CHAPTER XXXV.
WHEREIN MATTERS MAKE SOME PROGRESS, BUT NOT MUCH.
Martin had planned well. He had laid out a dexterously concerted schemefor his private amusement. But older and wiser schemers than he areoften doomed to see their finest-spun projects swept to annihilation bythe sudden broom of Fate, that fell housewife whose red arm none cancontrol. In the present instance this broom was manufactured out of thetough 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 thefamily. Lastly, he forbade her his chamber. On the same day, amidst theoutcries 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, andrequested an envoy to fetch a chaise from the Red House Inn. He wasresolved, he said, to return home to the Hollow that very afternoon. Mr.Yorke, instead of opposing, aided and abetted him. The chaise was sentfor, 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 thechink of his coin. The latter personage approved and understood thislanguage perfectly; it made amends for all previous contumacy. She andher patient parted the best friends in the world.
The kitchen visited and soothed, Moore betook himself to the parlour. Hehad Mrs. Yorke to appease; not quite so easy a task as the pacificationof her housemaids. There she sat plunged in sullen dudgeon, thegloomiest speculations on the depths of man's ingratitude absorbing herthoughts. 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 hewas smiling--in his hollow eyes.
"Good-bye!" he said, and as he spoke the smile glittered and melted. Hehad no iron mastery of his sensations now; a trifling emotion madeitself apparent in his present weak state.
"And what are you going to leave us for?" she asked. "We will keep you,and do anything in the world for you, if you will only stay till you arestronger."
"Good-bye!" he again said; and added, "You have been a mother to me;give your wilful son one embrace."
Like a foreigner, as he was, he offered her first one cheek, then theother. She kissed him.
"What a trouble--what a burden I have been to you!" he muttered.
"You are the worst trouble now, headstrong youth!" was the answer. "Iwonder who is to nurse you at Hollow's Cottage? Your sister Hortenseknows no more about such matters than a child."
"Thank God! for I have had nursing enough to last me my life."
Here the little girls came in--Jessie crying, Rose quiet but grave.Moore took them out into the hall to soothe, pet, and kiss them. He knewit was not in their mother's nature to bear to see any living thingcaressed but herself. She would have felt annoyed had he fondled akitten in her presence.
The boys were standing about the chaise as Moore entered it; but forthem he had no farewell. To Mr. Yorke he only said, "You have a goodriddance of me. That was an unlucky shot for you, Yorke; it turnedBriarmains into an hospital. Come and see me at the cottage soon."
He drew up the glass; the chaise rolled away. In half an hour healighted at his own garden wicket. Having paid the driver and dismissedthe vehicle, he leaned on that wicket an instant, at once to rest and tomuse.
"Six months ago I passed out at this gate," said he, "a proud, angry,disappointed man. I come back sadder and wiser; weakly enough, but notworried. A cold, gray, yet quiet world lies round--a world where, if Ihope little, I fear nothing. All slavish terrors of embarrassment haveleft me. Let the worst come, I can work, as Joe Scott does, for anhonourable living; in such doom I yet see some hardship but nodegradation. Formerly, pecuniary ruin was equivalent in my eyes topersonal dishonour. It is not so now; I know the difference. Ruin _is_an evil, but one for which I am prepared; the day of whose coming Iknow, for I have calculated. I can yet put it off six months--not anhour longer. If things by that time alter, which is not probable; iffetters, which now seem indissoluble, should be loosened from our trade(of all things the most unlikely to happen), I might conquer in thislong struggle yet--I might--good God! what might I not do? But thethought is a brief madness; let me see things with sane eyes. Ruin willcome, lay her axe to my fortune's roots, and hew them down. I shallsnatch 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 noright to ask."
He entered the house.
It was afternoon, twilight yet out of doors--starless and moonlesstwilight; for though keenly freezing with a dry, black frost, heavenwore a mask of clouds congealed and fast locked. The mill-dam too wasfrozen. The Hollow was very still. Indoors it was already dark. Sarahhad lit a good fire in the parlour; she was preparing tea in thekitchen.
"Hortense," said Moore, as his sister bustled up to help him off withhis cloak, "I am pleased to come home."
Hortense did not feel the peculiar novelty of this expression comingfrom her brother, who had never before called the cottage his home, andto whom its narrow limits had always heretofore seemed ratherrestrictive than protective. Still, whatever contributed to hishappiness pleased her, and she expressed herself to that effect.
He sat down, but soon rose again. He went to the window; he came back tothe fire.
"Hortense!"
"Mon frere?"
"This little parlour looks very clean and pleasant--unusually bright,somehow."
"It is true, brother; I have had the whole house thoroughly andscrupulously cleaned in your absence."
