 Shirley, by Charlotte Bronte, CHAPTER XIV. Shirley seeks to be saved by works. Of course I know he will marry Shirley, were her first words when she rose in the morning. And he ought to marry her. She can help him," she added firmly. But I shall be forgotten when they are married. Was the cruel, seceding thought? Oh, I shall be wholly forgotten! And what, what shall I do when Robert is taken quite from me? Where shall I turn? My Robert! I wish I could justly call him mine. But I am poverty and incapacity. Shirley is wealth and power, and she is beauty too, and love. I cannot deny it. This is no sordid suit. She loves him. Not with inferior feelings. She loves, or will love, as he must feel proud to be loved. Not a valid objection can be made. Let them be married then, but afterwards I shall be nothing to him. As for being his sister and all that stuff, I despise it. I will either be all or nothing to a man like Robert. No feeble shuffling or false-cant is endureable. Once let that pair be united, and I will certainly leave them. As for lingering about, playing the hypocrite, and pretending to come sentiments of friendship, then my soul will be rung with other feelings. I shall not descend to such degradation. As little could I feel the place of their mutual friend as that of their deadly foe. As little could I stand between them as trample over them. Robert is a first-rate man, in my eyes. I have loved, do love, and must love him. I would be his wife, if I could. As I cannot, I must go where I shall never see him. There is but one alternative—to cleave to him as if I were part of him, or to be sundered from him wide as the two poles of a sphere. Sunder me then, Providence, part us speedily. Some such aspirations as these were again working in her mind late in the afternoon, in the apparition of one of the personages haunting her thoughts past the parlour window. Miss Kilda sauntered slowly by, her gait, her countenance, wearing that mixture of wistfulness and carelessness, which, when crescent, was the wanted cast of her look, and character of her bearing. When animated, the carelessness quite vanished, the wistfulness became blent with a genial gaiety, seasoning the laugh, the smile, the glance, with a unique flavour of sentiment, so that mirth from her never resembled the crackling of thorns under a pot. What do you mean by not coming to see me this afternoon, as he promised, was her address to Caroline as she entered the room? I was not in the humour, replied Miss Helston, very truly. Shirley had already fixed on her a penetrating eye. No, she said, I see you are not in the humour for loving me. You are in one of your sunless, inclement moods. When one feels a fellow creature's presence is not welcome to you. You have such moods, are you aware of it? Do you mean to stay long, Shirley? Yes, I am come to have my tea, and must have it before I go. I shall take the liberty, then, of removing my bonnet without being asked. And this she did, and then stood on the rug with her hands behind her. A pretty expression you have in your countenance, she went on, still gazing keenly, though not inimically, rather indeed pittingly, at Caroline. Wonderfully self-supported you look, you solitude-seeking, wounded dear. Are you afraid Shirley will worry you, if she discovers that you are hurt and that you bleed? I never do fear Shirley. But sometimes you dislike her, often you avoid her. Shirley can feel when she is slighted and shunned. If you had not walked home in the company you did last night, you would have been a different girl today. What time did you reach the rectory? By ten? Hmm, you took three-quarters of an hour to walk a mile. Was it you, or more, who lingered so? Shirley, you talked nonsense. He talked nonsense that I doubt not, or he looked at, which is a thousand times worse. I see the reflection of his eyes on your forehead at this moment. I feel disposed to call him out, if I could only get a trustworthy second. I feel desperately irritated. I felt so last night, and have felt it all day. You don't ask me why? She proceeded after a pause. You little silent over modest thing, and you don't deserve that I should pour out my secrets into your lap without an invitation. Upon my word I could have found it in my heart to have dogged more yesterday evening with dire intent. I have pistols, and can use them. Stuff, Shirley! Which would you have shot, me or Robert? Neither, perhaps. Perhaps myself. More likely a bat or a tree-bowl. Here's a puppy, your cousin. A quite serious, sensible, judicious, ambitious puppy. I see him standing before me, talking his half-stern, half-gentle talk, bearing me down, as I am very conscious he does, with his fixity of purpose, etc. And then, I have no patience with him. Miss Kilda started off on a rapid walk through the room, repeating energetically that she had no patience with men in general, and with her tenant in particular. You are mistaken, urged Caroline, in some anxiety. Robert is no puppy or male flirt. I can vouch for that. You vouch for it? Do you think I'll take your word on the subject? There is no one's testimony I would not credit sooner than yours. To advance Moore's fortune you would cut off your right hand. But not tell lies, and if I speak the truth, I must assure you that he was just civil to me last night, that was all. I never asked what he was, I can guess. I saw him from your window take your hand in his long fingers, just as he went out my gate. That is nothing. I am not a stranger, you know. I am an old acquaintance, and his cousin. I feel indignant, and that is the long and short of the matter," responded Miss Kilda. All my comfort, she added presently, is broken up by his manoeuvres. He keeps intruding between you and me. Without him we should be good friends. But that six feet of puppyhood makes a perpetually reoccurring eclipse of our friendship. And again he crosses and obscures the disc I want always to see clear. Ever and anon he renders me to you a mere bore and nuisance. No, Shirley, no. He does. You did not want my society this afternoon, and I feel it hard. You are naturally somewhat reserved. But I am a social personage, who cannot live alone. If we were but left unmolested, I had that regard for you that I could bear you in my presence forever. And not for the fraction of a second do I ever wish to be rid of you. You cannot say as much respecting me. Shirley, I can say anything you wish, Shirley. I like you. You wish me at Jericho tomorrow, Lena. I shall not. I am every day growing more accustomed to, fonder of you. You know, I am too English to get up feminine friendship all at once. But you are so much better than common. You are so different to every day young ladies. I esteem you. I value you. You are never a burden to me, never. Do you believe what I say? Partly replied Miss Kilda, smiling rather incredulously. But you are a peculiar personage. Quite as you look, there is both a force and a depth somewhere within. Not easily reached or appreciated. Then you certainly are not happy. And unhappy people are rarely good, is that what you mean? Not at all. I mean rather that unhappy people are often preoccupied, and not in the mood for discoursing with companions of my nature. Moreover, there is a sort of unhappiness which not only depresses but corrodes, and that, I fear, is your portion. Your pity do you any good, Lena? If it will, take some from Shirley, she offers largely, and warrants the article genuine. Shirley, I never had a sister. You never had a sister. But it flashes on me at this moment how sisters feel towards each other. Affection twined with their life, which no shocks of feeling can uproot. Which little quarrels only trample an instant that it may spring more freshly when the pressure is removed. Affection that no passion can ultimately outrival, with which even love itself cannot do more than compete in force and truth. Love hurts us so, Shirley. It is so tormenting, so racking, and it burns away our strength with its flame. Inaffection is no pain and no fire, only sustenance and balm. I am supported and soothed when you, that is you only, are near, Shirley. Do you believe me now? I am always easy of belief when the creed pleases me. We really are friends, then, Lena, in spite of the black eclipse. We really are, returned the other, drawing Shirley towards her, and making her sit down. Chance what may? From then we will talk of something else than the troubler. But at this moment the rector came in, and the something else of which Miss Kilda was about to talk was not again alluded to till the moment of her departure. She then delayed a few minutes in the passage to say, Caroline, I wish to tell you that I have a great weight on my mind. My conscience is quite uneasy, as if I had committed or was going to commit a crime. It is not my private conscience. You must understand, but my landed proprietor and lord of the manner conscience. I have got into the clutch of an eagle with iron talons. I have fallen under a stern influence, which I scarcely approve, but cannot resist. Something will be done ere long, I fear, which it by no means pleases me to think of. To ease my mind, and to prevent harm as far as I can, I mean to enter on a series of good works. Don't be surprised, therefore, if you see me all at once turn outrageously charitable. I have no idea how to begin. But you must give me some advice, we will talk more on the subject to-morrow. And just ask that excellent person, Miss Aenley, to step up to field-head. I have some notion of putting myself under her tuition. Can she have a precious pupil? Drop a hint