Shirley
taciturnity--kept up a brilliant flow of easy prattle with his
right-hand and left-hand neighbours, and even with his _vis-à-vis_, Miss
Mary; though, as Mary was the most sensible, the least coquettish, of
the three, to her the elderly widower was the least attentive. At heart
he could not abide sense in women. He liked to see them as silly, as
light-headed, as vain, as open to ridicule as possible, because they
were then in reality what he held them to be, and wished them to
be--inferior, toys to play with, to amuse a vacant hour, and to be
thrown away.
Hannah was his favourite. Harriet, though beautiful, egotistical, and
self-satisfied, was not quite weak enough for him. She had some genuine
self-respect amidst much false pride, and if she did not talk like an
oracle, neither would she babble like one crazy; she would not permit
herself to be treated quite as a doll, a child, a plaything; she
expected to be bent to like a queen.
Hannah, on the contrary, demanded no respect, only flattery. If her
admirers only _told_ her that she was an angel, she would let them
_treat_ her like an idiot. So very credulous and frivolous was she, so
very silly did she become when besieged with attention, flattered and
admired to the proper degree, that there were moments when Helstone
actually felt tempted to commit matrimony a second time, and to try the
experiment of taking her for his second helpmeet; but fortunately the
salutary recollection of the _ennuis_ of his first marriage, the
impression still left on him of the weight of the millstone he had once
worn round his neck, the fixity of his feelings respecting the
insufferable evils of conjugal existence, operated as a check to his
tenderness, suppressed the sigh heaving his old iron lungs, and
restrained him from whispering to Hannah proposals it would have been
high fun and great satisfaction to her to hear.
It is probable she would have married him if he had asked her; her
parents would have quite approved the match. To them his fifty-five
years, his bend-leather heart, could have presented no obstacles; and as
he was a rector, held an excellent living, occupied a good house, and
was supposed even to have private property (though in that the world was
mistaken; every penny of the £5,000 inherited by him from his father had
been devoted to the building and endowing of a new church at his native
village in Lancashire--for he could show a lordly munificence when he
pleased, and if the end was to his liking, never hesitated about making
a grand sacrifice to attain it)--her parents, I say, would have
delivered Hannah over to his lovingkindness and his tender mercies
without one scruple; and the second Mrs. Helstone, inverting the natural
order of insect existence, would have fluttered through the honeymoon a
bright, admired butterfly, and crawled the rest of her days a sordid,
trampled worm.
Little Mr. Sweeting, seated between Mrs. Sykes and Miss Mary, both of
whom were very kind to him, and having a dish of tarts before him, and
marmalade and crumpet upon his plate, looked and felt more content than
any monarch. He was fond of all the Misses Sykes; they were all fond of
him. He thought them magnificent girls, quite proper to mate with one of
his inches. If he had a cause of regret at this blissful moment, it was
that Miss Dora happened to be absent--Dora being the one whom he
secretly hoped one day to call Mrs. David Sweeting, with whom he dreamt
of taking stately walks, leading her like an empress through the village
of Nunnely; and an empress she would have been, if size could make an
empress. She was vast, ponderous. Seen from behind, she had the air of a
very stout lady of forty; but withal she possessed a good face, and no
unkindly character.
The meal at last drew to a close. It would have been over long ago if
Mr. Donne had not persisted in sitting with his cup half full of cold
tea before him, long after the rest had finished and after he himself
had discussed such allowance of viands as he felt competent to
swallow--long, indeed, after signs of impatience had been manifested
all round the board, till chairs were pushed back, till the talk
flagged, till silence fell. Vainly did Caroline inquire repeatedly if he
would have another cup, if he would take a little hot tea, as that must
be cold, etc.; he would neither drink it nor leave it. He seemed to
think that this isolated position of his gave him somehow a certain
importance, that it was dignified and stately to be the last, that it
was grand to keep all the others waiting. So long did he linger, that
the very urn died; it ceased to hiss. At length, however, the old rector
himself, who had hitherto been too pleasantly engaged with Hannah to
care for the delay, got impatient.
"For whom are we waiting?" he asked.
"For me, I believe," returned Donne complacently, appearing to think it
much to his credit that a party should thus be kept dependent on his
movements.
"Tut!" cried Helstone. Then standing up, "Let us return thanks," said
he; which he did forthwith, and all quitted the table. Donne, nothing
abashed, still sat ten minutes quite alone, whereupon Mr. Helstone rang
the bell for the things to be removed. The curate at length saw himself
forced to empty his cup, and to relinquish the _rôle_ which, he thought,
had given him such a felicitous distinction, drawing upon him such
flattering general notice.
And now, in the natural course of events (Caroline, knowing how it would
be, had opened the piano, and produced music-books in readiness), music
was asked for. This was Mr. Sweeting's chance for showing off. He was
eager to commence. He undertook, therefore, the arduous task of
persuading the young ladies to favour the company with an air--a song.
_Con amore_ he went through the whole business of begging, praying,
resisting excuses, explaining away difficulties, and at last succeeded
in persuading Miss Harriet to allow herself to be led to the instrument.
