 CHAPTER XII Mrs. Pryor seemed as well disposed to cultivate Caroline's acquaintance as Shirley. She, who went nowhere else, called on an early day at the rectory. She came in the afternoon when the rector happened to be out. It was rather a close day. The heat of the weather had flushed her, and she seemed fluttered too by the circumstance of entering a strange house, for it appeared her habits were most retiring and secluded. When Miss Hellstone went to her in the dining-room she found her seated on the sofa, trembling, fanning herself with her handkerchief and seeming to contend with a nervous discomposure that threatened to become hysterical. Caroline marveled somewhat at this unusual want of self-command in a lady of her years, and also at the lack of real strength, in one who appeared almost robust. For Mrs. Pryor hastened to allege the fatigue of her walk, the heat of the sun, etc., as reasons for her temporary indisposition. And still as, with more hurry than coherence, she again and again enumerated these causes of exhaustion, Caroline gently sought to relieve her by opening her shawl and removing her bonnet. Attentions of this sort Mrs. Pryor would not have accepted from everyone. In general she recoiled from touch or close approach, with a mixture of embarrassment and coldness far from flattering to those who offered her aid. To Miss Hellstone's little light hand, however, she yielded tractably and seemed soothed by its contact. In a few minutes she ceased to tremble and grew quiet and tranquil. Her usual manner being resumed she proceeded to talk of ordinary topics. In a miscellaneous company Mrs. Pryor rarely opened her lips, or if obliged to speak, she spoke under restraint and consequently not well. In dialogue she was a good conversor, her language always a little formal was well chosen, her sentiments were just, her information was varied and correct. Caroline felt it pleasant to listen to her, more pleasant than she could have anticipated. On the wall opposite the sofa where they sat hung three pictures, the center one above the mantelpiece, that of a lady, the two others, male portraits. That is a beautiful face said Mrs. Pryor interrupting a brief pause which had followed half an hour's animated conversation. The features may be termed perfect, no statuary's chisel could improve them, it is a portrait from the life I presume. It is a portrait of Mrs. Hellstone, of Mrs. Matthewson Hellstone, of your uncle's wife. It is, and it is said to be a good likeness. Before her marriage she was accounted the beauty of the district. I should say she merited the distinction, what accuracy in all the lineaments. It is, however, a passive face, the original could not have been what is generally termed a woman of spirit. I believe she was a remarkably still, silent person. One would scarcely have expected, my dear, that your uncle's choice should have fallen on a partner of that description. Is he not fond of being amused by lively chat? In company he is, but he always says he could never do with a talking wife. He must have quiet at home. You go out to gossip, he affirms. You come home to read and reflect. Mrs. Matthewson lived but a few years after her marriage I think I have heard. About five years. Well, my dear, pursued Mrs. Pryor rising to go, I trust it is understood that you will frequently come to field head. I hope you will. You must feel lonely here, having no female relative in the house. You must necessarily pass much of your time in solitude. I am inured to it. I have grown up by myself. May I arrange your shawl for you? Mrs. Pryor submitted to be assisted. Should you chance to require help in your studies, she said, you may command me. And expressed her sense of such kindness. I hope to have frequent conversations with you. I should wish to be of use to you. Again Miss Hellstone returned thanks. She thought what a kind heart was hidden under her visitor's seeming chilliness. Observing that Mrs. Pryor again glanced with an air of interest towards the portraits as she walked down the room, Caroline casually explained, the likeness that hangs near the window you will see is my uncle, taken twenty years ago. The other, to the left of the mantelpiece, is his brother James, my father. They resemble each other in some measure, said Mrs. Pryor, yet a difference of character may be traced in the different mold of the brow and mouth. What difference, inquired Caroline, accompanying her to the door? James Hellstone, that is my father, is generally considered the best looking of the two. Strangers, I remark, always exclaim, what a handsome man! Do you think his picture handsome, Mrs. Pryor? It is much softer or finer featured than that of your uncle. But where or what is the difference of character to which you alluded? Tell me, I wish to see if you guess right. My dear, your uncle is a man of principle, his forehead and his lips are firm and his eye is steady. Well, and the other? Do not be afraid of offending me, I always like the truth. Do you like the truth? It is well for you. Adhere to that preference, never swerve thence. The other, my dear, if he had been living now would probably have furnished little support to his daughter. It is, however, a graceful head, taken in youth, I should think. My dear, turning abruptly, you acknowledge an inestimate value in principle? I am sure no character can have true worth without it. You feel what you say you have considered the subject? Often, circumstances early forced it upon my attention. The lesson was not lost then, though it came so prematurely. I suppose the soil is not light nor stony, otherwise seed falling in that season never would have borne fruit. My dear, do not stand in the air of the door, you will take cold. Good afternoon. Miss Hellstone's new acquaintance soon became of value to her. Their society was acknowledged a privilege. She found she would have been in error indeed to have let slip this chance of relief, to have neglected to avail herself of this happy change. A turn was thereby given to her thoughts. A new channel was opened for them, which diverting a few of them at least from the one direction in which all had hitherto tended, abated the impetuosity of their rush, and lessened the force of their pressure on one worn-down point. Soon she was content to spend whole days at field-head, doing by turns whatever Shirley or Mrs. Pryor wished her to do, and now one would claim her now the other. Nothing could be less demonstrative than the friendship of the elder lady, but also nothing could be more vigilant, assiduous, untiring. I have intimated that she was a peculiar personage, and in nothing was her peculiarity more shown than in the nature of the interest she evinced for Caroline. She watched all her movements. She seemed as if she would have guarded all her steps. It gave her pleasure to be applied to by Miss Hellstone for advice and assistance. She yielded her aid when asked with such quiet yet obvious enjoyment that Caroline Erlong took delight in depending on her. Shirley Kildar's complete docility with Mrs. Pryor had at first surprised Miss Hellstone, and not less the fact of the reserved ex-governance being so much at home and at ease in the residence of her young pupil, where she filled with such quiet independency a very dependent post. But she soon found that it needed but to know both ladies to comprehend fully the enigma. Everyone it seemed to her must like, must love, must prize Mrs. Pryor when they knew her. No matter that she perseveringly wore old-fashioned gowns, that her speech was formal and her manner cool, that she had twenty little ways such as nobody else had. She was still such a stay, such a counsellor, so truthful, so kind in her way, that in Caroline's idea none once accustomed to her presence could easily afford to dispense with it. As to dependency or humiliation, Caroline did not feel it in her intercourse with Shirley, and why should Mrs. Pryor? The heiress was rich, very rich, compared with her new friend. One possessed a clear thousand a year, the other not a penny, and yet there was a safe sense of equality experienced in her society, never known in that of the ordinary Briarfield and Winbury Gentry. The reason was, Shirley's head ran on other things than money and position. She was glad to be independent as to property. By fits she was even elated at the notion of being lady of the manner and having tenants and an estate. She was especially tickled with an agreeable complacency when reminded of all that property down in the hollow, comprising an excellent cloth mill, dye house, warehouse, together with the mess-wage gardens and out-buildings termed hollow's cottage. But her exaltation being quite undisguised was singularly inoffensive, and for her serious thoughts they tended elsewhere. To admire the great, reverence the good, and be joyous with the genial was very much the bent of Shirley's soul. She mused therefore on the means of following this bent far oftener than she pondered on her social superiority. In Caroline Miss Kildar had first taken an interest because she was quiet, retiring, looked delicate, and seemed as if she needed someone to take care of her. Her predilection increased greatly when she discovered that her own way of thinking and talking was understood and responded to by this new acquaintance. She had hardly expected it. Miss Hellstone, she fancied, had too pretty a face, manners and voice too soft, to be