels frozen to my touch. I am not a poet : I
cannot live with abstractions. You, Miss Keeldar, have
sometimes, in your laughing satire, called me a material
philosopher, and implied that I live sufficiently for the sub-
stantial. Certainly I feel material from head to foot ; and
glorious as Nature is, and deeply as I worship her with the
sohd powers of a solid heart, I would rather behold her
through the soft human eyes of a loved and lovely wife,
than through the wild orbs of the hi^est goddess of
Olympus."

' " Juno could not cook a bufifalo steak as you like it,"
said she.

' " She could not : but I will tell you who could — some
young, penniless, friendless orphan girl. I wish I could find
such a one : pretty enough for me to love, with something
of the mind and heart suited to my taste : not uneducated —
honest and modest. I care nothing for attainments ; but I
would fain have the germ of those sweet natural powers which
nothing acquired can rival : any temper Fate wills, — I can
manage the hottest. To such a creature as this, I should
like to be first tutor and then husband. I would teach her
my language, Jny habits, and my principles, and then I
would reward her with my love."

' " Reward her ! lord of the creation L, Beward her ! "
ejaculated she, with a curled lip.

' " And be repaid a thousandfold."

' " If she willed it, Monseigneur '

634 SHIBLEY

' " And she should will it."

' " You have stipulated for any temper Pate wills.
Compulsion is flint and a blow to the metal of some souls."
" And love the spark it elicits."

• " Who cares for the love that is but a spark — seen,
flown upward, and gone? "

'"I must find my orphan girl. Tell me how, Miss
Keeldar."

' " Advertise : and be sure you add, when you describe
the qualifications, she must be a good plain cook."

'"I must find her; and when I do find her, I shall
marry her."

' " Not you ! " and her voice took a sudden accent of
peculiar scorn.

' I liked this : I had roused her from the pensive mood
in which I had first found her : I would stir her further.

'"Why doubt it?"

' " You marry ! "

' " Yes, — of course : nothing more evident than that I
can, and shall."

' " The contrary is evident, Mr. Moore."

' She charmed me in this mood : waxing disdainful, half
insulting, pride, temper, derision, blent in her large fine eye,
that had, just now, the look of a merlin's.

'"Favour me with your reasons for such an opinion.
Miss Keeldar."

' " How will you manage to marry, I wonder ? "

' " I shall manage it with ease and speed when I find the
proper person."

' " Accept celibacy ! " (and she made a gesture with her
hand as if she gave me something) ; " take it as your
doom ! "

' " No : you cannot give what I already have. Celibacy
has been mine for thirty years. If you wish to offer me a
gift, a parting present, a keepsake, you must change the
boon."

• " Take worse, then I "

WEITTEN IN THE SCHOOLKOOM 635

'"How? What?"

' I now felt, and looked, and spoke eagerly. I was unwise
to quit my sheet-anchor of calm even for an instant : it
deprived me of an advantage and transferred it to her. The
little spark of temper dissolved in sarcasm, and eddied over
her countenance in the ripples of a mocking smile.

' " Take a wife that has paid you court to save your
modesty, and thrust herself upon you to spare your
scruples."

' " Only show me where."

' " Any stout widow that has had a few husbands already,
and can manage these things."

' " She must not be rich then. Oh these riches ! "

' " Never would you have gathered the produce of the
gold-bearing garden. You have not courage to confront the
sleepless dragon : you have not craft to borrow the aid of
Atlas ! "

' " You look hot and haughty."

' " And you far haughtier. Yours is the monstrous pride
which counterfeits humility."

' " I am a dependent : I know my place."

' " I am a woman : I know mine."

' " I am poor : I must be proud."

'"I have received ordinances, and own obligations
stringent as yours."

' We had reached a critical point now, and we halted and
looked at each other. She would not give in, I felt. Beyond
this, I neither felt nor saw. A few moments yet were mine :
the end was coming — I heard its rush — but not come ; I
would dally, wait, talk, and when impulse urged, I would
act. I am never in a hurry : I never was in a hurry in my
whole life. Hasty people drink the nectar of existence
scalding hot : I taste it cool as dew. I proceeded : —
" Apparently, Miss Keeldar, you are as little likely to marry
as myself : I know you have refused three, nay, four advan-
tageous offers, and, I believe, a fifth: 5ave you rejected Sij
Philip Nunnely ? "

636 SHIELEY

' I put this question suddenly and promptly.

• " Did you think I should take him ? "

' " I thought you might."

' " On what grounds, may I ask? "

' " Conformity of rank ; age ; pleasing contrast of temper,
for he is mild and amiable ; harmony of intellectual tastes."

' " A beautiful sentence ! Let us take it to pieces. ' Con-
formity of rank.' — He is quite above me : compare my grange
with his palace, if you please : I am disdained by his kith
and kin. ' Suitability of age.'— We were born in the same
year ; consequently, he is still a boy, while I am a woman :
ten years his senior to all intents and purposes. ' Contrast

of temper.' — Mild and amiable, is he : I what ? Tell

me."'

' " Sister of the spotted, bright, quick, fiery leopard."

' " And you would mate me with a kid — the Millennium
being yet millions of centuries from mankind ; being yet,
indeed, an archangel high in the seventh hieaven, uncom-

Edissioned to descend ? Unjust barbarian ! ' Harmony

of intellectual tastes.' — He is fond of J)oeti^, and I hate
it "

' " Do you ? That is news."

' " I absolutely shudder at the sight of metre or at the
sound of rhyme, whenever I am at the Priory or Sir Philip
at Pieldhead. Harmony, indeed ! When did I whip up
syllabub sonnets, or string stanzas fragile as fragments of
glass ? and when did I betray a behef that thos6 penny -beads
were genuine brilliants ? "

' "You might have the satisfaction of leading him to a
higher standard — of improving his tastes."

' " Leading and improving ! teaching and tutoring ! bear-
ing and forbearing ! Pah ! My husband is not to be my
baby. I am not to set him his daily lesson and see -that he
learns it, and' give him a sugar- plum if he is good, and a
patient, pensive, pathetic lecture if he is bad. But it is Uke
a tutor to talk of the ' satisfaction of teaching ' — I suppose
you think it the finest employment in the 'World. I don't —

WEIMEN IN THBl SCHOOLROOM 637

I reject it. Improving a husband ! No. I shall insist upon
my husband improving me, or else we part."

' " God knows it is needed I " , -

' " "What do you mean by that, Mr. Mobre ? "

' " What I say. Improvement is imperatively needed."

' " If you were a woman you would school Monsieur vofere
mari charmingly : it would just suit you ; schooling is your
vocation."

'," May I ask whether,, in your present just and gentle
mood, you mean to taunt me with being a tutor ? "

' " Yes — bitterly ; and with anything else yqu please : any
defect of whicli you are painfully conscious."

