Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (107 page)

“Now, William, 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 eat and plenty to wear. My pride makes me find means to have 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 t’ 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. The 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 not 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. Folks 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 the devil, scoundrels that reckons to be the ‘people’s friends,’ and that knows nought 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 theirseln 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 nought but selfishness. It is but excessive few, it is but just an exception here and there, now 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 theirseln.”

“Ay, we’se look after werseln,” 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 supercilious 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 nought 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. 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 intelligence, 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 chattering of a pie. He replied to it by a disdainful silence.

“Joe,” continued Miss Keeldar, “I never yet could ascertain 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 France, 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 hour 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.”

Joe Scott’s 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 little — a
very little
— selfish and short-sighted 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 think all the wisdom in the world is lodged in male skulls?”

“I think that women are a kittle and a froward generation; 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 against those rights.”

“And,” continued Joe Scott, “Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived 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?”

“My certy, that I do! 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 sure; no doubt on’t,” persisted the stubborn overlooker.

“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 misapprehended 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 is a hard-working, plain woman; time and 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 summat behind t’ great desk, and she didn’t see me, and she brought a slate wi’ a sum on it to t’ maister. It war 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 like, 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 Common. 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-bye. — William, good-bye. — Children, come up to Fieldhead to-morrow, and you shall choose what you like best out of Mrs. Gill’s store-room.”

CHAPTER XIX.

A SUMMER NIGHT.

The hour was 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 rectory garden door.

“You must not go alone, Shirley; Fanny shall accompany you.”

“That she shall not. Of what need I be afraid in my own parish? I would walk from Fieldhead 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. Birtwhistle’s car. I don’t wish to go through the ceremony of bidding them all good-bye, 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 confabulation, shaking of hands, congratulation on speeches, recommendation to be careful of the night air, etc. 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.”

Caroline came, expecting, as Shirley did, a lecture on not having been visible at church. Other subjects, however, occupied the rector’s mind.

“I shall not sleep at home to-night,” he continued. “I have just met with an old friend, and promised to accompany 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 gentleman — the first gentleman in Briarfield, in short — to supply your place, be master of the rectory and guardian of your niece and maids while you are away?”

“Exactly, captain. I thought the post would suit you. Will you favour Caroline so far as to be her guest for one night? Will you stay here instead of going back to Fieldhead?”

“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 in your stronghold?”

“You could not wield a sword?”

“No; I could 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 rector 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 window-sill a glass of flowers which stood on the sideboard, the exhalation from the blossoms being somewhat too powerful for the sultry 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 that 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 window 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 bedtime; yet I would rather sit up a little 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 Keeldar, 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?”

“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 churchyard 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?”

“Because 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 that 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.”

“All those gentlemen — your cousin Moore included — think that you and I are now asleep in our beds, unconscious.”

“Caring nothing about them — hoping and fearing nothing for them,” added Caroline.

Both kept silent 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 passages 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 outline of her shape was visible near the still open window, leaning out. Miss Helstone asked no questions; she stole to her side. The dog recommenced barking furiously. Suddenly he stopped, and seemed to listen. The occupants of the dining-room listened too, 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 comprehended 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 shrubs of the garden 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 rectory. They felt it more when a human voice — though that voice spoke but one word — broke the hush of the night.

“Halt!”

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 listening 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?”

“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 was 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 upstairs, 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?”

“Firearms, allus — and allus 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.”