anything out of the common way in mind and attainments. And she very much wondered to see the gentle features light up archly to the revier of a dry sally or two risked by herself. And more did she wonder to discover the self-one knowledge treasured, the untaught speculations working in that girlish, curl-veiled head. Caroline's instinct of taste, too, was like her own. Such books as Miss Kildar had read with the most pleasure were Miss Hellstone's delight also. They held many aversions too in common, and could have the comfort of laughing together over works of false sentimentality and pompous pretension. Few surely conceived, men or women, have the right taste in poetry, the right sense for discriminating between what is real and what is false. She had again and again heard very clever people pronounce this or that passage in this or that versifier, altogether admirable, which, when she read, her soul refused to acknowledge as anything but can't flourish and tinsel, or at the best, elaborate wordiness. Curious, clever, learned, perhaps, happily even tinged with the fascinating hues of fancy, but God knows, as different from real poetry, as the gorgeous and massy vase of mosaic is from the little cup of pure metal, or to give the reader a choice of similes, as the milliner's artificial wreath is from the fresh-gathered lily of the field. Caroline, she found, felt the value of the true oar, and knew the deception of the flashy dross. The minds of the two girls being toned in harmony often chimed very sweetly together. One evening they chanced to be alone in the oak parlor. They had passed a long, wet day together without ennui. It was now on the edge of dark. Candles were not yet brought in. Both as twilight deepened grew meditative and silent. A western wind roared high round the hall, driving wild clouds and stormy rain up from the far remote ocean. All was tempest outside the antique lattices, all deep peace within. They sat at the window, watching the rack in heaven, the mist on earth, listening to certain notes of the gale that plained like restless spirits, notes which, had she not been so young, gay and healthy, would have swept her trembling nerves like some omen, some anticipatory dirge. In this her prime of existence and bloom of beauty they but subdued vivacity to pensiveness. Snatches of sweet ballads haunted her ear. Now and then she sang a stanza. Her accents obeyed the fitful impulse of the wind. They swelled as its gusts rushed on, and died as they wandered away. Caroline, withdrawn to the farthest and darkest end of the room, her figure just discernible by the ruby shine of the flameless fire, was pacing to and fro, murmuring to herself fragments of well-remembered poetry. She spoke very low, but surely heard her, and while singing softly, she listened. This was the strain. Obscurous night involved the sky, the Atlantic billows roared, when such a destined wretch as I washed headlong from on board, of friends of hope of all bereft, his floating home for ever left. Here the fragments stopped because Shirley's song ere well somewhat full and thrilling had become delicately faint. Go on, said she. Then you go on too, I was only repeating the cast away. I know if you can remember it all, say it all. And as it was nearly dark and, after all, Miss Kildar was no formidable auditor, Caroline went through it. She went through it as she should have gone through it. The wild sea, the drowning mariner, the reluctant ship swept on in the storm you heard were realized by her, and more vividly was realized the heart of the poet, who did not weep for the cast away, but who in an hour of tearless anguish traced assemblance to his own God-abandoned misery in the fate of that man-forsaken sailor, and cried from the depths where he struggled. No voice divine the storm allayed, no light propitious shone, when snatched from all effectual aid we perished each alone. But I, beneath a rougher sea, and whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. I hope William Cooper is safe and calm in heaven now, said Caroline. Do you pity what he suffered on earth, asked Miss Kildar? Pity him, surely. What can I do else? He was nearly broken hearted when he wrote that poem, and it almost breaks one's heart to read it. But he found relief in writing it, I know he did, and that gift of poetry, the most divine bestowed on man, was, I believe, granted to allay emotions when their strength threatens harm. It seems to me, surely, that nobody should write poetry to exhibit intellect or attainment. Who cares for that sort of poetry? Who cares for learning? Who cares for fine words in poetry? And who does not care for feeling, real feeling, however simply even rudely expressed? It seems you care for it at all events, and certainly in hearing that poem one discovers that Cooper was under an impulse strong as that of the wind which drove the ship, an impulse which, while it would not suffer him to stop to add ornament to a single stanza, filled him with force to achieve the whole with consummate perfection. You managed to recite it with a steady voice, Caroline, I wonder there at. Cooper's hand did not tremble in writing the lines, why should my voice falter in repeating them? Depend on it, surely. No tear blistered the manuscript of the castaway, I hear in it no sob of sorrow, only the cry of despair. But that cry uttered, I believe the deadly spasm passed from his heart, that he wept abundantly and was comforted. Shirley resumed her ballad minstrelsy. Stopping short, she remarked dare long, one could have loved Cooper if it were only for the sake of having the privilege of comforting him. You never would have loved Cooper rejoined Caroline promptly, he was not made to be loved by woman. What do you mean? What I say, I know there is a kind of natures in the world and very noble elated natures too, whom love never comes near. You might have sought Cooper with the intention of loving him and you would have looked at him, pitied him, and left him, forced away by a sense of the impossible, the incongruous, as the crew were born from their drowning comrade by the furious blast. You may be right, who told you this? And what I say of Cooper I should say of Rousseau. Was Rousseau ever loved? He loved passionately, but was his passion ever returned? I am certain never, and if there were any female Coopers and Rousseaus I should assert the same of them. Who told you this, I ask, did more? Why should anybody have told me, have I not an instinct, can I not divine by analogy? More never talked to me either about Cooper or Rousseau or love, the voice we hear in solitude told me all I know on these subjects. Do you like the characters of the Rousseau order, Caroline? Not at all, as a whole, I sympathize intensely with certain qualities they possess, certain divine sparks in their nature dazzle my eyes and make my soul glow. Then again I scorn them, they are made of clay and gold, the refuse and the oar make a mass of weakness, taken together I feel them unnatural, unhealthy, repulsive. I dare say I should be more tolerant of a Rousseau than you would carry, submissive and contemplative yourself you like the stern and the practical. By the way, you must miss that cousin Robert of yours very much now that you and he never meet. I do. And he must miss you? That he does not. I cannot imagine, pursued Shirley, who had lately got a habit of introducing Moore's name into the conversation, even when it seemed to have no business there. I cannot imagine but that he was fond of you, since he took so much notice of you, talked to you and taught you so much. He never was fond of me, he never professed to be fond of me. He took pains to prove that he only just tolerated me. Caroline determined not to err on the flattering side in estimating her cousin's regard for her, always now habitually thought of it and mentioned it in the most scanty measure. She had her own reasons for being less sanguine than ever in hopeful views of the future, less indulgent to pleasurable retrospections of the past. Of course, then, observed Miss Kildar, you only just tolerated him in return? Shirley, men and women are so different, they are in such a different position. Women have so few things to think about, men so many. You may have a friendship for a man, while he is almost indifferent to you. Much of what cheers your life may be dependent on him, while not a feeling or interest of moment in his eyes may have reference to you. Robert used to be in the habit of going to London sometimes for a week or a fortnight together. Well, while he was away I found his absence a void, there was something wanting, Breyerfield was duller. Of course I had my usual occupations, still I missed him. As I sat by myself in the evenings I used to feel a strange certainty of conviction I cannot describe, that if a magician or a genius had at that moment offered me Prince Ali's tube, you remember it in the Arabian Nights, and if with its aid I had been enabled to take a view of Robert, to see where he was, how occupied, I should have learned in a startling manner the width of the chasm which gaped between such as he and such as I. I knew that, however my thoughts might adhere to him, his were effectually sundered from me. Caroline demanded Miss Kildar abruptly, don't you wish you had a profession, a trade? I wish it fifty times a day, as it is I often wonder what I came into the world for, I long to have something absorbing