"Sister, I think on this first day of your return home you ought to havea friend or so to tea, if it were only to see how fresh and spruce youhave 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, andthe evening is much too cold for her to come out."
"How thoughtful in you, dear Gerard! We must put it off till anotherday."
"I want some one to-day, dear sister--some quiet guest, who would tireneither of us."
"Miss Ainley?"
"An excellent person, they say; but she lives too far off. Tell HarryScott to step up to the rectory with a request from you that CarolineHelstone 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 brilliantcleanliness 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 dispatchHarry Scott to the rectory, giving her a twisted note hastily scribbledin pencil by himself, and addressed "Miss Helstone."
Scarcely had Sarah time to get impatient under the fear of damage to hertoast already prepared when the messenger returned, and with him theinvited guest.
She entered through the kitchen, quietly tripped up Sarah's stairs totake off her bonnet and furs, and came down as quietly, with herbeautiful curls nicely smoothed, her graceful merino dress and delicatecollar all trim and spotless, her gay little work-bag in her hand. Shelingered to exchange a few kindly words with Sarah, and to look at thenew tortoise-shell kitten basking on the kitchen hearth, and to speak tothe canary-bird, which a sudden blaze from the fire had startled on itsperch; and then she betook herself to the parlour.
The gentle salutation, the friendly welcome, were interchanged in suchtranquil sort as befitted cousins meeting; a sense of pleasure, subtleand quiet as a perfume, diffused itself through the room; thenewly-kindled lamp burnt up bright; the tray and the singing urn werebrough
t in.
"I am pleased to come home," repeated Mr. Moore.
They assembled round the table. Hortense chiefly talked. Shecongratulated Caroline on the evident improvement in her health. Hercolour and her plump cheeks were returning, she remarked. It was true.There was an obvious change in Miss Helstone. All about her seemedelastic; depression, fear, forlornness, were withdrawn. No longercrushed, and saddened, and slow, and drooping, she looked like one whohad tasted the cordial of heart's ease, and been lifted on the wing ofhope.
After tea Hortense went upstairs. She had not rummaged her drawers for amonth past, and the impulse to perform that operation was now becomeresistless. During her absence the talk passed into Caroline's hands.She took it up with ease; she fell into her best tone of conversation. Apleasing facility and elegance of language gave fresh charm to familiartopics; a new music in the always soft voice gently surprised andpleasingly captivated the listener; unwonted shades and lights ofexpression elevated the young countenance with character, and kindled itwith animation.
"Caroline, you look as if you had heard good tidings," said Moore, afterearnestly gazing at her for some minutes.
"Do I?"
"I sent for you this evening that I might be cheered; but you cheer memore than I had calculated."
"I am glad of that. And I _really_ cheer you?"
"You look brightly, move buoyantly, speak musically."
"It is pleasant to be here again."
"Truly it is pleasant; I feel it so. And to see health on your cheek andhope in your eye is pleasant, Cary; but what is this hope, and what isthe source of this sunshine I perceive about you?"
"For one thing, I am happy in mamma. I love her so much, and she lovesme. Long and tenderly she nursed me. Now, when her care has made mewell, I can occupy myself for and with her all the day. I say it is myturn to attend to her; and I _do_ attend to her. I am her waiting-womanas well as her child. I like--you would laugh if you knew what pleasureI have in making dresses and sewing for her. She looks so nice now,Robert; I will not let her be old-fashioned. And then, she is charmingto 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 morehighly, I love her more tenderly."
"_That_ for one thing, then, Cary. You talk in such a way about 'mamma'it is enough to make one jealous of the old lady."
"She is not old, Robert."
"Of the young lady, then."
"She does not pretend to be young."
"Well, of the matron. But you said 'mamma's' affection was _one_ thingthat made you happy; now for the other thing."
"I am glad you are better."
"What besides?"
"I am glad we are friends."
"You and I?"
"Yes. I once thought we never should be."
"Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself that is not tomy 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 aboutit."
"You do not."
"I believe I do."
"Whom does it concern besides me?"
She coloured; she hesitated; she was silent.
"Speak, Cary! Whom does it concern?"
She tried to utter a name, and could not.
"Tell me; there is none present but ourselves. Be frank."
"But if I guess wrong?"
"I will forgive. Whisper, Cary."
He bent his ear to her lips. Still she would not, or could not, speakclearly to the point. Seeing that Moore waited and was resolved to hearsomething, she at last said, "Miss Keeldar spent a day at the rectoryabout a week since. The evening came on very wintry, and we persuadedher to stay all night."
"And you and she curled your hair together?"
"How do you know that?"