to her, Lena, that, though a well-meaning, I am rather a neglected character, and then she will feel less scandalised at my ignorance about clothing, societies, and such things. On the morrow, Caroline found Shirley sitting gravely at her desk, with an account-book, a bundle of banknotes, and a well-filled purse before her. She was looking mighty serious, but a little puzzled. She said she had been casting an eye over the weekly expenditure in housekeeping at the hall, trying to find out where she could retrench. That she had also just given audience to Mrs. Gill, the cook, and had sent that person away with the notion that her, Shirley's, brain was crazed. I have lectured her on the duty of being careful, said she, in a way quite new to her. So eloquent was I on the text of economy that I surprised myself. For, you see, it is altogether a fresh idea. I never thought, much less spoke, on the subject till lately. But it is all theory, for when I came to the practical part I could retrench nothing. I had not firmness to take off a single pound of butter, or to prosecute to any clear result an inquest into the destiny of either dripping, lard, bread, cold meat, or other kitchen pre-requisite whatever. I know we never get up illuminations at field head, but I could not ask the meaning of sundry quite unaccountable pounds of candles. We do not wash for the parish, yet I viewed in silence items of soap and bleaching powder calculated to satisfy the solicitude of the most anxious inquirer after our position in reference to those articles. I never as I am not, nor is Mrs. Pryor, nor is Mrs. Gill herself. Yet I only hemmed and opened my eyes a little wide, when I saw the Butch's bills, whose figures seemed to prove that fact falsehood. I mean. Caroline, you may laugh at me, but you can't change me. I am a paltrune on certain points. I feel it. There is a base alloy of moral cowardice in my composition. I blushed and hung my head before Mrs. Gill when she ought to have been faltering confessions to me. I found it impossible to get up the spirit even to hint, much less to prove, to her that she was a cheat. I have no calm dignity, no true courage about me. Surely, what feat of self-injustice is this? My uncle, who is not given to speak well of women, says there are not ten thousand men in England as genuinely fearless as you. I am fearless physically, but I am nervous about danger. I was not startled from self-possession when Mr. Wynn's great red bull rose with a bellow before my face, as I was crossing the cow-slip lee alone. Stooped his begrimmed sullen head and made a run at me, but I was afraid of seeing Mrs. Gill brought to shame and confusion of face. You have twice ten times my strengths of mind on certain subjects, Caroline. You, who know persuasions can induce to pass a bull, however quiet he looks, would have firmly shown my housekeeper she had done wrong. Then you would have gently and wisely admonished her, and at last, I dare say, provided she had seemed penitent, you would have very sweetly forgiven her. Of this conduct I am incapable. However, in spite of exaggerated imposition, I still find we live within our means. I have money in hand, and I really must do some good with it. The briar-field poor are badly off. They must be helped. What ought I to do, think you, Lena? Had I not better distribute the cash at once? No, indeed, Shirley, you will not manage properly. I have often noticed that your only notion of charity is to give shillings and half-crowns in a careless, free-handed sort of way, which is liable to continual abuse. You must have a prime minister, or you will get yourself into a series of scrapes. You suggested Miss Anley yourself. To Miss Anley I will apply, and, meantime, promise to keep quiet and not begin throwing away your money. What a great deal you have, Shirley. You must feel very rich with all that. Yes, I feel of consequence. It is not an immense sum, but I feel responsible for its disposal, and really this responsibility weighs on my mind more heavily than I could have expected. They say that there are some families almost starving to death in briar-field. Some of my own cottages are in wretched circumstances. I must, and will help them. Some people say we shouldn't give arms to the poor, Shirley. They are great fools for their pains. For those who are not hungry, it is easy to palaver about the degradation of charity and so on, but they forget the brevity of life, as well as its bitterness. We have none of us long to live. Let us help each other through seasons of want and woe, as well we can. Not heeding, in least, the scruples of vain philosophy. But you do help others, Shirley. You give a great deal as it is. Not enough, I must give more, or I tell you my brother's blood will someday be crying to heaven against me. Four, after all, if political incendries come here to kindle conflagration in the neighbourhood, and my property is attacked, I shall defend it like a Tigris. I know I shall. Let me listen to mercy as long as she is near me. Her voice once drowned by the shout of ruffian defiance. And I shall be full of impulses to resist and quell. If once the poor gather and rise in the form of the mob, I shall turn against them as an aristocrat. If they bully me, I must defy. If they attack, I must resist. And I will. You talk like Robert. I feel like Robert, only more fieryly. Let them meddle with Robert, or Robert's meal, or Robert's interests, and I shall hate them. At present I am no patrician, nor do I regard the poor around me as plebeians. But if once they violently wrong me or mine, and then presume to dictate to us, I shall quite forget pity for their wretchedness and respect for their poverty, in scorn of their ignorance and wrath at their insolence. Shirley, how your eyes flash! Because my soul burns. Would you any more than me let Robert be borne down by numbers? If I had your power to aid Robert, I would use it as you mean to use it. If I could be such a friend to him as you can be, I would stand by him as you mean to stand by him, till death. And now, Lena, though your eyes don't flash, they glow. You drop your lids, but I saw a kindled spark. However, it is not yet come to fighting. What I want to do is prevent mischief. I cannot forget, either day or night, that these embittered feelings of the poor against the rich have been generated in suffering. They would neither hate nor envy us if they did not deem us so much happier than themselves. To allay this suffering and thereby lessen this hate, let me out of my abundance give abundantly, and that the donation may go further, let it be made wisely. To that intent we must introduce some clear, calm, practical sense into our counsels. So go, and fetch Miss Aenley. Without another word, Caroline put on her bonnet and departed. It may, perhaps, appear strange that neither she nor Shirley thought of consulting Mrs. Pryor on their scheme. But they were wise in abstaining. To have consulted her, and this they knew by instinct, would only have been to involve her in painful embarrassment. She was far better informed, better read, a deeper thinker than Miss Aenley, but of administrative energy, of executive ability, she had none. She would subscribe her own modest might to a charitable object willingly. But arms-giving suited her, but in public plans, on a large scale, she could take no part. As to originating them, that was out of the question. This Shirley knew, and therefore she did not trouble Mrs. Pryor by unveiling conferences which could only remind her of her own deficiencies and do no good. It was a bright day for Miss Aenley when she was summoned to field head to deliberate on projects so congenial to her. And she was seated with all honour and deference at her table, with paper, pen, ink, and what was best of all cashed before her, and requested to draw up a regular plan for administering relief to the destitute poor of Pryorfield. She, who knew them all, had studied their wants, had again and again felt in what way they might best be suckered. Could the means of sucker only be found? Was fully competent to their undertaking, and amic exaltation gladdened her kind heart, as she felt herself able to answer clearly and promptly the eager questions put by the two young girls. As she showed them in her answers how much and what serviceable knowledge she had acquired of the condition of her fellow creatures round her. Shirley placed at her disposal three hundred pounds, and at sight of the money Miss Aenley's eyes filled with joyful tears. For she already saw the hungry fed, the naked clothed, the sick comforted thereby. She quickly drew up a simple sensible plan for its expenditure, and she assured them brighter times would now come round, for she doubted not the Lady of Fieldhead's example would be followed by others. She should try to get additional subscriptions, and to form a fund, but first she must consult the clergy. Yes, on that point she was peremptory. Mr. Hellstone, Dr. Bultby, Mr. Hall, must be consulted, for not only must Briarfield be relieved, but Winbury and Nunnally. It would, she averred, be presumption in her to take a single step unauthorised by them. The clergy were sacred beings in Miss Aenley's eyes, no matter what might be the insignificance of the individual. This station made him holy. The very curates, who in their trivial arrogance, were hardly worthy to tie her patterned strings, or to carry her cotton umbrella, or check wool and shawl, she, in her pure sincere enthusiasm, looked upon as sucking saints. No matter how clearly their little vices and enormous absurdities were