and compulsory to fill my head and hands and to occupy my thoughts. Can labour alone make a human being happy? No, but it can give varieties of pain and prevent us from breaking our hearts with a single tyrant master torture. Besides, successful labour has its recompense, a vacant, weary, lonely, hopeless life has none. But hard labour and learned professions they say make women masculine, coarse, unwomanly. And what does it signify whether unmarried and never-to-be-married women are unattractive and inelegant or not? Provided only they are decent, decorous, and neat, it is enough. The utmost which ought to be required of old maids in the way of appearance is that they should not absolutely offend men's eyes as they pass them in the street. For the rest they should be allowed without too much scorn to be as absorbed, grave, plain-looking, and plain-dressed as they please. You might be an old maid yourself, Caroline, you speak so earnestly. I shall be one, it is my destiny. I will never marry a Malone or a Sykes, and no one else will ever marry me. Here fell a long pause. Shirley broke it. Again the name by which she seemed bewitched was almost the first on her lips. Lena, did not more call you Lena sometimes? Yes, it is sometimes used as the abbreviation of Caroline in his native country. Well, Lena, do you remember my one-day noticing an inequality in your hair, a curl wanting on that right side, and your telling me that it was Robert's fault as he had once cut there from a long lock? Yes. If he is and always was as indifferent to you as you say, why did he steal your hair? I don't know. Yes I do. It was my doing, not his. Everything of that sort always was my doing. He was going from home to London as usual, and the night before he went I had found in his sister's work-box a lock of black hair, a short round curl. Hortense told me it was her brother's and a keepsake. He was sitting near the table. I looked at his head. He has plenty of hair. On the temples were many such round curls. I thought he could spare me one. I knew I should like to have it, and I asked for it. He said, on condition that he might have his choice of a dress from my head. So he got one of my long locks of hair, and I got one of his short ones. I keep his, but I dare say he has lost mine. It was my doing, and one of those silly deeds it distresses the heart and sets the face on fire to think of. One of those small but sharp recollections that return, lacerating your self-respect like tiny pen-knives and forcing from your lips as you sit alone sudden insane-sounding interjections. Caroline. I do think myself a fool, surely, in some respects. I do despise myself, but I said I would not make you my confessor, for you cannot reciprocate foible for foible. You are not weak. How steadily you watch me now. Turn aside your clear, strong, be-eagle eye. It is an insult to fix it on me thus. What a study of character you are! Weak, certainly, but not in the sense you think. Come in. This was said in answer to a tap at the door. Miss Kildar happened to be near it at the moment, Caroline, at the other end of the room. She saw a note put into Shirley's hands and heard the words from Mr. Moore, ma'am. Bring candles, said Miss Kildar. Caroline sat expectant. A communication on business, said the heiress, but when candles were brought she neither opened nor read it. The rector's fanny was presently announced, and the rector's niece went home. CHAPTER XIII. PART I. In Shirley's nature prevailed at times an easy indolence. There were periods when she took delight in perfect vacancy of hand and eye, moments when her thoughts, her simple existence, the fact of the world being around, and heaven above her, seemed to yield her such fullness of happiness that she did not need to lift a finger to increase the joy. Often, after an active morning, she would spend a sunny afternoon, in Lying Sturlus on the turf, at the foot of some tree of friendly umbrage. No society did she need but that of Caroline. And it sufficed, if she were within call, no spectacle did she ask but that of the deep blue sky, and such cloudlets as sailed afar in a loft across its span. No sound but that of the bee's hum. Her soul-book in such hours was the dim chronicle of memory, or the simple page of anticipation, from her young eyes fell on each volume a glorious light to read by, round her lips, at moments played a smile which revealed glimpses of the tale or prophecy. It was not sad, not dark. Fate had been benign to the blissful dreamer, and promised to favour her yet again. In her past were sweet passages, in her future, rosy hopes. Yet one day, when Caroline drew near to rouse her, thinking she had lain long enough, behold, as she looked down, Shirley's cheek was wet as if with dew, those fine eyes of hers shone humid and brimming. Shirley, why do you cry? asked Caroline, involuntarily laying stress on you. Miss Kilder smiled, and turned her picturesque head towards the questioner. Because it pleases me mightily to cry, she said. My heart is both sad and glad. But why, you good, patient child, why do you not bear me company? I only weep tears, delightful and soon wiped away. You might weep gall, if you choose. Why should I weep gall? Mateless, solitary bird, was the only answer. And are not you, too, mateless Shirley? At heart, no. Oh, who nestles there, Shirley? But Shirley only laughed gaily at this question, and alertly started up. I have dreamed, she said, a mere daydream, certainly bright, probably baseless. Miss Hellstone was by this time free enough from illusions. She took a sufficiently gray view of the future, and fancied she knew pretty well how her own destiny and that of some others were tending. Yet old associations retained their influence over her, and it was these, and the power of habit, which still frequently drew her, of an evening, to the field style and the old thorn overlooking the hollow. One night, the night after the incidence of the note, she had been at her usual post, watching for her beacon, watching vainly, that evening no lamp was lit. She waited till the rising of certain constellations warned her of lateness, and signed her away. In passing field head, on her return, its moonlight beauty attracted her glance, and stayed her step an instant. Tree and hall rose peaceful under the night sky, and clear full orb. Purly paleness, gilded the building, mellow brown gloom, bosomed it round, shadows of deep green brooded above its oak-wreathed roof. The broad pavement in front shone pale also. It gleamed as if some spell had transformed the dark granite to glistening Perian. On the silvery space slept two sable shadows, thrown sharply defined from two human figures. These figures, when first seen, were motionless and mute. Presently they moved in harmonious step, and spoke in low harmonious key. Ernest was the gaze that scrutinized them, as they emerged from behind the trunk of the cedar. Is it Mrs. Pryor and Shirley? Certainly it is Shirley, who else has a shape so lithe and proud and graceful. And her face, too, is visible, her countenance careless and pensive, and musing and mirthful, and mocking and tender. Not fearing the dew, she has not covered her head. Her curls are free. They veil her neck and caress her shoulder with their tendril rings. An ornament of gold gleams through the half-closed folds of the scarf she has wrapped across her bust. And a large bright gem glitters on the white hand which confines it. Yes, that is Shirley. Her companion, then, is, of course, Mrs. Pryor? Yes, if Mrs. Pryor owns six feet of stature, and if she has changed her decent widow's weeds for masculine disguise. The figure walking at Miss Kilder's side is a man, a tall, young, stately man. It is her tenant, Robert Moore. The pair speak softly. Their words are not distinguishable. To remain a moment to gaze is not to be an eavesdropper. And as the moon shines so clearly and their countenances are so distinctly apparent, who can resist the attraction of such interest? Caroline, it seems, cannot, for she lingers. There was a time when, on summer nights, Moore had been wont to walk with his cousin as he was now walking with the heiress. Often, had she gone up, the hollow with him, after sunset, to scent the freshness of the earth, where a growth of fragrant urbage carpeted a certain narrow terrace, edging a deeper vene, from whose rifted gloom was heard a sound like the spirit of the lonely water-cours, moaning amongst its wet stones, and between its weedy banks, and under its dark bower valders. But I used to be closer to him, thought Caroline. He felt no obligation to treat me with homage. I needed only kindness. He used to hold my hands. He does not touch hers. And yet, surely, is not proud where she loves. There is no haughtiness in her aspect now, only a little in her port, what is natural to and inseparable from her, what she retains in her most careless, as in her most guarded moments. Robert must think, as I think, that he is at this instant looking down on a fine face, and he must think it with a man's brain, not with mine. She has such generous yet soft fire in her eyes. She smiles. What makes her smile so sweet? I saw that Robert felt its beauty, and he must have felt it with his man's heart, not with my dim woman's perceptions. They look to me like two great happy spirits. Yonder silver pavement reminds me of that white shore we believe to be beyond the death flood. They have reached it. They