Shirley
continued--"come and sit by my side, and take some tea to refresh you.
You don't care much for my friendship, then, that you wish to leave me?"
"Indeed I do, Shirley; and I don't wish to leave you. I shall never find
another friend so dear."
At which words Miss Keeldar put her hand into Caroline's with an
impulsively affectionate movement, which was well seconded by the
expression of her face.
"If you think so, you had better make much of me," she said, "and not
run away from me. I hate to part with those to whom I am become
attached. Mrs. Pryor there sometimes talks of leaving me, and says I
might make a more advantageous connection than herself. I should as soon
think of exchanging an old-fashioned mother for something modish and
stylish. As for you--why, I began to flatter myself we were thoroughly
friends; that you liked Shirley almost as well as Shirley likes you, and
she does not stint her regard."
"I _do_ like Shirley. I like her more and more every day. But that does
not make me strong or happy."
"And would it make you strong or happy to go and live as a dependent
amongst utter strangers? It would not. And the experiment must not be
tried; I tell you it would fail. It is not in your nature to bear the
desolate life governesses generally lead; you would fall ill. I won't
hear of it."
And Miss Keeldar paused, having uttered this prohibition very decidedly.
Soon she recommenced, still looking somewhat _courroucée_, "Why, it is
my daily pleasure now to look out for the little cottage bonnet and the
silk scarf glancing through the trees in the lane, and to know that my
quiet, shrewd, thoughtful companion and monitress is coming back to me;
that I shall have her sitting in the room to look at, to talk to or to
let alone, as she and I please. This may be a selfish sort of
language--I know it is--but it is the language which naturally rises to
my lips, therefore I utter it."
"I would write to you, Shirley."
"And what are letters? Only a sort of _pis aller_. Drink some tea,
Caroline. Eat something--you eat nothing. Laugh and be cheerful, and
stay at home."
Miss Helstone shook her head and sighed. She felt what difficulty she
would have to persuade any one to assist or sanction her in making that
change in her life which she believed desirable. Might she only follow
her own judgment, she thought she should be able to find perhaps a harsh
but an effectual cure for her sufferings. But this judgment, founded on
circumstances she could fully explain to none, least of all to Shirley,
seemed, in all eyes but her own, incomprehensible and fantastic, and
was opposed accordingly.
There really was no present pecuniary need for her to leave a
comfortable home and "take a situation;" and there was every probability
that her uncle might, in some way, permanently provide for her. So her
friends thought, and, as far as their lights enabled them to see, they
reasoned correctly; but of Caroline's strange sufferings, which she
desired so eagerly to overcome or escape, they had no idea, of her
racked nights and dismal days no suspicion. It was at once impossible
and hopeless to explain; to wait and endure was her only plan. Many that
want food and clothing have cheerier lives and brighter prospects than
she had; many, harassed by poverty, are in a strait less afflictive.
"Now, is your mind quieted?" inquired Shirley. "Will you consent to stay
at home?"
"I shall not leave it against the approbation of my friends," was the
reply; "but I think in time they will be obliged to think as I do."
During this conversation Mrs. Pryor looked far from easy. Her extreme
habitual reserve would rarely permit her to talk freely or to
interrogate others closely. She could think a multitude of questions she
never ventured to put, give advice in her mind which her tongue never
delivered. Had she been alone with Caroline, she might possibly have
said something to the point: Miss Keeldar's presence, accustomed as she
was to it, sealed her lips. Now, as on a thousand other occasions,
inexplicable nervous scruples kept her back from interfering. She merely
showed her concern for Miss Helstone in an indirect way, by asking her
if the fire made her too warm, placing a screen between her chair and
the hearth, closing a window whence she imagined a draught proceeded,
and often and restlessly glancing at her. Shirley resumed: "Having
destroyed your plan," she said, "which I hope I have done, I shall
construct a new one of my own. Every summer I make an excursion. This
season I propose spending two months either at the Scotch lochs or the
English lakes--that is, I shall go there provided you consent to
accompany me. If you refuse, I shall not stir a foot."
"You are very good, Shirley."
"I would be very good if you would let me. I have every disposition to
be good. It is my misfortune and habit, I know, to think of myself
paramount to anybody else; but who is not like me in that respect?
However, when Captain Keeldar is made comfortable, accommodated with all
he wants, including a sensible, genial comrade, it gives him a thorough
pleasure to devote his spare efforts to making that comrade happy. And
should we not be happy, Caroline, in the Highlands? We will go to the
Highlands. We will, if you can bear a sea-voyage, go to the Isles--the
Hebrides, the Shetland, the Orkney Islands. Would you not like that? I
see you would.--Mrs. Pryor, I call you to witness. Her face is all
sunshine at the bare mention of it."
"I should like it much," returned Caroline, to whom, indeed, the notion
of such a tour was not only pleasant, but gloriously reviving. Shirley
rubbed her hands.