' " With being poor, for instance ? "

'"Of course; that will sting you; you are sore about
your poverty : you brood over that." ,

' " With having nothing but a very plain person to offer
the woman who may master my heart ? "

' " Exactly. You have a habit of calling yourself plain.
You are sensitive about the cut of your features, because
they are not quite on an Apollo pattern. You abuse them
more than is needful, in the fg,int hope that others may say
a word, in their behalf— which, won't. happen.. Your face is
nothing to boast of, certainly : not a pretty line, nor a pretty
tint, to be found therein."

' " Compare it with your own.''

'"It looks like a god of Egypt :, a great sand-buried
stone head, or rather I will compare it to nothing so lofty :
it looks like Tartar : you are my mastiff's cousin : I think
you as much like him as a man can be like a dog."

'"Tartar is your dear companion. In summer, when
you- rise early, and run out into the fields to wet your feet
with the dew, and freshen your cheek and uncurl your hair
with the. breeze, you always call him to, follow you: you
call him sometimes with a whistle that you learned from
me. In the solitude of your wood, when you think nobody
but Tartar is Ustening, you whistle the very tunes you
imitated from my lips, or, sing the very songs, you have

6SS SHIRLEY

caught up by ear from my voice : I do not ask whence flows
the feeling which you pour into these songs, for I know it
flows out of your heart, Miss Keeldar. In the winter
evenings, Tartar has at your feet: you suffer him to rest
his head on your perfumed lap ; you let him couch on the
borders of your satin raiment : his rough hide is familiar
with the contact of your hand : I once saw you kiss him on
that snow-white beauty-spot which stars his broad fore-
head. It is dangerous to say I am like Tartar : it suggests
to me a claim to be treated like Tartar."

' " Perhaps, sir, you can extort as much from your penni-
less and friendless young orphan girl, when you find her."

' " Oh ! could I find her such as I image her. Some-
thing to tame first, and teach afterwards : to break in and
then to fondle. To Uft the destitute proud thing out of
poverty ; to establish power over, and then to be indulgent
to the capricious moods that never were influenced and
never indulged before ; to see her alternately irritated and
subdued about twelve times in the twenty-four hours ; and
perhaps, eventually, when her training was accomplished, to
behold her the exemplary and patient mother of about a
dozen children, only now and then lending little Louis a
cordial cuff by way of paying the interest of the vast debt
she owes his father. Oh ! " (I went on), " my orphan girl
would give me many a kiss ; she would watch on the
threshold for my coming home of an evening : she would
run into my arms ; should keep my hearth as bright as she
would make it warm. God bless the sweet idea ! Find her
I must."

' Her eyes emitted an eager flash, her lips opened ; but
she reclosed them, and impetuously turned away.

' " Tell me, tell me where she is. Miss Keeldar ! "

' Another movement : all haughtiness, and fire, and
impulse.

' " I must know. You can tell me. You shall tell me."

' " I never will."

' She turned to leave me. Could I now let her part as

WEITTEN IN THE SCHOOLEOOM 639

she had always parted from me ? No : I had gone too far
not to finish. I had come too near the end not to drive
home to it. All the encumbrance of doubt, all the rubbish
of indecision must be removed at once, and the plain truth
must be ascertained. She must take her part, and tell me
what it was. I must take mine, and adhere to it.

' " A minute, madam," I said, keeping my hand on the
door-handle before I opened it. " We have had a long con-
versation this morning, but the last word has not been
spoken yet : it is yours to speak it."

'" May I pass?"

' " No. I guard the door. I would almost rather die
than let you leave me just now, without speaking the word
I demand."

' " What dare you expect me to say ? "

' " What I am dying and perishing to hear ; what I must
and will hear ; what you dare not now suppress."

' " Mr. Moore, I hardly know what you mean : you are
not like yourself."

' I suppose I hardly was Uke my usual self, for I scared
her ; that I could see : it was right ; she must be scared to
be won.

' " You do know what I mean, and for the first time I
stand before you myself. I have flung off the tutor, and
beg to introduce you to the man : and, remember, he is a
gentleman."

' She trembled. She put her hand to mine as if to
remove it from the lock ; she might as well have tried to
loosen, by her soft touch, metal welded to metal. She felt
she was powerless, and receded ; and again she trembled.

' What change I underwent I cannot explain ; but out of
her emotion passed into me a new spirit. I neither was
crushed nor elated by her lands and gold ; I thought not of
them, cared not for them : they were nothing : dross that
could not dismay me. I saw only herself ; her young
beautiful form ; the grace, the majesty, the modesty of her
girlhood.

640 SHIELEY

' " My pupil," I sai^.

' " My master," was the low answer,

' " I have a thing to tell you."

' She waited with decUned brow, and ringlets drooped.

' " I have to tell you, that for four years you have been
growing into your tutor's heart, and that you are rooted
there now. I have to declare that you have bewitched me,
in spite of sense and experience, and difference of station
and estate : you have so looked, and spoken, and moved ; so
shown me your faults and your virtues — beauties rather ;
they are hardly so stem as virtues— that I love you — love
you with my life and strength. It is out now."

* She sought what to say, but could not find a word : she
tried to rally, but vainly. I passionately repeated that I
loved her.

' " Well, Mr. Moore, what then ? " was the answer I got,
uttered in a tone that would have been petulant if it had not
faltered.

• " Have you nothing to say to me ? Have you no love
for me ? "
' " A httle bit."

'"I am not to be tortured: I will not even play at
present."

' " I don't want to play ; I want to go."

' " I wonder you dare speak of going at this moment.
You go ! What I with my heart in your hand, to lay it on
your toilet and pierce it with your pins? Prom my presence
you do not stir ; out of my reach you do not stray, till I
receive a hostage — pledge for pledge — your heart for mine."

' " The thing you want is mislaid — lost some time since :
let me go and seek it."

' " Declare that it is where your keys often are — in my
possession."

' " You ought to know. And where are my keys, Mr.
Moore ? Indeed and truly, I have lost them again ; and
Mrs. GiU waiits some money, and I have none, except this
sixpence."

WBITTEN IN I'HE SCHOOLBOOM 641

' She took the coin out of her apron-pocket, and showed
it in her palm. I could have trifled with her ; but it would
not do : life and death were at stake. Mastering, at pnce
the sixpence and the hand that held it, I denjanded, — " Am
I to die without you, or am I to live for you ? "

' " Do as you please : far be it from me to dictate your
choice."

' " You shall tell me with your, own lips, whether you
doom me to exile, or call me to hope."

' " Go. I can bear to be left."

' " Perhaps, I too can bear to leave you : but reply,
Shirley, my pupil, my sovereign — reply."

' " Die without me, if you will. Live for me if you
dare."

' " I am not afraid of you, my leopardess : I dare live for
and with you, from this hour till my death. Now, then, I
have you : you are mine : I will never let you go. Wherever
my home be, I have chosen my wife. If I stay in England,
in England you will stay; if I cross the Atlantic, you will
cross it also : our lives are riveted ; our lots intertwined." .

' " And are we equal then, sir ? Are we equal at last ?"

' " You are younger, frailer, feebler, more ignorant
than I."

' " WiU you be good to ,me, and never tyrannize ? "

' " Will you let me breathe, and not bewilder me ? You
must not smile at present. Thg world swims and changes
round me. The sun is a dizzying scarlet blaze, the sky a
violet vortex whirling over me."