walk there united. And what am I, standing here in shadow, shrinking into concealment, my mind darker than my hiding place? I am one of this world, no spirit, a poor doomed mortal, who asks an ignorance and hopelessness, wherefore she was born, to what end she lives, whose mind forever runs on the question, how she shall at last encounter, and by whom be sustained through death. This is the worst passage I have come to yet. Still I was quite prepared for it. I gave Robert up, and gave him up to Shirley. The first day I heard she was come. The first moment I saw her, rich, youthful, and lovely. She has him now. He is her lover. She is his darling. She will be far more his darling, yet when they are married. The more Robert knows of Shirley, the more his soul will cleave to her. They will both be happy, as I do not grudge them their bliss. But I groan under my own misery. Some of my suffering is very acute. Truly I ought not to have been born. They should have smothered me at the first cry. Here, Shirley stepping aside to gather a dewy flower, she and her companion turned into a path that lay nearer the gate. Some of their conversation became audible. Caroline would not stay to listen. She passed away noiselessly, and the moonlight kissed the wall, which her shadow had dimmed. The reader is privileged to remain, and try what he can make of the discourse. I cannot conceive why nature did not give you a bulldog's head, where you have all a bulldog's tenacity, said Shirley. Not a flattering idea, am I so ignoble? And something also you have of the same animal's silent ways of going about its work. You give no warning, you come noiselessly behind, seize fast, and hold on. This is guesswork. You have witnessed no such feat on my part. In your presence I have been no bulldog. Your very silence indicates your race. How little you talk in general, yet how deeply you scheme. You are far-seeing. You are calculating. I know the ways of these people. I have gathered information of their intentions. My note last night informed you that Burr-Clau's trial had ended in his conviction and sentenced to transportation. His associates will plot vengeance. I shall lay my plans so as to counteract, or at least be prepared for theirs. That is all. Having now given you as clear an explanation as I can, it might understand that for what I propose doing I have your approbation. I shall stand by you so long as you remain on the defensive. Yes. Good. Without any aid, even a post or disapproved by you, I believe I should have acted precisely as I now intend to act, but in another spirit. I now feel satisfied. On the whole I relish the position. I dare say you do. That is evident. You relish the work which lies before you still better than you would relish the execution of a government order for army cloth. I certainly feel it congenial. So, wood-old Hellstone, it is true there is a shade of difference in your motives. Many shades, perhaps. Shall I speak to Mr. Hellstone? I will, if you like. Act as you please. Your judgment, Miss Kildar, will guide you accurately. I could rely on it myself, in a more difficult crisis, but I should inform you Mr. Hellstone is somewhat prejudiced against me at present. I am aware. I have heard all about your differences. Depend upon it they will melt away. He cannot resist the temptation of an alliance under present circumstances. I should be glad to have him. He is of true metal. I think so also. An old blade, and rusted somewhat, but the edge and temper still excellent. Well you shall have him, Mr. Moore. That is, if I can win him. Whom can you not win? Perhaps not the Rector, but I will make the effort. Effort? He will yield for a word. A smile. By no means. It will cost me several cups of tea, some toast and cake, and an ample measure of remonstrances, expostulations, and persuasions. It grows rather chill. I perceive you shiver. Am I acting wrongly to detain you here? Yet it is so calm. I even feel it warm, and society, such as yours, is a pleasure to me so rare. If you were wrapped in a thicker shawl, I might stay longer and forget how late it is, which would chagrin Mrs. Pryor. We keep early in regular hours at Fieldhead, Mr. Moore, and so I am sure does your sister at the cottage. Yes, but Hortense and I have an understanding, the most convenient in the world, that we shall each do as we please. How do you please to do? Three nights in the week I sleep in the mill, but I require little rest, and when it is moonlight and mild, I often hunt the hollow till daybreak. When I was a very little girl, Mr. Moore, my nurse used to tell me tales of fairies being seen in that hollow. That was before my father built the mill, when it was a perfectly solitary ravine. You will be falling under enchantment. I fear it is done, said Moore, in a low voice. But there are worse things than fairies to be guarded against, pursued Mrs. Kildar. Things more perilous, he subjoined. Far more so. For instance, how would you like to meet Michael Hartley, that mad Calvinist, and Jacobin Weaver? They say he is addicted to poaching, and often goes abroad at night with his gun. I have already had the luck to meet him. We held a long argument together one night. A strange little incident it was. I liked it. Liked it, I admire your taste. Michael is not sane. Where did you meet him? In the deepest, shadiest spot in the Glen, where the water runs low, under Brushwood, we sat down near the Plank Bridge. It was moonlight, but clouded, and very windy. We had a talk. On politics? And religion. I think the moon was at the full, and Michael was as near crazed as possible. He uttered strange blasphemy in his antinomian fashion. Excuse me, but I think you must have been nearly as mad as he to sit listening to him. There is a wild interest in his ravings. The man would be half a poet if he were not wholly a maniac, and perhaps a prophet if he were not a profligate. He solemnly informed me that hell was foreordained my inevitable portion, that he read the mark of the beast on my brow, that I had been an outcast from the beginning. God's vengeance, he said, was preparing for me, and affirmed in a vision of the night he had beheld the manner and instrument of my doom. I wanted to know further, but he left me with these words. The end is not yet. Have you ever seen him since? About a month afterwards, in returning from market, I encountered him and Moses Baraklal both in an advanced stage of inebriation. They were praying in a frantic sort at the roadside. They accosted me as Satan, bid me a vaunt, and clamored to be delivered from temptation. Again, but a few days ago, Michael took the trouble of appearing at the counting-house-store. Hatless, in his shirt-sleeves, his coat and caster, having been detained at the public-house in Pledge, he delivered himself of the comfortable message that he could wish Mr. Moore to set his house in order as his soul was likely, shortly to be, required of him. Do you make light of these things? The poor man had been drinking for weeks, and was in a state bordering on delirium tremens. What then? He is the more likely to attempt the fulfillment of his own prophecies. It would not do to permit incidents of this sort to affect one's nerves. Mr. Moore, go home. So soon? Pass straight down the fields, not round by the lane in plantations. It is early yet. It is late. For my part I am going in. Will you promise me not to wander in the hollow tonight? If you wish it. I do wish it. May I ask whether you consider life valueless? By no means. On the contrary, of late, I regarded my life as invaluable. Of late? Existence is neither aimless nor hopeless to me now, and it was both three months ago. I was then drowning, and rather wished the operation over. All at once a hand was stretched to me, such a delicate hand I scarcely dare trust it. Its strength, however, has rescued me from ruin. Are you really rescued? For the time your assistance has given me another chance. Live to make the best of it. Don't offer yourself as a target to Michael Hartley. And good night. Miss Halston was under a promise to spend the evening of the next day at field head. She kept her promise. Some gloomy hours had she spent in the interval. Most of the time had been passed, shut up in her own apartment, only issuing from it, indeed, to join her uncle at meals, and anticipating inquiries from Fanny by telling her that she was busy altering a dress, and preferred sewing upstairs to avoid interruption. She did so. She plied her needle continuously, ceaselessly, but her brain worked faster than her fingers. Again and more intensely than ever she desired a fixed occupation, no matter how onerous, how irksome. Her uncle must be once more entreated, but first she would consult Mrs. Pryor. Her head labored to frame projects as diligently as her hands, to plant and stitch the thin texture of the muslin summer dress, spread on the little white couch at the foot of which she sat. Now and then, while thus doubly occupied, a tear would fill her eyes and fall on her busy hands. But this sign of emotion was rare and quickly effaced. The sharp pang passed, the dimness cleared from her vision. She would rethread her needle, rearranged tuck and trimming, and work on. Late in the afternoon she dressed herself. She reached field-head, and appeared in the oak parlor just as tea was brought in. Shirley asked her why she came so late. Because I had been making my dress, said she, these fine sunny days