"Come; I can bestow a benefit," she exclaimed. "I can do a good deed
with my cash. My thousand a year is not merely a matter of dirty
bank-notes and jaundiced guineas (let me speak respectfully of both,
though, for I adore them), but, it may be, health to the drooping,
strength to the weak, consolation to the sad. I was determined to make
something of it better than a fine old house to live in, than satin
gowns to wear, better than deference from acquaintance and homage from
the poor. Here is to begin. This summer, Caroline, Mrs. Pryor and I go
out into the North Atlantic, beyond the Shetland, perhaps to the Faroe
Isles. We will see seals in Suderoe, and, doubtless, mermaids in
Stromoe.--Caroline is laughing, Mrs. Pryor. _I_ made her laugh; _I_ have
done her good."
"I shall like to go, Shirley," again said Miss Helstone. "I long to hear
the sound of waves--ocean-waves--and to see them as I have imagined them
in dreams, like tossing banks of green light, strewed with vanishing and
reappearing wreaths of foam, whiter than lilies. I shall delight to pass
the shores of those lone rock-islets where the sea-birds live and breed
unmolested. We shall be on the track of the old Scandinavians--of the
Norsemen. We shall almost see the shores of Norway. This is a very vague
delight that I feel, communicated by your proposal, but it _is_ a
delight."
"Will you think of Fitful Head now when you lie awake at night, of gulls
shrieking round it, and waves tumbling in upon it, rather than of the
graves under the rectory back-kitchen?"
"I will try; and instead of musing about remnants of shrouds, and
fragments of coffins, and human bones and mould, I will fancy seals
lying in the sunshine on solitary shores, where neither fisherman nor
hunter ever come; of rock crevices full of pearly eggs bedded in
seaweed; of unscared birds covering white sands in happy flocks."
"And what will become of that inexpressible weight you said you had on
your mind?"
"I will try to forget it in speculation on the sway of the whole great
deep above a herd of whales rushing through the livid and liquid thunder
down from the frozen zone--a hundred of them, perhaps, wallowing,
flashing, rolling in the wake of a patriarch bull, huge enough to have
been spawned before the Flood, such a creature as poor Smart had in his
mind when he said,--
'Strong against tides, the enormous whale
Emerges as he goes.'"
"I hope our bark will meet with no such shoal, or herd as you term it,
Caroline. (I suppose you fancy the sea-mammoths pasturing about the
bases of the 'everlasting hills,' devouring strange provender in the
vast valleys through and above which sea-billows roll.) I should not
like to be capsized by the patriarch bull."
"I suppose you expect to see mermaids, Shirley?"
"One of them, at any rate--I do not bargain for less--and she is to
appear in some such fashion as this. I am to be walking by myself on
deck, rather late of an August evening, watching and being watched by a
full harvest moon. Something is to rise white on the surface of the sea,
over which that moon mounts silent and hangs glorious. The object
glitters and sinks. It rises again. I think I hear it cry with an
articulate voice; I call you up from the cabin; I show you an image,
fair as alabaster, emerging from the dim wave. We both see the long
hair, the lifted and foam-white arm, the oval mirror brilliant as a
star. It glides nearer; a human face is plainly visible--a face in the
style of yours--whose straight, pure (excuse the word, it is
appropriate)--whose straight, pure lineaments paleness does not
disfigure. It looks at us, but not with your eyes. I see a preternatural
lure in its wily glance. It beckons. Were we men, we should spring at
the sign--the cold billow would be dared for the sake of the colder
enchantress; being women, we stand safe, though not dreadless. She
comprehends our unmoved gaze; she feels herself powerless; anger crosses
her front; she cannot charm, but she will appal us; she rises high, and
glides all revealed on the dark wave-ridge. Temptress-terror! monstrous
likeness of ourselves! Are you not glad, Caroline, when at last, and
with a wild shriek, she dives?"
"But, Shirley, she is not like us. We are neither temptresses, nor
terrors, nor monsters."
"Some of our kind, it is said, are all three. There are men who ascribe
to 'woman,' in general, such attributes."
"My dears," here interrupted Mrs. Pryor, "does it not strike you that
your conversation for the last ten minutes has been rather fanciful?"
"But there is no harm in our fancies; is there, ma'am?"
"We are aware that mermaids do not exist; why speak of them as if they
did? How can you find interest in speaking of a nonentity?"
"I don't know," said Shirley.
"My dear, I think there is an arrival. I heard a step in the lane while
you were talking; and is not that the garden-gate which creaks?"
Shirley stepped to the window.
"Yes, there is some one," said she, turning quietly away; and as she
resumed her seat a sensitive flush animated her face, while a trembling
ray at once kindled and softened her eye. She raised her hand to her
chin, cast her gaze down, and seemed to think as she waited.
The servant announced Mr. Moore, and Shirley turned round when Mr. Moore
appeared at the door. His figure seemed very tall as he entered, and
stood in contrast with the three ladies, none of whom could boast a
stature much beyond the average. He was looking well, better than he had
been known to look for the past twelve months. A sort of renewed youth
glowed in his eye and colour, and an invigorated hope and settled
purpose sustained his bearing. Firmness his countenance still indicated,
but not austerity. It looked as cheerful as it was earnest.
"I am just returned from Stilbro'," he said to Miss Keeldar, as he
greeted her; "and I thought I would call to impart to you the result of
my mission."
"You did right not to keep me in suspense," she said, "and your visit is
well timed. Sit down. We have not finished tea. Are you English enough
to relish tea, or do you faithfully adhere to coffee?"