Shirley (62 page)

Yet Caroline could find fault. Blind to the constitutional 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 sensation 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 strait in the skirt. You shall put on your black silk 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 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 recommending. 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 contrary, 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 lady's-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, rearranged her muslin handkerchief and resmoothed 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 license complacently.

"Did papa give you this, mamma?"

"My sister gave it me—my only sister, Cary. 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."

"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 upstairs and down, like a dog."

"Whose features still give me such a strange thrill sometimes. 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, Cary?"

"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, Cary; but, really, the first time I heard your truly excellent friend read and preach I could not understand his broad northern tongue."

"Could you understand me, mamma? Did I seem to speak roughly?"

"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 for 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 urgency. 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.

26

Chapter

OLD COPY-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 rectory.

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.

"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 sceptical 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, Cary; 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."

"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?"

"Is that so difficult?"

"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 showing my treasure I may 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. Ere long 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 Fieldhead. 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 rector's niece was received 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 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 submissive 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 Roman nose apiece. 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'-schoolroom code of laws on language, demeanour, etc.; 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 Originality. Quick were they to recognize 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, expressive 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 his cheek and 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 believed 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 Sympson—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