Shirley
coffee to be boiled in water," and which mademoiselle affirmed to be "un
breuvage royal," a thousand times too good for the mean person who
objected to it.
The former occupants of the kitchen now withdrew into the parlour.
Before Hortense followed them thither, Caroline had only time again to
question, "Not my enemy, Robert?" And Moore, Quaker-like, had replied
with another query, "Could I be?" And then, seating himself at the
table, had settled Caroline at his side.
Caroline scarcely heard mademoiselle's explosion of wrath when she
rejoined them; the long declamation about the "conduite indigne de cette
méchante créature" sounded in her ear as confusedly as the agitated
rattling of the china. Robert laughed a little at it, in very subdued
sort, and then, politely and calmly entreating his sister to be
tranquil, assured her that if it would yield her any satisfaction, she
should have her choice of an attendant amongst all the girls in his
mill. Only he feared they would scarcely suit her, as they were most of
them, he was informed, completely ignorant of household work; and pert
and self-willed as Sarah was, she was, perhaps, no worse than the
majority of the women of her class.
Mademoiselle admitted the truth of this conjecture: according to her,
"ces paysannes anglaises étaient tout insupportables." What would she
not give for some "bonne cuisinière anversoise," with the high cap,
short petticoat, and decent sabots proper to her class--something
better, indeed, than an insolent coquette in a flounced gown, and
absolutely without cap! (For Sarah, it appears, did not partake the
opinion of St. Paul that "it is a shame for a woman to go with her head
uncovered;" but, holding rather a contrary doctrine, resolutely refused
to imprison in linen or muslin the plentiful tresses of her yellow hair,
which it was her wont to fasten up smartly with a comb behind, and on
Sundays to wear curled in front.)
"Shall I try and get you an Antwerp girl?" asked Mr. Moore, who, stern
in public, was on the whole very kind in private.
"Merci du cadeau!" was the answer. "An Antwerp girl would not stay here
ten days, sneered at as she would be by all the young coquines in your
factory;" then softening, "You are very good, dear brother--excuse my
petulance--but truly my domestic trials are severe, yet they are
probably my destiny; for I recollect that our revered mother experienced
similar sufferings, though she had the choice of all the best servants
in Antwerp. Domestics are in all countries a spoiled and unruly set."
Mr. Moore had also certain reminiscences about the trials of his revered
mother. A good mother she had been to him, and he honoured her memory;
but he recollected that she kept a hot kitchen of it in Antwerp, just as
his faithful sister did here in England. Thus, therefore, he let the
subject drop, and when the coffee-service was removed, proceeded to
console Hortense by fetching her music-book and guitar; and having
arranged the ribbon of the instrument round her neck with a quiet
fraternal kindness he knew to be all-powerful in soothing her most
ruffled moods, he asked her to give him some of their mother's favourite
songs.
Nothing refines like affection. Family jarring vulgarizes; family union
elevates. Hortense, pleased with her brother, and grateful to him,
looked, as she touched her guitar, almost graceful, almost handsome; her
everyday fretful look was gone for a moment, and was replaced by a
"sourire plein de bonté." She sang the songs he asked for, with feeling;
they reminded her of a parent to whom she had been truly attached; they
reminded her of her young days. She observed, too, that Caroline
listened with naïve interest; this augmented her good-humour; and the
exclamation at the close of the song, "I wish I could sing and play like
Hortense!" achieved the business, and rendered her charming for the
evening.
It is true a little lecture to Caroline followed, on the vanity of
_wishing_ and the duty of _trying_. "As Rome," it was suggested, "had
not been built in a day, so neither had Mademoiselle Gérard Moore's
education been completed in a week, or by merely _wishing_ to be clever.
It was effort that had accomplished that great work. She was ever
remarkable for her perseverance, for her industry. Her masters had
remarked that it was as delightful as it was uncommon to find so much
talent united with so much solidity, and so on." Once on the theme of
her own merits, mademoiselle was fluent.
Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took her knitting, and
sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly-shining lamp,
gave now to the little parlour its best, its evening charm. It is
probable that the three there present felt this charm. They all looked
happy.
"What shall we do now, Caroline?" asked Mr. Moore, returning to his seat
beside his cousin.
"What shall we do, Robert?" repeated she playfully. "You decide."
"Not play at chess?"
"No."
"Nor draughts, nor backgammon?"
"No, no; we both hate silent games that only keep one's hands employed,
don't we?"
"I believe we do. Then shall we talk scandal?"
"About whom? Are we sufficiently interested in anybody to take a
pleasure in pulling their character to pieces?"
"A question that comes to the point. For my part, unamiable as it
sounds, I must say no."
"And I too. But it is strange, though we want no third--fourth, I mean
(she hastily and with contrition glanced at Hortense), living person
among us--so selfish we are in our happiness--though we don't want to
think of the present existing world, it would be pleasant to go back to
the past, to hear people that have slept for generations in graves that
are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens and fields, speak to us
and tell us their thoughts, and impart their ideas."