pointed out to her, she could not see them. She was blind to ecclesiastical defects. The white surplus covered a multitude of sins. Surely knowing this harmless infatuation on the part of her recently chosen Prime Minister, stipulated expressly that the curates were to have no voice in the disposal of the money. That their meddling fingers were not to be inserted into the pie. The Rectors, of course, must be paramount, and they might be trusted. They had some experience, some sagacity. And Mr. Hall, at least, had sympathy and loving-kindness for his fellow men. But as for the youth under them, they must be set aside, kept down, and taught that subordination and silence best become their years and capacity. It was, with some horror, mis-only heard their language. Caroline, however, intersposing with a mild word or two in praise of Mr. Sweeting, calmed her again. Sweeting was, indeed, her own favourite. She endeavoured to respect Mr. Malone and Dunne. But the slices of sponge-cake and glasses of cow-slip or primrose wine she had at different times administered to Sweeting when he came to see her in her little cottage, were ever offered with sentiments of truly motherly regard. The same innocuous collation she had once presented to Malone. But that personage evinced such a scorn of the offering she had never ventured to renew it. To Dunne she always served the treat, and was happy to see his approbation of it proved beyond a doubt by the fact of his usually eating two pieces of cake, and putting a third in his pocket. Indefatigable in her exertions, where good was to be done, Miss Anley would immediately have set out on a walk of ten miles round to the three rectors in order to show her plan, and humbly solicit their approval. But Miss Kilda interdicted this, and proposed, as an amendment, to collect the clergy in a small, select reunion that evening at Fieldhead. Miss Anley was to meet them, and the plan was to be discussed in full privy counsel. Shirley managed to get the senior priesthood together accordingly, and before the old maid's arrival she had, further, talked all the gentlemen into the most charming mood imaginable. She herself had taken in hand Dr. Bultby and Mr. Hellstone. The first was a stubborn old Welshman, hot, opinionated, and obstinate, but with all a man who did a great deal of good, though not without making some noise about it. The latter we know. She had rather a friendly feeling for both, especially for old Hellstone, and it cost her no trouble to be quite delightful to them. She took them round the garden. She gathered them flowers. She was like a kind of daughter to them. Mr. Hall she left to Caroline, or rather it was to Caroline's care Mr. Hall consigned himself. He generally thought Caroline in every party where she and he happened to be. He was not generally a lady's man, though all ladies liked him. Something of a bookworm he was, nearsighted, spectacled, now and then abstracted. To old ladies he was kind as a son. To men of every occupation and grade he was acceptable. The truth, simplicity, frankness of his manners, the nobleness of his integrity, the reality and elevation of his peity, won him friends in every grade. His poor clerk and sextant delighted in him. The noble patron of his living esteemed him highly. It was only with young, handsome, fashionable and stylish ladies he felt a little shy, being himself a plain man, plain in aspect, plain in manners, plain in speech. He seemed to fear their dash, elegance and heirs, but Miss Hellstone had neither dash nor heirs, and her native elegance was of a very quiet order. That is the beauty of a ground-loving hedge-flower. He was a fluent, cheerful, agreeable talker. Caroline could talk, too, in a tatter-tate. She liked Mr. Hall to come and take the seat next to her in a party, and thus secure her from Peter Augustus Malone, Joseph Dunn, or John Sykes. And Mr. Hall never failed to avail himself of this privilege when he possibly could. Each preference shown by a single gentleman to a single lady would certainly, in ordinary cases, have set in motion the tongues of the gossips. But Cyril Hall was forty-five years old, slightly bald and slightly gray, and nobody ever said or thought he was likely to be married to Miss Hellstone. Nor did he think so himself. He was wedded already to his books and his parish. His kind sister Margaret, spectacled and learned like himself, made him happy in his single state. He considered it too late to change. Besides he had known Caroline as a pretty little girl. She had sat on his knee many a time. He had bought her toys and given her books. He felt that her friendship for him was mixed with a sort of filial respect. He could not have bought himself to attempt to give another colour to her sentiments. And his serene mind could glass a fair image without feeling its depth travelled by the reflection. When Miss Anley arrived she was made kindly welcome by everyone. Mrs. Pryor and Margaret Hall made room for her on the sofa between them, and when the three were seated they formed a trio which the gay and thoughtless would have scorned, indeed as quite worthless and unattractive. A middle-aged widow and two plain spectacled old maids, yet which had its own quite value, as many a suffering and friendless human being knew. Shelly opened the business and showed the plan. I know the hand which drew up that, said Mr. Hall, glancing at Miss Anley and smiling benignly. His approbation was one at once. Bald be heard and deliberated with bent brow, and protruded under lip. His consent he considered too weighty to be given in a hurry. Fellstone glanced sharply around with an alert, suspicious expression, as if he apprehended that female craft was at work, and that something in petticoats was somehow trying underhand to acquire too much influence, and make itself of too much importance. Shirley caught and comprehended the expression. This scheme is nothing, she said carelessly. It's only an outline, a mis-suggestion. You gentlemen are requested to draw up rules of your own. And she directly fetched her writing-case, smiling clearly to herself as she bent over the table where it stood. She produced a sheet of paper, a new pen, drew an arm-chair to the table, and presenting her hand to Old Hallstone, begged permission to install him in it. For a minute he was a little stiff and stood wrinkling his copper-coloured forehead strangely. At last he muttered, Well, you are neither my wife nor my daughter, so I'll be led for once. But mind, I know I am led. Your little female manoeuvres don't blind me. I said surely, dipping the pen in the ink and putting it into his hand, you must regard me as Captain Kielder today. This is quite a gentleman's affair, yours and mine entirely. Doctor, so she had dubbed the rector, the ladies there are only to be our aides to comp, and at their peril they speak, till we have settled the whole business. He smiled a little grimly, and began to write. He soon interrupted himself to ask questions, and consult his brethren, disdainfully lifting his glance over the curly heads of the two girls, and the demure caps of the elder ladies, to meet the winking glasses and grey paints of the priests. In the discussion which ensued, all three gentlemen, to their infinite credit, showed a thorough acquaintance with the poor of their parishes, and even my new knowledge of their separate wants. Each rector knew where closing was needed, where food would be most acceptable, where money could be bestowed with the probability of it being judiciously laid out. Wherever their memories fell short, miss Aynley or Miss Hall, if applied to, could help them out. But both ladies took care not to speak unless spoken to. Neither of them wanted to be foremost, but each sincerely desired to be useful. And useful the clergy consented to make them, with which boon they were content. Shirley stood behind the rectors, leaning over their shoulders, now and then to glance at the rules drawn up, and the list of cases making out, listening to all they said, and still at intervals smiling her queer smile. A smile not ill-natured, but significant, too significant to be generally thought amiable. Men really like such of their fellows as read their inward nature too clearly and truly. It is good for women, especially, to be endowed with a soft blindness, to have mild, dim eyes that never penetrate below the surface of things. They take all for what it seems. Thousands knowing this keep their eyelids drooped, one system. But the most downcast glance has its loophole, through which it can, on occasion, take its sentinel survey of life. I remember once seeing a pair of blue eyes that were usually thought creepy, secretly, on the alert, and I knew by their expression, an expression which chewed my blood, it was in that quarter so wondrously unexpected, that for years they had been accustomed to silent soul-reading. The world called the owner of these blue eyes Bon Petit Femme, she was not an English woman. I learned her nature afterward, got it off by heart, studied it in its furthest, most hidden recesses. She was the finest, deepest, subtlest schema in Europe. When all was at length settled to Miss Kilda's mind, and the clergy had entered so fully into the spirit of her plans, as to head the subscription list with their signatures for fifty pounds each, she ordered supper to be served, having previously directed Miss Kilda to exercise her utmost skill in the preparation of this repast. Mr. Hall was no bon vivant, he was naturally an abstemenious man, indifferent to luxury. But Baltby and Hellstone both liked good cookery. Their Richard Che supper, consequently, put them into an excellent humour. They did justice to it, though in a gentlemanly way, not in the mode Mr. Dunn would have done, had he been present. A glass of fine wine was likewise tasted, with discerning, though most decorous relish. Captain Kilda was complimented on his taste. The compliment charmed him. It had been his aim to gratify and satisfy his priestly guests. He had succeeded, and was radiant with glee. End of Chapter 14 of Shirley by Charlotte Bronte, Recording by Anna Knight, in Hobart, 2009. Shirley by Charlotte Bronte, Chapter 15. This is a LibriVox recording by Anna Knight. