Shirley
knows of Shirley the more his soul will cleave to her. They will both be
happy, and I do not grudge them their bliss; but I groan under my own
misery. Some of my suffering is very acute. Truly I ought not to have
been born; they should have smothered me at the first cry."
Here, Shirley stepping aside to gather a dewy flower, she and her
companion turned into a path that lay nearer the gate. Some of their
conversation became audible. Caroline would not stay to listen. She
passed away noiselessly, and the moonlight kissed the wall which her
shadow had dimmed. The reader is privileged to remain, and try what he
can make of the discourse.
"I cannot conceive why nature did not give you a bulldog's head, for you
have all a bulldog's tenacity," said Shirley.
"Not a flattering idea. Am I so ignoble?"
"And something also you have of the same animal's silent ways of going
about its work. You give no warning; you come noiselessly behind, seize
fast, and hold on."
"This is guess-work. You have witnessed no such feat on my part. In your
presence I have been no bulldog."
"Your very silence indicates your race. How little you talk in general,
yet how deeply you scheme! You are far-seeing; you are calculating."
"I know the ways of these people. I have gathered information of their
intentions. My note last night informed you that Barraclough's trial had
ended in his conviction and sentence to transportation. His associates
will plot vengeance. I shall lay my plans so as to counteract or at
least be prepared for theirs--that is all. Having now given you as clear
an explanation as I can, am I to understand that for what I propose
doing I have your approbation?"
"I shall stand by you so long as you remain on the defensive. Yes."
"Good! Without any aid--even opposed or disapproved by you--I believe I
should have acted precisely as I now intend to act, but in another
spirit. I now feel satisfied. On the whole, I relish the position."
"I dare say you do. That is evident. You relish the work which lies
before you still better than you would relish the execution of a
government order for army-cloth."
"I certainly feel it congenial."
"So would old Helstone. It is true there is a shade of difference in
your motives--many shades, perhaps. Shall I speak to Mr. Helstone? I
will, if you like."
"Act as you please. Your judgment, Miss Keeldar, will guide you
accurately. I could rely on it myself in a more difficult crisis. But I
should inform you Mr. Helstone is somewhat prejudiced against me at
present."
"I am aware--I have heard all about your differences. Depend upon it,
they will melt away. He cannot resist the temptation of an alliance
under present circumstances."
"I should be glad to have him; he is of true metal."
"I think so also."
"An old blade, and rusty somewhat, but the edge and temper still
excellent."
"Well, you shall have him, Mr. Moore--that is, if I can win him."
"Whom can you not win?"
"Perhaps not the rector; but I will make the effort."
"Effort! He will yield for a word--a smile."
"By no means. It will cost me several cups of tea, some toast and cake,
and an ample measure of remonstrances, expostulations, and persuasions.
It grows rather chill."
"I perceive you shiver. Am I acting wrongly to detain you here? Yet it
is so calm--I even feel it warm--and society such as yours is a pleasure
to me so rare. If you were wrapped in a thicker shawl----"
"I might stay longer, and forget how late it is, which would chagrin
Mrs. Pryor. We keep early and regular hours at Fieldhead, Mr. Moore; and
so, I am sure, does your sister at the cottage."
"Yes; but Hortense and I have an understanding the most convenient in
the world, that we shall each do as we please."
"How do you please to do?"
"Three nights in the week I sleep in the mill--but I require little
rest--and when it is moonlight and mild I often haunt the Hollow till
daybreak."
"When I was a very little girl, Mr. Moore, my nurse used to tell me
tales of fairies being seen in that Hollow. That was before my father
built the mill, when it was a perfectly solitary ravine. You will be
falling under enchantment."
"I fear it is done," said Moore, in a low voice.
"But there are worse things than fairies to be guarded against," pursued
Miss Keeldar.
"Things more perilous," he subjoined.
"Far more so. For instance, how would you like to meet Michael Hartley,
that mad Calvinist and Jacobin weaver? They say he is addicted to
poaching, and often goes abroad at night with his gun."
"I have already had the luck to meet him. We held a long argument
together one night. A strange little incident it was; I liked it."
"Liked it? I admire your taste! Michael is not sane. Where did you meet
him?"
"In the deepest, shadiest spot in the glen, where the water runs low,
under brushwood. We sat down near that plank bridge. It was moonlight,
but clouded, and very windy. We had a talk."
"On politics?"
"And religion. I think the moon was at the full, and Michael was as near
crazed as possible. He uttered strange blasphemy in his Antinomian
fashion."
"Excuse me, but I think you must have been nearly as mad as he, to sit
listening to him."
"There is a wild interest in his ravings. The man would be half a poet,
if he were not wholly a maniac; and perhaps a prophet, if he were not a
profligate. He solemnly informed me that hell was foreordained my
inevitable portion; that he read the mark of the beast on my brow; that
I had been an outcast from the beginning. God's vengeance, he said, was
preparing for me, and affirmed that in a vision of the night he had
beheld the manner and the instrument of my doom. I wanted to know
further, but he left me with these words, 'The end is not yet.'"
"Have you ever seen him since?"
