Shirley
was from home, and went away doubly sad; whereas its kindling rendered
her elate, as though she saw in it the promise of some indefinite hope.
If, while she gazed, a shadow bent between the light and lattice, her
heart leaped. That eclipse was Robert; she had seen him. She would
return home comforted, carrying in her mind a clearer vision of his
aspect, a distincter recollection of his voice, his smile, his bearing;
and blent with these impressions was often a sweet persuasion that, if
she could get near him, his heart might welcome her presence yet, that
at this moment he might be willing to extend his hand and draw her to
him, and shelter her at his side as he used to do. That night, though
she might weep as usual, she would fancy her tears less scalding; the
pillow they watered seemed a little softer; the temples pressed to that
pillow ached less.
The shortest path from the Hollow to the rectory wound near a certain
mansion, the same under whose lone walls Malone passed on that
night-journey mentioned in an early chapter of this work--the old and
tenantless dwelling yclept Fieldhead. Tenantless by the proprietor it
had been for ten years, but it was no ruin. Mr. Yorke had seen it kept
in good repair, and an old gardener and his wife had lived in it,
cultivated the grounds, and maintained the house in habitable condition.
If Fieldhead had few other merits as a building, it might at least be
termed picturesque. Its regular architecture, and the gray and mossy
colouring communicated by time, gave it a just claim to this epithet.
The old latticed windows, the stone porch, the walls, the roof, the
chimney-stacks, were rich in crayon touches and sepia lights and shades.
The trees behind were fine, bold, and spreading; the cedar on the lawn
in front was grand; and the granite urns on the garden wall, the fretted
arch of the gateway, were, for an artist, as the very desire of the eye.
One mild May evening Caroline, passing near about moonrise, and feeling,
though weary, unwilling yet to go home, where there was only the bed of
thorns and the night of grief to anticipate, sat down on the mossy
ground near the gate, and gazed through towards cedar and mansion. It
was a still night--calm, dewy, cloudless; the gables, turned to the
west, reflected the clear amber of the horizon they faced; the oaks
behind were black; the cedar was blacker. Under its dense, raven boughs
a glimpse of sky opened gravely blue. It was full of the moon, which
looked solemnly and mildly down on Caroline from beneath that sombre
canopy.
She felt this night and prospect mournfully lovely. She wished she could
be happy; she wished she could know inward peace; she wondered
Providence had no pity on her, and would not help or console her.
Recollections of happy trysts of lovers, commemorated in old ballads,
returned on her mind; she thought such tryst in such scene would be
blissful. Where now was Robert? she asked. Not at the Hollow; she had
watched for his lamp long, and had not seen it. She questioned within
herself whether she and Moore were ever destined to meet and speak
again. Suddenly the door within the stone porch of the hall opened, and
two men came out--one elderly and white-headed, the other young,
dark-haired, and tall. They passed across the lawn, out through a portal
in the garden wall. Caroline saw them cross the road, pass the stile,
descend the fields; she saw them disappear. Robert Moore had passed
before her with his friend Mr. Yorke. Neither had seen her.
The apparition had been transient--scarce seen ere gone; but its
electric passage left her veins kindled, her soul insurgent. It found
her despairing, it left her desperate--two different states.
"Oh, had he but been alone! had he but seen me!" was her cry. "He would
have said something. He would have given me his hand. He _does_, he
_must_, love me a little. He would have shown some token of affection.
In his eye, on his lips, I should have read comfort; but the chance is
lost. The wind, the cloud's shadow, does not pass more silently, more
emptily than he. I have been mocked, and Heaven is cruel!"
Thus, in the utter sickness of longing and disappointment, she went
home.
The next morning at breakfast, where she appeared white-cheeked and
miserable-looking as one who had seen a ghost, she inquired of Mr.
Helstone, "Have you any objection, uncle, to my inquiring for a
situation in a family?"
Her uncle, ignorant as the table supporting his coffee-cup of all his
niece had undergone and was undergoing, scarcely believed his ears.
"What whim now?" he asked. "Are you bewitched? What can you mean?"
"I am not well, and need a change," she said.
He examined her. He discovered she had _experienced_ a change, at any
rate. Without his being aware of it, the rose had dwindled and faded to
a mere snowdrop; bloom had vanished, flesh wasted; she sat before him
drooping, colourless, and thin. But for the soft expression of her brown
eyes, the delicate lines of her features, and the flowing abundance of
her hair, she would no longer have possessed a claim to the epithet
pretty.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" he asked. "What is wrong? How
are you ailing?"
No answer; only the brown eyes filled, the faintly-tinted lips trembled.
"Look out for a situation, indeed! For what situation are you fit? What
have you been doing with yourself? You are not well."
"I should be well if I went from home."
"These women are incomprehensible. They have the strangest knack of
startling you with unpleasant surprises. To-day you see them bouncing,
buxom, red as cherries, and round as apples; to-morrow they exhibit
themselves effete as dead weeds, blanched and broken down. And the
reason of it all? That's the puzzle. She has her meals, her liberty, a
good house to live in, and good clothes to wear, as usual. A while since
that sufficed to keep her handsome and cheery, and there she sits now a
poor, little, pale, puling chit enough. Provoking! Then comes the
question, What is to be done? I suppose I must send for advice. Will you
have a doctor, child?"