' I am a strong man, but I staggered as I spoke. All
creation was exaggerated : colour grew more vivid : motion
more rapid ; life itself more vital. I hardly saw her for a
moment ; but I heard her voice— pitilessly swaet. She
would not subdue one of her charms in compassion : perhaps
she did not know what I felt.

' " You name me leopardess :. remember, the leopardess
is tameless," said she.

' " Tame or fierce, v^ild or subdued, you are mine."

642 SHIELEY

' " I am glad I know my keeper, and am used to him.
Only his voice will I follow ; only his hand shall manage
me ; only at his feet will I repose."

' I took her back to her seat, and sat down by her side '.
I wanted to hear her speak again : I could never have enough
of her voice and her words.

' " How much do you love me ? " I asked.

' " Ah ! you know : I will not gratify you : I will not
flatter."

' " I don't know half enough : my heart craves to be fed.
If you knew how hungry and ferocious it is, you would hasten
to stay it with a kind word or two."

' " Poor Tartar ! " said she, touching and patting my hand :
" poor fellow ; stalwart friend ; Shirley's pet and favourite,
lie down ! "

' " But I will not lie down till I am fed with one sweet
word."

' And at last she gave it.

' " Dear Louis, be faithful to me : never leave me. I
don't care for life, unless I may pass it at your side."

' " Something more."

' She gave me a change : it was not her way to offer the
same dish twice.

' " Sir ! " she said, starting up, " at your peril you ever
again name such sordid things as money, or poverty, or
inequality. It wiU be absolutely dangerous to torment me
with these maddening scruples. I defy you to do it."

' My face grew hot. I did once more wish I were not so
poor, or she were not so rich. She saw the transient misery ;
and then, indeed, she caressed me. Blent with torment, I
experienced rapture.

' " Mr. Moore," said she, looking up with a sweet, open,
earnest countenance, " teach me and help me to be good. I
do not ask you to take off my shoulders all the cares and
duties of property ; but I ask you to share the burden, and
to show me how to sustain my part well. Your judgment
is well balanced ; your heart is kind ; your principles are

WRITTEN IN THE SCHOOLROOM 643

sound. I know you are wise ; I feel you are benevolent ;
I believe you are conscientious. Be my companion through
life ; be my guide where I am ignorant : be my master where
I am faulty ; be my friend always I "
'SohelpmeGod.IwiUr

Yet again, a passage from the blank book, if you like,
reader ; if you don't like it, pass it over : —

' The Sympsons are gone ; but not before discovery and
explanation. My manner must have betrayed something,
or my looks ; I was quiet, but I forgot to be guarded some-
times. I stayed longer in the room than usual ; I could
not bear to be out of her presence ; I returned to it, and
basked in it, like Tartar in the sun. If she left the oak-
parlour, instinctively I rose, and left it too. She chid me for
this procedure more than once : I did it with a vague
blundering idea of getting a word with her in the hall, or
elsewhere. Yesterday, towards dusk, I had her to myself
for five minutes, by the hall-fire: we stood side by side;
she was railing at me, and I was enjoying the sound of her
voice : the young ladies passed, and looked at us ; we did
not separate : erelong, they repassed, and again looked.
Mrs. Sympson came ; we did not move :. Mr. Sympson
opened the dining-room door ; Shirley flashed him back full
payment for his spying gaze : she curled her lip, and tossed
her tresses. The glance she gave was at once explanatory
and defiant ; it said — " I like Mr. Moore's society, and I dare
you to find fault vdth my taste."

' I asked, " Do you mean him to understand how matters
are ? "

'"I do," said she; "but I leave the development to
chance. There will be a scene. I neither invite it nor fear
it — only, you must be present : for I am inexpressibly tired
of facing him solus. I don't like to see him in a rage : he
then puts off all his fine proprieties and conventional dis-
guises, and the real human being below is what you would
call ' commun, plat, bas — vilain et un peu m6ohant.' His

644 SHISLIY

ideas are not clean, Mr. Moore ; they want scouring with
soft soap and fuller's earth. I think, if he could add his
imagination to the contents of Mrs. Gill's bucking-basket,
and let her boil it in her copper, with rain-water and
bleaohing-powder (I hope you think me a tolerable laundress),
it would do him incalculable good."

' This morning, fancying I heard her descend somewhat
early, I was down instantly. I had not been deceived :
there she was, busy at work, in the breakfast-parlour, of
which the housemaid was completing the arrangement and
dusting. She had risen betimes to finish some little keepsake
she intended for Henry. I got only a cool reception ; which
I accepted till the girl was gone, taking my book to the
window-seat very quietly. Even when we were alone, I
was slow to disturb her : to sit with her in sight was happi-
ness, and the proper happiness, for early morning — serene,
incomplete, but progressive. Had I been obtrusive, I knew
I should have encountered rebuff. " Not at home to suitors,"
was written on her brow; therefore, I read on — stole, now
and then, a look ; watched her countenance soften and open,
and she felt I respected her mood, and enjoyed the gentle
content of the moment.

' The distance between us shrank, and the light hoar-
frost thawed insensibly : ere an hour elapsed, I was at her
side, watching her sew, gathering her sweet smiles and her
merry words, which fell for me abundantly. We sat, as we
had a right to sit, side by side : my arm rested on her
chair ; I was near enough to count the stitches of her work,
and to discern the eye of her needle. The door suddenly
opened.

' I believe, if I had just then started from her, she would
have despised me : thanks to the phlegm of my nature, I
rarely start. When I am well-off, bien, comfortable, I am
not soon stirred : bien I was — trfes bien — consequently,
immutable : no muscle moved. I hardly looked to the
door.

" Good-morning, uncle," said she, addressing that

WEITTEN IN THE 8CH00LE00M 645

personage ; who paused on the threshold in a state of
petrification.

' " Have you been long down-stairs, Miss Keeldar, and
alone with Mr. Moore ? "

' " Yes, a very long time : we both came down early ; it
was scarcely light."

' " The proceeding is improper "

' " It was at first : I was rather cross, and not civil ; but
you wiU perceive that we are now friends."

' " I perceive more than you would wish me to perceive."

' " Hardly, sir," said I ; "we have no disguises. Will
you permit me to intimate, that any further observations
you have to make may as well be addressed to me. Hence-
forward, I stand between Miss Keeldar and all annoyance."

' " ybw / What have you to do with Miss Keeldar ? "

• " To protect, watch over, serve her."
" You, sir ? — you, the tutor ? "

• " Not one word of insult sir," interposed she : " not
one syllable of disrespect to Mr. Moore, in this house."

• " Po you take his part ? "

'"jStspart? Oh, yes!"

• She turned to me with a sudden, fond movement, which
I met by circling her with my arm, She and I both rose.

'"Good Ged!" was the cry from the morning-govra
Btandiug quivering at the door. Ged, I think, must be the
cognomen of Mr. Sympson's Lares : when hard-pressed, he
always invokes this idol.