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mr. Dunn's Exodus The next day Shirley expressed to Caroline how delighted she felt that the little party had gone off so well. I rather like to entertain a circle of gentlemen, said she. It is amusing to observe how they enjoy a judiciously concocted repast. For ourselves, you see, these choice wines and these scientific dishes are of no importance to us. But gentlemen seem to retain something of the naivety of children about food, and one likes to please them. That is, when they show the becoming decent self-government of our admirable rectus. I watch more sometimes, to try and discover how he can be pleased. But he has not that child's simplicity about him. Did you ever find out his accessible point, Caroline? You have seen more of him than I. It is not, at any rate, that of my uncle and Dr. Boutby, returned Caroline smiling. She always felt a sort of shy pleasure in following Miss Kilda's lead, respecting the discussion of her cousin's character. Left to herself, she would never have touched on the subject. But when invited, the temptation of talking about him, of whom she was ever thinking, was irresistible. But, she added, I really don't know what it is. For I never watched Robert in my life, but my scrutiny was presently baffled by finding he was watching me. There it is, exclaimed Shirley. You can't fix your eyes on him, but he's presently flashed on you. He is never of his guard. He won't give you an advantage. Even when he does not look at you, his thoughts seem to be busy amongst your own thoughts, tracing your words and actions to their source, contemplating your motives at his ears. Oh! I know that sort of character, or something in the same style. It is one that peaks me singularly. How does it affect you? This question was a specimen of one of Shirley's sharp, sudden turns. Caroline used to be fluttered by them at first, but she had now got into the way of parrying these home thrusts like a little quakerous. Peek you? In what way does it peak you? she said. Here he comes, suddenly exclaimed, Shirley breaking off, starting up and running to the window. Here comes a diversion. I never told you of a superb conquest I have made lately, made at those parties to which I can never persuade you to accompany me. And the thing has been done without effort or intention on my part, that I aver. There is the bell. And, by all that's delicious, there are two of them. Do they never hunt, then, except in couples? You may have one, Lena, and you may take your choice. I hope I am generous enough. Listen to Tata. The black-muzzled, tawny dog, a glimpse of which was seen in the chapter which first introduced its mistress to the reader, here gave tongue in the hall, admits to whose hollow space the deep bark resounded formidable. A growl more terrible than the bark. Menacing as muttered thunder, seceded. Listen, again cried Shirley, laughing. You would think that the prelude to a bloody onslaught, they will be frightened. They don't know old Tata as I do. They are not aware his uproars are all sound and fury, signifying nothing. Some bustle was heard. Down, sir, down, exclaimed a high-toned, imperious voice, and then came a crack of a cane or a whip. Immediately there was a yell, a scutter, a run, a positive tumult, I'm alone, alone. Down, down, down, cried the high voice. He really is worrying them, exclaimed Shirley. They have struck him. A blowy's wotty is not used to, and will not take. Achy ran. A gentleman was fleeing up the oak staircase, making for refuge in the gallery or chambers in hot haste. And Arthur was backing fast to the stair-foot, wildly flourishing and knotty stick. At the same time, reiterating, down, I, down, down, while the tawny dog, Bade, bellowed, howled at him, and a group of servants came bundling from the kitchen. The dog made a spring. The second gentleman turned tail and rushed after his comrade. The first was already safe in a bedroom. He held the door against his fellow, nothing so merciless as terror. But the other fugitive struggled hard. The door was about to yield to his strength. Gentleman was uttered in miskilled us silvery but vibrating tones. Spare my locks, if you please, calm yourselves, come down. Look at Tata, he won't harm a cat. She was caressing the said Tata. He lay crouched at her feet, his forepaws stretched out, his tail still in threatening agitation, his nostrils snorting, his bulldog eyes conscious of a dull fire. He was an honest, phlegmatic, stupid but stubborn canine character. He loved his mistress, and John, the man who fed him, but was mostly indifferent to the rest of the world. Quite enough he was, unless struck or threatened with a stick, and that put a demon into him at once. Mr. Malone, how do you do? continued Shirley, lifting up her mirth-lit face to the gallery. That is not the way to the oak parlour, that is Miss Pryor's apartment. Request your friend Mr. Dunn to evacuate. I shall have the greatest pleasure in receiving him in a lower room. Ha-ha! cried Malone in hollow laughter, quitting the door, and leaning over the massive balustrade. Only that animal alarmed Dunn. He is a little timid. He proceeded stiffening himself and walking trimly to the stair-head. I thought it better to follow in order to reassure him. It appears you did. Well, come down, if you please. John, turning to her manservant, go upstairs and liberate Mr. Dunn. Take care, Mr. Malone, the stairs are slippery. In truth they were being of polished oak. The caution came a little late for Malone. He had slipped already in his stately descent, and was only saved from falling by a clutch at the banisters, which made the whole structure creak again. Tata seemed to think the visitor's descent affected with unwarranted eclat, and accordingly he growled once more. Malone, however, was no coward. The spring of the dog had taken him by surprise, but he passed him now in suppressed fury rather than fear. If a look could have strangled Tata, he would have breathed no more. Forgetting politeness in his sullen rage, Malone pushed into the parlour before Miss Kilda. He glanced at Miss Hellstone. He could scarcely bring himself to bend to her. He glared on both the ladies. He looked as if, had either of them been his wife, he would have made a glorious husband at the moment. In each hand he seemed as if he would have liked to clutch one and gripe her to death. However, Shirley took pity. She ceased to laugh, and Caroline was too true a lady to smile even at any one under mortification. Tata was dismissed. Peter Augustus was soothed, for Shirley had looks and tones that might soothe a very bull. He had sense to feel that, since he could not challenge the owner of the dog, he had better be civil, and civil he tried to be. And his attempts being well-received, he grew presently very civil and quiet himself again. He had come, indeed, for the express purpose of making himself charming and fascinating. Rough portents had met on his first admission to Fieldhead. But that passage got over. Charming and fascinating he resolved to be. Like March, having come in like a lion, he proposed to go out like a lamb. For the sake of air, as it appeared, or perhaps for that of ready-exciting case of some new emergency arising, he took his seat, not on the sofa where Miss Kielder offered him enthronization, nor yet near the fireside, to which Caroline by a friendly sigh gently invited him, but on a chair close to the door. Being no longer sullen or furious, he grew, after his fashion, constrained and embarrassed. He talked to the ladies by fits and starts, choosing for topics whatever was most intensely commonplace. He sighed deeply, significantly, at the close of every sentence. He sighed in each pause. He sighed ear he opened his mouth. At last, finding it desirable to add ease to his other charms, he drew forth to aid him an ample silk pocket handkerchief. This was to be the graceful toy with which his unoccupied hands were to trifle. He went to work with a certain energy. He folded the red and yellow square corner-wise. He whipped it open with a waft. When he folded it in narrower compass, he made of it a handsome band. To what purpose would he proceed to apply the ligature? Would he wrap it about his throat? His head. Should it be a comforter or a turban? Neither. Peter Augustus had an inventive, an original genius. He was about to show the ladies graces of action possessing at least the charm of novelty. He sat on the chair with his athletic Irish legs crossed, and these legs, in that attitude, he circled with the bandana and bound firmly together. It was evident he felt this device to be worth an encore. He repeated it more than once. The second performance sent surely to the window to laugh her silent but irrepressible laugh unseen. It turned Caroline's head aside, that her long curls might screen the smile mantling on her features. Miss Halston, indeed, was amused by more than one point in Peter's demeanour. She