Shirley
"Put your arm through mine; I'll take care of you."
"But the wall--the hedge--it is such hard work climbing, and you are too
slender and young to help me without hurting yourself."
"You shall go through the gate."
"But----"
"But, but--will you trust me or not?"
She looked into his face.
"I think I will. Anything rather than return as anxious as I came."
"I can't answer for that. This, however, I promise you: be ruled by me,
and you shall see Moore yourself."
"See him myself?"
"Yourself."
"But, dear Martin, does he know?"
"Ah! I'm dear now. No, he doesn't know."
"And your mother and the others?"
"All is right."
Caroline fell into a long, silent fit of musing, but still she walked on
with her guide. They came in sight of Briarmains.
"Have you made up your mind?" he asked.
She was silent.
"Decide; we are just on the spot. I _won't_ see him--that I tell
you--except to announce your arrival."
"Martin, you are a strange boy, and this is a strange step; but all I
feel _is_ and _has_ been, for a long time, strange. I will see him."
"Having said that, you will neither hesitate nor retract?"
"No."
"Here we are, then. Do not be afraid of passing the parlour window; no
one will see you. My father and Matthew are at the mill, Mark is at
school, the servants are in the back kitchen, Miss Moore is at the
cottage, my mother in her bed, and Mrs. Horsfall in paradise. Observe--I
need not ring. I open the door; the hall is empty, the staircase quiet;
so is the gallery. The whole house and all its inhabitants are under a
spell, which I will not break till you are gone."
"Martin, I trust you."
"You never said a better word. Let me take your shawl. I will shake off
the snow and dry it for you. You are cold and wet. Never mind; there is
a fire upstairs. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Follow me."
He left his shoes on the mat, mounted the stair unshod. Caroline stole
after, with noiseless step. There was a gallery, and there was a
passage; at the end of that passage Martin paused before a door and
tapped. He had to tap twice--thrice. A voice, known to one listener, at
last said, "Come in."
The boy entered briskly.
"Mr. Moore, a lady called to inquire after you. None of the women were
about. It is washing-day, and the maids are over the crown of the head
in soap-suds in the back kitchen, so I asked her to step up."
"Up here, sir?"
"Up here, sir; but if you object, she shall go down again."
"Is this a place or am I a person to bring a lady to, you absurd lad?"
"No; so I'll take her off."
"Martin, you will stay here. Who is she?"
"Your grandmother from that château on the Scheldt Miss Moore talks
about."
"Martin," said the softest whisper at the door, "don't be foolish."
"Is she there?" inquired Moore hastily. He had caught an imperfect
sound.
"She is there, fit to faint. She is standing on the mat, shocked at your
want of filial affection."
"Martin, you are an evil cross between an imp and a page. What is she
like?"
"More like me than you; for she is young and beautiful."
"You are to show her forward. Do you hear?"
"Come, Miss Caroline."
"Miss Caroline!" repeated Moore.
And when Miss Caroline entered she was encountered in the middle of the
chamber by a tall, thin, wasted figure, who took both her hands.
"I give you a quarter of an hour," said Martin, as he withdrew, "no
more. Say what you have to say in that time. Till it is past I will wait
in the gallery; nothing shall approach; I'll see you safe away. Should
you persist in staying longer, I leave you to your fate."
He shut the door. In the gallery he was as elate as a king. He had never
been engaged in an adventure he liked so well, for no adventure had ever
invested him with so much importance or inspired him with so much
interest.
"You are come at last," said the meagre man, gazing on his visitress
with hollow eyes.
"Did you expect me before?"
"For a month, near two months, we have been very near; and I have been
in sad pain, and danger, and misery, Cary."
"I could not come."
"Couldn't you? But the rectory and Briarmains are very near--not two
miles apart."
There was pain and there was pleasure in the girl's face as she listened
to these implied reproaches. It was sweet, it was bitter to defend
herself.
"When I say I could not come, I mean I could not see you; for I came
with mamma the very day we heard what had happened. Mr. MacTurk then
told us it was impossible to admit any stranger."
"But afterwards--every fine afternoon these many weeks past I have
waited and listened. Something here, Cary"--laying his hand on his
breast--"told me it was impossible but that you should think of me. Not
that I merit thought; but we are old acquaintance--we are cousins."
"I came again, Robert; mamma and I came again."
"Did you? Come, that is worth hearing. Since you came again, we will sit
down and talk about it."
They sat down. Caroline drew her chair up to his. The air was now dark
with snow; an Iceland blast was driving it wildly. This pair neither
heard the long "wuthering" rush, nor saw the white burden it drifted.
Each seemed conscious but of one thing--the presence of the other.
"So mamma and you came again?"
"And Mrs. Yorke did treat us strangely. We asked to see you. 'No,' said
she, 'not in my house. I am at present responsible for his life; it
shall not be forfeited for half an hour's idle gossip.' But I must not
tell you all she said; it was very disagreeable. However, we came yet
again--mamma, Miss Keeldar, and I. This time we thought we should
conquer, as we were three against one, and Shirley was on our side. But
Mrs. Yorke opened such a battery."
Moore smiled. "What did she say?"
"Things that astonished us. Shirley laughed at last; I cried; mamma was
seriously annoyed. We were all three driven from the field. Since that
time I have only walked once a day past the house, just for the
satisfaction of looking up at your window, which I could distinguish by
the drawn curtains. I really dared not come in."