' " Come forward, uncle : you shall hear all. Tell him
all, Louis."

" I dare him to speak ! The beggar I the knave ! the
specious hypocrite I the vile, insinuating, infamous menial 1
Stand apart from my niece, sir : let her go I "

' She clung to me with energy. " I am near my future
husband," she said : • who dares touch him or me ? "

' " Her husband ! " He raised and spread his hands : he
dropped into a seat.

' " A while ago, you wanted much to know whom I

646 SHIELEY

meant to marry : my intention was then formed, but not
mature for communication ; now it is ripe, suu-mellowed,
perfect : take the crimson-peach— take Louis Moore ! "

* " But " (savagely) " you shall not have him — he shall
not have you."

' " I would die before I would have another. I would
die if I might not have him."

' He uttered words with which this page shall never be
polluted.

' She turned white as death : she shook all over : she
lost her strength. I laid her down on the sofa : just looked
to ascertain that she had not fainted — of which, with a
divine smile, she assured me : I kissed her, and then, if I
were to perish, I cannot give a clear account of what hap-
pened in the course of the next five minutes : she has since
— through tears, laughter, and trembling — told me that I
turned terrible, and gave myself to the demon ; she says I
left her, made one bound across the room — that Mr.
Sympson vanished through the door as if shot from a
cannon — I also vanished, and she heard Mrs. Gill scream.

' Mrs. Gill was still screaming when I came to- my
senses : I was then in another apartment — the oak-parlour,
I think : I held Sympson before me crushed into a chair,
and my hand was on his cravat ; his eyes rolled in his bead
— I was strangling him, I think : the housekeeper stood
wringing her hands, entreating me to desist ; I desisted that
moment, and felt at once as cool as stone. But I told Mrs.
GiU to fetch the Bed-House Inn chaise instantly, and
informed Mr. Sympson he must depart from Fieldhead the
instant it came : though half-frightened out of his wits, he
declared he would not. Bepeating the former order, I
added a commission to fetch a constable. I said : " You
shall go — by fair means or foul."

' He threatened prosecution — I cared for nothing : I had
stood over him once before, not quite so fiercely as now, but
full as austerely. It was one night when burglars attempted
the house at Sympson Grove ; and in his wi'etched cowardice

WBITTBN IN THE SCHOOLBOOM 647

he would have given a vain alarm, without daring to offer
defence : I had then been obliged to protect his family and
his abode by mastering himself — and I had succeeded. I
now remained with him till the chaise came : I marshalled
him to it, he scolding all the way. He was terribly bewil-
dered, as well as enraged ; he would have resisted me, but
knew not how : he called for his wife and daughters to
come. I said they should follow him as soon as they could
prepare : the smoke, the fume, the fret of his demeanour
was inexpressible, but it was a fury incapable of producing
a deed : that man, properly handled, must ever remain
impotent. I know he will never touch me with the law : I
know his wife, over whom he tyrannizes in trifles, guides
him in matters of importance. I have long since earned
her undying mother's gratitude by my devotion to her boy :
in some of Henry's ailments I have nursed him — better, she
said, than any woman could nurse : she will never forget
that. She and her daughters quitted me to-day, in mute
wrath and consternation — but she respects me. When
Henry clung to my neck, as I lifted him into the carriage
and placed him by her side — when I arranged her own
wrapping to make her warm, though she turned her head
from me, I saw the tears start to her eyes. She will but
the more zealously advocate my cause, because she has left
me in anger. I am glad of this : not for my own sake, but
for that of my life and idol — my Shirley.'

Once again he writes — a week after : —

' I am now at Stilbro' : I have taken up my temporary
abode with a friend — a professional man — in whose business
I can be useful. Every day I ride over to Pieldhead. How
long will it be before I can call that place my home, and its
mistress mine ? I am not easy — not tranquil : I am tan-
talised— sometimes tortured. To see her now, one would
think she had never pressed her cheek to my shoulder, or
clung to me with tenderness or trust. I feel unsafe : she
renders me miserable : I am shunned when I visit her : she
withdraws from my reach. Once, this day, I lifted her face.

648 SHIRLEY

resolved to get a full look down her deep, dark eyes : difficult
to describe what I read there ! Pantheress ! — beautiful
forest-born ! — wily, tameless, peerless, nature ! She gnaws
her chain : I see the white teeth working at the steel ! She
has dreams of her wild woods, and pinings after virgin
freedom. I wish Sympson would come again, and oblige
her again to entwine her arms about me. I wish there was
danger she should lose me, as there is risk I shall lose her.
No : final loss, I do not fear ; but long delay

' It is now night — midnight. I have spent the afternoon
and evening at Fieldhead. Some hours ago she passed me,
coming down the oak-staircase to the haU : she did not
know I was standing in the twilight, near the staircase-
window, looking at the frost-bright constellations. How
closely she glided against the banisters ! How shyly
shone her large eyes upon me ! How evanescent, fugi-
tive, fitful, she looked, — sUm and swift as a Northern
Streamer !

' I followed her into the drawing-room : Mrs. Pryor and
Caroline Helstone were both there : she has summoned
them to bear her company awhile. In her white evening
dress ; with her long hair flowing full and wavy ; with her
noiseless step, her pale cheek, her eye full of night and
lightning, she looked, I thought, spirit-like, — a thing made
of an element, — the child of a breeze and a flame, — the
daughter of ray and rain-drop,^a thing never to be over-
taken, arrested, fixed. I wished I could avoid following her
with my gaze, as she moved here and there, but it was
impossible. I talked with the othef ladies as well as I
could, but still I looked at her. She was very silent : I
think she never spoke to me, — not even when she offered me
tea. It happened that she was called out a minute by Mrs.
Gill. I passed into the moon -lit hall, with the design of
getting a word as she returned : nor in this did I fail.

' " Miss Keeldar, stay one instant ! " said I, meeting
her.

' " Why ?— the hall is too cold."

WEITTEN IN THE SCHOOLROOM 649

' " It is not cold for me : at my side, it should not be
cold for yoii."

' " But I shiver."

' " With fear, I believe. What makes you fear me ?
You are quiet and distant : why ? "

' " I may well fear what looks like a great dark goblin
meeting me in the moonlight"

' " Do not — do not pass 1 — stay with me awhile : let us
exchange a few quiet words. It is three days since I spoke
to you alone : such changes are cruel."

' " I have no wish to be crjiel," she responded, softly
enough : indeed, there was softness in her whole deportment
— in her face, in her voice ; but there was also reserve, and
an air fleeting, evanishing, intangible.

' " You certainly give me pain," said I. " It is hardly a
week since you called me your future husband, and treated
me as such ; now I am once more the tutor for you ; I am
addressed as Mr. Moore, and Sir ; your lips have forgotten
Louis."

' " No, Louis, no : it is an easy, liquid name ; not soon
forgotten."

' " Be cordial to Louis, then : approach him — let him
approach."

' " I am cordial," said she, hovering aloof like a white
shadow.

' " Your voice is very sweet and very low," I answered,
quietly advancing : " you seem subdued, but still startled."

