Shirley
one against two hundred?"
"Come, come now, be cool," said Mr. Yorke, smiling at the earnestness
with which Shirley multiplied her rapid questions.
"Cool! Must I listen coolly to downright nonsense--to dangerous
nonsense? No. I like you very well, Mr. Yorke, as you know, but I
thoroughly dislike some of your principles. All that cant--excuse me,
but I repeat the word--all that _cant_ about soldiers and parsons is
most offensive in my ears. All ridiculous, irrational crying up of one
class, whether the same be aristocrat or democrat--all howling down of
another class, whether clerical or military--all exacting injustice to
individuals, whether monarch or mendicant--is really sickening to me;
all arraying of ranks against ranks, all party hatreds, all tyrannies
disguised as liberties, I reject and wash my hands of. _You_ think you
are a philanthropist; _you_ think you are an advocate of liberty; but I
will tell you this--Mr. Hall, the parson of Nunnely, is a better friend
both of man and freedom than Hiram Yorke, the reformer of Briarfield."
From a man Mr. Yorke would not have borne this language very patiently,
nor would he have endured it from some women; but he accounted Shirley
both honest and pretty, and her plain-spoken ire amused him. Besides, he
took a secret pleasure in hearing her defend her tenant, for we have
already intimated he had Robert Moore's interest very much at heart.
Moreover, if he wished to avenge himself for her severity, he knew the
means lay in his power: a word, he believed, would suffice to tame and
silence her, to cover her frank forehead with the rosy shadow of shame,
and veil the glow of her eye under down-drooped lid and lash.
"What more hast thou to say?" he inquired, as she paused, rather, it
appeared, to take breath than because her subject or her zeal was
exhausted.
"Say, Mr. Yorke!" was the answer, the speaker meantime walking fast from
wall to wall of the oak parlour--"say? I have a great deal to say, if I
could get it out in lucid order, which I never _can_ do. I have to say
that your views, and those of most extreme politicians, are such as none
but men in an irresponsible position _can_ advocate; that they are
purely opposition views, meant only to be talked about, and never
intended to be acted on. Make you Prime Minister of England to-morrow,
and you would have to abandon them. You abuse Moore for defending his
mill. Had you been in Moore's place you could not with honour or sense
have acted otherwise than he acted. You abuse Mr. Helstone for
everything he does. Mr. Helstone has his faults; he sometimes does
wrong, but oftener right. Were you ordained vicar of Briarfield, you
would find it no easy task to sustain all the active schemes for the
benefit of the parish planned and persevered in by your predecessor. I
wonder people cannot judge more fairly of each other and themselves.
When I hear Messrs. Malone and Donne chatter about the authority of the
church, the dignity and claims of the priesthood, the deference due to
them as clergymen; when I hear the outbreaks of their small spite
against Dissenters; when I witness their silly, narrow jealousies and
assumptions; when their palaver about forms, and traditions, and
superstitions is sounding in my ear; when I behold their insolent
carriage to the poor, their often base servility to the rich--I think
the Establishment is indeed in a poor way, and both she and her sons
appear in the utmost need of reformation. Turning away distressed from
minster tower and village spire--ay, as distressed as a churchwarden who
feels the exigence of white-wash and has not wherewithal to purchase
lime--I recall your senseless sarcasms on the 'fat bishops,' the
'pampered parsons,' 'old mother church,' etc. I remember your strictures
on all who differ from you, your sweeping condemnation of classes and
individuals, without the slightest allowance made for circumstances or
temptations; and then, Mr. Yorke, doubt clutches my inmost heart as to
whether men exist clement, reasonable, and just enough to be entrusted
with the task of reform. I don't believe _you_ are of the number."
"You have an ill opinion of me, Miss Shirley. You never told me so much
of your mind before."
"I never had an opening. But I have sat on Jessy's stool by your chair
in the back-parlour at Briarmains, for evenings together, listening
excitedly to your talk, half admiring what you said, and half rebelling
against it. I think you a fine old Yorkshireman, sir. I am proud to have
been born in the same county and parish as yourself. Truthful, upright,
independent you are, as a rock based below seas; but also you are harsh,
rude, narrow, and merciless."
"Not to the poor, lass, nor to the meek of the earth; only to the proud
and high-minded."
"And what right have you, sir, to make such distinctions? A prouder, a
higher-minded man than yourself does not exist. You find it easy to
speak comfortably to your inferiors; you are too haughty, too ambitious,
too jealous to be civil to those above you. But you are all alike.
Helstone also is proud and prejudiced. Moore, though juster and more
considerate than either you or the rector, is still haughty, stern, and,
in a public sense, selfish. It is well there are such men as Mr. Hall to
be found occasionally--men of large and kind hearts, who can love their
whole race, who can forgive others for being richer, more prosperous, or
more powerful than they are. Such men may have less originality, less
force of character than you, but they are better friends to mankind."
"And when is it to be?" said Mr. Yorke, now rising.
"When is what to be?"
"The wedding."
"Whose wedding?"
"Only that of Robert Gérard Moore, Esq., of Hollow's Cottage, with Miss
Keeldar, daughter and heiress of the late Charles Cave Keeldar of
Fieldhead Hall."