"About a month afterwards, in returning from market, I encountered him
and Moses Barraclough, both in an advanced stage of inebriation. They
were praying in frantic sort at the roadside. They accosted me as Satan,
bid me avaunt, and clamoured to be delivered from temptation. Again, but
a few days ago, Michael took the trouble of appearing at the
counting-house door, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves--his coat and castor
having been detained at the public-house in pledge. He delivered himself
of the comfortable message that he could wish Mr. Moore to set his house
in order, as his soul was likely shortly to be required of him."
"Do you make light of these things?"
"The poor man had been drinking for weeks, and was in a state bordering
on delirium tremens."
"What then? He is the more likely to attempt the fulfilment of his own
prophecies."
"It would not do to permit incidents of this sort to affect one's
nerves."
"Mr. Moore, go home!"
"So soon?"
"Pass straight down the fields, not round by the lade and plantations."
"It is early yet."
"It is late. For my part, I am going in. Will you promise me not to
wander in the Hollow to-night?"
"If you wish it."
"I do wish it. May I ask whether you consider life valueless?"
"By no means. On the contrary, of late I regard my life as invaluable."
"Of late?"
"Existence is neither aimless nor hopeless to me now, and it was both
three months ago. I was then drowning, and rather wished the operation
over. All at once a hand was stretched to me--such a delicate hand I
scarcely dared trust it; its strength, however, has rescued me from
ruin."
"Are you really rescued?"
"For the time. Your assistance has given me another chance."
"Live to make the best of it. Don't offer yourself as a target to
Michael Hartley; and good-night!"
* * * * *
Miss Helstone was under a promise to spend the evening of the next day
at Fieldhead. She kept her promise. Some gloomy hours had she spent in
the interval. Most of the time had been passed shut up in her own
apartment, only issuing from it, indeed, to join her uncle at meals, and
anticipating inquiries from Fanny by telling her that she was busy
altering a dress, and preferred sewing upstairs, to avoid interruption.
She did sew. She plied her needle continuously, ceaselessly, but her
brain worked faster than her fingers. Again, and more intensely than
ever, she desired a fixed occupation, no matter how onerous, how
irksome. Her uncle must be once more entreated, but first she would
consult Mrs. Pryor. Her head laboured to frame projects as diligently as
her hands to plait and stitch the thin texture of the muslin summer
dress spread on the little white couch at the foot of which she sat. Now
and then, while thus doubly occupied, a tear would fill her eyes and
fall on her busy hands; but this sign of emotion was rare and quickly
effaced. The sharp pang passed; the dimness cleared from her vision. She
would re-thread her needle, rearrange tuck and trimming, and work on.
Late in the afternoon she dressed herself. She reached Fieldhead, and
appeared in the oak parlour just as tea was brought in. Shirley asked
her why she came so late.
"Because I have been making my dress," said she. "These fine sunny days
began to make me ashamed of my winter merino, so I have furbished up a
lighter garment."
"In which you look as I like to see you," said Shirley. "You are a
lady-like little person, Caroline.--Is she not, Mrs. Pryor?"
Mrs. Pryor never paid compliments, and seldom indulged in remarks,
favourable or otherwise, on personal appearance. On the present occasion
she only swept Caroline's curls from her cheek as she took a seat near
her, caressed the oval outline, and observed, "You get somewhat thin, my
love, and somewhat pale. Do you sleep well? your eyes have a languid
look." And she gazed at her anxiously.
"I sometimes dream melancholy dreams," answered Caroline; "and if I lie
awake for an hour or two in the night, I am continually thinking of the
rectory as a dreary old place. You know it is very near the churchyard.
The back part of the house is extremely ancient, and it is said that the
out-kitchens there were once enclosed in the churchyard, and that there
are graves under them. I rather long to leave the rectory."
"My dear, you are surely not superstitious?"
"No, Mrs. Pryor; but I think I grow what is called nervous. I see things
under a darker aspect than I used to do. I have fears I never used to
have--not of ghosts, but of omens and disastrous events; and I have an
inexpressible weight on my mind which I would give the world to shake
off, and I cannot do it."
"Strange!" cried Shirley. "I never feel so." Mrs. Pryor said nothing.
"Fine weather, pleasant days, pleasant scenes, are powerless to give me
pleasure," continued Caroline. "Calm evenings are not calm to me.
Moonlight, which I used to think mild, now only looks mournful. Is this
weakness of mind, Mrs. Pryor, or what is it? I cannot help it. I often
struggle against it. I reason; but reason and effort make no
difference."
"You should take more exercise," said Mrs. Pryor.
"Exercise! I exercise sufficiently. I exercise till I am ready to drop."
"My dear, you should go from home."
"Mrs. Pryor, I should like to go from home, but not on any purposeless
excursion or visit. I wish to be a governess, as you have been. It would
oblige me greatly if you would speak to my uncle on the subject."
"Nonsense!" broke in Shirley. "What an idea! Be a governess! Better be a
slave at once. Where is the necessity of it? Why should you dream of
such a painful step?"
"My dear," said Mrs. Pryor, "you are very young to be a governess, and
not sufficiently robust. The duties a governess undertakes are often
severe."
"And I believe I want severe duties to occupy me."
"Occupy you!" cried Shirley. "When are you idle? I never saw a more
industrious girl than you. You are always at work. Come," she