Shirley
likewise beneath the windows--stalks budless and flowerless now, but
giving dim prediction of trained and blooming creepers for summer days.
A grass plat and borders fronted the cottage. The borders presented only
black mould yet, except where, in sheltered nooks, the first shoots of
snowdrop or crocus peeped, green as emerald, from the earth. The spring
was late; it had been a severe and prolonged winter; the last deep snow
had but just disappeared before yesterday's rains; on the hills, indeed,
white remnants of it yet gleamed, flecking the hollows and crowning the
peaks; the lawn was not verdant, but bleached, as was the grass on the
bank, and under the hedge in the lane. Three trees, gracefully grouped,
rose beside the cottage. They were not lofty, but having no rivals near,
they looked well and imposing where they grew. Such was Mr. Moore's
home--a snug nest for content and contemplation, but one within which
the wings of action and ambition could not long lie folded.
Its air of modest comfort seemed to possess no particular attraction for
its owner. Instead of entering the house at once he fetched a spade from
a little shed and began to work in the garden. For about a quarter of an
hour he dug on uninterrupted. At length, however, a window opened, and a
female voice called to him,--
"Eh, bien! Tu ne déjeûnes pas ce matin?"
The answer, and the rest of the conversation, was in French; but as this
is an English book, I shall translate it into English.
"Is breakfast ready, Hortense?"
"Certainly; it has been ready half an hour."
"Then I am ready too. I have a canine hunger."
He threw down his spade, and entered the house. The narrow passage
conducted him to a small parlour, where a breakfast of coffee and bread
and butter, with the somewhat un-English accompaniment of stewed pears,
was spread on the table. Over these viands presided the lady who had
spoken from the window. I must describe her before I go any farther.
She seemed a little older than Mr. Moore--perhaps she was thirty-five,
tall, and proportionately stout; she had very black hair, for the
present twisted up in curl-papers, a high colour in her cheeks, a small
nose, a pair of little black eyes. The lower part of her face was large
in proportion to the upper; her forehead was small and rather
corrugated; she had a fretful though not an ill-natured expression of
countenance; there was something in her whole appearance one felt
inclined to be half provoked with and half amused at. The strangest
point was her dress--a stuff petticoat and a striped cotton camisole.
The petticoat was short, displaying well a pair of feet and ankles which
left much to be desired in the article of symmetry.
You will think I have depicted a remarkable slattern, reader. Not at
all. Hortense Moore (she was Mr. Moore's sister) was a very orderly,
economical person. The petticoat, camisole, and curl-papers were her
morning costume, in which, of forenoons, she had always been accustomed
to "go her household ways" in her own country. She did not choose to
adopt English fashions because she was obliged to live in England; she
adhered to her old Belgian modes, quite satisfied that there was a merit
in so doing.
Mademoiselle had an excellent opinion of herself--an opinion not wholly
undeserved, for she possessed some good and sterling qualities; but she
rather over-estimated the kind and degree of these qualities, and quite
left out of the account sundry little defects which accompanied them.
You could never have persuaded her that she was a prejudiced and
narrow-minded person, that she was too susceptible on the subject of her
own dignity and importance, and too apt to take offence about trifles;
yet all this was true. However, where her claims to distinction were not
opposed, and where her prejudices were not offended, she could be kind
and friendly enough. To her two brothers (for there was another Gérard
Moore besides Robert) she was very much attached. As the sole remaining
representatives of their decayed family, the persons of both were almost
sacred in her eyes. Of Louis, however, she knew less than of Robert. He
had been sent to England when a mere boy, and had received his education
at an English school. His education not being such as to adapt him for
trade, perhaps, too, his natural bent not inclining him to mercantile
pursuits, he had, when the blight of hereditary prospects rendered it
necessary for him to push his own fortune, adopted the very arduous and
very modest career of a teacher. He had been usher in a school, and was
said now to be tutor in a private family. Hortense, when she mentioned
Louis, described him as having what she called "des moyens," but as
being too backward and quiet. Her praise of Robert was in a different
strain, less qualified: she was very proud of him; she regarded him as
the greatest man in Europe; all he said and did was remarkable in her
eyes, and she expected others to behold him from the same point of view;
nothing could be more irrational, monstrous, and infamous than
opposition from any quarter to Robert, unless it were opposition to
herself.
Accordingly, as soon as the said Robert was seated at the
breakfast-table, and she had helped him to a portion of stewed pears,
and cut him a good-sized Belgian tartine, she began to pour out a flood
of amazement and horror at the transaction of last night, the
destruction of the frames.
"Quelle idée! to destroy them. Quelle action honteuse! On voyait bien
que les ouvriers de ce pays étaient à la fois betes et méchants. C'était
absolument comme les domestiques anglais, les servantes surtout: rien
d'insupportable comme cette Sara, par exemple!"
"She looks clean and industrious," Mr. Moore remarked.