Shirley gazed at the questioner with rising colour. But the light in her
eye was not faltering; it shone steadily--yes, it burned deeply.
"That is your revenge," she said slowly; then added, "Would it be a bad
match, unworthy of the late Charles Cave Keeldar's representative?"
"My lass, Moore is a gentleman; his blood is pure and ancient as mine or
thine."
"And we two set store by ancient blood? We have family pride, though one
of us at least is a republican?"
Yorke bowed as he stood before her. His lips were mute, but his eye
confessed the impeachment. Yes, he had family pride; you saw it in his
whole bearing.
"Moore _is_ a gentleman," echoed Shirley, lifting her head with glad
grace. She checked herself. Words seemed crowding to her tongue. She
would not give them utterance; but her look spoke much at the moment.
What, Yorke tried to read, but could not. The language was there,
visible, but untranslatable--a poem, a fervid lyric, in an unknown
tongue. It was not a plain story, however, no simple gush of feeling, no
ordinary love-confession--that was obvious. It was something other,
deeper, more intricate than he guessed at. He felt his revenge had not
struck home. He felt that Shirley triumphed. She held him at fault,
baffled, puzzled. _She_ enjoyed the moment, not _he_.
"And if Moore _is_ a gentleman, you _can_ be only a lady; therefore----"
"Therefore there would be no inequality in our union."
"None."
"Thank you for your approbation. Will you give me away when I relinquish
the name of Keeldar for that of Moore?"
Mr. Yorke, instead of replying, gazed at her much puzzled. He could not
divine what her look signified--whether she spoke in earnest or in jest.
There were purpose and feeling, banter and scoff, playing, mingled, on
her mobile lineaments.
"I don't understand thee," he said, turning away.
She laughed. "Take courage, sir; you are not singular in your ignorance.
But I suppose if Moore understands me that will do, will it not?"
"Moore may settle his own matters henceforward for me; I'll neither
meddle nor make with them further."
A new thought crossed her. Her countenance changed magically. With a
sudden darkening of the eye and austere fixing of the features she
demanded, "Have you been asked to interfere? Are you questioning me as
another's proxy?"
"The Lord save us! Whoever weds thee must look about him! Keep all your
questions for Robert; I'll answer no more on 'em. Good-day, lassie!"
* * * * *
The day being fine, or at least fair--for soft clouds curtained the sun,
and a dim but not chill or waterish haze slept blue on the
hills--Caroline, while Shirley was engaged with her callers, had
persuaded Mrs. Pryor to assume her bonnet and summer shawl, and to take
a walk with her up towards the narrow end of the Hollow.
Here the opposing sides of the glen, approaching each other and becoming
clothed with brushwood and stunted oaks, formed a wooded ravine, at the
bottom of which ran the mill-stream, in broken, unquiet course,
struggling with many stones, chafing against rugged banks, fretting with
gnarled tree-roots, foaming, gurgling, battling as it went. Here, when
you had wandered half a mile from the mill, you found a sense of deep
solitude--found it in the shade of unmolested trees, received it in the
singing of many birds, for which that shade made a home. This was no
trodden way. The freshness of the wood flowers attested that foot of man
seldom pressed them; the abounding wild roses looked as if they budded,
bloomed, and faded under the watch of solitude, as if in a sultan's
harem. Here you saw the sweet azure of blue-bells, and recognized in
pearl-white blossoms, spangling the grass, a humble type of some starlit
spot in space.
Mrs. Pryor liked a quiet walk. She ever shunned high-roads, and sought
byways and lonely lanes. One companion she preferred to total solitude,
for in solitude she was nervous; a vague fear of annoying encounters
broke the enjoyment of quite lonely rambles. But she feared nothing with
Caroline. When once she got away from human habitations, and entered
the still demesne of nature accompanied by this one youthful friend, a
propitious change seemed to steal over her mind and beam in her
countenance. When with Caroline--and Caroline only--her heart, you would
have said, shook off a burden, her brow put aside a veil, her spirits
too escaped from a restraint. With her she was cheerful; with her, at
times, she was tender; to her she would impart her knowledge, reveal
glimpses of her experience, give her opportunities for guessing what
life she had lived, what cultivation her mind had received, of what
calibre was her intelligence, how and where her feelings were
vulnerable.
To-day, for instance, as they walked along, Mrs. Pryor talked to her
companion about the various birds singing in the trees, discriminated
their species, and said something about their habits and peculiarities.
English natural history seemed familiar to her. All the wild flowers
round their path were recognized by her; tiny plants springing near
stones and peeping out of chinks in old walls--plants such as Caroline
had scarcely noticed before--received a name and an intimation of their
properties. It appeared that she had minutely studied the botany of
English fields and woods. Having reached the head of the ravine, they
sat down together on a ledge of gray and mossy rock jutting from the
base of a steep green hill which towered above them. She looked round
her, and spoke of the neighbourhood as she had once before seen it long
ago. She alluded to its changes, and compared its aspect with that of
other parts of England, revealing in quiet, unconscious touches of
description a sense of the picturesque, an appreciation of the beautiful
or commonplace, a power of comparing the wild with the cultured, the
grand with the tame, that gave to her discourse a graphic charm as