Then out came the pieces of his flute (he always carried them in his
pocket, as unfailingly as he carried his handkerchief). They were
screwed and arranged, Malone and Donne meanwhile herding together and
sneering at him, which the little man, glancing over his shoulder, saw,
but did not heed at all. He was persuaded their sarcasm all arose from
envy. They could not accompany the ladies as he could; he was about to
enjoy a triumph over them.
The triumph began. Malone, much chagrined at hearing him pipe up in most
superior style, determined to earn distinction too, if possible, and
all at once assuming the character of a swain (which character he had
endeavoured to enact once or twice before, but in which he had not
hitherto met with the success he doubtless opined his merits deserved),
approached a sofa on which Miss Helstone was seated, and depositing his
great Irish frame near her, tried his hand (or rather tongue) at a fine
speech or two, accompanied by grins the most extraordinary and
incomprehensible. In the course of his efforts to render himself
agreeable, he contrived to possess himself of the two long sofa cushions
and a square one; with which, after rolling them about for some time
with strange gestures, he managed to erect a sort of barrier between
himself and the object of his attentions. Caroline, quite willing that
they should be sundered, soon devised an excuse for stepping over to the
opposite side of the room, and taking up a position beside Mrs. Sykes,
of which good lady she entreated some instruction in a new stitch in
ornamental knitting, a favour readily granted; and thus Peter Augustus
was thrown out.
Very sullenly did his countenance lower when he saw himself
abandoned--left entirely to his own resources, on a large sofa, with the
charge of three small cushions on his hands. The fact was, he felt
disposed seriously to cultivate acquaintance with Miss Helstone, because
he thought, in common with others, that her uncle possessed money, and
concluded that, since he had no children, he would probably leave it to
his niece. Gérard Moore was better instructed on this point: he had seen
the neat church that owed its origin to the rector's zeal and cash, and
more than once, in his inmost soul, had cursed an expensive caprice
which crossed his wishes.
The evening seemed long to one person in that room. Caroline at
intervals dropped her knitting on her lap, and gave herself up to a sort
of brain-lethargy--closing her eyes and depressing her head--caused by
what seemed to her the unmeaning hum around her,--the inharmonious,
tasteless rattle of the piano keys, the squeaking and gasping notes of
the flute, the laughter and mirth of her uncle, and Hannah, and Mary,
she could not tell whence originating, for she heard nothing comic or
gleeful in their discourse; and more than all, by the interminable
gossip of Mrs. Sykes murmured close at her ear, gossip which rang the
changes on four subjects--her own health and that of the various
members of her family; the missionary and Jew baskets and their
contents; the late meeting at Nunnely, and one which was expected to
come off next week at Whinbury.
Tired at length to exhaustion, she embraced the opportunity of Mr.
Sweeting coming up to speak to Mrs. Sykes to slip quietly out of the
apartment, and seek a moment's respite in solitude. She repaired to the
dining-room, where the clear but now low remnant of a fire still burned
in the grate. The place was empty and quiet, glasses and decanters were
cleared from the table, the chairs were put back in their places, all
was orderly. Caroline sank into her uncle's large easy-chair, half shut
her eyes, and rested herself--rested at least her limbs, her senses, her
hearing, her vision--weary with listening to nothing, and gazing on
vacancy. As to her mind, that flew directly to the Hollow. It stood on
the threshold of the parlour there, then it passed to the
counting-house, and wondered which spot was blessed by the presence of
Robert. It so happened that neither locality had that honour; for Robert
was half a mile away from both, and much nearer to Caroline than her
deadened spirit suspected. He was at this moment crossing the
churchyard, approaching the rectory garden-gate--not, however, coming to
see his cousin, but intent solely on communicating a brief piece of
intelligence to the rector.
Yes, Caroline; you hear the wire of the bell vibrate; it rings again for
the fifth time this afternoon. You start, and you are certain now that
this must be he of whom you dream. Why you are so certain you cannot
explain to yourself, but you know it. You lean forward, listening
eagerly as Fanny opens the door. Right! That is _the_ voice--low, with
the slight foreign accent, but so sweet, as you fancy. You half rise.
"Fanny will tell him Mr. Helstone is with company, and then he will go
away." Oh! she cannot let him go. In spite of herself, in spite of her
reason, she walks half across the room; she stands ready to dart out in
case the step should retreat; but he enters the passage. "Since your
master is engaged," he says, "just show me into the dining-room. Bring
me pen and ink. I will write a short note and leave it for him."
Now, having caught these words, and hearing him advance, Caroline, if
there was a door within the dining-room, would glide through it and
disappear. She feels caught, hemmed in; she dreads her unexpected
presence may annoy him. A second since she would have flown to him;
that second past, she would flee from him. She cannot. There is no way
of escape. The dining-room has but one door, through which now enters
her cousin. The look of troubled surprise she expected to see in his
face has appeared there, has shocked her, and is gone. She has stammered
a sort of apology:--