was edified at the complete, though abrupt, diversion of his homage from herself to the heiress. The five thousand pounds he supposed her likely one day to inherit were not to be weighed in the balance against Miss Kilda's estate and hall. He took no pains to conceal his calculations and tactics. He pretended to no gradual change of views. He willed about at once. The pursuit of the lesser fortune was openly relinquished for that of the greater. On what grounds he expected to succeed in his chase, himself best knew—certainly not by skillful management. From the length of time that elapsed, it appeared that John had some difficulty in persuading Mr. Dunn to his send. At length, however, that gentleman appeared. Nor, as he presented himself at the oak parlour-door, did he seem in the slightest degree ashamed or confused—not a wit. Dunn, indeed, was of that coldly-flegmatic, immovable, complacent, densely self-satisfied nature which is insensible to shame. He had never blushed in his life. No humiliation could abash him. His nerves were not capable of sensation enough to stir his life and make colour mount to his cheek. He had no fire in his blood, and no modesty in his soul. He was affrontless, arrogant, decorous slip of the commonplace, conceited, in name, insipid, and this gentleman had a notion of wooing Miss Kilda. He knew no more, however, how to set about that business than if he had been an image carved in wood. He had no idea of a taste to be pleased, a heart to be reached in courtship. His notion was, when he should have formally visited her a few times, to write a letter proposing marriage. Then he calculated she would accept him for love of his office. Then they would be married. Then he should be master of field-head, and he should live very comfortably, have serve and sat his command, eat and drink of the best, and be a great man. You would not have suspected his intentions when he addressed his intended bride in an impertinent, injured tone. A very dangerous dog that, Miss Kilda, I wonder you should keep such an animal. Do you, Mr. Dunn? Perhaps you will wonder more when I tell you I am very fond of him. I should say you are not serious in the assertion. Can't fancy a lady fond of that brute? Tis so ugly! Am I Carter's dog? Pray hang him! Hang what I am fond of? And purchase in his stead some sweetly putty-pug or poodle, something appropriate to the fair sex, ladies generally like lap-dogs. Perhaps I am an exception. Oh! you can't be, you know. All ladies are alike in those matters, that is universally allowed. Tata frightened you terribly, Mr. Dunn, I hope you won't take any harm. That I shall, no doubt. He gave me a turn I shall not soon forget. When I saw him, such was Mr. Dunn's pronunciation, about to spring, I thought I should have fainted. Perhaps you did faint in the bedroom. You were a long time. No, I bore up that I might hold the door fast. I was determined not to let any one enter. I thought I would keep a barrier between me and the enemy. But what if your friend Mr. Malone had been worried? Malone must take care of himself. Your man persuaded me to come out at last by saying the dog was chained up in his kennel. If I had not been assured of this, I would have remained all day in the chamber. But what is that? I declare the man has told of falsehood. The dog is there. And indeed Tata walked past the glass door, opening to the garden, stiff, tawny and black-muzzled as ever. He still seemed in bad humour. He was growling again, and whistling a half-strangled whistle, being an inheritance from the bulldog side of his ancestry. There are other visitors coming, observed surely, with that provoking coolness of which the owners of formidable-looking dogs are apt to show while their animals are all brittle and bay. Tata sprang down the pavement towards the gate, bellowing a veck explosion. His mistress quietly opened the glass door and stepped out, chirping to him. His bellows were already silenced, and he was lifting up his huge blunt, stupid head to the new-callers to be patted. What? Tata! Tata! said a cheery, rather boyish voice. Don't you know us? Good morning, old boy!" And little Mr. Sweeting, whose conscious good nature made him comparatively fearless of man, woman, child or brute, came through the gate, caressing the guardian. His vicar, Mr. Hall, followed. He had no fear of Tata, either, and Tata had no ill will to him. He snuffed both the gentlemen round, and then, as if concluding that they were harmless and might be allowed to pass, he withdrew to the sunny front of the hall, leaving the archway free. Mr. Sweeting followed, and would have played with him, but Tata took no notice of his caresses. It was only his mistress's hand whose touch gave him pleasure. To all others he showed himself obstinately insensible. He advanced to meet Mr. Hall and Sweeting, shaking hands with them cordially. They were come to tell her of certain successes they had achieved that morning in applications for subscriptions to the fund. Mr. Hall's eyes beamed benignly through his spectacles. His plain face looked positively handsome with goodness. And when Caroline, seeing who was come, ran out to meet him, and put both her hands into his, he gazed down on her with a gentle serene, affectionate expression that gave him the aspect of a smiling melanchthon. Instead of re-entering the house, they strayed through the garden, the ladies walking one on each side of Mr. Hall. It was a breezy sunny day. The air freshened the girls' cheeks, and gracefully to shovel their ringlets, both of them looked pretty, one gay. Mr. Hall spoke oftenest to his brilliant companion, looked most frequently at the quiet one. Miss Kielder gathered handfuls of the profusely blooming flowers, whose perfume filled the enclosure. She gave some to Caroline telling her to choose a nose-gay for Mr. Hall. And with her lap filled with delicate and splendid blossoms, Caroline sat down on the steps of a summer-house. The vicar stood near her, leaning on his cane. Shirley, who could not be inhospitable, now called out the neglected pair in the oak parlor, she convoyed Don past his dread enemy Tata, who, with his nose on his forepaws, lay snoring under the meridian sun. Don was not grateful. He was never grateful for kindness and attention, but he was glad of the safeguard. Miss Kielder, desirous of being impartial, offered the curate's flowers. They accepted them with native awkwardness. Malone seemed especially at a loss when a bouquet filled one hand, while his s'il-a-la occupied the other. Don's, thank you, was rich to hear. It was the most fatuous and arrogant of sounds, implying that he considered this offering and homage to his merits, and an attempt on the part of the heiress to ingratiate herself into his priceless affections. Sweeting alone received the posy like a smart, sensible little man, as he was, putting it gallantly and natally into his budden hole. As a reward for his good manners, Miss Kielder beckoning him apart gave him some commission, which made his eyes sparkle with glee. Away he flew, round by the courtyard to the kitchen. No need to give him directions. He was always at home, everywhere. Ere long he reappeared, carrying a round table, which he placed under the cedar. Then he collected six garden chairs from various nooks and bowers in the grounds, and placed them in a circle. The parlour-maid, Miss Kielder kept no footmen, came out, purring a napkin-covered tray. Sweeting's nimble fingers aided in disposing glasses, plates, knives, and forks. He assisted her, too, in setting forth a neat luncheon, consisting of cold chicken, ham, and tarts. This sort of impromptu regale it was Shirley's delight to offer any chance guests. And nothing pleased her better than to have an alert, obliging little friend, like Sweeting, to run about her hand, cheerily receive and briskly execute her hospitable hints. David and she were on the best terms in the world, and his devotion to the heiress was quite disinterested, since it prejudged in nothing his faithful allegiance to the magnificent Dora Sykes. The repasse turned out a very merry one. Dunn and Malone, indeed, contributed but little to its vivacity, the chief part they played in it being what concerned the knife, fork, and wine-glass. But wherefore such natures, as Mr. Hall, David's Sweeting, Shirley, and Caroline, were assembled in health and amity, on a green lawn under a sunny sky, amidst a wilderness of flowers, there could not be ungenial dullness. In the course of conversation Mr. Hall reminded the ladies that which sun tide was approaching, when the grand, united Sunday school tea-drinking and procession of the three parishes of Briarfield, Winbury, and Nunnley were to take place. Caroline he knew would be at her post as teacher, he said, and hoped Miss Kilda would not be wanting. He hoped she would make her first public appearance amongst them at that time. Shirley was not the person to miss an occasion of this sort. She liked festive excitement, a gathering of happiness, a concentration and combination of pleasant details, a throng of glad faces, a musto of elated hearts. She told Mr. Hall they might count on her with security. She did not know what she would have to do, but they might dispose of her as they pleased. And, said Caroline, you will promise to come to my table and to sit near me, Mr. Hall? I shall not fail, Dio Valente, said he. I have occupied the place on her right hand at these monster tea-drinkings for the last six years." He proceeded, turning to Miss Kilda. They made her a Sunday school teacher when she was a little girl of twelve. She is