began to make me ashamed of my winter merino, so I have furbished up a lighter garment. It would you look as I'd like to see you, said Shirley. You are a lady-like little person, Caroline. Is she not, Mrs. Pryor? Mrs. Pryor never paid compliments, and seldom indulged in remarks, favorable or otherwise, on personal appearance. On the present occasion she only swept Caroline's curls from her cheek, as she took a seat near her, caressed the oval outline, and observed, You get somewhat thin, my love, and somewhat pale. Do you sleep well? Your eyes have a languid look, and she gazed at her anxiously. I sometimes dream melancholy dreams, answered Caroline, and if I lie awake for an hour or two in the night, I am continually thinking of the rectory as a dreary old place. You know it is very near the church-art. The back part of the house is extremely ancient, and it is said that the out-kitchens there were once enclosed in the church-art, and that there are graves under them. I rather long to leave the rectory. My dear, you are surely not superstitious. No, Mrs. Pryor, but I think I grow what is called nervous. I see things under a darker aspect than I used to do. I have fears I never used to have—not of ghosts, but of omens, and disastrous events—and I have an inexpressible weight on my mind, which I would give the world to shake off, and I cannot do it. Strange! cried Shirley. I never feel so. Mrs. Pryor said nothing. Fine weather, pleasant days, pleasant scenes are powerless to give me pleasure, continued Caroline. Calm evenings are not calm to me. Moonlight, which I used to think milds, now only looks mournful. Is this weakness of mine, Mrs. Pryor, or what is it? I cannot help it. I often struggle against it. I reason, but reason and effort make no difference. You should take more exercise, said Mrs. Pryor. Exercise! I exercise sufficiently. I exercise till I am ready to drop. My dear, you should go from home. Mrs. Pryor, I should like to go from home, but not on any purposeless excursion or visit. I wish to be a governess as you have been. It would oblige me greatly if you would speak to my uncle on the subject. Nonsense! broken Shirley, what an idea! Be a governess! Better be a slave at once! Where is the necessity of it? Why should you dream of such a painful step? My dear, said Mrs. Pryor, you are very young, to be a governess, and not sufficiently robust. The duties a governess undertakes are often severe. And I believe I want severe duties to occupy me. Occupy you, said Shirley, when are you idle? I never saw a more industrious girl than you. You are always at work. Come, she continued, come and sit by my side and take some tea to refresh you. You don't care much for my friendship, then, that you wish to leave me. Indeed I do, Shirley, and I don't wish to leave you. I shall never find another friend, so dear. At which words Miss Kildar put her hand into Carolyn's with an impulsively affectionate movement which was well seconded by the expression of her face. If you think so, you had better make much of me, she said, and not run away from me. I hate to part with those to whom I have become attached. Mrs. Pryor there sometimes talks of leaving me, and says I might make a more advantageous connection than herself. I should as soon think of exchanging an old-fashioned mother for something modish and stylish. As for you, why, I began to flatter myself, we were thoroughly friends, that you liked Shirley almost as well as Shirley likes you, and she does not stint her regard. I do like Shirley. I like her more and more every day. But that does not make me strong or happy. And would it make you stronger happy to go and live as a dependent amongst other strangers? It would not, and the experiment must not be tried. I tell you it would fail. It is not in your nature to bear the desolate life governesses generally lead. You would fall ill. I won't hear of it. PART 2 And Miss Kilder paused, having uttered this prohibition very decidedly. She soon recommended, still looking somewhat gorsé. Why, it is my daily pleasure now to look out for the little cottage bonnet and the silk scarf glancing through the trees in the lane, and to know that my quiet, shrewd, thoughtful companion and monetress is coming back to me, that I shall have her sitting in the room to look at, to talk to, or to let alone, as she and I please. This may be a selfish sort of language, I know it is, but it is the language which naturally rises to my lips. Therefore, I utter it. I would write to you, Shirley. And what are letters? Only a sort of pizzaller. Drink some tea, Caroline. Eat something. You eat nothing. Laugh and be cheerful. And stay at home. PART 3 Miss Halston shook her head inside. She felt what difficulty she would have to persuade anyone to assist or sanction her in making that change in her life which she believed desirable. Might she only follow her own judgment, she thought she could be able to find, perhaps a harsh, but ineffectual cure for her sufferings. But this judgment, founded on circumstances she could fully explain to none, least of all to Shirley, seemed, in all eyes but her own, incomprehensible, and fantastic, and was accordingly opposed. There really was no present pecuniary need for her to leave a comfortable home and take a situation. And there was every probability that her uncle might in some way permanently provide for her. So her friends thought, and as far as their lights enabled them to see, they reasoned correctly. But of Caroline's strange sufferings, which she desired so eagerly to overcome or escape, they had no idea. Of her racked nights and dismal days, no suspicion. It was at once impossible and hopeless to explain. To wait and endure was her only plan. Many that want food and clothing have cheerier lives and brighter prospects than she had. Many, harassed by poverty, are in a straight, less afflictive. Now, is your mind quieted, inquired Shirley? Will you consent to stay at home? I shall not leave it against the approbation of my friends, was the reply. But I think in time they will be obliged to think as I do. During this conversation, Mrs. Pryor looked far from easy. Her extreme habitual reserve would rarely permit her to talk freely or to interrogate others closely. She could think a multitude of questions she never ventured to put, give advice in her mind which her tongue never delivered. Had she been alone with Caroline, she might possibly have said something to the point. Miss Kilter's presence, accustomed as she was to it, sealed her lips. Now, as on a thousand other occasions, inexplicable nervous scruples kept her back from interfering. She merely showed her concern for Miss Hellstone in an indirect way, by asking her if the fire made her too warm, placing a screen between her chair and the hearth, closing a window when she imagined a drop preceded, and often and relentlessly glancing at her. Shirley resumed, having destroyed your plan, she said, which I hope I have done, I shall construct a new one of my own. Every summer I make an excursion. This season I propose spending two months, either at the Scotch locks or the English lakes. That is, I shall go there, provided you consent to accompany me. If you refuse, I shall not stir a foot. You were very good, Shirley. I would be very good if you will let me. I have every disposition to be good. It is my misfortune and habit, I know, to think of myself paramount to anybody else. But who is not like me in that respect? However, when Captain Kilter is made comfortable, accommodated with all he wants, including a sensible, genial comrade, it gives him a thorough pleasure to devote his spare efforts to making that comrade happy. And should we not be happy, Caroline, in the Highlands? We will go to the Highlands. We will, if you can bear a sea voyage, go to the Isles, the Hebrides, the Shetlands, the Orkney Islands. Would you not like that? I see you would. Mrs. Pryor, I call you to witness. Her face is all sunshine at the bare mention of it. I should like it much, returned Caroline, to whom, indeed, the notion of such a tour was not only pleasant, but gloriously reviving. Shirley rubbed her hands. Come, I can bestow a benefit, she exclaimed. I can do a good deed with my cash. My thousand a year is not merely a matter of dirty banknotes and jaundice guineas. Let me speak respectfully of both, though, for I adore them. But it may be, health to the drooping, strength to the weak, consolation to the sad. I was determined to make something of it better than a fine old house to live in, than sat in gowns to wear, better than deference from acquaintance, and homage from the poor. Here is to begin. This summer, Caroline, Mrs. Pryor, and I go out into the North Atlantic, beyond the Shetland, perhaps to the Faroe Isles. We will see seals in Soudereau, and outless, mermaids in stromo. Caroline is laughing, Mrs. Pryor. I made her laugh. I have done her good. I shall like to go, Shirley, again said Miss Halston. I long to hear the sound of waves, ocean waves, and to see them as I have imagined them in dreams, like tossing banks of green light, strewed with vanishing and reappearing reeds of foam, whiter than lilies. I shall delight to pass the shores of those lone, rock islets where the seabirds live and breed unmolested. We shall be on the track of the old Scandinavians, of the Norsemen. We shall almost see the shores of Norway. This is a very vague delight that I feel, communicated by your