"And then you chattered, and she told you----"
"It was not at curling-hair time, so you are not as wise as you think;and, besides, she didn't tell me."
"You slept together afterwards?"
"We occupied the same room and bed. We did not sleep much; we talked thewhole night through."
"I'll be sworn you did! And then it all came out--_tant pis_. I wouldrather you had heard it from myself."
"You are quite wrong. She did not tell me what you suspect--she is notthe person to proclaim such things; but yet I inferred something fromparts of her discourse. I gathered more from rumour, and I made out therest by instinct."
"But if she did not tell you that I wanted to marry her for the sake ofher money, and that she refused me indignantly and scornfully (you needneither start nor blush; nor yet need you prick your trembling fingerswith your needle. That is the plain truth, whether you like it ornot)--if such was not the subject of her august confidences, on whatpoint did they turn? You say you talked the whole night through; whatabout?"
"About things we never thoroughly discussed before, intimate friends aswe have been; but you hardly expect I should tell you?"
"Yes, yes, Cary; you will tell me. You said we were friends, and friendsshould always confide in each other."
"But you are sure you won't repeat it?"
"Quite sure."
"Not to Louis?"
"Not even to Louis. What does Louis care for young ladies' secrets?"
"Robert, Shirley is a curious, magnanimous being."
"I dare say. I can imagine there are both odd points and grand pointsabout her."
"I have found her chary in showing her feelings; but when they rush out,river-like, and pass full and powerful before you--almost without leavefrom her--you gaze, wonder; you admire, and--I think--love her."
"You saw this spectacle?"
"Yes; at dead of night, when all the house was silent, and starlight andthe cold reflection from the snow glimmered in our chamber, then I sawShirley's heart."
"Her heart's core? Do you think she showed you that?"
"Her heart's core."
"And how was it?"
"Like a shrine, for it was holy; like snow, for it was pure; likeflame, for it was warm; like death, for it was strong."
"Can she love? tell me that."
"What think you?"
"She has loved none that have loved her yet."
"Who are those that have loved her?"
He named a list of gentlemen, closing with Sir Philip Nunnely.
"She has loved none of these."
"Yet some of them were worthy of a woman's affection."
"Of some women's, but not of Shirley's."
"Is she better than others of her sex?"
"She is peculiar, and more dangerous to take as a wife--rashly."
"I can imagine that."
"She spoke of you----"
"Oh, she did! I thought you denied it."
"She did not speak in the way you fancy; but I asked her, and I wouldmake her tell me what she thought of you, or rather how she felt towardsyou. I wanted to know; I had long wanted to know."
"So had I; but let us hear. She thinks meanly, she feels contemptuously,doubtless?"
"She thinks of you almost as highly as a woman can think of a man. Youknow she can be eloquent. I yet feel in fancy the glow of the languagein which her opinion was conveyed."
"But how does she feel?"
"Till you shocked her (she said you had shocked her, but she would nottell me how) she felt as a sister feels towards a brother of whom she isat once fond and proud."
"I'll shock her no more, Cary, for the shock rebounded on myself till Istaggered again. But that comparison about sister and brother is allnonsense. She is too rich and proud to entertain fraternal sentimentsfor me."
"You don't know her, Robert; and, somehow, I fancy now (I had otherideas formerly) that you cannot know her. You and she are not soconstructed as to be able
thoroughly to understand each other."
"It may be so. I esteem her, I admire her; and yet my impressionsconcerning 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 herpride, 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 tenderness, nor a sparkof passion for her."
"Then, Robert, it was very wicked in you to want to marry her."
"And very mean, my little pastor, my pretty priestess. I never wanted tokiss Miss Keeldar in my life, though she has fine lips, scarlet andround as ripe cherries; or, if I did wish it, it was the mere desire ofthe eye."
"I doubt, now, whether you are speaking the truth. The grapes or thecherries are sour--'hung too high.'"
"She has a pretty figure, a pretty face, beautiful hair. I acknowledgeall her charms and feel none of them, or only feel them in a way shewould disdain. I suppose I was truly tempted by the mere gilding of thebait. Caroline, what a noble fellow your Robert is--great, good,disinterested, and then so pure!"
"But not perfect. He made a great blunder once, and we will hear no moreabout it."
"And shall we think no more about it, Cary? Shall we not despise him inour heart--gentle but just, compassionate but upright?"
"Never! We will remember that with what measure we mete it shall bemeasured unto us, and so we will give no scorn, only affection."
"Which won't satisfy, I warn you of that. Something besidesaffection--something far stronger, sweeter, warmer--will be demanded oneday. Is it there to give?"
Caroline was moved, much moved.
