Shirley
him otherwise than stiffly. She felt as if a great gulf lay between her
caste and his, and that to cross it or meet him half-way would be to
degrade herself. She gently asked Caroline, "Are you not afraid, my
dear, to converse with that person so unreservedly? He may presume, and
become troublesomely garrulous."
"William presume, mamma? You don't know him. He never presumes. He is
altogether too proud and sensitive to do so. William has very fine
feelings."
And Mrs. Pryor smiled sceptically at the naïve notion of that
rough-handed, rough-headed, fustian-clad clown having "fine feelings."
Farren, for his part, showed Mrs. Pryor only a very sulky brow. He knew
when he was misjudged, and was apt to turn unmanageable with such as
failed to give him his due.
The evening restored Caroline entirely to her mother, and Mrs. Pryor
liked the evening; for then, alone with her daughter, no human shadow
came between her and what she loved. During the day she would have her
stiff demeanour and cool moments, as was her wont. Between her and Mr.
Helstone a very respectful but most rigidly ceremonious intercourse was
kept up. Anything like familiarity would have bred contempt at once in
one or both these personages; but by dint of strict civility and
well-maintained distance they got on very smoothly.
Towards the servants Mrs. Pryor's bearing was not uncourteous, but shy,
freezing, ungenial. Perhaps it was diffidence rather than pride which
made her appear so haughty; but, as was to be expected, Fanny and Eliza
failed to make the distinction, and she was unpopular with them
accordingly. She felt the effect produced; it rendered her at times
dissatisfied with herself for faults she could not help, and with all
else dejected, chill, and taciturn.
This mood changed to Caroline's influence, and to that influence alone.
The dependent fondness of her nursling, the natural affection of her
child, came over her suavely. Her frost fell away, her rigidity unbent;
she grew smiling and pliant. Not that Caroline made any wordy profession
of love--that would ill have suited Mrs. Pryor; she would have read
therein the proof of insincerity--but she hung on her with easy
dependence; she confided in her with fearless reliance. These things
contented the mother's heart.
She liked to hear her daughter say, "Mamma, do this;" "Please, mamma,
fetch me that;" "Mamma, read to me;" "Sing a little, mamma."
Nobody else--not one living thing--had ever so claimed her services, so
looked for help at her hand. Other people were always more or less
reserved and stiff with her, as she was reserved and stiff with them;
other people betrayed consciousness of and annoyance at her weak points.
Caroline no more showed such wounding sagacity or reproachful
sensitiveness now than she had done when a suckling of three months old.
Yet Caroline could find fault. Blind to the constitutional defects that
were incurable, she had her eyes wide open to the acquired habits that
were susceptible of remedy. On certain points she would quite artlessly
lecture her parent; and that parent, instead of being hurt, felt a
sensation of pleasure in discovering that the girl _dared_ lecture her,
that she was so much at home with her.
"Mamma, I am determined you shall not wear that old gown any more. Its
fashion is not becoming; it is too strait in the skirt. You shall put on
your black silk every afternoon. In that you look nice; it suits you.
And you shall have a black satin dress for Sundays--a real satin, not a
satinet or any of the shams. And, mamma, when you get the new one, mind
you must wear it."
"My dear, I thought of the black silk serving me as a best dress for
many years yet, and I wished to buy you several things."
"Nonsense, mamma. My uncle gives me cash to get what I want. You know he
is generous enough; and I have set my heart on seeing you in a black
satin. Get it soon, and let it be made by a dressmaker of my
recommending. Let me choose the pattern. You always want to disguise
yourself like a grandmother. You would persuade one that you are old and
ugly. Not at all! On the contrary, when well dressed and cheerful you
are very comely indeed; your smile is so pleasant, your teeth are so
white, your hair is still such a pretty light colour. And then you speak
like a young lady, with such a clear, fine tone, and you sing better
than any young lady I ever heard. Why do you wear such dresses and
bonnets, mamma, such as nobody else ever wears?"
"Does it annoy you, Caroline?"
"Very much; it vexes me even. People say you are miserly; and yet you
are not, for you give liberally to the poor and to religious
societies--though your gifts are conveyed so secretly and quietly that
they are known to few except the receivers. But I will be your
lady's-maid myself. When I get a little stronger I will set to work, and
you must be good, mamma, and do as I bid you."
And Caroline, sitting near her mother, rearranged her muslin
handkerchief and resmoothed her hair.
"My own mamma," then she went on, as if pleasing herself with the
thought of their relationship, "who belongs to me, and to whom I belong!
I am a rich girl now. I have something I can love well, and not be
afraid of loving. Mamma, who gave you this little brooch? Let me unpin
it and look at it."
Mrs. Pryor, who usually shrank from meddling fingers and near approach,
allowed the license complacently.
"Did papa give you this, mamma?"
"My sister gave it me--my only sister, Cary. Would that your Aunt
Caroline had lived to see her niece!"
"Have you nothing of papa's--no trinket, no gift of his?"
"I have one thing."
"That you prize?"
"That I prize."
"Valuable and pretty?"
"Invaluable and sweet to me."
"Show it, mamma. Is it here or at Fieldhead?"
"It is talking to me now, leaning on me. Its arms are round me."