' " No, — quite calm, and afraid of nothing," she assured
me.

' " Of nothing but your votary."

' I bent a knee to the flags at her feet.

' " You see I am in a new world, Mr. Moore. I don't
know myself, —I don't know you : but rise ; when you do so
I feel troubled and disturbed."

' I obeyed ; it would not have suited me to retain that
attitude long. I courted serenity and confidence for her,
and not vainly : she trusted, and clung to me again.

650 SHIELEY

' " Now, Shirley," I said, " you can conceive I am far
from happy in my present uncertain, unsettled state."

' " Oh, yes ; you are happy ! " she cried, hastily : " you
don't know how happy you are !— any change will be for the
worse ! "

* '" Happy or not, I cannot bear to go on so much longer :
you are too generous to require it."

' " Be reasonable, Louis, — be patient I I Uke you because
you are patient."

' " Like me no longer, then, — love me instead : fix our
marriage-day. Think of it to-night, and decide."

' She breathed a murmur, inarticulate yet expressive ;
darted, or melted, from my arms — and I lost her.'

CHAPTEE XXXVII

THE WINDING-UP

Yes, reader, we must settle accounts now. I have only
briefly to narrate the final fates of some of the personages
whose acquaintance we have made in this narrative, and
then you and I must shake hands, and for the present
separate. Let us turn to the Curates, — to the much-loved,
though long-neglected. Gome forward, modest merit !
Malone, I see, promptly answers the invocation : he knows
his own description when he hears it.

No, Peter Augustus, we can have nothing to say to you :
it won't do. Impossible to trust ourselves with the touching
tale of your deeds and destinies. Are you not aware, Peter,
that a discriminating public has its crotchets : that the un-
varnished truth does not answer ; that plain facts will not
digest ? Do you not know that the squeak of the real pig is
no more relished now than it was in days of yore ? Were I
to give the catastrophe of your life and conversation, the
public would sweep off in shrieking hysterics, and there
would be a wild cry for sal-volatile and burnt feathers.
' Impossible ! ' would be pronounced here : ' untrue ! ' would
be responded there. ' Inartistic ! ' would be solemnly decided.
Note well ! Whenever you present the actual, simple truth,
it is, somehow, always denounced as a lie : they disown it,
cast it off, throw it on the parish ; whereas the product of
your own imagination, the mere figment, the sheer fiction, is
adopted, petted, termed pretty, proper, sweetly natural : the
^ittle spurious wretch gets all the qomfits, — the honest,

652 SHIELEY

lawful bantling, all the cuffs. Such is the way of the world,
Peter ; and, as you are the legitimate urchin, rude, unwashed,
and naughty, you must stand down.

Make way for Mr. Sweeting.— Here he comes, with his
lady on his arm ; the most splendid and the weightiest
woman in Yorkshire : Mrs. Sweeting, formerly Miss Dora
Sykes. They were mamed under the happiest auspices;
Mr. Sweeting having been just inducted to a comfortable
living, and Mr. Sykes being in circumstances to give Dora a
handsome portion. They lived long and happily together,
beloved by their parishioners and by a numerous circle of
friends. — There I I think the varnish has been put on very
nicely. Advance, Mr. Donne. — This gentleman turned out
admirably : far better than either you or I could possibly
have expected, reader. He, too, married a most sensible,
quiet, lady-like httle woman : the match was the making of
him : he became an exemplary domestic character, and a
truly active parish-priest (as a pastor, he, to his dying day,
conscientiously refused to act). The outside of the cup and
platter he burnished up with the best poUshing-powder ; the
furniture of the altar and temple he looked after with the
zeal of an upholsterer — the care of a cabinet-maker. His
little school, his little church, his little parsonage, all owed
their erection to him ; and they did him credit : each was a
model in its way : if imiformity and taste in architecture had
been the same thing as consistency and earnestness in reli-
gion, what a shepherd of a Christian flock Mr. Donne would
have made! There was one art in the mastery of which
nothing mortal ever surpassed Mr. Donne — it was that of
begging. By his own unassisted efforts, he begged all the
money for all his erections. In this matter he had a grasp
of plan, a scope of action quite unique : he begged of high
and low — of the shoeless cottage-brat and the coroneted
duke : he sent out begging-letters far and wide — to old
Queen Charlotte, to the princesses her daughters, to her
sons the royal dukes, to the Prince Eegent, to Lord Castle-
reagh, to every member of the Ministry then in ofBce ; and,

THE WINDING-UP 653

what is more remarkable, he screwed something out of every
one of these personages. It is on record that he got five
pounds from the close-fisted old lady, Queen Charlotte, and
two guineas from the royal profligate, her eldest son. When
Mr. Donne set out on begging expeditions, he armed himself
in a complete suit of brazen mail : that you had given a
hundred pounds yesterday, was, with him, no reason why
you should not give two hundred to-day : he would tell you
so to your face, and, ten to one, get the money out of you :
people gave to get rid of him. After all, he did some good
with the cash ; he was useful in his day and generation.

Perhaps I ought to remark that, on the premature and
sudden vanishing of Mr. Malone from the stage of Briarfield
parish (you cannot know how it happened, reader ; your
curiosity must be robbed to pay your elegant love of the
pretty and pleasing), there came as his successor another
Irish curate, Mr. Macarthey. I am happy to be able to
inform you, with truth, that this gentleman did as much
credit to his country as Malone had done it discredit : he
proved himself as decent, decorous, and conscientious, as

Peter was rampant, boisterous, and (this last epithet I

choose to suppress, because it would let the cat out of the
bag). He laboured faithfully in the parish : the schools, both
Sunday and day-schools, flourished under his sway like green
bay-trees. Bising human, of course he had his faults ; thesei
however, were proper, steady-going, clerical faixlts ; what
many would caU virtues : the circumstance of finding him-
self invited to tea with a Dissenter would unhinge him for a
week ; the spectacle of a Quaker wearing his hat in the
church, the thought of an unbaptized fellow-creature being
interred with Christian rites — these things could make
strange havoc in Mr. Macarthey's physical and mental
economy ; otherwise he was sane and rational, diligent and
charitable.

I doubt not a justice-loving public will have remarked,
ere this, that I have thus far shown a criminal remissness in
pursuing, catching, and bringing to condign punishment the

654 SHlELEY

would-be assassin of Mr. Eobert Moore: here was a fine
opening to lead my willing readers a dance, at once decorous
and exciting: a dance of law and gospel, of the dungeon,
the dock, and the " dead-thraw.' You might have Uked it,
reader, but I should not : I and my subject would presently
have quarrelled, and then I should have broken down : I
was happy to find that facts perfectly exonerated me from
the attempt. The murderer was never punished ; for the
good reason that he was never caught ; the result of the
further circumstance that he was never pursued. The
magistrates made a shuflBing, as if they were going to rise
and do valiant things ; but, since Moore himself, instead of
urging and leading them as heretofore, lay still on his little
cottage-couch, laughing in his sleeve and sneering with every
feature of his pale, foreign face, they considered better of it ;
and, after fulfilling certain indispensable forms, prudently
resolved to let the matter quietly drop, which they did. Mr-
Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew ; it
was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed weaver
once before alluded to, a frantic Antinomian in religion, and
a mad leveller in politics ; the poor soul died of delirium
tremens, a year after the attempt on Moore, and Bobert gave
his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.