"Be calm, Lina," said Moore soothingly. "I have no intention, because Ihave no right, to perturb your mind now, nor for months to come. Don'tlook 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 face. See whata poor, pale, grim phantom I am--more pitiable than formidable."
She looked shyly. "There is something formidable still, pale as youare," she said, as her eye fell under his.
"To return to Shirley," pursued Moore: "is it your opinion that she isever 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 thisman or that' passed her lips."
"I thought not."
"But the feeling made its way in spite of her, and I saw it. She spokeof one man in a strain not to be misunderstood. Her voice alone wassufficient testimony. Having wrung from her an opinion on yourcharacter, I demanded a second opinion of--another person about whom Ihad my conjectures, though they were the most tangled and puzzledconjectures in the world. I would _make_ her speak. I shook her, I chidher, I pinched her fingers when she tried to put me off with gibes andjests in her queer provoking way, and at last out it came. The voice, Isay, was enough; hardly raised above a whisper, and yet such a softvehemence in its tones. There was no confession, no confidence, in thematter. To these things she cannot condescend; but I am sure that man'shappiness is dear to her as her own life."
"Who is it?"
"I charged her with the fact. She did not deny, she did not avow, butlooked at me. I saw her eyes by the snow-gleam. It was quite enough. Itriumphed over her mercilessly."
"What right had _you_ to triumph? Do you mean to say _you_ are fancyfree?"
"Whatever _I_ am, Shirley is a bondswoman. Lioness, she has found hercaptor. Mistress she may be of all round her, but her own mistress sheis not."
"So you exulted at recognizing a fellow-slave in one so fair andimperial?"
"I did; Robert, you say right, in one so fair and imperial."
"You confess it--a _fellow_-slave?"
"I confess nothing; but I say that haughty Shirley is no more free thanwas Hagar."
"And who, pray, is the Abraham, the hero of a patriarch who has achievedsuch a conquest?"
"You still speak scornfully, and cynically, and sorely; but I will makeyou 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 you are a Cyclops."
"Can she marry him?"
"You will see."
"I want to know his name, Cary."
"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 inBriarfield parish her equal."
"Guess."
"Impossible. I suppose she is under a delusion, and will plunge intosome 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 ofhazel curls is an excellent little thinking machine, most accurate inits 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, Cary--tell me out of pity; I am too weak to be tantalized."
"You shall be tantalized--it will do you no harm; you are not so weak asyou pretend."
"I have twice this evening had some thoughts of falling on the floor atyour feet."
"You had better not. I shall decline to help you up."
"And worshipping you downright. My mother was a Roman Catholic. You looklike the loveliest of her pictures of the Virgin. I think I will embraceher faith and kneel and adore."
"Robert, Robert, sit still; don't be absurd. I will go to Hortense ifyou commit extravagances."
"You have stolen my senses. Just now nothing will come into my mind but_les litanies de la sainte Vierge. Rose celeste, reine des anges_!"
"_Tour d'ivoire, maison d'or_--is not that the jargon? Well, sit downquietly, 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, mydear, such a choice will make the happiness of Miss Keeldar's life.'"
"I'll guess once, and no more. It is old Helstone. She is going to beyour aunt."
"I'll tell my uncle; I'll tell Shirley!" cried Caroline, laughinggleefully. "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 Briarfield seem to havemade an idol of that priest. I wonder why; he is bald, sand-blind,gray-haired."
"Fanny will be here to fetch me before you have solved the riddle, ifyou don't make haste."
"I'll guess no more--I am tired; and then I don't care. Miss Keeldar maymarry _le grand Turc_ for me."
"Must I whisper?"
"That you must, and quickly. Here comes Hortense; come near, a littlenearer, my own Lina. I care for the whisper more than the words."
She whispered. Robert gave a start, a flash of the eye, a brief laugh.Miss Moore entered, and Sarah followed behind, with information thatFanny was come. The hour of converse was over.
Robert found a moment to exchange a few more whispered sentences. He waswaiting at the foot of the staircase as Caroline descended after puttingon 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 Robert! Was she in the wrong, or were you?"
"Must I at length love her downright, Cary?"
Caroline looked keenly up, and made a movement towards him, somethingbe
tween 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, peculiarly handsome. Hers is a beauty thatgrows on you. You think her but graceful when you first see her; youdiscover her to be beautiful when you have known her for a year."
"It is not you who are to say these things. Now, Robert, be good."
"O Cary, I have no love to give. Were the goddess of beauty to woo me, Icould not meet her advances. There is no heart which I can call mine inthis breast."
"So much the better; you are a great deal safer without. Good-night."
"Why must you always go, Lina, at the very instant when I most want youto 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 theother day a plant you had given her.--Fanny, I am ready."