Shirley
soil the hem of her stainless garment, or to damp her slender sandal.
After the late rains all was clean, and under the present glowing sun
all was dry. She walked fearlessly, then, on daisy and turf, and through
thick plantations; she reached Fieldhead, and penetrated to Miss
Keeldar's dressing-room.
It was well she had come, or Shirley would have been too late. Instead
of making ready with all speed, she lay stretched on a couch, absorbed
in reading. Mrs. Pryor stood near, vainly urging her to rise and dress.
Caroline wasted no words. She immediately took the book from her, and
with her own hands commenced the business of disrobing and rerobing her.
Shirley, indolent with the heat, and gay with her youth and pleasurable
nature, wanted to talk, laugh, and linger; but Caroline, intent on being
in time, persevered in dressing her as fast as fingers could fasten
strings or insert pins. At length, as she united a final row of hooks
and eyes, she found leisure to chide her, saying she was very naughty to
be so unpunctual, that she looked even now the picture of incorrigible
carelessness; and so Shirley did, but a very lovely picture of that
tiresome quality.
She presented quite a contrast to Caroline. There was style in every
fold of her dress and every line of her figure. The rich silk suited her
better than a simpler costume; the deep embroidered scarf became her.
She wore it negligently but gracefully. The wreath on her bonnet
crowned her well. The attention to fashion, the tasteful appliance of
ornament in each portion of her dress, were quite in place with her. All
this suited her, like the frank light in her eyes, the rallying smile
about her lips, like her shaft-straight carriage and lightsome step.
Caroline took her hand when she was dressed, hurried her downstairs, out
of doors; and thus they sped through the fields, laughing as they went,
and looking very much like a snow-white dove and gem-tinted bird of
paradise joined in social flight.
Thanks to Miss Helstone's promptitude, they arrived in good time. While
yet trees hid the church, they heard the bell tolling a measured but
urgent summons for all to assemble. The trooping in of numbers, the
trampling of many steps and murmuring of many voices, were likewise
audible. From a rising ground, they presently saw, on the Whinbury road,
the Whinbury school approaching. It numbered five hundred souls. The
rector and curate, Boultby and Donne, headed it--the former looming
large in full canonicals, walking as became a beneficed priest, under
the canopy of a shovel-hat, with the dignity of an ample corporation,
the embellishment of the squarest and vastest of black coats, and the
support of the stoutest of gold-headed canes. As the doctor walked, he
now and then slightly flourished his cane, and inclined his shovel-hat
with a dogmatical wag towards his aide-de-camp. That
aide-de-camp--Donne, to wit--narrow as the line of his shape was,
compared to the broad bulk of his principal, contrived, notwithstanding,
to look every inch a curate. All about him was pragmatical and
self-complacent, from his turned-up nose and elevated chin to his
clerical black gaiters, his somewhat short, strapless trousers, and his
square-toed shoes.
Walk on, Mr. Donne! You have undergone scrutiny. You think you look
well. Whether the white and purple figures watching you from yonder hill
think so is another question.
These figures come running down when the regiment has marched by. The
churchyard is full of children and teachers, all in their very best
holiday attire; and, distressed as is the district, bad as are the
times, it is wonderful to see how respectably, how handsomely even, they
have contrived to clothe themselves. That British love of decency will
work miracles. The poverty which reduces an Irish girl to rags is
impotent to rob the English girl of the neat wardrobe she knows
necessary to her self-respect. Besides, the lady of the manor--that
Shirley, now gazing with pleasure on this well-dressed and happy-looking
crowd--has really done them good. Her seasonable bounty consoled many a
poor family against the coming holiday, and supplied many a child with a
new frock or bonnet for the occasion. She knows it, and is elate with
the consciousness--glad that her money, example, and influence have
really, substantially, benefited those around her. She cannot be
charitable like Miss Ainley: it is not in her nature. It relieves her to
feel that there is another way of being charitable, practicable for
other characters, and under other circumstances.
Caroline, too, is pleased, for she also has done good in her small
way--robbed herself of more than one dress, ribbon, or collar she could
ill spare, to aid in fitting out the scholars of her class; and as she
could not give money, she has followed Miss Ainley's example in giving
her time and her industry to sew for the children.
Not only is the churchyard full, but the rectory garden is also
thronged. Pairs and parties of ladies and gentlemen are seen walking
amongst the waving lilacs and laburnums. The house also is occupied: at
the wide-open parlour windows gay groups are standing. These are the
patrons and teachers, who are to swell the procession. In the parson's
croft, behind the rectory, are the musicians of the three parish bands,
with their instruments. Fanny and Eliza, in the smartest of caps and
gowns, and the whitest of aprons, move amongst them, serving out quarts
of ale, whereof a stock was brewed very sound and strong some weeks
since by the rector's orders, and under his special superintendence.
Whatever he had a hand in must be managed handsomely. "Shabby doings" of
any description were not endured under his sanction. From the erection
of a public building, a church, school, or court-house, to the cooking
of a dinner, he still advocated the lordly, liberal, and effective. Miss
Keeldar was like him in this respect, and they mutually approved each
other's arrangements.