"Looks! I don't know how she looks, and I do not say that she is
altogether dirty or idle, mais elle est d'une insolence! She disputed
with me a quarter of an hour yesterday about the cooking of the beef;
she said I boiled it to rags, that English people would never be able to
eat such a dish as our bouilli, that the bouillon was no better than
greasy warm water, and as to the choucroute, she affirms she cannot
touch it! That barrel we have in the cellar--delightfully prepared by my
own hands--she termed a tub of hog-wash, which means food for pigs. I am
harassed with the girl, and yet I cannot part with her lest I should get
a worse. You are in the same position with your workmen, pauvre cher
frère!"
"I am afraid you are not very happy in England, Hortense."
"It is my duty to be happy where you are, brother; but otherwise there
are certainly a thousand things which make me regret our native town.
All the world here appears to me ill-bred (mal-élevé). I find my habits
considered ridiculous. If a girl out of your mill chances to come into
the kitchen and find me in my jupon and camisole preparing dinner (for
you know I cannot trust Sarah to cook a single dish), she sneers. If I
accept an invitation out to tea, which I have done once or twice, I
perceive I am put quite into the background; I have not that attention
paid me which decidedly is my due. Of what an excellent family are the
Gérards, as we know, and the Moores also! They have a right to claim a
certain respect, and to feel wounded when it is withheld from them. In
Antwerp I was always treated with distinction; here, one would think
that when I open my lips in company I speak English with a ridiculous
accent, whereas I am quite assured that I pronounce it perfectly."
"Hortense, in Antwerp we were known rich; in England we were never known
but poor."
"Precisely, and thus mercenary are mankind. Again, dear brother, last
Sunday, if you recollect, was very wet; accordingly I went to church in
my neat black sabots, objects one would not indeed wear in a fashionable
city, but which in the country I have ever been accustomed to use for
walking in dirty roads. Believe me, as I paced up the aisle, composed
and tranquil, as I am always, four ladies, and as many gentlemen,
laughed and hid their faces behind their prayer-books."
"Well, well! don't put on the sabots again. I told you before I thought
they were not quite the thing for this country."
"But, brother, they are not common sabots, such as the peasantry wear. I
tell you, they are sabots noirs, très propres, très convenables. At Mons
and Leuze--cities not very far removed from the elegant capital of
Brussels--it is very seldom that the respectable people wear anything
else for walking in winter. Let any one try to wade the mud of the
Flemish chaussées in a pair of Paris brodequins, on m'en dirait des
nouvelles!"
"Never mind Mons and Leuze and the Flemish chaussées; do at Rome as the
Romans do. And as to the camisole and jupon, I am not quite sure about
them either. I never see an English lady dressed in such garments. Ask
Caroline Helstone."
"Caroline! _I_ ask Caroline? _I_ consult her about my dress? It is _she_
who on all points should consult _me_. She is a child."
"She is eighteen, or at least seventeen--old enough to know all about
gowns, petticoats, and chaussures."
"Do not spoil Caroline, I entreat you, brother. Do not make her of more
consequence than she ought to be. At present she is modest and
unassuming: let us keep her so."
"With all my heart. Is she coming this morning?"
"She will come at ten, as usual, to take her French lesson."
"You don't find that she sneers at you, do you?"
"She does not. She appreciates me better than any one else here; but
then she has more intimate opportunities of knowing me. She sees that I
have education, intelligence, manner, principles--all, in short, which
belongs to a person well born and well bred."
"Are you at all fond of her?"
"For _fond_ I cannot say. I am not one who is prone to take violent
fancies, and, consequently, my friendship is the more to be depended on.
I have a regard for her as my relative; her position also inspires
interest, and her conduct as my pupil has hitherto been such as rather
to enhance than diminish the attachment that springs from other causes."
"She behaves pretty well at lessons?"
"To _me_ she behaves very well; but you are conscious, brother, that I
have a manner calculated to repel over-familiarity, to win esteem, and
to command respect. Yet, possessed of penetration, I perceive clearly
that Caroline is not perfect, that there is much to be desired in her."
"Give me a last cup of coffee, and while I am drinking it amuse me with
an account of her faults."
"Dear brother, I am happy to see you eat your breakfast with relish,
after the fatiguing night you have passed. Caroline, then, is defective;
but with my forming hand and almost motherly care she may improve. There
is about her an occasional something--a reserve, I think--which I do not
quite like, because it is not sufficiently girlish and submissive; and
there are glimpses of an unsettled hurry in her nature, which put me
out. Yet she is usually most tranquil, too dejected and thoughtful
indeed sometimes. In time, I doubt not, I shall make her uniformly
sedate and decorous, without being unaccountably pensive. I ever
disapprove what is not intelligible."
"I don't understand your account in the least. What do you mean by
'unsettled hurries,' for instance?"
"An example will, perhaps, be the most satisfactory explanation. I
sometimes, you are aware, make her read French poetry by way of
practice in pronunciation. She has in the course of her lessons gone
through much of Corneille and Racine, in a very steady, sober spirit,
such as I approve. Occasionally she showed, indeed, a degree of languor
in the perusal of those esteemed authors, partaking rather of apathy
than sobriety; and apathy is what I cannot tolerate in those who have