The winter is over and gone : spring has followed with
beamy and shadowy, with flowery and showery flight : we
are now in the heart of summer — in mid-June, — the June
of 1812.

It is burning weather : the air is deep azure and red
gold : it fits the time ; it fits the age ; it fits the present
spirit of the nations. The nineteenth century wantons in
its giant adolescence : the Titan-boy uproots mountains in
his game, and hurls rocks in his wild sport. This summer,
Bonaparte is in the saddle : he and his host scour Russian
deserts : he has with him Frenchmen and Poles, Italians
and children of the Ehine, six hundred thousand strong.
He marches on old Moscow : under old Moscow's walls the

THE WINDING-UP 656

rude Cossack waits him. Barbarian stoic I he waits without
fear of the boundless ruin roUing on. He puts bis trust in a
snow-cloud : the Wilderness, the Wind, and the Hail-storm
are his refuge: his allies are the elements— Air, Fire,
Water. And what are these? Three terrible archangels
ever stationed before the throne of Jehovah. They stand
clothed in white, girdled with golden girdles ; they uplift
vials brimming with the wrath of God. Their time is the
day of vengeance; their signal, the word of the Lord of
Hosts, ' thundering with the voice of His excellency.' —
' Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow ? or hast
thou seen the treasm-es of the hail, which I have reserved
against the time of trouble, against the day of battle and
war ?— Go your ways : pour out the vials of the wrath of
God upon the earth.' It is done : the earth is scorched
with fire : the sea becomes ' as the blood of a dead man : '
the islands flee away ; the mountains are not found.

In this year, Lord Wellington assumed the reins in
Spain : they made him Generalissimo, for their own sal-
vation's sake. In this year, he took Badajos, he fought the
field of Vittoria, he captured Pampeluna, he stormed St.
Sebastian ; in this year, he won Salamanca.

Men of Manchester ! I beg your pardon for this slight
r6sum6 of warlike facts : but it is of no consequence. Lord
Wellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now :
I rather think some of you have called him a ' dotard ' — you
have taunted him with his age, and the loss of his physical
vigour. What fine heroes you are yourselves ! Men like
you have a right to trample on what is mortal in a demigod.
Scoff at your ease — your scorn can never break his grand
old heart.

But come, friends, whether Quakers or Cotton-printers,
let us hold a Peace-Congress, and let out our venom quietly.
We have been talking with unseemly zeal about bloody
battles and butchering generals; we arrive now at a
triumph in your line. On the 18th of June, 1812, the
Orders in Council were repealed, and the blockaded porta

656 SHIELEY

thrown open. You know very well — such of you as are old
enough to remember — you made Yorkshire and Lancashire
shake with your shout on that occasion : the ringers cracked
a bell in Briarfield belfry ; it is dissonant to this day. The
Association of Merchants and Manufacturers dined together
at Stilbro', and one and all went home in such a plight as
their wives would never wish to witness more. Liverpool
started and snorted like a river-horse roused among his
reeds by thunder. Some of the American merchants felt
threatenings of apoplexy, and had themselves bled : all, like
wise men, at this first moment of prosperity, prepared to
rush into the bowels of speculation, and to delve new
difficulties, in whose depths they might lose themselves at
some future day. Stocks, which had been accumulating for
years, now went off in a moment, in the tvnnkling of an
eye; warehouses were lightened, ships were laden; work
abounded, wages rose : the good time seemed come. These
prospects might be delusive, but they were brilliant — to
some they were even true. At that epoch, in that single
month of June, many a solid fortune was reaUzed.

When a whole province rejoices, the humblest of its
inhabitants taste a festal feeling : the sound of public bells
rouses the most secluded abode, as if with a call to be gay.
And so Caroline Helstone thought, when she dressed herself
more carefully than usual on the day of this trading triumph,
and went, attired in her neatest muslin, to spend the after-
noon at Fieldhead, there to superintend certain milUnery
preparations for a great event : the last appeal in these
matters being reserved for her unimpeachable taste. She
decided on the wreath, the veil, the dress to be worn at the
altar: she chose various robes and fashions for more
ordinary occasions, without much reference to the bride's
opinion ; that lady, indeed, being in a somewhat imprac-
ticable mood.

Louis had presaged difficulties, and he had found
them : ia fact, hia mistress had shown herself exquisitely

THE WINWNG-UP 667

provoking ; putting off her marriage day by day, week by
week, month by month. At first coaxing him with soft
pretences of procrastination, and in the end rousing his
whole deliberate but determined nature to revolt against her
tyranny, at once so sweet and so intolerable.

It had needed a sort of tempest-shook to bring her to
the point ; but there .she was at last, fettered to a fixed day :
there she lay, conquered by love, and bound with a vow.

Thus vanquished and restricted, she pined, like any
other chained denizen of deserts. Her captor alone could
cheer her ; his society only could make amends for the lost
privilege of liberty: in his absence, she sat or wandered
alone ; spoke little, and ate less.

She furthered no preparations for her nuptials ; Louis
was himself obliged to direct all arrangements : he was
virtually master of Pieldhead, weeks before he became so
nominally : the least presumptuous, the kindest master that
ever was ; but with his lady absolute. She abdicated
without a word or a struggle. ' Go to Mr. Moore ; ask Mr.
Moore,' was her answer when applied to for orders. Never
was wooer of wealthy bride so thoroughly absolved from the
subaltern part ; so inevitably compelled to assume a para-
mount character.

In all this, Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her dis-
position ; but a remark she made a year afterwards proved
that she partly also acted on system. 'Louis,' she said,
■ \Vould never have learned to rule, if she had not ceased to
govern : the incapacity of the sovereign had developed the
powers of the premier.' It had been intended that Miss
Helstone should act as bridesmaid at the approaching
nuptials ; but Fortune had destined her another part.

She came home in time to water her plants. She had
performed this little task. The last flower attended to was
a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the
back of the house. This plant had received the refreshing
shower: she was now resting a minute. Near the wall
stood a fragment of sculptured stone — a monkish relic;

658 SHIELEY

once, perhaps, the base of a cross; she mounted it, that
she might better command the view. She had still the
watering-pot in one hand ; with the other, her pretty dress
was held lightly aside, to avoid trickling drops : she gazed
over the wall, along some lonely fields ; beyond three dusk
trees, rising side by side, against the sky ; beyond a solitary
thorn, at the head of a solitary lane far off : she surveyed
the dusk moors, where bonfires were kindling : the summer
evening was warm ; the bell-music was joyous ; the blue
smoke of the fires looked soft ; their red flame bright : above
them, in the sky whence the sun had vanished, twinkled a
silver point — the Star of Love.