"Ah, mamma, you mean your teasing daughter, who will never let you
alone; who, when you go into your room, cannot help running to seek for
you; who follows you upstairs and down, like a dog."
"Whose features still give me such a strange thrill sometimes. I half
fear your fair looks yet, child."
"You don't; you can't. Mamma, I am sorry papa was not good. I do so wish
he had been. Wickedness spoils and poisons all pleasant things. It kills
love. If you and I thought each other wicked, we could not love each
other, could we?"
"And if we could not trust each other, Cary?"
"How miserable we should be! Mother, before I knew you I had an
apprehension that you were not good--that I could not esteem you. That
dread damped my wish to see you. And now my heart is elate because I
find you perfect--almost; kind, clever, nice. Your sole fault is that
you are old-fashioned, and of that I shall cure you. Mamma, put your
work down; read to me. I like your southern accent; it is so pure, so
soft. It has no rugged burr, no nasal twang, such as almost every one's
voice here in the north has. My uncle and Mr. Hall say that you are a
fine reader, mamma. Mr. Hall said he never heard any lady read with such
propriety of expression or purity of accent."
"I wish I could reciprocate the compliment, Cary; but, really, the first
time I heard your truly excellent friend read and preach I could not
understand his broad northern tongue."
"Could you understand me, mamma? Did I seem to speak roughly?"
"No. I almost wished you had, as I wished you had looked unpolished.
Your father, Caroline, naturally spoke well, quite otherwise than your
worthy uncle--correctly, gently, smoothly. You inherit the gift."
"Poor papa! When he was so agreeable, why was he not good?"
"Why he was _as_ he was--and happily of that you, child, can form no
conception--I cannot tell. It is a deep mystery. The key is in the hands
of his Maker. There I leave it."
"Mamma, you will keep stitching, stitching away. Put down the sewing; I
am an enemy to it. It cumbers your lap, and I want it for my head; it
engages your eyes, and I want them for a book. Here is your
favourite--Cowper."
These importunities were the mother's pleasure. If ever she delayed
compliance, it was only to hear them repeated, and to enjoy her child's
soft, half-playful, half-petulant urgency. And then, when she yielded,
Caroline would say archly, "You will spoil me, mamma. I always thought I
should like to be spoiled, and I find it very sweet." So did Mrs.
Pryor.
CHAPTER XXVI.
OLD COPY-BOOKS.
By the time the Fieldhead party returned to Briarfield Caroline was
nearly well. Miss Keeldar, who had received news by post of her friend's
convalescence, hardly suffered an hour to elapse between her arrival at
home and her first call at the rectory.
A shower of rain was falling gently, yet fast, on the late flowers and
russet autumn shrubs, when the garden wicket was heard to swing open,
and Shirley's well-known form passed the window. On her entrance her
feelings were evinced in her own peculiar fashion. When deeply moved by
serious fears or joys she was not garrulous. The strong emotion was
rarely suffered to influence her tongue, and even her eye refused it
more than a furtive and fitful conquest. She took Caroline in her arms,
gave her one look, one kiss, then said, "You are better."
And a minute after, "I see you are safe now; but take care. God grant
your health may be called on to sustain no more shocks!"
She proceeded to talk fluently about the journey. In the midst of
vivacious discourse her eye still wandered to Caroline. There spoke in
its light a deep solicitude, some trouble, and some amaze.
"She may be better," it said, "but how weak she still is! What peril she
has come through!"
Suddenly her glance reverted to Mrs. Pryor. It pierced her through.
"When will my governess return to me?" she asked.
"May I tell her all?" demanded Caroline of her mother. Leave being
signified by a gesture, Shirley was presently enlightened on what had
happened in her absence.
"Very good," was the cool comment--"very good! But it is no news to me."
"What! did you know?"
"I guessed long since the whole business. I have heard somewhat of Mrs.
Pryor's history--not from herself, but from others. With every detail of
Mr. James Helstone's career and character I was acquainted. An
afternoon's sitting and conversation with Miss Mann had rendered me
familiar therewith; also he is one of Mrs. Yorke's warning examples--one
of the blood-red lights she hangs out to scare young ladies from
matrimony. I believe I should have been sceptical about the truth of the
portrait traced by such fingers--both these ladies take a dark pleasure
in offering to view the dark side of life--but I questioned Mr. Yorke on
the subject, and he said, 'Shirley, my woman, if you want to know aught
about yond' James Helstone, I can only say he was a man-tiger. He was
handsome, dissolute, soft, treacherous, courteous, cruel----' Don't cry,
Cary; we'll say no more about it."
"I am not crying, Shirley; or if I am, it is nothing. Go on; you are no
friend if you withhold from me the truth. I hate that false plan of
disguising, mutilating the truth."
"Fortunately I have said pretty nearly all that I have to say, except
that your uncle himself confirmed Mr. Yorke's words; for he too scorns a
lie, and deals in none of those conventional subterfuges that are
shabbier than lies."
"But papa is dead; they should let him alone now."
"They should; and we _will_ let him alone. Cry away, Cary; it will do
you good. It is wrong to check natural tears. Besides, I choose to
please myself by sharing an idea that at this moment beams in your
mother's eye while she looks at you. Every drop blots out a sin. Weep!
your tears have the virtue which the rivers of Damascus lacked. Like
Jordan, they can cleanse a leprous memory."