"Who shall be the speaker? What language shall he utter? French?"
"Your French forefathers don't speak so sweetly, nor so solemnly, nor so
impressively as your English ancestors, Robert. To-night you shall be
entirely English. You shall read an English book."
"An old English book?"
"Yes, an old English book--one that you like; and I will choose a part
of it that is toned quite in harmony with something in you. It shall
waken your nature, fill your mind with music; it shall pass like a
skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound. Your heart is
a lyre, Robert; but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to
sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and
touch it. You will see how he will draw the English power and melody out
of its chords."
"I must read Shakespeare?"
"You must have his spirit before you; you must hear his voice with your
mind's ear; you must take some of his soul into yours."
"With a view to making me better? Is it to operate like a sermon?"
"It is to stir you, to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel
your life strongly--not only your virtues, but your vicious, perverse
points."
"Dieu! que dit-elle?" cried Hortense, who hitherto had been counting
stitches in her knitting, and had not much attended to what was said,
but whose ear these two strong words caught with a tweak.
"Never mind her, sister; let her talk. Now just let her say anything she
pleases to-night. She likes to come down hard upon your brother
sometimes. It amuses me, so let her alone."
Caroline, who, mounted on a chair, had been rummaging the bookcase,
returned with a book.
"Here's Shakespeare," she said, "and there's 'Coriolanus.' Now, read,
and discover by the feelings the reading will give you at once how low
and how high you are."
"Come, then, sit near me, and correct when I mispronounce."
"I am to be the teacher then, and you my pupil?"
"Ainsi, soit-il!"
"And Shakespeare is our science, since we are going to study?"
"It appears so."
"And you are not going to be French, and sceptical, and sneering? You
are not going to think it a sign of wisdom to refuse to admire?"
"I don't know."
"If you do, Robert, I'll take Shakespeare away; and I'll shrivel up
within myself, and put on my bonnet and go home."
"Sit down. Here I begin."
"One minute, if you please, brother," interrupted mademoiselle. "When
the gentleman of a family reads, the ladies should always
sew.--Caroline, dear child, take your embroidery. You may get three
sprigs done to-night."
Caroline looked dismayed. "I can't see by lamp-light; my eyes are tired,
and I can't do two things well at once. If I sew, I cannot listen; if I
listen, I cannot sew."
"Fi, donc! Quel enfantillage!" began Hortense. Mr. Moore, as usual,
suavely interposed.
"Permit her to neglect the embroidery for this evening. I wish her whole
attention to be fixed on my accent; and to ensure this, she must follow
the reading with her eyes--she must look at the book."
He placed it between them, reposed his arm on the back of Caroline's
chair, and thus began to read.
The very first scene in "Coriolanus" came with smart relish to his
intellectual palate, and still as he read he warmed. He delivered the
haughty speech of Caius Marcius to the starving citizens with unction;
he did not say he thought his irrational pride right, but he seemed to
feel it so. Caroline looked up at him with a singular smile.
"There's a vicious point hit already," she said. "You sympathize with
that proud patrician who does not sympathize with his famished
fellow-men, and insults them. There, go on." He proceeded. The warlike
portions did not rouse him much; he said all that was out of date, or
should be; the spirit displayed was barbarous; yet the encounter
single-handed between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius he delighted in. As he
advanced, he forgot to criticise; it was evident he appreciated the
power, the truth of each portion; and, stepping out of the narrow line
of private prejudices, began to revel in the large picture of human
nature, to feel the reality stamped upon the characters who were
speaking from that page before him.
He did not read the comic scenes well; and Caroline, taking the book out
of his hand, read these parts for him. From her he seemed to enjoy them,
and indeed she gave them with a spirit no one could have expected of
her, with a pithy expression with which she seemed gifted on the spot,
and for that brief moment only. It may be remarked, in passing, that the
general character of her conversation that evening, whether serious or
sprightly, grave or gay, was as of something untaught, unstudied,
intuitive, fitful--when once gone, no more to be reproduced as it had
been than the glancing ray of the meteor, than the tints of the dew-gem,
than the colour or form of the sunset cloud, than the fleeting and
glittering ripple varying the flow of a rivulet.
Coriolanus in glory, Coriolanus in disaster, Coriolanus banished,
followed like giant shades one after the other. Before the vision of the
banished man Moore's spirit seemed to pause. He stood on the hearth of
Aufidius's hall, facing the image of greatness fallen, but greater than
ever in that low estate. He saw "the grim appearance," the dark face
"bearing command in it," "the noble vessel with its tackle torn." With
the revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly sympathized; he was not
scandalized by it; and again Caroline whispered, "There I see another
glimpse of brotherhood in error."
The march on Rome, the mother's supplication, the long resistance, the
final yielding of bad passions to good, which ever must be the case in a
nature worthy the epithet of noble, the rage of Aufidius at what he
considered his ally's weakness, the death of Coriolanus, the final
sorrow of his great enemy--all scenes made of condensed truth and
strength--came on in succession and carried with them in their deep,