"No, uncle, I don't want one. A doctor could do me no good. I merely
want change of air and scene."
"Well, if that be the caprice, it shall be gratified. You shall go to a
watering-place. I don't mind the expense. Fanny shall accompany you."
"But, uncle, some day I must do something for myself; I have no fortune.
I had better begin now."
"While I live, you shall not turn out as a governess, Caroline. I will
not have it said that my niece is a governess."
"But the later in life one makes a change of that sort, uncle, the more
difficult and painful it is. I should wish to get accustomed to the yoke
before any habits of ease and independence are formed."
"I beg you will not harass me, Caroline. I mean to provide for you. I
have always meant to provide for you. I will purchase an annuity. Bless
me! I am but fifty-five; my health and constitution are excellent.
There is plenty of time to save and take measures. Don't make yourself
anxious respecting the future. Is that what frets you?"
"No, uncle; but I long for a change."
He laughed. "There speaks the woman!" cried he, "the very woman! A
change! a change! Always fantastical and whimsical! Well, it's in her
sex."
"But it is not fantasy and whim, uncle."
"What is it then?"
"Necessity, I think. I feel weaker than formerly. I believe I should
have more to do."
"Admirable! She feels weak, and _therefore_ she should be set to hard
labour--'clair comme le jour,' as Moore--confound Moore! You shall go to
Cliff Bridge; and there are two guineas to buy a new frock. Come, Cary,
never fear. We'll find balm in Gilead."
"Uncle, I wish you were less generous and more----"
"More what?"
Sympathizing was the word on Caroline's lips, but it was not uttered.
She checked herself in time. Her uncle would indeed have laughed if that
namby-pamby word had escaped her. Finding her silent, he said, "The fact
is, you don't know precisely what you want."
"Only to be a governess."
"Pooh! mere nonsense! I'll not hear of governessing. Don't mention it
again. It is rather too feminine a fancy. I have finished breakfast.
Ring the bell. Put all crotchets out of your head, and run away and
amuse yourself."
"What with? My doll?" asked Caroline to herself as she quitted the room.
A week or two passed; her bodily and mental health neither grew worse
nor better. She was now precisely in that state when, if her
constitution had contained the seeds of consumption, decline, or slow
fever, those diseases would have been rapidly developed, and would soon
have carried her quietly from the world. People never die of love or
grief alone, though some die of inherent maladies which the tortures of
those passions prematurely force into destructive action. The sound by
nature undergo these tortures, and are racked, shaken, shattered; their
beauty and bloom perish, but life remains untouched. They are brought to
a certain point of dilapidation; they are reduced to pallor, debility,
and emaciation. People think, as they see them gliding languidly about,
that they will soon withdraw to sick-beds, perish there, and cease from
among the healthy and happy. This does not happen. They live on; and
though they cannot regain youth and gaiety, they may regain strength and
serenity. The blossom which the March wind nips, but fails to sweep
away, may survive to hang a withered apple on the tree late into autumn:
having braved the last frosts of spring, it may also brave the first of
winter.
Every one noticed the change in Miss Helstone's appearance, and most
people said she was going to die. She never thought so herself. She felt
in no dying case; she had neither pain nor sickness. Her appetite was
diminished; she knew the reason. It was because she wept so much at
night. Her strength was lessened; she could account for it. Sleep was
coy and hard to be won; dreams were distressing and baleful. In the far
future she still seemed to anticipate a time when this passage of misery
should be got over, and when she should once more be calm, though
perhaps never again happy.
Meanwhile her uncle urged her to visit, to comply with the frequent
invitations of their acquaintance. This she evaded doing. She could not
be cheerful in company; she felt she was observed there with more
curiosity than sympathy. Old ladies were always offering her their
advice, recommending this or that nostrum; young ladies looked at her in
a way she understood, and from which she shrank. Their eyes said they
knew she had been "disappointed," as custom phrases it; by whom, they
were not certain.
Commonplace young ladies can be quite as hard as commonplace young
gentlemen--quite as worldly and selfish. Those who suffer should always
avoid them. Grief and calamity they despise; they seem to regard them as
the judgments of God on the lowly. With them, to "love" is merely to
contrive a scheme for achieving a good match; to be "disappointed" is to
have their scheme seen through and frustrated. They think the feelings
and projects of others on the subject of love similar to their own, and
judge them accordingly.
All this Caroline knew, partly by instinct, partly by observation. She
regulated her conduct by her knowledge, keeping her pale face and wasted
figure as much out of sight as she could. Living thus in complete
seclusion, she ceased to receive intelligence of the little transactions
of the neighbourhood.
One morning her uncle came into the parlour, where she sat endeavouring
to find some pleasure in painting a little group of wild flowers,
gathered under a hedge at the top of the Hollow fields, and said to her
in his abrupt manner, "Come, child, you are always stooping over