proposal, but it is a delight. Will you think of fitful head, now, when you lie awake at night, of gulls streaking round it, and waves tumbling in a punnet rather than of graves under the rectory-hat kitchen? I will try, and instead of musing about remnants of shrouds, and fragments of coffins, and human bones and moulds, I will fancy seals lying in the sunshine on solitary shores, where neither fisherman nor hunter ever come, of rock crevices full of pearly eggs bedded in seaweed, of unscared birds covering white sands in happy flocks. And what will become of that inexpressible weight you said you had on your minds? I will try to forget it in speculation on the sway of the whole great deep above a herd of whales rushing through the livid and liquid thunder down from the frozen zone, a hundred of them, perhaps, wallowing, flashing, rolling in the wake of a patriarch bull, huge enough to have been spawned before the flood. Such a creature, as poor smart, had in his mind when he said, strong against tides, the enormous whale emerges as he goes. I hope our bark will meet with no such shoal, or herd, as you term it, Caroline. I suppose you fancy the sea-mammas, pasturing about the bases of the everlasting hills, devouring strange provender in the vast valleys, through and above which the sea-billers roll. I should not like to be capsized by the patriarch bull. I suppose you expect to see mermaids, surely? One of them, at any rate, I do not bargain for less, and she used to appear in some such fashion as this. I am to be walking by myself, on deck, rather late of an August evening, watching and being watched by a full harvest moon. Something is to rise white on the surface of the sea, over which that moon mounts silent and hangs glorious, the object glitters and sinks. It rises again. I think I hear it cry, with an articulate voice. I call you up from the cabin. I show you an image, fair as alabaster, emerging from the dim wave. We both see the long hair, the lifted and foam white arm, the oval mirror, brilliant as a star. It glides nearer. A human face is plainly visible, a face in the style of yours, whose straight, pure—excuse the word, it is not appropriate—whose straight, pure liniments, paleness does not disfigure. It looks at us, but not with your eyes. I see a protonatural lore in its wily glance. It beckons. Where we men, we should spring at the sign, the cold billow would be dared for the sake of the colder enchantress. Being women, we stand safe, though not dreadless. She comprehends our unmoved gaze. She feels herself powerless. Anger crosses her front. She cannot charm. But she will appall us. She rises high, and glides all revealed on the dark waverage. Temptress terror! Monstrous likeness of ourselves! Are you not glad, Caroline, when at last, and with a wild shriek, she dives? But surely she is not like us. We are neither temptresses nor terrors nor monsters. Some of our kind, it is said, are all three. There are men who ascribe to women in general such attributes. My dears, here interrupted Mrs. Pryor, does it not strike you that your conversation for the last ten minutes has been rather fanciful? But there is no harm in our fancies, is there, ma'am? We are aware that mermaids do not exist. Why speak of them as if they did? How can you find interest in speaking of a non-entity? I don't know, said Shirley. My dear, I think there is an arrival. I heard a step in the lane while you were talking, and is not that the garden gate which creaks? Shirley stepped to the window. Yes, there is someone, said she, turning quietly away, and as she resumed her seat, a sensitive flush animated her face, while a trembling ray had once kindled and softened her eye. She raised her hand to her chin, cast her gaze down, and seemed to think as she waited. The servant announced Mr. Moore, and Shirley turned round when Mr. Moore appeared at the door. His figure seemed very tall as he entered, and stood in contrast with the three ladies, none of whom could boast a stature much beyond the average. He was looking well, better than he had been known to look for the past twelve months. A sort of renewed youth glowed in his eye and collar, and an invigorated hope and settled purpose sustained his bearing. Firmness in his countenance still indicated, but not austerity. It looked as cheerful as it was earnest. I am just returned from Stillbro. He said to Miss Kildar, as he greeted her, and I thought I would call to impart to you the result of my mission. You did right not to keep me in suspense, she said, and your visit is well timed. Sit down, we have not finished tea. Are you English enough to relish tea, or do you faithfully adhere to coffee? Moore accepted tea. I am learning to be a naturalized Englishman, said he, my foreign habits are leaving me one by one. And now he paid his respects to Mrs. Pryor, and paid them well, with a grave modesty that became his age, compared with hers. Then he looked to Caroline, not, however, for the first time, his glance had fallen upon her before. He bent towards her, as she sat, gave her his hand, and asked her how she was. The light from the window did not fall upon Miss Hellstone. Her back was turned towards it. A quiet though rather low reply, a still demeanor, and the friendly protection of early twilight, kept out of view each tritorious symptom. None could affirm that she had trembled or blushed, that her heart had quaked, or her nerves thrilled. None could prove emotion. A greeting showing less effusion was never interchanged. Moore took the empty chair near her opposite Miss Kildar. He had placed himself well. His neighbor, screened by the very closeness of this viscinage, from his scrutiny, and sheltered further by the dusk which deepened each moment, soon regained not merely seeming, but real mastery of the feelings, which had started into insurrection at the first announcement of his name. He addressed his conversation to Miss Kildar. I went to the barracks, he said, and had an interview with Colonel Ride. He approved my plans, and promised the aid I wanted. Indeed, he offered a more numerous force than I require. Half a dozen will suffice. I don't intend to be swamped by red coats. They are needed for appearance rather than anything else. My main reliance is on my own civilians. And on their captain, interposed Shirley. What! Captain Kildar inquired Moore, slightly smiling and not lifting his eyes. The tone of rallyery, in which he said this, was very respectful and suppressed. No, returned Shirley, answering the smile. Captain Gerard Moore, who trusts much to the prowess of his own right arm, I believe. Furnished with his counting-house ruler, added Moore. Resuming his usual gravity, he went on. I received, by this evening's post, a note from the Home Secretary in answer to mine. It appears they are uneasy at this state of matters here in the North. They especially condemn the supineness and pulse and amity of the mill owners. They say, as I have always said, that inaction, under present circumstances, is criminal, and that cowardice is cruelty, since both can only encourage disorder and lead, finally, to sanguinary outbreaks. There is the note. I brought it for your perusal. And there is a batch of newspapers containing further accounts of proceedings in Nottingham, Manchester, and elsewhere. He produced letters and journals, and laid them before Miss Kildar. While she perused them, he took his tea quietly. But, though his tongue was still, his observant faculties seemed by no means off duty. Mrs. Pryor, sitting in the background, did not come within the range of his glance, but the two younger ladies had the full benefit thereof. Miss Kildar, placed directly opposite, was seen without effort. She was the object his eyes, when lifted, naturally met first. And, as what remains of daylight, the gilding of the west, was upon her, her shape rose in relief from the dark paneling behind. Shirley's clear cheek was tinted yet with the color which had risen into it a few minutes since. The dark lashes of her eyes, looking down as she read, the dusk, yet delicate line of her eyebrows, the almost sable gloss of her curls, made her heighten's complexion look fine as the bloom of a red, wild flower by contrast. There was natural grace in her attitude, and there was artistic effort in the ample and shining folds of her silk dress, and attire simply fashioned, but almost splendid, from the shifting brightness of its dye, warp, and woof, being of tints deep and changing as the hue on a pheasant's neck. A glancing bracelet on her arm produced the contrast of gold and ivory. There was something brilliant in the whole picture. It is to be supposed that more, thought so, as his eyes dwelt long on it, but he seldom permitted his feelings, or his opinions, to exhibit themselves in his face. His temperament boasted a certain amount of phlegm, and he preferred an undemonstrative, not un-gentle, but serious aspect to any other. He could not, by looking straight before him, see Caroline, as she was close at his side. It was necessary, therefore, to maneuver a little to get her well within the range of his observation. He leans back in his chair, and look down on her. In Miss Halstone, neither he nor anyone else could discover brilliancy. Sitting in the shade, without flowers or ornaments, her attire, the modest muslin dress, colorless, but for its narrow stripe of pale azure, her complexion unflushed, unexcited, the very brownness of