not particularly self-confident by nature, as you may have observed, and the first time she had to take a tray, as the phrase is, and make tea in public, there was some piteous trembling and flushing. I observed the speechless panic, the cup shaking in the little hand, and the overflowing teapot filled to full from the urn. I came to her aid, took a seat near her, managed the urn and the slot basin, and, in fact, made the tea for her like any old woman. I was very grateful to you, interposed Caroline. You were! You told me so with an earnest sincerity that repaid me well, in as much as it was not like the majority of little ladies of twelve, whom you may help and caress forever without their evincing any quicker sense of the kindness done and meant than if they were made of wax and wood, instead of flesh and nerves. She kept close to me, Miss Kilda, the rest of the evening, walking with me over the grounds where the children were playing. She followed me into the vestry when all were summoned into church. She would, I believe, have mounted with me to the pulpit had I not taken the previous precaution of conducting her to the rectory pew. And he has been my friend ever since, said Caroline, and always sat at her table, near her tray, and handed the cups. That is the extent of my services. The next thing I do for her will be to marry her some day to some curate or mule owner. But mind, Caroline, I shall inquire about the Brighrim's character, and if he is not a gentleman likely to render happy the little girl who walked with me hand in hand over nonely common, I will not officiate. So take care. The caution is useless. I am not going to be married. I shall live single like your sister Margaret, Mr. Hall. Very well you might do worse. Margaret is not unhappy. She has her books for her pleasure, and her brother for her care, and is content. If ever you want a home, if the day should come when Briarfield rectory is yours no longer, come to nonelly vicarage. Should the old maid and bachelor be still living, they will make you tenderly welcome. There are your flowers, now, said Caroline, who had kept the nose-gay she had selected for him till this moment. You don't care for a bouquet, but you must give it to Margaret. Only, to be sentimental for once, keep that little forget-me-not, which is a wild flower I gathered from the grass, and, to be still more sentimental, let me take two or three of the blue blossoms and put them in my souvenir. And she took out a small book with enameled cover and silver clasp, wherein, having opened it, she inserted the flowers, writing round them in pencil, to be kept for the sake of the Reverend Cyril Hall, my friend, May 18. The Reverend Cyril Hall, on his part also, placed a sprig in safety between the leaves of a pocket testament. He only wrote on the margin, Caroline. Now, said he, smiling, I trust we are romantic enough, Miss Gilda. He continued, the curates by the by, during this conversation, were too much occupied with their own jokes to notice what passed at the other end of the table. I hope you are laughing at this trait of exhortation in the old grey-headed vicar. But the fact is, I am so used to comply with the requests of this young friend of yours, I don't know how to refuse her when she tells me to do anything. You would say it is not much in my way to traffic with flowers and forget-me-nots, but, you see, when requested to be sentimental, I am obedient. He is naturally rather sentimental, remarked Caroline. Margaret told me so, and I know what pleases him. That you should be good and happy? Yes, that is one of my greatest pleasures. May God long preserve to you the blessings of peace and innocence. By which phrase? I mean comparative innocence. For in his sight I am well aware, nana pura. What to our human perceptions looks spotless as we fancy angels, is to him but frailty, needing the blood of his son to cleanse, and the strength of his spirit to sustain. Let us each and all cherish humility. I, as you, my young friends, and we may well do it when we look into our own hearts, and see their temptations, inconsistencies, propensities, even we blush to recognize. And it is not youth, nor good looks, nor grace, nor any gentle outside charm which makes either beauty or goodness in God's eyes. Young ladies, when your mirror or men's tongues flatter you, for that, in the sight of her maker, Mary Ann Anley, a woman whom neither glass nor lips have ever panigarised, is fairer and better than either of you. She is indeed, he added after a pause, she is indeed. You young things wrapped up in yourselves and in earthly hopes scarcely live as Christ lived. Perhaps you cannot do it yet. While existence is so sweet and earth so smiling to you, it would be too much to expect. She with meek heart and due reverence treads close in her redeemous steps. Here the harsh voice of Dunn broke in on the mild tones of Mr. Hall. He began clearing his throat evidently for a speech of some importance. Miss Kilda, your attention and instant, if you please. Well, said Shirley nonchalantly, what is it? I listen, all of me is ear, that is not eye. I hope part of you is hand also, returned Dunn, in his vulgarly, presumptuous and familiar style, and part purse. It is to the hand and purse I propose to appeal. I came here this morning with a view to beg of you. You should have gone to Mrs. Gill, she is my almaner. To beg of you a subscription to a school, I and Dr. Boltby intend to erect one in the hamlet of Ecclfig, which is under our vicarage of Winbury. The Baptists have got possession of it, they have a chapel there, and we wanted to dispute the ground. But I have nothing to do with Ecclfig, I possess no property there. What does that signify? You're a churchwoman, aren't you? Admirable creature muttered surely under her breath. Exquisite address, fine style. What raptures he excites in me. Then allowed, I am a churchwoman, certainly. Then you can't refuse to contribute in this case. The population of Ecclfig are a parcel of brutes. We want to civilise them. Who is to be the missionary? Myself, probably. You won't fail through lack of sympathy with your flock. I hope not. I expect success, but we must have money. There is the paper. Pray give a handsome sum. When asked for money, Shirley rarely held back. She put down her name for five pounds. After the three hundred pounds she had lately given, and the many smaller sums she was giving constantly, it was as much as she could at present afford. One looked at it, declared the subscription shabby, and clamourously demanded more. Miss Kilda flushed up with some indignation and more astonishment. At present I shall give no more, said she. Not give more? Why, I expected you to head the list with a cool hundred. With your property you should never put down a signature for less. She was silent. When the South went on done, a lady with a thousand a year would be ashamed to give five pounds for a public project. Shirley, so rarely haughty, looked so now. Her slight frame became nerved, her distinguished face quickened with scorn. Strange remarks, said she, most inconsiderate. Repoach in return for bounty is misplaced. Bounty, do you call five pounds bounty? I do, and bounty which had I not given it to Dr. Bootby's intended school, of the erection of which I approve, and in no sort to his curate, who seems ill-advised in his manner of applying for, or rather extorting, subscriptions. Bounty, I repeat, which, but for this consideration, I should instantly reclaim. One was sick-skinned. He did not feel all or half that tone, ere, glance of the speaker expressed. He knew not on what ground he stood. Wretched place, this Yorkshire he went on. I could never have formed an idea of the country had I not seen it. And the people, rich and poor, what a set! How coarse and uncultivated they would be scouted in the South! Suddenly leaned forward on the table, her nostrils dilating a little, her taper fingers interlaced, and compressing each other hard. The rich, pursued, the infatuated and unconscious Dunn, are a parcel of misers, never living as persons with their incomes ought to live. You scarcely—you must excuse Mr. Dunn's pronunciation, reader—it was very choice. He considered it gentile, and prided himself on his southern accent. Northerney is received with singular sensations his utterance of certain words. You scarcely ever see a family where a proper carriage or a regular butler is kept. And as to the poor, you look at them when they come crowding about the church doors on the occasion of a marriage or a funeral, clattering in clogs, the men in their shirts leave some walk-home as aprons, the women in mob-caps and bed-gowns. They positively deserve that one should turn a mad cow in amongst them to rout their rabble rank. Hey, hey, what fun it would be! There! You have reached the climax, said Shirley quietly. You have reached the climax, she repeated, turning her glowing glance towards him. You cannot go beyond it. And she added, with emphasis, You shall not in my house. Up she rose. Nobody could control her now, for she was exasperated. Straight she walked to her garden-gates, wide she flung them open. "'Walk through,' she said austerely, and pretty quickly, and set foot on this pavement no more. Dunn was astounded. He had thought all the time he was showing himself off to high advantage as a lofty-sulled person of the first ton. He imagined he was producing a crushing impression. Had he not expressed a stain of everything in Yorkshire? What more conclusive proof could be given that he was better than anything there? And yet here he was about to be