Shirley (59 page)

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 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 down again?" asked Caroline.

Her nurse assisted her to bed. Having laid her down and drawn 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 lips. She now remembered that Tuesday was Whinbury market day. Mr. Moore must always pass the rectory 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 generally wandering. Half rising,

as if in terror, she exclaimed, "Don't take it from me, Robert! Don't! It is my last comfort; let me keep it. I never tell any one whose hair it is; I never show it."

Mrs. Pryor 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the bedside, she was withdrawn from view.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 chamber; 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 believed 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 prosperous 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 aloud,

but now words escaped her lips 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 wind, water, 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 casement 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 watch-light.

"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 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 goodness 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 really 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 sickroom, 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 ill; 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. Robert?" 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 no! He thought, like me, that she had only a bad cold."

After this visit, Mrs. Pryor took care not to approach 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 unrecognizing 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 Robert 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 unclouded.

"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—"O 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 pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary. 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 turfy 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 moonlight 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 plenty of room for other 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 make a will, I would leave William all my plants; Shirley my trinkets—except one, which must not be taken off my neck; and you, ma'am, my books." After a pause—"Mrs. Pryor, I feel a longing wish for something."

"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,

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

Our refuge, haven, home!'"

Mrs. Pryor at once complied.

No wonder Caroline liked to hear her sing. Her voice, even in speaking, was sweet and silver clear;

in song it was almost divine. Neither flute nor dulcimer has tones so pure. But the tone was secondary,

compared to the expression which trembled through—a tender vibration from a feeling heart.

The servants in the kitchen, hearing the strain, stole to the stair-foot to listen. Even old Helstone, as he walked in the garden, pondering over the unaccountable and feeble nature of women, stood still amongst his borders to catch the mournful melody more distinctly. Why it reminded him of his forgotten dead wife, he could not tell; 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. When

they 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 his 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.

"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

Dies 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' bonnie 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 believe grief is, and always has been, my worst ailment. I sometimes think if an abundant gush of happiness 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 will 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