Caroline and Shirley were soon in the midst of the company. The former
met them very easily for her. Instead of sitting down in a retired
corner, or stealing away to her own room till the procession should be
marshalled, according to her wont, she moved through the three
parlours, conversed and smiled, absolutely spoke once or twice ere she
was spoken to, and, in short, seemed a new creature. It was Shirley's
presence which thus transformed her; the view of Miss Keeldar's air and
manner did her a world of good. Shirley had no fear of her kind, no
tendency to shrink from, to avoid it. All human beings--men, women, or
children--whom low breeding or coarse presumption did not render
positively offensive, were welcome enough to her--some much more so than
others, of course; but, generally speaking, till a man had indisputably
proved himself bad and a nuisance, Shirley was willing to think him good
and an acquisition, and to treat him accordingly. This disposition made
her a general favourite, for it robbed her very raillery of its sting,
and gave her serious or smiling conversation a happy charm; nor did it
diminish the value of her intimate friendship, which was a distinct
thing from this social benevolence--depending, indeed, on quite a
different part of her character. Miss Helstone was the choice of her
affection and intellect; the Misses Pearson, Sykes, Wynne, etc., etc.,
only the profiteers by her good-nature and vivacity.
Donne happened to come into the drawing-room while Shirley, sitting on
the sofa, formed the centre of a tolerably wide circle. She had already
forgotten her exasperation against him, and she bowed and smiled
good-humouredly. The disposition of the man was then seen. He knew
neither how to decline the advance with dignity, as one whose just pride
has been wounded, nor how to meet it with frankness, as one who is glad
to forget and forgive. His punishment had impressed him with no sense of
shame, and he did not experience that feeling on encountering his
chastiser. He was not vigorous enough in evil to be actively
malignant--he merely passed by sheepishly with a rated, scowling look.
Nothing could ever again reconcile him to his enemy; while no passion of
resentment, for even sharper and more ignominious inflictions, could his
lymphatic nature know.
"He was not worth a scene!" said Shirley to Caroline. "What a fool I
was! To revenge on poor Donne his silly spite at Yorkshire is something
like crushing a gnat for attacking the hide of a rhinoceros. Had I been
a gentleman, I believe I should have helped him off the premises by dint
of physical force. I am glad now I only employed the moral weapon. But
he must come near me no more. I don't like him. He irritates me. There
is not even amusement to be had out of him. Malone is better sport."
It seemed as if Malone wished to justify the preference, for the words
were scarcely out of the speaker's mouth when Peter Augustus came up,
all in _grande tenue_, gloved and scented, with his hair oiled and
brushed to perfection, and bearing in one hand a huge bunch of
cabbage-roses, five or six in full blow. These he presented to the
heiress with a grace to which the most cunning pencil could do but
defective justice. And who, after this, could dare to say that Peter was
not a lady's man? He had gathered and he had given flowers; he had
offered a sentimental, a poetic tribute at the shrine of Love or Mammon.
Hercules holding the distaff was but a faint type of Peter bearing the
roses. He must have thought this himself, for he seemed amazed at what
he had done. He backed without a word; he was going away with a husky
chuckle of self-satisfaction; then he bethought himself to stop and
turn, to ascertain by ocular testimony that he really had presented a
bouquet. Yes, there were the six red cabbages on the purple satin lap, a
very white hand, with some gold rings on the fingers, slightly holding
them together, and streaming ringlets, half hiding a laughing face,
drooped over them. Only _half_ hiding! Peter saw the laugh; it was
unmistakable. He was made a joke of; his gallantry, his chivalry, were
the subject of a jest for a petticoat--for two petticoats: Miss Helstone
too was smiling. Moreover, he felt he was seen through, and Peter grew
black as a thunder-cloud. When Shirley looked up, a fell eye was
fastened on her. Malone, at least, had energy enough in hate. She saw it
in his glance.
"Peter _is_ worth a scene, and shall have it, if he likes, one day," she
whispered to her friend.
And now--solemn and sombre as to their colour, though bland enough as to
their faces--appeared at the dining-room door the three rectors. They
had hitherto been busy in the church, and were now coming to take some
little refreshment for the body, ere the march commenced. The large
morocco-covered easy-chair had been left vacant for Dr. Boultby. He was
put into it, and Caroline, obeying the instigations of Shirley, who told
her now was the time to play the hostess, hastened to hand to her
uncle's vast, revered, and, on the whole, worthy friend, a glass of
wine and a plate of macaroons. Boultby's churchwardens, patrons of the
Sunday school both, as he insisted on their being, were already beside
him; Mrs. Sykes and the other ladies of his congregation were on his
right hand and on his left, expressing their hopes that he was not
fatigued, their fears that the day would be too warm for him. Mrs.
Boultby, who held an opinion that when her lord dropped asleep after a
good dinner his face became as the face of an angel, was bending over
him, tenderly wiping some perspiration, real or imaginary, from his
brow. Boultby, in short, was in his glory, and in a round, sound _voix
de poitrine_ he rumbled out thanks for attentions and assurances of his