Caroline was not unhappy that evening ; far otherwise :
but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand
circled her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline
thought she knew who had drawn near : she received the
touch unstartled. ' I am looking at Venus, mamma : see,
she is beautiful. How white her lustre is, compared with
the deep red of the bonfires ! ' The answer was a closer
caress; and Caroline turned, and looked, not into Mrs.
Pryor's matron face, but up at a dark manly visage. She
dropped her watering-pot, and stepped down from the
pedestal. ' I have been sitting with " mamma " an hour,'
said the intruder. ' I have had a long conversation with
her. "Where, meantime, have you been? '

' To Fieldhead. Shirley is as naughty as ever, Eobert :
she will neither say Yes nor No to any question put. She
sits alone : I cannot tell whether she is melancholy or
nonchalant : if you rouse her, or scold her, she gives you a
look half wistful, half reckless, which sends you away as
queer and crazed as herself. What Louis will make of her,
I cannot tell : for my part, if I were a gentleman, I think I
would not dare undertake her.'

' Never mind them : they were cut out for each other.
Louis, strange to say, likes her all the better for these
freaks : he will manage her, if any one can. She tries him,
however : he has had a stormy courtship for such a calm

THE WiNDlNG-tJt 659

character ; but you see it all ends in victory for him.
Caroline, I have sought you to ask an audience. Why are
those bells ringing ? ' ■

' For the repeal of your terrible law ; the Orders you
hate so much. You are pleased, are you not ? '

'Yesterday evening at this time, I was packing some
books for a sea-voyage : they were the only possessions,
except some clothes, seeds, roots, and tools, which I felt
free to take with me to Canada. I was going to leave you.'

' To leave me ? To leave me ? ' Her Uttle fingers
fastened on his arm : she spoke and looked affrighted.

' Not now — not now. Examine my face ; yes, look at
me well : is the despair of parting legible thereon ? ' She
looked into an illuminated countenance, whose characters
were all beaming, though the page itself was dusk : this face,
potent in the majesty of its traits, shed down on her hope,
fondness, deUght. ' Will the repeal do you good ; much
good — immediate good ? ' she inquired.

' The repeal of the Orders in Council saves me. Now I
shall not turn bankrupt ; now I shall not give up business ;
now I shall not leave England ; now I shall be no longer
poor ; now I can pay my debts ; now all the cloth I have in
my warehouses will be taken off my hands, and commissions
given me for much more : this day lays for my fortunes a
broad, firm foundation; on which, for the first time in my
life, I can securely build.'

Caroline devoured his words : she held his hand in hers ;
she drew a long breath.

' You are saved ? Your heavy difficulties are lifted ? '

' They are lifted : I breathe : I can act.'

' At last ! Oh I Providence is kind. Thank Him,
Eobert.'

' I do thank Providence.'

' And I also, for your sake ! ' She looked up devoutly.

' Now, I can take more workmen ; give better wages ; lay
vriser and more liberal plans ; do some good ; be less selfish :
now, Carohne, I can have a house — a home which I can

660 SHIELEY

truly call mine— and mow—" He paused ; for his deep
voice was checked. ' And now,' he resumed — ' now I can
think of marriage ; now I can seek a wife. This was no
moment for her to speak: she did not speak. 'Will
Caroline, who meekly hopes to be forgiven as she forgives —
will she pardon all I have made her suffer — all that long
pain I have wickedly caused her — all that sickness of body
and mind she owed to me? Will she forget what she
knows of my poor ambition — my sordid schemes? Will
she let me expiate these things? Will ^he suffer me to
prove that, as I once deserted cruelly, trifled wantonly,
injured basely, I can now love faithfully, cherish fondly,
treasure tenderly ? '

His hand was in Caroline's still : a gentle pressure
answered him. ' Is CaroUne taine ? '

'Caroline is yours.'

' I will prize her: the sense of her value is here, in my
heart ; the necessity for her society is blended with my life :
not more jealous shall I be of the blood whose flow moves
my pulses, than of her happiness afid well-being.'

' I love you, too, Eobert, and will take faithful care of
you.'

' Will you take faithful care of me ?— faithful care ! as if
that rose should promise to shelter from tempest this hard,
grey stone ? But she will care for me, in her way : these
hands will be the gentle ministrants of every comfort I can
taste. I know the being I seek to entwine with my own
will bring me a solace— a charity— a purity — to which, of
myself, I am a stranger.'

Suddenly, Caroline was troubled ; her lip quivered.

' What flutters my dove ? ' asked Mooire, as she nestled
to, and then uneasily shrank from him.

' Poor mamma ! I am all mamma has : mast I leave
her?'

'Do you know, I thought of that difficulty: I and
" mamma " have discussed it.'

' Tell me what you wish — what you would like — and I

THE WINDING-UP 661

will consider if it is possible tQ consent ; but I cannot desert
her, even for you : I cannot break her heart, even for your
sake.'

' She was faithful when I was false — was she not ? I
never came near your sick-bed, and she watched it cease-
lessly.'

' What must I do ? Anything but leave her.'

' At my wish, you never shall leave her.'

' She may Kve very near us ? '

' With us— only sjie will have her own rooms and
servant : for this she stipulates herself.'

' You know she has an income, that, with her habits,
makes her quite independent ? '

' She told me that, with a geutle pride that reminded me
of somebody else.'

' She is not at all interfering, and incapable of gossip.'

' I know her, Gary : but if — instead of being the personi-
fication of reserve and discretion — she were something quite
opposite, I should not fear her.'

' Yet she will be ypur mother-in-law ? ' The speaker
gave an arch little nod : Moore smiled. ' Louis and I are
not of the order of men who fear their mothers-in-law,
Gary : our foes never have been, nor will be, those of our
own household. I doubt not, my mother-in-law will make
much of me.'

' That she will — in her quiet way, you know. She is not
demonstrative ; and when you see her silent, or even cool,
you must not fancy her displeased — it is only a manner she
has. Be sure to let me interpret for her, whenever she
puzzles you; always believe my account of the matter,
Robert.'

' Oh, impUoitly ! Jesting apart, I feel that she and I will
suit — on ne peut mieux. Hortense, you know, is exquisitely
susceptible — in our French sense of the word — and not,
perhaps, always reasonable in her requirements : yet —
dear, honest girl—I never painfully wounded her feelings,
or had a serious quarrel with her, in my life.'

662 SHIELEY

' No : you are most generously considerate — ^indeed,
most tenderly indulgent to her ; and you wiU be considerate
with mamma. You are a gentleman all through, Robert, to
the bone, and nowhere so perfect a gentleman as at your
own fireside.'

'An eulogium I like: it is very sweet. I am well
pleased my Caroline should view me in this light.'

' Mamma just thinks of you as I do.'

' Not quite, I hope ? '

' She does not want to marry you — don't be vain ; but
she said to me the other day, " My dear, Mr. Moore has
pleasing manners ; he is one of the few gentlemen I have
seen who combine poUteness with an air of sincerity." '

' " Mamma " is rather a misanthropist, is she not ? Not
the best opinion of the sterner sex ? '

' She forbears to judge them as a whole, but she has her
exceptions whom she admires. Louis and Mr. Hall, and, of
late — yourself. She did not Uke you once : I knew that
because she would never speak of you. But, Eobert '

' Well, what now ? What is the new thought ? '

' You have not seen my uncle yet ? '

' I have : " mamma " called him into the room. He
consents conditionally : if I prove that I can keep a wife, I
may have her ; and I can keep her better than he thinks —
better than I choose to boast.'

