Shirley (41 page)

the moral and physical atmosphere."

"Well, Mr. Moore" (so these conferences always ended), "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 with 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, whitewashed, repainted, and

decorated with flowers and evergreens—some from the rectory garden, two cartloads from

Fieldhead, and a wheel-barrowful from the more stingy domain of De Walden, the residence of Mr.

Wynne. In these schoolrooms twenty tables, each calculated to accommodate 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 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 afterwards the meeting, with music and speechifying in the church.

Why Briarfield was chosen for the point of rendezvous—the scene of the
fête
—should be explained. It was not because it was the largest or most populous parish—Whinbury far outdid it in

that respect; nor because it was the oldest, antique as were the hoary church and rectory—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

rector'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, meantime, being a nervous person, who mortally feared publicity—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 enjoyment. Miss Keeldar was better in her

single self than a host of ordinary friends. Quite self-possessed, and always 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 bells 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 morning

arranging the rectory parlours in first-rate company order, and setting out a collation of cooling refreshments—wine, fruit, cakes—on the dining-room sideboard. 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. Her 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 magnificent contour.

What her brown eye and clear forehead showed of her mind was in keeping with her dress and face—

modest, gentle, and, though pensive, harmonious. It appeared that neither lamb nor dove need fear her, but would welcome rather, in her look of simplicity and softness, a sympathy with their own natures, or with the natures we ascribe to them.

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

Fieldhead. 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 no 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 nature, 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 fashion, the tasteful appliance of ornament in each portion of her dress, were quite in place with her. All this 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 downstairs, 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 rector 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 corporation, 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 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 rectory 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 windows gay groups are standing. These are the patrons and teachers, who are to swell the procession. In the parson's croft, behind the rectory, 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 rector'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, school, or court-house, to the cooking of a dinner, he still advocated the lordly, liberal, and effective.

Miss Keeldar 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 corner, or stealing away to her own room till the procession

should be marshalled, according to her wont, she moved through the three parlours, conversed 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 speaking, 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 her 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 affection and intellect; the Misses Pearson, Sykes, Wynne, etc., etc., only the profiteers by her good-nature and vivacity.