turned like a dog out of a Yorkshire garden, where under such circumstances was the concatenation accordingly. "'Rid me of you instantly—instantly,' reiterated Shirley as he lingered. "'Madam, a clergyman—turn out a clergyman? Off! Were you an archbishop? You have proved yourself no gentleman, and must go—quick!' She was quite resolved. There was no trifling with her. Besides, Tata was again rising. He perceived symptoms of a commotion. He manifested a disposition to join in. There was evidently nothing for it but to go, and Dunn made his exodus. The heiress sweeping him a deep curtsy as she closed the gates on him. How dare the pompous priest abuse his flock? How dare the lisping cockney-revile Yorkshire, was her sole observation on the circumstance as she returned to the table? E'erlong the little party broke up. Miss Kilda's ruffled and darkened brow, curled lip, and incensed eye gave no invitation to further social enjoyment. End of CHAPTER XIV of Shirley by Charlotte Bronte, recording by Anna Knight in Hobart 2009. CHAPTER XVI of Shirley. This is a LibriVox recording—all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Shirley by Charlotte Bronte CHAPTER XVI Wittson Tide The fund prospered. By dint of Miss Kilda's example, the three rector's vigorous exertions and the efficient the quiet aid of their spinster and spectacle lieutenants, Mary Ann Aenley and Margaret Hall, a handsome sum was raised. And this being judiciously managed, served for the present greatly to alleviate the distress of the unemployed poor. The neighborhood seemed to grow calmer. For a fortnight past no cloth had been destroyed, no outrage on mill or mansion had been committed in the three parishes. Shirley was sanguine that the evil she wished to avert was almost escaped, that the threatened storm was passing over. With the approach of summer she felt certain that trade would improve—it always did—and then this weary war could not last forever. Peace must return one day, with peace what an impulse would be given to commerce. Such was the usual tenor of her observations to her tenant, Gerard Moore. However she met him where they could converse, and Moore would listen very quietly, too quietly to satisfy her. She would then by her impatient glance demand something more from him, some explanation or at least some additional remark. Smiling in his way, with that expression which gave a remarkable cast of sweetness to his mouth, while his brow remained grave, he would answer to the effect that himself too, trusted in the finite nature of the war, that it was indeed on that ground the anchor of his hopes was fixed. Thereon his speculations depended. For you are aware, he would continue, that I now work, hollows mill, entirely on speculation. I sell nothing. There is no market for my goods. I manufacture it for a future day. I make myself ready to take advantage of the first opening that shall occur. Three months ago this was impossible to me. I had exhausted both credit and capital. You well know who came to my rescue. From what hand I received the loan which saved me. It is on the strength of that loan I am enabled to continue the bold game, which, a while since, I feared I should never play more. Total ruin, I know, will follow loss. And I am aware that gain is doubtful. But I am quite cheerful, so long as I can be active, so long as I can strive. So long, in short, as my hands are not tied. It is impossible for me to be depressed. One year, nay, but six months of the reign of the olive, and I am safe. For, as you say, peace will give an impulse to commerce. In this you are right. But as to the restored tranquility of the neighborhood, as to the permanent good effect of your charitable funds, I doubt. Ilium-Ossenary relief never yet tranquilized the working classes. It never made them grateful. It is not in human nature that it should. I suppose, where all things ordered are right, they ought not to be in a position to need that humiliating relief. And this they feel. We should feel it if we were so placed. Besides, to whom should they be grateful? To you, to the clergy perhaps, but not to us mill-owners. They hate us worse than ever. Then the disaffected here are in correspondence with the disaffected elsewhere. Nottingham is one of their headquarters, Manchester another, Birmingham a third. The subalterns receive orders from their chiefs. They are in a good state of discipline. No blow is struck without mature deliberation. In sultry weather you have seen the sky-threatened thunder day by day, and yet night after night the clouds have cleared, and the sun has set quietly, but the danger was not gone. It was only delayed. The long-threatening storm is sure to break at last. There is analogy between the moral and physical atmosphere. Well, Mr. Moore, so these conferences always ended, take care of yourself. If you think that I have ever done you any good, reward me by promising to take care of yourself. I do. I will take close and watchful care. I wish to live, not to die. The future opens like Eden before me, and still, when I look deep into the shades of my paradise, I see a vision that I like better than Sarah for Cherub, glide across remote vistas. Do you, pray, what vision? I see the maid came bustling in with the tea-things. The early part of that may, as we have seen, was fine, the middle was wet, but in the last week, at change of moon, it cleared again. A fresh wind swept off the silver-white, deep-piled rain-clouds, bearing them, mass on mass, to the eastern horizon, on whose verge they dwindled, and behind whose rim they disappeared, leaving the vault behind all pure blue space, ready for the rain of the summer sun. That sun rose broad on Wittentide. The gathering of the schools was signalized by splendid weather. Tuesday was the great day, in preparation for which the two large schoolrooms of Briarfield, built by the present rector, chiefly at his own expense, were cleared out, whitewashed, repainted, and decorated with flowers and evergreens, some from the rectory garden, two cartloads from field-ted, and a wheel-bar of full, from the more stingy domain of De Walden, the residence of Dr. Wynn. In these schoolrooms twenty tables, each calculated to accommodate twenty guests, were laid out, surrounded with benches, and covered with white claws. Above them were suspended at least some twenty cages, containing as many canaries, according to a fancy of the district, specially cherished by Mr. Halston's clerk, who delighted in the piercing song of these birds, and knew that a misconfusion of tongues they always carol loudest. These tables, be it understood, were not spread for the twelve hundred scholars to be assembled from the three parishes, but only for the patrons and teachers of the schools. The children's feast was to be spread in the open air. At one o'clock the troops were to come in. At two they were to be marshalled. Till four they were to parade the parish. Then came the feast, and afterwards the meeting, with music and specifying in the church. Why Breyerfield was chosen for the point of Rendezvous, the scene of the feats, should be explained. It was not because it was the largest or most populous parish. Winbury far outdid it in that respect, nor because it was the oldest, antique as were the Horry Church and Rectory, Nunley's low-roof temple and mossy parsonage, buried both in Cueval Oaks, outstanding sentinels of Nunwood, were older still. It was simply because Mr. Halston willed it so, and Mr. Halston's will was stronger than that of Baltby or Hall, the former could not, the latter would not, dispute a point of precedence with their resolute and imperious brother. They led him, lead and rule. This notable anniversary had always hitherto been a trying day to Carolyn Halston, because it dragged her perforce into public, compelling her to face all that was wealthy, respectable, influential in the neighborhood, in whose presence, but for the kind countenance of Mr. Hal, she would have appeared unsupported. Applied to be conspicuous, obliged to walk at the head of her regiment, as the rector's niece, and first teacher of the first class, obliged to make tea at the first table for a mixed multitude of ladies and gentlemen, and to do all this without the countenance of mother, aunt, or chaperone, she, meantime, being a nervous person, who mortally feared publicity. It will be comprehended that, under these circumstances, she trembled at the approach of what's inside. But this year Shirley was to be with her, and that changed the aspect of the trial singularly. It changed it utterly. It was a trial no longer. It was almost an enjoyment. Miss Kilder was better in her single self than a host of ordinary friends, quite self-possessed and always spirited and easy, conscious of her social importance, yet never presuming upon it, it would be enough to give one courage only to look at her. The only fear was, lest the heiress should not be punctual to Trist, she often had a careless way of lingering behind time, and Caroline knew her uncle would not wait a second for anyone. At the moment of the church-clock tolling, too, the bells would clash out and the march began. She must look after Shirley, then, in this matter, or her expected companion would fail her. With Tuesday saw her rise almost with the sun. She, Fanny and Eliza, were busy the whole morning arranging the rectory parlours in first-rate company order, and setting out a collection of cooling refreshments, wine, fruits, cakes, on the dining-room side-board. Then she had to dress in her freshest and fairest attire of white muslin, the perfect finest of