' If you get rich, you wiU do good v?ith your money,
Eobert?'

' I will do good ; you shall tell me how : indeed, I have
some schemes of my own, which you and I will talk about
on our own hearth one day. I have seen the necessity of
doing good: I have learned the downright folly of being
selfish. Caroline, I foresee what I will now foretell. This
war must ere long draw to a close : Trade is likely to
prosper for some years to come : there may be a brief mis-
understanding between England and America, but that will
not last. What would you think if, one day — perhaps ere
another ten years elapse — Louis and I divide Briarfield

THE WINDING-UP 663

parish betwixt us ? Louis, at any rate, is certain of power
and property : he wUl not bury his talents : he is a benevo-
lent fellow, and has, besides, an intellect of his own of no
trifling calibre. His mind is slow but strong : it must work :
it may work deliberately, but it will work well. He will be
made magistrate of the district— Shirley says he shall : she
would proceed impetuously and prematurely to obtain for
him this dignity, if he would let her, but he will not ; as
usual, he wiU be in no haste : ere he has been master of
Fieldhead a year, all the district will feel his quiet influence,
and acknowledge his unassuming superiority : a magistrate
is wanted — they will, in time, invest him with the office
voluntarily and unreluotantly Everybody admires his future
wife : and everybody will, in time, like him : he is of the
" pSite " generally approved, " bon comme le pain " — daily
bread for the most fastidious ; good for the infant and the
aged, nourishing for the poor, wholesome for the rich.
Shirley, in spite of her whims and oddities, her dodges and
delays, has an infatuated fondness for him : she will one day
see him as universally beloved as even she could wish : he
will also be universally esteemed, considered, consulted,
depended on — too much so : his advice will be always
judicious, his help always good-natured — erelong, both will
be in inconvenient request : he wiU have to impose restric-
tions. As for me, if I succeed as I intend to do, my
success will add to his and Shirley's income : I can double
the value of their mill-property : I can line yonder barren
Hollow with lines of cottages, and rows of cottage-
gardens '

' Eobert ! And root up the copse ? '

' The copse shall be firewood ere five years elapse : the
beautiful wild ravine shall be a smooth descent ; the green
natural terrace shall be a paved street : there shall be
cottages in the dark ravine, and cottages on the lonely
slopes: the rough pebbled track shall be an even, firm,
broad, black, sooty road, bedded with the cinders from my
mill : and my mill, Caroline — my mill shall fill its preseiit yard.'

664 - SHIELEY

' Horpble ! Yoia will change our blue hill-oountry air
into the Stilbro' smoke atmosphere.'

' I will pour the waters of Pactolus through the valley ot
Briarfield.'

' I like the beck a thousand times better.'

' I will get an act for enclosing Nunnely Common, and
parcelling it out into farms.'

' Stilbrp' Mopr, however, defies you, thank Heaven ! What
can you grow in Bilberry Moss ! What will flourish on
Bushedge?'

' Caroling, the houseless, the starving, the unemployed,
shall come to Hollow's-mill from far and near ; and Joe
Scott shall give them work, and Louis Moore, Esq., shall let
them a tenement, and Mrs. Gill shall mete them a portion
till the first pay-day.'

She smiled up in his face.

' Such a Sunday-school as you ynjl have, Cary ! such
collections as you will get ! such a day-school as you and
Shirley, and Miss Ainley will have to manage between you !
The mill shall find salaries for a master and misteess.
and the Squire or the Clothier shall give a treat once a
quarter.' She mutely offered a kiss, an offer taken
unfair advantage of, to the extortion of about a hundred
kisses. ' Extravagant day-dreams ! ' said Moore, with a sigh
and smile, 'yet perhaps we may realise some of them.
Meantime, the dew is falling : Mrs. Moore, I shall take
you in.'

It is August : the bells clash out again, not only through
Yorkshire but through England : from Spain, the voice of a
trumpet has sounded long : it now waxes louder and louder :
it proclaims Salamanca won. This night is Briarfield to be
illuminated. On this day the Fieldhead tenantry dine
together; the Hollow's-mill work-people will be assembled
for a like festal purpose ; the schools have a grand treat.
This morning there were two marriages solemnized in
Briarfield church, — Louis Gerard Moore, Esq., late of

THE WINDING-UP 665

Antwerp, to Shirley, daughter of the late Charles Cave
Keeldar, Esq., of Fieldhead : Robert Grerard Moore, Esq., of
Hollow's-mill, to Caroline, niece of the Eev. Matthewson
Helstone, M.A., Rector of Briarfield.

The ceremony, in the first instance, was performed by
Mr. Helstone ; Hiram Yorke, Esq., of Briarmains, giving the
bride away. In the second instance, Mr. Hall, Vicar of
Nunnely, officiated. Amongst the bridal train, the two most
noticeable personages were the youthful bridesmeil,' Henry
Sympson and Martin Yorke.

I suppose Robert Moore's prophecies were, partially, at
least, fulfilled. The other day I passed up the Hollow,
which tradition says was once green, and lone, and wild ;
and there I saw the manufacturer's day-dreams embodied in
substantial stone and brick and ashes — the cinder-black
highway, the cottages, and the cottage-gardens ; there I saw
a mighty mill, and a chimney, ambitious as the tower of
Babel. I told my old housekeeper when I came home
where I had been. ' Ay ! ' said she ; ' this world has queer
changes. I can remember the old mill being built — the very
first it was in all the district ; and then, I can remember
it being pulled down, and going with my lake-lasses
(companions) to see the foundation-stone of the new one laid :
the two Mr. Moores made a great stir about it ; they were
there, and a deal of fine folk beside, and both their ladies ; very
bonnie and grand they looked ; but Mrs. Louis was the grand-
est, she always wore such handsome dresses : Mrs. Robert
was quieter-like. Mrs. Louis smiled when she talked : she
had a real, happy, glad, good-natured look ; but she had
feen that pierced a body through : there is no such ladies
now-a-days.'

' What was the Hollow like then, Martha ? '

' Different to what it is now ; but I can tell of it clean
different again : when there was neither mill, nor cot, nor
hall, except Fieldhead, within two miles of it. I can tell,
one summer-evening, fifty years syne, my mother coming
running in just at the edge of dark, almost fleyed out of her

666 SHIRLEt

wits, saying, she had seen a fairish (fairy) in Fieldhead
Hollow ; and that was the last fairish that ever was seen on
this country side (though they've been heard within these
forty years). A lonesome spot it was — and a bonnie spot —
full of oak-trees and nut-trees. It is altered now.'

The story is told. I think I now see the judicious reader
putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It would be
an insult to his sagacity to offer directions. I only say, God
speed him in the quest !