her hair, and eyes invisible by this faint light, she was, compared with the heiress, as a graceful pencil sketch, compared with a vivid painting. Since Robert had seen her last, a great change had been wrought in her. Whether he perceived it, might not be ascertained. He said nothing to that effect. How is Hortense? asked Caroline softly. Very well, but she complains of being unemployed. She misses you. Tell her that I miss her, and that I write and read a portion of French every day. She will ask, if you sent your love, she is always particular on that point. You know, she likes attention. My best love, my very best, and say to her, that whenever she has time to write me a little note, I shall be glad to hear from her. What if I forget? I am not the surest messenger of compliments. No, don't forget, Robert. It is no compliment. It is in, good earnest. And must therefore be delivered punctually. If you please. Hortense will be ready to shed tears. She is tender-hearted on the subject of her pupil. Yet she reproaches you sometimes for obeying your uncle's injunctions too literally. Affection, like love, will be unjust now and then. And Caroline made no answer to this observation, for indeed her heart was troubled, and to her eyes she would have raised her handkerchief. If she had dared to, she would have declared how the very flowers in the garden of Hollow's cottage were dear to her, how the little parlor of that house was her earthly paradise, how she longed to return to it as much, almost, as the first woman in her exile, must have longed to revisit Eden. Not daring, however, to say these things, she held her peace. She sat quietly at Robert's side, waiting for him to say something more. It was long since this proximity had been hers, long since his voice had addressed her. Could she, with any show of probability, even of possibility, have imagined that the meeting gave him pleasure to her it would have given deep bliss? Yet, even in doubt that it pleased, in dread that it might annoy him, she received the boon of the meeting as an imprisoned bird with the admission of sunshine to its cage. It is of no use arguing, contending against the sense of present happiness. To be near Robert was to be revived. CHAPTER XIII PART III Ms. Kildar laid down the papers. And are you glad, or sad, for all these menacing tidings, she inquired of her tenant? Not precisely, either, but I certainly am instructed. I see that our only plan is to be firm. I see that efficient preparation and a resolute attitude are the best means of averting bloodshed. He then inquired if she had observed some particular paragraph, to which she replied in the negative, and he rose to show it to her. He continued the conversation, standing before her. From the tenor of what he said, it appeared evident that they both apprehended disturbances in the neighborhood of Briarfields, though in what form they expected them to break out was not specified. Neither Caroline nor Mrs. Pryor asked questions. The subject did not appear to be regarded as one ripe for free discussion. Therefore the lady and her tenant were suffered to keep details to themselves, unimpertuned by the curiosity of their listeners. Ms. Kildar, in speaking to Mr. Moore, took a tone at once animated and dignified, confidential and self-respecting. When, however, the candles were brought in and the fire was stirred up, and the fullness of light thus produced rendered the expression of her countenance legible, you could see that she was all interest, life, and earnestness. There was nothing coquettish in her demeanor. Whatever she felt for Moore, she felt it seriously. And serious, too, were his feelings, and settles were his views. Apparently, for he had made no petty effort to attract, dazzle, or impress. He contrived, notwithstanding, to command a little, because the deeper voice, however mildly modulated, the somewhat harder mind, now and then, though involuntarily and unintentionally, bore down by some preemptory phrase, or tone the mellow accents and susceptible, if high, nature of Shirley. Ms. Kildar looked happy in conversing with him, and her joy seemed two-fold, a joy of the past and present, of memory and of hope. What I have just said are Caroline's ideas of the pair. She felt what has just been described. In thus feeling, she tried not to suffer, but suffered sharply, nevertheless. She suffered, indeed, miserably. A few minutes before, her famished heart had tasted a drop and crumb of nourishment, that, if freely given, would have brought back abundance of life where life was failing. But the generous feast was snatched from her, spread before another, and she remained but a bystander at the banquet. The clock struck nine. It was Caroline's time for going home. She gathered up her work, put the embroidery, the scissors, the thimble into her bag. She bade Mrs. Pryor a quiet good night. Receiving from that lady a warmer pressure of the hands than usual, she stepped up to Ms. Kildar. Good night, Shirley. Shirley started up. What? So soon? Are you going already? It is past nine. I never heard the clock. You will come again tomorrow, and you will be happy tonight. Will you not? Remember our plans. Yes, said Caroline. I have not forgotten. Her mind misgave her that neither those plans, nor any other, could permanently restore her mental tranquility. She turned to Robert, who stood close behind her. As he looked up, the light of the candles on the mantelpiece fell full on her face. All its paleness, all its change, all its forlorn meaning were clearly revealed. Robert had good eyes, and might have seen it, if he would, whether he did see it, nothing indicated. Good night, she said, shaking like a leaf, offering her thin hand hastily, anxious to part from him quickly. You are going home? He asked, not touching her hands. Yes. Is Fanny come for you? Yes. I may as well accompany you a step of the way, not up to the rectory, though lest my old friend Hellstone should shoot me from the window. He laughed and took his hat. Caroline spoke of unnecessary trouble. He told her to put on her bonnet and shawl. She was quickly ready, and they were soon both in the open air. Moore drew her hand under his arm, just in his old manner. That manner which she ever felt to be so kind. You may run on, Fanny, he said to the housemaid. We shall overtake you. And when the girl had got a little in advance, he enclosed Caroline's hand in his, and said he was glad to find she was a familiar guest at Fieldhead. He hoped her intimacy with Miss Kildar would continue. Such society would be both pleasant and improving. Caroline replied that she liked Shirley. And there is no doubt the liking is mutual, said Moore. If she professes friendship, be certain she is sincere. She cannot feign. She scorns hypocrisy. And, Caroline, are we never to see you at Hollows Cottage again? I suppose not, unless my uncle should change his mind. Are you much alone now? Yes, a good deal. I have little pleasure in any society but Miss Kildar's. Have you been quite well lately? Quite. You must take care of yourself. Be sure not to neglect exercise. Do you know I fancied you somewhat altered? A little fallen away and pale. Is your uncle kind to you? Yes, he is just as he always is. Not too tender, that is to say, not too protective and attentive. And what ails you then? Tell me, Lena. Nothing, Robert. But her voice faltered. That is to say, nothing that you will tell me. I am not to be taken into confidence. Separation is then quite to estranged us, is it? I do not know. Sometimes I almost fear it is. But it ought not to have that effect. Should all the acquaintance be forgot and days of odd langzine? Robert, I don't forget. It is two months, I should think, Caroline, since you were at the cottage. Since I was within it, yes. Have you ever passed that way in your walk? I have come to the top of the field sometimes of an evening and looked down. Once I saw Hortense in the garden watering her flowers. And I know at what time you light your lamp in the counting-house. I have waited for it to shine out now and then. And I have seen you bend between it and the window. I knew it was you. I could almost trace the outline of your form. I wonder I never encountered you. I occasionally walked to the top of the hollows field after sunset. I know you do. I had almost spoken to you one night. You passed so near me. Did I? I passed near you and did not see you. Was I alone? I saw you twice, and neither time were you alone. Who was my companion? Probably nothing but Joe Scott on my own shadow by moonlight. No, neither Joe Scott nor your shadow, Robert. The first time you were with Mr. York. And the second time what you call your shadow was a shape with a white forehead and dark curls and a sparkling necklace round its neck. But I only got a glimpse of you and that fairy shadow. I did not wait to hear you converse. It appears you walk invisible. I noticed a ring on your hand this evening. Can it be the ring of geigs? Henceforth when sitting in the counting-house by myself, perhaps at dead of night, I shall permit myself to imagine that Caroline may be leaning over my shoulder, reading with me from the same book, or sitting at my side, engaged in her own particular task, and now and then raising her unseen eyes to my face, to read there my thoughts. You need fear no such inflection. I do not come near you. I only stand afar off, watching what may become of you. When I walk out along