the day, and the solemnity of the occasion warranted, and even exacted, such costume. Her new sash, a birthday present from Margaret Hall, which she had reason to believe Cyril himself had bought, and in return for which she had indeed given him a set of cambrick bands, in a handsome case, was tied by the dexterous fingers of Fanny, who took no little pleasure in arraigning her fair young mistress for the occasion. Her simple bonnet had been trimmed to correspond with her sash. Her pretty but inexpensive scarf of white crepe suited her dress. When ready she formed a picture, not bright enough to dazzle, but fair enough to interest, not brilliantly striking, but very delicately pleasing, a picture in which sweetness of tint, purity of air, and grace of mean, atoned for the absence of rich colouring and magnificent contour. But her brown eye and clear forehead showed of her mind wasn't keeping with her dress and face, modest, gentle, and, though pensive, harmonious. It appeared that neither lamb nor dove need fear her, but would welcome rather, in her look of simplicity and softness, a sympathy with their own natures, or with the natures we ascribe to them. After all, she was an imperfect, faulty human being. Fair enough of form, hue, and array, but, as Cyril Hall said, neither so good nor so great as the withered Miss Anley, now putting on her best black gown and Quaker drab shawl and bonnet in her own narrow cottage-chamber. Away Caroline went, across some very sequestered fields and through some quite hidden lanes, to field-head. She glided quickly under the green hedges and across the greener trees. There was no dust, no moisture, to soil the hemp of her stainless garments 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 field-head and penetrated to Miss Kilder's dressing-room. Which was well she had come, or surely 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 re-robing her. Suddenly, 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 untied 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 surely 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. Her ate 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 Halston'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 Winbury Road, the Winbury School approaching, its numbered five hundred souls. The rector and curate, Volteby and Don, headed it, the former, looming large in full canonicals, walking as became a benefaced priest, under the canopy of a shovel-hat, with the dignity of an ample cooperation, the embellishment of the squarist and vastness 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 to shovel-hat with the dog-medical wag toward his aid to camp. That aid to camp, Don, to wit, narrow as the line of his step 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. Welcome, Mr. Don. You have undergone scrutiny. You think you look well, whether the white and purple figures watching you from Yandre Hill thinks 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 surely 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. Said that her money, example, and influence, have really, substantially, benefited those around her. She cannot be charitable like Miss Aenley. 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 Aenley's example, in giving her time and her industry to sow for the children. Not only is the churchyard full, but the rectory garden is also thronged. Pears and parties of ladies and gentlemen are seen walking amongst the waving lilacs and labyrinthums. The house also is occupied. At the wide-open parlor windows gay groups are standing. These are the patrons and teachers, who are to swell the procession. And the parson's craft 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 superintendents. 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 courthouse, to the cooking of a dinner. He still advocated the lordly, liberal, and effective. This killed her was like him in disrespect, 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 marshaled, according to her want. She moved through the three parlors, 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 Kilder's heir and manner did her a world of good. Shirley had no fear of her kinds, 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 favorite, for it robbed her very rallory 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 Halston was the choice of her affection and intellect. The Mrs. Pearson skies, wind, etc., etc., only the profitors by her good nature and vivacity. Dawn happened to come into the drawing-room while Shirley, sitting on the sofa, formed the center of a tolerably wide circle. She had already forgotten her exasperation against him, and she bowed and smiled good-humoredly. The disposition of the man was then seen. He knew neither how to decline the advance with dignity, as one who's 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 raided, scowling look. Nothing could ever again reconcile him to his enemy, while no passion of resentment for even sharper and more ignomious inflections could his lymphatic nature know. He was not worth a scene, said Shirley to Caroline. What a fool I was! To revenge on poor Dawn his silly spite at Yorkshire is something like crushing a net for attacking the hide of a rhinoceros. Had I been a gentleman, I believe I should have helped him off the premise by dint of physical force. I am glad now I only employ 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 grand to new, 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 two 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 the husky chuckle of self-fellicitation. Then he bethought himself to stop and turn, to a certain biocular testimony that he really had presented a bouquet. Yes, there were six red cabbages on the purple satin lap, of very white hands 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 Holstone, 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 friends. And now, solemn and somber, as to their color, 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. Boltby. 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, reverent and on the whole worthy friend, a glass of wine, and a plate of macaroons. Boltby's church wardens, patrons of the Sunday School both, as he insisted on their being, were already beside him. Mrs. Skies 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. Boltby, 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. Boltby, in short, was in his glory, and in a round sound, voir de portrait, he rumbled out thanks for attentions and assurances of his tolerable health. Of Caroline he took no manner of notice as she came near, safe to accept what she offered. He did not see her. He never did see her. He hardly knew that such a person existed. He saw the macaroons, however, and being fond of sweets, possessed himself of a small handful thereof. The wine Mrs. Boltby insisted on mingling with hot water and qualifying with sugar and nutmeg. Mr. Hall stood near an open window, breathing the fresh air and scent of flowers, and talking like a brother to Miss Aenley. To him Caroline turned her attention with pleasure. What should she bring him? He must not help himself. He must be served by her. And she provided herself with a little salver that she might offer him variety. Margaret Hall joined them, so did Miss Kildar. The four ladies stood round their favorite pastor. They also had an idea that they looked on the face of an earthly angel. Cyril Hall was their pope, infallible to them as Dr. Thomas Boltby to his admirers. The throng, too, enclosed the rector of Brarfield, twenty or more pressed round him, and no parson was ever more potent in a circle than old Halstone. The curates, herding together after their manner, made a constellation of three lesser planets. First young ladies watched them afar off, but ventured not nigh. Mr. Halstone produced his watch. Ten minutes to two, he announced aloud, time for all to fall into line. Come! He seized his shovel-hat and marched away. All rose and followed en masse. The twelve hundred children were drawn up in three bodies of four hundred souls each. In the rear of each regiment was stationed a band. In every twenty there was an interval wherein Halstone posted the teachers and pairs to the van of the armies he summoned. Grace Boltby and Mary Skies lead out Winbury. Margaret Hall and Mary Ann Aenley conduct Nunnally. Caroline Halstone and Shirley Kilder head Brarfields. Then again he gave commands. Mr. Don to Winbury. Mr. Sweeting to Nunnally. Mr. Malone to Brarfields. And these gentlemen stepped up before the Lady Generals. The rectors passed to the four fronts. The parish clerks fell to the extreme rear. Halstone lifted his shovel-hat, and in an instant outclassed the eight bells in the tower. Loud swelled the sounding bands. Flute spoke, and Clarion answered. Deep rolled the drums, and away they marched. The broad white road unrolled before the long procession. The sun and sky surveyed cloudless. The wind tossed the tree-bows above it, and the twelve hundred children, and one hundred and forty adults, of which it was composed, trot on in time and tune, with gay faces and glad hearts. It was a joyous scene, and a scene to do good. It was a day of happiness for rich and poor. The work, first of God, and then of the clergy. Let England's priests have their due. They are a faulty set in some respects, being only of common flesh and blood, like us all. But the land would be badly off without them. Britain would miss her church, if that church fell. God save it. God also reform it. End of Section 28, Recording by Katie Reilly, October 2009.