"I _have_ wished for you, Caroline."
"I did not know that; I never dreamt one instant that you thought of me.
If I had but most distantly imagined such a possibility----"
"Mrs. Yorke would still have beaten you."
"She would not. Stratagem should have been tried, if persuasion failed.
I would have come to the kitchen door; the servants should have let me
in, and I would have walked straight upstairs. In fact, it was far more
the fear of intrusion--the fear of yourself--that baffled me than the
fear of Mrs. Yorke."
"Only last night I despaired of ever seeing you again. Weakness has
wrought terrible depression in me--terrible depression."
"And you sit alone?"
"Worse than alone."
"But you must be getting better, since you can leave your bed?"
"I doubt whether I shall live. I see nothing for it, after such
exhaustion, but decline."
"You--you shall go home to the Hollow."
"Dreariness would accompany, nothing cheerful come near me."
"I _will_ alter this. This _shall_ be altered, were there ten Mrs.
Yorkes to do battle with."
"Cary, you make me smile."
"Do smile; smile again. Shall I tell you what I should like?"
"Tell me anything--only keep talking. I am Saul; but for music I should
perish."
"I should like you to be brought to the rectory, and given to me and
mamma."
"A precious gift! I have not laughed since they shot me till now."
"Do you suffer pain, Robert?"
"Not so much pain now; but I am hopelessly weak, and the state of my
mind is inexpressible--dark, barren, impotent. Do you not read it all in
my face? I look a mere ghost."
"Altered; yet I should have known you anywhere. But I understand your
feelings; I experienced something like it. Since we met, I too have been
very ill."
"_Very_ ill?"
"I thought I should die. The tale of my life seemed told. Every night,
just at midnight, I used to wake from awful dreams; and the book lay
open before me at the last page, where was written 'Finis.' I had
strange feelings."
"You speak my experience."
"I believed I should never see you again; and I grew so thin--as thin as
you are now. I could do nothing for myself--neither rise nor lie down;
and I could not eat. Yet you see I am better."
"Comforter--sad as sweet. I am too feeble to say what I feel; but while
you speak I _do_ feel."
"Here I am at your side, where I thought never more to be. Here I speak
to you. I see you listen to me willingly--look at me kindly. Did I count
on that? I despaired."
Moore sighed--a sigh so deep it was nearly a groan. He covered his eyes
with his hand.
"May I be spared to make some atonement."
Such was his prayer.
"And for what?"
"We will not touch on it now, Cary; unmanned as I am, I have not the
power to cope with such a topic. Was Mrs. Pryor with you during your
illness?"
"Yes"--Caroline smiled brightly--"you know she is mamma?"
"I have heard--Hortense told me; but that tale too I will receive from
yourself. Does she add to your happiness?"
"What! mamma? She is _dear_ to me; _how_ dear I cannot say. I was
altogether weary, and she held me up."
"I deserve to hear that in a moment when I can scarce lift my hand to my
head. I deserve it."
"It is no reproach against you."
"It is a coal of fire heaped on my head; and so is every word you
address to me, and every look that lights your sweet face. Come still
nearer, Lina; and give me your hand--if my thin fingers do not scare
you."
She took those thin fingers between her two little hands; she bent her
head _et les effleura de ses lèvres_. (I put that in French because the
word _effleurer_ is an exquisite word.) Moore was much moved. A large
tear or two coursed down his hollow cheek.
"I'll keep these things in my heart, Cary; that kiss I will put by, and
you shall hear of it again one day."
"Come out!" cried Martin, opening the door--"come away; you have had
twenty minutes instead of a quarter of an hour."
"She will not stir yet, you hempseed."
"I dare not stay longer, Robert."
"Can you promise to return?"
"No, she can't," responded Martin. "The thing mustn't become customary.
I can't be troubled. It's very well for once; I'll not have it
repeated."
"_You_'ll not have it repeated."
"Hush! don't vex him; we could not have met to-day but for him. But I
will come again, if it is your wish that I should come."
"It _is_ my wish--my _one_ wish--almost the only wish I can feel."
"Come this minute. My mother has coughed, got up, set her feet on the
floor. Let her only catch you on the stairs, Miss Caroline. You're not
to bid him good-bye"--stepping between her and Moore--"you are to
march."
"My shawl, Martin."
"I have it. I'll put it on for you when you are in the hall."
He made them part. He would suffer no farewell but what could be
expressed in looks. He half carried Caroline down the stairs. In the
hall he wrapped her shawl round her, and, but that his mother's tread
then creaked in the gallery, and but that a sentiment of diffidence--the
proper, natural, therefore the noble impulse of his boy's heart--held
him back, he would have claimed his reward; he would have said, "Now,
Miss Caroline, for all this give me one kiss." But ere the words had
passed his lips she was across the snowy road, rather skimming than
wading the drifts.
"She is my debtor, and I _will_ be paid."
He flattered himself that it was opportunity, not audacity, which had
failed him. He misjudged the quality of his own nature, and held it for
something lower than it was.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CASE OF DOMESTIC PERSECUTION--REMARKABLE INSTANCE OF PIOUS PERSEVERANCE
IN THE DISCHARGE OF RELIGIOUS DUTIES.
Martin, having known the taste of excitement, wanted a second draught;