the hedgerows in the evening, after the mill is shut, or at night when I take the watchman's place, I shall fancy the flutter of every little bird over its nest, the rustle of every leaf, a movement made by you. Tree-shedders will take your shape. In the white sprays of Hawthorne, I shall imagine glimpses of you. Lena, you will haunt me. I will never be where you would not wish me to be, nor see nor hear what you would wish unseen and unheard. I shall see you in my very mill in broad daylight. Indeed, I have seen you there once. But a week ago I was standing at the top of one of my long rooms, girls were working at the other ends, and amongst half a dozen of them, moving to and fro, I seemed to see a figure resembling yours. It was some effect of doubtful lights or shade, or of dazzling sunbeam. I walked up to this group, what I saw had glided away. I found myself between two buxom lasses and pinafores. I shall not follow you into your mill, Robert, unless you call me there. Nor is that the only occasion on which imagination has played me a trick. One night, when I came home late from market, I walked into the cottage-piler thinking to find Hortense, but instead of finding her, I thought I found you. There was no candle in the room. My sister had taken the light upstairs with her. The window-blind was not drawn, and broad moon-beams poured through the panes. You were there, Lina, at the casement, shrinking a little to one side in an attitude not unusual with you. You were dressed in white, as I have seen you dressed at an evening party. For half a second, your fresh, living face seemed turned towards me, looking at me, for half a second. My idea was to go and take your hands, to chide you for your long absence, and to welcome your present visit. Two steps forward broke the spell. The drapery of the dress changed the outline, the tints of the complexion dissolved, and were formless. Positively, as I reached the spot, there was nothing left but the sweep of a white muslin curtain, and a balsam plant in a flower-pot covered with a flush of bloom, sick transit, etc. It was not my wraith, then. I almost thought it was. No, only gauze, crockery, and pink blossom, a sample of earthly illusions. I wonder you have time for such illusions, occupied as your mind must be. So do I, but I find, in my self-liner, two natures, one for the world and business, and one for home and leisure. Gerard Moore is a hard dog, brought up to mill and market. The person you call your cousin Robert is sometimes a dreamer, who lives elsewhere than in cloth-hall and counting-house. Your two natures agree with you. I think you are looking in good spirits and health. You have quite lost the harassed air which it often pained one to see in your face a few months ago. Do you observe that? Certainly I am disentangled of some difficulties. I have got clear of some shoals, and have more sea-room. And, with a fair wind, you may now hope to make a prosperous voyage. I may hope it, yes, but hope is deceptive. There is no controlling wind or wave. Dust and swells perpetually trouble the mariners' course. He dare not dismiss from his mind the expectation of tempest. But you are ready for a breeze. You are a good seamen, an able commander. You are a skillful pilot. Robert, you will weather the storm. My kin's woman always thinks the best of me, but I will take her words for a propituous omen. I will consider that in meeting her tonight I have met with one of those birds whose appearance is to the sailor a harbinger of good luck. A poor harbinger of good luck is she who can do nothing, who has no power. I feel my incapacity. It is of no use saying I have the will to serve you, when I cannot prove it. Yet I have the will. I wish you success. I wish you high fortune and true happiness. When did you ever wish me anything else? What is Fanny waiting for? I told her to walk on. Oh, we have reached the churchyard. Then we are to part here, I suppose. We might have sat a few minutes in the church porch, if the girl had not been with us. It is so fine a night, so summer mild and still. I have no particular wish to return yet to the hollow. But we cannot sit in the porch now, Robert. Caroline said this because Moore was turning her round towards it. Perhaps not, but tell Fanny to go in. Say we are coming. A few minutes will make no difference. The church clock struck ten. My uncle will be coming out to take his usual sentinel round, and he always surveys the church and churchyard. And if he does, if it were not for Fanny, who knows we are here. I should find pleasure in dodging and alluding him. We could be under the east window when he is at the porch. As he came round to the north side, we could wheel off to the south. We might, at a pinch, hide behind some of the monuments. That tall erection of the winners would screen us completely. Robert, what good spirits you have. Go, go, added Caroline Hastily. I hear the front door. I don't want to go. On the contrary, I want to stay. You know my uncle will be terribly angry. He forbade me to see you because you are a Jacobin. A queer Jacobin. Go, Robert. He is coming. I hear him cough. Diable. It is strange. What a pertinacious wish I feel to stay. You remember what he did to Fanny's, began Caroline, and stopped abruptly short. Sweetheart was the word that ought to have followed, but she could not utter it. It seemed calculated to suggest ideas she had no intention to suggest. Ideas delusive and disturbing. More was less scrupulous. Fanny Sweetheart, he said at once. He gave him a shower-bath under the pump. Did he not? He'd do as much for me, I daresay, with pleasure. I should like to provoke the old jerk. Not, however, against you. But he would make a distinction between a cousin and a lover. Would he not? Oh, he would not think of you in that way. Of course not. His quarrel with you is entirely political. Yet I should not like the breach to be widened, and he is so testy. Here he is at the garden-gate. For your own sake and mine, Robert, go. The beseeching words were aided by a beseeching gesture and a more beseeching look. More covered her clasped hands, an instant with his. Answered her upward by a downward gaze, said, Good night, and went. Caroline was in a moment at the kitchen door behind Fanny. The shadow of her shovel hat at that very instant fell on a moonlight tomb. The rector emerged erect as a cane from his garden and proceeded in slow march, his hands behind him, down the cemetery. More was almost caught. He had to dodge, after all, to coast round the church, and finally to bend his tall form behind the witness's ambitious monuments. There he was forced to hide full ten minutes, kneeling with one knee on the turf, his hat off, his curls bare to the dew, his dark eye shining, and his lips party with inward laughter at his position. For the rector, meantime, stood coolly stargazing and taking snuff within three feet of him. It happened, however, that Mr. Hellstone had no suspicion whatever on his mind, for being usually but vaguely informed of his niece's movements, not thinking it worth while to fellow them closely, he was not aware that she had been out at all that day, and imagined her then occupied with book or work in her chamber, where indeed she was by this time. Though not absorbed in the tranquil employment he ascribed to her, but standing at her window with fast throbbing heart, peeping anxiously from behind the blind, watching for her uncle to re-enter and her cousin to escape, and at last she was gratified. She heard Mr. Hellstone come in, she saw Robert stride the tombs and vault the wall. She then went down to prayers. When she returned to her chamber, it was to meet the memory of Robert. Slumber's visitation was long averted, long she sat at her lattice, long gazed down the old garden and older church, on the tombs laid out all gray and calm and clear in the moonlight. She followed the steps of the night, on its pathway of stars, far into the Weesma Ars Ayant de Toile. She was, with more in spirit, the whole time. She was at his side. She heard his voice. She gave her hand into his hands. It rested warm in his fingers. When the church clock struck, when any other sound stirred, went a little mouse familiar to her chamber, and intruder for which she would never permit Fanny to lay a trap, came riling amongst the links of her locket chain, her one ring and another trinket or two on the toilet table, to nimble a bit of biscuit laid ready for it. She looked up, recalled momentarily to the reel. Then she said half aloud, as if deprecating the accusation of some unseen and unheard monitor, I am not cherishing love-dreams. I am only thinking because I cannot sleep. Of course, I know he will marry Shirley. With returning silence, with the lull of the chime, and the retreat of her small untamed and unknown protégé, she still resumed the dream, nestling to the vision's side, listening to, conversing with it. It paled at last. As dawn approached, the setting stars and breaking day dimmed the creation of fancy. The wakened song of birds hushed her whispers. The tale full of fire, quick with interest, borne away by the morning wind, became a vague murmur. The shape that, seen in a moonbeam, lived, had a pulse, had movement. More health's glow and youth's freshness turned cold and ghostly gray, confronted with the red of sunrise. It wasted. She was left solitary at last. She crept to her couch, chill, and ejected. End of section 25.